Archive | April, 2014

D is for Dicaprio

4 Apr

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My semi internet acquaintance Carrie is a completely delightful writer every day, but when she writes about Leonardo Dicpario she goes from completely delightful writer to Superhuman Queen of Excellence Whose Posts Bring In A Million Views.

Literally.

Her article 13 Reasons Why The Academy Won’t Give Leonardo Dicaprio An Oscar has nearly one million views.  It’s always winning Portable and always winning life.

Reason #11: Maybe this one time an Academy voter was trying to have a quiet, romantic dinner at a restaurant in LA but could hear someone chewing really loud and Leo was at an adjacent table so he told all of the other voters “Leonardo DiCaprio chews so loud it’s so gross don’t vote for him!” so none of them vote for him anymore even though it was probably Denzel Washington.

This is the real reason #11 and the real reason I’m considering retiring the use of words completely and accepting my fate as a seamstress.

Becoming a seamstress is an ongoing joke between me and Katie.  Whenever we feel like we can’t hack it in this writing world we say, “Maybe I’ll give up and become a seamstress and make red skirts with big bows and sew a muumuu of my tears.” The seamstress thing all started on a particularly bad writing feedback day when I happened to be wearing a red skirt with a big bow  and there’s really not more to the story.

Perhaps you had to be there.

Anyway.

Carrie is an excellent writer, but her writing thing is Leonardo Dicaprio, you know?

Leo is so her thing I’ve decided it’s a thing now.

Your “Leo” is your burning passion that brings out the best words in your soul.  As in:

Leo, noun: creative influence and passion in life.  Reason to get up in the morning.  Only topic you should ever write about.

Carrie’s Leo is Leo.

Which led me to the inevitable question, what is my Leo?

I thought about this for all of two minutes, felt uncomfortable that I have no talents or skills in this world, and then texted Caitlin for the answer.

That’s why we have friends, after all, isn’t it?  To see us as we can’t see ourselves.  To point out the good things that get lost in the we-are-way-too-close-to-fully-understand-ourselves things.

Caitlin quickly responded, “The royal family.  And probably your friends. What’s my Leo?”

I quickly responded with the name of a boy.

She said, “I know.”

I said, “Sob sob sob.”

And then a Veronica Mars conversation ensued.

Wait, is that off topic?

Let’s bring it back around.

What is your thing?  What’s the subject that brings out your half a million page views and lights your soul on fire?

What’s your Leo?

(There’s the topic.)

C is for Capeside

3 Apr

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I’ve been rewatching Dawson’s Season 3 as one does when one is in a state of turmoil/ecstatic joy/eh.

I’ve often wondered about this season.  Kevin Williamson (series creator/Dawson himself) left the show after Season 2 for other pursuits and only came back to write the series finale.  I usually credit Kevin with the show and its genius and often cite him as the source of much of my own inspiration, but I wonder how accurate this is.  Inarguably, the two best seasons of Dawson’s are Seasons 3 and 4 and Kevin wasn’t even around for them.

How much is he responsible for the greatest television season in history? (Season 3)

Come the zombie apocalypse when Amy and I are holed up, watching one last Pacey and Joey moment, how much should we thank Kevin?

This particular Dawson’s rewatching has consisted of me and a mad game with my Apple TV remote.  I only have interest in Joey and Pacey (duh), and therefore I skip all other scenes.  However, this rarely works well and usually ends with me fast forwarding too far into a Pacey/Joey scene, rewinding back, finding myself in an Andie scene, screaming and trying again.

It might be quicker to just watch the whole episode, but where is the drama in that?

In addition to the extremely fun remote control game I’ve been playing, this Dawson’s go-around I’ve also been having an existential crisis, of sorts.

Did you know that Capeside is supposed to be Cape Cod???

Say no.

Say I’m not the only one.

Rob brought this to my attention.  I rolled my eyes.  Novice.

“No, no, Robert.  Capeside is a small, coastal town in Massachusetts full of cottages and charm.  In the summer tourists flood in. It’s nothing like Cape Cod at all.  I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

And then I realized what I said.  And then I looked it up.  And suddenly all of my life made sense.

Capeside = Cape Cod.

Cape Cod = Capeside.

Jillian + Cape Cod + Capside =

(You’re right, it’s not working.  Scratch that.)

This was remarkable news.  I didn’t even know that Capeside was Cape Cod, and yet I fell in love with both locations separately and completely and now that I know they are one and the same it’s like my life’s destiny has revealed itself.

I must find my way to Cape Code/Capeside.  I must finish this equation!

(I also just read an Abundance of Katherines so you’ll excuse the odd equation thing.  I’m nothing if not heavily influenced by my current read.)

Unfortunately, as with most lovely places, and as with most non-lovely places outside of New York and LA, there appear to be a lack of writing jobs in Cape Codside.

This leaves the English teacher route, the option all of us pursuing writing secretly think about twice a week.

“I will move to Cape Codside and become an English teacher!” I declared, to no one in particular.

“I will stock up on crazy glasses and learn to love Heart of Darkness (no) and wander around writing bad poetry on the weekends!”

But then I remembered Tamara and Season 1 and how that plotline has already been done.  And I decided I should be an English teacher on Prince Edward Island and that is really my fate after all.

And then I watched more Dawson’s.

And spent a lot of time debating if Jacey or Poey is more more offensive.

And ate Walkers shortbread.

Because who knows what my destiny really is, anyway.

B is for Bad Call

2 Apr

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I believe there are two main groups of people in the world: those who think about/utilize/enjoy fart jokes and those who do not.

I fall into the latter category.

Like in a major way.

A boy once texted me a fart joke and I stopped speaking to him.  In a smart move, he tried to apologize with nachos and I said “not enough.  I’m still not over the fart joke” and I continued to ignore him.

It took us some time recover.

We may still be recovering, I don’t know.

This is not to say I don’t love and appreciate people who fall into the first category.  Hilary, for instance, is a big poop joker.  Her essay for our Fall Literary Arts Festival was entitled “Everybody Farts” and when she applies for jobs she throws a good poop joke or two into her cover letter just to be well rounded.

Hilary is also the type of person who texts her mother this for April Fools’ Day:

Love you! (not an April Fools)

You’re not my favorite person (an April Fools)

So this is what we’re dealing with.  I have to be her friend, no matter her stance on bodily functions, because she’s just that sweet FOR REAL.

Anyway.

I’m telling you all this not because I have to blog 26 times this month and I’ve already resorted to fart jokes, but simply because I have to blog 26 times this month and have already resorted to fart jokes AND I need to illustrate my point.

Which is this:

There are fart jokers and then there are no non-fart jokers.

There are April Foolers and there are non April Foolers.

And these tend to line up.  When I told Hilary I’m not an April Fools’ person she said, “Obviously.  April Fools’ is for us poop joke people.”

I don’t do April Fools’.

In fact, yesterday after I published my Cinderella celebrity post and a few people thought it was an April Fools’ joke I had to check the calendar.  I started the blogging challenge with that post even though the encounter was three weeks ago because it’s a dang good story and I’ve been saving up.

It’s also true.

I have a witness named Miss Hilary Frances Marie Miller and she didn’t calm down for several hours after it happened.

Also I don’t like fart jokes.

I mean, what else do you need to believe me?

Other things that I’ve recently done that could be construed as April Fools’ jokes but are not:

1. I bought, altered, and wore a panda flannel nightgown in public.

2. I called this nightgown a “panda muumuu” to feel better about myself.

3. I purchased 22 $1.99 rings from Urban Outfitters and have taken to wearing at least 9 at once. (I counted.  These are actual numbers.)

4. I bought an impromptu Celine Dion ticket to Vegas, drove all day to see her, and cried during “My Heart Will Go On.”

5. I made a “drove all day” Celine Dion pun.

6. I took a selfie with Michael at Celine Dion and called it a “Celfie.”

9. I made two Celine Dion puns in one blog post.

10. I theme-dressed for a game of laser tag in a Heisenberg shirt and purple lipstick and was rewarded with the laser tag host saying, “Watch out for that one.”

11. I then sat out the second laser tag game because I’m old and lame and no one needs to watch out for me.

12. I almost took solo photobooth shots while the rest of my friends played laser tag.

13. I got a KFC meal, walked to McDonald’s for Coke products, decided I needed an ice cream cone and fries from McD’s, and then had a sudden urge for baked beans and walked BACK to KFC.

14. I sent an email to my one-hour drama class announcing I had cast the male leads in the British teen soap I’m writing as Brooklyn Beckham and Rafferty Law and told them to “stay tuned” for which boy wins the heart of our young protagonist.

15. I titled this blog post “bad call” in reference to the bad call of mine to post a slightly unbelievable story on April Fools’ Day and then forgot to say “bad call” in the whole blog post.

OK so posting the celebrity story on April Fools’ Day was a bad call.

But the story is true.

Also I don’t like fart jokes.

There we go.

Day 2, you have been conquered!

A is for Awkward

1 Apr

In the crazy haze that was last month, I signed up to be part of the A to Z blogging challenge and pledged to blog 26 times this month. 

Pledged seems like a big word to use here, like I’ve joined a sorority or something, but I sort of feel like I have.  26 times? Is this possible?

What is a sorority?

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I think that most people who move to Malibu have some version of a Cinderella story in their minds.  I’m sure it varies from person to person and interest to interest, but you’d be hard pressed to find a 20-something student in Malibu who has never entertained, even for one second, the possibility of randomly meeting and subsequently falling in love with a celebrity.

“Oh my gosh, I never saw this happening.  I totally didn’t even want in on the scene.  But it was Adam, you know?  Adam convinced me.”

“He’s just a good, solid guy, don’t let his stunning looks and curly hair fool you.”

“I mean, hanging out with Chrissy Tiegen at the Oscars was cool and all, but she and Johnny are normal people like us.  You’re making too big of a deal out of this.”

(Should I stop or do 25 more?)

My dream Cinderella story involves Adam Brody in all his awkward glory fighting for my attention, me rebuffing him again and again, and Adam declaring his love for me on top of the Starbucks coffee counter.

I love him back.  We kiss.  Death Cab for Cutie swells in the background.  We move to Orange County.  He makes a comic book character named Diva Jillian.  I seek psychological treatment.

Deep breath.

And another.

And oneeeeeeee more.

OK, feeling better.

I’m ready to continue.

Alas, this isn’t a story about my unhealthy love of Adam Brody.  Nor is it a story of how I’ve been coping since his marriage to Leighton Meester.

No, this is the story of my Malibu Cinderella moment with a celebrity you likely haven’t heard of (and who shall rename nameless) and how I seized the mother freaking day.

It all began at Malibu Kitchen…

(Screen swirls taking us back to that fateful day.)

I was all dressed up, a ploy my friends and I were trying in order to improve my mood.  Looking good means feeling good, right?  Onwards and upwards!  A penny saved is a penny earned!

(Who knows.)

I wore this little blue dress with ankle boots that placed me somewhere around the 6’1’’ zone and I shopped for cookies with a vengeance and a purpose.  Basically, it was like any given Thursday afternoon in Malibu plus heels.

There was this hot, disheled, Jewish man (not Adam) outside of Malibu Kitchen reading the newspaper. I noticed him, vaguely, and then put on my best “I’m so fabulous I don’t even notice you” face and bustled around buying three extra Kinder Buenos for good measure.  Hot Man smiled at me.  I acted like I didn’t notice.  There was a check out and another smile.  I moved on.

Back at Pepperdine I pulled out my laptop and settled down for an afternoon of writing when Hilary casually mentioned, “Oh hey.  That hot guy outside Malibu Kitchen who smiled at you? Yeah, that was CELEBRITY NAME.”

I about fell out of my chair.

WHAT?

WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME??

WHAT IS LIFE???

I WANNA KNOW WHAT LOVE IS!

I WANT HIM TO SHOW ME!

(More theatrics I will spare you.)

Within minutes Hilary and I were back in her car speeding towards Malibu Country Mart and within a few more minutes I was (very, very awkwardly) giving my number to CELEBRITY NAME and then running off in a fit of giggles and ankle boots.

I spent the afternoon giggling and shaking and saying “oh my gosh” at less and less frequent intervals.  (By the end there I think I was down to four times a minute!)

It was the bravest, craziest, seize-the-mother-freaking-day-est thing I have ever done in my entire life.

Call me Cinderjilla.

Jinderella?

Call me Mrs. CELEBRITY NAME Denning.

(I’m keeping my last name.)

Oh my gosh.

Oh my gosh.

Oh my gosh.

Oh my gosh.