Aug
20
Apparently someone knows the password to my email account and that creeps me right the fuck out.
I was cooking dinner last night when my phone flashed red with a new email. I checked it and it was from Skype with the subect “Password token”. The body of the email went a little like this:
Reset your password with this temporary code
Um. Right.
So then my phone flashes with a new email. This one’s from Skype, too and this subject line says “Password successfully changed”. The body goes like so:
Your new Skype password has been set. You can now access your Account, view your call history or change your account settings.
Um. Riiiight.
So I’m like vaguely concerned. And a little baffled. Because really? You have access to my email so you decide to change my Skype password? SAY IT AIN’T SO.
David was playing Castle Age or some game with wizards and big boobed lady elves (oh my little nerd). So I asked him “Hey, did you change my Skype password?” and since he probably thinks Skype is one of the mortal enemies trying to steal the princess, I had to commandeer the computer and fix some stuff.
I tried to sign in to Skype with my original password, but no bueno. So I change the password back and then delete Skype off of my computer (unfortunately, I couldn’t delete the account). I go to my email to change the password and discover that whoever was in it, deleted the Skype emails and then emptied my email trash as well. I guess they didn’t relaize that this is 2010 and I have a CELLPHONE.
So. Here’s my question: Um. What the fuck?
I have no idea why someone would want to make my Skype account inaccessible. So I can’t talk to Em? She’s the only contact on my list now after deleting the ex. Perhaps they wanted to read all of my conversations? Well, apart from the far too frequent penis enlarging spam messages, there’s nothing interesting to read. Old messages with an old boyfriend and messages with a best friend that will make ZERO sense to anyone but us. Honestly, if someone asked me “Hey, can I read your Skype messages?” I’d be like “Wow, you sure are nosy, but okay, no biggie.”
I’ve done everything I can to secure my stuff and it’s really no big loss to not have Skype. I was worried sick last night, but I have no personal info, no Social Security number, no bank account info (although if someone wants my financial identity, I’m willing to trade) in my email or Skype. So I’m going to chalk it up to someone being funny or someone trying to get something that doesn’t exist. Also? Someone who is dumb. And has nothing to do with their time so they should probably check out Castle Age and let David know how to change your character’s armor. He needs to know, it’s urgent. URGENT!
Anyway. After all that, I’m feeling a Victory Lap. What say you?
Victory Lap!
- David and I watched Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland for the first time Wednesday night and dude. It may just be one of the most quotable movies ever. David also does an amazing Red Queen impression and it makes me pee my pants laughing. “I love a warm pig’s belly for my aching feet. Would you like one, Um?”
- “Project Runway” was on with Philip Treacy The Hat Man and Kristin was booted off HUZZAH! Mom, David and I all determined that Philip Treacy secretly laughs at all the money he’s made off of these awful hats women are wearing. Especially if it’s a rose with thorns growing OUT OF YOUR HEAD and you wear it while crticizing others’ designs. I’m looking at you Helmet Hair Heidi.
- It is getting closer and closer to fall which means the state fair, pumpkin patches, corn mazes, hay rides and horseback riding. I can not WAIT. Oh! And Halloween! Which is my favorite holiday and turns me into Everyone’s Favorite Schizophrenic over what costume to wear.
- My text message ringtone sounds exactly like the musical twinkle when Samantha Stephens would twitch her nose on “Bewitched”. Therefore, henceforth and furthermore? I LOVE IT.
Ahem. I’m very much aware that these entries make very little sense, but I pretty much write them like I talk to people, soooo. Yes. At least I give you fulfilling content, right? Shut up. Don’t answer.
Aug
17
So I’m sitting here reading Carol Burnett’s newest memoir (Dude, say it like John Malkovich says it in Burn After Reading: memWAH) and I turn to the chapter “How Not to Make Small Talk With Royalty”. Up against the spine of the book, nestled in between the chapter title and the text is a small white square stuck to the page. I recognize it as a security tag, the same ones we use at the store, so I totally get why it’s there, but . . . it’s STUCK to a page in my $25.00 book. I’m no cheap-o pants or anything, but come on now. If I pull it, it’s going to rip the page. And it looks so odd, so garish against the papyrus-like paper.
Is it weird that bothers me? Don’t answer that. I don’t like it when I ask you if it’s weird that I do/think/say something. Because I always know what your answer is going to be and I don’t like it.
Ahem.
David just got off the phone with me a few minutes ago and instructed me to “turn off the television, put away the computer, go outside and be creative.” Huh. Some boyfriend telling me to put down technology and do something that I love and will fulfill my day off. You’d think he’d be supportive or something.
In my defense though, I did make a new header for this here website thang. I love Lucy. I was actually watching this thing I found at Best Buy a few weeks ago called I Love Lucy: The Movie and that was sort of the inspiration (Yes, watching Lucy inspired me to make something with Lucy. Don’t judge). Have you heard about this? Because I, Samantha Darby, a lifetime-long fan of Lucille Ball, one that knows every single thing about that woman and idolizes her, had no idea this movie existed.
Apparently when “I Love Lucy” was getting really popular (So like, two episodes in to season one), all of the networks started airing Lucille Ball’s movies because of the Lucy craze. Well, Desi got this great idea to make an “I Love Lucy” movie by connecting three episodes from season one with some new scenes to make them all flow into a feature length movie. But when it was in the can and ready to be shown, Lucy and Desi’s movie The Long, Long Trailer was being released by MGM. MGM execs asked Desi to hold off on releasing the “I Love Lucy” movie so there wouldn’t be any box office fighting. The movie was placed in the vault where it was wrongfully labeled “Desilu Playhouse” and was found in 2001, after more than fifty years, by Dann Cahn, the film’s editor. And now it’s on DVD. And I own it. And it’s awesome.
And that was a lot of information. A lot of boring information if you are not a Lucille Ball, “I Love Lucy” or television fan. And if you dislike one of those three things then . . . well. I’m just not quite sure what you’re doing here. I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHO YOU ARE (Okay, say that line like Dianne Weist in The Birdcage when she yells at Gene Hackman. [And hey, how do you pronounce her last name anyway? West? Or VEIST? Or Weeeest? Things to ponder]).
I’m sure I just screwed up some cardinal paranthetical/punctuation rule.
Hey, at least I don’t make SIGNS or BUSINESS CARDS or huge 20×20 BANNERS with obvious spelling and/or grammatical errors. This is such an enormous pet peeve of mine because people make it PUBLIC. This isn’t an email you’re writing to your Aunt Sue to ask for her cocanut cake recapie. This is your business card, one of 750 that you had printed, and it says J & T CONTRUCTION.
That was actually a real item that David saw at a gas station yesterday. He brought one home to me and said “I never would’ve noticed this before I met you, but I saw it and died laughing.”
My favorite was the country-ass gas station near David’s house that had a big sign outside (we’re talking ENORMOUS sign) that read WE SALE OFF-ROAD DIESEL.
Oh my God just . . . just say it out loud. WE SALE OFF-ROAD DIESEL. It makes me wonder if the people just weren’t thinking when they typed it up, or if it was a phone-in banner order and the guy calling was so fucking country that when he said “YEAH HAY I NEED ME A SIGN THAT SAYS WE SALE OFF-ROAD DIESEL”, he really meant sell. In happier news, about a week later the sign was corrected. Huzzah!
I should probably go be creative now. Which is probably going to translate in eating this entire box of Club crackers (someone, for the love of ALL THAT IS HOLY, take them away from me), taking a shower and putzing around the house. Unless I tell myself that it won’t. SO IT WON’T. It will consist of me doing some doodling, drawing, painting and letting the creative juices flow.
And then getting a mop. Or calling one of the dogs in.
Gross. You know my dogs keep drinking coffee? Do not leave a coffee cup sitting within tongue’s reach of them. Abby also bared her teeth when Simon dared to try the coffee with her. She’s a fucking addict and it’s scary.
And scene.
Aug
14
Okay, who else is watching “Project Runway”? You? Are you? I can not be the only one totally horrified by Heidi’s blunt-bangy-bob. You deserve to have Helmet Hair Nightmares, too!
I’m really . . . not a big fan of her. Is that weird? She’s done nothing to me and she’s married to Seal and is known as THE BODY after how many chocolatey mocha mixed babies? I just . . . it’s . . . okay. I’ll be (Anne) Frank about this.
It’s not just that haircut or her . . . meanness towards some of the contestants. Like when one guy said thank you this week to something Michael Kors said and she popped up with “THAT WAS NOT A COMPLIMENT” like some little German Asshole-In-The-Box.
It’s . . .
Okay . . .
IT’S HER ACCENT. Oh my God. Her little chirpy HELLO that she does as she walks on the runway and how that counts as like, one word out of fifty that she says on the entire show. And that little phrase she uses?
“As you all know in fashion, one day you’re in and the next day? You’re out.”
I say it word for word with her and call me a German-phobe, but I can just hear Hitler chirping that out to his Nazis. “As you all know in zee German Army, VUN DAY YOU’RE IN AND ZEE NEXT DAY? YOU’RE OUT.” I can see the spitballs forming at the corners of his mouth and then the spittle flying through the air on OUT. It’s horrifying. I just . . . I see Heidi with that awful bob and I see her with a Hitler mustache and . . . it’s just . . .
God.
I’m going to Hell.
Although I love the show! Loooove it. And half of that love goes to Tim Gunn, because JESUS. He is so cute and can he please just ride around with me and follow me around? I would love to be in the middle of some big financial predicament and feel him lean over my shoulder, one hand on his chin and whisper “This concerns me.” Or or or! He could watch me deal with an asswipe customer, one that licks her fingers and smears the Hitler-esque spittle all over her precious money and when I shudder in disgust he could say “Make it work!”
I actually do a pretty damn good Tim Gunn impression but that’s neither here nor there, fine people.
And while I’m on this television babble in which I air all of my “educational television viewing habits” out to dry . . . I watch all of E! Like . . . all of it. All the time. Like, if “Kourtney and Khole Take Miami” is on, no matter how many times I’ve seen it, I will watch that entire episode and make myself late for work. I don’t know. I really don’t. I love it. I love that wacky Kardashian family. They’re like this generation’s Osmonds. Except they don’t dance. Or wear glittery outfits. Or drink whole milk.
That’s just a theory I have. The Osmond Milk Theory. I have no sources to back this up.
WHAT IS THIS DRIVEL I AM TYPING?
Speaking of TV (Whoa-ho-ho! Nice segue there, Sam!), A Few Good Men is on right now and they just did the close-up where Tom Cruise tells Jack Nicholson that his dad died seven years ago. He’s got serious . . . crazy eyes. In like every movie, his eyes are so intense and bounce around like Pong. It’s so weird. And if my sister is reading this, YES, I am talking about Tom. This was not some terrible nightmare of yours.
I’m not saying the man’s a bad actor, I’m just saying that sometimes his eyes give me the uh-oh feeling. THAT’S ALL. That’s allllll I’m saying.
There went all of my Scientologist readers . . . GOOD RIDDANCE. A POX UPON THEE AND THINE KIN.
Kidding. Totally kidding. I have nothing against you Scientologists. Or you Mormons. Or you Jews.
But I can not speak for Heidi Klum.
AUF WIEDERSEHEN.
Aug
14
Songs I Would Sing On My Very Own Album
1. If I Die Young – The Band Perry
3. Nothin’ Better To Do – LeAnn Rimes
5. Half of My Heart – John Mayer
6. The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia – Vicki Lawrence
8. Zero to Hero – Hercules soundtrack
11. Today Was a Fairytale – Taylor Swift
12. Heartbreaker – Pat Benatar
14. When You Were Young – The Killers
Aug
13
Dude. This has been a rough week. If I’m not completely exhausted and irritated within an INCH of my life by some shitty customer, poor David’s dealing with his own demons and needing some serious tea time. I’m upset with people who live in my house, I’m worried about Mom, I’m financially stressed. Once I get home, I’m a lot better. Until He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named comes home and kills any chance of a good mood I had. Which is probably why I’ve been running off to David’s the past couple of nights again.
Which reminds me. So we’re at his house . . . Wednesday? I think? And after sitting in traffic for an hour and a half to see him, having a shitty shitty day at work and feeling so beat up by life, he opens the car door for me and says “I gotta get you motivated. We’ve gotta get to work.” Strike one. I am TIRED. I don’t want to do anything but lay down and watch Hot Tub Time Machine (cheesy as hell, but cute). “Come on, it’ll be fun,” he says. “We gotta clean Daddy’s truck. It won’t take 30 minutes.” He drags me in the house and when we get in his room, he tosses my swimsuit towards me.
“Ughhhhh. I don’t feel like wearing this,” I groan. I am bloated and I feel gross. The last thing I want to wear is a bikini.
“Why?”
“Becaaaaause. I feel gross. And I feel fat.”
“UGHA;FKJAIHBPIUHFAIHEWIWE!”
“What?”
“I hate when you do that. That has to be the most infuriating thing about you.”
“. . . what?”
“When you down yourself!”
“I’m not downing myself! I didn’t say I was fat, I just said I felt fat. They’re totally different. I know I’m not, I just feel like it.”
“You’re not fat!”
“I KNOW I’M NOT FAT, I JUST FEEL THAT WAY AND I DON’T FEEL LIKE WEARING A BIKINI OUTSIDE.” (Totally possessed by Zuul)
“Okay. Wear whatever you want, DARLING.”
“. . . okay, now you’re just being patronizing and condescending.”
David then stormed out and I threw myself on the bed and cried my eyes out. Fifteen minutes later, I sit up and contemplate packing my bags and leaving since he hasn’t come to check on me. I stand up, wipe my eyes and head outside where he’s in the middle of washing his dad’s truck. I am fully expecting a screaming match when he looks up with the hose and says “HI BABY!” and grins.
Um.
So, like any normal girlfriend expecting a “heated debate”, I approach him cautiously, like you would an unstable mental patient. “Um. Hi?”
“Where’s your bikini?”
. . .
I will take with that incident the warm knowledge that no fight is big enough for David to stay angry at me. Or, at the very least, make him forget that I’m supposed to be wearing a bikini in his front yard so he can soak me with the water hose.
SO. Here’s to hoping tomorrow will not be so bad. Because one? My heart will break if David has another great day at 10am and tells me “I’m just waiting for something to fuck it up, ’cause good stuff like this doesn’t happen to me” and then . . . well. To put it eloquently: SOMETHING TOTALLY FUCKS IT UP. Two? Being in a bad mood makes me eat bad food (SUCK ON THAT, DR. SEUSS. . . . sorry. Love you! Kisses!), which makes me feel fat which makes me fight with my boyfriend which makes me OH NO I’VE GONE CROSS-EYED. Three? Stress is no fun. Period. And I don’t want it anymore. TAKE IT AWAY. AWAY, DEMONS. AWAY.
Now, are you ready for some random shit thrown your way? It’s like being in the monkey exhibit at the zoo!
Stand back! Don’t feed the animals! DON’T MAKE FUN OF THEIR PINK BUTTS.
Dad and I picked Mom up at the airport on Sunday and it was probably one of the funniest moments the three of us have had together. The airport’s just a funny place to be, seriously. Like the cute little girls in their 4 inch pumps and their Louis Vuitton luggage and their Stella McCartney dress (which I would’ve killed for, but is not the point) and their MAC faces. . . . you’re getting on an airplane. AN AIRPLANE. You are going to SIT on a seat for a certain length of time, surrounded by strangers in a metal tube of stale air. Why the fuck did you need extensions?
So after people-watching, we made our way towards baggage claim. On the way, my father said the following things:
As we pass a man in a hat, scruffy beard, dark sunglasses and Members Only jacket.
Dad: That man must’ve been in some sort of disguise.
Me: . . . why?
Dad: . . . either that or he’s very ugly.
A girl wearing a backpack squeezes in front of us and loses a flip-flop out of one of the side pockets.
Dad: YOU DROPPED YOUR SHOE!
She continues walking.
Dad: (very melancholy) Oh and you don’t even caaaare.
Dad: You know what? I’d be a damn good children’s author. I’m going to write a damn kids’ book.
Me: Except . . . you can’t say damn.
Dad: I’m gonna call it The Retarded Pelican On Steroids. And the first page will be him saying (retard voice) WHY ITH MY BEAK THO LARGE?
. . .
We managed to make it to baggage claim without me peeing all over myself. So then, Mom proceeds to tell me what her baggage looks like, because you know everybody’s looks exactly the same.
Mom: Um. Like this one! This Jeep bag. But bigger. It has this pocket though.
Me: Was it black or blue?
Mom: Black!
Me: Okay.
Mom: Or . . . maybe blue. I think it was blue. Dark blue.
Me: Oh, yeah I know. The one from the closet?
Mom: Yes! It is dark blue, isn’t it? Or is it black?
Dad: Jesus Christ.
Then the baggage carousel stopped. Of course it did. And Mom’s in a panic ’cause she had a delayed flight and THEN a layover so she’s convinced they’ve lost her bag. She goes out for a smoke with Dad and while they’re gone, I manage to grab a suitcase belonging to someone else after the carousel started, thinking it was Mom’s. I also contemplate keeping it because it’s extremely embarrassing to put luggage back on the carousel, okay?
Mom: Did you think that was mine?
Me: (sweating, huffing) Yes. It was heavy. And a Jeep. Did yours have wheels?
Mom: No.
Me: Okay.
Mom: Well . . . yes.
Me: Yes?
Mom: Little ones though, little ones!
Dad: JESUS CHRIST.
Twenty minutes later.
Mom: They’ve lost it. THEY’VE LOST MY LUGGAGE.
Me: Mom, there’s still more coming out.
Dad: Is it that one?
Mom: No.
Dad: That one?
Mom: No.
Dad: That one?
Mom: No.
Me: Did it have a handle?
The same suitcases have been circling for twenty minutes.
Mom: I’m pretty sure it was black. It has my name on it!
Me: Are you sure that Jeep one isn’t it?
Mom: Yes. Mine was bigger!
Me: And it had wheels?
Mom: I . . . think.
Dad: Just grab one. Get an expensive-looking one.
Me: Ooh look it that one!
Dad: Get Sam that polka-dot one.
Same luggage . . . 20 more minutes . . .
Me: Did you have ribbon or anything on it?
Mom: No! Just my name. It’s black or dark blue. It says Jeep on it.
Me: Noted.
Dad: Is it that one?
Mom: No.
Me: It has to be one of –
Mom: THERE IT IS! (Grabs Jeep bag)
Me: THAT’S BEEN CIRCULATING FOR FORTY-FIVE MINUTES.
Dad: Jesus Christ.
. . .
So. Remember how I couldn’t find a way to transition into airport speak so I made some stupid monkey-zoo-animal-hineys joke? Well um.
BANANA.
On the plus side, I’m not feeling quite as grumpy as I have been lately after this little TIT-FOR-TAT on the ol’ keyboard. Playin’ those ivories, that’s me. In twenty minutes, I’ll probably be grumpy again. Good moods, man. I’m in then I’m out. I’m in, I’m out. I’m in, I’m out. I’m in, I’M OUT. Just like Anne Heche.
HA that’s an old Robin Williams joke. What a hairy man.
Aug
8
There is absolutely no reason why I should prefer staying at my boyfriend’s house over my own home. There is absolutely no reason for my hands to be shaking so bad I can barely type because of one asshole. There is absolutely no reason for the tension to be so bad in my OWN HOME that I can barely breathe and spend half the time hiding in my little brother’s room and venting to him.
For a year and a half, I’ve lived like this. I’ve had dreams of smashing someone’s face in, I’ve had hushed phone conversations under my blankets talking to someone who will always side with me. I’ve had to wait before I can get in the kitchen to cook, waited until I got to work so I could fucking brush my teeth, spent hours listening to ignorance in my living room. It’s strained my relationship with family members, it’s made me feel physically ill to see that car in my driveway, I’ve spent entire days in my room just so I don’t have to hear that voice.
It’s not fair. I feel like a prisoner in my own home. I wouldn’t feel this way if selfish wasn’t the only word anybody could use to describe them. I wouldn’t hate every single second of Sunday at my house because that means they’re both home together. How dare you let someone talk to me like that. How dare you let someone belittle us, make fun of us, act like an asshole towards us and expect us to smile and call it our friend.
The anger rising in my chest burns my throat and I want to say hateful hateful things to them. Things you can’t take back. Things that hang in the air for days, weeks after until no one can forget them. Things that will hurt them both. Things that won’t fix the problem, but God they would feel so good.
I’m trying to remember the wonderful weekend I just had with David and his family. Golf cart rides and bonding with the girls and eating so many boiled peanuts I thought I was going to be sick. But then I have to come home. Back to reality. And where there should be a comfort in coming home, a comfort in sitting in my own bedroom with my dogs, a comfort in seeing my siblings . . . there is only tension. And hate. And anger.
aflkeja;iewUPF9289825-(*&_(*&_@%*&RQUN QC0ovr28VP2GNVLF:jFS;JKSERAITHGLJ;;jg;dhgf;k 8reyt357541983th gajh nuygvnauvyiurfiawe!!!!!
Thank you for joining me during my personal Tea Time. It felt good to let that steam out.
Aug
7
I’m sitting here with David under a tent in some itty bitty town in Georgia, our mouths sticky with ice cream and the smell of exhaust burning our noses. I asked him to help me think of a list for this week and . . . well . . .
Him: A list of stuff to clean.
Me: . . .
Him: . . .
Me: No.
So then he suggested favorite sex positions which would be fun, but um . . . HI MAMA!
So. Because he’s funny and he loves me to the moon and back, here’s my list . . . sans cleaning or sex. So no dirty talk. I know, I know. BORING.
A List Of Some Things I Love About Him:
1. His nose. Is that weird? I love it. It’s so manly and sexy and gives him this really yummy profile. Shut up, YOU’RE WEIRD!
2. His forearms. Oh my God.
3. Oh and his biceps.
4. And his calves! . . . well I said this list wasn’t going to be about sex.
5. He calls me darlin and it just might be my favorite thing in the world.
6. He will not go to sleep without kissing me goodnight.
7. He takes me to drag races and shares his boiled peanuts with me.
8. He is so much better than a post-it and constantly reminds me to do things like breathe.
9. For the first time ever, I have a future with someone I love. And that is, without a doubt, the best thing about him.
This entry is brought to you by the Mushy Mushy Love Club.
Aug
5
I don’t want to wake up one morning with regrets. I don’t want to clean up a house, straightening magazines with Oscar winners on the cover and feel sick. I don’t want to go to a movie theater, buy popcorn and a Coca-Cola the size of a car battery and feel so jealous during the movie that my chest hurts. I don’t want to give up on the same dream I’ve had since I was three.
It’s not a matter of me feeling insecure or like I can’t make it, because I know I can. I know I can. Lots of little girls say they want to be movie stars when they’re younger. Lots of teenagers join the drama club as an outlet, as a way to speak, as a way to be a part of something. Lots of adults take acting classes and dress like lawyers and nurses to walk through a five second scene. But I’m different. That sounds so conceited and so cocky and so . . . bitchy. But I am. I feel different. I’ve felt different since I was young and the feeling’s only gotten stronger.
The problem is . . . the problem is actually making this dream come true. And how it will change everything. Well . . . how I think it will change anything. And I’m no fan of change. In fact, I would go so far as to say I hate change and fear it every moment it’s mentioned. I’m only 22, but . . . I want babies one day. I want a husband and a little white house with a wrap-around porch. I want to make Halloween costumes and help with the spelling bee and laugh with my husband on the couch after a long day. I want that classic sitcom life. I want black and white and milk and cookies and a tire swing on a big oak tree.
But I want sound stages and costumes and props, too. I want slates and directors with a vision and scripts that give me goosebumps as I read them in my room. I want to create stories, to bring the bones of a character to life, to make an audience feel inspired and touched. I want to make my dream come true.
Can I have both? Is it possible? Every now and then I’ll think, “I should be a writer” so I can work at home, be creative, still consider myself a story-teller and have a normal, sitcom life that doesn’t require me moving or changing anything. And I’ll work on a story for approximately seven minutes before a sinking feeling hits my stomach. I’m supposed to be an actress. It floats around and around in my head, tightening my stomach with knots until I catch it in a net and breathe a sigh of relief. So be an actress my head says. And then the whole cycle starts over. But I want to be home when my kids come home from school. I want to spend every possible second with my husband. I have a recipe book I want to cook my way through and have my parents over.
Every now and then, someone will say “So, what’s your fall-back plan? If this acting thing doesn’t work out, what are you going to do? You can’t work in a liquor store forever.” Is it wrong for me to be extremely insulted by that? Why do I need a fall-back plan? If I have a fall-back plan, I worry that I will fall back because that security net is there. And I don’t want to work in a liquor store forever, who are you to assume that I’m there out of comfort and not out of a need for a paycheck?
But as insulted as I am, as much as I want to scream at them “But it IS going to work out!”, there is always Nagging Nancy in the back of my head. Her net is empty and she’s saying “Suppose you change your mind in a year? Then what will you do? No college education and you’ve spent the past three years ringing up vodka and beer for shaking alcoholics. How will you support a family? How will you live? You can’t stay in that place forever, you know?”
I don’t want to change my mind. I don’t want to give up. Because I know without a shadow of a doubt, that if I gave up on this dream, I would wake up every morning content. I would not be ecstatic, euphoric, excited. Oh I’m sure I would be happy. I would most likely have a doting husband and three babies (spread out, God, spread out please) and a dog and maybe my little white house with a porch. My life would be simple and small, but rewarding. I would probably be back in school or struggling to write or do something, anything that I might enjoy just to get by. But I know I would think, What if I had gone on just one more audition? What if I hadn’t given up? What if I could wake up everyday and do what truly, truly makes me happy in this world? Wouldn’t I be a better mother? Wouldn’t I finally be able to tell my children, without the nagging guilt in my head, that dreams DO come true?
I think I just answered my own questions.
I just want to do what I love and what makes me happy. And yes, having a family will make me immeasurably happy. I will be a queen among queens if I can one day have children to push on a swing and to help make birthday cakes and to feel heavy with sleep against my chest. I will go to bed every night thanking God if I have a husband that loves me and supports everything I do and watches trashy Kardashian television with me.
But I want to have my dream career. I want to make stories come to life and to bring something to other people’s lives. I want to live out this dream for six-year-old Sam that watched Mrs. Doubtfire on repeat. I want to live out this dream for eight-year-old Sam who stood in a video rental shop in Braintree, England and saw her cousin Marc hold out a VHS, saying “One day, we’ll see cousin Sam on one of these!” I want to live out this dream for my wonderful, lovely Granddad who would say to my mom “She’s going to be something one day.” I can’t give this up. I can’t.
I know a lot of my problem is worrying about my family, about David, about my friends. I want to go to Los Angeles. I really do. But I don’t want to leave my parents, my brother and sister. I don’t want to miss movie nights with David or drinking coffee with Em. I don’t want to hear over the phone about my new niece or Mom’s new haircut or the awesome time Dad had at a wrestling event. And God knows I don’t want to hear any bad news when I’m completely across the country.
I know, I know. Great rewards take great risks. But is all of that a risk I’m ready to take? Will I ever be ready? How will I know when I’m ready?
I can have my dream life with my dream career. I can tell my kids about how much their daddy sacrificed so mommy could live her dreams. I can make my parents proud of me for doing what makes me happy. I can wake up every morning, excited to go to work and come home to a husband that wants to hear all about my day. I guess it’s just a matter of deciding when I need to fully chase these dreams. When do I need to move beyond Sketchworks and my agent and my comfortable, paycheck-every-week job?
When I had that dream last year, on the first night of 2009, Tom Hanks said to me “So you want to be an actor?” “Yeah. I do,” I said, saying it with so much confidence for the first time in my entire life and he said “It’s hard. But you can do it.”
That’s what I keep thinking now. It’s hard. But you can do it. And what Kathleen Kelly says in You’ve Got Mail (I know, I know, SHUDDUP). She says “Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life. Well, valuable, but small. And sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it? Or because I haven’t been brave?”
I want to be brave.
Aug
2
David and I were cooking dinner in his kitchen last night when I waved my hand in front of his face, showing off my shimmery pale pink nails.
Me: Lookit! I painted my nails this afternoon!
David: Aw.
Me: Aren’t they cute? It was called Champagne Toast! Prettyyyy.
David: (scrunched up face) Champagne . . . toast?
Me: . . .
David: . . .
Me: Yes, David. We have eggs, bacon and CHAMPAGNE TOAST.
Jul
31
Things I Am Currently Obsessing Over:
1. Kathleen Kelly’s apartment in You’ve Got Mail (Shut UP, David!)
Pictures found here.
2. This necklace, which I would wear 24/7:
3. This hauntingly beautiful song which I would kill to sing:
4. Also? Her dress in that song.
5. Bakerella and the fact that I so want to start my own bakery called “The Hootenany!” so I can doodle owls on all of the cupcake bags.
6. Planning my dream wedding which is something I have never thought of before. And no, stop with those crazy ideas of yours!
7. Dude, this song. I am so obsessed because it’s so happy and peppy and celebratory. It’s my new ringtone:
8. This quote:
9. Googling ingredient substitutes since I am always out of something. Did you know lemon juice and milk is a substitute for buttermilk? PEANUT BUTTER COOKIES, HERE I COME.