Claymation

It was a surreal moment in my ordinary life to be flipping channels late on Friday night and see my own face fill up the screen, thinking, "Oh god, not again."

This is the story of how China's treasured Terra Cotta Warriors took over my life...

In April I got called into the head honcho's office and told that the company was going to sponsor an exhibit of the Terra Cotta Warriors at a museum in Orange County. It was just going to be him and me working on it apparently, and since he is ridiculously busy, that meant it was mostly just going to be me. It sounded like the first few weeks of preparation would be stressful and then as the exhibit continued through the months the sponsorship would likely maintain itself.

Wrong. WrongWrongWrong.

I won't bore anyone with recounting exactly all that has gone into this new chunk of my job, but will say that at only 27 years old, I have spotted a few gray hairs. And I know that those damn warriors are to blame for at least half of them. The major projects involved have been the press conference before the exhibit opened, a membership-drive program on PBS - complete with a company commercial - and 2 private events at the museum and with the warriors for 600 guests.

The PBS stresser was back in June. A group of us went to the station for the filming of the program and sat in the back with headsets and computers taking pledges. I talked to a couple of oldies who called in and cringed when the commercial came on, hoping that I hadn't messed it up somehow. I genuinely wasn't paying attention to what the camera was ever pointing at and later learned that for about 10 seconds too long, it was directly pointed at me adding its infamous 10 pounds. When I got home later that night and watched the recording I was horrified. I kept pausing it on my round face, watching as I tried to calm down some old bitty who didn't want to pay the shipping fee on the free stuff she was getting in return for her pledge. (Christine would later refuse to believe that there was actually anyone on the phone and insists that I am really just a horrible actress.) That night I consoled myself with the thought of, "At least it's only on PBS. It will air a few more times and no one will ever have to know about it."

A couple of weeks later Christine answered my call in laughing hysterics. She had been flipping channels and flipped right by my face. Now she was wiping tears out of her laughing eyes. So much for no one else knowing about it. Sigh... The last media report from PBS informed us that the program had aired almost 80 times. So much for it only airing a couple of times and then disappearing. Double sigh...

In a few days we'll have our second event at the museum. The first one almost killed me. At the end of the night, after all of the guests had gone, I wandered into the exhibit hall and was alone with the warriors. I was so exhausted that I was barely keeping up on wobbly legs, but I wobbled around and stared at each of their stoic faces. The whole time remembering how I'd first heard of them after Laura went to China on spring break when we were 16. The discovery of thousands of clay life-sized soldiers buried underground had sounded so... unbelievable and fascinating. Now, here we were. Me and them, face-to-face. An arm's length away.

Quite honestly, I'm getting a little sick of them. I've thought about them too much. I know more about them than I ever thought I would. And they may be leaving California in October, but they'll be sticking with me for a lot longer than that. The company plans on sponsoring their entire tour across the country... so Atlanta, Houston, D.C., here we come.

But on a Friday night as I'm contemplating turning in and mindlessly flipping channels, there they are again. There I AM again. Guh! There is no escaping them. They've followed me into my own living room. They're over 2,000 years old...they're made of clay... and they've totally taken over my life. Bastards.

My sound and my fury

During my recent absence from this little space of mine, I actually had started to write many a post. Then I hit delete. On all of them. They were all just me ranting and raving, bitching and whining - and I am sometimes aware that the world is in no need of hearing anymore negative crud. I will continue to try and confine my negativity to those lucky enough to actually speak to me. Lucky, lucky listeners with glazed over eyes and bleeding ears.

So last night I reacquainted myself with neglected little All I Know Is This and read as many old posts as my internet connection would allow. Then I came into work today and during a space-out-and-stare-at-the-wall moment my own words were swirling around in my head. It was then that I looked over and saw a William Shakespeare quote that I have displayed next to my monitor…

“Life is a tale told by an idiot… full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

Old Willie and I must have been buds in a past life of mine. And then I apparently annoyed him one too many times and he called me an idiot.

So, welcome to my ongoing tale. Judging by my excessive whining, it is indeed full of sound and fury and likely does signify absolutely nothing. But it entertains my parents and Willie is long gone, so why stop now?

Blowing hot air

While parts of the country are starting to feel the cool of Fall and other parts are being pummeled by hurricanes...here in Southern California summer rages on. It's hot. Oven hot. So hot that it makes this look completely enjoyable.


There's no such thing as acting like a dignified lady when the heat is on full blast. In my case though, weather has never really factored in. Lady? What lady?

Californian geography

The fact that there's some truth to this made me laugh... and so, I had to share. Of course.





I live in the land of Awesome, am originally from Canada (apparently) and this fall will be headed to a wedding in Coffee.

Sick, sick, sick

A co-worker of mine recently pushed out a baby.

Life changing? Yes.
One of the most significant moments of one's life? Absolutely.
All-consuming? Should be.

Three hours after GIVING BIRTH she was calling the office from her hospital bed to check up on work. There is something disturbingly wrong about that.

So mature

I came across this picture tonight while digging through files on my computer.

And I was particularly struck by the fact that Paige is more than double the age she was when this was taken 2 years ago.

She's grown up. Quickly.

Me? Not so much.

A long, long time ago...

Nine years ago today I put on a cap and gown and graduated from high school with my girlfriends in tow.

Since then, all 5 of us spent time studying abroad... at least 7 universities were attended... multiple jobs have been had... 2 weddings... 2 baby boys... 1 law degree... 1 soon-to-be veterinarian...

Not bad for a group of girls who graduated from public school in Stillwater, MN. I just can't believe it's already been 9 years.

What would my 1999 self think of me now? She'd definitely wonder how the hell I ended up in L.A., a city I never even wanted to visit, breathe in or fly over.

What would your high school self think of you?

This one's for you

You know who you are.

Last night I called you a butthead and you laughed. And that's one of the reasons why after 16 years of being friends I still love you with all my heart.

August 8 is closing in

I heart the Olympics. Especially the summer Olympics. Swimming, gymnastics, beach volleyball, synchronized swimming, soccer, diving, water polo and the completely quizzical rhythmic gymnastics... yes, bring it on. These are sports that I love to watch and that are often hard to come by unless it is the blessed 4-year mark of the Olympics. Woo. Hoo.

My all-time favorite athlete (the type where you Google News his name to see if anything of note has been going on lately) had the audacity to retire last year. In his early twenties. My allegiance will now have to shift from Ian Thorpe to Michael Phelps. We all must come to terms with it; we all must continue on with our lives. The Thorpedo would want it that way.

And in following Ian's spirit of always moving forward and trying something new... Teen and I have spent a couple of sunny days at the beach recently with a volleyball. Turns out, the tablespoon-full of skill I acquired back on the seventh grade team of wusses who ran from the ball has been completely diluted over time. After our first go at it, I had sand in crevices I never knew existed and my arms were so horrendously bruised that for a week after I could see strangers fighting back the urge to encourage me to get out of that abusive relationship. You can teach an old gal new tricks though, and we're going to keep getting better... because it's summer and we belong at the beach... plus, the sight of the other one flopping into the sand never fails to entertain, meaning we keep going back for more.

This last weekend we slathered on the sunscreen and headed for the AVP Tour in Hermosa Beach. We were ready to watch the pros in action...ready to be inspired...ready to see some real, live Ken Dolls soar through the air to spike the ball over the net in the manliest of fashions. Happily all of those pre-set hopes came to fruition, and even better, the team that had me glued to the TV in 2004 with my eyes inexplicably welling up with tears was also there for my viewing pleasure.

Yes, when Teen and I bought tickets for the women's semi-finals and finals, we had no idea that the gold medal winners from Athens would be there. Kerri Walsh and Misty May Treanor pretty much put the rest to shame. Trying to compare them to Teen and me... well... imagine a baby giraffe strapped into roller skates versus a cheetah charging across the Serengeti. It's worse than that.


Good thing we weren't trying to compete, but instead were just spending a gorgeous day being fans. Fans who wished that the shirtless foreign wankers in front of us would stop using their uber-zoom lens to take pictures of the silicon-injected Corona girls on the sidelines...

Olympic fever is on the rise. Are you ready?

Remember me?

Back at my computer with a glass of red wine and an open window letting the night air waft in... Tonight, for the first time in a few weeks, I can feel myself starting to come out of the fog. My eyes are roaming, more than darting. And I'm breathing slowly in time to some airy Azure Ray song humming out of the speakers.

Home...

Today I was asked by someone of importance, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I immediately responded with, "I don't want to grow up," which is both completely honest and a way of darting the question, because, really...who does? Who are the people who can answer that with certain conviction? Especially if you work in Corporate America? WHO is the dolt who responds with, "I want to be a Sr. Director of Marketing Communications. It's my reason for getting out of bed in the morning." I don't want to know that person. That person doesn't know that the Roger Rabbit is simultaneously the most ridiculous and fabulous dance move ever. It is - and I'm quite good at it.

When I grow up... I want to be an environmentalist and a tap dancer. I want to design jewelry and write a book. I want to go to Italy with nothing on the agenda other than to eat, drink and see it all. I want to take more surfing lessons and vent my frustrations by throwing paint onto a blank canvas. I want to model Manolo Blahniks and be a world-class chef. I want to travel from Antarctica to Iceland and everywhere in between. I want to spend my birthdays skydiving and swinging in a hammock tied to 2 palm trees. And sure, I want to tackle the corporate world too, but marketing doesn't sound like much fun compared to the rest of it. (Well, maybe being an environmentalist isn't fun, but it is important. So there.)

I don't want to have to decide today. The fog is still in mid-lift and I feel the need to treat myself gently during the evenings and weekends, because weekdays are nothing but a battlefield. Tonight I just want to sip my wine, resolve that I will try my hardest to not let my little blog go unattended for almost 3 weeks ever again, and watch the finale of Step It Up & Dance, to which I have been hopelessly devoted. It makes me clap...when I'm alone.

And even if it's my wishful daydreams making me clap, at least I'm clapping and smiling - genuinely - at something. I wish the same for you.