Someone should probably put CPS on speed dial...

First of all, I'M BACK!! I got my MacBook in the mail today, and even though I could have punched the FedEx guy in the teeth for ignoring the "DON'T RING THE DOORBELL...FOR REALS" sign on our front door, I also wanted to kiss his mouth for bringing the most wonderful present this Type A lunatic could ask for. He basically delivered my life renewed, tucked safely in a sleek little white box.

Second, thank you so much for all the wonderful support. This community is amazing and your words mean the world to me.

And now, a pithy little bloggity blog... (I mean, I don't want to pull anything.)

As if I'm not already fundamentally ill-suited to be a mother, I realized today yet another reason why I should never, never be responsible for another life (unless that life is covered in fur and exponentially less demanding than human babies): I clearly don't respect the learning curve of babies.

Case in point...

I've got chickens. (Yadda, yadda, yadda, Dorothy Gale, Wizard of Oz...moving on...) We had two baby chicks hatch on Easter morning, which was just all sorts of exciting for me! I love me some fuzzy little babies.

At this juncture, however, they are sort of like snotty little pre-teens: they make loud noise 24/7, disrespect boundaries, keep their room a HOT MESS, and think they don't need you for anything.

I have had it.

This morning I walked into the kitchen (which is my happy place, if y'all haven't figured that out already; it's where the espresso machine lives) to make my coffee, and there I see the two brats, running away across the floor so I can't see that they've flown the coop. Literally. They've crapped all over the floor of the breakfast nook (which is actually where exercise equipment and house plants go to die, so it's not quite as disgusting as it sounds), and they're chirping like mad at the impending lecture. (Yes, I lecture birds. Birds. I know.)

My solution? Throw them out of the proverbial nest. That's right, I threw their still-fuzzy asses out of the house. Because I'm not a total jerk, I did at least put their bucket/house out there to create a little nook so they'd still have access to food and water...and hopefully stay clear of that bastard hawk. But now it's storming. And they're cuddled up together, shivering and chirping their little heads off. And I? Only feel kind of bad.

To be fair, I wouldn't do this with real babies. I mean, you can't put babies in a bucket.

Reading this post will do absolutely nothing to enhance your life. You've been warned.

I decided that I've been a very bad vegetarian as of late. Instead of changing my eating habits and working out, I vowed to resume taking vitamins. ('Cause that's the same.) Mom bought some vitamins a few weeks ago per her doc, but they upset her stomach and so I simply commandeered these.

Bad idea number one.

I took the first pill this morning with my coffee.

Yeah, don't do that (i.e. bad idea number two).

One of the selling points of this particular vitamin is that it is designed for "Women's Active Mind and Body." Well, this woman possesses neither of those things as of late, so that should have been my first clue that I was barking up the wrong tree. But I liked the idea of getting all my vitamins/minerals in addition to "energy support" (since the slow coffee and/or iced tea drip to which I'm attached all day aren't enough) and "weight loss support."

Maybe, just maybe, they should have indicated that the weight loss method of choice with this pill is bulimia. I puked within ten minutes of taking the mo-effer.

I know, I know. "But Natalie, why the H would you take vitamins on a stomach full of iced espresso? You're so pretty." (That last bit is a condescending, albeit adorable, quip of which my friends and I are most fond.) And you're correct. It was a bad idea.

But if you think I'm giving up my coffee for fear of a lil osteoporosis or vitamin deficiency, you're out of your gourd! I mean, coffee comes from the ground. Vegetables come from the ground. Vegetables are healthy and chock full o' vitamins. Ergo coffee is better than vitamins.

If you don't see my logic, I just can't help you.

Tough love time.

Dear Self,

What are you doing? What. Are. You. Doing.

I realize things are a little rough as of late, but you cannot just go off the deep end.

You don't even like chocolate that much. In fact, you don't really have a sweet tooth to speak of. (Cupcakes and tiramisu are awesomeness, for sure, but in calculated moderation.) But lately? Any and all chocolate bits put in front of you are disappearing. Fast.

The wine? Well, that's good for you. Besides, we're all allowed one vice. (Well, one culinary vice. At a time.)

But chocolate. Seriously. You don't even taste it half the time. In fact, I'm pretty sure you swallowed the majority of that bag of M&Ms you devoured just a minute ago. Swallowed them whole, for sobbing out loud. What's the point if you're not even going to savor and enjoy it? I mean, you could have had a whole Grab Bag of Spicy Nacho Doritos for the same calorie exchange.

Please. For the sake of your sanity (and your ass), lay off the hardcore milk chocolate noshing.

Here's hoping,
Natty

Set Diary [Taking Advantage - Day 1]

Taking Advantage is a short film in which I play the murderous mistress of a boss with vengeful plans of his own. (It's a thriller, in case you couldn't have guessed.) The film should be completed March 2010. This is my third starring role with Blue Light Pictures, which means that most of the cast and crew are friends at this point.

6:30pm - After working a nine hour day (and having been up since 6am), I arrived on set at a beautiful residence in Frisco, TX. It was a homecoming of sorts, being back on set with the faces I've grown to adore over the past year or so of working with these folks on several other films. I downed my half-caf soy pumpkin latte (which I would later wish was infinitely more caffeinated and laced with NoDoz), and we got started on my hair and makeup. The majority of the cast and crew had a 5pm call time, so I was a bit surprised to find them still setting up the first shot when I arrived. However, it is a well known fact that the first scene on the first day of a shoot is usually the most arduous. No big deal.

8:00pm - The first few scenes are done (all of which I've simply observed), I'm still in my scrubs (from the damn day job), crew breaks for our home-cooked dinner, and a very risque photo shoot takes place (for the sake of the film, you dirty bird) that provides fodder for the next few hours. (Side note: while I got a kick out of this as much as any, it did make me even more nervous about the "sex scene" I would be shooting on Sunday. I am a bit uncomfortable with PDAs as it is, and homegirl definitely upped the bar with her boundless sexuality and rockin' bod. And damn those irresistible Flaming Hot Cheetos on set; I've got to be on camera in my bra in T-minus twelve hours!)

10:30pm - It starts to get a little hazy at this point. We all realize we're in for a long nite and foolishly unprepared: there's no Starbucks in sight, we don't do coke, none of us brought sleeping bags or PJs, and most of us were pretty worn out upon arrival (from day jobs, prior shoots, life, etc).

1:00am - I'm not sure I have filmed a scene at this point, but total delirium was alive and well at this point, so here were the highlights from the rest of this overnight shoot:
- The decor in the house started to turn on us. Picasso-like decorative plates, Jesus pictures, countless angels, and random trinkets showed up in the unlikeliest of places (tucked under a lamp shade....WTF?).
- I nearly knocked myself unconscious from falling so convincingly (sarcasm? yes.) after being hit in the head with the butt of a handgun. Time to add stunts to my resume.
- Renee and I literally jumped for joy when a fresh supply of the "good" chips were discovered somewhere around 1:30am. Funnyiuns make the world go 'round, people.
- A failed attempt at making a pot of coffee in a house free of cream and sugar goes awry as I nearly sustain third degree burns to my hands while trying to drink hot, black coffee from a Solo cup. (Nothing but bad decisions are to be made after midnight. I'm sticking by that.)
- We almost froze to death thanks to the perpetually open door (right next to where we were stationed) that welcomed nice lighting for the shot, and therefore had to be open for every subsequent scene for continuity purposes. There might have also been zombies or cows of some sort outside, the sounds of which convinced our key grip Michael that we were are likely about to die. (It was the wee hours of the morning people. This was not outside the realm of possibility.)

4:00am - I selfishly leave set long before anyone else as my scenes are wrapped for the evening...er, morning. I half-ass my goodbyes as I drag my exhausted, fully made-up self home to sleep. At this point, I am thanking the good Lord for making the potential shoot on Saturday fall through, as I would have basically had to drive the hour home, shower, drive to Oklahoma, and arrive on set for an eight hour day on zero sleep...and 24 hours of hot mess.

What I have learned in 2010 (thus far)...

- If you are invited to do something with someone (you don't despise), go. Accepting an invite will at least ensure you don't have to wonder "What if?" Sure, after a less-than-successful venture into public you may have wished you never took off your Snuggie, but at least you won't wonder what you missed. I mean, those House reruns and leftover veggie kung pao will still be there when you're done. A delightful-turned-awesome evening? Can't happen unless you're willing to show up.

- If you smile and behave around strangers (i.e. don't make up a fake husband and/or yell at them for not liking Tim Burton films), said strangers will buy you drinks.100% success rate thus far. Who knew?

- A Blue Moon really is something to be regarded (in addition to being a wonderful, refreshing beer). Every once in a while, even the most responsible individual will indulge in less-than-perfect (read: awesome and totally uncharacteristic) behavior. Watch for your own Blue Moon Moments this year and enjoy....responsibly.

- In totally unrelated news, even a quick, small dose of butterflies can make almost any situation bearable. (Including, say, being buried alive under the crap dished out by one's micromanaging supervisor. Hypothetically.)

- Even the most mundane experiences are incredibly memorable when you cleave to remarkable friends. It is during these quiet moments that you learn the hearts of those who choose to love you and stand by you...even when you're a royal hot mess.

If these four days are any indication of what I have in store this year, there will be many, many lessons shared (and bad decisions indulged).

Stay tuned...

A parka doesn't go with my LBD, dammit!

It should be a rule that weather cannot suck on a national going-out holiday such as New Years Eve! Ordinarily I would welcome this cold, rainy day with open, Snuggie-clad arms, but today? Color me ticked off!

It's not enough that my beautiful girlfriends and I will spend half the night wading through drunken D-bags? Now we have to teeter Bambi-style in adorable heels to our destination, all the while praying the wind won't steal our fabulous fake lashes (that's probably just me) or blow up our skirts. (The breeze between skyscrapers in downtown Dallas has been known to provide complimentary peep shows here and there. Ladies, never leave home without proper underpants. For the love.) Not to mention, there's a chance of ice. Alcohol + cute shoes + icy sidewalks = busted ass. (At least Gofahne already promised she'd pick me up if I fell...all the while laughing. I heart her.)

But you know what? In the spirit of new beginnings, I am going to walk it off. Here ends my ranting! (Well, for today. I mean, let's not get carried away. It's a new year. Not a lobotomy.) Tonight will be a blast, come what may, and I am going to get my glam on, weather be damned!

So when you're out and about tonight, children, look for the white girl in the sassy dress, acting out lyrics to awesomely bad pop songs while shaking her frizzy, bat-shit-crazy-lookin' mane to-and-fro, and send a glass of bubbly her way. (But, whatever you do, don't talk to her. No, no. Bad.)

Cheers to all my fellow hot messes out there! Hope you all ring in 2010 with style and grace...or something.

This Old Broad

I went out with three of my favorite girlfriends on Friday night for dinner and drinks in downtown Fort Worth. Sundance Square is especially festive this time of year, which made it the perfect destination for our Girls' Nite Out. It didn't dawn on me, however, until after we were parked and headed to our dining destination that this part of town tends to draw the college crowd away from the local university campus.

Upon walking into a popular collegiate watering hole, we found ourselves shocked at how old we all felt in such an environment. Long gone are the days of bar hopping on a regular basis and getting so hammered that we could barely recall our names, much less our decision to stop sleeping with anything that resembled Orlando Bloom (a net cast much too far when Beer Goggles were involved).

There were a few observations in particular that really made us feel like Golden Girls...

1. Young chicks are, apparently, impervious to temperature. Not one of the pathetic-excuse-for-a-dress-wearing girls had a jacket with them, despite the thirty-five degree weather that night. We, on the other hand, had to remove our coats, gloves, and scarves before we even made our way to the bar, unaware of the uncoolness of season-appropriate attire.

2. As we enjoyed our respective beers of choice, we noticed glass after glass of cherry vodka nightmare being thrown back by the young 'ens. I learned years ago that anything with a straw was a bad choice as far as bar drinks went, unless, of course, twisting your ankle on the walk home and runny mascara is your idea of a good time.

3. Flirtatious hair tosses are wasted on no one when you're twelve (actual age: twenty). A half-decade of time would teach these girls that you don't have to listen to every ounce of B.S. hurdled your way as Nickelback drones on in the background. It's OK to say, "Thanks, but no thanks," walk away, and take comfort in the fact that you can afford your own drink and a quiet inch of bar space to yourself. She will revel in this freedom. Eventually.

The lights came up at 2am and the bartenders took to shouting at the oblivious kids draped over the bar and making out in the corner. (Laughing and dancing aside, there really are some things that you shouldn't do as though no one were watching.) We put out our cigarettes, drained the last of our beers, layered ourselves back up in our winter garb, and headed out into the night. Laughing as we embraced our "old" age, we returned to Di's fancy new ride, a few of us passed out from exhaustion, and then parted ways to resume our respective, grown-up lives.

College life is a blast, no doubt. And the carefree nature that typifies our early-twenties is truly something special, not to be taken for granted. But by the end of our second decade on this planet, we should be thankful for the lessons we've learned, the memories we've made, and the friendships we've forged that allow us to retain that wonderful spark of youth without the abundance of bad decisions.

Well, less at least.

Thanks for the Memories

Since I held out on y'all yesterday (and I know you simply cannot go on without an installment of me throwing a hissy fit over absolutely nothing), I give you a Tuesday morning rant...

There is a dance of sorts that takes place when you split from a longtime boyfriend/girlfriend. It's called the "How Much Communication is Kosher?" dance. You exchange a few text messages, boo-hoo through the phone as you break down and call because you had a rough day (i.e. "your" song came on the radio, hot mess ensues), or partake in the oh-so-dangerous "friends getting together over drinks to catch up." (Which, by the way, is probably the worst idea ever. Alcohol + ex-whatever + fragile emotions = worst hangover of your life, in so many, many ways.)

But nothing cures my forlornness quicker than those lonely damn text messages that continue long after they're acceptable (or welcome). After years and years of partnership and love, it's nice to know that you still think of me...at 2am. What. The. Eff. Now, I understand the power of some good lovin', but give me a break. It's never, "Hey, hows ur mom?" or, "Hope ur well. Parents n dog miss u." (Get it? It's text shorthand. I'm so clever.) That, I'd probably at least appreciate. I wouldn't respond, for sobbing out loud, but appreciate for sure. I do NOT, however, appreciate you texting me because you had a saucy dream about hot tubs and sexy time in public places. 'Oh really?' I think to myself. 'Because I had a dream that I could sleep through the night without the annoying bing-bong of a lonely message. Hello, four hours of sleep.'

In other news: I could barely sleep last night due to the intense throbbing of my right knee. I might need a cane. That, coupled with my out of control deadpanning as of late, probably means I am watching way too much House. I blame you, DVR.

Platonic, My Ass

Ok, so I alluded to this topic in my last blog, and I feel it's only fair to elaborate on my feelings about "platonic" relationships...especially since a few of you insisted on it. (Have I told you lately that I love you?)

Disclaimer: I am very well aware that most hangups when it comes to relationships, romantic or...otherwise, are a product of the opinion-former's experiences. I have to agree with this and am quite certain an understanding of my history would inspire anyone to cast aside my stance as a reaction to having been burned by The Lie. But I have tried very diligently to employ the scientific method when developing this theory, and I still conclude I am correct.*

My theory: there is no such thing as a close, platonic relationship between a heterosexual man and a heterosexual woman (who are not related, though let's hope that is assumed).

"But Natalie," you say, "I have a guy friend who has been there for me for years and years and has never tried anything. My husband/boyfriend/current loser has met him and everything."

My reply: "He's secretly in love with you, dear, pining away while you carry on with Mr. Semi-Wonderful."

First of all, calm down. Put down the torches, dear villagers.

Second, think about it. Just for a second. I am not necessarily saying that all guy-girl friendships harbor a watch-the-kids-grow-old-together kind of affection, but I do think this arrangement can be very dangerous. I think any time a man/woman is close with a member of the opposite sex, they leave that unspoken door open to all sorts of mixed emotions and bad decisions. It seems that one person in the relationship inevitably feels more than the other. It could simply be a misguided "I've never been able to communicate with someone of the opposite sex before, ergo we have to get married" situation, but there's an inequality there nonetheless. An ulterior motive is present which will undoubtedly taint every action and/or piece of advice coming from this cherished friend. And, generally speaking, these feelings are unknown to the unsuspecting friend, which is where things go from subtly complicated to total disaster.

Please keep in mind, this theory is specific to close relationships. Catching up via Facebook with the cutie you sat next to in high school? Not a big deal (...for now). Having coffee with your long-time BBF (best boy friend) because you and your current flame got into another argument? Oh nelly...

I once heard on a radio station that some chef (citation is for shame, Nat) said that cheating is anything that dilutes the relationship. I couldn't agree with this more, and it really captures the spirit of my theory. If you have such a close bond with someone outside of your relationship or marriage, I think it is very easy to lean too heavily on that other person when the going gets tough, which it often will if you're doing it right. (This also goes for activities or social commitments that take away from QT, but that's another blog, too...)

Now, I am definitely a firm believer in same-sex close friendships and bouncing ideas off people, so I don't advocate enduring in silence until your partner can handle a good heart-to-heart. (I would have already been institutionalized had it not been for my amazing girlfriends.) But talking to someone of the opposite sex--whom you already deeply care for and trust--when you are vulnerable, sad, less-than-satisfied with your current mate (or just life in general) is a recipe for disaster and regret.

Since I wholeheartedly enjoy playing Devil's Advocate, I can acknowledge that sometimes the best relationships grow out of such troublesome circumstances. But go through the proper checks and balances before flipping the switch. If your mate isn't meeting your needs, give it an honest try so as to avoid nagging regret, maybe even seek counseling (nothing like an expensive, objective dose of reality), and if it's still a hot mess, be brave, know that you deserve better, and move on. Then, maybe you and your BBF can see if you are MFEO. But on your terms, in your time, and only because you can't imagine going through your current predicament without them, not just without someone. It's OK to be alone for a while. Because even if you're "alone," i.e. without a significant other, you're not really alone. If you don't have any one to call but your BBF, fix that. Don't be with someone by default. Everyone deserves the divine gift that is choice.

OK, I am sure that is enough babbling to effectively piss off everyone who read this. But I stand by my theory. I have observed it and experienced it sufficiently to hold strong to it. If you've been fortunate enough to have a successful BBF (or BGF, for you gents) relationship, my hat goes off to you and I would certainly love to hear how you've managed. But I do believe you and your friend would be the exception, not the rule. A beautiful exception, for sure, but an exception nonetheless.

*Though, who doesn't think they're correct? Being right is just more fun, yes?

Will you take a check?

Because I'm utterly spent and cannot think of anything better to blog (well, I can, I'm just not in the mood for all that typing and dictionary-looking-uping...and yes, that is now an actual verb), I present to you:

A Sneak Peak Into the Average Bank Statement for Ms. Natalie Cottrell

Debitor / Price / Purchase

SBUX / $4.50 / Soy Pumpkin Latte with a side of best morning ever
DDP* / $35ish / moisturizer (worth. every. penny.)
ULTA / $28.14 / nail polish (indeed, that is a lot of nail polish)
SBUX / $2.27 / Venti Black Iced Tea
SBUX / $4.50 / Soy Pumpkin Latte (might have been the same day as previous debit)
CHIPOTLE / $6.75 / veggie soft tacos (a.k.a. love, true love)
DDP / $26ish / makeup, or cleanser (no telling, really)
EXXON / $30ish / gas (evil, thy name is daily 70 mile round-trip commute)
SBUX / $3.75 / Soy Carmel Frappuccino (write-off, post-fill up treat)
B&N** / $14.10 / "Bright Lights, Big Ass" (Here's to you, Ms. Lancaster!)
BCBS / $186.00 / health ins. (I'd better actually use this crap some day! Wait...)
CREDIT CO. / $300 / card payment (don't remember what I'm paying for)
DDP / $75ish / misc. skin care products (again, not sure what I bought here)
SBUX / $2.44 / does it matter?? Little cup o' happy, that's what!
DOMINO'S / $13.40 / large cheese pizza (bad decision; might have eaten the whole thing)
TARGET / $25.75 / toiletries & candy (all of which have mysteriously disappeared)
SHELL / $28ish / gas (flashing light be damned, hate Shell gas. next time: Pixy Stix)
DDP / ___??? / ___??? (pretty sure I just straight up gave my paycheck back to them, but only if they promised to share with Starbucks )

And there you have it, folks!

Thrilling, I know.

*Dallas Dermatology Pratice - pseudonym for my place of employment (cosmetic services suite)
**Barnes & Noble....duh.

Why Edward Cullen is bad news...

I know the title of this post must come as a shock given my recent obsession with Twilight and, most notably, Edward Cullen. However, upon reflection, I’ve realized that all the same reasons I salivate every time his beautiful, pale mug comes on screen are the same reasons that I continue to be disappointed by guys.

(I am sure the villagers have become restless and are likely lighting the torches as I type this, but let me explain…)

Edward is beautiful. He is brooding, self-loathing and morose. He is well-read, well-spoken, well-dressed and well-mannered. His hair is perfection. And he plays the piano and sings in a manner that melts my innards. What’s not to like, right? OK…the whole vampire thing. Which, honestly, I’m not even going to hold against him because–let’s face it–vampires are hot and sexy. They always have been. (You saw Interview with a Vampire and we’ve all watched at least one episode of Buffy, intentionally or not.) So let me put my concerns with Edward in more general, relatable terms: he is the unattainable, emotionally-unavailable creature with which the masochistic girl within is irrevocably (nudge, nudge) bewitched.

Now, this would be a good time to mention that I have not finished the books and likely don’t know/understand a lot of the backstory when it comes to Mr. Cullen. So my analysis is based solely on the film and my interpretation of it. So there.

That having been said, I was one of those girls in high school who became hopelessly infatuated with any lost soul with great hair and an inkling of artistic ability. I would, willingly and repeatedly, blow off any sweet, well-adjusted, “normal” guy who was stupid enough to pay me any attention because he wasn’t interesting enough to me. As an adult I have turned down quite a few awesome, handsome guys because they “didn’t have a passion for anything” or they “didn’t seem to have a personality,” both statements that really boiled down to a lack of mystery because the poor fools were stupid enough to be open with their feelings for me. As much as I hate to say it, there really is something to the chase that builds the attraction. Not knowing where you stand, stealing glances at said guy and feeling the rush of catching his eye, imagining what the conversation will go like when you finally find yourselves face-to-face…that’s the stuff of fantasy and passion. Enter Edward.

He is my fantasy. There. I said it. When my mom watched the film with me last weekend, the very first words out of her mouth upon seeing Edward were, “Now I see why you keep watching this movie.” He’s my ultimate. (Don’t call the attendants just yet…I do realize he’s a fictional character.) But he, and all his baggage, represent exactly why I can’t seem to settle into a marriage, or even a healthy relationship for that matter. I don’t want Mike Newton. I don’t want the amiable, sweet-natured guy who plans innovative, romantic dates. I want the dude who I’ve somehow managed to dazzle into liking me, even for a fleeting second. And when you do finally land a guy like that, you want to shout it from the roof tops. But don’t even think about it…unless you are prepared for the barrage of naysayers and discouragers waiting to give you (what is really very sound) advice against being with him.

I guess this whole derranged stream of thought was sparked by the scene in which [SPOILER ALERT!] Edward and Bella pass by their high school peers leaving the diner, happy and carefree, as Bella flees for her life, having just about wrecked her father, because of her involvement with Edward. The impetus for this blog is pretty obvious in light of that scene, but I guess I just worry about the younger girls who watch Twilight and don’t understand what you’re getting into when you fall for a “real” Edward…not that I think guys like that really exist outside of our crafty little heads. I remember feeling the same way when I saw Baz Lurmann’s Romeo + Juliet and thinking, ‘I want a beautiful languisher like Romeo who is just all sorts of wrong for me.’ And though my desires haven’t changed (but rather shifted to a new, paler version of this beauty), I at least have the maturity (ahem) to know full-well what I am getting into when I start daydreaming about some new, beautiful disaster.

We females really are loony. Sorry.