Archive | February, 2012

Frank saves the day.

29 Feb

That’s Frank. He was supposed to be sitting and posing, but instead he backed his butt up against his owner and curled up on the floor for a belly rub.

Frank’s awesome.

He belongs to one of the clients of my food delivery job. And every time I climb her steps, I think “OMG-IGETTOSEEFRANK” and find his little black and white potato body waiting inside the glass of the front door.

He reminds me of Poquito – the Frenchie I used to own. And he eclipses some of the hum-drum-i-ness of the driving job, when I deliver to his house.

It’s easy to slip into a weird headspace when I’m driving in LA. Before I even realize it, I’m crying about not acting as much as I used to. Or I’m loudly “describing other drivers’ driving technique” (and trying to honk politely… I haven’t developed full-fledged LA Road Rage). Or I feel my ribs closing in when I imagine working “shitty jobs” for the rest of my life. Which feels like eternity until I think about how short life is. And how fast the days, weeks and years go by. How I should be appreciating it. OMG, I’m not appreciating it enough. My life is flashing before my eyes and I’m supposed to be enjoying the “ride” — which is this shitty driving around Los Angeles, at this moment, and I hate it!


Then I see Frank. And he hi-fives my shins with his paws, and he licks my tights and I think “Hahahaha… aw, that guy.” And things feel better. Even though they’re the same.

But today, I’m on a shoot in San Diego! The second part of a Kroger commercial that will air on the east coast! (YAY! Family, if I can’t be there for Easter in person, I will be there on the television.) I’ll be posting about this, because for the first time in my life, I’m a HAND MODEL. A modern miracle. For those of you who are unfamiliar with my hands, please imagine this scene:

Oh and what, you thought I was only self conscious about my moles? HA. Los Angeles, thank you for encouraging me to face every last insecurity. On camera. (Wink!)




Moles: Un-American!

17 Feb

Here’s a little story about an audition for an orange drink, which I’ll call Funny C. If you don’t have kids, take a sec to think “What? They still make that?”

The first round of auditions went down like this. I drive like a speeding bullet to Santa Monica and rush into the casting lobby. I check out the storyboard pinned to the wall, sign in, and stand along said wall, pretending to be on my phone, my headshot tucked under my arm.

A tan, creamy-skinned, tall, blonde, beach-y gorgeous Swedish Supermodel walks in and stands beside me. I immediately feel like a stubby troll next to her, but I try making conversation in order to not get into my head about it.

Me: “This sun… it’s making it so hot in here (awkward laugh sound coming from my mouth)!”

Swedish Supermodel: “(Long pause, looking straight at me, serious face. *Say this like a sexy Swedish robot) EEEET EEEEZ HOHHT.” And then she looked back at her phone.

Ah well. I didn’t really need to like, talk with anyone or…anything…

So I get into the audition room, feeling somehow not supermodelly enough, but – chin up. I find:

–  a small red tricycle
–  a hula hoop
–  a beach ball

I make a joke about this being the first round of auditions for Cirque du Soleil. The casting guy starts up some really cheesy kid music on his laptop. “OK!” he says, “You’re gonna show your kid how to hula hoop, then push them around on the tricycle, then let them push you around on the tricycle, then throw the ball!” Keep in mind, there is no kid in the audition room.

All that culminated in a pointedly mentally-disturbed display as I rode around in a circle on a kid’s tricycle, laughing and looking back as my INVISIBLE kid “pushed” me, all to the tune of something from So You Think Your Baby Can Dance.

{Note: I would have paid good money to see that Swedish Praying Mantis ride around on that godforsaken tricycle, trying to laugh. Good, good money.}

So, a day later, I got a callback, where I got paired up with four really sweet kids for the audition. We are drinking Funny C, we are dancing like straight up idiots, we are pushing each other on skateboards, riding tricycles, hula-hooping, laughing and throwing beach balls!! We are AWESOME.

I leave the audition, in love with my new children, and hoping for the best. The producer follows me out of the room and says “Lauren! Come with me – I wanna talk to you a sec.” HELL YEAH HE WANTS TO TALK TO ME! Did you hear that everyone in the lobby? SPECIAL MEETING WITH THE PRODUCERRRRRRRR! YEAH!

He takes me around the corner and says “Sooooo… the client (Funny C) is really particular about SKIN…”

Me: “Oh! Ok…” I kind of make a move to hide the one zit I couldn’t quite cover.

Producer: “—So, this is a little awkward, but I need to look at your moles.”

Me: “Oh, ok. Ah, sure…”

Producer: “(Lifting up my hair to see behind my ears, and around my neck) Yeah, they’re going for All-American, and, y’know, moles aren’t All-American…”

Me: “Pshhhyeah…” Thinking All-American means different things in real life versus commercials, “I’ve had to cover them before – it’s a piece of cake.”

Producer: “Mm-hmm… Ok, we’re gonna have you come back in for some close-ups.”

WHAT?? OK, now that you’ve examined me like a hopeful Dalmation in the Westminster Dog Show — NOW, I will come in for an on-camera once-over???!?!

There’s a feeling to the walk that you take, in that moment. It feels like you just fell on your face, and you have to get up and keep going like nothing happened. See: one of my fav Carrie Bradshaw scenes.

I went back into the audition room, happily drank MORE Funny C, smiled and laughed into camera, while a room full of Funny C people evaluated my larger-than-life-size moles on a monitor.

I didn’t book it.

In 9th grade science class, a kid who sat behind me, did a “study” that involved graph paper and lots of numbers. It concluded that, considering all my moles, and assuming I hung around other people who also had moles, I would be completely covered in moles by the age of 67.  (Can’t wait for that!)

Every dermatologist I’ve seen, has remarked (after I’ve mentioned, “I have a lot of moles”) “Wow! You have SO many moles!”

One time, an old woman – who was having her eyebrows tattooed onto her face at the time – suggested I simply laser all my moles off.

I’ve heard the sweetest terms for them: freckles, beauty marks, angel kisses, chocolate chips… Un-American terrorists.
The first time I saw pics of Elettra Rossellini (Isabella’s model daughter), I thought – Cool! She has moles too! And she’s pretty. Wait — moles can be beautiful?? (It’s multiple moles I’m talking about, not the one universally attractive one by your lip, Marilyn. Cindy.)

Sooo… I’m gonna keep em. And casting will just have to get used to them. And also to spelling my last name without the L.




Butter, my Valentine.

14 Feb

When I was three, the Valentine’s fairy brought me what would turn out to be the most miraculous of all past and future Valentine’s Day gifts: A friggin’ baby sister, Leslie.

I don’t remember if I was excited about this, or what. But I’ve heard tales of my trying to lift her tiny infant body by the collar of her onesie. My pushing her. My wanting to name her “Butter”. I chalk all that up to my coping with the abrupt and absolute end of my 3-year streak as “Most Cutest”.

After her survival of the following era of sisterly torture (Including but not limited to: 1. The time I slammed her pinky finger in a door and the EMT comforted her by saying “If we can’t reattach your finger, we’ll use a piece of your toe”, 2. My jealous rage over her the time she was a model for a gymnastics leotard catalog, 3. The cutting of all her Barbie dolls’ hair and re-hair-do-ing with acrylic paint, and 4. My Mom telling me “You probably shouldn’t be calling her Lesbo in public”), I thought maybe this sister-person might be worth getting to know.

I am fortunate to have THE most amazing sister in the world. She is beautiful and kind and loving and hilarious. And today is her BDay. She will always be my favorite Valentine. How could she not? She bares the scars of our “getting to know each other” over all these years. And she still loves me.

Every year, I try so hard not to make her bday present Valentines-y. And then I am giddily overwhelmed with all the pink and red and glitter and hearts and I end up getting her the equivalent of a long-distance lover’s gift box. Champagne, chocolate, romantic card. This one was making me laugh though. Because it’s so intensely romantic. So, I added a few of my own meaningful touches:

*Hopefully she’s already opened it and this isn’t ruining the glorious surprise(!) I love you, Butter!

I hope you guys all have your own awesome day today. If anything, make sure you eat like a ****ton of candy.



$20 to Brazil.

7 Feb

This week is BDAY week for my sister and me! I’m also attending a friend’s bday celebration at The Edison and a pre-Grammy party at Tru this week. SO. I wanted to get myself done beautiful. Starting with a little visit to a lovely lady named Cindy.

Cindy, who’s business card just says “Cindy”, is the best damn waxer in LA. She will do anything you want down south, for $20. She’s fast, she has a really understated sense of humor and a thick accent. You’ll be in and out in no time, your bikini bits feeling powder fresh. She works in a room in the back of a Persian hair salon. So after each visit, I always leave thinking…Y’know what, screw it – I should do a permanent. 

I got a roundtrip to Brazil while I was there. But Cindy and I did try a little experiment at first…

Cindy: “Tell your friend they can have design.”

Me: “Ok! (Trying to figure out if she means this or this and kinda hoping this) Liiiiike, what kind of designs?”

Cindy: “You can do………. triangle……… or square………”

Me: (Crossing my fingers for “lightning bolt”)

Cindy: “You can do heart…”

Me: ” — Heart??”

Cindy: “Heart. Yes.”

Me: “Can we try that?”

[Cut to me studying my heart in a hand mirror]

Me: “I — I don’t think I’m a hearts-in-this-area kinda girl, Cindy…”

Cindy: “Ok. Next time!”

This poster will be judging you while you suffer your beauty regimen.



Waxing by Cindy, 331 Robertson Blvd, Beverly Hills, CA 90211 310-652-6596

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