We Interrupt Your Regularly Scheduled Program...

I'm wading through the nastiest, most gigantic pile of work ever, and the last thing I should be doing right now is blogging, but I wanted to share my excitement that I have a six-word memoir featured in the new book by Harper Perennial, It All Changed in an Instant: More Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous & Obscure. It comes out on January 5, 2010, and makes the perfect late holiday present for all those people who weren't important enough to get gifts for in December. But seriously, if you won't get the book just for me, it also features six-word memoirs from Malcolm Gladwell, Sarah Silverman, Neil Patrick Harris, James Frey, Frank McCourt and Junot Diaz. The book is edited by the lovely Rachel Fershleiser and Larry Smith of SMITH Magazine. Rachel has always been so sweet to stick my stuff on the front page of SMITH even when I had no other credits to my name and was always there to send notes of positive feedback to my email box. I'm so happy and proud that SMITH has found national success and am really excited to be a six-word part of it.

Eat, Pray, Hype

I have a new column up at Bibliobuffet this week about something I love, cooking. The Top Chef season finale is burning a hole in my DVR right now, but I'm going to save it for tomorrow morning, when I'll need some distraction from the massive amount of work I've been putting in this week. The Sharper Your Knife, the Less You Cry: Love, Laughter and Tears in Paris at the World’s Most Famous Cooking School is about Kathleen Flinn's stint as a student at the world-famous Le Cordon Bleu in France, a dream I've always kept tucked away for myself in the back corner of my mind. Somewhere in all the butchering of pigs and crunching of chicken bones, however, I was disabused of my fantasy and no longer consider cooking school an option for me. It's kind of like how I really enjoy medicine, but could never be a doctor because needles and blood really creep me out.

Speaking of books, my advance copy of Committed, by Elizabeth Gilbert of Eat, Pray, Love fame came in the mail from Penguin yesterday. I'm trying to keep my paws off of it until at least the release date, when I'm officially allowed to review it. In preparation for the review I've been reading Eat, Pray, Love, which I'm embarrassed to admit I never read, because in my daily life, I automatically try to avoid things that get too popular. It's the miserable little teenage outcast in me trying to rebel or something. But I have been reading it and I'm about halfway done. So far, I like it and I can understand what all the hype is about. I was surprised to look on Amazon and see that a lot of people really hate the book, giving it 1-star reviews. If they hadn't heard the book was "so good" from all their friends, maybe their miserable little teenage outcast wouldn't have spoken up and slammed the book on Amazon like it was a piece of junk. One reviewer writes, "If I had the money to travel around the world, I'm sure I could have a spiritual awakening, too." Touche, outcast. It is a little irritating to hear about how this woman can run around and not work for a year. But entitled or not, Gilbert put her emotions on the line and wrote an engaging and sensitive book. She's not bragging that she got to do this, she's helping the reader along to establish his own journey, whether it's a change of mindset or location or both. Somehow, I don't think it's fair to give the book one star because the author has money. Or five stars because the book was a bestseller. By getting the book first, I can avoid all of that and actually enjoy what I'm reading.

Thanks, but no Thanks(giving)

Today's the last day of my Thanksgiving vacation and to be honest, I'm not too sad about it. I don't regret going and I did get to spend some wonderful time with family and friends, but the trip sure has given me a beating. First, the airport lost my bag. I'm not a very smart packer and rather than keeping up with all of the ounce restrictions and rules about whether or not I'm allowed to bring tweezers, I decided to bring just my computer and purse as a carry-on. I also decided not to shower before I left in the morning because I had to get up at 4 AM and I figured I'd be able to take one in the afternoon. I also stupidly decided to wear the same clothes I had been wearing the day before since I wasn't showering. Honestly, I'm getting worked up again just talking about it. After about 40 phone calls and going back and forth to the airport for "my" bag (which turned out was a completely different bag with my name and barcode printed on it), I finally got my bag back, pictured above.

In the 24 hours where I had no coat and had been wearing the same clothes for two days, I heard a lot of, "That's why I always carry on." I need to make a mental note to myself NEVER to say that to someone without a coat or a change of clothes because it is possibly as annoying as getting knitting needles shoved in your ear.

Then, my dog died. I'm home so infrequently, I guess I'm glad that she died while I was there instead of in California, but the poor girl just fell asleep and that was it. She was 17 years old, which is pretty old for a Maltese, and her health was declining so I was glad that everything happened at home instead of at the vet or something.

Finally, my transcription equipment broke. I have a background in closed captioning and can type 130 words per minute, so when my writing is slow I do some freelance raw footage transcription for various television shows. I packed my equipment, which includes an expensive foot pedal used to control the video file, in my suitcase. Dumb, idiot, "That's why I always carry on," I know. In all the hoopla of the suitcase, the pedal somehow broke and is now completely unusable.

The best lost-baggage-related exchange I had was with the woman who worked at Radio Shack. I was waiting for my bag to be dropped off at my friend Caitrin's apartment, but she was about to leave town for Thanksgiving and I had no other address to send the bag. To make matters worse, my phone battery was blinking red, so I raced to Radio Shack to get a phone charger in order to stay in touch with the bag deliverer. I picked out the charger, which was almost $40 for some reason, and handed it to the cashier.

"Are you satisfied with your cell phone service?" she asked me. "Because it would be cheaper for you to sign up with a new service and get a free phone than it would be to buy this charger."

"I know," I said. "No thanks."

"Okay, because you could get a Blackberry or..."

"No thanks."

"Right, but..."

"Honestly," I said, "The airport lost my bag and my charger's in it. As soon as my bag gets delivered I'm going to return it."

"Oh. I don't think this is returnable, ma'am..."

(Enter male Radio Shack employee from the back room)

"Just leave her alone, Tricia." To me: "It's returnable, have a good day."

Congratulations, You Are Only Moderately Stressed Out

I just took a stress test, and apparently I am under a moderate amount of stress. I'm not exactly sure what "moderate" is supposed to mean, but I know I am about a million times less stressed out than I was when I was in college, or even when I had a day job. There's something about sitting at my desk (slash, dining room table) in yoga pants that makes it impossible for me to get stressed out. I guess that's not entirely true--when I have a quickly approaching deadline or am trying to make up days of work, I can usually be seen crying and banging my head against my desk, yoga pants or not.

My second year of college, I spent my entire four days of Thanksgiving break sitting on the living room floor with a pile of costume sketches and styrofoam models. I stayed up almost all night, every night, working and I still barely finished in time for my big directing project. I was a directing major. And yes, I was a dork. I wouldn't bat an eye if I had to pull an all-nighter for a project, then I'd keep up the energy until rehearsal was over around 10 or 11 the next night. Now, if I've had less than six hours of sleep, I'm a bumbling mess that can barely make it past 5 PM.

Just in time for Thanksgiving this year, I am going to start pushing myself more. Why be moderately stressed out when I could be extremely stressed out? Take that, stress test! I'm also going to try the advice of 43 Folders to get myself through the holidays, which are undoubtedly going to be full of more work than usual, considering this is the first year I have no paid vacation. The first page I'll be reading at 43 folders is "My Blog Sucks." Hopefully, this way, I will have a less sucky blog posting next time.

Baby You Can Drive My Car (Because I'm Sure Not Going To Drive It)

Driving has never been my strong suit. I have a horrible sense of direction, I merge like a moron and I hate turning on red. Before moving to LA, my only driving experience was a few years in high school. I got my license late and was finally starting to get comfortable on the road when I moved to New York. In six years, I drove in New York a total of two times, both with my roommate Laura's borrowed car. Once when my boyfriend John and I were picking up fish for his aquarium, and we wouldn't be able to get the car back in to time without killing the fish, which were swimming frantic circles in a suffocating plastic bag. I drove the car on the congested Grand Central Parkway, liberated by the fact that no one was following the rules. If I darted into another lane or suddenly stopped short, it was expected. I was one car in a sea of drivers who had no idea what they were doing, and somehow that made me comfortable.

The second time I drove in New York, I borrowed Laura's car to pick John up from the hospital in October of 2007. John and I had been riding home in a cab back to Queens when we realized that the driver had no idea where he was going. As the driver weaved in and out of streets we had never heard of, John finally spoke up. "I don't think he knows where we are." The driver screamed expletives at us, which is when we realized he was drunk or on drugs. When we tried to get out of the cab, he drove faster. Finally we begged him to let us get out, having no idea where we were. I threw a $20 into the front seat as I jumped out, even though the meter read $10 and we were not at our destination. I didn't want any trouble.

The driver must not have seen the money, and tore out of the cab, punching John in the face over and over. I called 911 as several startled witnesses watched, openmouthed. John lunged into the passenger seat of the cab in an attempt to retrieve the money. The cab driver raced to the driver's seat, pulling away with the passenger side door open, sending John flying out of the car and into the street. The driver's cell phone fell out of the car during the altercation, and the driver decided to come back to retrieve it just as the police arrived. John stayed at the hospital overnight and I met him in Laura's car the next morning.

Two years later, the legal process still stretches on, even though we are on an entirely different coast. Next week, we will know if the judge awards John any money, although even if he does, there is no guarantee that the cab driver will pay. In fact, it's pretty much a guarantee that he won't pay. What makes me feel the sickest is that this driver is still out there. Please carry pepper spray, even during the day, especially if you live in the city.

What the Heck is a TAP?

The Los Angeles Metro is the single strangest mode of transportation I've ever taken. It's like the MTA's sleazy, inconsistent little sister. You know, the one whose boobs are all over the place. I am an avid rider of the New York subway system. I can tell you which train to take to any area in the city (except the Bronx, but I can get you into the Bronx! Then you're on your own). I have long, heated arguments about whether it's worth it to take the N to Broadway and 30th in Queens after midnight and walk, or cut over to the F, which takes over for the V at night. I'm no stranger to the subway, and all systems operate in pretty much the same way, right? Oh, and then there's Los Angeles, which makes everything a million times more confusing than it should be.

First of all, they use a thing called a TAP card, which I guess is like a Metrocard. You store fares on it, and you can fill it up at the little vending machines in the subway station. But here's the clincher. They don't offer TAP cards in the vending machines! No, you have to go to a store to get them. And then go to the machine to fill it up. And the TAP card costs two dollars, and expires. So, fine, I don't need a TAP card, I'll just print myself a paper ticket and then swipe it-- And then give it to-- Oh wait, that's right, there are no turnstiles on the LA Metro! The entire thing is based on the honor system. So I walk right in, feeling kind of stupid for purchasing a ticket, and sit down on the upholstered seats. Who decided to upholster seats where people will be peeing and throwing food everywhere? You're not allowed to eat in the LA Metro, but I haven't seen any signs about not being allowed to wet your pants.

Then, you have to purchase a new paper ticket every single time you switch lines. I mean, no one is forcing you. You can pretty much just wander around wherever you want down there, but you're supposed to be buying a ticket every time you switch. No transfer, no deal, it's a full fare every time you have to get onto a different train. Trust me, I know, because I'm sitting there, minding my own business and the sheriff steps onto the train. I like how people say "the" sheriff, like we're in an old western cowboy town that only has one sheriff. I'm sure there are like a billion sheriffs here, but still, "the" sheriff comes on the train. "Everyone get your tickets out!" I had a ticket for the red line. I was on the purple line. "Okay..." the (female) sheriff warns, wagging her finger. Like there was a sign ANYWHERE saying I needed to buy a ticket for each line. She proceeded to cuff and remove two non-payers from the train. Apparently they will have to pay a fine. I'm really glad I got away with only a finger wag.

And the last and most lame thing about the LA Metro is that it doesn't stop anywhere good. Unless you want to see bad Marilyn Monroe impersonators and get your wallet taken.

This day is the greatest!

Did you ever wake up and know that it was going to be YOUR day? I've been trying to turn my frown upside-down by using the Law of Attraction (no, not "The Secret," I can't stoop so low as to admit I'm doing "The Secret"). I've been willing thousand-dollar checks to come to my house. Well, so far that part hasn't happened, but I did sign today with a freelancing client that pays more per article than I'm used to, so that's sort of like getting a (very) gradual thousand-dollar check.

And this didn't happen today, but I'm sitting right next to my very own copy of Cake Wrecks, courtesy of my very own boyfriend John, who had no idea I had even requested the book on my blog! So, everyone who bought me copies and was saving up the money for the postage to put it in an envelope and send it to me, you can go return it! See what happens when I put thoughts out into the universe? I get books!

The best part of the day was when a gigantic box arrived on my doorstep. Could it be, could it be? Yes! Beatles (limited edition) Rock Band!!! I know I gripe a lot about having to move here, but sometimes having a boyfriend who works for a TV show that did a 10-minute Rock Band infomercial instead of having a musical guest that night really pays off! I haven't opened it yet, but I'm incredibly excited to play that limited edition Paul McCartney bass!