My 2007 Prius, Touring Edition, is saving the environment, but killing me.

I’m just not sure what I was thinking when I cobbled together 3,000 American dollars and convinced that credit union that blew up last year to spot me the rest. My car payment is more akin to rent. And I’m a work-from-home writer– I only go out-of-doors to scrounge for food, and I walk to the supermarket. So, instead of hanging my head in fiscal defeat, I invented Transport System 2.0:

Step 1. Sell Prius.
Silver Prii are like blondes, they’re everywhere and everyone wants to be in one, so this was super easy thanks to Craig and his magical List. Step two of step one was giving this money directly to said bank, which either needs to change its name to Bank of Bosnia or spend my dollars on walls.

Step 2. Buy The Cheapest/Coolest New/Old Wheels Possible.
I considered what my dream used car would be. It took me about 37 seconds:

the Year? 1982. That’s like, vintage! It’s sort of indisputable that this is the best car ever made. The only way it could be better is if it was read: Le California Car.
Finding one was a bit harder cause no sane person would give one of these babies up, but I sleuth’d a mint one in Hawaii. So, 1,500 dead presidents later (500 for the car and 1,000 for shipping) Le Car was Le Mine.

Step 3. Le Driver
With all these Prius Bucks I’m now saving every month, I can afford to hire a chauffeur.
Whenever I want to go out, which is never, I roll over to the Home Depot, TM, and pick up a day laborer. Preferably one with a valid driver’s license. But I’m not picky, basically the guy that smells the best wins (it’s a small car).

Step 4. Enjoy Life From The Back Seat.
Or out the sunroof! LA is pretty to look at! Driving is hard work! I never need to valet!
I’m not one of those assholes who gets car sick, so it’s also free reading time! And there’s nothing like the look on people’s faces when I roll up to Area/Hyde/LAX (club & airport), Jesus/Jose/Juan gets out, walks around the car, opens the passenger door, tilts the seat forward, and helps me out. And for ten bucks an hour, I can go out twenty-five times a month for two hours atta time and it’d still be a savings!

Update: I’ve converted Le Car to Bio-Diesel, so while I’m “out” my driver goes in search of grease!

Wanna work less at work? Regret giving your boss your cell phone number? Trying to get ahead in a dress-for-the-job-you-want-not-the-job-you-have type environment? Follow these six tips written in the blood of my enslavement and you’ll have way more off-site time, lose those last ten pounds, and your own office/assistant/expense account in no time*:

1. Gift Of Life.
Have a kid. Don’t actually have a kid, please. But find yourself a pre-existing one that you can exploit. Ironically, even if you’re single and everyone thinks it was unplanned, you’ll look real responsible due to your being in charge of another human person AND extra easy. It’s gonna cost you a little upfront, cause you have to initially claim him or her as a dependent and then recoup that money at tax time, but the benefits you will reap make it worthwhile. Breeders get away with tons of shit. No one can really say “No” when you have to leave early cause your kid is “sick” or you have a “parent-teacher conference” or day care is “closed pending investigation.” When people procreate they also buy cameras so photographic documentation is key. You should also pretend to be really really into it, so tack up photos often and all over.

2. All The Cool Kids Are Doing It
Smoke. Don’t actually smoke, please. But get yourself one pack of cigarettes (Virginia Slims, Pall Malls, Kools ,whatever) and own it. When a smoker is frustrated, cranky, or bored, they are never refused a 10-15 minute smoking break. But you can’t just ask for some air. These guys get to act like assholes AND go outside. If you get two breaks a day, five days a week, for one year, that’s a one hundred thirty hour savings of reclaimed time straight back to you! The trick is to establish yourself as a lone wolf smoker, find your own secret smoking spot, and if anyone asks you why you don’t smell like BBQ Lung, tell them you’re just really good at it.

3. Jake In Progress
Therapy. You probably should do this, but even if you want to keep that unhealthily low self-esteem, misogyny, or eating disorder, tell your HR representative otherwise on day one and establish an Outstanding Shrink Appointment. Every week. Which just happens to fall mid-day. If you want to go pro, pick a brain doctor that’s on the other end of the LAiverse so there’s no time to come back to the office afterwards. Sign up for that UCB class!

4. Age Crimination
No matter how old you are, be over thirty. Just trust me on this.

5. Y/N
No matter what is asked of you, always say, “Yes” with your mouth and, “Fuck You” with everything else.
Example: “Hey Seth, Big Jenny clogged the ladies bathroom again. Could you roll up those Thomas Pink sleeves and-”
“Yes.”
If at all possible, muster up a smile, too! I’m not saying you should actually DO the work. Just say yes. Everyone loves a yes man.

6. Salt N Peppa
Go grey. Even if you just take some whiteout to individual strands of hair. Nothing gives insta-cred more than being a Silver Fox. George Clooney, Anderson Cooper, Maya Angelou, you know it’s true.
*I am not responsible for anything bad following these tips may result in, including but not limited to: cancer, termination, or hair loss (though that also lends major credibility). I am however, responsible for all positives. Gratitudities appreciated.

Here’s the long and the short of it: I sent a stripper, as me, to my high school reunion, rigged it so I could feed “Andrea” info, and filmed the whole thing.

To say anymore would detract from the trailer, posted below in longer format (6 [pants-peeing] minutes) or here in shorter format (2 [hi-larious] minutes).
By September (in time for Sundance, heeeeey!), yes, this September, these trailers will have an actual documentary to represent, but in the editing meantime, enjoy these quicktime hors d’oeuvres.
But hey, guess what? Movies are expensive to make and my bankrolling credit cards are almost max’d! So if you do enjoy it please please and thanks in advance, donate some of your hard earned or trust fund cash to its completion! Send US american dollars to andrea at ihateselfpromotion.com . No amount is too small, nor too great. And for your generous donation my love for you will burn like an eternal flame, a movie will be made, and your name will be in it. Promise. Unless you don’t want it to and then it won’t. Money talks.
People talk, too, so tell everyone you will ever know.

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NbRuKbOSqao[/youtube]

Getting representation is hard! Nobody believes in me more than my Grandma!
So, last time she called for her weekly interrogation –> disapproval –> advisory session on “what I’m doing to break-in” I told her to put her money where her mouth is.

We agreed that I’d send her and her 89 years of spunk thru the William Morris Agent Training Program. Now, I know what you’re thinking, Why William Morris?” I’ll tell you why; because according to the Princeton Review of Jobs, “In operation for more than a century, William Morris Agency is the oldest and largest talent and literary agency in the world.” Oldest agency; old lady, seemed a perfect fit. Also, “WMA does seem to make an effort to hire significant numbers of women and minorities into entry-level positions.” Gramma’s got both, so that’s two birds, one Jew for them! And then there’s the fact that, ironically, I know someone there that can get her the job.

She was totally cool with the seven day work week (if you just keep telling her it’s Wednesday), being on the receiving end of a lot of yelling (she’s a little hard of hearing anyway), and the obligatory trainee dog collar (it matches her medic-alert bracelet) but she was a bit concerned that the $400/week salary would interfere with her cushy social security benefits.
According to their quadruple X website, “Trainees start in the mailroom where they generally spend four to six months sorting, routing and delivering mail, manuscripts, packages and internal documents.” According to Grandma, the mail cart is a smoother wheel than her walker, and she’s getting lots of hugs on her rounds. Tonight she’s going to one of the agent’s birthday parties at Life and then “the party after.” I don’t expect her to  Dial-A-Ride home before 3 or 4 am.
I think the area where she’ll really excel is on someone’s desk. Generally speaking, there’s less room for falling down, and imagine what Nice Grandma nice-grandma.mov and her counterpart Angry Grandma angry-grandma.mov could do if it was Sumner Redstone she was leaving messages for and not me.
In the meantime, I’m writing writing writing so that 2-5 years from now, G-d willing, when she’s made a full-fledged agent, she can tell me all the reasons why my stable of work won’t sell, hip-pocket me, and stop returning my calls.

It has recently come to my attention that I am Fucked Up. But therapy in LA is dang pricey. I know it’s an investment in me, but Me can’t afford it. And if we can’t afford it, chances are yous can’t either. So I’ve scoured the Internet for free brain-doctoring to help us all finally unpack that baggage we’ve been hauling around since our self-esteem was destroyed in grade 3.

I thought I’d embark on this psychic journey by picking up some used psychology books, but since that takes actual efforts, I signed up for Tut notes (tut.com) and receive a daily message straight from The Universe to my inbox. So wherever you see my name, swap it out for yours, and wherever you see “I” or “me” it’s you-I and you-me.

“A life properly lived is an easy, luxurious life, it’s not supposed to be hard though we can make it that way with limited thinking, low expectations, or failing to see ourselves as we really are: Infinite Beings of Light. Fun loving gladiators of the Universe. Adventurers just being human, with eternity before us and the power of our thoughts to shape it!!
WE MAKE OUR OWN REALITIES, OUR OWN FATE AND OUR OWN LUCK. That, is how powerful we are, and andrea, that, is how powerful YOU are. And to offset all the mainstream thinking to the contrary, you deserve to hear this kind of message as often as you have to hear all the others.”

So Spartacus, is the power of your mind box making your personal reality, fate and luck as craptastic as mine? And we only have ourselves to blame! Not even Mom.
No really, let’s just suck it up and take responsibility for something once in our lives. Fuck. Shit! Fuck.

Oh my god what have I done?!
What am I doing?!

Think about it: That’s why people act like assholes!

Is this a breakthrough?
I feel like ass.
THIS is hard.
Nap now.

I awoke thirty-seven hours later (is that normal?) with a vice-like grip on my tear stained pillow to find this guy:
“What if the one person who you believed liked you the least, andrea, loved you the most? Yeah, ‘hate when that happens.’
-The Universe
P.S.- It sometimes happens like that, andrea.”

Um. What? Does it just sometimes “happen” or is it due to the incredible power of my thought making?
Someone doesn’t like me? Who?
Wait, no. Someone loved me in that way and I fucked it up?
Why am I not open to love?
And why didn’t the asshole just tell me he loved me instead of acting like I smelled moldy? I might have issues with feeling deserving of love, but that’s some seventh grade style bullshit.
I don’t know about you-me, but I need a drink.

Andrea,

So clearly you no how to right. I’m excited about this idea and can help you develop it into something like Elektra meets something that made money. But I’m trying to read between the lines. Looking for hints or suggestions of how I could allow you to master my universe while simulatneously allowing me to take you to places you’ve never been.  I am not a confident cocky guy.  Sware.  EXCEPT when it comes to really feeling confident about what I know… and I know this: I would make you feel like a princess. A goddess.

So, do you want to come into the office and talk about your pitch or meat me for a glass of wine and let me make every pore of your body sing out with joy?

The fam is well, thanks. Rose turned 2 last weekend!
Alan [redacted]
[redacted] MEDIA
[redacted] BLVD.
10th [redacted]
LOS ANGELES, [redacted]
310-[redacted]  Direct

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

I met my manager Alan in the fall at a panel discussion at the Odyssey Theater (cause it takes 20 years to get there) and then re-met him (I remembered him, he didn’t remember me) at Sundance Film Festival For Parties, Free Hats With Too Much Embroidery and Weight Loss Camp ’08.  I haven’t officially been signed yet– he’s calling it “hip-pocketing,” and he’s an Inappropriate Toucher. But he’s a GREAT manager! At an even GREATER management company! And I just know he’ll get me an agent who can sell anything and is a really really nice and caring person, so it’s cool.
Since the strike ended, Alan won’t return my phone calls or reply to my emails, but what he will do is read my blog posts and reply to them with his own blog posts, so feel free to stop reading here:

Heya Alan [redacted]!

I’ve been hard at work on a new, new idea and I think it’s ready to pitch. And specifically, I think it’d be perfect for Warner Bros., but you tell me:

Batmannelli
It’s the next Batman movie– except Batman would be played by Liza Minnelli.
Liza’s already on-board.

Let’s take over the world together like you said!
Hope the fam is well.
-andrea yay

Dear Facebook-
I appreciate that you’re always working to improve yourself, but I have a real problem with your recent “application,” these “People I May Know.” It’s great for you, conceptually, but do you ever think about anyone but yourself?! It sucks for me and probably “Him.”
Like how about the fact that grammatically you refer to ‘people’ in the most plural sense of the word, it’s not “Person You May Know” or “Know This Guy?”, when in reality, you only ever show me one person.

Add to that that that one person just happens to be my ex-boyfriend, who I habitated with for years, introduced to all my friends, and touched parts with on a semi-regular basis, and you might see why I want to punch you in your screen. Yeah, I know him. No, I do not want to be his friend.
Can we please talk about the fact that you’ve neglected to give me any option to make this screen go away other than to be-Face him, which I JUST TOLD you I don’t want to do. You never listen! I’m not harboring resentment towards him, but that doesn’t mean I’m interested in seeing his “status” or tagged photos of his new Tiny Asian Girlfriend on my home page.
You’re so unfair! Are you doing this to him? Are you?!
Will you just be honest for one second? What are you really trying to say? Every. Time. I. Log. In.
Also, why not go for broke. I mean, you have a “Wall” and a “Fun Wall” why not have a “Naked Wall”- where we can collect all the peoples that we’ve let see us at our most undressed and afterwards had that horrible realization that we actually LET them touch us from the inside (a.k.a. Regrettable Naked Times) and it feels like we’ve just run, full speed, head first into a brick wall. The “Naked Wall.” If we can make it “public” you’d be doing a community service by helping us avoid double-dipping.
Also also, what else do you know? Is a “People You Will Open Yourself Up To Only To Get Hurt” feature in the works? How about “Good For One Date” or “Don’t Date This Dude” or “People With Baggage Who Never Open Their Proverbial Suitcase” or “Secretly Married?”
Look, our problems are fixable, if you’re willing to change. I’ll keep ignoring those “87 requests” for bullshit things, if you will stop being jealous over him. Seriously, it was a million years and 3,000 miles ago. But if things aren’t gonna work out between us, I still have my space.
xo
-andrea

The last handful of days have been an arm load of crazy.

My bestie Teeter, (Teeter, Teeter) recently in brand new LoVE and on tour with Bon Jovi (JBJ) rolled into town, and by town I mean Anaheim.

It did not take a lot of wordsuading to convince her to get the hell out of Anaheim and away from the sad, angry cronies hauling JBJ’s washer and dryer around America (DO NOT WASH TICO’S SHIRTS!) and making Teet’s life 89.6% miserable. So together, we ripped up Los Angeles and specifically the Cha Cha lounge on a packed Thursday night. Teeter kept telling people, and by people I mean boys, that we were from Chattsworth and I told one group of guys that I was a wee girl of 24 only to have them not believe me because they thought I was EVEN YOUNGER. I also got to re-meet a gal pal (who I had met thru Teeter ages ago and hadn’t seen since her last visit for no good reason why cause she’s awesome) who believes herself to be on the verge of dating Scott Speedman, whose celebrity is in question, but is most likely solidly in the B-tier. We had ridiculous amounts of fun, spent a lot of time and money in the photo booth, the dude who I told was 24, who actually WAS 24, never called me, and the next day we sat in traffic for the two hours and forty-five minutes it took us to get to the Honda Center and Teeter’s two solid hours of work.

Teeter is in charge of a JBJ contest where people can spend $2 to text message a number for a chance to win a 3 song vantage point on the side of the stage. Mere feet away from the very well pickled JBJ, his “High Volume Mullet,” and his bedazzled vest as shirtwear. If I had known that my sister-in-law was in the audience, we could’ve just chosen her, but sadly these dots were not connected till much too late and other ladies won*. Apparently, a typical JBJ audience is comprised of women pushing 40 and wearing their tightest jeans and fanciest tops. They also generally weigh in at around 250 pounds. It was a fascinating night spent mainly in craft services and in the swank Hilton suite in Orange, CA. *The O.C’s Luckiest Ladies

Goodbyes with Teeter were only medium-sized painful cause she (and the band, if they can find their way) will be back on Wednesday for us to see what the Staples Center has for us to eat. I then hoof’d it to my brand new $125/50 minutes Beverly Hills therapist who seemed like a much better match than that last guy, even though he was great but mainly expensive. She told me that my wires are all a jumble, and that she can help me un-cross them…but I’m gonna have to talk about the stuff that makes me the most uncomfortable, that it’s gonna be hard, and i get to pay a lot of money to do it. She also asked me, on the way out the door, to please not date anyone this week. Not a problem.

I never made it to the Downtown Art Walk or the WGA screening of Whore-ton and His Whoo or Wine Club (Zinfandel Night) but had a quick wardrobe change and was off to the horrible fucking Sunset Strip to a birthday party where I had to pay twenty US Dollars to park my car to attend a bar that had a DJ with a live drummer. Is there anyplace worse in LA than the Sunset Strip? I think I’d rather drive back to Anaheim in rush hour than go there again. By the time that place got full we left and went to another different place that wasn’t on the horrible strip but had a horrible name like LIFE and stayed until the lights went on and the JBJ stopped. Seriously, they played one. I drove my friend home, drove me home and then drove around the internet like an idiot instead of going straight to the also made-up place in my dreams.

Getting out of bed the next morning in order to make it to my pre-meetng meeting made me want to cry, but I did not, thanks to a) me being out of tears and a2) my No More Tears ’08 Campain of Happy Times. So, six hours and several cups of coffee later, I am now running Writer’s Lab West, the NYU Alum group, and am up for a seat on the Council. What can I say, I was tired and weak and said yes…and I can always quit.

Then it was straight to the UCB where I tried to stay awake in the dark theater (more coffee ahoy!) whilst a group of sad angry middle-aged men made a lot of shit jokes. literally. And then, it was back to the Cha Cha for a welcome to LA party for some dude I don’t know but welcomed anyways. To bring this saga full circle, who was standing outside close talking and smoking with a lady…none other than star of Television and Film, Scott Speedman. I quickly texted my pal to break the news that he was there with who might just be his ugly sister. She was sad, but after declining my offer to put the hurt on him, and advising her to never ever date or vote for actors, I decided I really wanted to ask him, in a totally platonic way, to take pictures with me in the photo booth. Wouldn’t it be so funny to have those pictures, RIGHT HERE. Well, I pussied out. I had two chances and I just couldn’t figure out how to approach him without seeming like an asshole, stalker, or straight up lunatic. Not sure why I cared, but instead I started my new fun hobby of getting random dudes to take pictures with me and without their shirts. Do enjoy while I take an 18 hour nap:

There should be a picture here of me holding an Emmy, crying tears of joy even. Not because I won one (yet) but because this past Wednesday, my Hippy Wednesday Ladies Creativity Writers Group had a special edition at the resort-like Malibu home of one of our illustrious ladies. It was an Emotional Farewell Fiesta to one of our favorite members before she ups and moves to Boulder, CO where I have promised to someday take her on a Mork & Mindy driving tour. To get off my own track for a second, let me describe the group and how it works lest you deem my name for it unfair. A group of ladies gather together every Wednesday from 11-2 (fully clothed) at our fearless leader’s home that she used to have to share but now gets all to her own. We do not bring writing for critique but instead, someone volunteers each week to lead us through a “creativity exercise.” This can and has been anything this person can devise. There are no rules. And shoes are not required. But, before we do this, we meditate. Together. Then we get creative. Then we go around The Circle one-by-one and read our creation to the group aloud. And then, we “manifest.” Together. One time this ended in a “laying of the hands” where in order to reach a member, spiritually, we all gathered around her and laid a hand on her. To those of you who know me from New York, welcome to my new world. I have met many a writer who would rather take the math portion of the SAT again than do this, and at one time, that might’ve been me– but I do love this crazy group and am quite thankful to be a part of it. So, this past Wednesday instead of doin’ what I just described in vivid detail, we had a party and, behind the gate, in the house, near the tons and tons of food stuffs that were specially prepared to meet my complex set of dietary needs, were a handful of Emmys. I promised myself that I would take a picture of me, holding that sucker, that I would even break my No More Tears Policy and work some up to make it look real. It was going to be funny to have! And also inspiring to have in a “The Secret” style way! And then I fucking forgot. I walked out of there, with that horrible nagging feeling that I was forgetting something because I was forgetting something. And it didn’t hit me till very very late the next evening, somewhere in-between crawling from my bed to the bathroom and collapsing on the tile floor with my pants around my ankles. Turns out at least four of us were “touched” that day (fifth pending confirmation)…but by something poisonous we put in our mouths. And that nagging feeling I had was really just my intestinal battle lines being drawn.

ed. note: Tally of Women Down now stands at eight. and why god why does Pedialyte taste like Jolly Rancher Sauce?