Category Archives: Los Angeles



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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Shopping Local In Los Angeles


I try to shop local, I really do. This is mostly because I used to work at a local, independent store in Los Angeles a few years ago that despite being around since the 1990’s, had to sadly close.

Working in retail comes with its own set of challenges, some of which I wrote about here. I think anyone in retail will tell you that sometimes, the customers are the worst part of the job (sorry, customers! I understand, I am one sometimes!). But I loved the store. The idea behind the store was like a real-life Etsy. It was divided into different sections/booths. Each section had its own vendor/artist. Each vendor/artist rented their own section and sold their work. Work like jewelry, clothing, housewares, art — that kind of thing. All artists/vendors were LA local. Sometimes they would come into the store. We would have street fairs.

When I bought something from that store (and most of my paycheck went right into the store), I knew EXACTLY where it was going. I knew it was going to the artist, and that made me happy. One of my all-time favorite purchases was a heavy sterling silver skull ring I named Keanu. It SO was NOT my style AT ALL, but for whatever reason, I had to have it. And I was happy to buy it knowing where exactly my money was going.

LA is freaking huge, and it’s getting harder and harder to find those supercool Portlandia-type independent stores and restaurants. Unless you live in the supercool area of Silver Lake/Los Feliz that I do. Before I moved here, I would make so much fun of this neighborhood. But now, living here, I love it. I can walk almost everywhere. That’s a crazy talent in LA. To be able to WALK to get to places. And I’ve discovered so many wonderful essential stores, all owned independently, all part of the local community (the essentials being clothing, records, and liquor. But I’m sure you figured that out).

So I urge you to shop local. Sometimes I shop at the farmer’s markets — I’m lucky enough to have 2 within walking distance. I realize not everyone is as fortune, but if you are, dude. You probably see them every week and think, “Oh next week, yeah, I’m totally gonna go. I’m gonna wear my cutest outfit and go to the mother effin’ FARMER’S MARKET and Instagram the HELL out of EVERYTHING!!!” and then the day comes and you don’t go because you’re “busy.” I do that too. But one day, they may not be there.

Do YOU shop local/independent? Why or why not?


How do you make your money matter? You can find out more at, which is one of the cooler websites I’ve seen, in terms of many things but especially animation and graphic design. Start local. Join your local credit union. Keep your money in your community. Make your money matter.

This post is sponsored by Make Your Money Matter, in association with PSCU, though all views expressed are my own.
Photo credit: me, @apocalypstick.


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Malibu Wedding.

sunset beach malibu

Once I accidentally went to a Malibu wedding. Sort of. My friends and I decided to spend a day at the beach. Living in Los Angeles, one gets spoiled and treats the beach as though it was another Starbucks; a sort of, “Oh, yeah, it’s everywhere, it will always be there.” At least my friends and I do, not being surfer types and not having beach houses of our own. So one day we thought, right, this exists, let’s hang out there. We sat on a Harry Potter blanket and discreetly drank wine coolers while we watched a fat man play volleyball with another fat man. They seemed to be having a good time.

After that, we all got stuck on the idea that we simply had to go to Moonshadows. Moonshadows is the restaurant where Mel Gibson famously got arrested and let a beautifully horrendous tirade spew forth. The infamous “The Jews are responsible for all the wars in the world” and “What are you looking at, Sugar Tits” the greatest hits of Gibson all happened just down the beach from us. We thought perhaps we’d get a drink from their lounge but as the responsible and decent adults that we are, because we are not Mel Gibson, and if you are around Mel Gibson and he is around alcohol, you should just save everybody time and call the police. By the time you hang up the phone he’s going to be cursing Jews and stomping on houseplants like he’s King Kong all the while panting and screaming.

We made it into Moonshadows, feeling very grown-up, which is different from feeling very adult. We didn’t feel, “Ugh I wonder how much valet is going to cost and how much these drinks are going to cost” or anything of that nature. We felt, “Man, we look so cool. Are we allowed to even be in here? This is like being in a Bret Easton Ellis novel.”

And then it really got into Bret Easton Ellis territory. We’re sitting at a small booth and to the left of me is a very cool old woman. Cool in a different cool than we were. She was an established, kooky, “Fuck it, I’m old” cool. I noticed the owl pendant hanging around her neck. I told her much I liked it. She seemed thrilled by this. I really adored her. I thought she looked familiar but maybe I just wished I knew her.

Then it started. That beautiful pop new wave sound, with bittersweet undertones, all in earnest, of “The Promise” by When In Rome. And a bride and groom were dancing. It all happened very suddenly. The song, perhaps a dimming of lights, the swelling of joy — this was their moment, they must have planned it. And they’re dancing in the middle of this lounge, mouthing the words to each other, blissed out of their minds. I stared at them, respectful, slightly confused, but quietly enthusiastic. They saw me and smiled. The groom looked into my eyes, and said, with more joy in one sentence than I’ve heard in hundreds, “I’m marrying my best friend.”

My cynicism halted. I smiled back. I promise you, I promise you I will was all I heard and all I saw. Later my cynism about marriage would return, replaced with a bitterness once I watched helplessly as divorce took another marriage away, all the while with me stubbornly refusing to ever get married, ever.

I do want to get married. I don’t know if I want to marry my best friend. I’m still unsure about that idea. That the person you marry should also be your best friend. But that’s not important right now.

Ever since that night, I’ve fallen in love with that song. I hear it and even though I’ve forgotten what the couple looks like, I see them dancing, laughing, holding onto each other, have an occasional goofy moment, lip-synching, smiling endlessly.

I was so full of joy that I asked the kooky old woman next to me if we could take a photo with her. She seemed shocked and said, “Really?!” I said definitely. “Let’s go outside,” she said. She had a friend with her. “Do you know who that is?” she asked me. I paused. Yes, I knew now. “Phyllis Diller?”


And yes. She was.

“You made her night,” her friend told us. “She made  ours,” I said.

We took more photos, got into the car, and drove with the windows down back to where we once belonged. I looked at the ocean and in my head, over and over, If you need a friend don’t look to a stranger. You know in the end. I’ll always be there…I promise you. I promise you I will.

And that’s how I accidentally went to a Malibu wedding. Sort of.


The Promise by When in Rome on Grooveshark


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You’re in a new town.

empire state building nyc

Photo by me.

I am now certain that I miss New York city, though it’s sweaty as monkeys in a suitcase out here. Before I can even make it outside I’m all balmy and my hair is limp. I love this city, but jeez New York, calm your tits.

Here’s where my inner Patrick Bateman comes out: you’ll know I’ve given up on life if I move to Brooklyn. I do not adore Brooklyn. It’s far and empty and spooky at night and nothing is open and there’s no cabs. And hark, nature’s cruel joke — all of my friends, save one (love you Kelly) have moved to Brooklyn since I was last here. Which was only a year ago. All of them. Just the whole lot, off to Brooklyn. My dad lives in Manhattan. Do you not understand my unyielding pain here? I’m faced with a long subway ride or a $20 cab fare. This is debilitating and even thinking about it makes me want to place one of my childlike chubby fingers to my temple and let a single tear fall from my sweaty cheek.

I get it — Brooklyn is cheaper than Manhattan. At least that’s what you’re all telling me. Though I’m not convinced. But some of you insist that you live in Brooklyn because Brooklyn is better, which is hilarious. That’s like insisting that “Home Alone 3” is the best of all of the “Home Alone” films. Don’t insult me, comrade.

Yes, I am an asshole. I totally get that. But Oh My Kanye I hate having to haul ass to Brooklyn. You’re all worth it, I’m not saying that. But there’s nothing nearly as awesome where you live that we couldn’t do here in Real New York. Trust me, we can find your beloved independent vegan coffee guitar store here in the city. Your homemade soda shop/tattoo parlor. Your 80’s themed organic whiskey bar. We have those here too. I swear. And we have more. And we have transportation that will take you there.

Again, I’m an asshole.

And I live in Silver Lake/Los Feliz so I get it. I get wanting to live in a cool area where you can walk everywhere, where all your friends live, and where rent is cheaper than somewhere else more glamorous. I’m being a dick and a half, because where I live I can rent a one bedroom for half of what you rent in NYC for a studio. New York rent is crazy. So we all do what we can, and we’re all lucky to live in any of these places.

It’s really hot here.

I’m all not all cynical snobbery though. I’ve had some very lovely evenings in Brooklyn since I’ve been here. Very wonderful. Magical, even. Like Truman Capote shit. I love all of you BK friends. I just wished you lived closer. So, literally and figuratively, come at me.


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Is catcalling ever okay?

cat paint

A while ago I wrote a piece for my blog titled “Stop hitting on me” that people both praised me and critized me for. I think the criticisms came from people thinking I was bemoaning how hot I am and how I’m sooooo sick of male attention. Not even close. I don’t think that and that isn’t what I was trying to say. I probably should have titled the post “Stop harrassing me.” That is closer to the point of the article. Anyway, if you don’t feel like reading it, the post is about how rude and upsetting it can be when strange men harrass young women when all we’re doing is minding our own business. We should be able to walk down the street without a stranger commenting on our appearance. Doesn’t matter if the man in question is young or old. It comes off as creepy and disrespectful.

But. But. A few nights ago I had an experience with catcalling that did not make me feel degraded. It actually made me feel…happy. Attractive. Confident. Is this wrong and hypocritical?

I’ll explain the situation.

I don’t often like going to parties alone. I’ve written about the subject and on my blog and on Hello Giggles about how it’s okay to go alone and have a kick-ass time, but on occasion I feel overwhelmingly shy and not good enough. The event I went to last night was a gathering of beautiful people and hosted by one of my all time favorite film directors/artists and usually this doesn’t bother me, in that, I’m born in LA and have lived here my whole life, so who cares about celebrities, but given the drama that’s happened lately, I felt kind of small. And I’m really embarrassed, even ashamed, to admit that. Though I eventually met up with the awesome person who invited me, I had to go in alone and be there alone for about 40 minutes. But once I got in there I was okay. And here’s why.

I was waiting on the corner in my dress and lipstick and heels pretending to be busy on my iPhone determining if I should go in alone. I felt like a dweeb. Just very shy and not at all confident. I’m doing nothing with my phone and a car is at a red light near me. I don’t notice it until the man inside rolls down his window and says something like, “Excuse me, miss.” I’m thinking, “Okay, here we go.” And he says, “You have the perfect body.” And I’m stunned. I’m about to attend a party where there are size 0 actresses who look stunning like a ray-gun. I do not think I have even close to the perfect body. He went on. “I’m not trying to be weird or hit on you, but I muted my phone call just now, put them on hold, I had to tell you. You look so good.”

And I almost cried. I know. I’m apalled. But I needed to hear it, and he was so kind about it. “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you so much.”

“No problem. You look great. Really.” Then the light turned green and he drove off.

Maybe my perception of body image is warped, and by maybe I mean, 100% completely is. I was surprised to receive this compliment from a strange man. And yes, I was flattered.

Am I screwed up? What do you think and what’s your experience been like?


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almie rose child actor apocalypstick

My nana still keeps my childhood headshot framed in her room. Solidarity.

I have no regrets. Sometimes I need to constantly remind myself of this, because it’s easily to slip into that terrifying moment of, “Oh shit, I’ve ruined my entire life with that one decision.” And that’s ridiculous and I know that. I need to feel good about my decisions, and if I made one I didn’t like, I have to say, “Ob la di ob la da, life goes on” and not worry about. That’s how I want to do things.

For a while though, I did have one regret. I thought about what I would do if I had the chance to do it over. I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t quit acting at six years old.

I was a fairly successful child actor. Not famous by any means. But I did some commercials that paid very well. National commercials pay very well, you’d be surprised. My big hit was a commercial for Clarion liquid makeup. No, it was not makeup for children. This was one of those artsy commercials. It was shot in black and white, in a deserted street, with a model walking down it. Then it cut to me standing against a wall. I think I was standing next to a little boy. Cut to the model. Cut to a slow close up of my face. Boom. Clarion liquid makeup.

Those few seconds of standing against a wall set me for most of my life. The shoot was very long, so long that I was late to my own birthday party. But so worth it.

I loved acting. My entire life I thought I would be an actor. I went to a lot of auditions. But apparently one day, I threw a fit, and I told my mom I had enough. I don’t remember this. I have a pretty good memory of that time. I remember I was a total dick in an audition because I wanted to play with my friend Katie and didn’t want to be there. My mom was the total opposite of a stage mom, so as soon as I told her I wanted to stop she jumped away, hands in the air, saying, “Okay! No problem, we’re done.”

I don’t know why I did that. I was a kid. Kids are stupid. Kids don’t think in the long run. I need to be easier on myself. But I was on a roll. I got cast in a sitcom starring the mom from “Home Improvement” and some famous dude. Then that show fell apart when the mom from “Home Improvement” decided to do “Home Improvement.” Bitch.

Though I stopped acting professionally, I kept doing it. I was in every high school play. I wrote my own plays in elementary school, high school, and college. I went to acting classes and casting workshops. I loved acting. But I couldn’t catch a break. “I’m born and raised here, shouldn’t it be way easier for me to get into this industry?” I always wondered. But connections fall through. I would kill it at an auditon only to be told, “We need a name, but you were great.” I got meeting with agents who said things like, “Come back to us when you’ve done more work” (how the fuck am I supposed to get more work without an agent?) and one who told me, “The bridge of your nose is very straight and narrow, I would think about that.” I thought about it and determined that she was an asshole.

One day I came to a conclusion. I could struggle to get auditions for shitty projects that two casting directors in a room would see, or I could make my own videos my own way that thousands would see. It was an easy choice. Fuck the industry. All you actors out there, I encourage you to do this your way. Keep going to auditions if you want to, but do your own thing. Use the internet to your advantage. We’re lucky to be in this era. The internet is your friend.

Every once in a while I wonder what my life would be like if I hadn’t quit when I was six. Would I be a famous actor now or a has-been? Or none of the above? Things are working out for me pretty well, but every now and then I feel a pang of jealousy when I see “my type” getting roles that I could have gotten. That episode of “Mad Men” where Megan explained to Don why she had to quit her successful job to peruse her dream of acting really got to the heart of me. I understand, Megan. I understand.

What would you do-over if you could?


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I was compensated for this post as a member of Clever Girls Collective. All the opinions expressed here are my own.


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Moving Home

cute couple

Today I bring you a guest post from a lovely blogger I met via the Bloggers In Sin City conference. Her name is Jenna Britton and she’s generally awesome. Enjoy!:

I moved home to Los Angeles from San Francisco in May 2009 and it felt a bit like failure.

I was still smarting from the pain of a nasty and recent breakup just months earlier, and days upon moving home I found out that my former love had already married (yes, MARRIED) someone else.

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