February 4th was my 7 year anniversary living in Los Angeles. Being an aspiring artist anywhere, but I have to imagine, especially in this city, is exciting, demoralizing, inspiring, soul-crushing, a LOT of goddamn work, and sometimes, every once and a while, gratifying.
I had one such gratifying day this weekend. It had been a while.
2010 and I got off to a bumpy start. I entered it with a terminator cold that was 2009’s last parting gift to me (thank you, you son of a whore), so up until this weekend 2010 looked like more of the same old bullshit to me.
And then there was Saturday.
Saturday was one of those days that life looks at you and says, “Here slugger, I’m gonna give you a freebie.”
I didn’t book any major roles; I didn’t get a check in the mail; I didn’t win any Most-Awesomeness awards, but all the sweet-ass little things that lined up made me feel light. Made all those bad days seem less bad. I attribute it all to having a run in with Fairfax Jesus Guy. I touched his robe. Just brushed it as we crossed paths on the sidewalk, but some Hollywood Holiness definitely rubbed off on me.
A quick tour of my day: (and there is a GRAND finale coming…)
***I went to Urban Outfitters to get socks, but saw an adorbs shirt for $9 and decided to try it on…I mean, it was $9. It would be criminal NOT to. And what did I find? Urban Outfitters on Melrose has goddamn skinny mirrors! Aw snap. (Dudes, are you tuning out? Stick with me. I’ll talk about titties later.)
Skinny mirrors people! The ONE thing in Los Angeles to compete with everything else aimed at making you feel like a cow. After 3 weeks of not working out, I haven’t exactly felt toned. Those mirrors were like a hand job to my ego. Oh, and I got the shirt. Had to.
***Dried pineapple is back at Trader Joe’s. MOTHER OF GOD. I have a severe addiction and they haven’t carried it for 6 months. Titties. When I saw my precious dried pineapple at Trader Joe’s I let slip a squeal. Yeah, a full on pig squeal. But I didn’t even care. Titties. Gotta have my dried pineapple
***Here comes the grand finale, suckas. Get ready for this! Here’s a little necessary back story: for the last two weeks I’ve been watching a LOT of TV due to being el sicko. My brain most certainly is growing mold. One thing that I’ve become mildly obsessed about are those infomercials that that meth-head Vince does for the Sham-Wow and the Slap-Chop. I neeeeeeeeed a Slap-Chop. Slap-Chops chop up everything from veggies to nuts in just seconds. I need a Slap-Chop like Vince needs meth.
Anyslur, every year two of my good friends throw a party in January where everyone brings the worst Xmas gift they were given. They wrap it, put it under the tree, then we do a white elephant type thang with the horrible gifts. The rules are complicated, but basically you can steal gifts from other people.
There were 60 people at this party. There was me, one other woman, two straight guys and 56 GORGEOUS gay men. I mean, this is West Hollywood and that’s pretty much the demographic. I love going to parties at their house because the men are fabulous and they never stare at my tits.
They’re friends with some major actors (me being one of them, PSYCHE). So there’s a few “names” there, but the important one to this story is Neil Patrick Harris. And I love me some NPH. We’ve hung out at parties before and he’s always really sweet, fun, and generous. And who doesn’t love Doogie?
So the gift game has begun and it’s my turn to choose a wrapped present. Years past I always scoped out what could possibly be booze bottles given by the AA members at the party who somehow were given alcohol for Christmas (talk about bad form). You never wanna get stuck with the Sponge Bog ski mask or the cans of green beans. Or the paper, make-your-own Dradel that I brought. (One of our neighbors actually gave that to Jon as a real gift. He’s Jewish, but he’s not 7 years old.)
But this year, I took a risk. I went for a smaller, rectangular box whose tinsel caught my eye. I ripped into that bitch and what was it?
A MOTHERFUCKING SLAP-CHOP!!!
Who would give that away at a worst gift party?! That is the BEST gift. I let loose my second squeal for the day, shook my titties to the delight of the gay boys and sat down with my prize. And then seconds later someone stole it from me. Heartbreak.
That whispered loop began in my head that I only learned here in L.A. after 7 years of disappointments, “Of course that was too good to be true.” I didn’t pout in the corner or anything, but there was that teensy part of me that was bummed. Hell, I could buy a Slap-Chop off the internet at any second, but randomly winning one amongst a pile of shit? That’s magic.
Anysadface, the slap-chop continued to be stolen around the room 10 times (enter complicated rules here). Who knew it was such a hot item? It finally landed in the hands of Neil Patrick Harris who apparently is also a big fan. Motherfucker. Some people get it all.
So it’s the very last person’s turn and what does he do? He steals my gift, which was trail mix and some tea. Really? Go right ahead, be my guest. But what did that mean?! I had one more turn and then the game was OVER. After my turn, no more gifts could be stolen. END OF GAME.
What did my ass do? Damn straight, walked right up to NPH and stole that goddamn Slap-Chop. WHAT-WHAT!!!
I cannot even begin to tell you how gratifying that was. It’s absurd. But here’s me, a long-time struggling actor/writer, broke as a joke, hanging on to threads of hope, and I got the Slap-Chop. And NPH didn’t. It’s infantile, I know. And in reality I want everyone to have a Slap-Chop, billions and billions of Slap-Chops around the globe. I want NPH to have one for all of his houses. I don’t want anyone to cry anymore while cutting onions.
But on Saturday night, only one person could have a Slap-Chop. Only one person was the winner. And that person was me.
The score now rests at Hollywood: 657,352,091 Buffy: 1
I’m comin’ back suckas.
“Today was a good day.” –Ice Cube
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