Pete Townshend has a Blog!

So today, I'm perusing the "Blogs of Note" section on this blogger site and guess what? 1) the ones of note are quite notable and 2) Pete Townshend has a blog! How cool is that? Not to mention, he's serializing a book on the blog. Sure he's famous and people care what he has to say-- blog or no blog, but he has a blog for a reason, right? He's a smart cookie, that Pete Townshend. And I figure, if he can put fiction up on his blog, then maybe my crazy idea to post my short stories might actually work.

Alot of my friends are incredibly supportive of this blog thing. Some think it's a waste of my time-- that I should just be working on my "real writing" and getting my life together. But I've got to say, I think they're wrong. Because anything that gets you writing is a good thing. And in the habit of writing. And validation in any form-- not so bad. Encouragement, even better. The cats are cute but they don't get all of what I've been going through. And email comments in your inbox -- that's fun, too.

On that note, today the cake lady told me about a cool novel writing website. So visit her site! She seems more interesting than normal and like someone you'd want to hang out with and has a very cool pic of herself from the back on her site -- an over the shoulder thing that is kind of sassy and I wish I had done myself of myself...too late!. Anyway, I also figured out the whole link thing. Kind of... I mean, I don't know how to make the letters all cursive like "archives". But I can promote the people who have been great to me and say "Email Me." So that's not half bad. And tomorrow... well, I'm sure it will be better. But today is Halloween and tomorrow, well, it will be better.

Will Work for Clothes

So Thursday night I had a financial fiasco. The good thing about this not having money thing not being such a new thing to me/being beaten down by it is that I no longer get ashamed of it, even though maybe I should. And the bad thing is, I don't really react or fight it when people try to embarrass me, even though maybe I should. See, I was out to drinks with a friend which turned into dinner with some of her boyfriend's friends sans boyfriend. Since I haven't been out to dinner in-- well, longer than I can remember, I succumbed to the enjoyment of eating food I couldn't afford. (It was only $40 of food and drink with tip, but trust me when I say that's more than I can afford). Nonetheless, I had enough money in my bank account (being on a cash only basis as I am). Yet, the waitress came back after I gave her my debit card explicitly stating that I just wanted $40 charged on there since everyone else was paying their part--(we're talking 8 people. Now, there was a time when I would take a table of 8 to dinner at nicer places than that, not blink, and LOVED every minute of it. Thank God, because that minute was not very long). The waitress, well she came back with seven slips saying "declined" and she kind of threw them at me. In front of everybody. I told her that didn't make sense. I mean, even at my lowest of lows, I had $40. She picked up the slips and just kind of tossed them at me again, saying she didn't know what to say. But she kind of was showing what she wanted to. Long story short, I ended up scrounging together $10 and writing a check to my friend for the other $30 while everyone else ostensibly wondered if the check would clear. Now, I will say to everyone at my table's credit-- they were successful people who didn't make me feel like an asshole-- always a good thing. The waitress, not such a good thing.

The next morning, well the whole reason the $40 hadn't cleared was because she had put through the whole check on my account a few times ($323.69, $323.69...). And with those funds being held until the 30th, well, that left me with exactly $3.87. Now freaking out at 7:30am is kind of futile when restaurants don't open till later. So I just left a message, and waited till 9:00 am to talk to my bank about what the restaurant had to do to fix it. Then I canceled Will's vet appointment and all my plans for the weekend. I had no gas in my car so I wasn't going anywhere. I hate Halloween anyway, I thought. Friday was my first day off in aeons so I could work on some things I needed to get done for a business I'm working on. Yet somehow, I spent the entire day until 2:00pm dealing with fixing the restaurant/money situation. (Although to his credit, the owner of the business was very nice and so was his assistant and they did fix it). Although, I can't get that morning back and I needed it.

There are lots of things I miss about making money. Not the least of which is paying my bills. I also miss being able to go out to dinner, buy what I want at the grocery store, take my friends out to dinner, buy my friends and family birthday presents or wedding presents or baby gifts and being able to go to the doctor when I'm sick. I also loved buying hardback books when they came out, getting new clothes and eating what I wanted for lunch (while working retail, my regular was a $2.79 tortilla soup with free chips-- how regular? Try 4 days a week for 6 months). It also wasn't such a bad thing to be able to work 5 days instead of 6, buy things I needed when I ran out of them (I'm a woman, I'm 37 and concealer, powder and mascara are a necessity) or get my hair done when I have roots. Not having money changes a lot of things. I can no longer afford to go to tae-bo or yoga classes. So if I have to, I hike or walk when it's dark and pray those signs at Runyon saying the park closes after dark aren't true. I show up for birthdays at restaurants after dinner is over and I just bring a card. I can't plan for my future or a house because I can't even afford my present (or as previously stated, anyone else's).

I have a chalkboard in my hallway that lists all the things I need. Some of those things have been there for over a year. Like glasses (I'm blind so the ones I need cost bucks-- 600 bucks to be exact) and bras (we're not talking La Perla here, just your basic padded, push up bras-- I'm a 34A and well, I need it). All of this is the case even though I've worked since I was 16 years-old (yes, full time in high school and college) and worked six days straight for over a year. I'm not a loser. But sometimes it feels like I'm one. My only saving grace has been my friends.

Now this is when it gets sappy. My friends are rock stars. Well, not actual rock stars. If they were, I'd be managing their bands or tours or something important that would be more lucrative than my current occupation. Because they're that supportive. Which is what makes them rock stars-- that they're willing to do whatever they can to help me out. One of my friends owns a boutique and lets me work on the weekends for clothes (and these are NICE clothes). Another cuts my hair even though she works all week doing hair on a television show-- (we also have martinis, too though and that's fun). A writer I used to work with on the sitcom has bestowed gift certificates upon me and kind words (not like that-- he has a WONDERFUL wife and is not in the slightest way sleazy-- but he is funny and very encouraging and oftentimes makes me cry because he's such a good guy). Sure there are the friends who cut me off-- one saying it was just too hard for him to watch how bad my life had gotten. And me, well knowing that no matter how bad it might be, that wasn't okay. But it doesn't mean it's not hard.

No matter how much I'd like to, I can't be the type of woman who goes out and expects others to pay for me. I can't pretend that I'm okay with a bad job and a bad income just to be good company. And I can't use someone just so I can pretend my life is better than it is. Sure, I can show up and just listen or talk-- I have interests and hobbies-- but how many times can I sit there and smile as someone talks about their kitchen renovation when they don't even cook and not gasp as they're saying it costs more than my annual salary? I'm not being petty. I'm just being being real.

I know there are people MUCH worse off than I am. And with no one to cut their hair or help them get clothes. There's the war in Iraq and Hurricane Katrina and abusive spouses and nowhere to go-- I wish I had something to give or even could take time off long enough to give of myself (and I'm trying to figure out a way). I have friends with health problems, I've had health problems ($30,00 worth in one year). So I'm not stupid. I get it. I'm a white girl from Orange County with emotionally supportive friends and family and look how hard it's been for me. I can only imagine what it's like for other people.

He's Noisier Than He Looks

It's kind of shocking, really. He makes strange noises I've never heard before. Always expressive, sometimes perturbed, and more often than not, kind of confused and like he's begging for attention. But when he runs and jumps-- that's when he's the loudest. And it's usually at 3am when he's chasing my other cat through the apartment. I got him for her, I tell her as she screeches past me. She seemed lonely. Well, trust me. She's not lonely anymore.

I'm probably breaking one of the cardinal rules of blogging. Not only did I not post for awhile. Now, on my first post in three days, I'm writing about my cats. I know it's not a winning topic say, on a first date... or any dates, really. Most men aren't that fond of cats. But I'm a cat person. Can't help it. I just am. I would also be a dog person if I had a yard and a house. But I don't. I have an apartment and a landlord who had problem enough when I got a roommate. Oh, he has a problem with the cat, too. But the cat was on my lease. And she's not black.

My first cat was a rescue. I saw her dragging herself out of traffic when she was a kitten. I could barely tell what she was. She was covered in gunk, had been hit by a car, her back legs didn't work and neither did her tail. Shaking, I pulled to the side of the road and coaxed-- well, actually dragged her out from underneath a car with the help of a fellow motorist and dirty blanket I found in someone's trash. Initially, the vets didn't think she'd make it. But then they did their vet magic and $1200 later, she was mine. Of course, the poor thing still had to be medicated and stay in a cage for a few weeks to make sure her legs healed properly. And then there was the little fact of the diaper. Try wearing one of those the first time you meet a bunch of comedy writers. She's a fighter, that one. But the new one, he's a lover and a player.

His favorite things to do are chase my other cat's tail, play with toilet paper, and watch television. He's also got a thing for water. He's jumped into the bathtub on more than one occasion, gotten saturated, and been perfectly fine with it. Nothing fazes him. He's happy, happy, happy. You can tell just by looking at his face. He was also a rescue. A woman who loves animals and makes a habit of saving them saved his life. She found him barely alive in some South Central yard. He had been infested with fleas, malnourished, dehydrated and a few other things that weren't cheap to fix. He was missing patches of fur when I got him. Now he's good as new and he wants everyone to know it.

Even though I planned to make my next animal a dog, I was won over by the sign I saw posted in Runyon Canyon with his story. The woman named him "Will" because he had the will to live. I couldn't resist him. Sure, he couldn't go hiking with me or anywhere with me, really. But he could use a litter box and on some days in Runyon, I wish all the dogs could, too. I haven't gotten much sleep since I got Will and neither has my other cat. He wakes us both up by chasing her, usually to my bed where they play for awhile and treat my body like a freeway. It's a good thing I'm not dating someone, I think as I get woken up at 3am. Uh, yeah. Right. Good thing. Believe it or not, I've actually told a few guys I've met recently about this blog. And I'm still writing this. Well, so now they know. My dirty little secret. I have cats. Two cats.

I Have A Nielsen Box!

It's true. Really. I do have a Nielsen box. It's in the corner of my apartment. By the door. Still in the box. I'm at a loss as to what to do with it. Even though I asked for it. It was sent to the 35 year old man I live with-- or rather lived with at the time. He was black. Still is. He also still owns nothing other than a mattress, clothes and a bike. But for some reason advertisers are interested in his television viewing habits as if he'd ever buy anything that wasn't sold at a boutique, restaurant or bar or actually stop talking on his phone long enough to watch a commercial. Yet, his opinion matters. (Did I mention he's gay and our relationship was platonic?)

I was disillusioned with TV before. Now I'm just confused. I think to myself, should I or shouldn't I? I mean, a Nielsen box has power. I distinctly remember how every morning after our show aired, the Executive Producer I worked for would rush into work to listen to the Nielsen ratings on some crazy recording Warner Brothers had for crazy Executive Producers. Then he'd start running numbers -- what numbers, I'm not clear on-- probably the 18-49 year old male demographic vs whatever else he/the money people did or didn't care about. Those numbers... well, they must have been good, because he got a lot of syndication dough. And so did his ex-wife. (And those strippers he hung out with, I'm sure they didn't do so bad either).

Let's be honest here. If I hooked up this Nielsen box I could mess with the system. I could change the way they think single, black men view television. I mean, "Law and Order", "Without a Trace", CSI...? These are white girl from Orange County shows. These are dramas. (And I wonder why my sitcom career is no longer a career?). Just think. If I just did this... Maybe TV would get good! And it would be all because of me!!! Maybe I could create the need for the very show I want to create. Or... maybe I'm just getting ahead of myself.

Sure, there are nifty little prizes when you're a Nielsen "family"-- like TVs, blenders, skis, and other paraphernalia that I could win. There's also a big pamphlet I'd have to read, a whole setting up process and that little matter of fraud. Yes, ladies and gentleman, fraud.

See, I'm honest. And it kind of sucks. I'm not sure if it's because I have some strong moral fiber in my diet or if I'm just terrified of "getting in trouble". The fact is, I don't think I could be duplicitous enough to let a network pay me to watch only their programs (something I've heard happens) or just have a heyday messing with the system. It kind of sucks. I was raised in a broken home, how did this happen? I mean, I dated an ex-convict for God's sakes and I KNOW he'd do this. Actually, there wasn't much he wouldn't do. (Again, another story for another day... I hope you're keeping track). All that said, this Nielsen box thing isn't living up to its promises. Big things, I expected big things. Now it's just an eyesore in my apartment and a reminder of what side of TV I'm on. Maybe I'll drop it off at a Latino home. Now wouldn't that be fun? A single black man watching George Lopez or Freddie? Can you just imagine what those Nielsen people would think?

A Lot Excited About a Little Comment or That New Comment Smell

I got a comment! I got a bonafide comment by a person who is not related to me and who has no ulterior motives-- I can't spread dirty secrets about him, I haven't known him since brownies and he's not trying to spare himself the effort of being on suicide watch. I have absolutely no idea how he found my blog. But he said he would check back. That's a positive sign... right? A few of my very supportive friends left comments, too-- they sent them to my email. Still, I appreciate it. Especially since I'm still figuring this whole blog thing out-- I didn't know about the whole enabling anyone to leave a comment feature, giving titles, doing links (...still don't know about that actually). I'm beginning to realize this whole operation is pretty fancy. Did I tell you the part about a stranger leaving a comment? And a cute stranger at that? (By the way, this is something that has been pointed out by a few of my friends-- so I'm not a total freak. I'm just spreading the love. I hope this doesn't scare him away. He's also very professional looking).

If you think I'm a lot excited about a little-- you may be right. But I've kind of come to peace with that aspect of my personality. It's like when my car got totaled last year on the way home from my friend's wedding shower. You try taking the bus to and from work in a uniform at 36 years old, when the bus you're transferring to doesn't show up and it's 10pm and you finally have a shot at a date but it's not the type you want because he's chasing you down La Brea. Suddenly, you're so excited to be in a car, you don't care about the guy who has road rage who's trying to beat your rental car with a baseball bat. You're just happy to control where you're going... or not-- going that is. (Incidentally, the little road rage thing did happen to me and a cop watched the entire thing-- without doing a thing-- he said he thought it was a domestic dispute and that's why he didn't want to get involved. Also incidentally, because I was shaking so much after the fact and was so shocked that he didn't do anything to help me, he wouldn't let me drive my car because he said it wasn't safe-- again, another story for another day).

All that said, that's all I'm saying for tonight. I do, however, have big plans to make "the milk" worth your time. And if it seems sad, so what? It makes me happy. And you know, what? Lexapro could never do that for me-- even if it was only 10mg. And I'm a firm believer that you should get what you pay for (Writer's Guild really did have the best health insurance... sigh. Which makes me sound old... bigger sigh). So here you are. With something for nothing. So at the end of the day, at the very least, I promise you that!

I Want What We All Want

I don't understand this whole blog thing at all. And the sad thing is that neither do any of my friends. None of us. Have. The. Faintest. Clue. I mean, we've heard about them. We know that they've been all the rage for awhile now and that things have happened because of people who blog. But who finds the blogs to make these things happen? And is your own website/blog better than a blogger account? And who are these people who read the blogs? I don't have time to read my Sunday paper, stacks of books on my bookshelf or even my email for $^*#'s sake. And what about human contact?!

That said, here I am on a Saturday night... tired and contemplating whether or not it's worth it to try to make myself look cute, to try to valet park or meter park or cab it to where my friends are having dinner and drinks. I really want to-- but at the same time, I don't. I've been going out for A LOT of years. Not lately, sure.... poverty, depression, not wanting to answer the question "What do you do for a living?", poverty, depression... you get the picture. Maybe that's why I loved "Sex and the City" so much. Those women persevered. Most of my friends, we're over it. It's not the same going out in your 30s + as it is in your 20s. We don't party so much as hang out and drink. Converse. And drink. And we can do that at home for half the price and with half the effort. Sure, the real world has men and things to look at. But they're usually younger than we are and the men are fawning over them while we watch from the corner of our eye-- being too involved in our conversations to care and too busy wondering why we weren't sitting on one of our couches while we drank and conversed.

My friend today who found her way to my blog with MUCH effort-- trust me, I created it with just as much-- said I made myself sound old and unattractive and I'm not. God bless her. But the truth is, we're not. None of us. But sometimes I wonder if it really matters. It's the whole tree falling and no one hearing it thing... or whatever that whole kabob is... if you're cute/attractive and no one gives you the time of day, does it really matter? Oh sure, for our own self-confidence blah blah blah. Well, phooey. Sometimes I have thought, "Okay-- I'm not gorgeous or ugly, I'm fine." And have been validated as such by random people over time. (Even called "hot" if you can believe it). But what does that mean, really? I'm alone, right? I'm lonely oftentimes. There is no insurance policy that comes with popularity or good looks or money. I've had those things at different times and hello... here I am with bad jobs, alone on a Saturday night at 37 years old. And what do I want? What America has told me I should want since I was wee high. Even if I didn't grow up that way, in that kind of a family. I want a husband, a house, a white picket fence or green or orange-- not picky on that front, kids and a dog and a job where I'm given respect and paid what I'm worth. Well guess what? I can't even see the view from here.

And it's strange. Because alot of my friends have it. My sister has it. When I have 2 dirty martinis I believe I can have it. Of course, I also believe I can be President of the United States because I've never smoked pot (more on that later). But what if I don't get it? That's not entirely impossible. I did alot of things to insure that I would get it. Or so I thought. I paid my way through college. I graduated in 3 years from UCLA while working full time, was in a sorority and had internships. My first job out of college was working on a movie with Ron Howard ("Backdraft"- if you can believe it). I got to go on location, was put in charge of the script changes, got notes one-on-one from Robert DeNiro and Donald Sutherland and it seemed like the world was my oyster. From there, I worked in development, was paid well and got promotions. Then, another movie. Then, CRISIS. I wanted more. I wanted expression. I wanted to create. Of course, somewhere in there were some men I dated, poor souls. But no love. Never love. So I focused on work some more-- became a writer's assistant and then a writer. But while writing on a sitcom, there's no dating. There's no life. You're there 24-7... or at least it feels like it. You never know when your night will end so you have to cancel dates. Men get mad. So you stop making dates. And when hiatus comes, you wonder what the hell happened that you're going to 6 weddings in 8 weeks solo. Still, your family is proud of you. Your friends are proud of you. But you want more. So the universe challenges you.

Welcome to my challenge. Can a former cheerleader who won homecoming, graduated high school with a 4.3 while working full time and UCLA in 3 years while working full time get what she wants from life? Even at 37, with dwindling eggs and an even more dwindling bank account? Well, maybe just putting it out there lets the universe know I'm on the case... whether anyone finds this blog, or not.

Everybody Hates Cheerleaders

So this is what I realized in the middle of the night.... besides that I had started a blog. I had forgotten about one other bad job. One VERY bad job. I must have Youngzheimers, I swear. Because it was pretty much the worst one... for oh, so many reasons, not the least of which was because it lasted the longest. Which means I'm either a) in denial about having actually had it or b) the martinis erased the entire experience from my memory. I'm thinking maybe it's a combination of the two...?

Forget having to wear a green apron and hose while selling bath products to the showrunner from the show I no longer wrote for ($13/hour), or donning black pants, white shirt and a name tag to hawk Pinot Noir to the lead actress on the show I no longer wrote for ($12/hour), I truly have to say that working at a Beverly Hills boutique ($12/hour + commission) was the single worst experience of my "career". Did I mention the first job was at the mall and the second was at a warehouse club store? Oh, and that I was 36 at the time...? But I digress. It wasn't just that my agent came shopping at the boutique, saw me and ran out the door. That an ex saw me and well... just saw me... (and stopped and talked). There was also the day the Executive Producer and producing partner of my old boss who hadn't hired me on his new show realized I was working at the boutique. Then she also realized I somehow wasn't invited to the final wrap party that was more of a wrap-it-up party saying goodbye to the series which had been on for much longer than it should have been. (She of course said my not being invited was an oversight and I ended up going to the party that evening and well, let's just say it was a catastrophe-- but that's another story for another day). There was also the simple fact that the girls who worked at said Beverly Hills boutique were not only so young I could have given birth to them, so out of touch with reality that I wanted to smack them, but also that they were mean. Yes, mean.

No one wanted to be there. But we all were. The difference between them and myself was-- well, I didn't have parents/a boyfriend or husband supplementing my income/having my $30 lunch delivered/paying for clothes. And I was old. Oh, and had at one time had a career. Oh, and I was old. Still, I was nice to the customers. I greeted the customers. I did work. And I tried to remain cheerful. After all, I had martinis and cats to go home to. Sure the other girls went out and had lives, but they were still mean. Most of my friends hated to come in and visit. The other girls never said "hello", never helped anyone, got annoyed when people didn't buy things, stared at themselves in the mirror, paid more attention to the pages of UsWeekly than the store, and went on long coffee breaks. When they weren't nursing a hangover, lying on the couch or recapping the latest reality show, they were trying on clothes and hiding the pieces they wanted until they could afford them/were allowed to take them home (pieces were supposed to be on the floor for 2 weeks before employees got a crack at them).

I felt like I was stuck in some screwed up, modern day version of "Pretty Woman". But in this case, these salesgirls didn't care if Julia Roberts was wearing head-to- toe Prada and her husband owned Beverly Hills and she was going to give them commission to burn. They didn't like anyone. Not even each other. (Well, they did on certain days or for certain months, but that could change in an instant). I had always thought salesgirls were nice. They were always nice to me. My friends owned boutiques. And alot of them became my friends because I shopped at their stores. None of them EVER acted like that... The whole experience reminded me of the day I learned everybody hates cheerleaders.

I had no idea. Really. I know I should have caught on alot sooner, but until the rest of the writers in the writer's room glared at me when I defended my friends and cohorts, I truly had no idea. "We cheerleaders weren't all a stereotype. Some of us were nice!" I argued. Still, I learned there a great number of people who hated cheerleaders just because. They had an us vs. them mentality and no charts, graphs or statistical data on my part could convince them otherwise.

Let me just be clear on one point-- I was never all that excited about the whole cheerleading thing to begin with-- I only tried out because everyone else was trying out and we were poor and wearing a cheerleading uniform to school every day was cheaper than buying a whole new school wardrobe and well, it was on some level, a way to fit in somewhere. But for me, it wasn't a status symbol. It was comfortable. That's why it also kind of came out of nowhere when a girl said to me at my high school reunion, "I wanted you to be fat," and stomped away in disgust because I wasn't.

My friends said I should view it as a compliment. Which is odd to me. I mean, I want everyone to be happy. How ass backwards is it that someone wanting your life to suck is supposed to be a good thing? Let me tell you, that girl would have a field day if she could see me now. You know, I'm actually considering calling her to make her day.

That said. I'm still getting my feet wet on this whole blog thing. It's kind of weird. I'm kind of old school. Alot of people have been telling me to start one for awhile now. That it would "be a good outlet", "let me write again", and "you never know what could happen". People also said that to me about online dating and let's just say... um, no! I do know that I really want people to read my fiction. And I don't think that's what this whole blogging thing is about. It seems that stories or books come after the blog has become popular and then the bloggees get publishing deals based upon their blogs. And alot of the blogs seems to be about popular culture or well-- written by people I could have given birth to (sigh!). And me, well, it seems I'm doing it backwards. As is the way of my life. So until I investigate further whether I can put a whole story on a blog, whether anyone will read it and other perhaps pertinent information, I guess I'll just try to entertain as best I can with what little wit is left in me. Thank you for reading... and good day!

Read Me... Please!

Everyone knows the expression, "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?" Of course, what they're talking about isn't what I'm going to be talking about on this blog... (Sorry!) Well, not what I'm planning to talk about. But let's be honest, things change. Hence, my milk...

I used to be writer. The kind who got paid for it. Now no one's buying, so I thought I'd give it away-- for free! I'm not real hip to this whole blog thing (I JUST got DSL last weekend), so I could be doing it all wrong. But maybe that's half the fun. Stories have structure, movies have structure (or at least they're supposed to...). And lives have structure, too. Except mine-- which is kind of all over the place after the "writing career gone wrong thing" as I like to call it. So my guess is that this blog could go that way, too. So be ready.

The short version of went wrong is this: One minute I was writing for a tv show, and the next, I wasn't. When I didn't get staffed anywhere else, I decided to write a screenplay-- an idea that everyone thought was great-- and when I finished, it was sent out as a spec, taken in to a few studios and then it was dead because David Spade wrote something similar (yes, the high point of my career was THAT long ago) and Ben Affleck (another sign) was going to be in something that was also similar so it was doubly dead and then I didn't get staffed for the second season in a row and hearing "reality TV is big and sitcoms are dead" really just meant my career was. Suddenly, my agent didn't think she could get other agents at her agency behind my work. And the truth is, she was never behind my work to begin with because she-- like most of the men I've dated, wanted me to be something I wasn't. I wanted to be me. I wanted to write things that meant something to me. I wanted to create things in my own voice. There was only one problem I encountered in pursuit of this goal... survival. Life takes money. And getting work to make money takes an agent. None of whom want you when you're not making any money. Who knew?

My first job in high school was working at Taco Bell. I hated the brown polyester uniforms, the "hair up in hairnets" rule and the smell of refried beans. I hated it even more when cute guys came in from school. I used to hide in the back. And I became anorexic. Those things weren't related, but they're what I remember most about the experience. When I was there, I wanted to disappear.

The past four years have been about survival. And bad jobs I never thought I'd have to take. Which naturally led to low self esteem, an even lower bank account and a lot of martinis. And sadly, not a lot of writing.

After having finally made it-- after years of paying my dues-- I was suddenly a 33 year old woman, single and desperately scouring craigslist, media bistro, the Daily Bruin and other odd places for jobs. I did transcribing of celebrity interviews, promoted wine at a warehouse store (in a white shirt with black pants and name tag), worked at a make-up counter (and I hate make-up), cashiered at the USC bookstore (and I'm a Bruin), catered for high profile events (where my designer white shirts and black pants came in handy yet again), and placed Valentine's Day orders for flowers.com. (which wasn't just hard because I made only $7 an hour and had to be there at 7am, but also because I was single and have never gotten flowers on this horribly auspicous holiday). In short, the humilating moments happened and the writing got lost. Soon I came to realize that my childhood and Taco Bell were not the worst things to ever happen to me.

Sometimes I've felt like a cautionary tale. More often, I've felt like a failure and a bottle of wine. When I was writing for TV and single at 31 years old, I was miserable alot of the time... and I was making six figures. So let's just say I didn't love having the distinction of being one of two friends without a husband augmented by the fact I didn't have any marketable skills, was poor and forced to take a roommate (more on that later). That's when I found fiction.

Even though I started writing a book when I was eight years old-- called "Life is a Bowl of Potato Chips" for reasons that esape me seeing that I hate potato chips-- I didn't pursue fiction because it didn't seem to be a practical way to make a living. So why in the throes of a career and life crisis did I turn to it? I have no idea whatsoever. To be inspired? To create something different? Or to ensure that bankruptcy was imminent? Maybe all of those things. Who knows? I just know that no one's buying it--- so hussy that I am, I'm going to put it out there for free and hope that there might just be a few takers.