I know what you’re thinking — what individualized license plate in WeHo isn’t stupid?

And you make a good point. But I saw one yesterday that I think is particularly special, and here’s why:

Cre8 flm

Huh. Tres originale. That’s like having a license plate in Detroit that says Cre8 Crs. Or in Pittsburgh that says Cre8 Stl. Or in Alaska that says Cn C Rsha.

Wouldn’t it be at least a little more tasteful to just slap a Tisch sticker on the back of your car and call it a day?

It all started my senior year of college. My best college chum and I were stressing out about finding find jobs after graduation. She took it upon herself to point out every “Apply Within” or “Now Hiring” sign she saw on any business – anywhere – including every stop along our Spring Break road trip to Memphis, Tennessee which was more than 500 miles from our college campus and more than 2,000 miles from our post-grad destination city of San Francisco.

After we both relocated to the city by the bay and landed jobs in our desired careers, our conversations turned from “You could work there” to “I’m glad that’s not my job.” Because when you’re young and doing grunt work, it’s reassuring to remember there are jobs you would hate even more than your own.

In San Francisco, the leader for me in this category was the bike messenger. Now don’t get me wrong, these are people I have utmost respect for. They courier things across the fair city, up and down the craziest hills. They’re in excellent shape, and they have to stay sharp so as not to get massacred by cabs and tourists in oversized rental cars. All of which are also reasons I’m really glad that’s not my job.

Over the years, “I’m glad that’s not my job” has applied to a variety of professions… receptionists at HMO offices, men shoveling snow off Minnesota sidewalks, Naomi Campbell’s personal assistant, and the fine folks on A&E’s “Parking Wars,” just to name a few.

This weekend, I realized yet another career that I greatly respect but have no desire to pursue – Mixed Martial Arts (MMA). Some of you folks may not be all that familiar with MMA and the UFC (Ultimate Fighting Championship – the USA’s largest MMA promotion). Like San Francisco’s bike messengers, UFC fighters are amazing athletes and are well prepared to take a beating. Unlike bike messengers, UFC fighters are also well prepared to deliver a good thrashing.

Whether you love or hate the UFC, you have to admit it’s a tough job. Can you imagine doing this? Knowing every time you show up for work, it’s your job to get in a fight. Not an argument, but straight up hand-to-hand combat. Leaving bloody and bruised… only to go home and start training to do it all over again.

I have to say… I’m glad that’s not my job. And I’m guessing you are too. Have a great week!

Welcome to Hollywood ! What’s your dream?

Sure, plenty of hard-working Americans balance two or more jobs (when the economy allows) just to make ends meet. And many of those folks live in Los Angeles. But in Hollywood, which is more an LA subculture than an actual physical location, the second job is where your true identity lies.

By day, you are Clark Kent, office worker. And by night, you’re not exactly Superman, but you’re living the dream. I know plenty of people with unassuming jobs (e.g. Maintenance man, Lobbyist, Human Resources Manager), who are reaching for the stars… they work side jobs as actors and musicians of course, but also as a writer/researcher for a TV show, a comedy writer, a set designer, a stuntman…

On the flip side, the folks I know who work in the entertainment industry full-time seem miserable. There’s constant rejection – whether they’re receiving it or giving it out. They work ridiculously long hours, there’s no stability or predictability in the job. And to top it all off, the money isn’t really any good unless you’re super huge in your field. And if you miraculously get to that level of fame and stardom, where people are recognizing you in the super market, wouldn’t that be annoying?

I think so. And that’s why I don’t want to be the next Tina Fey or even the next Christina Hendricks (her red hair is fake anyway, and mine is real!). I want to be Tom Kenny. “Who’s Tom Kenny?” you might be asking, and that’s half of my point – relative anonymity. Tom Kenny is the voice of SpongeBob. Voice over as a career sounds pretty fantastic to me – no makeup, no heels. Just you, in a box, talking to yourself for a few hours to earn a paycheck. And let’s be real: I love the sound of my own voice. Plus, if you get to the level Tom Kenny’s at, you can almost literally phone it in – he has a recording studio in his home.

So tonight I start a class in voice over. Of course, I’m too comfortable in my life as a middle manager to take the chance on an entertainment career, but I think it’s a good back-up. You know, just in case things don’t work out at my desk job, I can always fall back on my skills as a voice over professional (waitress). That’s how it works, right?

I know what you’re thinking: It’s way too early to be thinking about holiday parties. But before you know it, you’ll be avoiding bell ringers outside of Target. Growing up, I always thought the office holiday party would be so cool… like Die Hard but with fewer terrorists. So to prep you, I’m sharing a few of my holiday party memories.

At my first job out of college, when I worked at a tiny company and with no holiday party, I felt like I was missing out on a classic American event. So my coworker and I decided to post a Craigslist ad – two pretty single girls looking to attend a big corporate holiday party. We did actually get a response and met two guys for drinks the night before their party. I’m sure you can guess that a double blind date is a terrible idea… and you’d be right. They were boring financial analysts who were nondescript in every way, had nothing to talk about – and they rejected us, even though we were damn cute. We barely made it through a single drink, and of course we never went to their holiday party. Oh, Craigslist!

Later, when working at another small company, we had a potluck at the boss’s house and were all asked to bring a gift for exchange ($5 or less). I went to CostPlus and got gummy candies that looked like pizza and French fries. Wacky fun, right? My husband took a pen he found at Office Depot that had a mini version of the board game Operation built in. Who wouldn’t want that? But no less than three of the guests at that party brought some version of a votive candle and a clear glass candle holder. Why are people such lame-o’s?

At another more corporate job, we had a holiday party at our office and some very drunk people paired off and disappeared together. The next day, one of my coworkers found a used condom on her office floor. At least the horny coworkers were practicing safe sex. Please remember: “Get a room” does not mean in your building. It means in a hotel.

Dude. 

Dude. 

(Just had to say it twice).

Last night Jessica and I had hit the Glendale Mann for “This Is It”- the much anticipated Michael Jackson movie. No worries- no spoilers here. Lots of concert prep, dancing, singing and all the hits. Oh, and the underlying fact that MJ is dead. Whoa. 

The Mann was surprisingly empty- with just us and about six other die-hard fans in attendance for the second night. Apparently it made 20 million on the first night- dizamn. 

I built this movie up for sure. First of all, I bought tickets the day they went on sale last month, and immediately sent Jessica a text booking her for the evening (my husband was not a fan, so he got no invite). Second of all, I did some heavy emotional prep for the evening. How, you ask? Basically I just thought about it all day. 

When MJ died I went through a rough patch. You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. I actually had a hard time with it- which surprised me, because it’s just kinda’ crazy. I didn’t know the man, let’s be real. I didn’t kick it with him, he wasn’t my boy, we didn’t date. But still, I kinda’ felt like one of those crazed fans from the Man in the Mirror video- you know, the ones who were all sweaty and throwing themselves around and had to be carried out of concert by security because they eventually passed out? Yeah, that’s how I felt the day he died. Except I didn’t act the fool like that. 

I obsessed on YouTube for videos. I downloaded everything I didn’t already have and played it incessantly in my car. I cried a few times. I got the TMZ app for my iphone just so I could keep up with all the developments. I entered the lottery for tickets to the memorial at Staples Center even though I was supposed to fly out to Chicago that day. I threatened my friends and made them swear on everything sacred that if THEY got tickets in the lottery that they’d take ME. I promised a lot of people I’d take them in return, but I didn’t care. And then I cried again when none of us got them. 

This behavior was a little nutty, right? I mean, what’s the deal? He was a pop icon. Not my baby daddy. 

The thing is, MJ really did touch me (not like that, you fucking perv, although I would’ve let him, I won’t lie). I remember being in my basement as a child and staring at the Thriller album cover with my brother. MJ in that white suit looking all smooth… and then the even cooler pic of him with the tiger when you opened up the album fold…damn… And I remember when I was older and my sister was obsessed with him like I had been, and my mom worked it out to get her an autograph (and how pissed I was). Those were the Dangerous days- the days of black leather jackets with lots of buckles and those white v-necked t-shirts. I can still hear the way those buckles jingled when he danced…

But I don’t think that that my emotional reaction was solely about the longevity of my fandom or the vivid flashbacks of childhood. Truthfully, there has always been something so tragic and magical about Michael Jackson that made me feel almost… protective of him. Stardom at such a young age, the deteriorating appearance, the awkward a-sexual behavior, accusations of child abuse… it all made me feel so sad for him. And yet every time I heard his music or saw him dance, I was struck by the incredible power and electricity he possessed. No artist has ever made me feel quite like that. And believe me, I couldn’t give less of a shit about music. I have terrible taste and I know nothing about it. All I know is that he rocked my world, and I wanted to take care of him at the same time. 

So, needless to say, the movie was a big deal for me. Jessica and I had some delish noodles and wine pre-movie. We got there on time and got snacks and I bit my nails a little during the previews. I’m not gonna’ give you play-by-play, or some kind of amateur review. But I will tell you that it was everything I wanted it to be. I laughed, I cried, and I got to see him shake it and sing like nobody’s business, right there on the big screen. And you know what we realized? That motherfucker was 50. He was 50. And he still had it. He had it like nobody else ever has or will. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit. 

After the movie we felt a little weird. Luckily the Marshalls Shoes & Bags store was open for 13 more minutes, so we got in a little shot of retail therapy. Well, at least I did. Jessica Jew’d herself out of buying anything (good for you, girl), but I quickly spent $50 on heels and felt kind of winded and vulnerable afterwards. But they’re good shoes, I won’t lie.

As we drove home and whined about how great he was and how dead he is (what a fucking bummer), it dawned on me that this really IS it. No more MJ songs, no more chances to see him in concert. Scene. Finito. Done and done. And it hurts a little just to write it. 

You may notice that this is a list of two. But they are such powerful pet peeves that I feel justified in making this nonetheless. Here they are, my two least favorite voices of all time:

1. Jack, of Jack in the Box

Seriously, who is that guy? His voice is nothing short of audible douchebaggery. I’m only shocked and amazed that Carl’s Junior hasn’t snatched him up already.

2. Shakira

I guess she’s really just that hot, that music executives didn’t give a fuck that her voice sounds like whales communicating. But seriously, take a listen. It’s kind of like a sleep machine, only not at all pleasant.

Got any to add?

When you’re single in Los Angeles for a year and a half, you deal with a lot of ego-bruising bullshit.   Here’s a story I’d like to share along those lines.  

Scene 1: Work Event- Thursday

Two Thursdays ago, I staffed a “work event.” We were setting up before the event began and needed an extra trashcan. To my left was Cute Caterer, involved in some intricate tablecloth folding. I asked if he might be able to bring us an extra trashcan. Flirty banter ensued about said tablecloth folding exercise. Then my (gay) boss whisked me away to assist in some other chore. “Is that Cute Caterer flirting with you?” she asked. Damn, he WAS cute. 

Scene 2: Work Event-Thursday

Outside stationed at the “Information Table”, Cute Caterer chatted me up.  32 year old musician/ caterer, not about to be the love of my life, but cute.  By the end of the night I was two pomegranate martinis and one glass of wine deep.  Cute Caterer found me in the crowd and handed me a torn-off edge of paper with two quotes from our conversation, my name written with stars around it and his number on the backside. I showed my boss and she insisted I invite him to the bar around the corner for the after-event-cocktails. I found Cute Caterer, and told him where we were going. “Oh cool,” he said.

 Scene 3: The Abbey-Thursday

Cute Caterer surprisingly emerged in the crowd at the bar. My boss insisted on introducing him to everyone “Do you know JOHN??” (embarrassing). We sat and talked long past my coworkers’ left, mainly antagonizing one another and eventually he kissed me (a making-out-with-rando tradition: act like jerks, then have sexy make out sesh).

Scene 4: Weekend-Texting

We texted a lot the following weekend and made plans to get a drink on Monday.

Scene 5:  Monday- My Apt

I had an anxious feeling in my stomach all day. He showed up at my apartment and immediately couldn’t keep his hands (or lips) off me. Uncomfortably, I asked if he’d like to go get that drink.

“I don’t have time for a drink,” he replied. It became increasingly clear to me that he is here for distinctly one reason and one reason only, and not trying to conceal it. No warm-up at all? That’s downright rude.

“You look really uncomfortable, lets just talk for a while.” He suggested.  He asked me about my family, I asked him about his. He has multiple older siblings and I asked if they have families and he said yes. 

“So, you are just a single boy…” I said.

“Well, I’m really not single,” he replied.

“You aren’t single?” I repeated, confused as shit.

“No. Don’t you remember… I told you this the other night, at the end of the night? You don’t remember?” 

“The other night, at the end of the night… You mean after you gave me a note, came to a bar and met all my coworkers, and initiated a hot make-out sesh? After all of those things, you told me you aren’t single, and I was fine with it?”  I said.

“Yes. What, were you really drunk or something?”  Pulling the “too-drunk-to-remember” card- WHAT A FUCKER, right?! I was completely disinterested in continuing the discussion of whether he told me or not, and told him that. 

“I just don’t understand what you are doing here.  Is this just something you DO?” I asked. 

“Nooooooo,” he said, “only when I’m feeling REALLY confined.”

I wanted to puke all over myself and him. I told him to leave.

“I’m sorry for causing you strife, this is just a misunderstanding.” He said.

“You caused me strife for the 10 minutes you sat in my chair. After you leave, it will be over.” I said, which was a great thing to say, and untrue. But I showed him out, accepting his “sincere apology” flatly.

I downed 2 glasses of wine, deleted his phone number and every text we had exchanged, burned the note he wrote me (dramatic?) and smoked three cigarettes in two hours.

Scene 6- Douchebag

If I hadn’t deleted him from my life, I would want to ask him this:

What about me indicated to you that I’d be a great girl to sleep with on the side?

Was it because I’m a good Jewish girl who works in nonprofit and knows about safe sex? Maybe that I’m smart, intelligent, ambitious, respectable, attractive and don’t take a lot of bullshit? Or because I’m charming, friendly, easy-going and pleasant to be around?

“You are a fucking treasure and they should all fucking know that.” My mom said in reaction to my tale (thanks, mom!).

And that’s the truth. And also exactly what’s so fucking dumb about being 23, single, smart, pretty and fabulous in Los Angeles. I’m a fucking treasure, and they should all fucking know it.

And PS– If you, Cute Caterer, happen to be out there, I just want to point out that we met because I asked you for a trashcan. And you delivered it. How very telling, you fucking douchebag. 

Job interviews are such an interesting game – almost like a blind date. If you’re paying close attention, you can learn a lot about what the relationship could be like.

When I was interviewing for my first “real job” after college, I flew to the San Francisco Bay area and stayed with a friend’s parents in Berkeley while I went to several job interviews in a week. I interviewed with Lonely Planet, whose offices in Jack London Square were suitably cozy and professional. They asked if I would ever be interested in spending time abroad to work on a travel guide. Having just returned from a 3-week backpacking trip through Japan, I was ready to stay in one place for a while and as I honestly replied, “No, not really,” I could immediately see that it was the wrong response. There goes my future in the travel industry.

The next day, I took BART into San Francisco and walked six blocks from Market Street through a questionable neighborhood to a small office above a copy place. I told the girl at the front desk that I was there for an interview and she had me sit in a fishbowl-like conference room that was uncomfortably warm, especially in my interview suit. A few minutes later, another girl came in to greet me. She was wearing torn up jeans and a faded camo t-shirt that looked like it had been washed about a thousand times. She mumbled something about her outfit and then told me she was on her period and crampy – thus the not caring about her appearance.

Little did I know that this was the beginning of an enduring friendship. Rannie and I worked and played together for almost 2 years as I started my adult life in San Francisco, and she has been a reference for me on every job I’ve had since, as I’ve bounced around the country. With her unwavering honesty and directness, she often made me laugh, but she also challenged me to become a better version of myself. And over the years, we both encouraged each other to improve our fashion choices.

Yesterday, Rannie died after fighting the good fight against a rare form of cancer. She was only 33. And as I struggle to find a way to let go without losing her, I can’t help wondering if there’s a way to incorporate camouflage into a professional look that would be apropos for an interview situation. Sounds like a Project Runway challenge!