mandatory make-over

I used to be on the tee-vee. This was an email I got from my boss around the time I started.

"I was talking with Jeff and we'd like to get you in the studio to take some photos for the website to accompany your bio, but first we need you to go to John Six salon and Merle Norman. Just seeing if you've made arrangements to do so yet because we really can't photograph you until you do that."

Merle Norman was the make up studio where we on-air folk were given free consultations and face paint.

The email was sent as my non-confrontational boss sat directly across from me.

Good Morning

Up until now, I can remember experiencing only two celebrity related dreams. The first one featured a semi-sexual situation with Will Arnett and occurred when I was taking in an inordinate amount of Arrested Development. The second was a bit more involved and entailed Luke Wilson operating on me in a local grocery store after my sister and I made a pact to shoot ourselves in the head.

Last night I drifted into an easy sleep that led me down an unusual path. I awoke refreshed and feeling particularly well and immediately headed out to my little vegetable garden. Standing in the morning sunshine snapping fuzzy green beans from the vine, a series of dreamy snapshots manifested a larger picture in my mind. A nautical themed restaurant, shaped like a boat. Hairless chests on shirtless men. Velvet-cushioned benches. Blinding, grinning white teeth.

I came inside and sat on the edge of my bed, musing and munching my harvest, and there it came to me. A love triangle. Matt Damon. Ben Afleck. And Me.

(I'll Have Myself a) Big Mac Attack

I find myself sitting at Rosie O'Gradys in downtown Ferndale, somewhere I have no desire to be but where, by a series of unfortunate events, Violet has ended up working as a waitress. My plan was to come here and film her undertaking of a "detox" program in which she eats nothing and drinks only a sad mixture of water, maple syrup, powdered cayenne and lemon juice. I thought this would be a good idea when yesterday I picked her up mid-day from our friend Amelia's and she ambled out clutching a suspicious looking grocery bag full of said ingredients. My pseudo-boyfriend Bryan and I looked on with amusement as, in typical Violet fashion, she hastily assembled the beverage, failing not to loudly smack the excess syrup from her finger tips, Susie-Q style (according to her, a main “perk” of the system).

Electronics in tow and ready to take action, I arrive at the restaurant. I sit down and ask Violet how the diet's going. “It's not,” she replies. Less than 24 hours into the program she caved, having been tormented all last night by a sole pastry sitting on the counter at work. The culprit took the form of an apple torte, but she “only ate the insides, so that's not that bad, right?” Immediately after her confession a co-worker appears to accuse her of recently stealing half an order of spinach dip. Five minutes later a large quesadilla arrives at our table and we are swarmed by a posse of hungry waitresses who greedily devour the shoddy fare and trade tales of experience with the Master Cleanse. “I'll pay for that,” Violet assures me, mid-chew.

Despite her break with the system I did end up filming Violet concocting the tonic one last time, complete with unsolicited onscreen input from her waitress friends. Unfortunately, the video is a lengthy and largely uninteresting three minutes. Eventually I do plan on honing my video-editing skills; until then I believe the above image of a confused looking Violet offering her viewers a sampling of the cleanse should suffice in fulfilling your visual needs.

A Typical Exchange

My Life as an Amateur Sportsman (Pt.1)

*Disclaimer:*

Violet took it upon herself to post this rough draft of mine.

Violet and I were hitting around some balls last night. This generally entails us rummaging around her parent's oddly clean yet stinky garage for a can of soggy, deflated tennis balls and arguing over who gets the child-size racket from 1974, then making the walk to the court about a half block over. I serve the ball over the net to her, she volleys it back to me and I manically flail my long limbs trying to hit it back. If I do hit it, it most likely ends up too far back in the corner for her to realistically return the volley. If not, I end up scampering around my side of the court, my body ever-weakening with giggles, erratically weilding my racket to try and capture the fugitive ball.

We usually alternate between cruelly berating each other for our complete lack of athleticism and laughing uncontrollably. While I have lanky, uncontrollable spaghetti-like limbs, Violet's movements are more akin to a drunken penguin. She baby-steps around the court, arms outstretched, and when it comes her turn to serve, in place of doing anything like what we were taught in gym class, she hurls the ball in front of her like an infant might hurl it's rattle, and swings her racket as if at random.

Even though we're not doing anything remotely close to what most would refer to as "tennis," I savor these little romps about the court. I like to entertain notions that I'll be playing tennis for a long time to come; I can only hope my future mates, as Violet is, will be as wily and incompetent as myself.

Pole Addiction

Please note the fitness center that recently appeared at the end of my street. I took this picture from my hiding spot behind a bush.

Upon further inspection, I found the studio to be dark and empty. This "sign" appears on both the door and window. I say drug cover.

Conversations in Retail: First Installment

Four days a week I am tasked with the rather unglamorous duty of spending nine hours answering phones at a car dealership for low-income citizens. Tedious conversations ensue. I am hoping to post regularly with detailed accounts of the tedious-ist.

Scene: Paula is sitting in her cubicle, eating a cup of yogurt and looking at Facebook. The office is quiet except for the sound of typing and a buzz of fluorescent lights. Large window panes reveal a gray sky and an expansive lot of haggard looking vehicles. The phone rings. Paula puts down her spoon and picks up the receiver.

Paula F.(with mild enthusiasm): Thank you for calling ---Auto Sales. This is Paula, how can I help you?

Fast talking customer (with indistinct accent): Paula I am looking at the website and I am seeing a 1995 T-t-t-Toyota Camry. Is this true?

PF: Let me see...I have a 19-

FTC: Is, is the 1995 Camry. It is 1995. What are you trying to say?

PF: If you're looking for the 1995 Camry, it's sold. We have a 19-

FTC: I am seeing the 1995, this is what I'm looking for. Do you still have it? It is sold?

PF (with increasing irritation): If you'd give me a chance to speak, I'd tell you that we no longer have the 1995. We have a 1990 Toyota Camry.

FTC: Oh, oh, oh. OK. Yes and that is there. Ok so we will come. And thank you Paula, so you have a 1990. Ok, ok. Thank you, bye. We will be there.

PF (concealing laughter): Ok? Bye.

Paula hangs up the receiver and resumes staring at the computer screen. 15 seconds pass, the phone rings again. She picks up the receiver.

PF (again with enthusiasm): Thank you for calling ---Auto Sales, this is Paula. How can I help you?

FTC (panicked): Uh, uh, uh yes Paula. How do you get there? 75, 75. And exact address? We need to get there. And we need to come. The 1990 Camry.

PF: Ok, we're at 714 W. Potter.

FTC: 783 Toppert? T-O-P-P? We will GPS?

PF (frustrated): No, 714 W. Potter. P-O-T-T-E-R.

FTC: Ok, ok. 815 E. Potts Ave. Uh, uh, ok.

PF: 7.1.4. W. P. - O. - T. - T. - E. - R.

FTC: Ok, ok, ok. Ok, ok. Yes we will come. And there are two or three Camrys that we will be seeing?

PF: No, there is only one Camry. The 1990 Camry.

FTC: Oh, ok. And this is Paula? Thank you Paula, we will see you soon.

The line goes dead. Paula hangs up the receiver and clicks over to Gmail on her computer. 20 seconds pass, the phone rings. Paula picks up the receiver.

PF (with manic enthusiasm): Thank you for calling ---Auto Sales, this is Paula. How can I help you?

Scene.