Friday, February 27, 2004

All jokes aside, I saw "The Passion of the Christ" last night. Now, I know that organized religion makes T$ angry, but please bear with me, I don't plan on trying to convert anyone. All I can truly tell you is that I wept. The tears came about halfway through and didn't stop until I was safely inside my home. I could cry now just thinking about it. Maybe it has a bit to do with the guilt I feel about going to Catholic schools for 12 years of my life and not really understanding the suffering that coincided with the stories. I learned about the cat-of-nine-tails, the crown of thorns, and the many times He fell carrying the cross, but when I was a child those events never really sank in. It didn't hurt. This film was unbelievable. It was heartbreaking and horrifying. I honestly feel that it's a film about humanity, not of religious preference. My many years of religious education did prepare me for the story's plot (I already knew who Judas, Peter, Mary, Barabbas, etc. were before they were introduced as characters), but it in no way prepared me for how emotionally I would react to something that I had read on paper about a million times before. I know that this film has received a lot of press about its controversy, but regardless of your religious upbringing, go see the film and decide for yourself.

Thursday, February 26, 2004

Can I ban politics from this blog? While I'm at it, here is a list of topics also banned:
1. Use of the word "moist"
2. The retelling of anything that I may have said under the influence.
3. Anything that may have taken place between 1998 and 2001.
4. The contents of the blue jar on the mantle.
That is all.

Wednesday, February 25, 2004

I am losing my mind. I'm serious. Really. 12 years of private school, 4.5 years of out-of-state tuition, and $100K of grad school - all down the drain. It's actually scary. Today, I got an email from a new friend that mentioned a brief conversation we had yesterday on the telephone. I don't recall said conversation. I cannot remember even turning on my phone yesterday. I was working morning, noon, and night. Come to think of it, I didn't even bring my phone with me. I couldn't have turned it on if I wanted to. But I supposedly chatted with this gentleman for a few seconds, got another call, and told him that I would call him back. What am I gonna do? Deny it? Get into a fistfight about it? I just apologized and wondered why I am losing my mind. First of all, I never do that - you know, hang up on the first call if another comes in. That's what the "reject" button is for. You've all been rejected at one time or another. It's only fair. So I had an imaginary conversation on my imaginary telephone. Lock me up and send me to the funny farm. estoy loco.

So, I've been neglecting the blog lately. I have a good excuse - I've been working on all the random crap that goes along with finishing my film as well as working a bit on Eric's set. Now, I realize that James and Ron are also on Eric's set and have been for more days than I have worked, but (and you're not going to like me after I say this...) being a grip takes a whole lot more out of a person than working in sound. I feel like I am justified in saying this because I've done both jobs. Now, you guys work just as hard, but with different muscles. Let's just say, sound is the brains of the operation and grips are the brawn. My back hurts, my arms burn, and I think I grew an extra muscle in my ass. And why do they call the 35-pound sandbags "ball-busters"? I had to carry four of them at once yesterday, I don't have balls, so something else in me must be busted.....

Sunday, February 22, 2004

I was at a friend's house the other night. He and I were listening to music and talking about DVDs. I know it sounds like the perfect high school romance, but we were actually doing business. Both of us are finishing our films, and the conversation went more like - "If you import your mix stems and then bounce them as wave files, you can bring them right into your authoring program." Not like - "Yes, I do think that 'Beth' is the best rock ballad of all time. I think I love you."
Anyway, as we were finishing up, the most amazing thing happened. His wife served dinner. Yes, that's right, a hot homecooked meal was placed on the table. There were vegetables, placemats, even a selection of utensils all beckoning from the dining room. I was invited to join in the feast. After a lovely evening, I went home to my own apartment and thought, "I gotta get me a wife." But there are many problems with that scenario, not the least of which is that I like boys. But boys don't make good wives. I can't remember the last time somebody made dinner for me. I'm all for being taken out to a nice restaurant for a meal, but there's something about the time and care it takes to prepare something all by yourself at home.
This brings me to this sobering fact. I will make a terrible wife for some poor bastard. Doing the laundry makes me itch. Cooking usually involves the use of the microwave. I'm not sure if I've dusted anything since I moved out of my mother's house twelve years ago. I eat in front of the TV, put my feet on the furniture, and drink beer from the bottle. I burp out loud because I think it's funny.
Somewhere along the way, I forgot to learn what it takes to be a lady. I've never worn pearls. I've grown used to opening my own doors. I tackle people for the fun of it. I'm the best girl friend in the world, but a poor excuse for a girlfriend.

Saturday, February 21, 2004

I think Tamara has gone a little crazy in the mountains. She usually doesn't sell me down the river so easily. But now that it has begun, let me retaliate. T$ used to have kitten posters in her room.

I can't think of anything else because I just got back from working all day on set. A zombie movie. Actually, a zombie musical. We shot in a filthy factory basement, and I will be blowing dirt out of my nose for days. At least it wasn't the same shit factory where we shot Peter's movie. I kid you not, it was a fecal factory. The stink was unreal. I dropped one of my gloves on the ground and promptly threw it away.

Friday, February 20, 2004

I love commas. Sometimes, I, put, them, into, sentences, where they, don't even, belong. I also like the dash - it's a staple of emails. Quotation marks I don't get. Do you put the punctuation inside or outside of them when they occur at the end of a sentence? I can never remember, and both ways look weird to me. I like to curse. "Bitches" is my current favorite. It's not just a description for a group of mean girls or a pack of momma dogs. I like to use "bitches" in place of "darn" or "damnit". Like "I bounced a check today. Bitches." or "The water is turned off in my apartment right now and I have to go to the bathroom. Bitches." You try. It's fun. "Jerk-off" makes me giggle. I can't say it with a straight face. I also throw in a "dirtbag" every once in a while - for nostalgic effect.

Thursday, February 19, 2004

Why do boys who have girlfriends always feel the need to flirt with me shamelessly? What's the point? It only succeeds in placing me high up on yet another woman's shit list. And, T$ - you know exactly who I am talking about this time. Now, I'm not going to call anyone out in public, but it's got to stop. When I was in a relationship, I didn't so much as look at another boy. I was happy with who I had at home. But that's just me.

This just reinforces the fact that I am 29 years old, and I still don't understand what goes on in the mind of a boy.

Wednesday, February 18, 2004

The plumber came at 8am today. He was supposed to be here at 8:30a, but he came at 8:00a. Once again, my precious sleep was cut short. At the sound of the doorbell, I jumped up out of bed and ran down the stairs. Then, I ran back up the stairs. I was wearing a white wife-beater at the time. Me, in a tank top, without a bra is truly pornographic. I grabbed a Penn State sweatshirt from off of the floor in my bedroom. The good news is he was here to bust down the wall in the kitchen to find out the reason behind our lack of cold water in the sink. The bad news is that it was going to take him all day. I have places to go this afternoon, so I sent him away until Friday. Did he think I had nothing to do all day but sit around and drink Raspberry Snapples in front of my Sex and the City DVDs? Don't answer that.

Tuesday, February 17, 2004

T$,
You don't know liquid measurements either. Remember that day when you asked me how many ounces were in a pint? I didn't know. All of that valuable information was stored on one laminated sheet in the back of my Trapper Keeper. I don't carry one anymore because you would be the first one to point and laugh at me.
love,
Allie

Canned fruit sucks. I think this is where my aversion to Maraschino cherries comes from. There's always one left at the bottom of my Vodka Collins, and someone I'm with gets to eat it when I'm done. Nasty. I stocked up on a few cans yesterday because I was sick of throwing away bags of rotting fresh fruit from the back of the fridge. And I'm poor. But all of the different varieties of fruit swimming in a can of thick liquid tend to taste the same in the end.
I'm not so poor that I'm willing to purchase a 500 pack of corndogs at the Costco. Okay, so I am that poor, but I like eating good things. They need to invent an entirely new food group because I'm done with the ones we already have.

Monday, February 16, 2004

I love having houseplants, but hate watering them. I like eating off of dishes, but hate washing them. I like the scent of clean clothes, but hate trying to shove them all into my oversized laundrybag, dragging the bodybag down the stairs, punching it until it fits into my clown-car, driving to the coin-op on the corner, breaking a sweat pulling it out of the car, being asked for change by the local vagrant as I huff and puff under the strain of my own clothes, tossing them into the $3.00 washer only to have my favorite jammie pants come out with this faint red stain on one leg that I swear is a result of the wash and not of the fertility goddess. I love a clean room, but cannot seem to finish sorting through the old pile of papers on my desk before a new one is born.
BTW, T$ - I just watered your damn plant. Thanks for reminding me.

Why is it so embarrassing to be caught asleep? I can understand it if you are discovered with your head down on the desk at work or if your snoring fills the classroom, but when I am in the privacy of my own home taking a little catnap or sleeping in past 9am, why do I feel shamed into convincing the caller of the telephone ring that just woke me up that I'm actually awake?
Ring. Snort. Ring. "Hello."
"Is Tamara there?"
"No."
"Could you tell her that Jackie called?"
"Sure."
About to hang up....
"My number is 323-481-....
I listen. Then I repeat back the numbers. Slowly. AS IF I AM WRITING THEM DOWN.
It's insanity. Do you think she was fooled?
We are forced to go to bed when we're children. We whine and moan and throw a fit. We plead, "Five more minutes pleeeeaaaassee?" We won't go down for a nap. We renegotiate our bedtime in the 5th grade. My bedtime was actually governed by the current season of television. "You may stay up and watch Family Ties, but then it's off to bed!" One year, there was a racy show on TV at 10pm. It was about the teenage son of a single mom who had an affair with one of her friends. He had his shirt off quite a bit. Sometimes, my sister Joan and I would stand quietly in the darkened hall outside our bedroom to watch TV long after bedtime. Sometimes we would hatch a plan to retrieve slices of Virginia Ham out of the refrigerator. Nothing better than eating rolled up forbidden ham in the top bunk.

I was almost attacked by a rabid squirrel. I think he wanted my coffee. That, or he wanted to bite me on the left side of my face to give me a scar to match the right side where a spider recently took a chunk out. It's in the shape of NJ. The scar, not the spider. So, what we have here is our own version of wild kingdom. Pigeons on the rooftop, spiders in my bed, and attack squirrels jumping up on the balcony while I'm sitting there minding my own business. I swear, if I see just one roach or rat, I'm outta here.....

Sunday, February 15, 2004

Today, I did nothing. The kind of nothing you almost feel guilty about so when someone asks, "what did you do today?” you answer, "writing".

I read March's Cosmo from cover to cover. Cosmo Girls must be having a lot of sex. Today I wondered how old a true Cosmo girl must be. My general belief is that anyone doing anything exciting has to be older than me. (A throw-back to the days when I was the youngest person in my grade while I was growing up in Jersey - I was a full-blooded senior in HS before I could even drive.) Now, I have the sneaking suspicion that I have surpassed this blissful group of "exciting people with exciting lives" on my road to thirty.

Friday, February 13, 2004

A few things that make me want to commit murder:
1. Driving through Hollywood - any time, any day.
2. The 15-20 minutes spent trying to find (free street) parking around the USC campus.
3. The millennium it takes for my dial-up to refresh its page.
4. When automated phone systems change their prompts and foil my attempt to bypass that woman's sweet melodic voice.
5. When people make a right turn into the left lane or a left turn into the right lane - sometimes I want to smash into their car to teach this valuable lesson.

It occurs to me that three of the five involve driving. Must be because driving my 1992 junk bucket causes instantaneous nausea. This year, it has decided to overheat on a weekly basis. Last year, it was the random loss of control over the manual transmission. It's quite a thrill to be going 70mph down an off-ramp when you can't, for the life of you, get out of 5th gear. I've actually gotten used to the sweet cinnamon-y smell of coolant boiling on the cylinder head once it has leaked from a busted hose. Let me tell you, a new hose costs all of $4.60. I have yet to pay less than $165.00 to get the job done. Perhaps I should drop out of school and become a mechanic - I'd be assured a 500% increase in income.
Now, I must respond to T-money's previous blogs:
I like the word "jugs"
Also, the jury is out on Tamara's "pregnancy"
Ever since a girl from my high school returned from a Mexican vacation in the spring of 1991 claiming to have "a big rib cage" whenever anyone inquired as to the reason behind her sudden increase in girth, I have become suspect of any and all trips to Mexico. Needless to say, the girl gave birth to twins some months later. T-money returned from Mexico two weeks ago. I'm waiting out the next 34 weeks.....

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