Tag Archives: Shopping

This One Time (When It Was So Hot) 

19 Aug

There are two air conditioners on full blast,  and at 10 am it is 76  degrees in my office. 
… The heat in here has officially broken me. Two days ago, (because I couldn’t stand it anymore) I went clothes shopping. For shorts. Which was horrible in and of itself, minus the hit to my bank account…because clothes shopping is from Satan anyway…never mind when you’re being forced into purchasing an article you despise, on top of it. 

I haven’t purchased  shorts in over 16 years. I have never worn the one pj pair I had in public, even to take trash out or get the mail, because of all the body image things I can grouse about, my legs are number one. 

I have Fitbitted my damn ass off, and still have yet to achieve any forward momentum in achieving leg-awesomeness. (Which, yes,  I am extremely bitter about…cuz I’ve got a damn badge announcing  I just hit  5,000 lifetime miles this week,  since clicking  the fucker on my wrist, and you’d think that would be enough to counteract and retro fix a few bags of potato chips here and there.)

… But I digress: shorts. 

They are evil. 

… As are overhead dressing room halogen lights. And tiny,  helpful teenagers wearing a size 0 who want to help “get you another size” because all that weight you lost a year ago didn’t stay lost, and virtually everything you try on,  stops at half-mast, just under your ass. 
… So desperate was I,  two hours into the enterprise, that at some point… when I’d gone delirious from clothing OD, having broken out in a sweat which made everything even harder to get on, and look worse if I ever managed to achieve it…  I reached out to a sundress and threw it on the stack. 

A sundress. 

… An item I have never purchased in the entirety of my life. Ever. 

Because I don’t really “do”  girl clothes, and by that I mean: I’ll wear them if a costumer throws them at me, or I’m going to an Opening, but not on a voluntary basis. 

… Yet once on… besides the super-naked-underneath feeling of having nothing squishing my ass and hips like a butt girdle that is a pair of jeans…I hated the visual affect about 10% less than the shorts, so ended up buying them. 


Three “summer dresses. ” 

One of which I am wearing, for the first time, today. 

… Which feels odd. And bottom-naked. And you have to move and sit differently. And I’m overly-terrified I’ll accidentally walk around with some part of it all caught up in my underwear…like all of a sudden I can’t be trusted to pee like a grown-up or conduct myself with correct dress-wearing acumen. 

… Because I only do this girl-clothes thing, kitted up in spanks and nylons, in a theatre environment, two hours at a time. An 8-hour day of willy-nilly pant-commandoism, in the real world, where breezes happen at whim, and chairs have cold or sizzling seats, and you can’t bend over into a filing cabinet without underwear-mooning the room, are things I now have to worry about. After I’ve learned I have to. Because something embarrassing has just happened, regarding those things, bringing them to my attention. 

… Which is all to say: I kinda feel like an alien wearing a suit of people-skin… all foreign and pretend blend-inny. But at the same time…it is, at times, a welcome breeze in the nether-world. *

(*Shout-out to my “Underpants” crew.**)

(**Which sounds way worse than I was intending it to. So, naturally I’ve left on purpose. But also wanted to make sure I pointed it out. Cuz “funny”  is only funny if you slam it over the head ten or twelve times, then point at it and say, “Get it?! Do you get it?!”) 


Pant Wars

6 Mar


Ladies, get together with me on this:

Much like when they decided to go “universal” with cellphone chargers…allowing for ONE, standard connection needed for ONE standard of Droid phone and ONE standard (now erroneous) of the iPhones…so that instead of having to schlep and save 45 different chords, one could simply arrive at ones destination with, “hey, anyone have a charger…my phone is dying,” and one would readily be supplied with it; Much like this, I would like to argue for the same system to be implemented to pants.

…Pants, specifically…I don’t need to go all Nazi on every version of every clothing line from here to Europe…but surely…SURELY we could get together on some kind of universal pant-sizing.

…Because, as any woman will tell you: purchasing a single pair of those bastards takes far too much work, requiring us to get naked in a dressing room far too many times, in far too many departments of the store, with far too many brand-to-size-ratio differences, and often makes us far too depressed in the end to buy anything at all.

Ever since the skinny-pant revolution, I’ve been on pant-purchasing strike.

…On the off-chance that I find a decent pair of boot-cut that also fit over and thus balance out my thigh’s and butt, but don’t have me hula-hooping the waist…I buy the FUCK out of those bastards.  3…5…however many pairs I can manage financially at the time.  Because (for those new here), I’m a Latina, who is forever buying too-long shirts to cover my butt-crack popping out of low-rise jeans…even when I’m standing up.  And the skinny-jeans (aka “denim leggings” for those of us who lived through the 80’s the first time), are a fantastical and disgusting joke on a body build with any curve at all.

…Which is why I’d flatly refused to buy any more pants at all. Because, thanks to whatever “fashion” sets as the “new thing,” is what every one of us is harbored with. Whether our body type flatly refuses to conform or not. Listen: I’m still dealing with the last one, where belt loops and the top buttons end at somewhere five inches below your belly button, requiring belt-cinching hugging the bejesus out of halfway around your butt, squeezing for all it’s worth, just to stay up…while producing a mass of muffin top that looks like you’re wearing an inner tube under your shirt.

…I’ll be damned if I lower myself to the legging phase.

…Despite all that, though…I found myself having to face reality the other day, while staring in my closet.

Due to weight loss, (and general usage), of the line-up of pants before me, only three of them were ones I could actually physically wear at the moment. And did you know, there are 7 days to the week? That doesn’t add up. Something was gonna have to be done. And so, I girded my loins, and with a gigantic, melodramatic sigh, made way for the mall.

…Perhaps if I had been gifted the girl-shopping gene, I wouldn’t have hated the process so much. But I somehow doubt it. No sooner was I in the store, facing said pantage, than I realized: I had no fucking idea what size I was even looking for. I hadn’t purchased pants since well before the elections…and this was therefore going to require math to even come up with a doable guesstimate…not because of the time-lapse, but because of the amount of weight I had gained, and lost since that point in time.

…And after that, it was dealing with literal size label differences. This one is a 10, that one is a 32 x 31…and after that: the brand name game.

Everyone knows that “this” brand runs small, “that” one runs big…I’ve never actually physically gotten the brand right there over my thighs no matter WHAT size I’ve ever picked…and don’t even get me started about how the style of “straight leg,” “boot cut,” “flair,” “relaxed fit,” “skinny,” “petite, ” “curvy” and “regulars” do to the overall size adjustments as well.

…The long and short of it, had me naked three times in three different dressing room sections of the store, trying on up to five size ranges, ending in only uber frustration.

Tell me how it is that I wore a size 10 that was too big, into the store, but couldn’t even button that one label’s size 12’s? How does my inseam length change no matter WHAT pair of pants I put on…thus making me walk like a penguin with this one, and dragging 3 inches of pant below my feet with another? Why do they assume that “curvy fit” means your ass, hips and waist all equal one another in a cylindrical tube, so that in order to get something that doesn’t sausage or suck the life out of one part, leaves all the others with enough excess material (once belted), to accordion around you…feeling like a waist-version of an Elizabethan ruffle collar…or a tutu? Do they really still not understand how ethnic bodies of a certain robustness work in the clothing industry? I mean, pull one of my people off the assembly line, and fit it to fit her…it’s really not that difficult, you guys. It’s not like we’re exactly the minority anymore…neither in heft nor curve. We’re kinda everywhere…go to a Mall, I swear it to you!

…Anyway…roughly an hour in, I just gave up. I was tired. Tired of wandering around flipping through denim and Dockers. Tired of looking at my naked, dimpled skin staring back at me from the horror-lights of the dressing rooms. Tired of graduating in sizes after all the work I’ve done to lose this damn weight. I was just plain, “tired.” Period.

…So I stopped.

Three pairs of pants were just gonna have to do me. I’d made it work this long, I’d have to just keep at it until such time as I finally lose enough to downgrade from the current “tweener” size of not fitting into anything quite right, and my next-size-down wardrobe I have just hanging there, waiting for me to fit back into it again.

Enough is enough.

…And yet, this morning, as I ruffled through the same closet, looking at the same set-up as I always do: I picked out (due to curiosity and the desperate need for some variety) one of my other pairs on a hanger.

…I held them up.

…I gauged the width, and my current frame.

…I looked at the label at the waste, shrugged, and gave it a shot anyway.

…And the fucker buttoned and zipped.

Just like that.

A size 8.

What the hell, you guys?!

…Even with delirious cravings I’ve managed to smack down for the past three weeks, there is just no way, with monthly water gain, I lost up to 4 pant sizes in 4 days. It’s scientifically impossible. I know it didn’t happen.

…And this is all to say:

Dear pant-makers of the world,

Get your shit together. Get organized. Get some kind of through-line system going. Then please, get it out there into the fucking mass-market so we can finally, finally, FINALLY know what the hell size we are wearing!



Running Behind

22 Dec


Just got home, for the first time since 10:15 this morning.

…I’m beat, but the happy kind…the kind that knows I still have three more days off work, and I’m aloud to sleep in for all of them.

Good through-line rehearsal, running the show for the first time, and bonding with the peeps, today.  Delicious little sound-bites, and curious eye twinkles, and naughty grins, and confidential truisms: that is the world we live in.  Terrifying though it can sometimes be. And yet, there is almost nothing greater on earth than kicking back over a drink with casties, chewing over the risks taken throughout the day, the things we appreciated seeing in the others, the choices that sent the run in this whole other level of strength and curiosity, the compliments and admiration of the other person’s work. 

…It’s been a helluva year, being so blessed with this continued streak of great show-families to work with. 

Our young ladies were absolutely dedicated to the classes and history work we did today, which helped immensely in their stage presence…the adults spent huge pockets of time line-running in off scenes, and further soaking the show into the artistic sponge cake of our brains.  The tech departments watching, got a strong and realistic look at the bones and beginning muscle tissue of the show before the final work and push, and suddenly…”angst” and “sex” and “separation” and “stakes” are registering at this whole other level. 

Lots still to be found (obviously), but we’re in a good place.

…I may even say, we are in a GREAT one, as Mr. Director saw fit to give us tomorrow off.

So now, we have a “Holiday,” proper.

…And I have more time for all that running around, and last-minute-purchasing that I have to get done.

…And possibly a blog finished on time before the click over to midnight has passed.

…Which I clearly need to work on.


…But just know: it’s been for a good cause.

Happy dreams, loves.


Hurry, Hurry!

21 Dec


Can’t, don’t have time!!

…Lesson plan finish up, all day, then more Christmas shopping with Ma, and hang time with The Fella, JM and Dame Builder (his ever-cooler-than-most, wife.)

…Am now in purgatory, wrapping to infinity. 

Full day rehearsal tomorrow, need sleep, and a shower, and another one tomorrow.

But, “Love Actually” is in the player to keep me warm. 

…And I fucking love it. Actually.

P.S.  Buying clothes for bottles of alcohol might be my favorite thing ever.  I hope Marty likes it 😉


The Butt Bio

14 Oct


If I loved you less, I would pretend I didn’t have time to write tonight’s blog. Truth be told: I’m just not feelin’ it.

…I’m a pretty decent actor, and a hell of a liar (some would say, its the same thing), so I would totally pull it off right now, if I said, “Yeah…I can’t write my blog tonight, cuz I’m too busy writing multiple program bios for my anatomy pieces. I’d do one for my face, but no one would give a shit…they won’t be looking there anyway.”


Instead, I’m going to be only slightly more responsible by not lying. And writing a super short post.

Tonight was first run of the show, top-to-bottom, even with like fifteen days or whatever till Opening. Get to work some stuff tomorrow, which is awesome, (cuz working is the good part.)

…Broke in the new Crockpot today. Four hours on a roast and veggies, served directly after a soaking walk in the rain down on the waterfront.

…Which brings up (again)…WHY make a hooded coat that isn’t waterproof, and forget to tell people that when they buy it. One ASSUMES that “hood” = “a purpose for a hood.” It’s just this idea that MOST people have.

…Yesterday, “M” and I spent a part of the day shopping for girl clothes with no luck at all. But we didn’t care, because we were too busy eating fat amounts of cheese and salami, while guzzling red wine and watching tag-team stand up from the Nexflix stream, doing in-depth “Iliad” Collegiate paper theory Q &A sessions, and watching a “LOTR” documentary on historical sourcing, so I have something to focus on during the next movie, when the plot lines get so stretched out that my eyeballs start rolling back into their sockets, and I pass out. (Mercifully.)

We chicks know how to mix it up, friends.

…Right now, I’m bundled on the couch, it’s raining outside, my contacts are all blurry from too many hours on the clock, and “How I Met You Mother,” is playing on the T.V..

I’m tired, and don’t want to face tomorrow.

I’m wondering if now is a good time to mention this one new thing.

I’m deciding it isn’t.

I would like to hope this will be a productive week…less fires in the workplace, more scenes worked and nailed in rehearsal, general confidence building all-round, and less frequency in freaking out about things that I freak out about for a variety of reasons…each and every day.

It could totally happen.


Hello, Fall

12 Oct


Closed the last of the windows in the house today, and turned on the heater for the first time in about 90 days…roughly 50 of which have been solidly without rain…a major feat for the Seattle metro area.  The last couple walks this week were chilly with thick fog in the air, with the kinda chill that soaks into your bones, and this morning, the rain (albeit only a little of it) finally began to fall.

…This weekend will begin the chimney smoke smells, and make limp all the crunchy tree leaves along the sidewalk, and push people into their coat closets, looking for the one lost glove, and begin digging out all the sweaters from the bottom drawers again.

We had a hell of a summer, so I don’t really mind that it is time to start snuggling up.  The weather has been kind to us.

…Tonight (payday) was for food stocking again, and this time I grabbed some stew meat, a roast and veg,  to break in the new Crockpot.  Some chili and soup mixes in the pantry…and some hot cocoa…I am so ready for fall now, and I can’t wait to eat it.

Bath night for Daphne and Niles. 

They hate it so much…don’t like change any more than I do, really…even for the better.  Daphne particularly, will sit and pout in the corner of her Grecian pillar cave and not come out even for dinner, afterward.  Niles isn’t fond of baths either, but is a total whore when it comes to food, so will magically forgive me, soon as he hears the top of the food can unscrew.  He’ll eat it all like he’s starving, then sit at the top of his bowl and look over into Daph’s, watching her food just float, totally ignored.  And it drives him fucking nuts.

Niles: “…Are you gunna eat that?  Hey?!  Hey?!  Hey, you girl!  Are you gunna eat that, or what?”

Daphne: (From her cave.) “Don’t be ridiculous.  Can’t you see I’m in the middle of my big dramatic scene here?  One doesn’t just ‘eat’ mid-performance.”

Niles: “Yeah, but…it’s gonna get all soggy and stuff.  Then fall apart.  Then cloud everything up with fish-gut-parts.”

Daphne: “Please.  I am trying to concentrate.  Is she looking?”

Nile: “What?  Who?”

Daphne: “The person.  Is she looking?”

Nile: “A little bit, I guess.  Why?”

Daphne: “Does it look like she’s troubled about something?”

Niles: “How can you tell?”

Daphne:  “A wrinkle between her eyebrows.”

Nile: “Nope.  Nothing.”

Daphne: “Damn. I did an extra swish-flip of haughty disdain this time, when she put me back in the bowl.  I was sure she’d notice.”

Niles: “I don’t see anything.”

Daphne: “…Maybe I’ll just sit in my cave a little longer.”

Niles:  “I mean…I hate it too, but it IS just a bath.  She’s only means well, I’m sure.”

Daphne: “That’s not the point.”

Niles: “Isn’t it?”

Daphne: “Of course not.”

Niles: “Then, what is?”

Daphne: “One doesn’t just co-ed bathe in public, while their waste is excreted from the rocks and wiped off the bowl.  It’s undignified.”

Niles: “Well…it’s better than swimming in poop, I guess.”

Daphne: “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that last bit.”

Niles: “…Anyway.  At least we have fresh water now!  And she’s so good about making sure it’s heat-adjusted and everything.”

Daphne: (Poking her head out, and working herself up so far that she eventually is full out of the cave, her fins all abristle.) “Oh.  How kind of her not to accidentally ‘poach’ us after plopping us in plastic cups for thirty minutes and complaining about the ammonia smell as she grimaces and scrubs everything down, wearing those ridiculous ‘over-the-elbow’ double-strength plastic gloves, like we’re something TOXICCoughing and wheezing and ‘making faces.’ As if her own poop doesn’t stink…is how SHE acts.  Which is a lie, thank you very much!  I live here too you know!  Am I right, or am I right?”

(Niles just floats there. Staring.)

Daphne: “Right?!”

Niles: “Huh? Sorry, what?”

Daphne: “Were you not listening?!”

Niles: “Sorry, I got distracted. You know…I mean…don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve got a reeeeeally nice tail, you know that?”

Daphne: (Rolling her eyes.) “…Totally useless.”

Niles: “–Cuz I’m…seriously…I’m a ‘tail’ man you know, and uh, you have got GAME in that department, lady.  If you know what I mean.”

Daphne: (Turning around.) “…Fucking idiot.”

Niles: “Huh?  What?  Did you…? Did you say something…?”

Daphne: “Goodnight, Niles.”


(She retreats all the way into the cave and is not seen again for the rest of the night.)

Niles: “…She. Knows. My. Name. Heh heh heh. High Five!

(He pops up a fin.)

Niles: “Oh. Yeah. …Damn.”


A Letter To The BFF, As She Moves To L.A.

22 Sep


The BFF is leaving tomorrow.

…Not forever, just a few months…but I still don’t like it.  I know she’s coming back no matter what, because I’m holding The Fella and all my booze for ransom, but she’s kinda getting in the habit of ditching us…and that isn’t cool. 

…This one time, she did it for a whole semester in Dublin, and had WAY more fun than me, then decided to travel the whole fucking continent of Europe, before she ever came back home again. And where I’m way more jealous of her doing that, I still don’t totally agree with the whole “plan” she has mapped out right now. But, I guess she’s going anyway.

…Because she secretly hates us.

The flip side of this is that she’s moving to L.A., where NO ONE has more fun. Because they’re too busy being starving-hungry on purpose all the time.  And they have to get everything waxed so they look like hairless rats.  And always bleach their teeth and eye whites.  And get injections into their faces, of juice toxins they make bombs out of. And meat (outside of the porn biz) is totally outlawed there. 

…I heard this one time? A girl gained .002 of an ounce, just by accidentally breathing in beef spores from the lunch meat on the Kraft Service table, and she was totally kicked off the movie set. On breach of contract.  That’s when they first passed the law, I think.  It’s one of those lesser-known ones that people don’t really talk about, just inherently “know.” Like the one where your boobs have to be bigger than your butt cheeks…and brunettes can only play “evil”, or “the girl-next-door”…and everyone spends two hours applying makeup before they drive into the studio to get their makeup done for “real”, in case of paparazzi.*

(* That last one isn’t a real law, just a good idea in general.  Have you SEEN the covers of The Star and National Enquirer? Okay, then…)

…BTdubs…best get used to the rash of arrant-misinformation-factoid-news-stories NOW, cuz they sure as hell ain’t gonna get any better.

…But I digress. 

This was all supposed to be a letter. A letter of wise words to send my non-blood sister out into the wide-wide world with. Even though she’s already seen ten times more of it than I have.  However, she also almost died that one time…in that Romanian hostel pit from hell, (that she saw fit to spend a night in once and somehow live to tell about.)  And it’s because of things like this, that I feel obligated to list out a few “do’s” and “don’ts” for her.  You know…just in case she gets the feeling to check into a Bates Motel, or work at a strip joint, or shack up with some roomies that turn out to be Colombian Drug Lords.

I only say these things, because I love her.

…Which I wish she would keep in mind.


Dear The BFF,

I bought a tiny jar of dill pickles today, and it was tragic. I couldn’t do the big Costco one this time…know why? You won’t be here to help eat them. And after three months or whatever in L.A., you’ll prob’ly never eat dill pickles, ever again. “Too much salt and food content,” you’ll say.

…And you won’t fry things in butter anymore. Or bake cakes. And you’ll go back to eating tofu sandwiches – minus the bread – which is just tofu really, only you’ll still call it a sandwich…because clearly it is made of at least two foods: “to” and “fu”…so that’s a full meal right there…on the occasion that you still even eat food, that is.

(P.S. I hear they have a new surgery now, where they take out your taste buds so you can just totally give up and not even care about food at all, anymore.)

…When you come home again, I will ultimately just disgust you, with my buttersauce ways, and fat-pudge. And you’ll take out an ad to hold Open Casting for a new BFF…one with less evil chub, who doesn’t smell like meat products all the time. Possibly a blond. With a single syllable name…which doesn’t require spelling and pronunciation lessons every time it is given.

(P.S.S. I heard they have this service where you can just order friends off a menu, on Sunset. But if you get the wrong “package deal,” they’ll send you themed strippers instead. This one chick I know, ended up with a Latina in lederhosen holding a Heineken, on her doorstep…when all she wanted was someone to go shopping with.)

…You’ll also be buddies with all the famous people, after this, and have free designer clothes…and know all the new “in” words, so I won’t have any idea what in the hell you’re even talking about anymore…

“Those shoes are just ralsh of viv for the rycalm of it all. I bet Mila and Natalie have ’em. I was at this dinner once, hashing with Reese, Russell & Amy and they were all: ‘you are monster jade, you know that?’ And, O-M-G…did you SEE what Amanda was wearing at that one award show? What a drosh…it was sooooo last season.”

“…The hell?” I will sadly respond.

“Seriously. I cannot even believe I once thought you were Ivan in the sweet and we were all xadish. What a fucking Kevlar I was,” you will reply.

(P.S.S.S. Someone told me this one time that the real reason it’s so hard to break it into Hollywood, is because of the language barrier. Tons of people just never pick it up. Which is prob’ly why almost all the major stars are Foreign. Cuz they already speak nine or ten other languages, so it’s easier for them to pick it up somehow.)

…Of course, I am just panicking and jumping to conclusions here…(which, hello, is totally what I do)…but the innermost “me” knows this is all ridiculous, because you would NEVER betray food like that. Or me. (And I’m totally fine that that is the order we come in.) But I still worry ’bout things.

…Just…you know what? Do me a favor. Maybe find out where ever Winslet, Fey, Pitt, Clooney, Hathaway…the cast of “How I Met your Mother,” or the Whedonites are hanging out…and go be with them. Cuz they’re “real.” I’m told they still have all their original bone structure and skin, even. It would really make me feel better…just “in general.”


* Don’t ever “borrow” someone’s office couch to crash on…it’s prob’ly got enough generations of movie-starlette spunk on it, to disgust even a garbage man.

* Don’t walk Hollywood Blvd after dusk…especially after a party…people will stop their cars and offer you money to turn a trick.

* Don’t take money from people, while agreeing to “turn a trick.” It isn’t what you think it is. There are no magic doves, disappearing acts, or decks of cards involved in the kind they want. And if there are, you’re even MORE screwed. (Pun intended.)

* If you HAVE to shop lift, (in total emergency situations), wait until you see which store Winona Ryder is going into. When the alarm goes off, point at her. They will totally believe you. Then, when the security guards start to frisk her: run.

* “Organic” special nature California foods, are just a giant trick. ALL produce grows in or from dirt. The end. So don’t pay extra just because they tell you different. (I know I’ve already been having this same argument with you for two years, but it’s not gonna stop now. Isn’t constancy nice?)

* If you go shopping on Rodeo Drive, keep your sunglasses on the whole time, and sneer at the saleswomen like Patsy in “Ab-Fab.” In the words of Meg Ryan from “French Kiss”: “If you’re nice to them, they will treat you like shit, treat THEM like shit, and they’ll love you.”

* Don’t catch any wild ideas about future children’s names and weird charities you wanna sponsor. There are plenty of real ones in both cases, so use/support them. Just for the record: I absolutely refuse to call your kid “Cumquat” or “Pumernickle” or “Spring Rain” or “Ra-$h8-tra.” And I won’t run twenty miles to support the Pygmy Marmoset Dwarf Monkeys of Ecuador. So don’t ask.

* If you run into any of the list of men I gave you before you left, give them my number and tell them to call me.


* If you accidentally find yourself rich, bring me back something from Tiffany’s.

…For now, that should do it. I feel like I took care of all the really important stuff. Except to say: “I love you…and don’t forget me.”

…And also, I fucking miss you already.


~ Your BFF

%d bloggers like this: