Tips for Your Interview With a Celebrity

Hiking here? Expect a fly-by from a LAPD chopper

Twice now I've interviewed to work for a celebrity, and I've learned a few things. Maybe you'd like some pointers for the next time you interview for a job working for a celebrity?

Be prepared to sign contracts before you even start talking about the job. For example, in preparation for my first interview with a celeb, I signed a stack of NDAs and vowed I would never speak about the movie star working next door. Nevermind the fact I never met the movie star next door nor would I ever. But, ya know, oaths of silence are the norm 'round these parts.

Be on time and ready to wait. The unofficial motto of the entertainment industry is "Hurry Up And Wait." It's a statement so heavy with truth, it's likely to be found on the backside of the world famous Hollywood sign.

While you're waiting, look pretty and KEEP YOUR PHONE STOWED AWAY. Why? Odds you're being filmed while you're waiting, especially if said interview is taking place in the celeb's home. Now is not the time to upload a photo of your potential new boss' coffin coffee table (true story!).

Don't expect a handshake. Or eye contact. Or a smile. A lot of celebs ain't into reaching out and touching the common folk. For example, on my last interview, I rose to greet the celeb and was immediately told, "Don't get up." Whatevs. I prefer to sit anyway.

Do expect some trash talk. But don't you dare be the one dishing it. This is a tough town, and people are amazingly candid with their opinions--positive and negative--of others. Your celeb may talk a little smack about your former employer; you, however, should just smile and nod. That's what I did, and it worked like a charm.

Whatever you do, remember the universe revolves around them.

Now, go get 'em! And please report back to me with stories. Goodness knows I've got them in spades.

Home for the Holidays (Whatever That Means)

The view at 10,000+ feet somewhere over Riverside County

The only annual holiday tradition I've managed to create and honor as an adult is traveling back to my parents' house for Christmas every December. My tradition is not unique. No, it appears I share this tradition with loads of other singletons. I see them waiting in the security line at LAX or stranded in Terminal D trying to balance Christmas gifts, laptops and giant coffee served in red cups.

What I've come to wonder is if these other singletons share my holiday experience--you know, after the ritual of traveling cross-country is complete. Do they also find their childhood bedroom has become a storage room / gift-wrapping station / gym / playroom for Princess the puppy? Do they--usually chatty with most any living being--find it hard to formulate conversation with childhood friends, now married and covered in the paraphernalia of children? Do they have an unusual desire for a large Manhattan with each and every meal?

Maybe it's just me.

At any rate, the holidays were lovely and rushed and full of dear ones. It was good to get back to Los Angeles with it's wild and apocalyptic sunsets. In LA, I feel a bit more myself, which is such a contradiction because if you saw me you'd never think I came from this particular city. I probably look way more Tulsa than LA.

The Big E

Well, I finally did it. I signed up for a paid online dating service. I've been on it for just over a week now, and--well, where do I even begin? Maybe you're wondering what prompted me to sign up at this stage of the game, so I'll start my funny tale there.

Being single is expensive and, at times, a little scary. You either have a tiny studio and live on your own, or you find a roommate so you can afford a place that actually has a kitchen and maybe a scrap of outdoor space. And then there's the fear factor: nary a single woman hasn't faced the fear of slipping in the shower, bonking her head on the floor--which of course would render her unable to move--only to be found weeks later by a landlord looking for their rent check. So, yes, you're right. My decision to sign up for The Big E was motivated in large part by my desire to have a kitchen of my very own and a night watchman.

Don't get me wrong; I have a wonderful roommate and a lovely kitchen at the moment, but all that concerns my beloved apartment is completely and utterly temporary. I am hesitant to hang anything on the walls because I know I will be moving at some point. I'm eager to have a bit more permanence in my life. I'd also like to consistently share memories with one person, instead of a smattering of friends spread all over the place.

All of this leads me to my little online profile and the seemingly desultory matches that have come my way. Already, just a week into it, I hate it. I suspected I wouldn't enjoy meeting people out of a catalog, and maybe this prejudice is why I dislike it so. Everything about the process goes against the grain of what makes me--me. Creating a slideshow of photos of yourself (Look! This one shows you how much fun I can be! And this one with the baby shows you what a natural I am with kids!) and writing brief blurbs of copy about your ideal match is downright embarrassing for me. And don't even get me started on the back-and-forth communication. It's so contrived and awkward and superficial, which is exactly what it should be.

But I've gone to enough singles mixers and signed up for countless volunteer activities in hopes of expanding my network only to find I've collected more girl friends. And as far as the men in my life, well it's safe to say I am firmly planted in the Friend Zone. Which is well and good and all. But guys don't seem to want to marry their friends these days.

So, I'm online and looking for love. It takes time, so I expect it to be a bit of a battle..err, I mean journey. In the meantime, I'm finding loads of material to share. Just wait until I tell you about S.S. Elisabeth.

A Loaded Question

I've been thinking about this blog a lot lately, specifically how my current schedule keeps me from it. I'd like that to change. So I'm looking into making a major adjustment in my life. Stay tuned.
Image found here.

The Life I Should Have Had

The latest edition of Southern Living arrived in my mailbox today. The cover was adorned with a gorgeous Thanksgiving spread; inside were testimonials of the life I should be leading back in my homeland. Married women, dressed in their Sunday best even though it’s only Tuesday, smile alongside their delicate mantle displays and open-planned kitchens. In another room, two perfectly groomed children do whatever perfectly groomed children do. Upstairs, The Catch watches football.

I probably should have worked a little harder to earn that life. To land The Catch and push out two perfectly groomed children. I should have a smaller waist and bigger diamonds in my life. My mother should live down the street—close enough to babysit but far away enough so as not to annoy The Catch. But I daydreamed through high school, and I focused more on planning for a career than planning for a wedding all through my college years.

So, this is the life I lead instead. In lieu of breezy porches gracefully extending from brick homes, I live in apartments without central heat or air. I’ve forgone streets lined with scrappy pine trees always dripping sap and chosen manicured streets accented with sycamores and coral trees. The air smells more of sage and that powdery sigh roses let out than of barbeques and freshly cut grass. The men here are too busy dating models to worry about finding a mother for an heir. This is the life I lead. And while it’s not gracing any slick magazine covers in my mailbox, this life is all mine.

Image found here. It's a really good issue with some very delish recipes.

Gorgeous Wallpaper for Your Desktop

Ah, Spring. You're just around the corner with your golden evenings, sprays of roadside flowers, lunches outdoors, and a version of Interstate 10 clogged up with sun worshipers looking for a patch of dirt by the sea. Spring in LA. It's just like summer but a little cooler and with less smog.

This lovely image can live on your desktop too, thanks to Shanna Murray.

iPhone Round Up (and my 100th post!)

This is the closest thing to a snow-covered tree I'll ever see in LA. And I'm OK with that.


Went to my first-ever roller derby match. Too bad the name Bombshell Betty is taken.


Grilled cheese truck = Heaven


Oh Land at the Troubadour. She was really good.


Kind of a genius idea for a Valentine.

Live From La La Land

For anyone who has been brave enough to spend a holiday in Los Angeles, I salute you. And then I ask, "What on earth did you do in LA?" and then maybe, "How did you get around?"

The City of Angels is scattered, cluttered, dirty, pristine, horrific and sublime. It's understandable when someone says they aren't fond of my current hometown, but one should never say LA isn't a lovely city. It is. You just have to know where to look. She's kind of shy that way. Unlike Paris, a city loudly proclaiming her beauty, sensuality and wonderment at every possible turn, Los Angeles is for those who prefer inside jokes.

And so I introduce you to some of my favorite parts of Los Angeles.

Urth Caffe, 6:30ish Friday Night


Peet's., 10ish Saturday Morning
Wow, they do good coffee.


Hollywood Sign by way of Laurel Canyon and Mulholland Drive, 11ish


The Alcove in Los Feliz, 1ish




Echo Park, 4:30ish


Hollywood again, 6ish



Chateau Marmont, look-like-you-know-what-you're-doing walk-thru, 7ish



Meltdown Comics, 8ish


Birds, dinner and making friends with the people at table next to us, 8:45ish


Amoeba Records, 10ish


Sleep, so we could conquer Santa Monica on a Sunday, 1ish

Pretty Much the Cutest Idea for a Wedding Cake Topper. Ever.

First, can I just say how much I love blogs? I learn so much and feel as though I travel to beautiful faraway places each time I check in with my favorite bloggers.

Saw the above image on A Cup of Jo, which is one glorious wee corner of the web. The image is originally from a blog called Sweet Paul. Apparently Paul is chasing the sweet things in life. Wise man, that Paul. Original post is here. Another gem from sweet ol' Paul and reposted by Cup of Jo is this clever idea.

I'm currently making a list of wonderful things to see and do in LA for my friend K. She visits next week, and I'm very excited. I'll share that list with ya soon. LA can be confusing and spread out and overwhelming, but it really is a lovely place to explore.

When The Weather Matches Your Mood

Heard it has been raining like mad back in L.A. Here in South Carolina, the skies are clear, and the air is cold. I've taken to wearing a big puffy coat from L.L. Bean with a faux fur collar around the hood. Anna Wintour would surely approve of the faux fur. For those who have never experienced L.A. in the rain, you've missed an interesting thing. People are on edge. Not the razor edge you find with the Santa Ana Winds, but a eery when-is-the-other-show-gonna drop edge. Or a this-is-cool-for-an-hour-now-when's-it-gonna-stop edge. For the few of us who absolutely love the stuff, rain is a welcome change from the sameness that is the climate of L.A. We don't have seasons, we don't have weather. We have climate. Dear Angelenos: it will pass soon. Promise. 'Til then, take this opportunity to curl up with a good book, slow down and maybe enjoy a warm coffee beverage from Coffee Bean/Starbucks and be joyful you aren't suffering thru chattering teeth and snow. See, there's a rainbow at the end of all this rain after all--you aren't in North Dakota.

Tomorrow I'm off to North Carolina to visit a dear friend from college and her brand new baby girl, Stella. Then I'll head to my grandmother's house. There's bound to be a river to pass over and woods to go thru.

Photo taken somewhere in the stretch of sea between Italy and Greece on a very windy day just before a terrible storm. A storm with apocalyptic rain, waves and wind. I was younger then and sulking about something. Probably about having my picture taken.

Window Into Another World

I found myself talking about The Satorialist several times over the past weekend. At one point, I commented on how alike the patrons of Intelligentsia in Venice and the people of The Satorialist, frozen forever on street corners, were. A quick scroll through the blog offers a glance at so many fascinating stories--snapshots of people taking risks, people making statements, people blissfully unaware.

The above picture has become a favorite, an image I share with just about anyone who comes by my desk for a chat. I adore that wee boy's half smile, the way he tugs at his shorts, the pom poms on his socks. He reminds me so much of all that I love about Madrid: the classic architecture, the vibrant personality of the city, and the constant juxtaposition of history and present-day.

Image found here and taken by this very talented gentleman.

When Workouts Don't Really Work Out For Ya

Yeah so this working out thing ain't so fun sometimes. And while it may not be fun, working out can sometimes be funny. Disagree? Allow me to tell you a little tale that involves myself (well, duh), Allison, and Chelsea. Allison and Chelsea work in my office. Allison was a professional personal trainer just a few months ago. Chelsea has youth on her side in a big way.

The setting: The Stairs In Santa Monica. As in, that's what people call them 'round these parts. (and also on the Travel Channel whenever some chirpy travel host comes to L.A. to film a segment on "Top Ten Places to See in L.A.!")

The time: Workout Wednesday. As in, that's what Allison and I call the one day of the week when we get together to workout. (usually this entails Allison exercising some mad athletic skill while I exercise my right to walk like a grandma at the mall.)

So we arrive at The Stairs In Santa Monica around 6:30--in the evening. I haven't completely lost my mind to go and climb these stairs in the morning. Here's an image, so you can visualize what I am referring to when I say The Stairs In Santa Monica


Yeah, so see how there are mountains? And a valley? Well, The Stairs In Santa Monica literally scale the side of a cliff. There are actually two sets of stairs--a wooden set of stairs and a concrete set of stairs. The wooden set of stairs has 189 steps (of torture). The concrete set of stairs probably have the same amount of steps with an added bonus, the concrete steps are steeper.



Most people climb the stairs a couple of times and then hang around at the top of the stairs, posing as though they are being photographed for the cover of Shape Magazine. It's actually quite ridiculous and pretentious. People do push-ups on the sidewalk. Trainers say things like, "Oh the shaking in your legs is good. If you feel like you're going to pass out, just sit in the grass and drink some water." Girls do yoga...in the grassy median...in the middle of 4th Street.

Allison, being a former trainer and all, can climb the stairs a half-dozen times without much problem. Oh, and she runs a half block after she climbs all 189 steps. Chelsea, thinking this was normal behavior perhaps, did as Allison did. I, on the other hand, climbed the stairs ONCE and then went for a walk.

I walked past the asphalt push-up competitions, beyond a clump of people huffing and puffing as they posed along the guard rail trying to look like they weren't about to die, and around a pair of yummy mummies yacking it up about a sale at Fred Segal. I walked to the only thing I'll really miss about L.A. when I leave again--the curve of the coastline from the Pacific Palisades to Malibu. I imagine what each of the lights dotting the hillside represents: a woman from East L.A. tidying up a kitchen the size of her studio apartment, plush leather couches, shiny Audis parked in a row, a family eating pasta around a giant wooden table bought from a fancy shop on Melrose, lazy dogs taking in million-dollar views on back porches. Sometimes I imagine I am far away from this city, maybe in the tiny village of Deia off the coast of Spain or soaking up Italy's Amalfi Coast.

I think this view is the reason I work out at all.

After my walk down Adelaide Drive, I see Chelsea emerge from the canyon red-faced and panting after 5 climbs up the stairs. Her legs are shaking like Jell-o, so she decides she needs to "walk it off." I take her back down Adelaide, towards the ocean. The view is so stunning you can't help but forget about the fear of your heart literally pounding its way out of your chest. Soon Allison joins us. She has climbed the stairs 6 times, she thinks. So the three of us walk around this make-shift outdoor gym on the edge of a canyon.

Now, this being L.A. and people being people, you are watching other people while they watch you. Women size other women up and men, well who knows who these men are sizing up. As Allison, Chelsea and I were walking back in the direction of our car, I watched the faces of three guys posing in workout positions. (I say posing because these guys weren't sweating a drop, hadn't climbed the stairs once, and looked like they would be more comfortable in front of an Excel spreadsheet than they would be in front of a stack of dumbbells).

First they saw Allison, the trainer in cute green shorts. Eyes boggle. Then they see Chelsea, the college student with youth on her side. Eyes boggle again. Then they see me--the chaperone in old yoga pants.


The line between The Palisades and Malibu

Hello, From the Friend Zone

This past Sunday, I saw a friend of mine named Michael. Our conversation went like this:

"Hey, Elisabeth."

"Hey, Dude!"

And that is why I am writing to you as a permanent resident of the "friend zone."

A Visit From the Sibs

My sister and brother are coming to visit on Friday. I anticipate we will do the following:

*Please note this list is not conclusive, is likely to change and will certainly involve some bickering*


Eat at In N Out. My money is on a trip to In N Out right after they land. Bless the person who thought to put an In N Out right.by.the.airport!


Try some delish Mexican food.


Go see a movie, preferably at the Landmark. That's my fave place to see a flick in this town.


Eat at In N Out again. My brother will demand it.


Have a treat at Pinkberry. I will demand it.


I'll point out all the people who are crazy as hell in this town. (Too soon for the MJ poster? My friend Alex thinks so but not me!)


Smog. Crazy people. Food from trucks. I'll introduce the sibs to another LA institution.


On my wish list: sushi at Katsuya. DELISH!


In N Out. Again. Because we can't pass the In N Out by the airport and say no.


The beach. 'Nuff said.

Also, we plan on taking in a Dodger game. I would say that we are planning on taking in a U2 concert, but that got postponed to who-knows-when.

Wow. My list includes a lot of food. Good thing today was workout Wednesday!

iPhoto Roundup

Two of my former co-workers got married a few weeks ago. The centerpieces were very nice, and mac n' cheese was on the menu. Delightful.


Me, waiting on a friend in the bathroom of the venue for the aforementioned wedding. It was a very "LA" place. The venue was called The Smog Shoppe because, well, it used to be a smog shop.


Now before you get all concerned and call me a klepto, know that the bride OK'd taking centerpieces home.


A different couple and a different wedding with one thing in common--delish food.


My dad thinks today should be a state holiday for California. The Dodgers play at home for the first time this season. Official start of long afternoons and crowded beaches.

The S Matters

It's funny how some people automatically assign nicknames to the people they meet. As in, during the first introduction. For me this usually looks like this:

Me: "Hello, it's nice to meet you. I'm Elisabeth."
Them: "Hi, Liz. It's nice to meet you, too."

What tha? Liz? First--the obvious fact that I have an S in my name and not a Z, but no one ever seems to notice that, so we will just move on from that point. Second--who told you that Liz was OK? What if I prefer Beth or Libby or Betty? We just met. Nicknames are terms of endearment and seeing that I just said we've just met, how are you that close to me to assign me a nickname?

And why do I care so much?

Well, I'm not the only one who cares about the spelling of my name or what I am called (nothing profane, please. my mom's reading this). I have several friends with names that are beautifully spelled-out in a way that isn't likely to be found on a plastic keychain at the mall. They, too, have issues with the whole I've-known-you-since-middle-school-so-why-are-you-still-spelling-my-name-wrong thing. They also struggle with the whole I-have-to-spell-out-my-name-every-time-someone-else-writes-out-a-name-tag-on-my-behalf thing.

Why does it matter? Because your name is unlike any characteristic you have. Your name is your identity in a crowd of complete strangers. Your name is like music on a radio station only your ear can tune into. Your name is the very essence of you.

Indulge me in a brief bunny trail, and I'll bring things back to this point. This morning I spoke in front of my church about the community group I am in. The thought of public speaking with a microphone makes my knees tingle even now as I think on the very act. I am not a professional speaker; I am not an actress (though everyone else in this town sure seems to be one); I did not ask to speak in front of two seas of blank faces staring right back at me (and occasionally yawning). But the topic was important to me, so I did it.

My community group was sort of an accident. I'm really not sure why I signed up to be in one. I guess I signed up because I was looking to make more friends at my church, to make more friends who share my faith, and probably to meet a guy who shares my faith. I feel like a complete oddball in this town, and I guess I was looking for a place where I wouldn't feel quite so odd. Whatever the combination of reasons, I am very happy I signed up. The friends I have made in this group have been such a treat. We haven't really met as a group for that long, but we have bonded in a sweet way rather quickly. It's like having a second-cousin in town. They aren't quite at the sibling ranking, but there is a comfortable level of familiarity that prevents me from feeling completely alone out here in this scattered city.

It's a lot of work to create and maintain community. It's a lot of work to show that you care for other people and to be their community. This is something that I am trying to be better at. Mind you, this goal isn't related to a New Year's resolution because I'm not doing those this year. It's more of a life goal, a trait I want to develop and groom for the rest of my life. I forget birthdays, I forget to email, I am selfish and talk about myself first when I meet a friend for coffee. But I try very hard to not misspell a name of a dear friend or in a professional setting. It happens, no doubt, and when it does I sternly remind myself of the correct spelling and vow to try harder next time. When it happens to me I feel an immediate unfamiliarity, as though I am in a relationship where I love him more than he loves me. It's not the end of the world though, so I just get over it.

Back to this morning. A good friend of mine sat next to me before I was to give my little talk the first go-round. She opened her bulletin as I fumbled for gum or a mint or whatever it was I fumbling for. She nudged my arm, pointing the bulletin. And there it was: Elizabeth

I thought: "Well, if I royally mess up I can just blame it on that girl, 'Liz.'"

Life Changes You. So Does Death.

My head is currently swimming with questions and sadness, and I don't want that to spill over this blog just yet. Instead, I am posting a story I wrote for a creative writing class that I just finished at UCLA. The assignment was to find a picture of a person we did not know and write a story about that image.
This is the photo I used:

The story I wrote is below, though the girl in my story is not the woman in the photo but someone finding her own two feet.

After Daddy died, Mama moved us three kids from Alabama to Minnesota so we could live with her Ma and Pa. We left our white house on Willow Tree Drive on a Friday morning and pulled in the driveway of Ma and Pa Regan’s on my 16th birthday, four days later.
Mama didn’t waste no time getting me and my sister in school. Sandra and I both started at Rawlings High, the same place where Mama went, just a day after getting to town. Little Tommy went to a grammar school across town.
I thought moving would be a good chance to change my name. All my life Mama and Sandra and everybody else called me Geraldine. I just hated it. So I thought I’d go by Gi-Gi instead. The name didn’t take at home, but the teachers didn’t know that.
There was a lot different about Minnesota. Sure we had winters in Alabama, but they were nothing like the miserable winters that come north. And the kids in the North ain’t at all like the kids in the South. They dressed a little better up there, and they all talked like they read dictionaries before bed every night. They hardly ever said please, and they weren’t polite about gossiping. In Mobile we’d at least wait until you were around the corner before starting in on the name-calling. My first few days at Rawlings, I caught hell because of the way I talked. Then the kids started in on me about my clothes. After that I stopped paying any mind, and I ate my lunch in the library.
It was like that for about four months, I guess, when one day a girl in my Biology class asked me if I wanted to sit with her at lunch. I thought, “My stars!” and tried not to grin like that Cheshire Cat. The girl’s name was Judith, and she had a strange way of talking too. I sorta frowned when she told me she was from Maine because that meant she was a Yankee, but I was so happy to have someone to talk to, I was willin’ to overlook that.
Judith and her friends smoked, colored their hair, and kissed boys in the janitor’s closet. Smoking wasn’t so bad once you got used to the sweet tobacco scratching at the back of your throat. And I’d always wanted to be blonde like Marilyn Monroe. Try as I may, though, I always felt like I was tagging along. Boys didn’t take a shine to me like they did to the other girls, and I only smoked at school. Mama woulda smacked the fire out of me if she caught me smoking in the house. So I wore more eyeliner than any other girl, and I kept quiet.
One afternoon, Judith talked a couple of us girls into cutting class. We went to Conrad Department Store to try on fancy hats and gloves. Usually bracelets and rings were behind a glass case, but that day there was a tray of sparkly stuff sitting out on the counter. I saw the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen—a ring with a pearl sitting right on top. I rubbed my thumb over the smooth pearl and watched how it disappeared under my palm.
I could hear Judith hoopin’ and hollerin’ over near the belts, so I went to join her. It was about that time that a man pressed his claw of a hand into my shoulder and boomed out, “Young lady, just what do you think you’re doing?”
Judith and the others stared at me wide-eyed and pale for a split-second before running off.
At the police station I had my fingers smashed in ink and my picture taken twice—one looking in the direction of a secretary typing away at a little desk and another looking right at the camera. The police didn’t really talk to me, just at me. A detective named Mr. Falls told Mama that I was probably doing it for attention—what with the move from Alabama and Daddy’s passing, but that weren’t true.
For once, I just wanted to keep a little something beautiful for myself.