Why hello again world!

So everyone has their coping mechanisms, some people like to face their problems head on and loudly announcing to the world and anyone within hearing distance here I am!  You can't get me down!  Others pretend they don't exist, shoving them far back in their minds in hopes that the issue will simply fade and dissipate on it's own accord.  Some will have very public mental breakdowns or call up everyone and their mother to gripe about it, and others disappear from the world to silently fight the demons alone.

Me?  Well I kinda do a combination.  I cycle through the different modes, trying on each for size before finally giving up and letting myself do what's hardest...wait.  You see, I've been the quiet solo fighter who retreats from the world most my life.  I think maybe when I was younger it seemed the most noble, to fight the silent battle internally, to be at war inside but at peace on the exterior.  I mean that's what the tormented hero is like right?  She smiles but her eyes are filled with eternal sorrow.  Yet what they don't tell you is fighting alone is tiresome and treacherous, and when you're the type of person who takes on the burden of life silently and secretly, it can also be crushing.  I found that out a number of years back, discovered what it felt like to be drowning in your own secret sea of misery, helplessly treading in the deepest darkest pool hidden in a cave where no one can see you.  This is the point in which many grow tired, just give up, let the pool drown them and stop seeing the glimmer of light that is hope, that is life, that is the joy of living, the beauty of this miracle that somehow and for some unknown reason carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen molecules bound together to create this amazing phenomena.  Luckily for me, I can be a little too sane, too rational for my own good (and yes, at times I am still crazier than I'd like to admit...I am still a double X chromosome and we're prone to craziness) and succumbing to the black waters was not an option.

I found my life raft, my dangling rope with which I managed to hoist myself back from the dead, back to the land of the living and I've never wanted to fall into that cave again.  Granted I still fight my own secret battles (old habits die hard), but as soon as I feel myself slipping I remember those desolate days and I reach out desperately trying to cling to the rocks and branches around me, to remind myself that I don't have to fall in the hole.  That there are these things to support me, to help me carry the weight on my shoulders.  And I cycle, I look outwards rather than inwards for strength.  I post inspirational sayings, read articles about what it takes to be happy, I push it away, I pretend it's not there, I retreat from the world...but only a little.  I allow myself to stay home in pajamas all day, to watch hulu, to (as much as it kills me) be unproductive, to ignore phone calls and texts, to have the mental meltdowns but only to a point.  I'm almost hypersensitive to the warning signs, though the causes are often buried so deep in my subconscious that I can never really figure out what it is that caused it.  I just wake one day with that feeling in my gut and dread in my heart, knowing that it's begun again and not knowing why or when it'll leave.

Opening up.  Opening up to the world is important, I will never be an open book, I will never fully wear my heart on my sleeve, I will never just let you in without question.  I'm guarded, jaded, pessimistic, and I pride myself in at least believing I'm fully self sufficient.  These are things I know, I also know I don't want these to be things that define me, and I also know that behind each one, there's another thing I am but may not want you to know.  I am hopeful, I'm a secret romantic, I don't like being so uptight and structured, and I want more than anything to be simply happy.  So when I've let myself dwell over, waste time and energy over, and cut myself off from the world for long enough, I do what never seems to get easier.  I reach out.  I make phone calls, I admit to the world and those few my guarded self has carefully chosen, that things aren't ok.  That I'm not the strong, happy, optimistic person I try to be, that I want to be.  That yes, I too have bad days, and yes, I'm vulnerable, weak, and human.  You may be thinking "well duh, of course you are" but in my twisted and semi delusional mind I'd like to think I'm not, or don't come across as such.  But I have to remember it's ok, it's ok to not be the perfect person I want to be, that if I'm not careful I will kill myself trying and that in the end, it doesn't matter.  In the end we are only happy when we can accept ourselves and simply live our lives, when we realize we don't HAVE to be a certain way, and our lives will never travel that straight path we think they should.  And it's OK, all we have to do is remember to live.

Sounds simple, right?  Yeah, right.  As much as I think I've got it figured out, as much as I think I know the right way to think, to live, I'm just as blind and clueless as anyone else. As much as I know these simple truths, I am still too suborn to just accept them.  So what's the point of this post?  Well, I haven't written in a bit, breaking my two posts a week goal...or rather I should say I haven't posted in a while.  I've written...but they've remained as unfinished drafts still sitting in cyberspace purgatory if you will.

Yes, I've been a recent refugee in my own apartment, hiding from the world and the ever persistent problems that I pretend don't exist.  They do, and I shut down, and I become afraid.  I retreat into my own mind, which we all know how powerful a thing a mind can be, and I start obsessing over things I shouldn't.  I start pulling away from the living and opening up to people, the world, becomes increasingly difficult.  So I caught up on my TV shows, spent plenty of time in my pj's, stared at my dishes and messy room, and I've written posts, or started to, and when almost done I've paused, and suddenly and irrationally I've become afraid to finish, to hit that "publish post" button, to expose myself and my feelings to the world...and why?  Why do I have this crippling fear of putting myself out there?  It's retarded, and I can recognize it, and I fight it constantly, sometimes I win, sometimes it wins.  In the end though, I must win, I must move forward, pull myself back up and out of the web of insecurities, I'm an actress after all, and the most powerful tool an actor can have is the ability to be vulnerable.  To put themselves out there, to fall to fail, to break those ridiculous walls that we all put up around us, so here I am.  Step 1 of a infinitely long 12+ step plan to become a better artist, a better person, and well, life fully and happily.  I must first conquer myself, and break this stupid cycle of feeling like my life isn't progressing at the speed that I for some ridiculous reason think it should (when I absolutely know there is no "correct" speed) therefore becoming depressed therefore loosing motivation to push forward therefore not progressing at all, and shooting myself in the foot.

Retarded, but so true.  It ends now, I've cleaned my apartment, I've re-budgeted and rearranged my goals and now I'm back... apologizing to the world for abandoning it...and for the time being, determined to take two steps forward before once again stumbling one back.

Speed...

I should have been a race car driver.

So I was making the usual drive home from work tonight, and like I often do, I started to wonder why car speedometers go up so high.  I mean we cannot hope to test out the theory that our cars can  reach the maximum velocity posted on those little dials without running the risk of a very pricey ticket and possibly a license suspension and car impoundment...so why tempt us?  Seriously.  It's quite unfair and misleading to say the least.  most cars can't even reach the speeds in which they claim to on those little dashboard lit monitors that sit there staring back at us, tauntingly.  I'll be the first to admit I love speed.  And, no, not the inject into your veins, twitching on edge type of speed, but the sheer joy of passing though space and time at a velocity that we as humans aren't really meant to experience if not for our amazing advancements in machinery.

I don't drive nearly as fast as I used to, and that's saying a lot.  Granted I used to drive a little 4 cylinder pickup truck, and man did I love that little ford ranger even if it topped off at 103 though it's speedometer claimed 120.  Even if I had to floor it to make it up the first hill on the freeway on my way to school each cold morning without being passed up by everyone else on the freeway.  I even managed to get my first speeding ticket, which I'm not proud of since getting caught always ruins the fun, in that little gutless ranger.  Ah yes, those were some good times...so you can imagine how disappointed I was to recently, eight years later, get my second speeding ticket in the long history of my driving career.  Needless to say, when now my average speed topples around 75 or at least has in the last 6 months.  Of course, when the cop paced me I was a good 11 mph faster than that, but I had been driving at 65 for most the week.  I'm not saying driving fast is ok, or safe, or good, for most people in fact it is a very bad idea...and I'm not claiming to be above the law or a superb driver who should be allowed to drive recklessly, but I am saying that getting a ticket for going 86 (and luckily being cited at 79 since I didn't try to cry or lie my way out of it...I knew I was going faster than appropriate according to posted signs and I'm not one to deny when I am in the wrong) when my car's speedometer goes well into the later half of the 100's kinda sucks.  Granted I've never really had the guts to test it out above 120, and even then it was only for a couple seconds on the deserted highway late at night on my way to Vegas or whatnot, but it's such a tease is it not?  I mean with the truck I could only go 103 before it hit it's automatic shut down valve and slowed me to the 90's, a fact again I discovered on a 4 am trip to Vegas back in college, but with my present ride...who knows.  Shit, the speedometer boasts 150, and even if, like the truck, it has an automatic shut off about 20 mph less than that...that's still 130.  A speed I'd love to experience but am no longer, nor ever was, reckless enough to attempt.  Not that I think it'd be dangerous to myself or those around me, I'm not stupid, I wouldn't get close to those speeds if there were other cars around who may make sudden lane changes or whatnot, but because there is no way in hell I'd make it to that speed without getting a ticket.  Not at all, not with my luck.  I was lucky enough to go the last 8 years with nothing more than a rolling the stop sign and a traffic light ticket.

Don't get me wrong, I'm a very safe driver.  As my friends, yes, they might tell you I tend to scare them or drive a little too fast, mostly because they remember my college days, but at the same time they will, for the most part, vouch for my control.  I drive fast, and am on the aggressive side (have you ever driven in LA??  Aggressiveness is an absolute must!), but I also enjoy driving, I like the speed, the judging timing and distance when passing cars, the slipping in and out of lanes, the sensation that your're going fast yet are so relaxed, so controlled, so calculated.  Did I mention I should have been a race car driver?

So when it comes down to it...why do they make cars that can go 0 to 60 in 5.4, or 3.3, or better yet 1.97!?  Seriously, and I don't even drive a car that amazing and I feel cheated.  Here I am driving around a beast of american metal and horsepower, a gas guzzling v8 that boasts a 0 to 60 of 5.5 according to sources, and driving home from work at 1:30 am going a steady 80 mph wondering why on earth we can't go the speed that our cars can take us...and what the point of tempting us with such notions of glory is.  Good thing I recently purchased pilot lessons, which both excite and scare me.  Granted I didn't enroll in an actual pilot school rather purchased the discounted voucher for amateur lessons which probably are the most basic and least exciting yet, but still, perhaps it'll quench my ever present itch to push my car to it's limits...or perhaps I'll just have to enroll in NASCAR school, or a street driving course in which I'm allowed to drive as fast as I please, letting the speed take over and reveling in the glory and power of such a simple thing as 8, or 10, or maybe even 12 cylinders and the ignited gas compressed within them.  

Did I miss something?

So it's 1:30, and here I am home from work and about to put in the shortest entry ever due to my overly tired state which 30 minutes ago was very much the opposite due to some caffeine induced magic.  Tonight was the strangest deadest Thursday night ever, seriously, I made more Monday night (by a dollar) and I thought Monday was bad!  Usually Thursdays are pretty good, at least a steady amount of people coming in for drinks or whatnot, but not today.  It was strange, like I missed some huge holiday where everyone stays at home with the family or goes out of town...seriously the streets were deserted, even the ramen place that ALWAYS has a line out the door was relatively quiet, but at least I got off way earlier than expected.

Had my second audition today, again for print, and I'm not holding my breath to hear back from this one either.  Not that they took photos of my hands again or anything like that, but simply because I am not quite sure I really fit the bill for this one.  It was a Target add, and the idea was "Asian mom, real to attractive, casual" and despite my sincere efforts to embody the look of your average Asian mom...well...even I probably wouldn't pick me as a first choice in that category.  This time though, I knew how it was going to go...and it was quite a bit less of a fiasco then the last.  I did find that my posture was too good though, because the guy taking the photos was a bit annoyed at my inability to stand "less straight" which upon returning home I practiced in the mirror.  Now I know  exactly how I'll stand next time they want me to look more "casual," leg out, hand on hip, relaxed...so the audition, although perhaps not a success in the booking a job sense, was a success in the future audition, notes to self, learning department.

This was partially the cause of my current borderline delirious state of mind as it was a fairly early casting call causing me to have to get up and get ready earlier than my usual.  That mixed with a rough night's sleep and some friendly festivities with a couple pals the night before, which leads me to the next topic...

Friends.

It's funny how as we grow older things change.  I mean, it's a given that things change, that we change, but it's funny how it seems to happen so slowly and secretively so that one day you seem to wake up and think "wow, when did this happen?"  And there's no real answer either.  I used to really push against the idea of growing up, I remember at 17 thinking "this is it...this is the best year of my life, this is my youth, things will never be this good again."  Yes, I was always quite self aware, and yes, I did realize what I had when I had it.  I knew that that year, my senior year of high school, the last year before I was "officially," in legal terms at least, an adult was a year that I'd want to treasure.  I was in no real rush to grow up, leave home, I knew the bubble I lived in was a privilege and that you could never go back once you were forced out and that it was inevitable.  I loved that year, and I was right.  Things have never been the same, and rightfully so.  And now, ten years later I'm still just as introspective but it's harder now.  I forget, get caught up in life and the day to day, so every so often I take a moment to really stop and think and examine my life and the world around me as it pertains to me.  Ok, so I'm lying...I don't do it every so often, I probably do it 20x more often than most all of my peers but that doesn't lessen the shock and awe I feel every time I do it.

The last time this happened was probably a week ago now.  I was washing the dishes, looking out at my living room and it occurred to me, as if it was the first time (yet surely it was more like the 101 time), that man, I am an adult.  A full fledged, unquestionable, adult.  You're probably thinking "well no shit," I mean I'm 27, have my own apartment, pay my own bills, worry about going to the gym and my nightly regimen of night creams, I mean yeah, I know I'm an adult but theres a definite difference between knowing and really truly realizing it.  It's like knowing you have a belly button versus realizing that you have a belly button because some doctor tied a knot in the cord that used to attach you to the lining of your mom's uterus in which you received all the necessary nutrients intravenously through to create all the amazing intricate organs and systems within your body that function on their own cellular level without a single thought from you which allow you to sit there today, reading this very blog.  I think you get the point.  But being an adult is a funny thing, is it not?  I mean on the one hand you are, or at least most of us are, and all of us SHOULD be, self sufficient, self sustaining, independent and unique entities with completely complex and vastly different ways of experiencing, comprehending, and viewing the world.  On the other hand, we're all really loosing touch with what it is to be alive, what it is to be...us.

Ok, so maybe that's a bit extreme.  But I did say I was going to talk about friends, did I not?  Well last night I was blessed by the company of some of the people that somehow through the years have earned or fallen into this label and yet, I see all too rarely.  I mean these are people that I used to see or talk to on a daily basis, who I've shared countless memories with and who have been there through so many different highs and lows in my life, and I theirs.  Yet, as we get older, these are people that I never talk to or see anymore.  People who have entire different lives that I have little knowledge about, people who are really almost like strangers to me except for this shared bond formed over the years and held onto by our kindred experiences.  And here I was feeling like it was my responsibility to entertain them, to make sure they were all having a good time, that their trip out to "kick it" would be worth it, and why?  Why did I feel this self imposed pressure to show them a good time?  I mean they are my friends, the same people I used to do nothing at all important with and somehow shared the best times of my life.  It shouldn't have mattered, I shouldn't have felt like the dive bar up the street where we ended up wouldn't be fun enough because in the end, it was.  It was fun because I was there with friends, and that's the point right?  It doesn't matter what you're doing, how exciting it might look from an outside perspective, what matters is the people you surround yourself with, the ones who can turn a random trip to the neighborhood bar into a full fledged flashback to younger more carefree times...a trip to 7-11 for a beer run, board games and laughter, and end with a slumber party in the living room of my "adult" one bedroom apartment I call home.

It's funny, after how much we grow and change some things will always be the same.  Really, we haven't grown and changed as much as you think.  I mean, usually, when I'm not getting all philosophical about my life and removing myself from the moment to look at it from an outside perspective, I don't feel any different than that 17 year old who didn't want to grow up...except that I have.  But this is besides the point.  I think what I was attempting to get at is that it's too easy for us to get so caught up in our own lives and the day to day that we start loosing touch.  Loosing touch with the people around us that have meant so much to us.  Granted friendships change and friendship circles shift as we go, and it's hard to keep in touch with friends and it does take a conscious effort a lot of the times to keep those bonds strong, but it's necessary.  Every time I hang out with old friends I'm reminded of why they were so important to me in the first place and how lucky I am to have such amazing people in my life.  I've shared so much of myself with these people, memories that I will always cherish have been made with them, and they have been an instrumental part of creating who I have become.  I may miss my youth, the crazy times, the endless days of being carefree, yeah I have a lot of other things to think about now, but being around friends ensures that those times shouldn't be missed, because they are alive and well in the friendships that stay strong.

Looking around my place now I realize that it's not so different than all the other places I've called home.  I mean I'm still pretty messy...not like I was in college messy, I have grown up a little...and my friends still crash on my floor after a night out.  So here I am, at the end of a day that seems infinitely long, having written another ridiculous essay of an entry when I had promised brevity, and would you believe it, what I ended up ranting about was not really what I had initially planned on going into depth about.  But I guess that's what this blog is after all, right?  A place to pour out whatever random train of thought I decide to follow, and hopefully not confuse you in the process.  Are you still with me?  Perhaps not as I can barely keep a grasp on what it is that I want to say or have said up till now, and before the rambling becomes less and less coherent I'll end with a good night.

Life is good, and it's almost 3 am now.  Sheesh.

So...that was it?

Just got back from my very first official commercial audition, and let me tell you something they don't...print auditions are very anti...climatic.  Of course I was expecting something along the lines of stand here, smile, click ok we're done but just how very impersonal and...well...for lack of a better word (and against my better judgement to use a word twice) anticlimactic.

First, you spend all morning getting ready.  Sleep in late skipping the usual Monday morning gym session in the hopes that you'll appear well rested after a long Sunday hiking in the canyons and the closing shift at the bar.  Then you rush around town looking for a place to get your eyebrows threaded and head shots printed because of course you didn't have time in the last two days since your agent booked you the audition.  After spending too much time calling and driving by at least 10 potential eyebrow salons with no success you give up on the eyebrows and head straight to the print shop noting, for future reference, that Monday is the absolute worst day to try and get your eyebrows done.  Then you spend an hour pinning up your hair, which you had to rush and get re-dyed on Saturday after realizing your roots were a bit too grown out and that it probably wouldn't help you book a print add campaign, and then later realized that the color you just re-died it may be too red and edgy for the "early 30's executive" look they are going for and making sure your makeup is just right.  Subtle, pretty, and not overdone and yet strong, smart, and mature.  Finally you realize that the 3:30 call time is quickly approaching and you slip into the outfit that you've picked out, hoping that the slacks aren't too business-casual since they said upscale-casual and that your cardigan doesn't scream "designer label that you used to work for" too much.  You arrive with a couple minutes to spare and enter the casting offices and are greeted with a cattle call of Asian and "ethnically ambiguous" women and children where you fill out a form, are told you have to take your hair down and sweater off, and then line up.

Awesome.  Hair down you say?  Crap.  Hair was up for a specific reason, and it was cooperating so well in the semi french twist that it had just been pined into.  So I headed to the bathroom hoping that my decision not to straighten my hair wouldn't come back and bite me in the ass.  Luckily, it decides that today will be a good hair day regardless of the fact it is a deep burgundy which could cost me the job on that fact alone (don't get me wrong, I love the color...just not sure they will share my sentiments) and it cascades messily but not overly crazily down my back in loose waves and curls.  Not perfect, but better than I could have expected.  Unfortunately I probably look three years younger than when it was up, and without the cardigan covering my arms I have two new problems.  #1, my shirt is sleeveless and though I pride myself on keep my arms toned, I'm not sure that it's the right look for the part, and #2...they want a shot of your hands out in front of you, palms up, and then the backsides of your hands.  Ohhh shit.

See, for my gift to myself on my 27th birthday I decided to get something special.  I know I may only look 21 but I'm getting old and I'm starting to realize that it's now or never.  That I can't put off my life, my future, my career, my dreams any longer.  That the time is now and I have to work towards something, anything, and no matter what it is or how my dreams and aspirations change over the years...I need to not ever forget to keep pushing forward.  So, I decided to get something that would remind me every day of what I needed to do, something would never let me forget...

And now they were telling me they wanted a photo of my palms...damn it, I didn't think to cover it since I thought I'd be wearing my cardigan.  Not just that but I totally have neglected to get a manicure anytime recently, and since I work in a bar restaurant my hands and nails get a little bit of a beating.  They are clean, but uneven and the cuticles are not the prettiest.  Ugh.  

So while in line I struggle and I mean STRUGGLE to get the green stone bracelet that one of my best friends brought back from Taiwan for me for Christmas from my right wrists where it resides happily off my hand and onto my left in the hopes I can get it to cover or at the very least distract them from the navy blue star permanently affixed there.  Meanwhile I'm thinking to myself...all these little girls, these 8-10 year olds...wait...am I supposed to be a early 30's executive...MOTHER of a 8 year old?  Man, maybe it was the urgency of it all but somehow I was able to pull that bracelet off and somehow shove it onto my other wrist, and when I say I didn't think I'd ever have to take that off...well, you can imagine how the struggle must have looked to all the people in the waiting room with me.  So then it's my turn and I go in and it's seriously "ok smile, turn, back to the front hands in front of you (imagine pushing on a wall, like that), other sides, hair forward, NEXT!" and I am scooted out the door quicker than I can manage to finish saying "thank you, have a good day."  No hello, no goodbye, no chance to win them over with a genuine smile and sparkling personality, nothing.

And that's it.  All that prep, all that worrying about getting my hair done, then worrying it would be too red, worrying about what to wear, how to do my hair, the time it took looking for an eyebrow threading spot unsuccessfully, finding a print shop and convincing them to let me print only a small number of head shots rather than their 50 print package, rushing to arrive on time...and I'm left driving home with only one thought "I should have gotten a manicure."  Lol, yes.  After all this, the one thing I've taken from it and never will forget to do again?  Get a manicure.  So, now it's hair, manicure, sleep, before every audition whether or not I think they will want to see my hands or not, because who would have thought that my hands could cost or win me an audition till now?  And the best thing is...after all these years of my mom telling me to make sure to keep my fingers and toes presentable, to take off the old chipped polish, cut them down to an even size, not bite my cuticles or mess with my hang nails, it's finally sunk in.  Not because I think a guy will know whether I'm "up-kept or unkempt" from looking at them as she would tell me, but because now my appearance is more important than simply finding a mate...it's what will land me a job in this crazy city.

So my next course of action after I close the computer and before heading off to another night of work?  Cut and file my nails, make myself another sandwich, and wait to book my next audition...hopefully by then having found my new favorite and go-to nail salon.

So, why the sandwich??

I must apologize, the last post I promised you an explanation that I failed to deliver.  Yes, you've been a victim to false advertising...but as much as I wanted to elaborate on the second half of the title, it just seemed right to end it at the point I did.  It had natural closure, and every literary segue I could come up just didn't fit quite right, so it only seemed appropriate to re-dedicate an entire new post to this ever important issue...

So here we go, once again...why the sandwich?

Growing up my mom always packed lunch for my Dad, me, and later my little brother.  And when I say always, I mean ALWAYS.  Looking back, I see a number of reasons behind her never failing early rising in order to send us each off with a lunch box chalk full of nutritious and well balanced snacks.  There was always my thermos of milk, my sandwich, a bag of chips, some fruit, and a little treat...usually a homemade cookie of some sorts or a ho ho.  (We loved our ho ho's, or rather she loved ho ho's so they often ended up in our boxes with no complaints on our end.)  I remember being the envy of the lunch tables, my friends always griping that my lunches were the best and me thinking I'd love to be able to trade my thermos of milk and health conscious treats in for one of the hot lunches the school would provide which had all sorts of not so healthy but delicious alternatives.  Even as I grew up and went off to middle school, then high school I'd have to beg my mom to let me buy lunch from the snack bar and later cafeteria or off campus.  I remember distinctly in middle school hoping as I walked to the kitchen on Thursday mornings that instead of my, now soft sided, lunch box I'd be greeted with four bright green "lunch tickets"--the school didn't want kids walking around with real money so you had to purchase this fake money to use at the snack bar--and the prospect of the delicious turkey sandwiches on light airy baguettes that every kid would be lined up for.  Thursday lunches were the best, even better than Friday pizza day.  In high school I actually began to enjoy my mom's lunches.  I was old enough to appreciate the time and effort and love that went into each one, how perfectly balanced they were (though my milk was now replaced by juice, water, and the occasional pepsi), and how it allowed me to indulge in my favorite lunchtime activity...sit in the back of my pickup with my friends and blast my country music in the parking lot as all the other upperclassmen scrambled to get out of the lot, grab food, and get back in the given 30 minutes.  But that's beside the point and now I've gone off on a tangent (as you will soon find is often the case), so let's get back to the task at hand.

Now that I'm in my later 20's, with an apartment and bills of my own, and having just quit my full time office job to chase my dreams...I've once again turned to the trusted bread and pressed lunch meats of my childhood.  I now realize that my mom waking up before dawn to pack us lunches wasn't just to torture me or make feel like an outsider compared to my friends at lunch time, it wasn't simply because she loved us and wanted us to be healthy, but also quite an economically viable option for a family of four with a stay at home mom.  This is where my money conscious views and great budgeting skills derived from.  The same skills that allowed me to take this great leap of faith, to turn my second job into my only job, were the skills that allowed my young parents starting out on the adventure of becoming a family with nothing to their name to create a wonderful comfortable life for my brother and I, a childhood that never seemed to lack regardless of how hard it was to make ends meet on their ends, and eventually a wonderful foundation and even the guarantee of higher education.  These skills are priceless, and surprisingly rare in today's world.  I live without debt, without going over my means, and have always understood the value of saving for tomorrow.  And now...tomorrow is today.

So on that note, breakfast and lunch have become priceless.  Often for dinner I'll be at work, so my joy of cooking is limited these days, and oatmeal and the good 'ole meat between two slices of bread has become staples of my day, my grocery shopping list, and the extent of my food creativity.  As a kid I despised sandwiches, perhaps it was because I ate one every single day, and they were the good type--with cheese and lettuce, mayonase and mustard--and as a college student I missed my mom's sandwiches (something always makes them taste better knowing mom made them) but for as long as I can remember I've always loveeed a good deli sandwich.  You know the type, thick crunchy roll, lots of meat, tomato, pickles, sprouts, the works...the type of sandwich that makes your mouth water just looking at it, and never seems to disappoint?  My dad and I would drive over the hill into town or to the neighboring towns just to visit the little stand alone deli's that would pop up, and later disappear, in order to satisfy our common love of such works of art. Well have you noticed that these types of delis, the ones with the ever delicious and perfect sandwiches, the refrigerator cases full of the best variety of meats, cheeses, and the works, have started becoming a rarity?  You almost have to go on a treasure hunt for a good basic deli sandwich these days, and deli's themselves are becoming so obsolete, soon they will be a thing of the past kinda like the neighborhood butcher.  So to solve the problem, I decided if I was going to have to resort to eating sandwiches on a daily basis (I'm a bit of a food snob, I love variety and the extravagant) then these would simply have to be the best sandwiches ever.  So what makes the best sandwich?

Well, there's the basic.  You start with two pieces of bread.  The best type being sourdough or french roll, maybe dutch crunch....but I'm trying to save money here, and remain healthy...so 100% whole wheat it is.  Now, depending on the sandwich you can toast the bread, but only if appropriate.  Then comes the rest, mayonase, a healthy amount of meat, cheese, tomato, maybe some avocado, extra lettuce (this is a must) and what I have found to be the key...the "secret" to the perfect sandwich so to speak...pickles.  Seriously, the pickles are what elevates a sandwich from "ok, that was a good sandwich" to "this is the best thing ever!"  Don't believe me?  Try it, I dare you.  Make a delicious sandwich full of everything you love, say...roast beef, pepper jack cheese, tomatoes, lettuce...and take a bite.  Now add pickles...and get ready to be blown away.   All these years I'd make these elaborate sandwiches, and yet I'd still somehow end up opting for a trip to Gelson's (who btw make some of the BEST grocery store deli sandwiches) when it came down to it, and it wasn't simply because I was being lazy.  They genuinely tasted better...even with their skimpy portion of lettuce (I love the crunch), and this whole time I never realized the simple key was a jar of pickles.  I prefer the type that are cut longways and perfect sandwich size.  They ensure that every bite is bound to have that delicious soft snap, that sour salty edge, that sandwich elevating texture and flavor.  If I'm going to have to save money and make lunch in my own kitchen on a regular basis, well it does not mean I'm going to skimp on flavor and these delicious little slices of sandwich heaven ensure an enjoyable experience each and every time.  And since sandwiches are now a staple in my starving artist diet, and I have discovered the key to the ever elusive ever important "wow" factor when it comes to our simplest of lunch time meals, I feel compelled to share it with the world (or the select few that choose to read this blog).  The secret of the sandwich lies within the pickles...and the sandwich is now the center of my universe and therefore it only seems right to dedicate this blog about everything and nothing to the much under appreciated secret of the sandwich...the pickle.

Welcome to the life of an actress in the making...

Why the blog? Why the sandwich?

It's another wonderfully beautiful Southern California day.

Yes, it's mid January and it's 80 degrees in Los Angeles.  If the sun wasn't at such a slant in the sky due to the present tilt of the earth's axis I would be tempted to be lounging poolside as I attempted to make this first entry into my newly created blog, undoubtedly distracted by the appeal of a cat nap basking in the warm rays before work.  Alas, it is still winter and the temptation has been squelched by the fact that the sun does not quite reach the pool which is cleverly, or unfortunately, located in the quad...surrounded by the two stories of apartments comprising my complex.  It's okay though, the beauty of So Cal is that there will always be more warm days and time to tempt the fate of skin cancer.   Plus, with work looming on the not so distant horizon it's probably best that I am enjoying the warmth of the day in the confines of my one bedroom apartment.  Plus that cuts back on the distractions while I share with you my first attempt at what a million people do every day...pour their hearts, souls, and useless babbling out into the vast expanses of the www, yes, the ever powerful world wide web.

So back to the point, why blog?  I don't know if there's really truly a good answer for this, I mean I can easily say that I have such great amazing insights into life and the world that I felt it would be such a pity and shame to not share them with society, but that's not the truth.  We all have interesting things to say and ways in which we perceive our surroundings, and believe me, I don't think that mine are any more meaningful or important than the next.  I don't feel that I need validation of my views, or that I even need followers.  Heck, I would be surprised if my blog even interested people, but I have been told that my writing is amusing and that I should pursue some sort of hobby or career pertaining to it enough times to think...well, what the heck?  I mean everyone and their mother has a blog right?  So maybe there is truth in it, maybe people will want to read or hear the random little things that float through my mind...and maybe not.  Either way, I won't be offended, this is more about me re-discovering my love for writing, and keeping myself occupied and productive in my newest adventure, and if I can in any way entertain you for even a couple minutes, then I guess spilling out a little of myself into the universe of technology had a positive result after all.

So here it is...my blog about...well...anything and everything, documenting my experiences, adventures, and random thoughts as a struggling artist in this town, chalk full of struggling artists.  And yes, don't roll your eyes, I am what you think...just another delusional soul chasing that elusive dream...an actor in LA.