Progress?

I took a bartending certification test online today; in particular, it was the RESPONSIBLE SERVING COURSE. This is when I remind and/or inform all of you that I have a Masters degree in Theater History and Acting Theory. But that's neither here nor there. Mama gots to supplement her income before Paul Thomas Anderson calls and/or she falls back on teaching.

Before one takes the test, you have the option of flipping through electronic flashcards pertaining to the information contained on the exam. I came across some real gems, but the following had me on the floor:

"Guidelines for checking ID:
In addition to examining height, hairline and chin shape, look for the following:
Lack of beard in young males..."

OK, that all makes sense...

"...Lack of pelvic or breast development..."

Oh. Um, I'll take their word on it. I don't need some dude telling me to get my face out of his pelvis... again.

"... Large barrettes or bows worn in the hair..."

Really? Who wears those except preteen British girls in sailor dresses?

"...Extreme trends favored by younger generation, for example, "punk" look or bizarre haircut..."

Well, that doesn't seem fair. I know plenty of punks with terrible haircuts in their 20s that can and NEED to drink. They're called actors. They're poor and depressed because they're doing free shows that no one sees in Donny's Skybox.

"...Acid washed jeans, denim mini skirts, non matching earrings, earrings only worn in one ear, high top sneakers with colorful or no shoe laces, and wearing multiple layers of clothing."

So, I guess tacky dressers trapped in 1985 aren't allowed to drink. How are people that live in rural communities supposed to tie one on? What else do they have?

I'm now armed with the pertinent information I need to save the youth of Illinois from the perils of underage drinking. Look out, punk kids! That boombox on your shoulder is a dead giveaway! Now pick up that cardboard you're breakdancing on and moonwalk on home!

Oh boy...

Few things make me happier than watching the 20-something paralegals and CPAs of our fair city attempt to do the cardio hip hop class at my gym. It's priceless. Sexy faces and awkward bodies. Hilarious.

Just to clarify: I'm not in the hip hop class. I'm on the outside of the glass waiting for my cardio kickboxing class to start, so some other cynical chick can judge me. And believe me, there's plenty to judge. You should really see me pretending to kick ass. I believe my own hype!

Resolution

An illustration of why I can't seem to lose that last 5 pounds:



I glanced over to my nightstand last night, and this is what I saw. Allow me to be your docent:

See the jar of peanut butter? It's sitting next to the spoon I had just been using to scoop the delicious goodness directly into my mouth. That shiny tinfoil is the only evidence of the Christmas chocolate Santa I had dipped into the peanut butter because, apparently pure peanut butter isn't decadent enough.

Please note that this arrangement is resting on a book titled, "The Workout," by Gunnar Peterson, fitness guru to the stars.

I'm using it as a placemat.

Merry Christmas!

Meet the luckiest dog in the world: Maximus.

Max lives with my parents in Michigan. In this picture, he's chomping down on his brand new Christmas present. That humongous thing is a bone. Can you stand it? What a spoiled brat. How will he eat it, you're probably wondering?

Like this:



He's doing it!!!

Cinematic Horror

When I'm a famous movie star...

I hope I never have to do a scene where I accidentally walk in on a potential love interest coming out of the shower, or something equally staged, to show off his rock hard abs. "But he's my friend, just my friend! Who knew he had rock hard abs? Hmmm.... maybe we should get married! Do you think he can hear my heart pounding through the bathroom door I just quickly slammed shut and am now leaning against?" I don't think I could seriously pull off the requisite surprised, then embarrassed, then thoughtful look that follows such an encounter. Any smart actress that swallows her pride and comes off accessible and believable in that dreck deserves two Oscars.

I also hope I'm never handed a script that relies on the protagonist singing karaoke to show her straight-laced character loosening up. Gag. You know how it goes: she does so reluctantly at first, but then by the end of the song her shirt is open and she's rocking out with a fabulous voice. The song that's been chosen for her by her "crazy" friend that secretly signed her up is probably "I Will Survive" or "Lady Marmalade."

But honestly, I'm not above singing cliche karaoke songs in the flesh. I just wish I'd been the first one in a film to do it. Let's go sing karaoke! Who's with me?

So close!

Sometimes this business of show really drives me nuts.

Last Wednesday I had two callbacks for commercials, one for ComEd and the other for Donato's Pizza. I walked out feeling like I rocked them both. Sure enough, I got a call from my agents checking my availability for both commercials... both shooting on the same day. Son of a bitch. But I remained optimistic. I mean, out of two I'm going to book one, right? Wrong.

I was released from both. Normally I don't like to broadcast my disappointments, but this was a new one. I guess there's something to be said for getting as far as I did, that side of it doesn't escape me. I mean, of all the people that auditioned I was seriously considered for both. But it's almost more frustrating to be that close and have it taken away.

So, I have decided to boycott pizza and electricity. I encourage you all to do the same.

Post-Thanksgiving

I try to be grateful for the small things.

I don't wear glasses, so nothing fogs up in my eyes when I step inside on a snowy day. Today I watched a guy get out of the blizzard and onto the bus; his glasses were totally cloudy. What a pain in the ass that must be! The very device that helps him see was out of order!

I equate this annoyance to when my hair gets trapped under the strap of my purse. I get so mad at that purse! How dare it pull my hair! I'll bet he was as irrationally angry at his glasses as I get at my purse.

Or maybe he's not crazy.