Wine Institute of Walgreens

I love me a good wine snob. I really do. There is a part of me that wishes I was one of them. Dashing from winery to winery with a navy blue sweater thrown around my shoulders while discussing my father's political campaign.

But, I come from a family of pizzeria owners. Instead of talking wine cellars, we talk deep fried foods. We keep our deli slicer as shiny as a new set of golf clubs and if we go out to eat where the foodies go, we always make sure they have an option of steak and french fries. And, because of this upbringing I know an average Joe when I see one.

While I lived in Chicago, I worked as a waitress like a good average Joe should. The restaurant I worked for wasn't a five star restaurant, nor was it a diner. It was right in the middle, like my family. It was the type of restaurant where people are referred to as "customers," not "clients." But, every now and then we would get a "customer" who thought they were at a place where they should be treated like a "client" and unfortunately I wasn't the waitress who would give that kind of service. By the end of my "career" waiting tables, I was one diet coke away from suicide.

This one Saturday evening, a man was sitting at a table in my section all alone, awaiting his date (so he said). He scanned the wine menu and ordered the cheapest glass of wine. But he didn't say it like he just ordered the cheapest glass of wine; he said it with the same arrogance a man ordering a $500 bottle of wine would be allowed. Personally, if I go with the cheapest glass of wine, I at least give the waiter a nod or a look of apology.  But I mean, good for him, he's confident. Or, so I thought.

A few minutes later, I came back with the glass of house red I could have gotten from Walgreens. He motioned for me to stay while he tested it. I restrained from rolling my eyes as he swirled and wafted and swirled some more, then dramatically dipped his nose as deep as it could go into the glass (again, he was waiting for his date) and then he slowly...let...the...wine...wash...over...the...tip...of...his...tongue...while...I...slowly...died...inside.
Finally, after what seemed like a hour, he shook his head with disgust and said "this is no good."

I couldn't believe it! Really? No good? Maybe it's no good because it was $4! Of course I couldn't say that so instead, I sucked it up, smiled and said without the least bit of sincerity, "Oh, no. Let me go back to the bar and open a fresh bottle for you." But, as I made my way to the bar, I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to conduct a d-bag experiment.

When I got to the bar, I told the bartender I wanted to see if this guy really knows what he's talking about. Perhaps the wine was bad OR perhaps it was fine. We would soon find out.

I asked the bartender to transfer the same wine to a new glass. So, when I bring out the "new" wine to him, it would actually be the old wine he had already rejected. If he rejected it again, okay, he knows what he's talking about. But approve the "new" glass and BAM! Confetti goes, balloons release, buzzers scream and a giant sign drops from the ceiling that flashes "asshole, asshole, asshole." The whole restaurant starts pointing and laughing and I am the hero (but I'm still wearing an apron and my shirt is still smeared in barbeque sauce so I'm a humble hero).

So, I bring back the same wine, carefully set it on his table and apologize for the first glass. I tell him this glass is from a brand new bottle. And, once again he swirled and wafted and.. swirled some more then dipped his nose as deep as it could go into the glass (again, he was waiting for his date) and then he slowly let...it....wash...over...the...tip...of...his...tongue...while...I...slowly...died...a...little...bit...more...inside.
Finally, after what seemed like another hour, he shook his head up and down, smiled at me with his now purple teeth and said "Oh, yes. This is much better."

I got him! I caught him being a fake wine snob; an average Joe trying to be something he's not. I have never tasted such sweet revenge in my life.  Nothing in the world could make me feel the satisfaction I felt that night, not even a shiny deli slicer.

Bad Hair Day.

Headline News (HLN) has some of the worst hair in news.

While they're delivering the news on the state of our economy, I'm not wondering how our economy got so bad. Instead, I find myself wondering how their hair got so bad. And, is there any stimulus package out there to make it grow?

I'm sure fixing these hairstyles would create thousands of jobs.

What to do when someone you love dies and leaves behind a bad Myspace page

Our twenties is not too young to start thinking about our last will and testament. Although we may not yet have acquired thousands of dollars worth of assets or families of our own, we do have some things that will need managing... like our Facebook, Twitter and Myspace accounts.

I, for example, have chosen to give the password to all of my social networking sites, including this blog to my boyfriend. If I happen to die unexpectedly, (get trampled in a Wal-Mart stampeed for example) I have given my boyfriend, by way of a post-it note, signed and dated, the orders to erase my precious Facebook, Myspace and Twitter accounts, immediately.

There is nothing creepier than wishing someone a happy birthday on their Myspace page after they're dead. "Happy Birthday Billy." Happy birthday Billy? Billy's dead. It's not happy birthday, it's Sad Birthday. Come on, sing along... "Sad Birthday to you, Sad birthday to you, Sad birthday to you. How old are you (if you were still alive) now? How old are you (if you were still alive) now?" (This sounds a lot less morbid if you sing it with a keyboard or in G on the guitar.)

I don't understand why someone would write on someone's Facebook or Myspace wall after they are gone? Do they think the afterlife is so unexciting that the spirits are checking their Myspace page to see who did and didn't wish them a Happy Birthday? Man, I hope not. Or, perhaps this is the modern day equivalent to bringing flowers to someone's grave site?

 I wonder if there is a sympathy flower app on Facebook so it can be like the real thing? If there isn't one already, I am patenting it.

A meaningless happy birthday wish isn't the only reason I want my social networking pages erased from history. I don't want to die with my last Facebook update about Jersey Shore floating there forever like a bad lower-back tattoo. And, the good thing about a lower back tattoo is that when you die it's gone but a bad Myspace profile is there forever.

I would at least want to go out with a genius yet hilarious update about something that means something to me, something deep and profound about the Buffalo Bills or Curb Your Enthusiasm.

All I know is that if I die, and I'm still on Facebook and Myspace, I'll know I'm officially in hell.

How to Raise a Child

I am not a parent. I can't even make it to a flight on time so parenthood is no where in the near future. But, I do know if you want to raise good kids there are four rules you must follow, otherwise you'll have an emo-wearing, no-good huffing, sexting-craised child.

Rule #1. Your child must watch Seinfeld from a very young age. He or she must understand the the very foundation of life before anything else.

Rule #2. Forget about Pokemon and Dora the Explorer. These cartoons are too hip. Every Saturday morning, you must only allow your developing child to watch the classics like Bugs Bunny, Tom and Jerry, Bullwinkle and Pink Panther. But, not the modern movie version of Pink Panther, that one was terrible.

Rule #3. If you have 3 different types of potato chips in the house, don't be that parent who only let them open one bag at a time. That rule is dumb and nonsensical.

Rule #4. Make your kids do their homework. But, only after they've watched at least one episode of Seinfeld.

Follow these guidelines and I promise you will have a well-adjusted, non-extremist and down-to-earth child who will grow up to do great things. Or, good things at least. I am completely serious.





He had overly strict parents who never let him drink soda. Thus, pink eye shadow.

We got to drink all the soda in the world. Thus, awesomeness.

The Joe Donatelli Column and The Second Column Podcast

What do you get when you get two writers around bar food? Jalapeno Poppers and great conversation, that's what happens.

Meet Joe Donatelli. That is what I had the pleasure of doing the other day. He gave me lots of great advice for going forward with a writing career. Joe used to write a humor column for Scripps Howard News Service that appeared in newspapers across North America, including the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, Orange County Register and Chicago Sun-Times, lucky guy. Currently, he is an editor for Break.com and brings you tons of funny material in his podcast called Second Column Podcast.

I advise you to check him out. I also advise you to stay away from Jalapeno Poppers.

Receipts Getting Longer?

Has anyone else noticed that receipts are getting longer and longer? This is usually the length when you spend $200 on groceries. Embarrassingly, I didn't stock up on groceries, instead I bought a single fish taco and diet coke. And, this is how long the receipt is. It almost makes buying this for my lunch all the more embarrassing.

Feeling Ugly? Conjoin the club.

Some twins are identical, differentiated only by small details such as a freckle or a dimple. And sometimes, they’re fraternal, being told apart by the giant difference in their head size.

It is one thing to be a bad-looking individual; a singular person without a twin. It is another thing to have been hit with the ugly stick while your twin brother or sister was sprinkled with fairy dust. This person is with you from birth; standing right next to you in all of your family photos as a flashing neon sign saying, “Look at what you could have been if the Zygote chose differently.”

There are many things in life that aren’t fair: Why do men bald? Better yet, why do some women bald? Why are wives usually twice the size of their husbands? Why did the Buffalo Bills lose four Super Bowls? Why when I shave my legs does the hair grow back immediately? Why is Snooki famous and getting to travel the country doing appearances while I’m sitting here in my apartment all alone with a giant bouffant and nowhere to go?

There are no answers to nature’s cruelties, no justification for our lots in life. The bottom line is that sometimes Mother Nature can be a Biznatch. (I have some resentment toward her for the lazy eye and colossal gap between my front teeth – which have since been fixed if you’re wondering).

So, we’ve admitted that sometimes a twin wakes up on the wrong side of the fallopian tube. Now, I'll tell you that there is etiquette involved when it comes to dealing with the less attractive twin; etiquette that should be used from the time she is born.

I advise you to be sympathetic toward her, but do it subtly. She is going to have a tough road ahead. We need to strap love to her little webbed feet so she can walk the road of life with the confidence she deserves.

Etiquette Rule #1: Do not put your twins in equally cute clothing if they don’t have equally cute faces. It just gives the better-looking twin the opportunity to shine. If the twins are pale skinned females, I suggest dressing the ugly twin in colors that will flatter her skin tone such as dark blues and purples et cetera. The attractive twin should be put in colors that aren’t as flattering to her skin tone: yellows and oranges. *The key here is not to make the attractive twin look ugly; it’s to tone down her beauty so the contrast in looks become less obvious.

Etiquette Rule #2: A rose by any other name doesn’t smell as sweet. If the difference in looks is obvious from birth, give the less attractive twin the cooler name. Take me for example… My Mother admitted that she wanted to name me ‘Summer.’ And, when I was getting benched from the softball game with 5lb glasses drooped at the edge of my nose, ‘Summer’ would have given me that cool edge that I needed.

And finally…

Etiquette Rule #3: Santa should forget that Sarah likes pink but remember that Summer likes green. For example, if you are going to buy your twins iPods, the unattractive twin should receive the one with the hip, trendy color while the attractive twin still gets an iPod, it's the boring black one. (Listen, she’s lucky you’re not getting her a cassette player.)




*Any questions or suggestions on Twin etiquette can be sent to my much more attractive sister. She's works as my assistant in a broom closet opening all my fan mail.

If You Don't Wash Your Hands You'll Contract Ridicule.

On a recent excursion to a public restroom (and I use the word "excursion" quite literally), I was disgusted to find a middle-aged, well dressed woman waltz right out of the freshly flushed bathroom stall and back into a restaurant with out washing her hands. I thought, wow, the nerve it takes to see a person standing right there and say to herself "You know what? I'm not going to wash my hands. This person can like it or lump it."

Maybe in a perfect world this woman didn't even use the toilet, maybe she just had to change her clothes or perhaps she just needed some privacy for a moment. But, even so, she has the social duty, relieved or not, to wash her hands. I understand if she was in the restroom alone without any witnesses and she just said "screw it, I better get back out there, my pasta is getting cold." But to be so brazen, so bold that she can just walk right past a person without feeling slightly obliged to wash is unnerving. If she's not washing in front of people, I can't imagine what she's doing in private.

Perhaps she was in a hurry and didn't have time to wash her hands. But nothing is so urgent that she can't just do me the favor of even fake washing her hands. Just to show me that she cares. The issue here isn't about germs. It's about appearances.

Let me clarify, this post is not about touching soap to hands. It's about fulfilling the unwritten (and sometimes written) social rule that we need to wash our hands after using a public restroom. She didn't even really need to wash her hands to make me happy. I would have been satisfied with a fake wash... just turning on the water and placing her hands near it. Just some effort to show me she respects social etiquette.

Of course we all should wash our hands after we use the restroom. Especially a public restroom. But, I will admit there are times when I just don't feel like washing my hands for a couple of reasons. 1. My sleeves are long and washing would result in wet discomfort. 2. I'm in a hurry to get back to the movie. 3. Having maneuvered my way around the bathroom with my elbows, washing my hands would almost be redundant.

But, as a respectable member of society I will ALWAYS, I mean ALWAYS wash my hands when someone else is present in the restroom, long sleeves or not. And, if there is a person in the stall, unable to see me while I'm at the sink, I will turn on the water just to ease their minds.

Catching Swine Flu, or T.B., or Lady Gaga isn't what motivates myself and other kindred spirits to wash our hands in a public restroom. What motivates us is social pressure. It's like recycling: You don't always do it because you want to. You do it because someone's looking.

The woman who just couldn't wait to get back to her pasta may have not contracted H1N1 but she has caught something far worse, flack from Kristen Carney.

I'm Makin' Some Cop--ies of an Email I Was Sent from the Radio Hosts Who Interviewed Rob Schnei--der.

FM Radio is bad no matter what time of day it is. Morning, noon, night... I don't want to hear the music that is played nor the hosts that play it (except for Adam Carolla of course, whose since gone to iTunes).

However, morning radio programming is particularly bad. Not just bad. It's cheesy; unfunny prank phone calls, arrogant deejays who wear seashell necklaces (even though I can't see them I just know they are wearing seashell necklaces), contests of who can drink the most water without peeing (which just killed a woman) and giveaways to the saddest person in a cubicle.

But, do you know what else is cheesy? Florida. Specifically West Palm Beach, Florida. And even MORE specifically, a radio station in West Palm Beach called WiLD (yes, it's a lowercase i) 95.5 FM. And if you can believe even more cheesy than that? West Palm Beach radio hosts Kevin, Virginia and Jason.

If you haven't heard or seen the misleading headline "Rob Schneider is a Jerk" referring to an interview he had with three of the most annoying, insecure morning radio hosts, it's time I fill you in. The predictable Kevin, Virginia and Jason interviewed Rob Schneider in what may be the worst interview of all time. These comedic geniuses just don't get it. They just don't get it. And if you are sitting there wondering what "it" is they don't get, that means you don't get it either so just stop reading now.

If you do, let's proceed but not before you watch the interview.

You'll notice that Rob Schneider several times says "Nah, forget about it. I'm just kidding around." But these dummy hosts become defensive. One of the radio hosts goes as far as to say "I'm so sick of this crap. Every time we have a comedian here you think you are bigger than life." Now, if I may, I want to interpret what this guy just said. He more or less said "I'm so sick of not being as funny as you. Every time we have a comedian here I realize what a bad sense of humor I have."

I rarely take action against injustice but this was an exception. This interview made me so mad. Madder than when people don't signal. Madder than someone cutting in line. Madder than when people talk at the movies. That said, I had to write an email to the radio hosts expressing my feelings. And, to my surprise I got a response. However, what didn't surprise me was the lack of thought that went into it.

I've copy and pasted it for your viewing pleasure...

My email read:

You wouldn't know funny if The Three Stooges were sitting next to you watching Marx Brothers videos while reading Jerry Seinfeld's book AND listening to George Carlin's audio book.

I thought this was quite witty and paid homage to our comedy heroes.

...And this is what I got back. A clear demonstration of why again, I don't listen to morning radio. Unoriginal, tacky, unfunny FM radio.

Your opinion matters so little to any of us! You are a douche, and you have no idea what you are talking about. You are emailing someone based on bad info... Go jump off a bridge, and hit a few metal pieces on the way down. Dumb ass!


You suck,


Virginia

Funny Virginia. Because that's exactly what I wanted to do right after I listened to your radio show.

Hello Dead Person. Nice to Meet You. My Name is Insincere.

There is a time and place for all types of behavior. Sincerity. Crying. Lying. Frustration. Even telling Knock Knock Jokes about a Mexican and a Jew. A wake or funeral, specifically is a time and place appropriate for all of the above just mentioned. There are a lot of reasons why this behavior would be appropriate in such a setting.

1. Sincerity; maybe for once you really actually liked this person.

2. Tears; you've come face to face with just how unflattering black is for your skin tone.

3. Lies; the dead guy used to talk incessantly at the movies so you couldn't stand him but you couldn't say that to the grieving widow, of course.

4. A knock knock joke about a Mexican and a Jew may be just what the group of police officers in mourning need.

5. Frustrations; someone just finished the rest of TownHouse brand half cracker/half pretzel hybrid you've been dying to try. Excuse me, meaning to try. 

Sound politically incorrect? Good. It should. Politically incorrect can fly at a funeral because we're human and death is scary, or at least it is for us Catholics. We've got to get through it some how. And, if telling off-color, insensitive jokes is what your little stone heart desires at a funeral, so be it.

But, there is one thing you should never ever do when it comes to death. And, that is go to a wake/funeral just because EVERYONE ELSE IS GOING.

Years back, when I was in high school a fellow student died a very tragic death. And I felt terrible. Genuinely terrible. But I didn't go to his calling hours because 1. His death turned into a popularity contest and popularity has never been my thing. 2. I am not a disingenuous person.

Deciding whether or not to attend a funeral service should be a much bigger decision than deciding to show up at the high school dance or a homecoming football game.

When this student's calling hours took place there was a line down the street for hours. This would have been nice if everyone was there to celebrate his life. However, most people were there to celebrate their own lives and how many more parties they were going to be invited to following the service.

The bottom line is if you're going to use someone's funeral to better your social situation, chances are you're not meant to be very popular in the first place. There are plenty of other things that can make you look cooler than attending a stranger's funeral.

Perhaps work on your personality?

Some people may argue they'll look like jerk if they don't go. I say you look like a jerk if you do go. If you didn't know the person don't go to the wake, don't send a card. And please oh, please don't post your condolences in a Facebook update.

Cops Risk their Lives... Every Time they Drive Home Drunk.

A few months ago on a week long stay in my home town I got stuck playing a game of cards with some of the locals. One of these locals happened to be a town cop. And I knew things were off to a bad start when I said "I would respect small town cops if they spent more time fighting crime and less time planning their next softball game."

But I understand, in a small town like mine, there isn't much crime to fight. Really the only dangers are overweight women in spandex. And to give cops a little credit, that can be quite scary.

And, I don't think I'm overstepping my bounds by saying that small town cops aren't the most open minded folk around (and I use the word "folk" very literally). They are often confused by art, insightful humor, people who live in big cities and to put it politely, black people. And nothing says "I played football in high school" like becoming a small town cop.

And, as many of my fellow stand up comedians would agree, it's better not to tell people you are a comedian because you will get the inevitable "Oh yeah? You're a comedian? Tell us a joke, comedian." My response to this is usually "I don't think you have the intelligence level to understand my jokes... they're not Knock Knock Jokes." And they usually respond by saying "I have this friend who's really funny. He told me this joke the other day. It was something like.. oh how did it go. It was hilarious. Oh I know what it was.. So a Mexican and a Jew walk into a bar..." Then I sit and fake smile at their lack of understanding what a joke is. It's very awkward.

Anyway, to my UNsurprise, the cop, out of everyone said that exact thing. "Oh yeah? You're a comedian? Tell us a joke, comedian." And to him I responded "You're a cop? Now if you were to spell the word 'you're' would you spell it Y.O.U.'R.E or Y.O.U.R.? This is a very telling way to discover someones intelligence level. And, if he chose correctly, I would have thought about possibly telling him a joke. But we never got to that point because he hated me immediately. Which was fine with me, except for the fact my car's license plate was highly visible from where we were sitting.

Now, it's been a while since this incident so I can't remember what happened next. I'm guessing the word fagot was thrown around lightly as well as the 'N' word, and the cop probably crushed about 5 or 6 beer cans on his forehead and once I had had enough I got one more jab in before I left... I said. "Hey Mr. Coppy... Are you going to drive home after you're finished with your 24 pack of Keystone?"

Then I ran like hell..

Now, I don't think all cops are bad. I have respect for the ones who really deal with the big bad guys. But, my respect went down a few notches last weekend when I was pulled over for my first time by the LAPD.

[Note: the following paragraph(s) to come contains all the things I would've like to have said to the cop but I didn't have the balls to so I didn't... The following are responses I wish I could have said but instead I was a sissy]

It was a Saturday, and as usual I wasn't doing anything too exciting. I was just on my way home from dinner when I saw a cop move over three lanes to get behind me. So, of course, I knew what was coming... He got out of his car and shined that ridiculously bright flashlight in my eyes. I said "Sir, please. Remove that flashlight from my eyes so I can see the man I have to fake attraction to."

Typically, he said "license and registration." I was like "yeah, nice line. Really original." And I gave him my license. He starred at it for an unusually long amount of time, like he was looking for something to be racist about. He couldn't find anything (although I do look slightly ethnic in my photo). So, he told me I had a break light out and I said (fake concerned) "Oh, no. Really?" (Which I thought was weird he said that because I had recently got both break lights changed)... And this was his EXACT quote "I wouldn't lie to you." I thought "Wow, what a stand up guy... he wouldn't lie to me. I should date that one."

So, a day or two later I go to get my break light fixed and the guys at the shop are like "Nah, miss yer break lights are werkin' jus fine." (that's how all mechanics speak, even the Mexican ones). So, the cop lied to me. Ridiculous because he said "I wouldn't lie to you." Like he made a point to lie and then made a point to say he wouldn't lie.

But anyway, when I was at the shop to get my break light fixed I figured since I was already there I should just get a quick inspection of my car... it's starting to age slightly. It's weird in Los Angeles cars aren't even allowed to age. So when they inspected it they found that my actual breaks were worn down to about nothing and they were about to go.

So, thank you Mr. Cop for misleading me. If it weren't for your lies, dishonesty, crookedness, deceit and flimflam, I probably would have been killed when my breaks failed on me. You're the reason I'm still alive. You are my untrustworthy hero.

I'll come thank you at your next softball game.

Background Actors are Unintentionally Hilarious. But When You're an Extra for a Yogurt Brand's Webisode it's No Longer Hilarious, it's Depressing.

I moved to Los Angeles about two years ago. And, like thousands of others, I had dreams of stardom. But, as my drive started to dwindle, so did my savings account. One day I made these struggles known to a stranger at an audition. They recommend I look into doing non-union background work. One week later I arrived on set for my first day of background acting. Little did I know, that would be the day I will remember as the day I lost my soul.

I used to believe that mankind was good. But that silly assumption came to an end when I started waiting tables. But it REALLY crashed and burned when I started doing extra work (Note: I purposely don't capitalize "extra." It might give the impression that it's a respectable job).

These extra casting agencies have more applicants than they know what to do with. They lure in suckers like myself using tag lines like "Jump start your career!" The only thing I'm jump starting after doing extra work are thoughts of suicide.

When signing up for background work first crossed my mind I thought "Well, it can't be that bad - flexible schedule, free food, the opportunity to hang out on movie lots and see first hand the way television is made." Doesn't sound bad, right?

Wrong. I'll translate my assumptions into reality for you.

Flexible schedule means 6:00 a.m. call time and 1:00 a.m. release time. Free food means eat away the pain of being a nobody. Hang out on movie lots means don't even think about going near the Star trailers. (And I quote) "you're not part of that world and you're not invited into that world." Stay in holding with the other plebes. And lastly, see first hand the way television is made means witness how music and editing makes these actors look talented.

Once you're on set, no one tries to hide how much background work sucks because the names used for the job: wranglers, holding, extras, background.

For those of you who have never have done extra work or been on a set, a "wrangler" is the person in charge of the extras. But, do they really have to call them wranglers? If I'm not mistaken, an actual "wrangler" is a ranch hand who takes care of the saddle horses. To the director and producers and to everybody who matters, you are the human equivalent of a saddle horse. And believe me, they'll shoot you if you break a leg.

The word "holding" isn't so charming either. While the principal actors are in their heated trailers, extras are set up in an empty building that is in no way made to support human life: no lights, heat, outlets and only a few metal folding chairs for the extras lucky enough to get one.

Finally, the terms "extra" and "background" are used in their most literal form. We are nothing more. We're extra. We're extraneous, inessential, superfluous, unused, unnecessary (thank you to thesaurus.com for that self-esteem bash fest).

As if the terminology isn't dehumanizing enough, extras aren't allowed to eat at the same table as everyone else. Even the P.A.'s get to enjoy their lunch at the table's with salt and pepper shakers and pretty center pieces. Walking with a plate full of food back to holding is the ultimate walk of shame. The people who matter get to watch you slither away back to your black hole of failure with a plate full of macaroni and cheese. It's humiliating.

But what blows my mind most of all are the extras who are more than fine with their position in life. Who are you people? Do you not feel? Do you not cry? Do you not want? Do you not dream? Come on, WAKE UP! Don't let other people treat you like this. Do something more respectable like, stripping.

Doing extra work doesn't make you feel like a loser. It makes you a loser. Until you get cast as the principal actor, stay away from movies, television, commercials and worst of all, webisodes.

Dun dun dunnnn. Webisodes... I just worked as an extra for a webisode for a yogurt brand. Talk about no standards. It's one thing to be on a set with award winning actors. It's another to be on a set of actors worse than you. It'll drive you mad. These crummy actors are the first to walk around with a giant chip on their shoulder, too. "No fraternizing with the extras (animals), we're big time now. We're in a webisode for YOGURT."

All of this is all the more painful because I have, in my short stay in LA, been lucky enough to be cast in a few print ads and television things as featured or principal so I know what it feels like to be on the other side. Until I can be on that side consistently, I will stay away from the Slave-like treatment. (Note: I capitalize Slave-like because comparatively to extra work, it really doesn't sound so bad).

Hey Subway Stop Trying to be Classy. Your Employees are not "Sandwich Artists"

I eat Subway all of the time and I do so because I am not creative enough to think of any other place to grab a quick bite. And also because my Dad is a firm believer in mediocrity...

And, I'm there so often I know what to expect; turkey with random brown spots, tomatoes with white, unripe centers and bread that smells like my brother's hamper. I'm cool with that.

What I'm not cool with is the fact that you, Subway, try to get away with calling your hourly, minimum wage, ex-convict/illegal immigrant employees "Sandwich Artists." Let me say that again for those of you who didn't hear me. Subway calls their employees "Sandwich ARTISTS." Both you (Subway) and I know that when you call your employees "Sandwich Artists" you really are just insulting your customer's intelligence as well as taking away whatever dignity your hourly employees have left.

I understand you pay for what you get. 4 bucks for a sub, I expect $4 quality. But I also know that if these sandwich artists were actually "artists" they would know that sandwiches should not be made like a hotdog, with the meat and fixings directly straddling the bread so when you fold it in half the insides don't lay flat. My life would be so much easier if I had large breasts and if these "sandwich artists" could just slice the bread all the way in half, pile everything on the lower half and then just cover the sandwich with the other slice of bread so I don't have to eat it like a giant wiener dog. (Please see photo attached for a phenomenon I like to call "The Hot Dog Effect")

Real "Sandwich Artists" come from places like France or Italy or the Culinary Institute of America, not Torrance, CA. Like we let Rachael Ray slide with not being an actual trained Chef but you, Subway are pushing it way too far with this serious title your just so casually tossing around. I think you, Subway, just need to be comfortable and confident with the fact that you are not classy, and you never will be classy. You're like that girl who shops at Forever 21 but walks like she shops at Neiman Marcus.

So, please take down the glamor shots of aged cheeses and aromatic basil from your walls and replace them with pictures of like NASCAR and Shaq. I think people would respect your company a lot more if you just admitted that you're a mediocre fast food joint. And please, change the name of your employees to "Cold Cut Slingers" or "Lucky to Have a Job at all." Remember Subway, if you strive for mediocrity you will never have to feel the pain of failure.

Your Cat is not a He or a She. It's an it.

I can't remember who I was speaking with recently (conveniently for the purpose of this blog post) but I do remember our conversation and the moment that they became incredibly annoyed/offended that I got the sex of their cat wrong, which is absolutely ridiculous. Unless I get the sex of your 15 year old son wrong, relax.

Your cat/dog isn't going out for the football team or signing up for ballet classes so the sex of your cat/dog is useless. They don't have feminine/masculine traits that differentiate themselves from one another so how am I expected to know? It's not like the male cat has a deeper meow or has to shave for work in the morning.

The Sex of a human barley matters anymore, how could it possibly be relevant in the animal world? If the WNBA can exist, gender is clearly no longer pertinent and yet, "(Clearing throat) Sparkles is a HE." "Oh, really? Well, if you didn't give him such a gay name maybe I would've known that." The only way I differentiate gender is by cat and dog. Cats are the girls and dogs are the boys (unless they are a little sissy dogs). So when I see a cat I just assume it's a she, since it's the weaker of the two. And dogs are the dudes clearly, because they are much cooler.

And it's not like the animal knows it's being called a boy when it's really a girl. It can't get offended or get a complex about it's gender. Like the cat says, "I knew my whiskers make me look like a boy, now I'm embarrassed to play outside, the other cats are going to make fun of me."

You may be surprised to find out that I do have a cat and I LOVE "it" more than words and "it" is adorable. My little "it" may have male parts but "it" acts more like a woman, very needy, sensitive and "it" cries a lot. And "it's" sex isn't relevant because I'm not planning on setting it up with the female cat next door to make more little "its". The only thing I and anyone else needs to know about "it" is that "its" adorable and sweet and loves when you pet "it's" chin.

The same person who gets offended when you get the sex of their pet wrong is also the person who gets offended when you get their name just slightly wrong - like really mad. "Umm, actually, it's Christine, I HATE the name Christina." Yes, I know it's a different name but only by one letter.

I don't mind if someone calls me Kirsten when my name is Kristen. Actually, I'd prefer it. It makes me feel like I'm someone else for a few short sweet minutes. Yes, I AM Kirsten, I am strong, confident and cool unlike Kristen who is weak, depressed and scared. I'll take the different name and it's okay if you think my cat is a she.

A Pilot I was in Just Aired on TLC.

IMDB here I come.

'Dental Chickens' Phrase is No Longer a Mystery to Me... But Why They Think it's Good Advertising Is.

Now, take a look at this ad I've seen a couple of times. I seem to notice this unintentionally hilarious ad on days when I'm frustrated because it usually ads to my confusion toward the world... and today was one of those days because I just got fired from my waitressing job. And you can imagine the low point you hit when someone tells you more or less, you suck at bringing people sodas... but that's a whole 'nother blog for a different day.

Back to bad advertising... See, I consider myself a relatively smart person regardless of what I scored on my math regents. And I, for the life of me could not figure out what "We Cater to Dental Chickens" meant. At first I thought it could mean a number of things like 1. Chickens, regardless that we use them for the eggs need oral care too. Or 2. Business has been slow so we're branching out to the animal world (Hey, in a bad economy, you never know what people will do).

But each of these explanations weren't adding up because of the creepy picture along side of the headline. Now, I understand using a photo of a child because they're young, innocent and lovable to gain positive feelings toward your product... But to include an adult man with a receding hairline as well is a bit, tacky.

As a society we're all very aware of the influx of pedophilia lately. As a result, it's a little touchy displaying an ad where an adult man is uncomfortably close to a young child. In a perfect world, I'd like to think this adult man is the father of this young girl and he's only showing his admiration of his child. BUT, there is a problem with this ideal theory... the girl is walking a fine line between being his daughter and being another race completely... leading us to believe that she's not his daughter at all but a young child he's scooped up on his way to the duct tape and rope shop.

So, for the life of me I just couldn't figure out what this ad was getting at.

But, after posting this image to Facebook I immediately got an explanation. And I said Ohhhhhh I get it. They are catering to those who are afraid of the dentist... thus "chickens."

How could I not have gotten this? Of course I questioned my intelligence for a second but only for a second. Until I realized that I didn't get it because I'm SO smart that I thought "it couldn't be referring to people afraid of the dentist, that's too easy."

A link to their website provided by a helpful Facebook friend showed that some of the ways they cater to 'dental chickens' is by using get this, laughing gas and various types of sedation. In my opinion, if you are so outrageously afraid of the dentist that you require laughing gas or sedation the only people catering to you should be psychiatric doctors. Not dentists.

Please Keep Your Chair in an Upright and Locked Position. Atleast Until After We Crash.

I used to be a good flyer... until I got old enough to realize that the same men who wear Lee jeans are the same men who are responsible for putting my plane together. Actually, I think I realized it in college when I was dating an engineer from France who worked for Airbus, and when he made me Coq au Vin, a popular french dish and it sucked I thought if he can't even get chicken right... how is he going to get the structure of a plane right?

Like I said, I used to be a good flyer. But now I'm a wreck. The only way I make it 30,000 feet in the air is with some heavy doses of Tanqueray. Otherwise I'd have to be restrained in a straight jacket and beat over the head with some middle aged woman's carry-on that CLEARLY should have been checked. I don't drink all year until I get on a plane, then suddenly I turn into Chelsea Handler (with out the successful comedy career of course).

But my biggest beef lies with the people I like to call "Poker Faced" Flyers. They're sitting there so calm, so uninterested like they haven't looked out the window and seen that we are 30 THOUSSSANNDDD FEET above ground and if they have looked out their window they are so above it all because they think "Hey, we are humans, we are foolproof, we are GOD." Listen, confident humans, homosapians have walked the earth for 250,000 years and within those 250,000 years out of all the things that they've known to be natural, being 30 THOUSAND FEET above ground is not one of them. I have had moments where I'd like to stand up, turn around and shout (from first class of course) "Have you people not noticed that we are 30 THOUSAND FEET above ground???!!! Have you all gone mad???

But, despite my terror I get on a plane and I go... because I live 3,000 miles from my family. And don't think I haven't thought about driving all the way from California to New York to go to a cousins wedding for a weekend and then turn right around and drive back 3 days later.

But enough about me, I want to get down to business... I'd like to address one type of person, and you know who are. I'm talking you "Person Who Reclines Their Chair Before the Crew Says You Can." The last time I flew the guy sitting in front of me was clearly an asshole. I knew this because he had a lot of gel in his hair. But not only did he have too much gel in his hair, he had his seat reclined before I even sat down. Which is not only inconsiderate for the person trying to settle into their seat, it's against federal aviation law (yes, I am the federal aviation law police). And despite the crews failed attempts, he was a sneaky bastard and when we took off, his seat was reclined. Hey, inconsiderate dude, please just keep your seat up until they say you can put it back - in an emergency, I highly doubt your seat 2" closer to my face is going to make or break my chances of survival but AT LEAST give me the courtesy of knowing that I will have .1 second more time before I bash my head into the video screen in front of me. Listen, I am a considerate person so I know that if I recline my chair before the crew gives me the go ahead, I will make the guy behind me very uncomfortable because he is probably following the rules and will just be stuck REALLY close to his tray table until he feels it is socially and lawfully acceptable to put his seat back. On one angelic occasion I had a guy actually ASK me if he could recline his seat. It was adorable. He turned around, his little eyes peaking through the crack in the seats and he asked really nicely "Heyyy, do you think it would be okay if I put my seat back?" I was so taken aback by his consideration that despite his bald spot I thought for one brief second, I was in love. Maybe his consideration for other human beings comes from the humility of being a bald guy... who knows?

With in the past year there have, unfortunately been been a string of airplance incidents that have made my fears soar to great heights (or greats depths depending on what way you look at it). But, the biggest tragedy in recent months was the crash of AirFrance Flight 447 where 280 lives were lost. So, maybe I was right? If you can get Coq au Vin right...

My Idea of a Good Plumber Ad

This is a print ad I did while at Chicago Portfolio School. ... maybe this is why I chose stand-up comedy instead.

I'm Not a Bitch, I'm an Asshole.

Rappers, pleassse… Keep on rapping about “bitches.” I don’t mind…

I don’t consider myself a bitch so I am really not all that offended at your lyrics (is that even what you call words in a rap song?). I am offended however, that all women just tend to get all jumbled up and clumped together into that one word, bitch. And don’t worry this is not going to be one giant “bitching” session that men are the enemy or that rap music needs to reassess it’s terminology. It’s going be the complete opposite actually because Dr. Dre, I’m with you. Bitches ain’t shit but hoes and tricks.

To our credit, not all of us women are bitches. Some of us are “assholes.” Believe me, as a teenager who was picked on by a bunch of bitches I can tell you there’s a difference. No offense to you women out there (even my own lovely mother included) but we are at some or most points in our lives either one or the other. Now, I am not saying that even Mother Theresa was a bitch or an asshole but what I am saying is that her Sisters probably were.

If you are a woman reading this, do you remember at some point in grade school or high school feeling threatened by another girl? If so, you probably acted in 1 of 2 ways. 1. You either said something about her behind her back and had your friend say it to her face for you or 2. You said something about her straight to her face but because she took it like a man, you became life-long friends. If you chose action #1, that means you’re a bitch. If you chose action #2, congratulations, you’re an asshole.

See, asshole women are like gay men. They’re funny, they’re loud, they’re opinionated and most importantly, they’re honest. And I would befriend any woman who’s an asshole in a heartbeat. A bitch? Not so much.

See, Bitches have pink cell phones and small dogs. Assholes have regular cell phones and German Shepherds. Bitches call you “sweety” and “hunny” while assholes call you by your last name or even better, a creative and witty nickname that hits upon your worst quality. Bitches only talk to you if other people are talking to you, assholes talk to you whether anyone else includes you or not, even though they may be telling you your bald spot is starting to show. A bitch would lie to you and tell you your outfit looks good because she wants to look better than you while an asshole would say “bitch, go change your clothes. You’re not walking next to me in that.” A bitch would snicker at your lack of a “name brand education” and tell her friend what a loser you are while an asshole would make a joke about your worthless associates degree but still bank on your success.

Sounding a bit harsh? It’s called honesty and unfortunately the lack of it is beginning to show up in your friend’s wardrobe and your sister-in-law’s new patio furniture. But, fortunately for you, I’m an asshole telling you the truth; get rid of your pink Blackberry Pearl and little shitzu, because it is making you look fat.

A Short and Sour Welcome.

Hi I'm Kristen. Welcome to Sweat the Small Stuff, a humorous blog dedicated to social commentary; the everyday, little things that just don't ad up and drive us (me) insane... Insane enough to blog about anyway.

Of course I find things like aids, hunger, pollution, and North Korea to be terrible, just terrible. However, I just don't find them as dangerous to society as people who don't signal when making a turn, those who get really over zealous with the divider-thing at the grocery store check out, people who recline their chairs on the airplane before they are allowed to, people who don't say "thank you" when you hold the door for them, people who stand on the escalator, people who stop 15 feet short at a red light.... and worst of all, people in general.

I think these are the real injustices of society. Don't sweat the small stuff? Well I'm telling whoever coined that phrase that the reason they didn't sweat the small stuff was because they weren't smart enough to notice it.

And, my fellow social commentators, I'm here for you if you want to vent, add your own experience, post something that annoys you or feel like your next door neighbor needs to be called out for being, well, a typical next door neighbor.

Make yourself at home, snoop around, scan some of the titles, they're pretty entertaining and if you have time... read the blog. And, if you have even more time, subscribe to my blog.

Enjoy!