There’s this group of men who eat breakfast at Lily’s every morning. They’re older, definitely retired, with white hair and grandpa pants and shoes to accommodate their slower pace. They sit in the table at the back, the one by the window. And they laugh.
When I come in around 8:30 one of them stands up and opens the door for me. The others continue their loud conversation.
There’s probably 10 of them, these best friends. I like to imagine they were all firefighters back in the day. Or perhaps they served in the army together. Maybe they were barbers? One of them was a barber and he cut everyone else’s hair?
So many exciting possibilities.
So many relationship goals.
I dreamt I was Meg in the Paper Towns movie.
Meg is not a character in Paper Towns.
I’ve been following John Green and Cara Delevingne’s Instagrams perhaps a little too closely, it would seem.
Also, when I was in elementary school someone told me my gymnastics outfit made me “look like a Megan.”
I think it all comes back to this.
Also also, I think Cara as Margo is bloody effing brilliant.
I dreamt my roommate was taken captive by Brian David Mitchell.
I read Elizabeth Smart’s book recently. I was her same age and living in Salt Lake when she was taken from her home at knifepoint in 2002.
I slept in my parents’ room for a week after her disappearance and had bars installed in my basement windows.
Ever since then I’ve had an irrational fear of being taken.
My brother says so do all girls my age from Utah. He calls us the Elizabeth Smart Generation.
This week I woke up from my Brian David Mitchell dream shaking.
Over a decade later and I’m still shaking.
Finally, The Sexiest Man Alive Official Deputy Central Committee Of Delight got it right.
I’m still a little miffed they haven’t given Ryan Gosling his time in the sun. The man has a feminist book named after him for the love of everything holy and right.
Remember the dreadful year they put Liam but not Chris on the list? Love me some Liam, but LET’S BE RATIONAL, PEOPLE. We don’t have to choose Hemsworths. Both Hemsworths exist.
(I feel like Anne Lamott would say here: God knows what She’s doing.)
Yesterday I went to find Jude Law’s SMA cover to tweet along with a classy #neverforget and realized that Jude became Sexiest Man Alive the year I turned 17.
It’s all coming together.
I am perpetually 17. My sexiest man was officially sexiest when I was 17.
I’m a parody of a parody.
HAVE YOU WATCHED THIS?
I showed this to my one hour drama class last year. Jude’s son Rafferty was my ideal male lead in the teen soap I wrote.
What a name.
Brooklyn Beckham was also cast in my teen soap, if you must know.
David Beckham, another of my true loves, has never been Sexiest Man Alive, and I fear it’s too late for him.
He probably peaked when I was 17, too.
Luke is perpetually 21.
One of my friend’s bachelorette parties is at a dance studio in Hollywood where a professional will teach us Beyonce moves and we will make a music video.
I am, without argument, the worst dancer in the world.
I recently went to Zumba and am trying to option my 40 minute experience into a Lifetime horror movie.
Isn’t this the coolest bachelorette party of all the bachelorette parties?
I always said I didn’t want a bachelorette party.
I saw Owen Wilson on Monday!
Luke was inside Lily’s getting us napkins, and it was all so quick it almost seems like a happy dream plopped in the middle of a very stressful week.
Owne’s hair was wet.
Clearly, he had been surfing.
He was wearing a baseball cap.
Clearly, he didn’t want to be recognized.
But his nose.
He is recognizable.
My sophomore year of college I spilled a bag of carrots in my car and decided I didn’t have the energy to pick them up. A few days later I was left with moldy, distorted lumps of toxic waste littering my floor.
I sent my friends a rather dramatic email on the subject:
I realized I am a carrot. Something went really wrong in my life and I spilled all over the car. I couldn’t get myself to pick it up because I was having a string of bad days. And now I’m moldy and gross, and, in fact, unrecognizable from my former self.
(I’ve always been extremely profound.)
This week I had my second life carrot experience.
I washed my sheets on Thursday but didn’t get around to putting them back on my bed for a full seven days. I went a whole week sleeping on a decaying mattress pad, telling myself I would “get to it.” “It’s OK.” When I finally put the linens on my bed I had hair ties and makeup and empty Snapple bottles at my feet. I had a sports bra under my face and 12 books beside me.
Somehow in a week’s time I became moldy carrot girl again, and I can’t help but wonder why.
Why I couldn’t just put on the sheets?
Shouldn’t I be able to put on the sheets?
Why do some people just put on the sheets?
Bailey from Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants teaches my pilates class.
I want to say something to her, but then I don’t.
I obviously don’t.
“Bailey, give me the goods on Blake Lively. Were you at the wedding? How uncomfortable/comfortable does Preserve make you?”
“And about Alexis. Do you think she lives without a toilet now that Pete is in her life?”
This week someone in my life discovered she has lice. Lice!
Mandee (rather distressingly) told me that she knew a girl with lice who had to cut off her hair, Julie Andrews-style.
I DO NOT HAVE JULIE ANDREWS’ FACE.
Hilary suggested, if this were to happen, if my hair were lost to the lice monsters, I should chronicle my journey as a poor woman’s Julie Andrews in a new blog:
Your One True Beauty.
In case you would like a picture of my hair pre poor-woman’s-Julie-Andrews cut, you can see it in my first article for Self Magazine:
This Milkmaid Braid Will Solve Weekday Hairdo Woes
(That was my postmodern way of conveying my excitement at seeing my article on Self!)
I do not have lice.
I am the queen of ordering bulk food products online and I need help.
This week it was 36 whatchamacallits.
I told myself not to be irrational. To truly check every place in Malibu for these mediocre candy bars I happened to be craving one afternoon.
They weren’t there.
My roommate found them at the gas station the next day.
It’s a sitcom episode trying to figure out what to do with the whatchamacallits.
(Because, of course, after the bulk order came in I discovered whatchamacallits aren’t as good as I once remembered.)
Should I donate them?
Use them in my next church lesson?
Eat them slowly over the next 36 years?
“He’s the most beautiful man who ever walked the earth – an absolutely perfect oil painting” — Naomi Watts on Jude Law.