Gravatar and Burning Hair

The more I fiddle around on WordPress, the more I realize I have no idea how to use it.

Same goes for Gravatar. Do we not live in an age where the photo you just updated should actually update? I need answers people. Immediate gratification. Which is why I watched 8 episodes of Game of Thrones today. 

Patience has never been in my wheelhouse. I’m looking up “wheelhouse”  right now because I’m not sure I’m even know what it means. I NEED TO KNOW NOW. Is it synonymous with “skill set?” To be continued. 

In disturbing news, I straightened my hair today (keep reading). As most hair-straightener-users know, that when you turn the temperature dial up to 450 degrees, your hair tends to smoke when the volcanic plates press your hair into submission. It’s something I’ve known since I was in 9th grade when I first starting burning my curls. In that 10 years, I’ve never experienced the travesty I did today. As my tresses were screaming for mercy under my godless rule, smoke billowed up (from the heat defender spray you have to douse your hair in so it doesn’t turn into a bail of hay) I turned my head towards my fire locks. A mouth breather by default when I’m by myself, I inhaled a puff of smoke. Very similar feeling of when you smoke for the first time. Burn, burn, hack, hack, hack, burn, hack. It was a sensation and taste I wish on no enemy. I have no enemies, but again, Game of Thrones. I’ve been talking to my cat in an English accent for the past couple days. Good thing she doesn’t know what “whore” means. 

In more disturbing news, I’m still looking for a job. Hire me to write the next big sitcom? Cool, cya there. 

Lots of love or something,

Lolo von Burntmyhairandateittoobergstein

Dream Job

Hey my little Pikachus!

It’s Day 23 of the Blog Challenge.

The question: What is your dream job?

I don’t know that I necessarily have a dream job, as I do a dream career.

If you can dream it, you can do it. Right kids?

Anyhoo, I’d like the be a professional stand-up comedian. I also want to write for comedy shows, whether being Late Night, or a sitcom, or a sketch show, or a movie. I’d also like to publish a collection of personal essays I have.

I don’t think I understand how a person functions without comedy. It’s all I really want to do and mostly what I think about. I’m also a freak.

Well, I really want ice cream, so I’m going to cut this short.

ALSO. This is my 125th blog post.  I think that may be some sort of milestone. *throws glitter in your eyes*

Until next time, my darling crab rangoons!

Meeting David Sedaris (But Really This Time!) : Part Three

I think I can finally make it through this post without sobbing.

Here’s the story.

The past few months I’ve been having a bit of a quarter-life crisis. It dawned on me, as I was sitting on the work toilet counting the dead flies caught in the fluorescent light, that I didn’t know what the hell I’ve been doing with myself for the past 23 years.

I’ve always been a sheep. I like  doing what I was told and begging people to tell me what to do. That meant I wouldn’t have to take responsibility if I sucked.

Thankfully, I finally had breakthrough. “I NEED TO DO SOMETHING WITH MY LIFE,” I shouted at my fly friends, startling my fellow employees outside the restroom.  I pulled up my pants and went back to my desk (don’t worry I wiped and washed).

Five minutes later, I got a text from one of my best friends. She asked if I had read Me Talk Pretty One Day. Being favorite of David Sedaris’ books, I told her it was my Bible. “I’m convinced I’m reading a book you wrote” her next message read. Naturally overdramatic, I sobbed and looked up David Sedaris show dates. It just so happened he’d be in Boston the next month. Click. Two tickets bought.

During my crisis, I visited some different people, who I like to refer to as I’m-here-so-you-don’t-ruin-your own life advisors. Naturally, in every interaction with a human being I had, I let them know I was going to see David. “Can you get some of your work to him?” one of the advisors suggested. I just sat there staring blankly. “Well, I guess I could.” I had four weeks to prepare something, I guess it was worth a shot.

It was an hour before I had to leave for the show and I was still staring at a blank word document. Shit.

I then unloaded the insults onto myself. “Lauren, you fuck! You have to leave. BUT YOU HAVE TO FINISH THIS.” I had never done something so bold for myself and I knew I’d have to throw myself down a flight of stairs if I didn’t bring something for this opportunity. So I wrote, and wrote, and wrote some more about a time I had find a way not to take a piss in my dad’s ashes (I’ll explain later) and edited it down to four pages of semi-funny shit, and flew out the door.

I picked up my friend and we drove into Boston, passing the venue David would be speaking at. There were hundreds of people outside the theatre waiting to get in. “Oh…other people are going to this?” The fantasy of me, my friend, and David, laying around in robes talking about what type of cheese we’d like with our tuscan flavored Triscuits, did not include the mod scene forming around us, fighting for their favorite types of cheese. The essay folded in my pocket burst into flames.

We got in the theatre and watched an amazing reading. When it was finished David said “I’ll be out in the lobby signing books after.” A collective swoop sounded and the entire auditorium made a dash for the doors. After the smoke cleared, my friend and I made our way behind the others, as we were pushed and shoved like we were passengers running the corridors of the Titanic.

“Welp, I guess we’re never going to find the lobby.” In my heart I felt like a moron for thinking I could fight my way through these people. We stopped walking amidst the chaos. Goddammit. We should probably just head home. At that moment, a man behind us shoved open a set of doors nearly invisible to the naked eye. Behind ehind them was the signing table.

I don’t want to say we tuck and rolled into the lobby, but I can’t really remember from all the tumbling. We claimed out place in line, 10 people deep. David came in, and we slowly made our way front.

He signed books and chatted with the other fans, and I tried to keep myself grounded in the moment. I have a tendency to let my mind go on autopilot (similar to a coma) and I don’t come out of it until the moment has passed. I wanted to be present when talking to him. I wanted to be professional and fun, but not “fan girl”. The couple in front of us left in what looked like slow motion, and David sat there waiting for us to move forward.

A normal person would have shaken his hand, gave him their book to sign, made a little small talk, thank him, and move on.

We ran up to him and said hello, and immediately I knelt down in front of him, like a child, and stared in his eyes. My friend held the conversation beautifully, and I made incoherent comments every so often. David liked my outfit, and confessed his displeasure of Cold Stone Creamery. I hate Cold Stone. I hate that when you tip them, you have to sit and take their singing as if you’re being rewarded. I didn’t make any witty comments though, I just shouted “YES.” Original. Professional. Fun.

As the moment wrapped up, he signed our books, and the nervous rash I developed flared up my neck and to my face. I stood up and like an ostrich, I shoved my entire head in my purse in search for the essay. I pulled it out (with my mouth? I’m not sure).

“I WROTE THIS FOR YOU!” I shouted, and shoved the folded chunk of paper at him.

“Oh. Thank you, I’ll read it later!” He said and smiled, as he stuck it into his back pocket.

I don’t remember what was said after that, but I know I stumbled away, my shirt see-through from the gallons of sweat I poured out.

I kept laughing hysterically out of nervousness the rest of the night. Myy friend and I talked and fantasized about our future visits (robe-wearing dates) with David. I dropped her off at her house, and as soon as I hit the highway to go home alone, I sobbed.

And I sobbed the next day.

And I sobbed the next day.

And I weeped a little today.

I hear that when you are around someone who does what they love, they emit a different kind of energy. I’m no new age hippie, but I like hummus, and every time David looked down at me, I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t cry.

It was awesome.

I don’t know if I’ll hear back from him. I don’t think it really matters (Yes it does). I did my part, which was in a nutshell (teehee) to grow a pair. Sure, the essay wasn’t my best, but I’m the type of person that still makes my mom order the pizza so I don’t have to interact with anyone.

This was a huge step. What the hell have I been waiting for (aside from the pizza)?