Showing posts with label hot mess. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hot mess. Show all posts

8.29.2016

Humorous Pregnancy Realities

There are plenty of posts and articles out there that will warn you all about the unexpected realities of being pregnant and having children. So much so, in fact, that it's fair to say you've been effectively warned. Be it the truths of the quippy, borderline-gross variety, or those heartwarming little ditties that you feel like you have to read just to continue on (as though there were anything to do about it anyway once you see those double lines).

But I've realized as I enter my 35th week -- which, WHAT THE WHAT -- that there are certain humorous elements of pregnancy that I've yet to be warned about. They're small, and it's highly possible that these are unique to this little girl, ever full of grace. (So much not.) But they're very real, and I thought I'd share some with you, dear readers.

The Shiz No One Tells You When You're Expecting

  • When you bathe, you will absolutely, 100% feel like a walrus. Perhaps if you have a very large tub, you'll feel slightly more elegant, like, say, a seal. But when you sink down in your average, builder-grade tub to get a nice soak and hopefully bring some relief to your aching back and hips, you're going to have to do a little rotisserie action to actually clean your whole body. And then you'll be stuck because your tiny wrists are no match for the behemoth that is your body these days.
  • Every time you wash your hands, you will absolutely end up with water on your belly. You don't have to be a vigorous washer or anything, and it's not like we're talking scrubbing in for surgery. If you're near a sink, you will have water splatter all over your lower belly. Step back to wash...same thing. Belly is a magnet for wayward drops. And cookie crumbs.
  • Want to get out of bed? Roll it out, Mama. There is no sitting up, no sliding out, just roll and hope for the best. Hopefully you don't land on one of the eleventy pillows you now need to get mediocre sleep. Make that effort count by waiting a few extra minutes and just knock out two bathroom breaks while you're at it.
  • You will run into everything. It's like your protruding tummy is a magnet for every chair, every corner, every bookcase, every doorway...you just will hit them. Eight feet of open space? Oh, you'll find something to nick. Promise.
  • Showering. It's nearly as awesome as bathing. Sure, you're upright, but want to give you feet a little rub rub? Yeah, it's not going to happen. Leg shaving will render you breathless -- not in the good way -- and you may pass out. In fact, it's very likely. A shower spotter would be advisable, but really, ain't nobody want to see that.
  • Whatever someone just told you, or whatever you just told them, it will evaporate from your brain the moment it's said. Write it down, record it, maybe hire a scribe. But your ability to remember anything is shot. Going to the store for a single thing? You must take a note. You will not remember said item. You will remember, however, Hostess Cupcakes.
  • Your appetite at some point will likely tank. You'll know you need to eat, but nothing will sound good, and the concept of having to select 3-5 meals a day will leave you so overwhelmed that you can't even. You might cry over the mention of the word "lunch." You still, however gain weight, and when you have just enough energy to get dressed, sit for 8 hours, and maybe eek out a meal (i.e. cereal all around), you'll also be told how important it is to exercise throughout the pregnancy. Just. Shut. Up.
But, here is it, the obligatory "it's all worth it." And truth? Duh. Of course it's worth it. Making a human is awesome. The reality that the constantly-moving little dude in your belly will some day hug you, draw you pictures, and make your family something new and amazing is something else. It's too good. 

So yes, you will feel like a clumsy buffalo for months on end, but you'll also get to be a mommy. Fair deal in my book, y'all.

5.20.2016

Things With Which Writers Struggle...

First, this title. It's far more cute and blog-esque to call it, "Things Writers Struggle With." However, ending a sentence with a preposition is evil. So I have to reword it to be able to sleep at night, yet I'm sacrificing traffic because no one is going to actually Google "Things with which writers struggle," as they will likely search the bastardized version of said inquiry.

For the Love.

Y'all, I am in writing mode, and have been over the last few days. Day Job is in a bit of a holding pattern still, so I'm trying to take advantage of some less stressful days, and writing is the best way to do that (while simultaneously helping me avoid spending money). 

Speaking of which! PSA: Home Goods carries Aden + Anais baby crap. You're welcome.

While I've obviously picked up the pace on blogging a bit since I became pregnant (which I'm loving, by the way, whether you do or not), I am trying to also give due attention to my book. Yup, I'm writing a book. I started it a while ago and have been slowly chipping away in concentrated bursts of inspiration. (This should make for a suuuuper cohesive story and tone.) I don't really even know how to explain it without making it sound lame (oh, the irony of a writer who can't formulate the words to pitch her book), but it's essentially a collection of short stories about family, love, loss, etc.

And here's where I encounter my biggest struggle: I don't think anyone will want to read it. It's so hard to keep going and push through when you've already decided that no one in their right mind would want to hear about your family, that it's not nearly marketable enough to ever actually end up on the shelves, and that a diary would probably be a better ultimate resting place for these stories. And the dang thing isn't even finished yet. Shoot, it doesn't even have a title! The subtitle and chapter titles, I got. But main title? I got nothin'. (Again, with the promising outlook for a writer who can't find the words to name her book.)

I love reading stories about real people, real life, and I have the sincere hope that others do too. Otherwise, I'm writing a book for no one. And the most healthy thing would probably be for me to not care about the outcome, to write for the sake of writing, but I just can't. I care about these characters because they're my people. And I want everyone to know and love them because they're amazing and hilarious and brave. 

So, all that to say, writing is an actual discipline and a craft, and like all good things, it takes work. So I'm working on it. Line by line. And someday, maybe, it'll find a home.

And a title.

4.25.2016

Say "Baby" One More Time...

You know that Baby Shower game, the one where everyone is given a clothes pin or a safety pin to wear, and if you say the "B-word," you lose your pin? And at the end, whoever has collected the most pins--ostensibly at the cost of other guests, who likely don't want to play the game in the first place--wins a prize. Yeah, I think I'm going to start playing that game. With myself. At home.

I am trying, I really am. But I can't seem to talk or think about anything other than the B-word. Or more specifically, the stuff that goes with (or should go with) the B-word.

Before actually getting pregnant, I remember thinking, 'Ugh, too much stuff for babies these days. We'll totally keep it simple. They're small creatures, after all. They can't really need that much.' And to be fair, I don't think that everything we consider "necessities" are truly necessities. However, this mama wants all the standard "must haves." I want convenience, I want things that pull double duty...I'll take whatever can soften the blow (for both me, Hubs, and Little Nugget). 

So I'm pouring over reviews, safety reports, polling friends and family (thank you much for obliging, sweet peeps...#TribalKnowledgeFTW), and comparing prices and products across retailers. And if I'm honest, I know perfectly well that this is my futile, Type A way of coping with the fact that this is only aspect of this journey that I have any hope of controlling. 

I am about to get schooled right good in leaning on the Lord, letting things go, and learning how to cry on the inside when Mama needs to just keep on keeping on. I can't even begin to know just how massive this all is, but I can imagine, and it's like whoa.

However, I wouldn't bypass it for anything. I have been stupid blessed to carry this kid, and I can't believe that God chose me to be M's wife and Little Nugget's mommy. Blows. My. Mind, ya'll. 

Case in point: last night, I apologized to M for talking about all the baby things all the time for all the days. Much like when we were planning the wedding, I know, fully, that I am failing at the "make time to talk about other things" approach (which I absolutely believe is good advice). His response? It's OK. He knows how I am, and he knows this is the best way for me to prepare. And he appreciates it.

Dude appreciates my crazy. I can't even.

So while I am beyond grateful for that man's sweet, sweet grace, I may or may not start sporting clothes pins around the house. And if I win, I get donut cake.

8.05.2014

Comparison is the Thief of Joy...and It Sucks

I'm about to get ruhl real up in here, but I am struggling, y'all. I have struggled for a while now with comparison, in my glorious human state :: sarcasm ::, but it seems to ebb and flow quite a bit. At times (and quite often, really), I can look at some who is beautiful, doing well, seemingly has it all together, super fit...you name it, and feel genuinely stoked for what they have going on for themselves. "You go, Glen Coco!" But sometimes, a quick browse of Instagram, or catching up on blog posts, or just being in public with a restless heart, and I turn into the little black rain cloud that is liable to break down at any moment and would do well to shut it down for a few days and not share this crazy with another unsuspecting soul.

But did you catch the key there? A restless heart. When I let me heart stir for things of this world, and when I start to believe the lies that so easily creep into our heads (especially for women), it's not long before I'm lost and useless. And the latter is what is most unfortunate...but it's also the point.

When I serve no one but myself, I'm useless. My all day, every day is about me, how I'm feeling, what I'm going through, yadda yadda yadda. I'm not available to serve. I'm not free to share the gospel of Grace. How can I be? Anyone in their right mind would look at me in that state and be like, "Uh, I don't want what she's having." And rightly so!

To add to the ridiculousness, it's very possible that people may look at my life and think that I've got my stuff together. My sweet husband reminded me of this one day when I was expressing this sort of thing to him in confidence, and it sort of baffled me. But he's right. We never know who is paying attention or making certain assumptions, even assuming the best of us.

It's so easy to wallow in this state, and to feel like the answer is to cancel my Facebook, unfollow all blogs (except food blogs...well, maybe the perfectly styled food blogs get the ax, too), close my Instagram account, and wear blinders 24/7. (It's all very Handmaid's Tale.) But the issue is me. I don't go away in those "solutions." I am instead left to my own devices, to blame others for executing a perfectly cultivated life (meanwhile, I have no idea what their day-to-day really entails, or what the motivation is behind lovely photos and styled living), and to let circumstances of this world disable me. Where's the testimony in that?

Thankfully, God has shone his merciful light on the reality of this situation, and is assuring me daily not to worry about the lot of others. And slowly, I will catch on to His wisdom and cling to His outstretched hand. He has provided a beautiful life for us, but even if that disappears tomorrow and even my sad attempts at styling a shot of my morning coffee are never again a possibility, it's all good. Because He is everything. He measured time and the heavens, and named every star. He is mighty and sovereign, and nevertheless, He loves us, feeble humans who are so easily distracted and wooed from Him by shiny things and lies. I absolutely believe that we can be blessed with goodness here, from Him (and only from Him), but we cannot do it apart from Him. That's the ultimate litmus test. Without Him, everything is delicate beauty hiding dirt and despair. 

So take heart, friends, if you too sometimes feel those pangs of jealousy, comparison, and discontentment. Drop everything (including your phones and laptops), and look to He who is greater than all, and more beautiful than we can comprehend. Let Him be your eyes and show you what it means to be well.

12.17.2011

Little Miss Random

~My manager and I often chat about makeup and beauty products. (She's the coolest!) She has been singing the praises of Urban Decay's eyeshadow primer for a while now, and I finally broke down and bought a tube a few days ago. Oh. My. Gosh. How have I gone this long without it? This lovely potion makes blending a cinch and keeps sketchy creasing at bay. (I apply my makeup around 6:00am every morning, so by lunch I'd have a whole lotta hot mess going on in my eye area. This is a huge development, people!)

~
This. Just go to there. Big thanks to Brittney over at La Midge for Tweeting the link and for the subsequent giggles that ensued.

~Why is it that I end up with flecks of glitter all over my face and hands every single day this time of year? Where is it coming from?? I'm like an uber confused sparkle fairy up in here! Not a good look for me.

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~Throughout next week, I will be featuring guest posts from a few of my favorite bloggers! I have asked them to share with y'all their favorite Christmas tradition(s). In the midst of all the hoopla and spending, it's important to reflect on the moments that make the season truly special. (If you'd like to participate, please email or Tweet me and I'll send you the details! The more the merrier!)



12.06.2011

It's a Flats Day, Y'all


I don't look nearly this cute at the office, but humor me.
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Life at the office has been refreshingly busy this week thus far, but I wanted to pop by for a quick hello! I'm getting behind on reading all your lovely posts, which is especially no bueno since this season has inspired one beautiful post after another. But I will catch up soon, probably while cuddled up at home and enjoying a cup of coffee. Mmmm. Bring it!

I've shared with y'all that I'm in the process of upping my style game at the office, and I've actually done pretty well on making an effort as of late. However, I relish days like today when I can rock the chinos and a simple sweater with my favorite casual scarf. Not to mention, my feet could use a break from high heels. I do concede that they work magic on my legs, but scuttling about the office is much easier in flats.

And, well, there's the matter of skill.

In my head, here's what I look like walking in heels...

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In reality...

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Not a good look. But I'll keep working on it. I am planning on braving high heels this weekend for a night on the town to celebrate M's birthday. I may even wear dangly earrings. Look out!  

(Send Band-Aids.)

11.18.2011

Friday, I'm in Love, v.7

It's Friday and I'm in love with...

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Dashing any chance of looking hawt in my comfies, giant fuzzy socks are on my feet on a regular basis these days. I never actually buy these, but they typically show up in my Christmas stocking and I am elated. They're so comforting and make me feel like a little kid. Get you some.

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Ever since my success with the lentil taco recipe, I've been positively enchanted by this legume. I nommed some of the excess lentils that had only been boiled in water--no salt, no pepper, nothin'--and they were fantastic. They're full of iron and protein, keep well and don't require soaking. Lentil soup has been such a comfort food for me ever since my college roomie's Greek mama introduced me to it, and I'm so excited to explore other recipes and uses for lentils.

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As I obsess about proper recipes to contribute (finally) to the Thanksgiving meal this year, the Epicurious app has been more helpful that you can shake a stick at. Most of the recipes have photos, and all of them have reviews, which I love reading for substitution ideas and real-life expectations. ("This dish took 4 hours to make and used all of my pans. But yum!" Yeeeeah, I'll pass.) 

Wishing y'all a great weekend and a lovely week ahead as you prepare for Thanksgiving. Remember: things will go wrong, there will be spills, there will be naps...so embrace the hoopla and don't forget to take some time for true, prayerful thanksgiving.

...Oh, and hug your host/hostess! They work hard, y'all!

11.17.2011

[Inspired Thursdays, v.5] Sing a Joyful Song

I have been a closet songstress for years now. I love singing. I sing in the car, in the shower, on the treadmill (at home)...and I mean belting it out, y'all. But I don't ever let people hear me sing. If I'm in the car with someone and my jam comes on the radio, I turn my head toward the window and baby sing it out. I just gotta, but on the low-low.

Church was no exception. I stood up, crossed my arms in discomfort, and moved my mouth while keeping my eyes firmly affixed to the hymn book or screen to catch the lyrics. We grew up attending a conservative Southern California church, so worship wasn't exactly the jazzy, jovial expression more commonly seen in churches these days anyway. But I was not having the singing. I dreaded worship time and sometimes even hoped we would miss that part of service (which we often did thanks to Dad and his two-hour morning showers). It's terrible to have felt that way, and it saddens me that I didn't understand the blessing of praising God by lifting up our voices.

Now? I sing like I can! (I like to imagine that I secretly have a voice like Idina's, but no one will ever know.) (I don't. And they won't.) Once I started listening to contemporary Christian music in my car, I found that I actually knew the songs they were playing in church. (Shocking, I know.) I didn't even have to look at the screen! I figured it wasn't all that much different from singing in the car to these songs, and before I knew it, I found myself looking so forward to Sundays and singing with fellow believers. It wasn't just that I was singing, but that I finally understood that God planted this love in my heart, and his church inspired me to embrace it, both on Sundays and everyday. Just in time for Christmas, too. Who wants to go caroling?!

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I may sound like a pack-of-cigs-smokin'-a-day kitty when I let it out, but I am filled with joy to know that at least one listener digs my vocal stylings. And He's the most important critic, anyway.

10.04.2011

You think they'd let me wear a princess dress and tiara to work? ...No?

Sometimes I still feel like a little a little girl playing dress up.

While I am happiest in pajamas and my Hello Kitty slippers, hair half secured in a pony, half sticking straight out like a ragamuffin, I also really enjoy getting dressed for work. But I think my enjoyment comes from pulling off (what I think is) a look that appears that of a grown-up: cuffed black slacks, a fashionable blouse in a modern neutral hue (a phrase that justifies my obsessions with all shades of gray), heeled Mary Janes, my beloved MK gold watch from Brover, some dangly earrings that complement but don't match my shirt (ah ha!), and clean, styled hair.

Meanwhile, every time I teeter down the hallway with my cup of coffee in hand, I am nervous that my sassy heels are going to get stuck in the sassy cuff of my sassy pants and I am going to eat the not-so-sassy gray berber carpet when I yard sale it in front of my office. (True, at least it's gray.)

But all is well, for there is a pair of fuzzy gray slippers discretely residing under my desk that like to come out and play on the regular. Bonus: I wear long enough pants that I can actually scuttle about the office in my slippers sometimes without anyone noticing. Holla!

These days I often catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and think, 'Oh, hi, Soccer Mom.' I partially blame Banana Republic for having super comfy capri pants, though the blame for an ever-present cardigan is mine alone. But I suppose it's not completely off base; I am nearly 30, after all. (Though, to be fair, my love affair with the daytime-appropriate security blankie known as the cardigan has been a staple in my wardrobe since junior high. Yeah, cool kid. Right here.)

I'm not sure any look or outfit can really capture who we are, though. In so far as anyone can externally communicate their real self via these bodies in which we reside, we attempt to represent how we identify ourselves in relation to an established perception of style...whatever that means. So whether you're rockin' your favorite outfit and feeling like a million bucks, or cuddled up in snowman-covered pants and a Hanes v-neck feeling like a spunky kiddo again, have fun playing dress up! But let your true joy and identity reside in your heart...not in your closet.   

8.18.2010

Something about old dogs...

Now that I've settled in to my new apartment in southwest Austin, TX (a.k.a. the coolest city in Texas. Which isn't saying much, to be fair. But it really is awesome. And I've lived in many cool, cosmopolitan cities. So it's legit.), I've found myself trying to quickly establish some positive new behaviors/rituals. Why so quick on the draw, you ask? (Or not.) Well, I've found that I settle into routine quite expeditiously, which isn't always a good thing.

Say, for example, my former habit of rewarding "early mornings" with a large chocolate donut. Now, in and of itself, this wasn't the worst tradition ever; but when I extended "mornings" to anything in the AM half of the day, I had officially lost my marbles. That's a whole lot of eligible donut time. (And I am my mother's daughter, after all. I will take out a small child for swiping the last chocolate twist.)

These tasks don't have to be substantial or even really all that important, but I think it contributes to a simplified, well-balanced, grown up life. Like, I don't have to thrash about the house in a sweaty panic looking for my (unnecessarily large set of) keys. I know they're in the little drawer of my foyer table. (Oh yeah, I have one of those. I'm mature, see.)

They don't have to be super OCD, either. Some of them are just good, clean fun. Say, for example, waking up to my cheery iPod playlist versus the God-awful, stabby-making beep. I don't know about you, but nothing gets me off to a lovely start like waking to The Temper Trap. And coffee. Natch.

Well, that's enough Nesting with Natty for today. Stay tuned for adventures in decorating sans symmetry. It's all the rage. So I'm told.

5.03.2010

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.

4.06.2010

I can has a million dollars?

Well hello, new followers! I hope very much that I can entertain, bring a smile to your pretty/handsome little face, give you a break from the schenanigans of every day, make you salivate with all the coffee talk...and so forth. I heart you already.

There's a very odd habit that one picks up when you find yourself utterly broke: you don't want to part with anything that is even remotely useful. Why? Because if you throw something out, there is a slight chance that you may need this item (or something like it), and by not having it, you'll have to spend money getting it. You know, money, something you don't have.

Case in point: I ran out of my Shu Uemura Satin Design polishing milk. (The who did the what in the where? It's hair product, kids.) I friggin' love that stuff, but at $33 a bottle, um, yeah, no more for Natty. I happened to have some "styling creme" in my cabinet, so I decided to just use that shizz (since it's already in my possession) for my blow outs.

Epic fail.

The crap makes my hair feel like it's infused with Mod Podge. Which, just, ew. So even though this stuff serves its basic purpose (putting any product between the heat and your hair provides some thermal protection, FYI), it's just...not...good. Nothing is worse than petting your own hair (Anyone? No, just me? Alrighty then.) and getting all tangled up and sticky.

Moral of the story: sometimes, no matter your financial status, you've got to pony up and buy the good stuff. Compromise? I will treat myself to a new bottle of Sebastian Potion 9 (which, at $16 a bottle is a nice go-between for this product whore). HOWEVER, I will attain said product with my Target gift card from the Easter Bunny! So I'm not actually spending any money.

Other people's money for the win!

Next order of business: acquire gift cards from Chipotle, Starbucks, and Anthropologie. Then I'll be unstoppable! Bwahahaha!

3.17.2010

Jet Setter

You'd probably imagine I'm a bit high-maintenance given my penchant for pretty things, bubble baths, and Starbucks (in excess). (Did you catch the Oxford comma there? Yeah, good stuff.)

But you'd be wrong.

Well, kinda.

When it comes to packing for a trip, I am the most low maintenance gal you've ever seen. (Well, unless you've watched a lady hippie pack for a trip. She probably wins. But her idea of traveling is likely hitchhiking. And that involves nary more than a knapsack. And a knapsack? Not really something that is packed. Zing! I win again.)

I have a dinky carry-on roller that I've used for about a decade now, and I have mastered the art of filling this puppy to the brim with the bare essentials. I have survived five-day trips with one tiny rolling suitcase about the length of a standard pillow.

But how do I do this, you ask? I mean, I am the Queen of Beauty Products. My daily regimen alone should warrant half a traditional suitcase, yes?

No. My secret: sample sizes.

I also apply this basic principals of Tetris to packing, which makes the whole deal more efficient and fun. (Stop shaking your head at me. I'm awesome.)

This would probably be a good time to mention that if I am traveling, it is generally for a shoot, which means that my hair and makeup (and possibly wardrobe) will be provided by someone on set. All I have to do is show up looking clean, rested, and manicured.

But for a chronic insomniac whole tends to bite her cuticles and forgets about her eyebrows until they've reached Muppet status, that's asking a lot.

3.08.2010

It's not all rainbows and sunshine...but it can always be worse.

OK, so I've cried twice in the past two days, which, for me, is just straight up out of control.

Yesterday, I cried during Sandy Bullock's speech at the Oscars. I was glad she won because, well, I just adore her. I don't necessarily think she was the best in the category, but I've got nothing but love for Ms. Bullock and am glad she got take home a lil gold man. I then proceeded to lose it (in public while wearing a sassy dress, nonetheless) when she started talking about her Mom. I knew that she lost her mommy to cancer when she (Sandy) was a wee bit older than I, so I should have seen it coming. Well, I bawled like a baby and totally messed up my face. But I pulled myself back together and was reminded, yet again, why I heart her so.

Today? Well, I have been worrying about finances as it is (seeing as how I don't have any foreseeable income at the moment while I am home with Mom full-time), but I started doing my taxes for 2009...and it got ugly. In all likelihood, I am going to have to pay about $2000 in taxes. I have it, but that's a huge chunk of my safety net and therefore blood money at this point.

Quick side note: I don't generally blog about really personal issues such as this, but I have a point of greater importance. Bear with me. I'm gettin' there...

So then I cried. Again. And put in a call to our tax specialist for an appointment STAT. (Because I swear she's magic and will find some way to get this figure down, even if by a few hundred dollars. A dollar is a dollar, yo!) And then I REALLY cried when I realized Mom saw me upset about my predicament. She came in to my room, gave me a big hug, assured me that she and Pops would do whatever they could to help, and then Pops said I'd have no financial worries once I got famous, and therefore this battle would be foreseeably finite. Bobs (a.k.a. Brover) and his best friend also offered to help.

Best. Family. Ever.

And then I wiped my tears, pulled up my Big Girl Panties, and locked it up. Why? Because it could be so much worse. I could have zero dollars in my accounts, no one available/willing to help, or...I could be battling a crippling disease and fighting for my life.

I know this is a huge leap and may seem a bit dramatic. (Stop rolling your eyes, dear readers. You know me better than that.) But this is yet another lesson for this gal in perspective. I get to plan for a future that (presumably) I will get. I get to worry about things like finances because I'm not consumed by pain and frustration on a daily, hourly basis.

Seriously, what the hell am I worried about?

Call it crazy, call it delusion, whatever. I call it faith. And perspective. And being retarded blessed when it comes to the bulk of my life.

No more tears today.

2.05.2010

Because I'm clearly a huge star.

OK, so let me begin this post by saying that I am NOT complaining. This is not a rant. I am not a brat. You don't even know what I am writing about yet. Nevertheless. Calm down.

Every once in a while, I get a request via my website asking for an autographed headshot. For a brief moment, I get really excited because (1) someone not related to me knows about my acting career (the kids are calling them "fans," I hear), and (2) I get to use a Sharpie. (I mean, how can you not feel cool when signing your name all fancy with a delicious marker?)

But this excitement only lasts for a moment or two before I simmer down and think, 'Wait, why would I have a fan?' (This is not a fishing for compliments situation so shut. up.) Seriously, my longest on-screen moment in any given film is probably two minutes max. And while I give it a genuine effort, there is just not a whole lot of range to be seen in a five minute scene. Even if I am dying/being killed. Which happens. A lot.

Once my prudence (Dear Prudence) kicks in, I am overcome with creeped-outness. How did this person find me? How many times have they looked at my site/picture/reel? Are they wearing pants when they do so? Ok, ew. But for real.

I understand that this is part of the deal when you enter into a career as a "public figure," whatever the H that means. I'm not like those celebrities who complain about being followed by paparazzi. I mean, for starters, I don't parade around with my uber-famous best friends right in front of the hottest nightclub in L.A. while gorked out of my mind on illegal drugs and sans underpants. Lock. It. Up. (By the way, I hate paparazzi and the assumption that privacy is a luxury in the entertainment business to which no one is ever guaranteed. I jest because I enjoy making fun of hot messes. We're amused by our own.)
But it is a little unnerving to be a no-name, fledgling actress in Dallas and to be contacted by someone claiming to be "a huge fan." Um...of what? My expansive body of work? Wrong.

Here's a letter I would actually appreciate (and probably reward with an autographed headshot)...

Dear Ms. Cottrell,

I don't know you. You don't know me. We'll probably never meet.

I haven't really seen any of your films. (Except for that video on imdb. Was that a commercial for a real film or something? It's short. And I got confused. But that's probably my
fault.) But I think you're pretty. You kinda remind of that girl in that princess movie or whatever. But she's kinda slutty. You don't seem slutty. But I don't know, I guess.

It may sound weird, and you may just ignore this email anyway, but I was wondering if you would send me an autographed photo or something. You're not famous or anything. (Sorry if
that makes you mad. I always say the wrong thing.) But if you get famous someday and move to L.A., I could probably get $50 on eBay for an autographed photo of you before you were famous. That's probably not very much money to a big actress or whatever, but that's enough to reserve my copy of the new Bioshock coming out
next month. (That's just an example.)

You don't have to if you don't want to. But I still think you're pretty.

Hope you get famous and send me a picture,

Marv

P.S. I heard you dressed up as Lara Croft for Halloween one year. Is that true? If yes, maybe you could send a picture of that. You could autograph that picture. I would probably save
that for myself. Unless I need the money. Or you get famous.


Call a spade a spade. For the love.

1.16.2010

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.

1.13.2010

In defense of Facebook....kinda.

I know that Facebook has kind of a bad rep, and I can't say that it is wholly undeserved, but there are quite a few redeeming qualities about this social networking juggernaut that I think are worth highlighting:

- There are people who have crossed my path at one time or another, but we've lost touch over the years due to relocation (on my part usually), change of circumstances, life, etc. Facebook puts those people right smack back in your life, even is just for a quick making-up-for-lost-time message exchange. (By the way, people, please use FB messaging or email for this. We don't need to see each of your respective life histories spanning the entire wall, often sharing very private, sensitive information like it's nothing more than a report of what you're doing this weekend. Or what you ate for lunch.) Not to mention, it never ceases to surprise me how perfect is the timing when someone does come back into your life (er, e-life, I guess), but that not really Facebook so much as it is God (IMO). Facebook is merely the vehicle. Like a Delorean. Except...nevermind.

- For those people with whom you don't necessarily speak every day, you can still keep up with that friend's status updates and remain in the loop when something wonderful or awful happens. And while I guess the argument could be made that you're not real "friends" if this isn't the kind of news they would share with you in person/text/personal email, I do think there are a lot of people who don't like having to update every single solitary person in one's contact list ((raises hand)) when a quick note will at least ensure no one is in the dark. Not to mention, it's pretty remarkable how loved a bunch of responses to a simple status update can make you feel, even if they are so-called "pseudo-friends." (Trust me.)

- You can see how unattractive all the popular kids in high school have gotten a la their huge collection of photo albums, which they update after every weekend of binge drinking in the hometown they never left. (To be fair, most of my high school classmates are still pretty hot and are doing cool stuff. But we're only ten years out, which really isn't sufficient time for full-blown hot messness to sink in. And yes, that's a word. I just used it. And I am never wrong.)

- The birthday reminders. I seriously got all faklempt on Monday after the bagillion well-wishes from friends, pseudo-friends, family, etc. via Facebook. Call me a sap, but for a girl who doesn't like to talk on the phone (I DON'T HAVE INTIMACY ISSUES), this was the equivalent of having a voicemail box chock full o' love. Or even a regular mailbox, if you will.

Now, do the inane apps make me raging angry with the fire of a thousand suns? You betcha. But there is always a trade off, and so long as that "block this application" option sticks around, I will be one happy camper.

Unless my pseudo-friends keep asking me out. (No, I'm not talking about you.) When I don't respond, that's the electronic equivalent of me turning my back on you in a bar and chugging my Blue Moon like I've been parched for days. Take the hint, e-dudes.

1.04.2010

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...

12.31.2009

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.

12.14.2009

A Hottie Grows in Dallas

(Yes, I'm blogging about boys. Get over it.)

I went out two consecutive nights this past weekend, which is pretty much Spring Break status for this old lady. I joined Shine, Gofahne, Graygrrrl, and many other awesome ladies to celebrate someone's 30th birthday. (I won't say who.) (Bwahahahaha!) (It's only funny because she doesn't look a day over twenty-two, but acts twice as cool as...well...pretty much everyone.)

Anywho...

I have been a bit pouty as of late due to my prolonged singledom. (There is probably no greater understatement.) (April, stop laughing!) My eye is not easily caught, and I started to think that perhaps I was a wee bit dead on the inside.

And then we went to Bolsa. And I had a total come-apart.

Twice.

I am not going to go into too much detail here (as I have a few loyal guy followers and would rather not alienate them completely), but let's just say that I'm reborn. As of Saturday night, I'm feeling aaaaaaaallll kinds of situations on the inside.

What did I do about these feelings, you ask? Oh, well nothing. Duh. I mean, these DVR'd episodes of House aren't going to watch themselves if I'm out gallivanting around with Mr. Serving Up Some Sexy (which, really, applies to the bartender and/or the waiter). Let's not get too crazy, folks!

P.S. I still blame the polenta. Or maybe the delicious, delicious dirty martinis, which also made me realize that I am a total priss. (Yup, a priss who cannot form a sentence when Mr. SUSS grazes my arm as he presents my plate of beautiful, fancy veggies. I'm a bit of a riddle.)