Lazy Day Stream of Consciousness

This is pretty rare for me. I feel like blogging, but I have no particular topic in mind. Yet, I'm just going to keep typing until something starts to flow. Heh. The word 'flow,' always makes me think of periods. Periods, and Progressive insurance. Either way, not a pleasant association...

HAHAHAHAHA! But also, kind of depressing if you think about it too much.

So, it's Easter today. I suppose I could write something Easter-y. But I did that last year. Or was it the year before? Except that the only festive activities I've accomplished today entail eating the Robins Egg-shaped Whoppers I bought myself, and the mini-Cadbury Eggs my mom hid around my apartment whilst she was visiting me. (Thereby re-creating my dad's tradition of hiding treats around the house for her to find when he goes away on long trips). I don't think watching massive amounts of Buffy and lazing around in bed all day is particularly reminiscent of the Resurrection or pagan fertility symbols of rabbits and eggs. I definitely enjoyed it though!

"Grape nuts are neither grapes nor nuts."

I suppose I could branch out and write about my Passover experience last Tuesday. Seder dinner is always (and by always, I mean both times I've gone), a treat. Fascinating cultural ritual (which involves a lot of interactive drinking of wine, which we all know is right up my alley.) It's also a fun fish-out-of-water experience for a former Mormon-turned-agnostic to participate in a Jewish holiday extravaganza. I also got to hear an older Jewish lady say, "this brisket is like buttah," thusly invoking childhood memories of Mike Meyers in drag on SNL. But for realsies, the brisket really did taste like buttah. Kudos to my sister-in-law's stepmother on a fantastic meal!

This cake better be worth it...

I could also use this platform to call out my fella for texting me a picture of cake at three in the morning.  AND for refusing to give me any of said cake. Not cool, friend-o. Our relationship is officially on the rocks. (Sidebar, he just now texted me saying that if I was nice, he would bring me a piece. Apparently being nice means either giving him a back massage and/or buying him new underwear. Worth it?) (Second sidebar, he also texted me not to blog about that particular negotiation because it makes it seem like he uses "food for clothing like a hobo with magic." And then I called him a ninny. I'm pretty sure he'll never date another writer ever again.) What a couple of weirdos.

Things also accomplished today:

1. Multiple hours spent on reading my new favorite blog, Brittany Herself. Thank you Kelly Bean for introducing me to Brittany. If I lived in Ohio, had three kids, and a flair for plus-sized fashion, Brittany is who I would want to be when I grow up (even though she's only like five years older than me).

My mom and I are terrible influences on each other when it comes to shopping.

Aaaand... that's about it. I fully intended to clean my apartment today. I'm surrounded by discarded DSW shoeboxes, yogurt cups, and various items of clothing flung carelessly about my room. But some days I'm in the mood to clean like some kind of germaphobic demon (still in Buffy mode), and other days I'm totally happy to just wallow in filth. But at least I completed a blog! Even if it was completely incoherent and babbly, just like me!

Penis Pasta Famine

There is a famine in the Valley, one that we never saw coming. In this fertile land of porn stars both legitimate and aspiring, and adult bookstores that litter the land like Starbucks and CVS, you cannot find a single box of pasta shaped like a man's junk. What the hell is this world coming to? (I really really really wanted to hide a dirty pun in that last sentence, but I refrained because I'm classy like that. But I think you can probably figure it out anyway...) I've never actually purchased penis pasta before, or seen it for sale in my limited sex shop experience. But I always thought that it was a major adult novelty item. Not so, as it turns out.

Tee hee. Penis.

I'm kicking myself for waiting until the night before my dear friend and fellow Tomato, Tiffany's bachelorette pot luck and karaoke shindig to purchase what I was so excited to bring: phallic-shaped carbs, hopefully whole wheat if possible so I could actually eat it. I had planned to order it online three weeks ago, but it just kept getting pushed back and neglected until it was too late and overnight shipping was too expensive. Time just flies by when you're avoiding something. I can't believe I even procrastinated this arguably enjoyable task.

What kind of self-respecting adult-oriented establishment doesn't carry penis pasta???

But anyway, here we are, less than 24 hours to go, and no stores within a five mile radius carry penis pasta. (I know five miles isn't very big, but it's late and I have to work tomorrow). One of the stores I called, I could barely understand the guy who answered the phone. I made him repeat the name of the store like five times just to make sure I hadn't misdialed and very awkwardly asked an Old Folks Home if they sold genitalia-themed pasta. But even after I was convinced that it was indeed a sex shop located in Studio City, the answer was no. Not cool, Valley. Not cool.

I also find this vaguely dirty.

I guess I'll just have to settle for Penne Pasta with White Sauce and make the argument that 'penne' is as close to 'penis' as pasta gets. In fact I wonder if 'penne' actually means 'penis' in Italian. Excuse me whilst I Google (insert Jeopardy theme song here)... Damn. It's actually derived from the Latin for 'feather' or 'quill.' That's not really dirty or funny. Sad. Oh well. Happy early bachelorette party, Tiffany!!!!! (Though I doubt she's actually reading this...)

The Bad Writers Club

One of my favorite subjects to write about is how much I hate writing. Actually that's a lie. I don't exactly hate it, I just never seem to do it. How can someone who claims to love something so much never get around to actually doing it? It's one of life's great conundrums. Ever since I graduated from school, I've had no one to hold me accountable for writing. I need deadlines, structure, and pressure from external influences. That's how this blog came about. But now that work has been crazy and I haven't had a lot of free time, it's been so easy just to watch Saturday Night Live on my Netflix, drink a pink lemonade vodka tonic (a cocktail I invented and call WHITE DIAMONDS!! which is a 30 Rock reference and not an homage to Elizabeth Taylor) and go to bed early.

WHITE DIAMONDS!!

Luckily, the other day I was purging my spam e-mails (as I am wont to do when not writing), and I discovered a notice from Meetup.com (which is not a dating site even though it totally sounds like anonymous kinky sex). They send me junk mail all the time because I'm too lazy even to unsubscribe. If you've never heard of it, it's how I discovered the Sally Tomatoes, my a cappella singing group which kicks complete and total ass. Whatever you're interested in, there's a group for that. It's great for when you just move to a city and don't know anyone and therefore have nothing to do. Usually the e-mails are about groups I have no interested in. Like the West Coast Custom Grill Enthusiasts Club, or the Batty Old Ladies Knitting and Competing over Grandchildren's Accomplishments, or the Skanky Sluts in Tiny Cocktail Dresses who Get Drunk on Smirnoff Ices and Say WOO a Lot. But this group was called the Bad Writers Club for LA Television writers. Whoa (not woo)! That's me! It's for writers with bad habits. Like not writing. Or not finishing what you start. Or getting distracted like a kitten with a bit o' string. I have all of those bad habits! These are my people!

Self-Portrait.

So even though I'm no longer a joiner by nature, after having burned myself out on extra-curricular activities in high school trying desperately to get into college, I joined the ranks of the Bad Writers. I might as well, seeing as I am their Queen, Pope, and Magistrate. Today is my first meeting with them at a "Coffee and Bitch" session in Westwood. But now that today is today, I'm kind of feeling over it already. After a long week which I can only describe with the terms, "Witness Protection," "Saudi Princess," and "Tila Tequila," I just want to retreat into Saturday Night Live (my current obsession and future goal to be a part of, whether it's host, cast member, head writer, sporadic contributing writer, or even just audience member). But the number one reason I don't want to go is because parking is a bitch in Westwood. I used to work there, so I know. And I won't go somewhere if I know parking sucks. Even on Sunday when I think the meters don't apply.

It's a rare occasion that I get to type these words.

So being lazy is preventing me from going to a meeting about lazy people. I'm procrastinating the meeting of Procrastinators Anonymous. I'll probably end up going because I made such a big deal out of the Bad Writers Club and how this is just the thing to get me off my ass and start writing. And I'd hate to disappoint my public (*waves condescendingly).