Archive | October, 2013

I May Yet Be A Blogger

7 Oct

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There are several things I struggle with as a blogger:

  1. The word “blogger”
  2. Pictures
  3. Pictures of me
  4. Posting pictures of me
  5. Bios

The whole notion of a bio, on a blog or elsewhere, sends chills down my spine.  How am I supposed to convey, in two quippy sentences, who I am, what I like, and, oh, yeah, why you should obsessively follow all of my online goings on Right This Very Minute ?

Last week I had to come up with a bio for a website I am writing for.  After some realizations about myself, my interests, and my career path, I called a best friend for a throw up “what am I doing with my life” talk.  Several hours later I had a two-sentence bio that was passable, may vaguely resemble who I am, and should end the conversation.

For now.

Is it possible to be happy with your bio?  Is it possible not to be a cliché with your bio?  Is it possible for me to say bio any more times in this blog post?

As a blogger and a girl getting used to using the term “blogger” to describe herself, I recognize that a bio is a rite of passage.  A regular, expected thing.  Something that probably isn’t as big of a deal as I think it is.

At least that’s what I’m telling myself.  Please don’t tell me that it’s actually the secret to all success and now that I chose the wrong adjective my career as a writer is over.

Pretty please with a Pacey Witter on top don’t.

In the spirit of blogging and bios and Capeside…I’ve updated my About page.  I’ve also added a Popular posts page, for those late nights when all you want to do is curl up with a cup of tea and read my blog (surely every night).

I even included a recent picture taken of me in this post.  And not a picture taken on an iPhone and sent through 14 different filters and 5 different photo apps.  A real, life camera picture of me that I felt rather uncomfortable taking.

I may grow into this blogging thing yet.

Don’t You Just Love LA In The Fall?

2 Oct

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Now is about the time of year when blogs across the nation explode in a haze of “apple picking” and “cider” and “Pumpkin! Pumpkin! Pumpkin!”  It’s the season where sweaters are immortalized and boot photos are taken and Kathleen Kelly is quoted.

And while I get it, I truly do, I mean this is my birthday month for heavens sake, THE BEST MONTH OF THE YEAR WHAT ARE YOU GETTING ME?  I have to ask, is there anyone on this planet who does not think fall is the best of all seasons?

Pumpkin! Pumpkin! Pumpkin!

Reading these social media tributes to crisp weather has had me thinking a lot about fall. The thing about LA in the fall is that it’s quite like LA in the summer.  Or spring.  Or winter.  That’s the glorious, perfect magic of LA.  We have fall all year round, suckers.

Last week one of my friends from London came out to California for a brief visit. This friend is an Australian mountain man-type and after lunch he turned to the drab Santa Monica Mountains and said, “I don’t get the California thing.  Why are people so into it?”

I thought this was a joke at first.  Haha good one.  You hate pizza, too?  And Friends?  And The Beatles?

Ha ha hardy har.

When it became clear that he was serious, I pointed over my shoulder,  “The ocean that we just ate lunch on! And the weather!  The weather is like this all of the time!”

My friend didn’t get it, though, and all my impassioned hand gestures couldn’t convince him otherwise.  However, that moment of outrage, that “I must defend this place” feeling made me realize something about myself–I’ve truly become a California girl.

When I was younger I thought I was an East Coast girl through and through.  This may have been a product of growing up in a Utah suburb, but the East just seemed for me.  The East had boarding schools and old-timey houses and town hall meetings and Luke Danes.

The East was where it was at.

When I was a teenager, my brother Jeff predicted my future. He said I would be a professor in some East Coast metropolis and have a professor husband and wear a lot of turtlenecks. “YES,” I thought.  “This is surely my life’s path.”

Perhaps it still is.

Who knows.

For now, though, I’ll take the non-fall of California.

For now, I’ll revel in my hippy sweaters instead of harpooning coats and traffic instead of subways and Malibus instead of New Yorks.

For now I’m a California girl.

That One Time I Binge-Watched Breaking Bad And Lost My Soul

1 Oct

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At one point last weekend I said, “Watching Breaking Bad is the only good thing going on in my life right now!” and refused to move from my bed for another 21 episodes.

You read that right.

Saturday morning I had 21 episodes to go to make the grand, great, finale of the grand, great show that is Breaking Bad, and I made it, folks.

I made it and it took its toll on my emotional health and at one point I looked up local therapists, but that’s neither here nor there.

I made it.

I made it.  I made it.  I made it.

I consider myself somewhat of a binge-watching TV expert.  After all, I’m the girl who sat in a dark room with her best friend watching Grey’s Anatomy on repeat, shrieking when said best friend’s mother tried to turn on a light.

I’m the girl who bought six McDonald’s diet cokes (four without ice) and refrigerated them so she could make it through a Dawson’s marathon with another best friend.

I’m the girl who should stop telling you these stories right now.

Also, thank you, best friends.  Thank you for everything.

Binge-watching Breaking Bad was different than all my past television experiences, though. I don’t think anything could have prepared me for what this weekend was.  You see, immersing yourself in Breaking Bad isn’t like immersing yourself in a teen soap.  No one buys you a wall.  No one names their boat after you.

Breaking Bad drains your soul of all joy and whenever you think you can stop– “Maybe I can pause now.  This seems like a natural stopping point,” you realize, “Pause to do what?  Work? Shower? Move?  I WILL NOT BE HAPPY UNTIL THIS IS OVER.”

And then you laugh manically and wonder if you are part Walter White because what the hell was that sound coming out of your mouth?

And then you watch the next episode.

And then you run out of Candy Crush lives.

And then you check to see if you really did find every, single Aaron Paul picture on the internet and realize that yes, you did.

Yes, yes, you did.

But that’s neither here nor there.

I made it.

I made it.  I made it. I made it.

Also, Aaron Paul.