Category Archives: let’s hug it out

I Talked To A Psychic Over The Phone And Treated It Like Therapy


I am very open to psychics, and astrology. Once, a woman stopped me on the street and hold me I HAD to call her for a reading, because there was something she just HAD to tell me. She gave me her card, and I was totally ready to call her until I realized that on the card, she had spelled the word “spiritual” incorrectly. (I believe she spelled it, “speritual.” That was it for me.)

So when I got an email asking if I was interested in a free “love reading,” I said yes, but asked instead if it could be a career reading, because for once, I am very satisfied with my love life and have no questions. They said absolutely, and arranged for me to do the reading over the phone.

I’ve done phone readings before, and to be honest, I kind of treat them like therapy. Therapists and psychics really do have a lot in common. They both listen to you, remind you of your finest qualities, and offer some form of advice. A common misconception is that psychics tell you what will happen. Not really. A good psychic will never claim to know exactly what will happen to you and when. They merely open the door to possible futures, based on what they know about you, which shouldn’t be a lot. And if you’re just as open to them, you might get something out of it.

Here’s what went down: I got a call from a friendly voice who asked me for specific questions about my career. (It’s good to prepare a list of questions to ask beforehand). I asked those questions and she then asked me to say my name three times in a row. Okay. “Almie…Almie…Almie.” I sort of expected some sort of Beetlejuice thing to happen, but, alas.

Here’s what she said about me:

“[You’re] not looking directly at something, [you’re] looking away from something, instead of being focused forward.” 

“[You’re] a perfectionist who doesn’t like to make mistakes.”

She added, there’s “an area where [you’re] being mislead in some way.” That, “someone is being less than honest with me (in the business world).” She proceeded to compliment me, calling me “very witty” and said that I have a way of “helping others feel comfortable with themselves.

Here comes the future stuff: “I see you taking a big leap forward, more on your own, as you’re the one running the show. The path is very straightforward and direct. Less turmoil around you, almost less of the side jobs. [You’re like a] subway, and it’s going really fast.

This is the part where she told me that I was going to write “three things.” Tangible things. She says I “need” to write more, and as a result of writing these three things, I was going to be “very successful”, more than I ever expected. (Yes, I did tell her I was a writer, but that was it.) She said by October, one of the things I was writing would be completed, and that I shouldn’t delay. “Don’t delay, you live in LA” — this was a phrase that was stuck in her mind.

She totally called out that I feel stuck a lot, and that when this happens, I need to “take a break” and “go to the beach” or “sit by the water.” She added, “I see you on a small stage with a mic and you’re holding one of your books and talking about it and people love it.

Okay, sweet. Then she said this:

There’s a man out there who is saying unkind things about [you], criticized [you]. This is an odd person.” I didn’t know who she was referring to, other than, you know, the entire Internet.

Overall, she was complimentary and oddly motivating. And when I asked her about a specific job interview coming up, she got specific too, saying I was, “one of the most qualified people. They’re showing [your] foot in the door, it’s a 3 step process. I’m getting a big push from a spirit with this job interview, but you’re going to outgrow this job.” In the end, I wound up not taking the job (but it had nothing to do with what she told me, I promise.)

I hope my great job still lies in front of me. She said I should get used to being backstage; that I, “really have creative life and you’ve got the ticket. Just hold steady.” As for what’s getting in my way? She says it’s — get ready for this — myself. (Twist!). “Just get out of your own way.” She really nailed that part, and also the part where she told me, “you didn’t start too late, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be…you did not miss any opportunities. you are right where you’re supposed to be.”

That warmed my heart.

So, we’ll see, Internet. We’ll see.


Do you believe in psychics? Ever had a reading? How did it go?


Photo by Nina Leen, via LIFE photo archives for Google.


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New Year, New Shit

new years resolutions

So my boyfriend and I met up with some friends of mine, a married couple by the names of David and Anna. And David mentioned that I hadn’t updated my blog in a while.

And he’s damn correct.

Why is that? Why does my blog get the least attention? Well, I can answer that, Sherlock. Sir Benedict Cumberbatch. It’s because I write for so many other different blogs and outlets, that the blog gets pushed to the bottom of my list.

And that’s something I want to change.

Yes, that is a NEW YEARS RESOLUTION!!! (Or is it New Year’s, with an apostrophe? I could easily Google this, but I won’t, so someone tell me) post. And in classic Uncle Almie fashion, it’s late.

And thus, here are my New Year(‘?)s Resolutions. Certain ones, like “lose weight” and “get a flat tummy” are GONE, because they’re harmful. So is, “eat a taco with Kanye West”, because that’s also harmful.

My resolutions are:

  • blog more, on this very blog.
  • be less late.
  • be healthier.
  • be less lazy.
  • become a television writer (this is a big one.)
  • be more patient.
  • keep drinking wine (this is an easy one.)
  • overcome my fear of driving that I’ve developed, that I may blog about.
  • blog about my fear of driving.

Okay, so there we are. Easy enough when typed out, right? But the execution is harder, that’s the thing.

Every year I make an “end of the year video”, a video compiled of footage I took over the year. I think my favorite year is 2013, but here’s 2014:


2014 from almie rose on Vimeo.

If you want to see the others, click here. I’ve been doing them since 2011. You can have a mini film festival!

ANYWAY, those are my resolutions. How can I complete them? AND WHAT ARE YOURS? Let’s help each other!!

Oh PS HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAVID BOWIE!! IS THERE LIFE ON BARS??? (J/K I know it’s Mars, but I also know that there’s life on bars, too.)

Photo by LIFE Photo Archives for Google.

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The Weighing Is The Hardest Part


So I went to the doctor today, and I was dreading it for so many reasons. The first is, everyone knows doctors are scary. They’re like society’s acceptable bogeymen. They take your blood and judge your lifestyle. And this was my first time seeing this new doctor (thanks, Obamacare, for screwing with my insurance), and I was especially nervous. Thankfully, she was a doll.

But another secret reason that I was apprehensive about going to the doctor is that I know I’ve gained some weight, and I was afraid of being weighed. Yup, that’s something I’m ashamed to admit, but there you go. I told the nurse I didn’t want to know my weight, and she complied.

BUT THEN, I found out anyway, by mistake. I saw the number. And my heart sunk into my fat chest. This is the most I’ve ever weighed. It’s the highest that number has ever been. If it was a Donkey Kong score, I could be proud of that number. But it wasn’t. It was my weight.

How many times am I going to write about my body before I’m over it? I mean, really?

I don’t see men do this. In my entire life I have only once heard a dude say that he had to lose weight (and he totally didn’t, he looked great, honestly. I don’t mean “great” as in, “I don’t want to hurt this person’s feelings, so I’m going to use the word ‘great'” — I mean actually great.) Why am I so bothered by my weight?

I think a big reason is because I don’t understand why I gained weight. I exercise and I barely eat, because I take adderall, and it suppresses my appetite. (I want to go off the adderall, I hate it. I’m talking to my psychiatrist about how to do that, safely.) But it’s like, how is it just my luck to be the only person who GAINS weight while taking adderall?

I’m getting old, you guys. I think that’s the only thing that can explain it. When you get old, the weight is harder to come off than when you were a goddamn teenager. And it’s crazy, because when I was a teenager, I was also complaining about my weight. I was trying to remember when I first started to hate my body. It started in elementary school. I hated my body because I thought I wasn’t tall enough. Then in middle school, I hated my body because I thought my breasts weren’t big enough. Then in high school I hated my body because I didn’t think my stomach was flat enough.

Am I ever going to be done hating myself? How much more can I put myself through before I’m really, truly, done?

So I don’t know where to proceed from here. I can continue to hate my body or I can try loving it. I’m really good at helping others love themselves; I just can’t get myself to give in. I just did a photo shoot and I’m trying not to judge every single photo of me with unhelpful thoughts like, “Double chin here”, “Fat stomach here”, “Large thighs here.” I should instead be looking at the photos and thinking, “How cool that I did this photo shoot, I look awesome.” But it’s like Tom Petty said, “The weighing is the hardest part.” (Okay, fine, he actually says “waiting.” But I needed a pun, I need puns so badly.)

Has anyone on the planet successfully given up their body hate and welcomed the body love? I want you to tell me how you did it. Let’s just talk from our hearts.

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Love Your Boobs, Everyone Else Does

love your boobs

Ladies (and gentlemen), let’s talk about boobs.

Specifically, let’s talk about boob acceptance. Yes, I said it: boob acceptance. Because so many companies want us to feel bad about our boobs. The media is so ready to rate actresses based on cup size. Magazines tell small-chested ladies not to wear bandeau bathing suit tops because it’s not “flattering” — flattering, meaning, “big breasted”. (More on this later.)

There’s nothing wrong with having big breasts. And there’s nothing wrong with having small breasts, either.

Can we all agree that breasts are great? They feed our kids. As a mother, which I am not and probably never will be, I find that amazing. We’ve got baby restaurants in our bodies.

But when you’ve got small baby restaurants, you’re suddenly forced into thinking that you should have bigger ones. I went through a few years where I yearned for bigger breasts. I called my parents, crying, like a total brat, begging for breast implants. That’s probably one of my most shameful moments. I didn’t appreciate my body and all the great things it could do for me — I was upset because I didn’t have a C-cup.

Let me pause here and say, if you’ve got or are getting implants, that’s totally fine, too! I want you to love your body, and if you have the means and the ability, and you want to pump those suckers up, go ahead. Not my business.

I would just hate if you did it because you felt like you had to. You should never change your body for someone else, especially for just an idea of what someone else wants. You should love your body. And it’s damn hard sometimes, I understand.

When I saw an article in a major women’s magazine advising women what bathing suits to wear based on their cup sizes, I was annoyed. They took a beautiful A-cup sized woman, who was smiling and happy in her “before” photo, bandeau top and all, and put her in a padded bra in the “after” photo, with the caption, “FIXED!” What the hell needed to be fixed? Why shouldn’t she flaunt her small boobs? What is so offensive about small boobs? Why do they need to be “fixed”?

Do you know how hard it is to find a bra for my boobs that isn’t padded? It’s like the world is telling me I’m not good enough. (Though I don’t feel bad; I have a theory that hipster guys love small boobs.)

But I’m sick of it, I’m done. Yes, some of my bras are padded, and some of them aren’t. Sometimes I feel like having some artificial cleavage, and sometimes I don’t. And that’s my decision to make, and yours, too. There’s nothing inherently bad about push-up bras as long as they don’t make you miserable for what you don’t have. Because I see them as celebrating what I do have: they may be small, but they’re awesome, and sometimes, they get a little assist.

I’m not going to give a list of models and actresses who are smaller chested, because that’s silly, and the point isn’t to make everyone worship at the altar of Audrey Hepburn (whoops — okay, no more names). The point is to celebrate our breasts for what they are and aren’t. We’re too fixated on boobs. Back when I was shaming my body, my argument was that I needed implants to “make me more balanced.” Where the hell did I get that notion? My body isn’t a level that’s going to be used to hang a picture frame. Balance is all in your head. Proportion is all in your head.

So use your head and accept your boobs. I don’t care if you think they’re “too small” or “too big” or “too lopsided” or “too saggy” — they’re yours. Forever. Just love them already. Life is too damn short to hate your boobs.

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Writing this post is making me anxious, which is funny, because I’m writing about anxiety. I guess it’s funny in a Big Bang Theory way; I know I’m supposed to find it funny, and I don’t find it not funny, I’m just not laughing. That kind of funny.

I’m usually really upfront when it comes to writing about my personal life, as evidenced here and here and here. So I don’t know why this is so particularly difficult, but it is.

I suffer from anxiety. And it’s not the big things in life that make me anxious, like death or anything. Though I do get very, very anxious about my future and money.

No, it’s the little things, like…sigh…parking. Parking is the gigantic steel thorn in my soft sensitive side. If I go anywhere, the first thing I think about is parking.

And now that I’ve moved, it’s even worse. Because where I used to live, I had a guaranteed space behind my apartment. Now, I have street parking. And while I have a guest pass (until I get my parking sticker), which means I can park anywhere on the street, I am still terribly anxious, because the guest pass is only good for my block, which is about the length of a pixie cut. And if all the spaces are taken, I’m kinda outta luck. I’m afraid to leave my house. Thankfully, I work from home. But sometimes, I have meetings. And that means I have to give up my space. And that’s like asking me to die. It sounds so overdramatic — and I hate that word — and it is, and I know it is, but I also don’t, cannot possibly know.

It’s about the loss of control. I can’t control a guaranteed space on my block, the same as I can’t control my future and everything in my life, blah blah, therapist shit. I know that part. I know it’s not just the space. But it’s also the space. If I leave, there may not be a space when I get back. And then what? What will I do then? I get a horrible image of me driving around Los Angeles for hours, searching for a space that isn’t permit parking or street cleaning. I’m envious of South Park characters for their, “ample parking day and night”.

I’m a fucking mess over a parking space.

This is illogical, I know. And believe me, I’ve had people say to me, “Are you fucking kidding, get over it.” But when you suffer from anxiety and the things I do, it’s not that easy. I would love to be a normal person who doesn’t feel like they’re controlled by a parking space. I feel like a motherfucking alien who just landed on Earth and is learning the ways of its people. On Saturn, parking is everywhere, Earthlings. What have you done?

I know there are people in this world far worse off than I am. I’m not suggesting I have it the worst. I live in beautiful Los Angeles with great friends. I have both legs. Both legs! I have a fantastic boyfriend.

But I also have a flawed mind. My brain is out to get me. It finds things no one else would be anxious about, and it multiplies them. And it won’t leave me alone. It goes something like this:

BRAIN: “Did you put on the parking brake?”

ME: “Yes, of course, I always do.”

BRAIN: “But what if you didn’t this time?”

ME: “That doesn’t make sense, Brain, I always do. Ever since that accident.”

(Long story short, we lived on Mulholland Dr. when I was a kid, and the neighbors above us on the hill didn’t put on their parking brake and their truck rolled down the hill which crashed into a tree which crashed into our breakfast nook window where we were eating dinner. My brother fell to the floor. If I hadn’t gotten up to go to the bathroom, I could have died, as I was sitting right in front of the window. That story wasn’t very short, sorry.)

BRAIN: “But what if you didn’t, and your car crashed back into the car behind you which crashes into the car behind that one which crashes into the car behind that one and before you know it, you’ve ruined Los Angeles?”


BRAIN: “No, you.”


(Looks in window, parking brake is up.)

ME: “See? Told you, Brain, it’s FINE.”

BRAIN: “Get in the car.”


BRAIN: “Get in the car and make sure.”



ME: “What?”


And it goes on. And I get in the car. And the brake is fine. And I leave the car. And I go back to the car again, just to make sure.

I know, okay, I know: it’s just parking. It’s not possible that I’ll be driving around for hours without a place to park. That’s not how life works. Maybe that kind of shit happens to Werner Herzog, but not to me. I’m just a girl, standing in front of the Internet, asking it to love her.


Who else has anxiety? How do you cope? Let’s use this post to help each other.

Photo by me, via Instagram, @apocalypstick.

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10 Little Things We Can Do To Make Life Easier For Each Other

Loomis Dean

Louis C.K. has a bit he does where he says, “People don’t want to back off from their favorite thing. They won’t even do their second favorite thing.”

He describes someone screwing over entire lanes of traffic because the driver forgot to get in the left lane, so they cut over several lanes to make their turn before the light changes. “He just shoves his car through everybody’s life,” Louis snaps.

We have to stop doing things like this to each other. We’re all just going the best we can in life, and our best would be ten times more awesome if we tried to make the lives of people around us better, because as a result, our lives will be better. If everyone wants everyone else to be okay, then won’t we all be okay?

Here are 10 things we can do to make life easier for each other.

10. Have more patience while waiting in lines.
My local Vons supermarket is one of the worst places in the entire world. But I have to go there because I have to eat, and it’s close. Trader Joe’s is even more horrifying. So I go to Vons and I’m happy that I can afford food. Waiting in the lines at Vons is easily the worst part about the entire experience. There are never enough cash registers open. Sometimes the cashiers move at the speed of a kindergartener learning to tie their shoes. Sometimes the person in front of you has an avalanche of groceries and wants to pay in pennies. Whatever. That’s just life. Me sighing in annoyance isn’t going to make things go faster. I try not to do that because I hate when people do that to me. Like, oh, I’m so sorry I have to eat. Please forgive me for buying groceries at the grocery store. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking.

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This was taken around ’07 or ’08 before I dyed my hair dark. I remember when this was taken. I hated my body and thought I was fat, so instead of wearing a bikini and getting in the pool, I’m wearing track pants and posing goofily with a pool net. Being silly was my default. If I looked purposefully goofy then I couldn’t be scrutinized for my appearance. That was a very sad, very sick girl. I am now 10 – 12 pounds heavier than I was in this photo and I wish I looked as “fat” now as I did then. I’m learning every day and trying to be healthy and accept myself. If you have similar issues, please don’t listen to the voice in your head that tells you you’re not good enough. I wasted and missed out on fun because God forbid anyone see me in a bathing suit. NOT WORTH IT. I’m too fabulous. You are too!

(I originally posted this on Instagram and on my Facebook page and it seemed to get a big response, so I thought I would share it here too.)

More on body image:

A woman with curves.

Because I just don’t care anymore.

Mirror error. 


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