If I Just BREEEAATTTHHHEEE!

I posted recently about the Pete Yorn concert I went to last summer that will go down in infamy - at least, the infamy of my soul. I still dream about it occasionally and how wonderful it was to be within five hundred yards of those sweaty, unwashed locks of Pete's while he strummed away and rocked my world forever.

Looking back on it, though, I realize that as awesome as it might have been for myself, it probably was a little less so for my buddy Shaker who was nice enough to go with me when I had no one else willing to sacrifice their weekend for my happiness.

He's actually, probably, going to kill me for this, considering I don't think I've even really talked to him since last summer. Let's just not tell him I posted his picture on the internet, ok? Ok. But how cool is this Fedora, right? Also, the night of the concert he bought me a really great sandwich and introduced me to The Black Keys. The evening was a ten! (Ladies, interested? I'll see what I can do for you. If, you know, he doesn't murder me. For posting his picture on the internet. Holy crap, we really can't tell him about this).

What's great about Shaker is that when you go see a concert with him and the terrible opening act comes out on stage in cowboy boots and a throw back to seventies lingerie-style night gown to warble on and on AND ON about the woes of her Asian life (this isn't racist! It's simply an observation! I love Asians!) he doesn't just stand there and awkwardly live through every horrifying moment because he can only assume you WANT to listen to it.

Nope, he talks through it and helps you make fun of this chick for as long and as much as you'd like and makes sure you always have booze so that it just keeps getting funnier the longer she sings. It was refreshing.

However, during our discussion, we let it rip about all kinds of music and concerts we'd been to and we even treaded into the badlands of "what was the first CD you ever bought?"and I, LIKE A MORON, admitted that Alanis Morissette's Jagged Little Pill might have been mine and sure, Shaker had a good laugh about that. I'm sure you are too. WHATEVER. LAUGH AWAY. But just know that every time you make fun of me and my junior high sense of style, a puppy dies. And that I'm keeping tally marks against you. Karma's a bitch. I'm just saying.

What was great also, was that once he had a good laugh about this...and I'm talking a GOOD LAUGH, he willingly admitted that he had a serious thing for Michelle Branch right around the same time.

That's right.

Michelle. Branch.

So I've been doing some digging recently in an attempt to fulfill my own sense of "where are they now?" stars of my childhood ever since they found Boner from Growing Pains dead in Vancouver. (I'm not making fun of it. There have been enough jokes at this poor boys unfortunate nickname and such. My prayers are with his family. And with the Olympics who are currently also in Vancouver and are trying to turn this negative publicity around. Which they're not having much luck with after that unfortunate luge accident. Seriously, Vancouver, WTF?)

Wow. I'm really bad at staying on topic.

Michelle Branch. She's still alive. She used to be with a band called The Wreckers that I absolutely loved, with all of my hillbilly twang girlpowered heart. However, Michelle is still holding her own since the band broke up. This song is sappy and sweet but more importantly, Michelle Branch isn't in Vancouver, so she's still alive and able to sing it.

This one is for Shaker, wherever you might be. And there's a good chance you might be biking in Guatemala because you're just that kind of dude. Just remember when viewing this video to breathe. Let it fill the space between. I know, everything is alright. Breathe.

The Female Psyche

Devin: Did you hear Hannah Montana is retiring?

Megan: Oh, yeah I did hear that.

Devin: I really want to see that movie about The Last Song she's doing. It looks sa-

Megan: So you know how Jack T is dating now?

Devin: (paused...obviously confused she's been interrupted during the H.Mont. conversation) Uh...yeah?

Megan: JILLY asked him out.

Devin: (stunned silence). No. Way.

Megan: YEAH. (obviously disgruntled. Appalled. She can't even keep the macaroni in her mouth she's so enraged)

Devin: But he's YOURS.

Megan: Oh, Devin, you don't have to tell me. I know he's mine.

Devin: Wow. Hey...are you going to eat your kiwi?

Megan: I don't eat kiwi.

I would say that this conversation surprised me and I laughed for an extended period of time, because for the most part, that would be true. It's irrational and unorganized and actually doesn't follow any sort of normal pattern to a conversation. Also, they talked about stupid shit which makes it even funnier.

(Like, can Hannah Montana actually retire? She's eight and a half. I would say they should call it a "career move" rather than "retirement". She takes off a wig. That's not retiring. That's favoring one over another in your multiple personality disorder.)

Like, I was saying, I wanted to laugh at them and giggle at their silly expense. Except it was only moments later that I realized last week Beth and I were laying in her bed together when this conversation occurred after I had spent the night:

Me: Hey! You put pants on!

Beth: I know, I got cold.

Me: You clawed me in the face last night.

Beth: Oh, I'm sorry! Are you ok?

Me: Yeah, it's alright. You actually have very little hands.

Beth: I know, right?....(sigh. We both stare at the ceiling, dreading our morning work out.)

Me: Hey...is Euro Sauce the same as Tartar Sauce?

Beth: (Eruptous laughter) Would you like me to make you some pancakes or an egg sandwich?

Me: No thank you. I love you.

Beth: I love you too.

This is just the way the female mind works. I've come to accept it. And while my inner (kind of) adult wanted to laugh out loud at these two ten years having a serious conversation about pop culture and men, I couldn't bring myself to do that.

Because I'm just no better.

P.S.

Beth: Nope. I'm pretty sure you only put one of them on fish.

Musings

Do you know what watching the movie 7 Pounds results in? Tears and shame. And good music.

I've never really listened to Muse before this film. I know they got really big because of Twilight and Stephanie Meyer relies on them to write about every chiseled ab on Edward's body, so there's gotta be something to it there.

Maybe I'll start listening to them to write my blog. It's gonna get really confusing for awhile. While my life is a chaotic mess of unemployment and sarcasm, it will be laced with hints of what seems to be a Fabio novel and creatures of the night:

"Today I substitute taught for thankless eighth graders. It was dreary and depressing. Then the rain started. Edward almost ate me in Biology. We're going to prom if he doesn't kill me first. I LOVE unemployment. I wonder who's going to win at the Oscars. Perhaps I'll ask Alice for the future." and so on and so forth.

I just realized this post will only be funny if you've actually read Twilight. So...here's hoping my 13 and older female demographic is up these days.

WHAT WAS I EVEN TALKING ABOUT? Oh, yes. Seven Pounds. Muse. Feeling Good. Go.

Muse - Feeling Good
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This Is Why I'm Going To Hell

I know that typically the featured video is of my family or friends or even me doing something odd or awkward...sometimes with a dog or a bucket of paint.

However, my good friend Kellee over at Business Casual posted this from Barely Political on Twitter this morning (wow that was a lot of cross referencing that just happened there) and I've never felt so conflicted before when laughing in my life. What is it about being a toddler that makes you so ridiculously top heavy that you can't stay standing for more than forty seconds at a time? And I mean, some of these kids bite it HARD but in such a completely hysterical way I found myself going "OHH!!" before the nonstop laughter kicked in. My favorite has to be the two kids who fall simultaneously while walking on ice. Or maybe the baby and the bear. You'll see what I'm talking about soon because there will be a small part of you that clicks "replay" nonstop while in your head you're screaming "Sinner! BABY KILLER!"

My Picks

Scott and I had a real humdinger of an argument last night on the phone. Well, not really. He said that essentially he would have George Clooney's babies if given the chance and I was like, "Ew. Stop ta-ta-talkin' that blah blah blah" which, OBVIOUSLY, led us to the Oscars.

Or something like that. I can't really remember, I was tired and only half paying attention because reruns of Big Love were showing. Sorry Scott.

ANYWAY, he suggested that I do a post about my picks for the Oscars this year in anticipation of the airing on March 7th and when I finally got around to actually listening to the words coming out of his mouth, I was all "You're a Clooney lovin' GENIUS there, Scott!" and thought I'd give my fortune-telling skills a try.

(I don't know if you know this, but I am such a fortune-teller. I think everyone in my family has something special about them that they utilize at different times of need. My sister has what I like to call "Sleepthroughititis" and my mom is fantastic at the game "What is that smell coming from the carpet?". What can I say? Us Earps are talented folk.)

AHEM. So, if you will. The nominees please:

Best Picture:
I didn't see it, but I'm going with The Hurt Locker. Scott and I were just talking last night about how every year the winner is a movie that just depresses the snot out of everybody and from what I can tell in this film, lots of running around bombing soldiers is pretty much despair at it's finest. I wish it were An Education, but alas, soldiers win.

Best Director:
I hope it's Lee Daniels for Precious. In fact, I hope the entire Precious cast just can't get off the stage the entire night due to the fact that they're cleaning out shop with all their wins. However, it won't be. It's going to be Jason Reitman for Up In The Air because not just anybody can get away with bossing George Clooney around for three months at a time. It's the reason him and Brad Pitt didn't work out as a couple. They just couldn't decide who was the bitch and who was the braun.

Best Actor:
Eeeeeeehhhhh. I didn't see ANY of these guys. Well, I saw George but I really feel like he's dominating my post so far and we can't have that. Just by looking at the pictures from their films, I'm gonna go with Colin Firth. He won at the BAFTA's the other night for the same award and he was dressed like Buddy Holly the entire film A Single Man. Plus I like him. He can do a film with Amanda Bynes AND Renee Zellwegger. He's multifaceted. And a DILF.

Best Actress:
If there were a wrestling match between Gabourey Sidibe and Carey Mulligan, I would assume that Gabourey would win. Not just because of her weight bracket, but because she's scrappy and Carey Mulligan is quaintly adorable and I don't see it ending well in her favor. Therefore, Gabourey for the win!

Best Supporting Actor:
Do you remember when Woody Harrelson was on Will & Grace for a short while and he played Grace's crazy boyfriend/sex proposing fiancee? It was so odd because Beth and I were just talking about how even though he's a funny looking dude with a weird voice, he's totally coming into his own these days. Anyway, movies and tv shows are trying to convince me that this talented individual is also smokin' hot in some of the stuff he's doing, and I for one just have to say: nice work, film crews. I fell for it.

Best Supporting Actress:
I think I'm going to have to revert back to my wrestling theology for this one. While Mo'nique played a HORRIFYINGLY AWFUL mother in Precious who would occasionally beat her child with a pot(thats right...kitchenware. And I don't know if you realize this but that shit is heavy when it's coated with Teflon), Maggie Gyllenhaal was so tragically alone and heartbroken in Crazy Heart. So yes, the outset says Mo'nique for the win with a pot in one hand, but the believer in me says that Maggie comes back in the final round for a strong left hook and a hug. Maggie wins! The crowd goes wild! She's so elated that I predicted it for her, she tells her brother Jake I'm the woman he's been searching for. We meet and get married. THE END!

Best Animated Feature Film:
BOR-ing. Up.

Best Original Screenplay:
You know what's unabashedly original? Ten men from Tennessee scalpin' Nazis who spell their own names wrong. Inglorious Basterds.

Best Adapted Screenplay:
I don't even know what this means. They copied it from the book, right? Fine. An Education. Be proud you copying losers.

Best Foreign Language Film:
I'm sure there will be a winner. I just don't know who it is. Uh....let's go with....The White Ribbon. Because its title is in English and I appreciate that.

I'm putting Best Original Score and Best Original Song together:
Because this post is lengthy and I'm almost out of coffee which means that I'm already dying the slow and miserable death of the day. Best score would have to go to Sherlock Holmes because fiddling drums and such were awesome. The entire movie I paid more attention to the tune-age and less to Robert Downey's British humor that I couldn't even really tell you the ending. Something about magic or a man with a snaggle tooth. And since I'm extremely biased and Ryan Bingham's newest stalker, let's go with The Weary Kind for best song.

Remember that time that I skipped Best Documentary and Short film categories because everyone gets up during that portion of the airing anyway to get more popcorn and pee? I'm pretty awesome, huh? That's the fortune teller in me screaming out "NOBODY CARES ASH, KEEP MOVING". Thus, we will.

Best Art Direction:
Avatar. I didn't see it but I'm pretty sure Blue People on crotch rockets in the rain forest is about as original in the art department as you're gonna get.

I literally just googled the definition of Cinematography:
To figure out how I was going to begin to decide who was best at it. Apparently it's the "act of making a film." Well fuck you Google, I could have figured that out if I had known it was that simple. I almost refuse to answer this now based on that definition alone, but because I'm not a quitter and it will bug me if I don't finish, fine, I choose Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. SHUSH. I know deep down this will not win, but I'm hoping for it.

Best Costume Design:
Now THIS is where things get fun. How does one choose between Coco before Chanel for my best friend Kelley, or The Young Victoria and it's romantic ensembles for my best friend Beth? You choose Bright Star, that's how, even though can I just say that Abbie Cornish does NOT look good in that film. Like, at all. Not even a little bit. Yikes. But her clothes are killer.

Best Makeup:
Star Trek. Did you see Spock's eyebrows in that sucker? Impressive.

Oh, crap. Best Film Editing, Best Visual Effects, Best Sound Mixing and Best Sound Editing:
Avatar, Avatar, Avatar, Avatar. In that order.

If you've made it thus far, you're probably the most devoted of my fans and therefore, I will offer you a special prize like none you've seen before. Here's your chance to pick the winners. Take a look at the nominees here and post your picks in the comments section if you're just as bored as I am with life. See how we measure up. That's right. I just disguised a prize as your unwilling participation in a contest you're going to lose at.

I mean, because obviously, I'm going to win but still. This could be fun!

My Crazy and Weary Heart

I was really trying to make it through my entire latest edition of Rolling Stone with the following goals:

1. Don't be hypnotized by Shaun White's hair or how much he really does look like Carrot Top. Also, try not to question why Rolling Stone is interviewing snowboarders of the Olympics. Roll with it.
2. Don't immediately run out and buy the top album off the "College Radio Hits List" on the back page. You're nearly homeless, Ashley. HOMELESS. That means no more toothpaste and a diet consisting of primarily cat food.
3. No matter how many times they mention it, don't get angry at the remake of "We Are The World." It was for a good cause and karma is a bitch.

Alas, alack, I am still angry at the We Are The World remake and I'm pretty sure Shaun White will be in my dreams tonight. I'm gonna run my fingers through those luscious locks of copper. That's right. I said it. LUSCIOUS LOCKS OF COPPER.

Despite all my hemming and hawing as I read the dreaded and yet loved Rolling Stone, I did come across one really great little two-page tidbit. Turns out Jeff Bridges doesn't really sing a whole hell of a lot in that movie he's being nominated for and this poor kid from L.A. who used to ACTUALLY BE homeless sings the theme song for Crazy Heart instead.

Swoon, swoon, I'm suddenly over my crush on Shaun White, swoon. This ain't no place of the weary kind. As the magazine puts it, "(it's) an elegantly wasted ballad about a troubadour who has drunk too much and spent too many nights strumming away in shitty bars" and frankly, my friends, if that doesn't scream out peace and hippy love, "All he needs is a harmonica and I'm game", I don't know what does. Why am I always attracted to the dirty and restless?

Because they're hot. That's why.

Because I Believe In You

I don't typically post on Saturdays. It feels like I'm working on a day off, even though I know this actually my lame attempt at procrastinating before starting my already 1 day late homework but blah blah blah, mind your own business, I do what I want.

Perhaps I'm actually blogging as an act of defiance. That's right, apparently blogging is about as lowlifeloser as you can get around these parts...these parts being my parent's home and to do it is the equivalent of sneaking out past curfew to make out with a dude named Jet (age 29 to my 16) in the back of his van while we drink peppermint schnapps. Yes, it's that bad. I know! I had no idea. You can't even catch an STD or a broken heart from it but at least now I'm wiser, huh? It's awful. Bad Ashley. Bad bad, 'you're wasting your time, dummy' Ashley.

I know you sympathize with me. The lowlifeloser thing at your parents house is a little different but still exists. Perhaps it was your ambition to be a Nascar driver as a young lad until your father pointed out that you wouldn't get far in your GeoMetro in the ways of a racetrack. Maybe it was your idea that hiphop dance was your ticket to New York until your mother or an aunt reminded you that to be a dancer you had to be built like a willow in the breeze and you looked more like a North African cactus in a thunderstorm with those thighs.

Whatever it is, whatever your dream might have been, I know you still remember those words. I know you still hold onto that feeling of a sinking heart and wiped away those hot tears of a shame you never knew could exist. The day they told you it just wasn't going to happen and to stop wasting your time. The day you stopped believing in the bigger dreams and found out that four years at a decent college could get you a 50k a year behind a desk and your favorite coffee mug and that perhaps, that just might be good enough for you.

But because we're being defiant today, I say....put that coffee cup down. Er, rather, set it down slowly and don't forget to show up to work tomorrow so that you can keep on not...being...homeless. (I'm so bad at being bad!). I say, keep that desk job! Keep on being the great and educated you who can bring home the bacon. Don't get me wrong, it's a great place to be. It's a great thing to do!

Just, don't cheat yourself out of what it once was you truly wanted. Pick the drum sticks back up. Tie those dance shoes back on. Run around with a Matchbox car on the floor of the kitchen with your kid and imagine, just one more time, what it might have been like if you never gave it up. If you were the first thunder-thighed hip hop dancer and they absolutely loved your attitude. If you really were capable of performing at the Super Bowl. What that movie poster would like with your face on it. What naming the cure for cancer after yourself would REALLY look like on the prescription bottle ("I'm taking AshleyEarpacillin and it's great!").

How a book signing might feel.

A house decorated completely in your designs.

Your own art show at the Met.

A new coffee and yoga house chain completely of your making.

I believe in you. I believe in everything you want to do. Don't be afraid to believe in yourself despite the lowlifeloser whispering in your ear.

And whatever you do, you can always remind yourself:

"At least it's not as bad as blogging."

YAYA!

Physical Retraint

Do you know how hard it has been not to blog about Pete Yorn thus far? What I mean is, really, do you know how hard it has been not to make Pete Yorn the music of the day every single day?

I got his latest album, 'Back and Fourth' (get it? Cause it's his FOURTH album? Pete, you kill me) and once it hit the cd player in my car it did not come out for three months and only at the urging of the children I sit for who were all "Ashley, we're four minutes from the psych ward and we're big enough to overpower you these days....Ryann's not a bad driver either" so, fine, it came out.

However, that doesn't mean I took him out of the Tape Deck of My Soul. I saw him live this summer and it took a lot of restraint not to ditch the friend I went with in an effort to hide out on Pete Yorn's tour bus and do the remaining leg of the tour from underneath his bed, gathering cracker crumbs he might drop on his way for survival.

Yes, this was an actual plan. I'm only a little ashamed to admit it now because, clearly, the better plan would have been to follow him in my own car and offer to do something helpful so that I would be indispensable and of value to him the rest of the time. Like, "Hey, I can hold that guitar for you...and would you like me to brush your hair?" You know, things that wouldn't creep him out.

All of my creepy-stalker-tendencies aside, I found this song off of another album and have found that the BEST way to listen to it is as loud as possible. Yes, that is my typical way of listening to things and yes, I will be deaf by the time I'm thirty five but really, I think that might be kind of convenient. If I did the math correctly, my future children will be at optimal whining age around then and you all will be, "God, I wish I were deaf" much like myself. Suckers.

A Letter To My Mother

Dear Mom,

I know you're going to be disappointed in me. I mean, not in the grand scheme of things. Overall, I'm a pretty decent kid. I'm 25 years old and have made it so far without any major occurances in my life that you should be ashamed of. No illegitimate children or failed marriages - I've never killed anybody and as far as I know, my only addiction is two bottles of wine on a fairly awful day followed by two fairly awful days due to a red wine hangover.

In fact, why don't you just take a moment to relish in all that having a 25 year old who's not in jail means to you? I'm pretty sure you'll find that you have plenty to be thankful for. Don't worry, you can send me a card in the mail later.

Now, let's get down to the nitty gritty. The bare facts. The essentials of why I've written.

I bought this dress today, and I'm here to tell you I'm not even ashamed. NOW STOP RIGHT THERE. I KNOW what you're going to say. You're going to get all "Hey, aren't you unemployed?" and "Wait a minute, didn't you donate blood last month for extra money to go to the movies?!" and sure. I'll admit it when I'm a loser with no career and months ahead of me where I'll be potentially penniless and homeless and this is probably pretty careless of me. All the "less's".

But I don't care.

It has PLEATS. Do you know what pleats can do for a woman? Do you know what pleats can do for my soul? And it was on SALE. This is the dress that will undoubtedly get me that dream job. Can't you see me leading a classroom full of English Lovers in this dress? Can't you see me swishing back and forth, up and down the aisles as I rant and rave about Chaucer and Dickens and Hemingway in these pleats? Can't you see me getting proposed to on a park bench in these pleats?!

Because I can. And it's glorious. This dress will help all my dreams come true. Just as you once held my new-born form in your arms and said to yourself, "This is the thing that will make it all right in the world", so will I with this dress.

Love, Ash

P.S. Please....send rent money.

Whose Thong Is That??

I'm exhausted. Apparently going from tragically unemployed to minimum wage for adult babysitting (also known as substitute teaching) can really run the wrecker on your mind and I just spent the last two hours half-awake dreaming that the kids upstairs were making cupcakes and there would be none left over for me if I didn't MOVE MY ASS. However, I was in such a state of extreme exhaustion that I couldn't. It was physically exhausting just contemplating having to 'move that ass' that I was willing to for-go the cupcakes.

Let me say that again. I was willing to FOR-GO THE CUPCAKES.

What was my point? Oh right, I eventually woke up and needed music to get in the mood to put away all my clean laundry that my mother took care of over the weekend. This also means that for every three pairs of clothing I put away that are mine, I will inevitably find one item that belongs to my sixteen year old sister. How does she still get our items confused?

1. I haven't worn anything of a neon shade since 2000 when it suddenly came back for like, A SECOND.

2. I'm a little bit country, she's a little bit rock and roll. Those zebra print t-shirts and sweatpants that say "bootylicious" on the back just aren't mine.

3. Those strings and straps you put into my basket aren't EVEN underpants. Those should be illegal to stick in the crack of your ass. And why do they glow in the dark?

Uggghhhh I keep missing my point. OH RIGHT, music. I was at a loss so I Googled The Temper Trap because they made me happy on a different occasion, maybe they would be just as successful today.

It's a good thing I'm a genius. Because they totally did. It takes about a minute to get into this charming little diddy, but once you do, you won't be disappointed.

A Conversation Between Lovers

Me: "What do you want to do when you get home?"

Valentine: "I don't know, you were supposed to be the one to think of something."

Me: "I DID think of something. I want to go see 'Dear John it's Valentines Day and You're a Perfect Ten'."

Valentine: "Funny. That sounds like three movies, none of which I want to see."

Me: "I hate you."

Valentine: "(inaudible whispering)"

Me: "WHAT?!"

Valentine: "I was whispering for a REASON, duh."

Me: "What was the reason?"

Valentine: "I was SAYING.....that Amish People are walking by."

Me: "HA. I miss you. Get here soon."

Valentine: "I'm on my way. And we're still not going to see those movies."

Jumping Jesus, Holy Cow

I forgot about David Gray until today. I don't know what happened. I'm thinking about writing him a personal letter of apology, I'm that torn up about it. It was like all of my sophomore year was devoted to this man and his incredible Bob Dylan-y craziness and lyrics and I really at one point thought that he MIGHT be better than even Britney Spears. (You shut your mouth, she was really huge then).

Anyway, I just received the best Valentines Day gift on the phone and it was so overwhelming that I was all "Where's my heart? In my ass!" with excitement that I had to find a song in which to prance about.

This is it.

This is my "so excited my heart is in my ass" song.

And I'm just so grateful. Happy Valentines Day.

This Might Be A Lesbian Crush...

Seriously, what is there to not love about Amanda Seyfried? Granted, when I first saw her in Mean Girls, I was a little overwhelmed by Rachel McAdam's crazy character to really give her credit as the stupid girlfriend. However, she has really blown up since then. And Big Love.....God, don't get me started on my new obsession with Big Love.

Anyway, I know she sang in Mamma Mia and that was all fine and dandy, but apparently singing is one of this girl's many talents right after looking smokin' and being a versatile actress. Oh and she can dance. She has hair like flaxen seeds of golden grain (whatever that means). Have I mentioned how unashamed I am that I've noticed her hotness? Seriously. She's good lookin'.

Apparently she's on the Dear John soundtrack. I won't go into the crapfest that is that book (but fyi...don't read it...really, just save yourself the trouble....and the box of kleenex) but I had to hear it once I saw her name on the list of performers. There's something about her voice. The song isn't even all that great...it's slow and mopey and I can't even tell what it's really about...but her voice. I like it.

"Whoa...Is It Supposed To Splatter?"

I told you this post would be coming! I received emails and text messages about how much our "building with chicks" video made you cringe. We were slow and sloppy and a little bit drunk and ohlordinheaven if you ever had to build something with us you'd absolutely die.

But you haven't even seen the whole thing yet. At one point there were only two of us with a can of paint!

Looking back on this, she appears to be scared. And so should you. Two girls with a can of paint is an epic shit-show.

Beth recently moved into her new apartment with her cousin, Sarah. Now, I've seen and lived in my share of craptastic apartments. I once lived with a friend who was responsible for breaking the back of the toilet cover into a billion pieces and we just let it sit there, resting precariously on the back of that toilet for the remainder of our lease. All eight months. Every time I sat down it was just waiting to release one of it's many jagged, ceramic hunks of death to spear me in the back when I reached for the TP.

That same apartment, by the way, had one wall made entirely of glass. Do you know what one wall made of glass in Michigan is like from November to March? IT'S NOT AS AWESOME AS WE ORIGINALLY THOUGHT IT WOULD BE.

I've also lived in an 11 x 15 ft room with one other girl, a tiny fridge and a television for eight months. And all of these places do not compare to how awful Beth's new apartment is.

Even she'll admit it. You can't control the heat on your own. You can look right into the front window and see directly to the bathroom (heaven forbid you should want to pee with the door open like I do, to listen to the television in the other room). It's virtually set up like a hotel room without the fancy wall art. The people next door hold championship wrestling matches in their kitchen, or at least, it sounds like it as we stood in her dining room one day. I looked up and without saying a word Beth nodded sadly, "Yeah...my neighbors run a lot. We hear it." And that was all that could really be said.

So it was no surprise that my dear, sweet, best friend couldn't take it anymore and insisted on decorating her bedroom for a small piece of "I don't hate this apartment as much as I thought I did." She ordered something like sixty seven pictures to make up one GIANT photo of David Bowie and decided that purple was her "signahchu colah" (Oh come ON you've seen Steel Magnolias, right?).

One bright and early...and LORDY do I mean early Saturday morning I picked her up. We looked at one another blankly for a few minutes in that vehicle because where does one buy paint anyway, when really we couldn't even THINK about the paint yet because both of our minds were screaming "Coffee...COFFEE....DON'T MAKE ME TURN THIS CAR AROUND" so it was actually quite convenient that when we put "Starbucks" into the GPS, it happened to share a parking lot with Home Depot. HOME DEPOT! They have paint right? And things for painting! Sure!

Coffee's in hand, we entered H.D. through the exit doors. We wandered around aimlessly with Beth's heels clicking away. Perhaps it's at this point I should mention that I went through great care that morning to find a sweatshirt that wasn't mine to paint in and my old jeans. I didn't even shower. When I arrived at Beth's, homegirl was in knee high boots and a jewel toned sweater, complete with jeweled necklace and I was like, "Really? That's your painting outfit?" and she was like, "DUH. It'll be fine." Fine. Moving on.

She literally sashays up to the paint display, plucks a purple color from the wall with such fierce determination and declares "THIS ONE" that I was sure she had been planning it for months. She saunters up to the paint counter, hands it to them with the confidence of an interior decorator who does this everyday and again, says, "THIS ONE" to the lady behind the counter.

"How much paint do you want?"
"Huh?"
"How much of this color would you like?"

This is when confident Beth becomes Beth-of-sheer-terror because she stares at the woman for maybe twenty seconds and then asks in a small voice, "Isn't it....just...like...a bucket'o'paint?"

INSERT HEAVY SIGHS HERE. We finally decide that a gallon is what we need, (Flat or Eggshell? FLAT OR EGGSHELL?!?!) and leave the woman to her mixing business. Beth is back in the game. She grabs painting kits from shelves like she does this everyday, swings her new 'bucket'o'paint' around with ease as we exit (through the entrance this time) and we head home. Where once we pull into the parking lot she gets out of the car, coffee in hand, and walks away completely unaware that we have $75.00 worth of paint and supplies in my backseat. Like we literally just went out for Starbucks and came back. Happy Saturday! Let's watch tv, shall we?

I think my favorite part of the whole day, and I mean my absolute FAVORITE PART was as I'm sitting on the floor, opening the paint can with a screwdriver. She's pretty quiet at this point and I look up to see a face just stricken with awe and she says to me in a hushed whisper, "Wow. You like, really know what you're doing, don't you?" Yes dear. I really do know how to open up this paint can. But whoo buddy should you see me with a bottle of wine. Anyway, I think my face says it all here, but perhaps there should be a caption underneath with a very sarcastic voice shouting, "Oh yes, Beth. Be prepared to be impressed."

Fast forward to us in her room. Turns out that Beth is an excellent fake at knowing what she's doing because she literally stared at me and a roll of blue tape for eight minutes like "NOW what happens?" when the room was finally prepped. She came back with a bathroom towel for the floor about halfway through the process rather than newspaper. She covered maybe 20% of one wall before she cried out in horror "ASHLEY...is it supposed to SPLATTER LIKE THIS?", holding the roller away from her body like it was a stick holding eight million boogers on the end.

But isn't she ADORABLE? I mean, you thought I was kidding about the boots and the sweater

and the necklace but whoooo boy was I not. OH BOY WAS I NOT KIDDING as she soon discovered that perhaps the necklace would have to go. The best place for it to go? On the floor, of course, right next to the can of paint and an unattended brush.

However, it was only a matter of minutes before Beth's super extreme arm strength came into play. While I busy edging, she dominated the entire wall in about twenty minutes. Girl can roller like it's her job. She even stood back and was all "I think it needs a second coat" where as when I'm stuck rollering, it's about forty minutes into half a wall that I'm wheezing, holding my biceps like an invisible demon is lighting them on fire and crying "WHERE IS ANDREW I CAN'T POSSIBLY DO THIS ON MY OWN ANYMORE."

Needless to say, we got her done. Beth is officially a painting pro and as far as I know, her new shelf and a billion David Bowie's are hanging up proudly on the purplest wall man-kind has ever seen. I'm so proud. And looking back on these photos, wish more than ever that I had chosen to shower that day. We'd like to extend a special thanks to The Swell Season Live Album and her cousin Sarah for cheering us on from the doorway with even more coffee in hand. I don't think either of us slept for two days after this excursion.

Avett Brothers

There are very few things that could make today any better, short of being promoted to Queen of Ice Cream Taste Testing World Wide or being given the keys to heaven. (Heaven, in modern English is actually code for "Jeffrey Dean Morgan's drawers).

My best friend is great at cheering me up without even realizing it, though. She sent these fine gentlemen to my inbox on Friday of last week and I didn't even get a chance to listen to them until today, the day when new music is a must. I'm pretty sure that "The Ballad of Love and Hate" was written after watching me consume an entire tube of cookie dough. It's a fight of "I hate you, get away from me" combined with "dear, dear, cookie dough....how could we ever part again?" It's tragically accurate. Especially with lyrics like:

"Love has been waiting, patient and kind.
Just wanting a phone call or some kind of sign,
That the one that she cares for, who's out of his mind,
Will make it back safe to her arms."

It's the story of my life. COME ON COOKIE DOUGH. CALL ME BACK, PLEEEAAAASSSSEEEE.

What Do The Unemployed Do?

We shop! It makes perfect sense that in a time when my weekly income is equivalent to what kittens make for creating smiles - sure I bring joy to your life, but I can't buy baked potato soup with it from Panera - that I spend money on even MORE needless items.

I'm sorry, did I say needless? I meant I absolutely had to have this with every fiber of my being. HELLO. It's a mysterious fingerprint. I mean, do you know who this could belong to? JUST IMAGINE THE POSSIBILITIES. It could be the fingerprint of a man who lived seventy five years ago that exchanged one with his true love when he went away to war (was there a war seventy five years ago?....I'm gonna go with sure) so that they would always have a piece of one another wherever they went except HE DIED and so she carried around this fingerprint close to her heart until she too passed on at a very old age, always faithful to that one man and now I have it! Now I will carry around the sacred fingerprint of ETERNAL LOOOVVVEEEE.

Crap. Reevaluating that has made me see how this could potentially be a bad luck fingerprint and lead to a life time of eternal loneliness and thai food on a couch with my cat. It could ALSO be the 'mysterious fingerprint' of Factorygrlashli, the chick who makes these pieces of fine jewelry I just can't live without. I don't care. I love a mystery and this necklace. And so many others.

You're Gonna Have My Soul, It Was Yours To Have Long Ago

Does anybody remember that scene from Weeds..maybe the third season finale? In a crazed fit of "what the crap do I do now?" when Nancy discovered all the black tar heroine in her house, or maybe it was after Shane ran off to Pittsburgh....I really can't remember. What it is was, she was losing her bananas and poured gasoline all over her house during the neighborhood forest fires. She stood on her couch and just dumped away and then lit a match like none of it ever mattered. It kind of irritated me because for so long she was only dealing pot in the first place so she could support her household and suddenly, she's STILL dealing weed and lighting the whole joint a flame. (HA. No pun intended, seriously, I saw that during editing!)

That's not really my point. My point is that today I had one of those days where I could have easily justified lighting it all on fire, getting in my car and disappearing. Not because my day was awful or something bad happened. Just because sometimes you get the feeling like you want to run away. I don't need these clothes or this computer or the two years worth of Time magazine I've been saving in the corner of my bedroom. I'm going to drive until I hit a small town in Iowa, cut off all my hair and become a waitress at a truck stop where all we serve is cherry pie and heartache. Reinvent myself. Tell everyone my name is Lucy in the Sky.

Are you confused yet? You shouldn't be. Your idea of a different life probably looks nothing like that, but the feeling is still just as strong to get away and never turn around. If only you weren't so sane, you might actually do it.

So play this song instead and give your family cherry pie tonight with dinner.

Do You Take The Non Believers?

I've seriously spent the majority of the morning looking up the meaning to these lyrics and really, they run the gamut. People believe cancer stories, to losing faith, to friendship being at the heart of the matter and in the end I guess it doesn't matter. (Unless La Rocca were to comment that it DOES in fact, matter VERY MUCH).

To me what matters is that this little diddy gets stuck in my head about once a month, particularly when I'm feeling like I need to get my ass in gear. To me, it has always meant "am I as good as the rest? Because sometimes, I feel less than," and in the grand scheme, we probably all do.

Please ignore the fact that One Tree Hill currently has a monopoly on this band and therefore, they might just be as bad as Chad Michael Murray's haircut in the first season. They are magical. And because of them, today I'm a believer.

What Happens When Women Build

This past weekend Kelley came to town just in time for Beth to buy a three part wall unit and throw us hammers on our way in the door in a sort of "go to town, I'll provide the crackers" type of arrangement. Now, I've seen the girl paint (which I'll get to later) so I was exactly opposed to have her look more than touch.

Until I realized that perhaps Kelley and I weren't much better at it either. How about you just run with this little tidbit: at more than one time we put screws into holes they didn't belong and then had to suck them back out. With our mouths. (Dirty jokes: ensue)

Enjoy the clips of us working while I fill out the paperwork for our carpenter's licenses. I'm pretty sure Walmart is THIS CLOSE to hiring us to build all their shit right in store for customers. I just hope they have enough bubble gum and wine for all of our building needs.

We Won't Discuss

How well the lines "it's a quarter after one and I'm a little drunk and I need you now" fits every Saturday for me, ever.

Or how much my best friend's boyfriend looks like the lead singer from this band.

And also, how come this chick can't get a man? I don't know how many times I've read terrible interviews with this band where the two dudes are like "I'm so blissfully married, hooray for being a country star!" while the girl sits between them, holding up a white sign with her phone number on it, desperately mouthing "Gerard Butler....Taylor Lautner...hell, Ricky Gervais....CALL ME."