Saturday, August 30, 2008

I Don’t Mean to Be Difficult…

Look, I don’t mean to be difficult, but…

(Oh, wait. Yes, I do. I’m actually on a lifelong quest to strike the perfect balance between difficult and invisible. So far, I’ve only really managed to achieve invisible, but I can tell that the public is pulling for me to finally achieve my full potential.)


If you’ve been reading this blog for any length of time, you know that I don’t like to fly. I’ll admit that this dislike may color my perception of the people around me (aka dangerous felons who will need to be put down by my lethal use of spork and synthetic blanket). I may also be a tad more sensitive to the behavior and casual conversations of those people similarly trapped in this flying canister.

However, I feel I need to issue some warnings to the traveling world—particularly if there is any chance that you may encounter me at some point during your jaunts.

I don’t want to hear “Oh, those onions-- I’ll be tasting those the rest of the trip” as you settle into your seat next to me. Hey, I understand. Digestive fortitude isn’t my thing either. Still, let’s refrain from sharing unless we really have no choice.

If you have large red patches up and down your legs, shorts might not necessarily be the best idea. However, I understand that you want to be comfortable. So, if you do go with the shorts that are so short as to leave no doubt the last time you had a good waxing, let’s not call more attention to the red splotches by asking the age old question “are both poison ivy and poison oak contagious?”

Gentlemen, I know robes are comfy, and brown is still a very “in” color for fall. No one can deny that a good hooded robe will really keep your ears warm in the sometimes over air-conditioned flight. Many a time I’ve thought, “hey, ceremonial robes would be so much more comfortable on that long flight”. I realize that I don’t know all of you tempted to try this—some of you may really be headed back to the monastery… or you may enjoy a rich and rewarding career as a shepherd. But unless you are actually traveling with your flock, or are actually Moses, let’s leave the staff at home, shall we? Six foot six inch be-robed men wielding what could be considered large offensive weapons make both passengers and airline officials nervous. The vague notion of flying with the embodiment of “Death” (despite the fact that you went with the less traditional brown instead of black and the staff isn’t curved enough to be considered a proper scythe) just doesn’t instill the kind of confidence the airline is trying to achieve.

Speaking of flocks… I love pets. I’m a pro-pet kind of girl. Sure, I’m allergic to everything under the sun, but I’m signing up for the “aw, how cute!” frequent exclamation league on a regular basis. Here’s what I don’t love—200+ passengers having their flight delayed because a woman pulling a Paris Hilton with a puppy and a pee pad hadn’t mentioned to the airline that she’d need special accommodation for said adorable creature.

I don’t profess to know how airlines normally deal with this thing, but I’m guessing they don’t love a person with an animal showing up and yelling “surprise!” Also, little known fact, when they say that a small animal can ride under the seat in front of you—they mean in a cage. No, really, they mean a cage—not your purse. And no, they don’t care if the animal is used to being stuffed in your adorable matching puppy bag. Also, if you don’t tell them ahead of time that you are bringing the adorable little nipper with you, they don’t know to avoid seating you in the row at the head of coach…the one with no seat in front of you (and therefore, no “at feet” storage area) thus rendering the lovely cage someone procured for you slightly less helpful.

Thank goodness they managed to move six other passengers so that the furry delight could sit next to you for the flight. But you have to be aware that the person sitting next to you might be allergic to the puppy and doesn’t deserve to sit next to the walking cause of respiratory distress for the nearly 5 hour flight (no, not me, thank goodness). The good news is-- I’m sure the man you trapped in his window seat totally didn’t mind not being able to get out and go to the bathroom for the duration of the flight. He looked fine. Really his reward was when you stopped crying about how victimized you felt and turned to cooing for the rest of the flight through lips that looked like emergency flotation devices.

Me? Cranky? Nah.


Friday, August 22, 2008

Unmitigated Disaster

A number of you asked whether or not I jumped in and did that interview with the potential for mild embarrassment that I talked about here.

I did do it. Everyone who said “what could go wrong?” please raise your hand.

Yeah. You people with your hands raised, this post is for you.

Many of you already know what happened. You can just skip this post (or skip to the end if you want to know the outcome) unless you want to relive the delight that was my life (as it so often is).

Back in June, I had an interview to promote the new X-Files movie. Against all my better instincts, I agreed to do this. Oddly enough, I wasn’t all that nervous leading up to it. I had a plan. I reviewed some episodes, thought about my answers, picked some high points that I wanted to hit, and I did some shopping. I even got my nails done because I tend to talk with my hands, and they needed some help.

The key here is, I had a plan. I even decided to think positively. This was going to be fun. It was going to be fine. I was going to be charming and witty. Chris Carter would see it, and invite me to the premiere (certain degree of irony in that thinking now since I actually did go to the premiere).

I’ll admit now that my first mistake was the plan. Had I stuck with my usual “this is going to suck, it will be a disaster, I will be a babbling idiot”, the universe may have tried to prove me wrong.

Instead, the universe laughed.

At the last minute, they decided not to have hair and make-up people at the shoot. There were going to be nine of us that day, and all girls, so they figured we could all do basic make-up and hair ourselves. Plus, they wanted us to look natural.

Yeah, the whole “natural” thing is not really a good idea for me. I can barely comb my hair and put on eyeliner. So, I decided to go to the MAC counter at the mall to have my make-up done before the shoot. The mall is in Century City. The interview was in Beverly Hills. They are maybe 2 inches apart. Ok, slight exaggeration, but still, not a far drive.

The plan was to get my make-up done at 11:00. My interview was at 12:30, so there was plenty of time to get the make-up finished and get to the interview.

I walked up to the MAC counter. Alas, there was only one woman working, and she was already doing a make-over. So, I waited for about 5 minutes thinking that she might finish up, but no such luck. So, I went over to the Clinique counter.

The Clinique girl agreed to do my make-up, and I thought I had scored and everything was going to plan. But for some unknown reason, the other girl at the counter decided to wander off to get some stock in the storeroom, leaving my girl there alone. So, naturally, she kept getting interrupted, as she was trying to do my make-up. Not just interrupted by someone wanting to check out. No! She kept getting interrupted by people with lists of products for her to fetch, and what about that special gift (I can’t tell you how many times I heard “What do you mean I can’t get the special gift that was only part of the promotion for 2 days last week, I’m here now!”). My favorite people were the people who came up to her and said “don’t worry, this will just take a second, I know exactly what I want” and then proceeded to not only have no idea what they wanted, but when she made a suggestion, they argued with her.

And yet, I was relatively serene. Ok, I was nervous as hell about the interview, but the plan was in place. This was just a small hiccup in an otherwise perfect plan.


What should have been a 20 minute make-up session took a little over 45 minutes. By the time I got out of there, and ran for the car, it was already 12:05. And since I was so late, I didn’t really have a lot of time to fix the make-up that maybe might not have suited me all that much—for instance, the lipstick that could have eaten Manhattan. Seriously, I’m pretty sure that it clashed with my hair in normal daylight—adding lights to that combination… yikes! I had no choice but to go with it.

But even though I was running (yes, literally running for the car), I was still feeling good at this point. Beverly Hills was just not that far away.

Screw that—on a Sunday, Beverly Hills might as well be on the other coast!

The street before Beverly (where the interview was) is Rodeo. Rodeo was blocked off entirely for a classic car show. Which means that even though I was on Santa Monica Blvd, every idiot who had any vague interest at all, was slowing down to look at the cars as they passed the street. And I mean every single car. At that point, I was starting to get a little panicky because I still had to find parking once I got to Beverly. So, I called the coordinator, and I told her that I might be 5 minutes late because of parking. She said no problem, and I started to relax.

HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! Sometimes I kill myself with the humor.

I turned onto Beverly, and I realized that the parking garage nearest to the studio was full and closed to further parking. Not to worry. Somehow, I managed to pull a u-turn, and got in line to park in Crate & Barrel’s parking lot. What I could not do, was actually get into the parking lot because cars were backed up on the road, and only one car could get through at a time. Finally, I got into the parking garage. I got all the way down to the 4th level because I just wanted to park, and run.

Too bad the elevator wasn’t working.

So, I ran up 4 flights of stairs. Yeah, that was a good look for camera. At that point, I was frazzled, sweating, my make-up was melted, and it was 12:30. Out of breath, I ran to the building to press the buzzer to let me into their studio.

Only to notice that I was on North Beverly.

The interview was on SOUTH Beverly.

I think it was a miracle that I didn’t start to cry.

I gritted my teeth and ran back across traffic and down 4 flights of stairs to the car. I got into my car to call the coordinator back, and of course, could not get a signal. In fact, I could not get a signal for another 5 minutes because I couldn’t get out of the parking garage because no one would let the cars out of the garage and back onto Beverly.

I finally got her on the phone, and she asked me if I knew where I was going—and the answer at this point was “of course not”. So, she told me to go east on SM, and then turn south past Olympic. The only problem was, I was already east of the street… and didn’t realize it. By the time we both realized that I am way too far east, I’d already driven out to Doheny.

The only good thing was that even she was laughing at that stage of the game.

I finally arrived at the studio. I was 25 minutes late. I was sweating. I was beyond frazzled. The only coherent words out of my mouth for the last 45 minutes had been curses (LE, you would have been so proud).

I got up to the right floor (miracle!), and they were all waiting for me to go in, and because I was so late, we went straight to the interview. I told the coordinator that I just wanted to brush my hair for a second. She looked away to talk to someone while I was doing this. She looked back at me and said “ok, do you want to brush your hair?”


I didn’t have a mirror, my hair was a disaster, and all of a sudden I was sitting on a stool in front of a camera. Luckily, she was giving me powder for shine, and brushing my hair back into place.

Unluckily, the shot was a medium close-up, which meant pretty much breast level up. I was wearing a tank top underneath a v-neck, short-sleeved cardigan. Normally, you wouldn’t think twice about it. But when the camera starts at the boob, and the tank top is white, suddenly the entire bottom of the frame is filled with breast. This may be why no one who has seen the final product has ever mentioned the lipstick.

The interviewer started telling me the rules—nearly all of which I immediately forgot. Things like “they wont be able to hear me, so try to incorporate my question into your answer”—I don’t think I did that once. Things like “don’t use pronouns, use Mulder or Scully instead”—doubt I remembered that one. Then he made me memorize opening lines that involved spelling. People, I can’t spell on good days. I was still sweating from my trip through hell, and I had to spell????? Shit.

I was supposed to look at the camera and say my name and “I’m an X-Phile. That’s P H I L E”. Yeah, I know. To which I responded, “you actually want me to say that?” And then I laughed and warned him that the slate is going to be the hardest part. It was the only part I was supposed to look into the camera for, and even that was hard for me because after I said my intro, I was supposed to hold the look, to give the editors room to cut. But I started to break out into a tremulous smile because I feel like an idiot.

And then suddenly the nerves that had gotten beaten out of me during the frantic flight to the interview were actually worse than before because the adrenaline was still racing through me. My plan was completely blown to hell. I remembered none of the points I wanted to make. All of my analysis was gone. At the beginning, my voice was shaking. And my concentration was so bad that I actually forgot what his question was, and wandered off mid-tangent.

Rather than giving expert commentary about how the intellectual tension fueled the sexual tension, or that the dichotomy of beliefs within each character was vital to their development, inanity ruled the day. Instead of all of that, you know what came out of my mouth? I’m a shipper. What???? I have a job. I’m an adult. I have an MA in Economic Development. I even have a background in English Lit. What came out of my mouth? I’m a shipper. It’s not that I’m denying that I am one, I’m just floored that this was all I can remember saying.

Also, I committed the cardinal sin—I looked directly into the camera a couple of times. The camera guy stood up and did a light test, and it caught my eye, so I flicked my eye up, and caught the camera. It happened at least twice, which means even if they liked my answers at that point, they couldn’t use them. Luckily, I was still babbling, so I really wasn’t providing them with anything useful anyway.

Did I mention that leaning forward into the camera means you’ve either moved out of frame, or your cleavage is even more obvious? I started praying that none of my pink parts strayed.

Did I mention that my hair kept getting caught in my lipgloss, so that in the midst of talking, I had to pull it out?

Did I mention that my mouth was so dry that I had to keep running my tongue over my teeth to help with the dryness? I hope to God none of that ever sees the light of day.

I prayed for great editing.

I kept telling myself that it didn’t matter because it was just going to be part of the electronic press kit, or maybe an online thing. So, I asked the interviewer when we were done what this was going to be used for.


It was an international television special airing overseas the week of the US premiere.

Then I thought, well, at least the people involved with the show wont see it. Let’s face it, the only one I’m really concerned about is David because I’d rather not have his first real impression of me be “Well, she has boobs, but can’t string a sentence together to save her life.”


David’s publicist is across the street. They drop by on occasion. Sweet.

Well, at least…

It was shown in the theater at the London premiere.


Now that a couple of months have passed, I can tell you that the product put together is actually fantastic. I’ve only seen the dubbed German version, but I sound quite intelligent dubbed in another language, and my appearances are mercifully brief. I do owe my first born (ha! Good luck with that) to the editor. The vast majority of the piece includes behind the scenes material, interviews with the principals and other fans sounding far, far, far more rational than I did. The frame was tighter than I thought so the breasts did not get any extra special screen time. Most of what they used of me was voiceover—and it was voiceover for what Duchovny was doing on screen. I’ll admit to loving that.

And the lipstick…well, it’s growing on me.


Friday, August 15, 2008

I Must Get Married

I have to get married. That much is clear now. Oh, not because of that companionship, biological clock and love crap. No, I must get married so I can have my very own version of this wedding cake.

I can’t express to you how much I love this website ( Apparently, this cake started a wedding cake trend when the pictures surfaced back in May. While clearly my blog is the best one on the entire internet, this site made me cry with laughter. I particularly like the pregnant chick cakes. Bring on the baby showers!

As for my own cake, I’m taking suggestions. I’m leaning toward my effigy without glasses, but I’m flexible. And I love the idea of you all celebrating my nuptials by cutting into a life-size version of me. Really, there is no better way to honor what I mean to each and every one of you. Sniff.

My friend Mich suggested that the best cake for me would be images of Mulder and Scully in flagrante delicto. I would have to agree on that. That cake would be quite something, and no doubt bring me fortune and the respect of my peers.

Come on guys… get a move on. I need to make this happen.

Saturday, August 09, 2008

The Letter

Hands up if you’ve ever written the letter.

You know the letter I’m talking about—the letter that you write after the break-up. It’s the 15 page masterpiece that gives vent to everything you held back over the entire course of your relationship. It’s the letter that should properly chastise the bastard, while simultaneously making him realize that error of his ways. It’s the letter you write when you think for some reason you can argue the other person back into the relationship… back into loving you. It’s the letter you should always write, and the letter you should never send… but always do anyway.

I’ve never met a single person who has ever had any luck with the letter. No relationships reunited as a result of the neatly typed diatribe’s arrival. I’ve never heard of a situation where the guy has called and apologized and said “wow, I’m so glad you told me about the thing that I did to piss you off 8 years ago—that has made such a difference. I was a dick!” I’ve never heard of a guy writing the letter.

Have I ever written the letter? Yes. Surprisingly, not to The Ex. I’m not sure if that was because I was wrapped up in the delusion that we’d get back together without my expert analysis, or if I was simply unable to put my feelings into words. No, my letter was for a guy who I was barely dating. I’ve mentioned him. He was the guy who pursued me, promised that he wanted it to be his mission to make me trust men, and then dropped off the face of the planet. Oh yeah, he got a letter. I gently suggested he grow up, and then went on for at least eight pages (double sided and hand-written) about all the ways that life had failed me—and his role in this failure, in particular. I later found out he received the letter, realized what it was and only got to about page 3 before giving up. Plus, he was preoccupied because it arrived the day after his favorite aunt died. Yeah. Awkward.

Despite my lack of success with the letter, I’ve actually been fairly encouraging of those wanting to write one. I think on occasion that writing can help you get your feelings together and help you get rid of them (or at least process them). I’m not terribly fond of actually sending the letter, but I understand if you do.

Why did I bring this up?

The girl downstairs is reading her version of the letter over the phone (presumably to a friend as a test run). I know this because I walked by her apartment on the way to the elevator. As I passed by I heard her mid-recitation: “and all the times I drove you to the airport, all the times I maintained your friendships because you couldn’t be bothered, all the times I worked my life around your schedule, all the times my career took a backseat to yours…” Ten minutes later when I went down to toss my garbage, she was on “you were never supportive, I felt like I was in the relationship alone…” I feel like she’s really getting to the heart of the matter now because I can hear her from my apartment, and she’s reading louder. Whoever the recipient is, he is about to get a seemingly well-deserved and extensively formulated missive to go screw himself.

I raise my ice cream in salute to you 401.


Monday, August 04, 2008

I’ll Get Right On That

It’s entirely possible that I’ve finally gone around the bend. It can’t be a surprise to any of you. I’m sure many of you have thought that I was crazy in the past. But here’s the thing—I’m fairly certain my horoscope actually yelled at me on Thursday.

No, I’m not kidding. I’m fairly certain it actually yelled at me. It basically said, “Stop complaining. If you want something, put together a plan and then make it happen already.”

The tone was quite terse and commanding (perhaps Scully is now moonlighting as a horoscope writer). It was as though my horoscope has given up on me. It threw its hands up in the air (because apparently, in my insanity, I’ve ascribed to the horoscope human attributes), and said enough!

I thought horoscopes were supposed to give me vaguely comforting information like: something, something moon is in something something orbit so someday a man might speak to you if you click your heels three times. It’s not supposed to chastise me. I mean, I joke that the universe and I have our troubles, but this is going a bit far.

What's next? Will it start using expletives? Will I pick up the paper and read, “B****, comb your hair and maybe familiarize yourself with the word “gym” once in a while”? Or “unless Chris Carter is paying you, you might want to focus on the job that is paying you, dumba**”? Or “interesting choice of outfit, I hear retro-homeless is really in style right now”? Or… well, you get the point.

Does this happen to you?

Kate, who is actually a little afraid to read her horoscope now