Love means never having to say, "I need some privacy so I can poop."

When I was pregnant and visualizing what life would be like as a mother, I was worried about a lot of things. What childbirth would be like, would I poop on the delivery table, would I have to have a c-section, how I would survive at home the first few weeks basically not knowing whether anything I was doing was right or wrong. I knew things would change when Clara came. I knew that I would have to sacrifice a lot of things, like sleep, social life (ha), quiet time and freedom. What I didn't realize was that, between a baby and a dog and two cats, I would NEVER be alone in the bathroom again. Ever. 

Think about that for a second. Never before have I appreciated that alone time as much as I do now, because I rarely get it. Any time I need to use the bathroom at home, I have to turn it into a game. I find Clara and get her to chase me down the hall, which she loves doing. I get her to follow me to the bathroom so that I can pee and keep an eye on her. This means the door never closes. Usually I will be going to the bathroom and she will be wandering around in the bathroom, climbing into the shower stall or trying to climb up into my lap, or grabbing my glasses off the counter and making a run for it. Now that we have a dog, Ruby joins in. This morning they both were fighting over my glasses (DKNY makes some very durable frames, by the way). If Clara is asleep, Ruby whines at the door until I let her in, and then she just lies on my feet until I finish up, waits for me to flush, then drinks out of the toilet. If Ruby happens to be outside and Clara is asleep, Callie (one of the cats) comes in and sticks her paws under the door until I let her in, then she sits in the shower stall across from the toilet and just stares at me. Oh, what a glamorous life I lead. 

I really love being a mother, but if you ever want to be able to poop alone, you probably shouldn't have kids.  Or a dog. Or a cat. You should probably just live alone in the woods. But watch out for bears. 

Reformation and Reclamation

Ever since The Great Coldstone Shaming of 2012, I have been really contemplating things in my life. I mean, I've always been a very pensive person and have always spent a considerable amount of time reflecting on my life and the things around me, but I have really been examining my choices, particularly regarding my weight and my personal development. I have been thinking about school, weight, career aspirations (or lack thereof), our family, and trying to figure out what really makes me happy and what I need to do to capture more contentment in my life.

I have a good life. I have an amazing husband and the most beautiful and funny little girl you could ask for. We have a nice home and family around us, and we don't go to sleep hungry. As difficult as it is for us to maintain, I have been blessed enough to be able to stay home with my daughter instead of having to truck her off to daycare, and I am appropriately grateful for all these things. But that doesn't mean that I don't have regrets, frustrations or heartache. 

My personal struggles are not particularly secret. I've dealt with depression and anxiety for a long time, weight issues for a shorter time, and both of these things have set me up for "issues" of other kinds, like uncontrollable spending habits and a complete disregard for educational authority. ......Okay, so the educational thing is more of a choice than a victim circumstance, but I maintain that it is at least related. But seriously? Shit has been hard.

Let's begin with the obvious. My weight. I haven't always been fat. Those who have known me for a long time will remember that in junior high and even high school I was pretty much the same size as everyone else, even though I always felt way bigger. Well, except my boobs, those have always been ridiculously advanced for my age. But the point is that I didn't come from childhood obesity or anything. I think when it started was when I got my license and started getting fast food. I was very active in high school, being a member of something like 13 performing groups, playing in a community soccer league and working as a nanny during the summer. I was able to eat mostly what I wanted because I was busy enough to burn it off. I actually remember thinking to myself at one point, "Hey, maybe I'm like those girls who can eat whatever they want and never get fat!" Fast forward 10 years and this is the perfect plot to a movie featuring Adam Sandler dressed as a woman in a fat suit. 

My personal delusions aside, I guess I just never learned how to nutritionally take care of myself. I have always eaten what I wanted when I wanted it. My weight has been steadily increasing since I hit my 20s, and I have attempted many different diets (Weight Watchers, LA Weightloss, Paleo, Smoothie diets, Veganism, etc). They never work because, ultimately, I don't want to follow them. Weight Watchers has a saying that goes, "Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels". What a crock of shit! Shrimp pasta with garlic-butter sauce tastes way better than being thin feels! Anything with ice cream and caramel sauce tastes better than being thin feels! And pizza? Well...let's stop this before it gets dirty. My point is that when I was thin, I didn't feel thin. I didn't feel pretty most of the time, except when I was receiving validation from a guy, which is a whole different can of emotionally insecure worms. Being "thin" never did anything for me except make me feel like I wasn't thin enough. Being fat has a certain comfort to it. I don't really have to worry about trying too hard because I will still be fat regardless of how successful I am. I will get looks from people either way, but being fat usually elicits a look of pity rather than one of jealousy-bred hatred. Though it may have been unintentional, I definitely chose to get fat. And I have known this for a long time. 

But having Clara has changed some things. Before, I didn't really LIKE being fat but I didn't care enough to do anything about it. I had a guy who loved me and thought I was beautiful regardless of how many chins I had. My friends were still my amazing friends who laugh at my jokes, and I could still find clothes SOMEWHERE that I fit into and felt cute in. Despite being morbidly obese, I'm actually pretty "healthy". I don't have high blood pressure, I don't have terribly high cholesterol or glucose levels, I don't have gallstones and I can still haul my fat ass around on foot when I need to and get a reasonable distance before tiring out or quitting. But is that truly health? I think we all know that it isn't. Now that I have a little girl to think about, I realized that if I don't change my habits, she is going to develop them and go through a childhood and adolescence and probably adulthood with weight battles and health problems and that is the last thing I want for her. I might deal with being a fat adult, but I don't know how I would have dealt with being a fat kid. As it  was, when I was going through puberty and growing a fuller body frame, some boy in my class started calling me "flubber" and I wanted to deck him every time, but I just cried instead. I don't want that for her. 

So we have been making changes. We eat fast food sparingly instead of regularly. I try to cook every night and make our own bread so that what we're eating isn't completely full of preservatives and chemicals. We are making an effort to drink as much water as we can stand (with the heat that isn't much of a battle, thankfully), and now that we have the dog I have been trying to play with her and walk her as much as I can. But things aren't going as planned. Now that I actually WANT to lose weight and be healthier, I am finding myself physically barred from doing so. My knee hurts really, really badly whenever I walk or stand for more than a few minutes. My shins ache, my calves are cramping up, my feet cramp up into claws that I can't un-clench and my back huuuuuuurts a lot. A lot. This sucks and I'm hating myself for letting it get this far. 

Cut to scene of me sitting in front of my computer, researching LAP band surgery and eating cookies, a completely typical Monday morning activity. Sigh. If only it were that easy. In any case, I want to change. I want to be better than I am and that involves losing weight, finishing my annoying educational goals (at least the short-term goals) and working on my emotional health. Thank God for support groups and comedic memoirs to get me through these difficult times.

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Dog days

If anyone had told me before that dogs are basically goats with less annoying voices, I probably would have thought twice about getting one.

A long time ago I was house-sitting in a mansion for my bosses. This place was gigantic and they had four kids, so they had alarms installed on every door to the house. Whenever a door would open, a beeping sound would go through the whole house, and sound again when the door closed. I had taken a bath in the jacuzzi tub because I am an absolute sucker for jets. I cannot pass them up. Sometime during my revelry someone came into the house, but I didn't hear the doors. It was late at night, probably around midnight. I was climbing into bed in this ridiculously huge master bedroom with floor to ceiling windows, and Rufus, the family's harlequin Great Dane, started growling. I don't know if you've ever heard a very large dog growl, but it is scary. It sounds like thunder. I was instantly anxious and when he got up and walked to the door with his fur standing on edge I started freaking out. I listened carefully and heard a soft rattling sound coming from the kitchen down the hall.. I started talking really loudly and shouted at Rufus to "GO GET 'EM!" He went bounding through the house, barking that terrifying bark, and I armed myself with a golf club that had been sitting near the bed (why is it that rich people feel the need to sleep with their putters?) There was a door slam, barking, claws scraping against the hardwood floor, then I heard the door alarm sound once, then twice. Whoever it was had left the house.

Ever since that incident I have never felt comfortable being alone in a house at night. Now that I have my daughter, I'm especially uncomfortable with the idea. Whenever my husband is out of town for work, I am somehow convinced that someone is breaking into our house or scraping on the window, and I end up just standing in the hallway, clutching my cell phone, debating about whether or not I should call the police. Usually my humiliation at the idea of reporting a bush scraping the house siding wins out and I just go to sleep and have nightmares. However, when my husband mentioned to me that he was going to be working out of town a lot this summer, we decided to get a dog. We have two cats and I love them almost as if they were my children, but seriously, cats are terrible in a crisis situation. They sleep really heavily and if they happen to wake up, they just run into the garage. THANKS A LOT, assholes. FYI, nobody will be here to feed you when I get killed by a jumpy burglar.

So anyway, we adopted a puppy from the local animal shelter. Her name is Ruby. She's cute. She's happy. She's affectionate. She lets my baby crawl all over her with very little complaint. She eats everything that gets left on the floor, and some things that are close enough to the counter's edge for her to swipe. Everybody's heard about dogs eating shoes and homework and all that, but I didn't realize they actually EAT things. I thought they just chewed things up and left them in pieces. No. Eat. Eaten. Digested. Pooped out in the backyard.

The list of things Ruby has eaten so far include a shoe, a pillow, a measuring cup, a plastic sand shovel, a rope toy, part of our bed comforter, a tennis ball, pine cones, a snail shell, and a refrigerator magnet. This is not unlike my daughter, who will also try to eat anything she finds on the floor, including a very disturbing incident where she ate a piece of cat poop that she mysteriously found. More on that later.

Thus far, owning a dog has solidified my belief that I am mostly a cat person. Here's the thing. I love dogs. I think they are cute and fun and awesome animals. I just happen to appreciate the independent nature of cats more than the loyal and somewhat dumb personality of dogs. Dogs are so needy, and they freak out if they don't get their energy out and they have smelly breath and insist on covering you in drool. My dog also thinks she's a small dog/cat/parrot and perches on the back of the couch around my shoulders. It's funny until she gets my neck with one of her gigantic claws. It's not AS hard as I thought it would be, but owning a dog (more specifically a puppy) is like having another baby... only that baby can jump and reach your face with her tongue and runs as fast as a car and tries to eat your cats. Also? Training a dog is a bitch. I just get so frustrated when she doesn't listen to me the first 400 times I say something (see the parallelism of dogs and babies?) and I eventually just get pissed off and put her outside. But then when I let her back in she is so excited to see me that she needs to jump! and bark! and lick! and nip! and roll! and tummy rub! tummy rub! tummy rub! and chase the cats! and this goes on for awhile.

Sigh. I don't regret getting Ruby. She really has been a nice edition to the family so far, except for the stress that the cats are under. One cat bolts into the garage as soon as he catches a whiff of the dog, and the other cat that will actually stick up for herself doesn't have claws, so it isn't that effective. Ah well. Everyone tells me that it gets easier once they start picking up on their obedience training, so I guess I just have to be patient. Grumble, grumble. In the mean time I will just have to be satisfied that there is yet another creature in my house who wants nothing more than to sleep on my feet and get belly rubs. And it IS pretty cute when Clara feeds her things from her high-chair tray. And snuggles her. And when Ruby's shepherd instincts kick in and she tries to herd Clara down the hall. And when she jumps into the baby pool and snaps at the water.

.....yeah, okay, maybe there's hope for me becoming a dog person.

My 260 pound life. Ok, 262.

I have had a lot of strangers say some really hateful things to me throughout my life. I will never understand why, but I literally have been walking down the street or through a bar and had people pass within one or two feet of me, look me dead in the eye and say things like "ewwwww!" or "what an ugly bitch." It's pretty horrible, and every time it has happened I have been left stunned and confused. Sometimes it's almost funny, like when I was working at a department store and encountered a little girl who looked at me, screamed "monster!!" and then ran away, or when a clearly clueless guy asked me when I was due (years before I actually got pregnant). I like to think I have a pretty good sense of humor about myself, especially considering I'm the one who controls my weight (or doesn't control it), and self-deprecation is definitely my specialty, but there are some things that just cut like a knife.

Tonight I was in Coldstone because I had been fighting a sweet tooth all day. I know, I know, I went out buying ice cream so I was basically asking to be called fat, but whatever. Listen to the damn story. I was buying a couple containers of different flavors to share with my husband and roommate and a friend was in town so I kinda figured there'd be a freezer raid at some point. So I was stocking up. While the girl was packing my order, I was watching this adorable little boy in line behind me. He was probably about 4 and was super excited about all the different flavors he got to choose from. He was there with his dad, which for some reason made me smile. Until he turned around and stared at me.

Boy: Is there a baby in your tummy?

(this is not the first time I've been asked this so it seriously didn't phase me. Plus this kid had the cutest little lisp so I just smiled)

Me: Nope, not anymore.

Boy: Why not?

Me: Because she got too big so she had to come out.

Boy: Why did she have to come out?

Dad: This is not a conversation I want to have with him any time soon.

Me: Oh, ok. Sorry.

Boy: Why is your tummy so fat?

Dad: Trevor! Don't be rude! I'm so sorry, miss.

Me, laughing: Oh it's ok. I guess I've just had too much ice cream.

Boy: It's a REALLY big tummy!

Dad, turning beet red and yanking the boy behind him: TREVOR! I am so, so sorry.

Bitch girl at the counter: So did you still want all three containers?


The most embarrassing part is that I was in an ice cream shop, of all places, and it was full of seemingly fit people. Nobody else in there was fat, except me. And I was ordering three fucking cartons of ice cream. Needless to say, I canceled the third and only got two, which is still embarrassing given the situation, but I just felt like shit. I was spiritually crushed by a 4 year-old. I kept smiling and reassuring the dad that it was okay, kids say the darndest things, blah blah blah, because it wasn't his fault and he was very clearly mortified. I always said that as embarrassing it is to get asked if you're pregnant when you aren't, it has to be even more embarrassing when you're the one asking.

I left there trying to hold my head high and act like I wasn't bothered. I think I deserve an Oscar for my performance, quite frankly, because I cried on the way home. I didn't eat any ice cream. Instead I told my husband the story, took some Nyquil and started blogging. Because that's the fastest way to stop being called fat, to take OTC cold medicine and sit on your ass feeling sorry for yourself.

Whatever. Baby (not in my tummy) steps.

Sweet mother of God.

There was a time when I never thought I would be a mother. Ever. I went through a period of time (basically up until Eric proposed to me) where I was literally incapable of picturing myself getting married or having children. I guess I had been through so many failed relationships and played the dating game so long that I just assumed that would be my whole life. I wasn't in love with the idea but I had come to terms with it. Then I got married, shortly after that I found out I was pregnant and my whole world turned upside down in the best way possible.

I realize that it's annoying for people who haven't experienced something to read about other people spewing their personal experiences and gushing about how wonderful something is. Oooooh, marriage is soooooo greeeeeeeeat, being a mother is sooooooo amaaaaaaaaaazing! Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!! I get it. It's annoying. So you might want to stop reading now.

No, seriously though, these admittedly wonderful things are not flawless. There are some women who appear to having everything all together. They are in great shape. Their houses are spotless. They wear clothing that is both classy and on trend. Their husbands have awesome jobs and college degrees. Their hair always looks like they just stepped out of a salon. Their child(ren) are adorable and also wearing trendy and adorable clothing. They have nap schedules down to a science. They never raise their voices. They are pissing me off.

Okay, these things are not what they seem. Even these stepford mothers have bad days. They might not broadcast them to the world, but they have bad days where their hair is flat, their kids get sick and barf all over their trendy clothes, they don't have the energy to scrapbook or cook dinner so they just order pizza and leave the dishes in the sink. It happens. They might not write blogs about it, but it happens. So stop getting down on yourself. K? Thanks.

I myself have many of these days. Granted I didn't start in the same scenario as described above.... I'm seriously overweight. My house is typically pretty trashed. I wear clothing that is usually found on clearance at Target or Lane Bryant. My husband has an awesome job and a college degree, but I have neither and it makes me feel inferior. My hair always looks like crap because I am perpetually growing it out or too lazy to style it. My child is definitely adorable and is usually wearing adorable clothing, but most of it is hand-me-down or bought from a used clothing store, and I often use her cute appearance as a reason why I don't have to try as hard on my own. We almost have naps down but for 9 months there were basically no naps, which is hellish. I raise my voice... um... a lot. Like... a lot. Not necessarily at my daughter, but just in general. At the cats, at other drivers, at the radio, at myself... yeah. I do not have it all "together".

Every time someone asks me what it's like to be a mom, I immediately think to myself, "I couldn't possibly describe it", so I just say, "It's the hardest and best thing I've ever done." Which is true. Clara is the most amazing thing I've ever done in my entire life. Granted she was an unexpected surprise (don't rely on birth control alone, friends), my pregnancy was kinda crappy and my birth experience was downright traumatic, I wouldn't trade her for anything in the world. Even when she screams at me for hours because I can't figure out what will make her feel better. Even when she rips out chunks of my swiftly-graying hair. Even when she refuses to fall asleep without me rocking her for hours on end. Even when I think I'm going to go crazy and put my head through a window...  the good moments (and there are hundreds of them every single day) make up for all the unpleasant ones, ten-fold.

If you are in the market for a child, I suggest taking your time. Live your life, experience all the things you want to experience like travel or daredevil kicks, anything that you can't see yourself doing while toting a kid around with you. Don't lose heart about falling in love, because I firmly believe that people who are wonderful together will always connect sooner or later. But if you want to be a mother... please, be a mother, and be a damn good one. 

An exercise in futility: My audition for reality television

So ever since American Idol came around I have had people ask me the same general question when they find out I sing: "Oh, really? Have you ever thought about audition for American Idol or something?" And the answer is always "No, not really." There are a few reasons for this. One is that I don't appreciate that most of the talent shows on television purposely put people who are not talented on and exploit them for entertainment's sake. It's both cruel and a waste of time for anyone truly talented who went to the audition and got turned down. The other reason is that, while I know that I'm a good singer and that people (generally) enjoy my voice, I am not Christina Aguilera. I'm not a pop singer. I can't sing Mariah Carey notes without tapping into some serious operatic vibrato. I have a pleasant voice and I am a good musician, but I don't really know if anyone would buy a record of me singing. But then along came The Voice, a tv show that didn't put on terrible singers and embarrass the crap out of them.

A friend of mine had a friend who was a casting agent for the first season of this show, and I was all prepared to audition for it... and then I found out I was pregnant. So not only would I have not been allowed to compete, my stupid morning sickness wasn't really conducive to auditioning for anything (I actually missed two other really big auditions that fall because of my damn morning sickness). Ever since that first season, my good friend has been harassing me to audition for it. This year was the first time I really considered it. Eric and I talked about it and ultimately we figured that it was something I needed to at least try before dismissing it. So I did. I flew down to Los Angeles and auditioned. It went a little something like this:

First of all, can I just say that fat people get the shit end of the stick in a lot of situations, but none so much as when they have to fly on an airplane. I'm not so huge that I have to buy myself two seats or anything, but I know I'm a hefty lady. I know that people are about as eager to sit next to me on a plane as they are to sit in front of a screaming, kicking toddler. But these fears are unfounded, people! I almost always cross my arms or am reading a book on top of my tray so the arm rests are all yours. I am terribly polite and would NEVER make you feel bad about getting up to use the bathroom. I never recline my seat because those extra two inches are a joke. And I don't smell. At least not usually. So if you happen to be sitting in the aisle seat of a very crowded plane and a very polite albeit fat person asks if they could sit in the middle seat next to you, do not scoff and be a rude bitch about it, otherwise you MIGHT find that the Chanel handbag you left in front of your seat gets stepped on. Just sayin'.

I got there a day early so I would have a day to rest and get prepared. And rest. I. did. I spent almost an entire day in my hotel room lying on a giant bed with a bajillion pillows, reading The Hunger Games (I did my best to hold out on this trend, but I caved when I burned through the book I brought halfway through the plane ride down). Then I spent the night with one of my old besties and her girlfriend who is, honestly, pretty damn rad. We probably stayed out a little too late and I had a kink in my neck from plane, but I still went to sleep earlier than I usually do.

The next morning I woke up at 5am. The audition was at 7 and my friend was coming to pick me up at 5:45 to take me to downtown LA. When we got there at 6:10, there were already a few hundred people in line. The way they formatted the auditions was four major cities, three days in each city, two major time slots on each day. I was in the first slot of the second day in the last city. I showed up almost an hour early and there was already that many people in line? Ugh. I knew I had a long day ahead of me. All in all there HAD to have been at least a thousand people that showed up for the first time slot, let alone the second.

I stood in line outside the building for over an hour, inching forward here and there. It was freezing outside and I didn't bring a coat because I'm one of those idiots that assumes southern California is always warm. I was surrounded by people doing their makeup, wearing insane outfits and teenagers with their parents. There were people trying to cut here and there and the stage parents were not having it, which was pretty amusing. There was a girl behind me who was 17 and with both her parents. They seemed friendly enough but very, very confident. By "confident" I mean "arrogant." Their conversation went a little like this:

Dad: Ok baby girl, when you get in there just focus on your singing. You know that your voice brings so much joy to people so just focus on the joy, baby girl, and you'll get it.

Girl: Oh, I KNOW I'm going to get it, there's no doubt in my mind that I'm going to make it through.

Dad: Just don't make a fool of yourself, otherwise they'll put that clip on TV and make you look like a damn fool.

Mom: Whatever makes her famous.

Yeah. This is the kind of crap I had to listen to for several hours. There was another girl who I wanted to kick directly in the teeth. She was 19 but looked 30, was from San Francisco (which probably accounted for at least half of her annoying factor), had short, bleached blonde spiky hair, and was wearing a tank top, zebra print hoodie with a zebra head on the hood, and a crap load of chains. Seriously. Chain wallet (because apparently it was 1996 at the audition), chain necklaces, leather dog collar with spikes coming out of it, and somehow she made it through the metal detector. And THAT wasn't even what made her so annoying. She kept asking everyone around in a very condescending manner, "What's your genre?" When she asked me I informed her that I didn't have a genre, I sang a lot of different things. She didn't even bother to respond and then ignored me. When I asked her what her genre was she replied, "Oh, I'm singing Madonna." Because apparently Madonna IS her own genre. Crap genre.

The other thing I noticed was that every single person I heard talking about themselves was talking about their previous audition experiences. I think I must have been one of the only people in my general vicinity who hadn't previously auditioned for American Idol, X Factor, America's Got Talent or The Voice. On one hand I really admire these people for tenaciously pursuing their dream of singing. And on the other hand it's pretty sad that they apparently spend so much of their life trying out for these stupid shows.

Once I actually got to the audition room (around 9:30), they took us in 10 at a time and had is sit in chairs in front of a single judge who I assume was a casting agent. He called people randomly to stand in the center of the room and sing about a minute of the song we prepared. Some of these people sounded awesome, some of them were terrible. Like this one girl who sang a Mariah Carey song that I couldn't even recognize because it was so lacking in melody and, um, pitch. Until the end. Good lord, this girl pulled out two, bonafide dog-whistle level notes and she was so proud of herself. I was trying really hard not to crack up. When it was my turn, I got up, said where I was from and went into my song. I had been really worried about what I would sing because sometimes your song choice can make or break your audition, regardless of how well you sing it. I ultimately went with "Make You Feel My Love" in the style of Adele. I probably shouldn't have picked an artist who just got a shitload of grammies because I'm sure they heard a million of her songs all weekend, but I wanted to sing something that I emotionally connected with and that made me happy. I sang this song at the wedding of my best friend who was urging me to audition, so I felt like it was appropriate. I did pretty well although at one point I spaced out and started singing in kind of a different key, and if I hadn't been the seasoned pro that I am *cough* I would have stopped and asked to start again. I kind of figured I blew it and sat down feeling angry at myself.

The 17 year-old girl who had been behind me in line with her parents was in my group, and she sang right before me. She chose "At Last", which I kind of rolled my eyes at because it's so overdone by people who try to sound older than they are. She sounded okay, but she kept changing keys, and not intentionally. However, after everyone had finished their songs, the judge asked her to come back up and sing a second song. She chose, "Listen" from Dream Girls in the style of Beyonce. It. Was. Bad. She was basically shouting and doing vocals runs that she had no business trying to do. The tone of her voice was nice but that's about all I can say. There were at least three people in our group who sounded 10 times better than she did, but lo and behold, they asked her to stay behind for a callback. That's when I started feeling really heated and I wanted to lash out and say that they only picked her because she was cute and young and it makes for good TV. And that's probably true, but I was not about to be one of the people in the lobby crying because they didn't make it. Seriously, there were people sobbing and saying things like, "They didn't hear me at my best, I have a sore throat! This isn't faaaaaaaair!" And I had to laugh.

It's true, that girl probably was chosen for television purposes rather than musical merit, but I wasn't the only person that got snubbed in that audition. I know for a fact that I am a good singer, I know even better singers than me who have been turned down for TV competitions. I didn't leave feeling defeated because I had approximately 45 Facebook comments from people wishing me good luck and sending me votes of confidence on my ability. I have performed too many times and heard too many good things to let ONE audition make me feel inadequate.

And after all that, I got to spend the rest of the day and night with friends who I hadn't seen in years, drinking during the day and shopping without a child barfing down the front of my shirt. We went to the ocean, we ate Indian food, we played card games and word games and even sang Christmas songs from high school. It was a total nerd's weekend and I had an amazing time, whether I became a TV star or not.

On the plane ride home I sat next to a young Asian guy who looked apprehensive at sitting next to a fat lady... until I offered him some of my licorice. See? There are perks to being polite to the fatties.