Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
Last night, Brad, Trevor and I caught a movie which was followed by an intimate gathering of close personal friends. Except the movie was a red carpet premiere and the gathering was in the hollywood hills at a multimillion dollar mansion.
I don't want to name drop, but we were two rows behind a woman otherwise known as "Babs." That's right, we were breathing the same air as Barba... I mean, Babs Streisand. I'm pretty sure I could sell the clothes I was wearing on eBay and there would be a bidding war between a fabu homo in West Hollywood and an equally fabu homo in small town Poland, just because they were in the vicinity of her holiness. But as usual, I digress. So we watched the movie and boogied over to the wee house party.
After Trevor and I excused ourselves and pardoned ourselves through Oscar winners and someone I tastefully deemed Phil Spector, we were surprised to find a table covered in designer cupcakes, chocolate covered strawberries and other such deserts. An hour and a half later, Trevor left long enough to stand in line next to Diane Lane, order a Corona Light, and get the evil eye for being a pussy bitch that drinks Corona Light. Once back in the comforting glow of the cupcakes and after I had made fun of him for ordering a Corona Light, we left the table and joined Brad outside.
All night we had been eyeballing an older woman (albeit a hot one) in an impossibly tight dress and her young daughter in an even tighter dress, wondering, who the hell are these people? Then our questions were answered and we all felt the dumber for not previously cluing in. It was the forty year old director's twenty year girlfriend and her mom.
After our faces turned red with stupidity, we decided it was time to leave. We sashayed our way around the pool and after successfully not falling in, went into the humble abode in order to say goodbye to the host. At this point Trevor pointed out a starlet whose initials are Megan Fox and her boyfriend whose initials are BAG. They were sitting on a couch like casual humans and I couldn't help but snap a photo and send it to my contact at Star Magazine with the caption, "Stars! They're just like us."
We drove home and wondered to ourselves when we'd be able to afford the paint for the gate that surrounds the multimillion dollar mansion and I couldn't help but recite to myself; the happiest people don't have the best of everything, they just make the best of everything they have.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Friday, June 11, 2010
My name is Marcie, I'm 29 years old and I'm an addict. I'm addicted to meth. And by meth I mean change.
Everyday I struggle with the reality that I'm not really doing anything. I've never 100% committed to a career goal which makes me feel like I'm not working towards anything. And it drives me insane. I'm a talker more than a doer and although I will eventually get around to doing what I talk about, it takes way longer than it should. I have a million and one great plans and ideas, but I execute about .5% of them. I feel like I want to blame our society for turning us into commitment phobe barbarians with the attention spans of gnats, but that would be too easy. It's always easy to not take responsibility. For the life of me, I just can't figure out the answer to the simple question we've all been asked since we were little.
"What do you want to do with your life?"
Well teacher, I want to go aboard the Steve Irwin and fight the evil Japanese whaling ships. I want to be a nutritionist. I want to write movies. I want to save the marine life in the gulf of mexico. I want to be a fitness coach. I want to be in sketch comedy. I want to write for a kids TV show. I want to work at an animal refuge. I want to be an advocate for mentally challenged people. I want to produce my own movies. I want to be amazingly passionate about something. Anything. Just pick one.
I want to take the amazing opportunities that are falling in my lap everyday and eat them. I want to stuff them deep down inside me and take full advantage of them. Instead, I sit on the computer writing in an online blog. There's only one thing to be said for the frustration I feel -
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Whenever the opportunity arises, I like to talk about my KC. And when the opportunity doesn't arise, I like to make it. I think about him countless times in a day. I like to wonder what he's doing, then text my sister and ask for a photo of him at that exact second.
Skypeing him makes my day because he's so interactive. He asks me what I'm doing and where Brad is and where the cat is. We go back and forth smacking our faces and yelling "D'oh!" We make noises with our tongues. After 10 or 15 minutes of this, Shanna will try and get him to move so she can talk, and he'll growl at her that it's his chair and he's not done. Then we'll smack our faces a few more times. Then he'll tell me he misses me and on particularly vulnerable days, that I make him sad. Ugh. Such little words, such incredible force.
A lot of people I know are having kids. They've grown up and are making the leap from child, to parent. I'm sure one day down the line I'll decide it's what I want as well, but for the time being, the thought doesn't appeal to me. Mainly because I don't think any other child in the world could compare to KC. It's as though I don't want to share my heart. I feel that although I know there's enough love to go around, I don't want there to be. I feel like I'd be cheating on him. When the time comes, I joke I won't like his brother or sister as much as I like him. But the truth is, I'm not joking. I just don't think it's possible. I know I'll love them and they'll be very special to me and I would end my own life for theirs, but deep down inside I know KC will always be my favourite.