La Rosa Knows

Well, it’s official, ’Downton Abbey’ has found another sucker to buy into its period piece, soap opera whimsy. That sucker is none other than ME.

I was in need of something fresh and exciting, okay? I blame Twitter, really, because apparently most of the people I follow are a fan of this show and will go on endlessly just singing its praises.

As a result, I bought the first season on iTunes and proceeded to watch it all over the weekend. There are only seven (7) episodes, but a lot happens! There are scandals, and intrigue, and (SPOILER ALERT!) that time when they finally get a telephone installed at the estate.

Look, I’ve become invested in the characters, I won’t lie about that. Could Thomas have picked a worse hag in O'Brien?? I feel badly for Mary - will she ever find someone to marry her ass?? And poor Mr. Bates… the man is crippled! Give him a break, y'all!

Of course, Season 2 of ‘Downton Abbey’ is already in full swing, so I have quite a bit to catch up on…It will certainly be a thankless task, but it’s one I’m up for!

I dunno, part of me feels like by getting into this I’m really just doing my part to support PBS, ya know?

Somehow the start of 2012 got away from me, and it’s already nearing the end of February (How?!? Why?!? Who did this?!?).

It bothers me, because I thought I’d be a lot farther along in some of my projects by now. But I saw this article about Seinfeld’s productivity secret and immediately thought, “Hey, I have a million things I should be doing, but I NEED to read this.” Turns out, I’m not the only one with procrastination issues (obvi dovi). But the good news is that there’s hope!

Enter “Don’t Break the Chain.” AKA something that seems cultish, but is actually a pretty easy way to start making progress on your goals. The general idea is that you have 3-4 things you want to accomplish, you print a calendar that lists out your desired goals, and you spend time every single day doing those things. Once they’re done for the day, you get to put a “X” through that day on the calendar, effectively creating a big ole’ line of Xs. If you don’t accomplish your goals for even one day, you are “breaking the chain” you’ve started creating. Hence the title: DON’T BREAK THE FUCKING CHAIN.

The author of the article, Adam Dachis, outlined his process of going through this, and made it sound very easy/manageable/idiot proof. He broke it down into 5 easy steps so that readers at home (like myself) could go ahead and try this out - what a nice dude.

As such, I’ve decided to go ahead and try this thing out. Worst case scenario: it doesn’t help me get anything done, and I’ve found a new way to procrastinate (huzzah!). But best case scenario: I am Oprah.

Here’s what I have so far, based off of Adam’s steps:

STEP 1: CHOOSE YOUR GOALS

I’ve got 3 goals: Writing (on my screenplay/regular play/novel/short story), Blogging (Here, look at me go!), and Cooking (which I never do enough of, but it makes me happy when I do).

STEP 2: SET YOUR MINIMUMS

As in, the minimum amount of work you need to put in to earn the “X” on your calendar. I think I can spare 2 hours per day without losing my mind so, to that end, here are my minimums:

Writing: One hour per day (probably in the morning before work)

Blogging: 30 mins each day

Cooking: 30 mins each day

STEP 3: SET YOUR BOUNDARIES

Yes, your life goals have boundaries! Meaning that there may be times when you can’t perform your daily goals (i.e. if you get sick, are going through something rough, or take a vacay and don’t have access to what you need because you’re drunk somewhere drinking Mai Tai’s). For this, I am allowing myself 3 weeks out of the entire year where I don’t have to put an “X” on the calendar (that includes sick days, etc.).

STEP 4:….

Read Adam’s article to find out, because it’s really great and inspiring!

I’ll keep you all posted on my progress, but I’m going to print out calendars, buy a big fat marker for all the Xs, and start building the chain, or whatever, on March 1st.

Anyone else going to give this a try?

The thing about vacation and me is this: I will be drinking most of the time (SEE above photo).

On this edition of escape from Los Angeles, I headed East to New York where I spent the long weekend with my best friend, Elisa. There was plenty of eating (Crispo, Joe Doe, Lenny’s, etc.), drinking (The Standard, Brass Monkey, The Darkroom, etc.), and swing dancing (oddly enough at Hogs & Heifers, the ORIGINAL Coyote Ugly) to be had.

I saw a lot of my East coast friends – word to you @traneater and @NICKFYHRIE) – which is always fun. And slept on the couch of Elisa’s midtown apartment where we shared many precious moments in which we gazed longingly into each others eyes as I proposed marriage (which, I often do while drinking whiskey).

In a lot of ways NYC was just what I needed; a fun break where I didn’t have to worry ABOUT ANYTHING. And trust, I didn’t.

It’s not just NYC I’m visiting, however, as I am now in Florida with my parents and the cats… Which, obviously, is only the best of times.

Pray that I don’t bite this cat. A love bite, of course.

This is a question I pose, yet already know what the answer will be: No.

Let me first plead my case: I love cats. I spend the majority of my free time Google imaging and YouTubing the shit out of them. I think they’re superior to dogs. There, I said it. Cats are cute when they’re happy, angry, and chasing laser pens. I like that you have to earn their love, and that they’re affections can’t be bought by simply waving a bacon-flavored treat at them.They’re quietly plotting our demise, and I GET THAT. Plus, they poop in a box, just like us!

Yet, I shouldn’t get a cat. Because, like in Shit New Yorkers Say, “It wouldn’t be fair.”

The main unjustness that would be thrust upon this kitty companion is that I am an apartment dweller living in a big city. Meaning that I have limited space, and I mostly spend my time outside of the home. So, while the cat waits and licks itself into a frenzy in my small one bedroom apartment, I’d be off trying to look mysterious in some shitty bar.

I’d like to make a list of pros and cons to this internal debate I’m having.

PROS:

Companionship (I’m all alone!)

Someone to buy things for

A warm body next to me in the bed

Easier and cleaner than a dog

Could scare off potential mice/rats (I don’t have them, but you never know when they’ll strike)

Want to dress them up in baby clothes and take photos

Could end up adopting the next Maru!

CONS:

Straight men hate women with cats, and therefore I’d end up alone and the cat would eat my flesh

Kitty litter in my carpet = No bueno

Hairballs and cat vomit for me to clean up

A pet is an added expense that I am not fully prepared to deal with

Every person I know who has adopted a cat has had some major health issue affect the poor thing (One friends cat is asthmatic, another clawed itself in the eye (???), and another still had a vicious case of ringworm but was allergic to the anti-ringworm medication)

Still, they are pretty fucking cute little fluffballs of joy. What do you think… should I adopt and find my true cat child?

Happy Valentine’s Day everyone! I’m sure most of you are well into the stages of pre/mid/post coitus, lubricating your lovers with copious amounts of champagne and chocolate covered somethings, but for those of you who aren’t…

I’ve done some truly diligent research. Whether you need a moment to weep over the fact that you’re alone, or Whitney Houston’s death is finally hitting you… There are a number of invaluable spots to have a good cry.

Here are my top 5 faves (in no particular order):

1.Bed Bath & Beyond

I’d recommend securing a spot in the “Bath” section of Bed Bath & Beyond. That way, when you start to dry heave tears, there will be towels at your disposal to mop off your face. I found that in the middle of the week, around 10:30 a.m. it’s particularly quiet (aka perfect for having an undisturbed nervous breakdown).

2. The Restroom in K-Mart

Aside from the fact that no one shops at KMart, if you do visit one of their stores you’ll notice that because of all the neon SALE signs, your sad face will go blissfully unnoticed. Retire to the restroom in the back of the store and not only will you have the place all to yourself, but you’ll also get to stare into the cracked bathroom mirror and watch the tears roll down your face (something I like to do mid cry to remind myself that THIS IS HAPPENING).

3. Lobby of a Funeral Home

The reason why this is ideal is fairly obvious- you’ll be in good company. Well, not like THAT, but you no what I mean, right? …Right?

Not only is it expected that you’ll cry at a funeral home, but no one will shoot you one of those, “Have some dignity and pull yourself the fuck together” looks. Fall onto one of the plush sofas, hysterically weep openly, and chances are you’ll be handed a box of Kleenex, patted on the back, and encouraged to let it all out.

4. A Strip Club

Plenty of people will be in da club: Unsightly older gentlemen, security guards, hookers with hearts of gold, and YOU.

The reason this is a viable option is that if you go to a strip joint in the middle of the day, sit down at a table, order a scotch, and start to sob, chances are the stripper will cry right back. Because, really, she’s a stripper working the off hours and she’s stuck with you for a sad sack of a customer. You can cry into each others arms!

5. A Romantic French Restaurant

While it may seem counter productive to go to a romantic restaurant on Valentine’s Day, where all of the other patrons will be revving up to head home and, well, get it on, this is actually not the worst idea. The thing is, the lighting will be low so your leaky eyes will be obscured. There will likely be live music or, at the very least, a Sade CD playing, and that will muffle out the sound of you blowing your nose. Plus, if you’re anything like me, you’ll want to stress eat. Since it’s a holiday, you might as well treat yourself to some escargot, am I right?!?

Happy Valentine’s Day, from me to you. xoxo

For the past nine months, I was employed as the Executive Assistant to two very busy showrunners of a CW show. I was working “in the industry,” and had a “coveted job,” or whatever. That is, until two weeks ago, when I put in my notice… My first full day of funemplyment was… interesting. As in, a word you use when you aren’t sure what to make of something.

Being unemployed in Los Angeles is not a problem. In fact, it seems to be encouraged. Were you in a place like, say, New York, you’d want to know what was wrong with that person or put a quarter in their empty coffee cup. But here, if you walk around Melrose during a perfectly normal business hour like 11 a.m., you’ll see small armies of out of work actors, directors, writers, and wealthy heirs, just starting brunch while the rest of us snarl at the second phone line ringing. By “the rest of us,” I obviously don’t mean me, as I am now one of those out of work, vagabonds flaunting my lifestyle for all to see. Though, admittedly, it’s not quite what I imagined.

What I thought unemployment would be…

Start off on an early morning jaunt to the Chateau Marmont with my laptop and a big sun hat. Once there, I’d work on my novel/screenplay/regular play/short film/blog while sipping a cocktail AND a coffee. During which time, I’d be approached by no less than three (3) agents who would initially offer me a super-modeling contract but, after reading one page of said novel/screenplay/regular play/short film/blog, would fight to help fulfill my dreams of writing glory. In the end, they’d agree to share the duties of representing me, mainly because I give them no other choice.

This would all take place before noon, and for lunch I’d hop into my town car and head to the SoHo House, where I don’t have a membership but am ushered in by none other than famous ack-tor Leonardo DiCaprio. He’s had a “thing” for redheads ever since he made that little indie film, Titanic. And the news of quitting my job alone sends him into a fit of slow claps, which he continues through the lobby and all the way up the elevator until I tell him rather forcefully to “Knock it off.” Leo, as he would ask me to call him, would inquire as to whether I was free for lunch. I wouldn’t be. In fact, I’d be dining alone, because that’s what struggling writers do. They dine alone and pout alone so as to develop an air of aloof importance. Upon trying to clarify this to Leo, however, he’d fly into one of his wild temper tantrums and I’d spend the rest of lunch picking at a salad, all the while hearing him mutter, “I will have her,” at an adjacent table.

 Around 1:30 I’d tire of being offered glasses of free champagne by Ron Burkle and hurry back down to my car because, by that time, the paparazzi would have dubbed me the “Girl Who Broke Leo’s Heart,” and they’d be waiting. Waiting and watching. I’d “accidentally” trip a rather precocious photographer with my heel and suggest the others help him to his feet. While they all huddled around their fallen comrade, I’d slip away and zoom into the afternoon light blasting some Rihanna song that Ryan Seacrest so thoughtfully dedicated to me. As if that’s at all impressive.

My next and final stop would be Malibu, obviously. The typical LA traffic hellish nightmare wouldn’t be an issue, because Mayor Villaraigosa would have called that shit in. He heard from the three (3) agents who signed me that morning that I was the next BIG thing, and decided to close down the PCH to accommodate my budding success. Now that is how you impress a lady, Seacrest.

The town car would drop me off at one of those impossibly large homes up in the hillsides, where you have brilliant ocean views and The Edge from U2 as your neighbor. The thing is: my rental would be much larger than the shit box The Edge owns. So, when he would come over to try and be “neighborly” with some freshly baked snickerdoodles in tow, I’d turn off all the lights, draw the blinds, and pretend to be out. I don’t need some rocker with a permanent skullcap in my lavish home. I am very busy and have more important things to do. Like, change into my smoking jacket, perch on one of several outdoor balconies, and gaze out at the ocean while fantasizing about the violent deaths of all the people who told me that by quitting my job I’d never work in this town again.

What unemployment was actually like…

Start off on an early morning jaunt to 7-11 to get an extra large hazelnut flavored coffee. Am slightly hungover from the night before, but not enough to justify a breakfast sandwich. Make sandwich anyway, because this is the first Monday in months where I haven’t had to worry about being somewhere on time. Name it the “Freedom Sandwich,” and laugh alone in living room. After an hour of writing in bed, wearing that robe I accidentally spilled toothpaste on, I decide it’s time to focus on ME and sign up for a workout class.

Go to said class, and instantly regret eating Freedom Sandwich. It seems to only want to throw itself out of my body, especially when the teacher goes into those damn core exercises. Leave class to find parking ticket nestled under windshield wiper, and instantly recognize that this is what I get for not staying home and writing more.

Return to apartment and hallway smells like cabbage. Look up photos of cats for a good half hour to erase the memory of the parking ticket. Add some pics to Pinterest board titled, “Itty Bitty Kitty Committee,” and tweet one particularly funny video of a cat running across a soccer field. Get frantic phone call from work, asking where that email I sent regarding the holiday crew gifts wandered off to. Sigh audibly, agree to forward it on, and smile smugly at the fact that they still, obviously, need me.

By 4 p.m. am exhausted, and crawl back to bed where I nap on and off for the next hour. My plans for that night, to watch the second episode of Ru Paul’s Drag Race at gay bar in West Hollywood, are foiled when everyone cancels last minute. They’ve all had a tough day at work, but so have I, and to alleviate the stress I pour a cup of dark chocolate chips into a teacup. Proceed to eat them one-by-one while watching re-runs of that TLC reality show about polygamist wives.

Fall asleep well before midnight after writing in my diary about how “weird” it is not to have to go into work. Eventually end up dreaming about the violent deaths of all the people who told me that by quitting my job I’d never work in this town again.

What this means for me now…

It turns out that in order to do all of the things I fantasize about, I first need to find a job that a) Pays well and b) Helps me get to a place where people value what I have to offer. I’d also likely have to become a socialite/heavy drinker of some sort, and wear bibs while brushing my teeth so as not to spittle toothpaste all over myself.

My main concern about all of this being… Am I completely insane or on the brink of a nervous breakdown (a la Mariah Carey when she went on TRL) to daydream like this? I think I often venture into my fantasyland more so than actual writing land and this concerns me. I have a very specific kind of Catholic guilt that manifests itself when I realize I’m still not exactly where I want to be, career wise. Especially since there are things I could be doing to get there faster (i.e. not looking up photos of Malibu mansions for rent). The way that I’ve rationalized my laziness is that it’s okay to indulge in some delusions of grandeur, because it at least gives me a place to strive for. If I didn’t want to belong to the SoHo House so goddamn much (even though I fully realize it’s insanely pretentious and a waste of good money and I don’t even own a nice enough car to get valet there), I wouldn’t work as hard as I sometimes like to think I do.

Last night I went to the Hollywood premiere of THIS MEANS WAR starring Reese Witherspoon, Chris Pine, and some hot British guy (Pierce Brosnan? Tony Danza? Is anyone really British?).

I got all dolllllled up, because there was a red carpet situation, and fluffed my hair until it took over my entire face. Then my lovely Reese look-a-like, Allie, picked me up and we rode off to the Hollywood Boulevard strip.

The premiere was at Grauman’s Chinese Theater, and a line had already formed by the time we got there. I was quite nervous because I don’t do well in lines (when trying to walk and/or draw them). But, luckily, Allie has the hookup and that girl got us straight to the front.

Once we had our tickets, there was still an hour to kill. So, naturally, we wandered into the Hard Rock Cafe just in time for happy hour. Two glasses of wine and a plate of bruschetta later, we were ready to walk the red carpet.

There were paparazzi, lots of tiny dresses, all of the celebs from the film, and agents in suits waiting for our arrival. Instead of walking the red carpet (as is our duty as PYTs), we decided to make a beeline for the doors so we could get the free popcorn and sodas that were rumored to be at our disposal. It took a good 20 minutes for us to find seats - turns out, people actually arrive early to this thing! But, before we officially sat down, we saw none other than the fabulous Ms. Chelsea Handler. She was wearing this long, striped dress and sporting some serious weave. The only reason I recognized her was because of her voice. Truth be told, I love Chelsea, her show, her many vulgarisms, and penchant for dating big black men. But girl was looking a little tired in that dress, so much so that I felt fucking bomb in mine.

Look, eventually we watched the movie. Aaannnnd… I enjoyed it. There were a lot of moments where I LOLd, several dating scenarios that I related to, and in typical Rom-Com fashion, a lot of moments where I thought, ’I want a guy to do that for me!!“

Essentially, I don’t think the trailers have done this film justice. Reese is very cute and not at all annoying. Chris Pine is attractive. That British guy has a nice accent. (SPOILER ALERT) I think the scenario of a gal sleeping with two best friends and winding up with one of them is a little far fetched - girl, have some self respect/class/dignity. But still, I enjoyed it and would recommend this for anyone looking for a girly film that goes well with drinking.

To put it in the words of a couple we overheard after the premiere:

Dude: What’d you think?

Lady: Well, I like rom-coms so… Yeah.

Two chins up!

Last night I went to dinner with two of my girlfriends, one of whom had just had a terrible fight with her boyfriend. Well, fight may be too strong of a word here. Essentially, the subject of abortion came up, and they happened to land on different sides of the To Kill or Not To Kill equation.

One of my friends was quick to say, “That could be a dealbreaker conversation.” Admittedly, I bristled, and shot back, “Really? That would break up a relationship?”

It was hard for me to understand how talking about the subject of abortion would destroy everything else that’s good. I immediately thought of my parents: My mom, who is Irish Catholic and strongly pro-life, versus my father, who is a doctor and believes it’s a woman and a doctor’s right to choose what happens. They have been happily married for 30 years, and I know for a fact that the subject of abortion has come up - mainly because I have asked for them to explain their opinions to me. They agree to disagree and it hasn’t been a “dealbreaker” issue.

My friend then explained that it would end their relationship if my friend were to get pregnant and actually do something about it (i.e. abort mission). I mean… sure. I could see that being a problem, hypothetically. But for now there is no baby, there is no issue to deal with, so, aren’t you allowed to talk about those things without having to worry about hurting the other person’s feelings?

Do I disagree with what my friend was saying? No. But there are so many “What if!!!’ situations that could come up. For example, (and I have actually thought about this), when I become a mother, say my child is murdered (yes, I took this to a dark place, get ready!), would I want the death penalty to be enforced? Yes. If my husband was against it, that would, hypothetically, suck. But that hasn’t happened to me yet. Hopefully, I will never be put in that situation. It’s all a hypothetical and a WHAT IF sitch, so, shouldn’t I be allowed to discuss that late at night when my boyfriend is trying to fall asleep and all I can think about is "I wonder what his thoughts are on the death penalty…”?

People, and my girlfriends in particular, seem to be extremely cautious when it comes to what they’re allowed to bring up with their boyfriends. I’ve noticed this propensity to avoid certain subjects in favor of keeping the peace. However, I also understand that kind of thinking: Make love not war. Why fight when you can just make out instead? But is all of this coddling and tip-toeing doing women any favors? It seems to me that by not expressing what you’re thinking, and avoiding not having any opinions of your own, you’re doing exactly that. Sending men the message that you are agreeable and don’t think for yourself. Doesn’t that sound… I dunno, kinda silly?

Like any good American, I am obsessed with polygamy and, in particular, the TLC show ‘Sister Wives.’ Which is why, when I saw the headline, “Judge allows 'Sister Wives’ suit to proceed,” I obviously stopped everything (including the presses) to find out what these shenanigans were about.

The AP is reporting that:

A federal judge has ruled there’s sufficient evidence to allow a polygamous family made famous by a reality TV show to pursue a lawsuit challenging the constitutionality of Utah’s bigamy law.

WOWZERS. So, for those of you not caught up with the show, essentially this is a big fucking deal. That’s because last season the Brown family (which includes creepy haired patriarch Kody, and his 4 bride-wives), were forced out of Utah and into Las Vegas. They were under threat of an impending lawsuit that they believed could end with Kody being sent to prison and the families being torn apart. It was all very ’Not Without My Daughter,’ and made for a great episode where there was much ado about packing U-Haul’s.

Now that no charges have actually been filed against the Brown’s, it seems that they are fighting back against the state that chased them away (even though bigamy is against the law, and they were very much flaunting their lifestyle for all of the cameras and the world to see). The thing is, they may actually win this thing if they can prove that, “there’s a real and viable threat to their constitutional rights.”

Selfishly, I would love for this show to stay on the air, so I support whatever the Brown’s need to do. Which, I’m sure, is a huge perk of going on national television and allowing viewers to get to know them as a family. They’ve sparked my sympathy, so much so that I want them to be OKAY and would theoretically write a letter to Congress, or whatever. What I know is that as much as I love the Brown’s, there are still some terrifying polygamist compounds like the one in Colorado City. On one hand, if polygamists don’t need to hide, maybe those compounds wouldn’t exist. BUT, in a more realistic understanding, those communities are run by tyrannical egomaniacs who wouldn’t give up their men and multiple women without a fight. And, by making it easier to practice polygamy, it may lead to increased abuse in the communities.

In other words, what the Brown’s are doing is GREAT if you’re not a 13-year-old girl about to be married off to someone who looks like this. But if you are that teen girl approaching your birthing years, this lawsuit could mean that the state eases up on some of its laws against polygamy (not that those laws have ever stopped people like Warren Jeffs, but you know what I mean).

What do you think about this ruling, should the Brown’s be allowed to sue Utah?

Little known fact: Madonna is a baby prostitute.

Wait, wait, before you go all postal and say, ‘That’s simply untrue, her age alone makes her at least an over-the-hill hooker!’ let me present you with some evidence:

1) Madonna dates men who are closer in age to her teenaged daughter, Lourdes

2) Madonna has to be pushed around in a stroller

3) Madonna likes to be swung around, upside down, by what I can only assume is her baby prostitute father

I totally accept the 'Material Girl’ and her 'Like a Virgin’ status. I just think she should be honest in her young age.