"I'm the first person to ever turn 30." -everyone who ever turned 30.

(If you're an agent, manager, or casting director visiting my website for the first time. I'm 26. I look 23 and I can play a highschooler if its 'Glee' but not if its the new '90210.')

I'm 26 and I would murder these donuts. 

In the year leading up to my 30^th birthday, everyone in their 30’s said the same thing, “Oh! You’re gonna love your 30’s. You’re more comfortable in your own skin and you know more. They’ve been the best years of my life!” Frankly, I always thought, ‘Well, that sounds like something an old person would say.’ My favorites have been the 25-year-olds who would say, “I can’t wait to turn 30! 30 is the new 21!” That sounds like something someone with 5 amazing years left would say. Eh.

Barbie's just getting pregnant and she's like, 70. Also, this is weird. 

So, for a year, I thought I would take advantage of the time I had left and I did a lot. I started a blog, I became a stand-up comedian, (debatable title but its on my facebook page and website now, so I’m going with it) I did a lot of karaoke, and I ate a lot of kale. I even attempted a Christmas album (Look out X-mas 2013.) As the months dwindled down and we welcomed 2013, it was as if I had been slapped in the face with my failures. I forgot I was ever successful at anything and was convinced that if I hadn’t been impregnated accidentally by now, I probably could not have children. I paid far too much attention to the “Turning 30” facebook posts made by my internet friends. Things like, “I’m so happy to be turning 30! I have an amazing career! I have amazing children! I have an amazing marriage! I’ve been to several countries! I’m on a juice cleanse! I booked a role on Criminal Minds! I was on the Price is Right! I’m so blessed to be 30!” This was very depressing. I could not make any of those statements. Never the less, I was determined to make 2013 and the year I turned 30 the best ever.  It was time to make plans! Further my career! Think about how to fit a child around my inevitable sitcom regular role (because I’m very cute and, despite what you’ve heard, that’s all it takes to be successful in Hollywood) and maybe a 2^nd cat!  And a wedding! When you’re almost 30 and with a guy who’ll do, you MUST get married! I needed to write more, book comedy shows, take casting workshops, do agent showcases, lose 10 pounds! Network! JUICE CLEANSE!!!!!

 I had 2 months before I was to turn 30, so this was a lot of pressure. So, I did what I always do when faced with a lot of pressure… I took naps. I took A LOT of naps. I beat myself up every time I napped. I beat myself up every time I didn’t make it to yoga class. I beat myself up every time I ate a non-fibrous carb. I would beat myself up every night I didn’t write. My last blog post says its part of a Trilogy! I’ve got news for you, the other two parts don’t exist! I NEVER WROTE THEM! I beat myself up every time I had a drink because “I didn’t deserve it.” (I actually quit drinking for 30 days on January 1^st….  Hardest 8 days of my life. “Oh, good idea, Andrea. Put, yet another qualifier on your behavior to beat yourself up over.”) I never wanted to go out because “I should be at home, writing or organizing something or in a class or booking a show.” All in preparation for my 30’s! But, I would just nap. Needless to say, I sleep in the face of self-induced pressure and I was not very much fun to be around. I would express these feelings to people and they would say, “But you’re following your dreams! And that’s amazing!” It’s hard to feel good about life when you’re day job is to ensure David Caruso gets his ketchup and you know Tim Roth's wife likes her decaf black. I know people getting Doctorates for goodness sake! As the days until my birthday grew fewer, even the pressure to celebrate it began to overwhelm me. “Are you going to have a party?!?” Friends would ask. I would respond with whimpers and “maybe a brunch or something?” (For the record, I never had that brunch. It was just too, too much.) I decided on a birthday trip to Vegas with my boyfriend because truthfully, it meant that I would be out of town and I wouldn’t have to put some sort of event together. (And I LOVE planning events and even more, I love celebrating me.) It was clear. I was having a really hard time turning 30.

A shot of me turning 30 in Vegas. 

Hey. Guess where is a terrible place to go when you’re unhappy with life and you’re turning an age you don’t want to turn? Vegas. That’s where. My best advice regarding Vegas is: Try to keep your eyes closed during the day time. That shit’s sad. The final two days before my birthday were spent losing money gambling and drinking drinks that were gross at the Hard Rock. (The Hard Rock might win my award for douchiest place on the planet. I did not have a bartender without a Mohawk.) This was not going to work. I was not going down without a fight. I awoke on the morning of my birthday and made the decision to be happy about it. That day, I was going to do exactly what I wanted to do and I was going to enjoy it. I saw sharks, I saw original Warhol paintings, I had a Filet, I had a super snooty Hipster cocktail called ‘Remember the Maine,’ I got not one, but two souvenir Tiki glasses, had DONUTS, and I spent that evening with some of the most important people in my life. One of which, included my future (at some point) brother-in-law who said something, drunkenly to me that I will probably never forget. He said, “Your life. Your life out there in LA. Its pretty good. Like, really good. It’s a good little life. We think about our visit there with you and it was so fun to live that good life with you for 3 days. You gotta sweet life.”  (A rough recollection but its close and it was so sincere and wonderful…. Because he was hammered.)

It has been 8 days since I turned 30 and I’ve thought about what he said every day. The life he was referring to is pretty good. LA has been really good to me. It is a bustling, diverse, beautiful city with beautiful weather and the beach! I have TWO local produce stores. (One is Jewish and one is Mexican, so it really just depends on what I’m in the mood for.) I have made so many wonderful friends. All I do is think about the many different ways I can perform and do what I love. I dream and every day those dreams get bigger as I surpass my own expectations. I am surrounded by the most talented people in the world. Ok, so my day is spent slinging steaks to weirdoes, but it’s consistent and supports me fully and is balanced out by the chances I get to go slinging jokes to weirdoes at night. I’ve got a love and a cat and brother who keeps having really cute babies that I can spoil. SO, I CAN’T spend my money on traveling the world right now, or shop a ton, or buy a home, and I probably won’t have children for a really long time, but no one has ever regretted fully leaping off the cliff for their dreams, right? I certainly haven’t yet. And hell, some people don’t even have time to nap! I can take as many as I want! I’ve had the “respectable” career and the home in the suburbs and the Costco membership…. And even though it sounds really good right now because I could use a huge tub of pretzels and a retirement plan, I didn’t want it. I didn’t want it so bad, that I packed up everything and left. So, I’m quitting my bitching.

30 is good. For the last 8 days, I have truly never felt so “comfortable in my skin.” Also, I’ve got 10 awesome years before I turn 40. That will really suck. 

The Philanthropy Trilogy- Part 1

Prologue:

Liar. Also, Karate is no match for Ninjas. Idiot. 

Will the spare change you give a homeless person only go to drugs and alcohol? Is the charity you just wrote a check to in front of a CVS a legitimate charity? Is it still “giving” to an organization if said organization gives you a gift for giving to its organization and said gift increases in value as your gift to the organization increases in value? Great, great questions. This is the constant battle we as young people face as we enter the world of philanthropy. I think I, and hopefully most of us have determined that is does not matter. Your karma points increase in direct proportion to your selfless giving. So, to celebrate “December: The Rise of the Giver,” I present my take on Philanthropy.

Please do not let my definition of philanthropy in this trilogy be confused with just being a decent human being. Being a decent human being is the necessary foundation for Philanthropy. Helping an old lady off the ground after a nasty spill does not make you charitable. Giving the deaf, one-armed, elderly man at McDonald’s the last 16 cents from the bottom of your pocket that he needs to cover his Big Mac, again does not make you charitable. Congratulations. It makes you not a monster.  (Also, philanthropists do not post about their charitable work in their facebook status. Just to be clear.)

Part 1: You Gotta Get Over Yourself

It was a Saturday morning in December. I had made, yet another obligatory trip to Trader Joes and after parking, I opened my car door and on the ground, right there in the parking lot was a tightly folded $1 bill. I let out the “Aaaaawww YEEEEAAAAAH” that happens when I find money. (Only silver(s) and paper excite me anymore. I don’t care if its heads up.)  I thought about all the things I might do with this Universe Dollar. It was a smaller list than I felt should be in proportion to my finder’s celebration, but I put it in my purse, in a special compartment so I could do something special with my good fortune. As I walked around Trader Joes looking for $1 items that I could say the universe bought me, I thought, ‘This is stupid. It’s the Holidays. I’m gonna wait for that perfect moment and I’m gonna give this dollar to someone who needs it more than I.’ (I know. OMG. You’re so great, Andrea. You’re giving away a DOLLAR! Pssshh. Come down off your high pony.) But, I liked the idea of holding that $1 on the universe’s behalf until the right person came along to take it.

Sure enough, the following evening, I was fresh out of work, still in my uniform and had run to Target to stock up on toiletries and stocking stuffers. As I exited, I saw these two young girls in Santa hats and red jackets that read “LA Children.” They were finding no luck as they were lifting their money buckets toward passing shoppers, “Would you like to help the Children of Los Angeles have a Christmas?!?” As I approached I thought of my dollar. ‘This is it! I want to help the children!’ I thought. I walked closer and reached in to my purse, into the special compartment and felt around for my Universe Dollar. Just as I felt it between my fingers and lifted my head from my search one of the girls called toward me saying, “Ma’am!” (‘Ma’am?’ Thanks, ya little bitch.) “OH, Ma’am! Heh, heh, heh.” She laughed to herself, “Why…  Are ya searchin’ in that bag for your SMILE?!?” (For background on why this is was so upsetting to me, please refer the blog post entitled, “You’re never fully dressed without a smile.” Short version: Smile jokes never produce smiles and make perfectly innocent people look stupid. Shorter version: I HATE THEM.)

Smile. Only if you feel like it. 

I straightened up. My jaw stiffened and I held my breath. My eyes glazed over and with the dollar clenched in my hands, I kept walking, ignoring the futureless brat. As I turned a corner, I collapsed over and with my hands on my knees, took a few deep breaths. ‘WTF?!? Why do people think the tricky smile jokes work!?!!’ I thought. ‘And why is a joke best fit for Mr. Rogers’s mom being made by a teenager in 2012?!?!’ After the initial shock wore off, I realized the universe must be challenging me, to react differently this time to the “Smile conundrum.” I just couldn’t overcome it the last time. I never gave to the Red Cross that day in August and guess what? Hurricane Sandy. That’s what. This time I was NOT going to let the children suffer. I was going to get over myself and be the bigger person. I turned back around the corner. I walked toward that girl and her partner and,with a face I call my “John Wayne,” I silently placed my Universe dollar in her money bucket. Oh, I placed it firmly. She said, “Thank you!” I stood there, staring at her for a moment. Then, I reached in my wallet and I pulled out a regular Andrea dollar and again, silently placed it firmly in her bucket. “Oh, uh thanks again… ma’am.” I nodded and I walked proudly away. No point was to be proven by me denying LA’s Children $2 because I think rampant smile jokes are the reason the world might actually end tomorrow (12/21/12.)  But, there I was. Over myself. Ready to grow as a philanthropist. Also, I had probably creeped that girl out with my silence. Bonus. 

If you’ve got it, give it. Selflessly. Without question or expectation. If you learn a little something about yourself along the way, you’re lucky. Very lucky. (Secret: If I ever see that girl out of her Red LA Children's jacket, she'll never smile again.)

This is fake. Probably. 

The Top 10 most BADASS Christmas Songs

I know that enjoying Christmas traditions aren’t for everyone, the music especially. I think we can all admit it can be pretty corny. It isn’t exactly the manliest of men or the burliest of bitches that want to light a candle and turn up Josh Grobin’s exquisite version of ‘Oh, Holy Night.’ I don’t know a single Badass Mofo that would throw on a furry mitten muff to go wassailing ‘Jingle Bells’ for the neighbors. But, hey! Don’t fret fellow Badasses! Though Christmas may seem to be a tradition frozen in time, the fact of the matter is, it has been slowly evolving.  It seems that humans at all levels of “HARDCORE” can be in on the Christmas celebrations, er, I mean, Christmas Ragers. So, I have compiled a list of the TOP 10 MOST BADASS CHRISTMAS SONGS. Aw yeah.

10. CHRISTMAS WITH THE DEVIL- SPINAL TAP

That’s right. The world’s most badass fake 70s heavy metal band put out a pretty killer Christmas song. It’d be higher up on the list, but…. Spinal Tap isn’t a real band…. But… If they aren’t a real band, then how is our 10^th most badass Christmas song ‘Christmas with the Devil’ by Spinal Tap? Quite the mind fuck.

9. MERRY CHRISTMAS (I DON’T WANT TO FIGHT TONIGHT) – THE RAMONES

The original punk rock band took a break from being so punk long enough to make a Christmas song. The song is ok, the video is cheesy, but the Ramones’ status as Punk Rock Legends lands them on the list.

8. MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYBODY- SLADE

 Slade is a British Glam Rock band from the 70s that influenced the likes of The Clash, Cheap Trick, and Motley Crue.  Fun fact though, their number one selling hit was, you guessed it, a badass Christmas song.

7. GOD REST YE MERRY GENTLEMEN- MANNHEIM STEAMROLLER

This song would be higher on the list if Chip Davis wasn’t so obsessed with synthesizers and tambourines. But for its sheer epicness, it is badass in my heart.

6. I WISH IT WAS CHRISTMAS TODAY- JULIAN CASABLANCAS

This song was originally made famous by its performance on SNL by writers Horatio Sanz and Jimmy Fallon. The SNL performance, that also included Chris Kattan and Tracy Morgan, was hilarious, but the song wasn’t quite badass until Julian Casablancas covered it with a rock twist. Though in pictures he appears to be a sad lesbian, his voice is quite commanding. It gives one of my favorite “Get excited, it’s Christmas” songs that extra edge.

5. SANTA CLAUS GOES STRAIGHT TO THE GHETTO- SNOOP DOGGY DOGG

Snoop spits the truth in our number 6. Hip-hop bitches be wearing Santa outfits n’ sheee. “Snoop Dogg made a song? Oh, you know it’s on the list!”

4. SANTA CLAUS IS COMING TO TOWN- ALICE COOPER

Alice Cooper is the quintessential badass. He also resides in my hometown, Scottsdale, AZ. He also, after seeing a dance performance of mine (his wife is a dancer and choreographed for a show in which I danced for years,) shook my hand a told me I reminded him of his daughter. This information is not pertinent to the description of this song, but I’m just saying, I personally know he is the only one who can make ‘Santa Claus is coming to town’ a badass song. Thanks, Alice.

3. MERRY MOTHERFUCKIN X-MAS- EAZY E

Leave to Eazy E to turn the spirit of Christmas into a blow job. Hey! It’s Christmas. To each his own. “Ring dem bells, Ring dem bells, she’s taking it all the way!” Uh huh.

2. GOD REST YE MERRY GENTLEMEN- RONNIE JAMES DIO

With a voice that is the epitome of Metal and guitar riffs/solos reminiscent of Metal’s birth, Ronnie James Dio, brings ‘God Rest Ye’ to life. Fun fact: He was only 5’4.” Not very metal.

1.  CHRISTMAS EVE/SARAJEVO- TRANS-SIBERIAN ORCHESTRA

Reminiscent of great melodic death metal, this is, without a doubt, the most badass of the Christmas songs. From the massive orchestra, the melodic beginning, the epic guitar solos, to the big, fantastical finish, this song keeps it classical while producing head bang inducing riffs all the way through to the end where you feel the need to exclaim at the top of your lungs, “MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!” as if you’ve just blown your Holiday load. It. Feels. Incredible.

HONORABLE MENTION: BABY, ITS COLD OUTSIDE- DOLLY PARTON, ROD STEWART

Good ol’ Rod gets a shout out for taking this Holiday classic and making its Rape themes clearer to all. Let this be a lesson to you ladies, Date Rape doesn’t take a break during the Holiday season.

CONGRATULATIONS ON BEING THE MOST OPPOSITE OF BADASS CHRISTMAS SONGS:

LAST CHRISTMAS- WHAM

I hate to say this, Wham, but this is the silliest of Christmas songs.

CONGRATULATIONS ON BEING THE MOST OPPOSITE OF BADASS CHRISTMAS VIDEOS:

IT MUST BE SANTA- BOB DYLAN

Sorry Bob Dylan, old rockers never die, but they should definitely retire before this point. “He laughs this way, Ho, Ho, Ho.” (Is he unconscious being puppeteered by the P.A.’s? Like a ‘Weekend at Bernie’s’ thing? It’s probable.)

MOST BADASS (METAL) CHRISTMAS DUDE FOR LIGHTING UP HIS HOUSE WITH SLAYER

This guy spent hours making this video. RE…. SPECT…. (I know that’s Pantera, but it was fitting.)

Merry Christmas, fellow Badasses! You can walk a little taller this Holiday season and celebrate with family and friends knowing your Man/Woman cards are still valid. 

The Holiday Pickle

This time of year, my roommates (boyfriend/cat) and I constantly argue about the importance our household will place on the holidays. I would like to place an extreme amount of importance by adding extra decorations, food, family, friends, and fun. They would like to place little (cat) to none (boyfriend.)

Nothing says "Christmas" like a Keanu Reeves meme. 

What my roommates don’t understand is that I am a girl who trick-or-treated until I was 19. Mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie run through my veins. I (honestly) thought Santa Clause was real well into my double digits. (I made it work somehow in my mind… i.e. He had helpers impersonate him. His sleigh was more like a rocket that had technology NASA didn’t yet.) Boyfriend says the holidays are used exploit us as consumers and “its disgusting” and all that. He also, as an agnostic, LOVES to call into question my religious beliefs whenever I’m like, “BUT IT’S CHRISTMAS!” I grew up religious, but it’s not those values that call to me around October. It’s the traditions. I’ll admit, I spend more money around this time of year, but it’s because I want to surround myself with the sights and sounds of the season and I want to give gifts that show people that I’m thinking about them. SOMETIMES, it gets a little stressful financially. And yes, people like Nicole Westbrook (See video below) happen and try to ruin Thanksgiving forever and it makes you sick. And yes, the ENDLESS car commercials where wife/husband receives car for Christmas but are disappointed because they REALLY wanted the car the commercial is advertising, are just the absolute worst and are a complete disconnect from most of the world.  AND Yes, Black Friday is a ploy to get us to spend more money than most of us planned and they’ve actually begun to mark prices back up (Best Buy) on Black Friday just to make even more money off of those who are “eager” enough to shop that day. BUT, some people actually enjoy the challenge and have made it a family activity and some people actually save a lot of money on an item they might not otherwise be able to afford. So…  hey, to each his own. I personally, will never participate because I don’t want to die being trampled by Wal-Mart Monkeys and because I like sleep and alcohol too much to wake up early/stay awake that long. And, quite frankly, I’ve never been asked to go.

"I didn't get the vintage day scarf I wanted."

Here’s what I’m saying: Religious or not and no matter what Holiday you celebrate, the weather’s cozy, the lights are pretty, the festivities are abundant, family time is at an all time high, eating is mandatory, and you get to give and RECEIVE presents! SO, all you critics better let the F up on all your “anti-establishment” research and learn to enjoy yourselves because if I am subject to one more story of an obscure example of extreme consumerism or anti-capitalist/anti-religious rants, I will personally rip the lensless, black-rimmed glasses right off your face and take that AND your ironic Elmo shirt, put it in my toilet, and I will take my morning shit on them.  And all you crazy consumers better not max out your credit cards for your ungrateful children or give a single gift card this year to take the easy route, because, guess what? That says, I had to get you a gift card because I didn’t care enough to think too hard about you. (That’s right. And no, not even if the gift card is for a massage. Do that shit yourself! It will mean more! Oh, a gift card for the movies? NOPE! Make a movie for someone and tell me they won’t talk about that for many, many Christmases to come!) Enjoy yourselves. Donate your time to someone. Do something nice for someone. Make something for someone. Make a special dinner. Watch a special movie. Do it all with the people you love and Fucking ENJOY YOURSELVES!

HAPPY HOLIDAYS from all of us here at Andrea Chesley: Blogger. 

PS. Try not to be too upset this happened..... 

Just be happy these things did happen....

Planes, Trains, and Birth Control Pills

When you’re a baby and you throw a hissy fit, it’s usually because you’re hungry or tired and everybody gets it. When you’re a kid and you throw a hissy fit, it’s usually because you’re in trouble and are learning that you won’t get every toy you want and everybody gets it. When you’re a teenager and you throw a hissy fit, it’s usually chalked up to those pesky pubescent hormones and the need to defy authority and everybody gets it, they’re annoyed by it, but they get it. When you’re an adult and you throw a hissy fit, you’re a woman…. And it fucking sucks.

Ok, you’re not ALWAYS a woman, I know there are plenty of emotional males. Jason Mraz and Christain Bale are proof of that, but can’t we all agree it sucks to have lady hormones? I mean, lets face it, we all have our “crazy” story. Like that time we maxed out our credit card at Forever 21 because it was the only thing that felt right, or that time we ate pizza and drank Mountain Dew until we threw up and then ordered Chinese food because we were hungry, or that time you were mad at your boyfriend  for talking to his ex-girlfriend and so you searched through his phone, found her number, got drunk and called her to tell her about how great your lives are together, only she doesn’t answer so the only option is to show up where she works to SHOW her how great you’re doing and you accidentally slash ONE of her tires and the cops ruin everything!?  All our lives, men have called us crazy and irrational and the reality is, that’s not who we are. As humans, our brains all work the same. Women are even more logical and rational and intelligent than men….  UNLESS our hormones are involved, which unfortunately, seems to be at least ¼ of our lives.

This last week, (JUST before my period, of course) after 3 days of depression, outbursts, and the decision to move to Montana (that I later reneged on,) I sat my boyfriend down and explained to him, that I hated to admit it because I didn’t want this to be his victory for every future fight, but MAYBE we had been fighting the last few days and MAYBE I threatened to move his things out and MAYBE I threw the contents of my purse all over our living room in an outburst BECAUSE  I was……. PMS-ing. This was so hard for me to admit. I mean, I’ve known for a long time that other girls had PMS, but as you mature and try to gracefully enter your thirties, you start to really notice in yourself the difference between normal and bat-shit crazy and even YOU, as a strong and intelligent, talented woman,  start to run out of ways to defend your behavior. He smiled and smugly said, “I know.” ………… I went nuts. After a rant I don’t remember, I ran into my room and cried. 

My cat didn’t know what to do and neither did I.   There’s no talking yourself out of bat-shit. Your hormones have you convinced that life really isn’t what you thought it was yesterday…. Or 3 minutes ago. After I came to my senses (because, to my dis-credit, it happens quickly,) I came out and he laughed as he said, “I can’t believe that after all this time that we’ve been together that you think I don’t know what THIS is.”




“OK, but I don’t want you to think that every time I’m upset, it means I’m hormonal and you automatically have the upper-hand.” I said and then admitted, “I don’t know how to deal with how I feel sometimes. Today, I hate our bed sheets and I don’t know why. Today, I almost introduced myself to the neighbors just to ask if I could move all your things into their house while you were gone just to give you a good scare when you got home. You know? So you’d know I was serious about breaking up with you. I know that’s nuts, but it felt so right! I hate myself.”

“I don’t pretend to know what you go through. I bet it sucks because, right now, you really suck. But, I love you.” He said.

We left the conversation unresolved. And I’ve got news for you, there’ll never be resolution. We take "medicine" to "treat" the natural horror that is our period. We take pills and shots and insert strange springy devices directly into our vaginas to prevent our ovaries from doing what nature intended them. There are male politicians that are trying to make laws based on the things we do and don’t do to our bodies because we have been given the “oh so amazing” gift of child birth. And as women, we will spend the rest of our lives apologizing for our hormones because, let’s be honest, we do some really messed up shit. Well…. It fucking sucks. It really does. I’ve been a feminist since I could walk but I will not support a HILLARY 2016 ballot unless she can provide evidence that all her hormone producing lady parts have been removed or have stopped working!! (She’d have control over the drones for crying out loud! Imagine if she had been President back in 1992 instead of Bill.... Monica Lewinsky's "disappearance" would still be unresolved, meanwhile there's a very unhappy intern in a hole in Guantanamo Bay.)

Ok, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Go Hillary! But, as I sit here, taking the first pill of yet, another month of birth control, I am sickened at even the name “birth control.” And, Quite frankly, I’m fet up. I know that ovaries are what make the world go ‘round. I know that our lady genetic make-up allows us to be the empathetic, emotionally aware, beautiful beings we are. It is, however, like being on a roller coaster ride that you weren’t quite tall enough for. You move around too much in the seat and are relieved, a little dizzy, and thankful for your life when the ride is over. But, you’re proud of yourself for doing it because at least half of the population will never know what it feels like. Being girl is never boring, but it makes our job as human beings a lot harder. If you've ever looked at yourself in the mirror and called yourself "a fat loser," you don't mean it. Its likely the opposite of the truth, so don't trust it.

I sometimes wish I was single and alone, with no family so I’d never have to apologize for my behavior, but that’s not a possibility (because, at least from what it sounds like, I’m so loveable) so for now, I apologetically and reluctantly deal with the repercussions of my “lady-like” behavior. You’re welcome for children, World.

And what does this post have to do with its namesake, the movie “Planes, Trains, and Automobiles?” Nothing, but I FUCKING LIKE HOLIDAY MOVIES, ALRIGHT?! J

Junior High Mascot: A Tween Comedy

I coulda been somebody.... I coulda been this lady. 

My parents were great but could never afford to truly foster any of my talents. (This is not necessarily a complaint because it inspired me to work even harder and follow my dreams and blah, blah…) BUT… I started a lot of classes that I was successful in but inevitably had to quit because of financial reasons. It is my parents’ financial irresponsibility that is the reason I am not a Black belt in the art of Karate today. I taught myself the piano after only a month of lessons. I’ve KILLED it in some very popular LA Karaoke bars after only a few voice lessons when I was 12. I went on to dance in a professional dance company after only a couple tap classes when I was 5. I’m not bragging. This was after years of failure and lots practice later on in life. My pre-teen years were spent an awkward, talentless mess. So, it was really no surprise to anyone, including myself, when I didn’t make the Junior High Cheer team.

All of my friends made the team. It was awful. After a tearful inquiry, the cheer coach assured me I was very close to making the team. (Yeah, right. I’ve been a cheer coach. You can’t just say, “you really fucking suck, honey. Give it up.”) But I believed it. I was still devastated. The cheer team was my ticket to the “cool” table in the cafeteria. The cheer team would’ve prevented the REALLY vivid memories of being called things like, “Dyke” and “Orange Heels.” (“Orange Heels” came about after a combination of sweaty feet and a pair of cheap, imitation Birkenstocks. Long story, but my heels are fine now.) I would have to sit on the sidelines alone while all of my friends basked in the glory that is a “cheer uniform.”  What was I going to do? I was already grade A, 7^th grade nerd and not making the cheer team made it official.

I mean, everyone thought this guy was cool. 

I went home that day really upset. My mom, being the great mom she was, dried my tears and told me that I had “more talent in my little finger than most kids had in their whole body,” etc. and that I should focus on something else. But I was too smart for that speech.  I wanted to be popular. That night, I conjured up a plan that would change my life forever. I figured out a way to be with my friends on the court and hang with the guys without actually being on the cheer team. I could be…… the MASCOT!...... Why not? We didn’t have one. We were the wildcats. We had school spirit. The other schools had mascots. I was convinced this was my ticket to cool. I was so….. so smart.

I brought my proposal to the cheer coach the next day. She looked at me with a furrowed eye-brow that, at the time, I thought it meant she was thoughtfully considering what the amazing benefits of having a mascot would be, but now I know she was showing great concern for my 12 year-old self-esteem. “Are you sure?” She asked. “We don’t even have a wildcat costume.”

The original pattern for the Tigerbear. I'm pretty sure. 

“My mom can make it!” I exclaimed. (MY MOM CAN MAKE IT? What the hell was I thinking? What kid pleads to be the mascot? Whatever. You live, you learn.) My coach reluctantly agreed.  I ran home to tell my mom the great news. She was incredibly supportive and so off we went to by the “wildcat” pattern and the fabric. We worked all weekend. We were so proud of the costume. It had a large furry belly and striped fabric. It had a cap with furry, short ears that exposed my face.  The mittens were made of fur entirely and the shoe covers had the stripes. In retrospect, it looked less like a Wildcat and more like a Tigerbear. (I invented that animal. Don’t take it.)  But I didn’t care. This was my ticket to the Cheer team. Everyone was going to think I was sooooo cool.

I was nervous at the first game. I realized that I really didn’t know how to be a mascot. Mascots did flips and lead cheers. I just sort of ran around and clapped a lot. I wasn’t asked to go to any of the practices, so I didn’t know any cheers.  It wasn’t until 4 games in I even began to clap over my head. You know, to get the crowd pumped. I didn’t care. I got to go to every game AND every away game. But then, I started to get made fun of…... A LOT. I started to realize that running around in front of your adolescent peers in a home-made Wildcat costume was kind of embarrassing. I thought about quitting, but at this point, I was committed and I was NOT a quitter. So, I embraced it. I made a couple younger kids laugh at the games and that felt pretty good. So, I started to get really silly in my classes. Wearing a costume AND being funny seemed to make more sense to everyone. My grades started to slip because I was more concerned about my next silly escapade than my next test. (As cliché as it sounds…)  I wasn’t even THAT funny. I just did silly stuff. People laughed. I wore a costume. This was now my thing. After two years of mascoting, I hadn’t really improved, but I got voted “Class Clown” my 8^th grade year. (Of course I did, right? Tweens seem to really go for the obvious.) I would really have loved some title like, “Best Legs” or “Most Fashionable,” but, how could they see it underneath the costume?

The costume, I’ve realized, was just a mask for my insecurities. You know, “If you’re gonna make fun of me, I’ll give you something to make fun of me about!” I learned a lot though. It motivated me to work harder than everyone else to get what I wanted. I learned to be funny, to be myself, and that I never needed to settle for just being the “mascot.”

To this day, the sound of mittens clapping together makes me cringe a little and brings me right back to the court.

 Go TigerBears!

The Soda Jerk

I’ve never been a heavy drinker. I think I’ve had a pretty average drinking career. I started when I was in high school and drank the shitty keg beer and the jungle juice at house parties. When I was 21 and working in a restaurant, nights out bar hopping were a regular occurrence. I went through my mid-twenties, “Sex and the City” phase and drank only Cosmopolitans. Shortly after, I graduated to a cocktail followed by a couple glasses of wine, all of which were chosen carefully and discussed at the dinner table. But, I enjoyed all of these as luxuries, a reward for a hard day at school or at work. Lately, I’ve been going through a phase (or maybe I’m just getting old, but for now, let’s call it a phase) where I just don’t feel like drinking. Ever. It is partially because the hangovers are getting worse and it’s expensive to drink all time but, I also struggle with the feeling that I don’t “deserve” a drink because I haven’t really succeeded in the acting industry… yet. (I will get really wasted the night I win an Oscar. Like, puke in Elton John’s bathroom, proposition Ryan Reynolds for his sperm any way I can get it, kind of wasted.) But, for now, I’ve let up on the drinking. There’s no need. Coincidentally, since I’ve cut down, I have more energy, the dark circles under my eyes are disappearing, and I started a blog. This finds me missing the days spent mulling over which beer to try and which wine will pair well with the night’s dinner. So, I’ve been trying different Root beers, Cream Sodas, Sarsaparillas, and Ginger beers to curb the need to be a connoisseur of some sort. As it turns out, there are a lot of people out there who put a lot of time and effort into the science and art of making these tasty drinks. Finally, a non-alcoholic vice I can be a snot about.

I decided to stop by the BevMo in Pasadena on my way home from work one Friday afternoon to choose some root beers to sample (exciting evening planned.)  I like this location. Everyone is always really helpful without being overly friendly. They keep the conversation strictly to Bev’s. Usually. Today, I headed straight to the soda section and was pleasantly surprised with how many obscure and vintage sodas they had to offer. I grabbed a six-pack carrier and began to search. I had chosen a few already when I heard a voice behind me, “I hope you have the Butterscotch in there already.” I turned to find my friendly BevMo assistant smiling, excitedly. He was probably in his twenties, with perfectly parted hair, a too tucked-in shirt, and the posture of someone who plays video games every second he’s not working.

“No.” I said. “It sounds good though! Where is it?” I was excited. He ran his finger delicately along the wall of sodas until he found ‘Dang! That’s good!’Butterscotch root beer. He pulled it out proudly and presented it to me like a fine wine.

“Oooooo.” I said, my eyes lighting up.

“They use real cane sugar. It is buttery but still has the strong bite a root beer should have. Have a you tried a Sarsaparilla?!” He and I were both excited now! I was going to have BevMo’s resident expert choose the best for me. This was great! Before I knew it, I had two 6 packs of soda. 6 root beers, 2 cream sodas, a sarsaparilla, a bottle of Cheerwine (a southern friend had JUST been talking about it so I had to try it,) and bottle of Moxie, a vintage soda that, according to my expert, “couldn’t be defined by any of the characteristics of today’s sodas.” He insisted I would need to try it myself.

I was so eager to get home and sample, I turned to him and said, “Thank you so much!” And I turned to walked away.

“W…w..wait. My name’s Jason.” I turned around to find Jason with his hand extended toward me for a handshake.

 I suppose this wasn’t uncalled for. We HAD just spent a solid 15 minutes discussing soda. My hands were full, so I awkwardly shifted both six packs into one hand and tossed my purse up onto my shoulder to extend my right hand. He was waiting so patiently. I shook his hand and said, “Andrea. Nice to meet you. Thanks again!” I turned quicker to walk away.

“You’re very pretty….” Oh my god. This just took a serious turn for the worse. Can two people of the opposite sex really not have a conversation without one of them taking it the wrong way? I was in full server garb with my hair back in a bun and still had the smell of meat on my skin.  Did he really think I was “presenting” myself for “mounting?” How was I getting out of this? I let out a sigh and was getting ready to interrupt with the “I have a boyfriend” speech…

He continued “and I don’t often meet pretty girls who take such interest in Soda.” Where was he going with this?

“Oh… Uh… thanks. Heh.” I said.

In the voice of Sam Elliot from The Big Lebowski: “’Do you have a good Sarsaparilla? ‘Souix City Sarsaparilla?’ ‘Yeah, that’s a good one.’” He quoted. “Ha ha. You know where that’s from?” He said this with a cockiness that was awfully strange coming from his nerdy, little body.

“Noooo.” I replied, wide eyed. What was happening? Was I getting hit on or not?

“The Big Lebowski! Come on! A soda girl like you?” He playfully hit my shoulder.  A ‘soda girl’ like me? What was this guy’s game? His confidence in his “game” was kind of awesome, but I needed to remove myself from this situation immediately.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen it, I guess.” I turned and started walking this time.

“Well, maybe you should see it again!” He started to follow me. “Maybe we could watch it sometime?” He asked this as I approached the checkout line.

“Actually… I have a boyfriend, so… but thanks anyway.” I said, probably a little too condescendingly with squinted eyes and a sympathetic smile.

“Oh, I get it. I just thought with all the soda… on a Friday night…. That….” He trailed off.

“That what?!” I said, a little surprised. “all the soda?!?!” Was he serious?! I knew I was going to regret the inquiry, but I knew what he was implying! What a dick!

“Well, that you were… alone… SORRY….” He said with his hands up like, ‘calm down, crazy woman’ hands, turned and walked away. Why is it sooo weird that I would be buying soda…. BEVMO!? Why would it imply that I was single and “alone?” And why would he take this as the opportune time to hit on a customer? “Aw. She’s buying soda. Pathetic. I’m goin’ in. I’ll impress her with my soda skills, compliment her, and then finish with the Lebowski line.”  

“JUST THOUGHT IT WOULD BE FUN TO TRY SOME NEW ROOT BEER!!” I shouted after him, getting my shoulders into it, (were my hands free, I would have sharply waved them, very reminiscent of George Costanza.) I was fuming. I turned to find the people in line staring at me. Now, I was the girl with two six-packs of soda, yelling at the BevMo employees,… who really did have a boyfriend. So, it is not pathetic. (Right?) Sometimes, I just get to that point where, the only way to get my point across is to shout it, annunciated, in a real dramatic fashion. I am an expert in this area.

The BevMo guy was an idiot but he sure did know his carbonated beverages. I’m sure he’ll make some soda loving girl very happy one day. As for me, I’m working on my temper. AND As it turns out, the Soda Jerk was right. The Dang! That's good! Butterscotch Root Beer was the best.  I drank it while I watched ‘The Big Lebowski’ a few nights ago…. WITH MY BOYFRIEND!!!!