WRITING FOR THE EMMYS MAGAZINE

I've had the honor of writing for the Television Academy's online magazine. Here are a couple of my pieces: Interview with producer/director Anthony Hemingway http://m.emmys.com/news/online-originals/building-legacy-anthony-hemingway and interview with actor, Jay Hayden http://m.emmys.com/news/online-originals/catching-jay-hayden

LOS ANGELES MAGAZINE

I had a cool stint writing for Los Angeles Magazine. 

Here's a link that will bring you to all of my articles.

And if you don't want to sift through all that, here's a link to one of my favorites!

BEFORE PAGE ONE

(I used to have a column in the NOHO LA news. Here's one of them, unedited, because why not, right?)  

Waco, Texas was my prologue. No one ever wants to read those, as we’d so much rather jump to the first chapter, but sometimes they’re significant to the story. Mine was full of roller-skating parties, “Do Jews have horns?” and the best BBQ chicken in the South. It was lovely and slow and judgmental. The Texas air was thick and loyal and eerily still, as if someone just said to it, “Don’t move, you have a bee in your hair.” And believe me, it never moved.

As a kid, I was obnoxious and precocious and while my family was starting to show signs of its weak seams, we just bided our time until Chapter One. I clearly remember the haunted playroom where I'd play with my Barbies; (note: I always insisted they live in the New York style town-house over the ranch "dream-house," as I thought the latter was gaudy and dripping with "new money.") I will never forget the look on my Mother's face when she overheard me role-playing Barbie telling Ken, "I do not accept your marriage proposal, if you do not accept my dreams of writing novels in London." She exemplified her worry by buying me lipstick and sticker collections and early morning wake-up calls to watch Princess Diana throw her life away.

Despite her disapproval, ironically one sticker in particular was her attempt to teach me self-acceptance. It was a glittered rainbow with the phrase, "To Know Me is to Love Me." It never sat well with me and now, as an adult, I realize it doesn't quite hold true. I always seem to make great first impressions, but after say a few lunches or cocktails, I turn inside out and the grotesque neuroses that is supposed to stay hidden under layers of thick skin bounces to the surface like a floatie. I’m like a clock that someone had taken apart and forgotten to put back together, so that the wires and tiny nuts and bolts are always exposed. I can hide them for a little while, but not for long. To know me is to tolerate me would be more apropos.

Back to that prologue. When you’re reading a book, I find it often helps to page back to the intro, as every now and then, the author may shed some light on a character or two. I go home whenever I can to touch down from this California high and to see if I can piece together some of the holes in my story. Unfortunately, it tends to raise more questions than answers like, “Yeah, why aren't I married?” and “Where is my Serotonin?” and “Wait, acid wash jeans are ugly, right?” Instead of confirming who I was it, challenges who I’ve become.

In Los Angeles, we're shoved off into a quantum void of virtual photons, popping in and out of existence like non-union actors. It gets exhausting to live in a town where everyone's seemingly in an improv troupe with a ridiculous name like "Tom Cruise Control" or "Jack Black Swan." I go on dates and listen to men tell me random things about themselves without reciprocity: “I'm reading The Artist's Way,” “I’m an INFP personality type,” “I’m allergic to pecans,” "Charlie Sheen sponsors me in AA." I listen for awhile and then tune out, my mind wandering to strange places like how I might be able to crack my neck without him noticing. Lather, rinse, repeat. Groundhog Day is every day when it's always 72 degrees and you're dating narcissists.

And so twice a year, I go to Texas to get some answers. I’ve had quite a lot of alone time on this last trip home and may have come up with a few. Here goes: I’m not married because I get bored way too easily and I would rather have a fucking fabulous rendezvous with someone who can use his hands to touch me or play a heartbreaking piano tune than ever settle for mediocrity. My Serotonin didn’t have much of a fighting chance, what with inheriting my Mom and Dad’s dramatic and sad genes, respectively. And yes, acid wash jeans are very, very ugly.

Maybe the key is to move past the prologue and start looking at that epilogue. I love those National Geographic articles about say, mummies, where scientists come up with some crazy-ass back-stories for their discoveries. It seems pretty far-fetched that they can tell just by observing a Neanderthal’s bones, that he "wore fuschia” or “hated his brother.” I hope that in ten thousand years, when they unravel my perfectly preserved body, they’ll make me sound fabulous. “See, you can tell by the shape of the feet that THIS Homosapien was an excellent dancer. In fact, it looked like she died doing a Fosse-styled 'kick-ball-change.' See how her ankle is disjointed here?”  

But as for the present chapter, my surreal California life and its literal shaky ground and transient people still intrigues me. Folks here have survived the “big one” and the heat-waves and the bad drivers and their scars show it with leathery skin and month-to-month leases. But my life here has been all about sound: microphones and radio transmissions and car alarms. The speed of sound has become too slow for me and sometimes I feel ready for light again. But for now, I'll keep writing in the dark. And when I need to refer to my lead character, that page is only 1400 miles away.  

           

           

    

De-Evolution

Well it's now a year after my book tour and I've decided it might be a good time to re-visit this blog. (It was either that or continue watching Hoarders and frankly, even my television needs a break.) The entry below is from a column I once wrote for the NoHo Los Angeles News. Some of it found its way into the book and even another blog entry from months ago. This was it in its entirety and like most things I write...it exemplifies my insanity. Enjoy!

I am de-volving and I’d like to prove it to you.

I’ll start by sharing a “poem” I wrote in the 8th Grade. Mind you, it was the 80s and I was inspired by shoulder pads, Yaz, a guy we'll call "Vance" and clearly Pink Floyd lyrics. Here goes: “The bloody tears of a clown slide from my smile. Too many eyes, blue, green, brown, middle child stands aside and looks upon a frown." (Quick aside: I was not a middle child.) "Let us say goodbye to the silver worms of reality and welcome our reward…death.” Now as you can no doubt see, I was a well-adjusted, healthy middle-schooler. And while I never read that poem out loud to "Vance," I did sing Depeche Mode’s “Somebody” directly to him at the talent show…in front of 900 kids…while wearing an Angora sweater inspired by Howard Jones from the “What is Love” video.

Obviously, I had to leave that school system shortly after and luckily was accepted to the performing arts high school wherein I became a mime, but we’ll come back to that. Now years later, I am no different. I mean, the “bloody tears of clowns are not still sliding from my smile:” that would be ridiculous. And technically, I’m not still obsessed with miming. But I am still an adolescent and I don’t know what to do about it. I see adult friends around me with problems that derive from real grown up issues, like mortgage payments and kids having the flu. But I’m so stuck in my childhood that my fears are the same fears I had in 5th grade. Most of them stem from playing games like Pitfall and Adventure on my Atari, so I literally stay up nights worrying about alligators and quicksand and dragons and bats stealing my sword.

And that’s weird, right?

I’m struggling with what it means to be a 30-something. Oh by the way, I recently was so spaced out that as I was pondering this very subject I thought, “There should be a TV show called 30-Something. I should pitch that.” Yes, I’ll pitch that, right after I write my treatment f or M.A.S.H. But there are things I know that aren’t typical for a woman my age. For example, I still watch the Real World/Road Rules Challenge and I don’t mean casually. I don’t mean, like oh it’s 11:00pm and there’s nothing on, so I guess I’ll watch this old thing on MTV. I mean I set my Tivo, but don’t really have to because I always make it a point to be home at 10:00 on Wednesdays. I get nervous when the team I’m rooting for is losing and my heart races when CT or Johnny Bananas look like they’re about to take someone out. Now most of you probably don’t know of whom I speak…because you’re not 15.

Speaking of being 15, let's go back to my mime days. Being in the high school mime-troupe was a big honor at Arts Magnet High. You had to audition by writing a short, obviously silent play-let in which you had to show off your “space-work.” I wrote mine about “peer pressure and saying no to drugs.” Now in order to have the honor of a mime troupe, we did have to give up football at my school, which in Texas is a nightmare. I think because I never to got to show off my school spirit, except obviously at mime-offs, I have what some might call a juvenile love of the Dallas Cowboys. It’s like I’m still in ninth grade, rooting for that quarterback I never knew. I wear my team colors, I cry when they lose, I get wasted at the after-parties and by that I mean, I drink alone in my kitchen.

The point is, I feel there has been no evolution for me. It was so much easier in the good old days because we had John Hughes to tell us who we were. We could fit so neatly into one of his clichéd categories: the jock, the brain, the princess, the basket case, the richie or Duckie. But somehow I’ve gotten stuck in defining the world around me this way. I’m still begging the question, “What about prom, Blane? What about prom?” What’s sad is even Jon Cryer has moved on (quite successfully) but I just can’t. In fact, because of John Hughes, I can see that my life is so off-balance. I don’t have any Blanes around me, but I have at least 100 Duckies. That’s too many and that could be my problem.

All of this gets even worse when I go home to Texas. My friends from high school are all now either divorced or married with three kids. (There seemingly is no in-between.) And when I go to visit them and their children and their grown up lives, I feel like I’m perceived as the “wacky” spinster aunt-like character. I might as well just wear a purple cape. I was there not long ago, hanging with my friend Annie and her three year old son, Dylan. Annie told him “Cecily lives in L.A.” Dylan threw a Spaghettio at me. “Dylan, don’t do that. Cecily is a big writer in L.A.” Dylan then asked “Do you have babies?” “No, but I live in LA” I said back to him, defensively. He didn’t seem impressed and I know this because he then threw his Barney doll on the floor and started crying. (To be fair, that’s how most of my relationships have ended in Los Angeles, but I digress.)

I recall my parents seeming a bit worried about that 8th grade poem, but like most parents who have rebellious, silly teenagers, they always claim “Oh they’ll grow out of it.” Well…TA DA! Maybe I’m just not cut out for adult issues. Maybe I’ll always just be that Cowboys-obsessed mime who won’t settle for anything less than a Jake Ryan.

Take a Picture, Why Dont'cha...?

With all of this traveling for the book-tour lately, I've made a few observations. I wish I'd bothered to write them down, as I might have come up with some interesting anecdotes, but the only thing I seem to remember from my travels (for now) is this and I'm going to pose it in the form of a question: Why do men in airports just sit and stare at hot women, as though the hot women can't see them? It doesn't matter if you're in Miami, Philly or Sacramento…it's just "hot chick walks by….weird guy turns around and stares at her until she's out of his sightline." I literally saw this thousands…nay, millions…of times. I'm not trying to have one of those hacky "Am I right, ladies?" kind of moments, but really…I'm right, right?

I first noticed it while I was on one of those moving escalator thingies. A woman walked by going the opposite direction and I remember it well, because she was wearing a really short skirt and tall stiletto heels, while carrying coffee that literally had steam coming out of it. I'm always jealous of women who look "all together" even on a travel-day, because I've never been that woman. I like my coffee to be as much like a milkshake as possible and I like my heels to be as flat as possible, preferably with the words "Sketchers" written on them. And the attention to detail with make-up is just mind-blowing to me. If I've had to get up early to catch a flight, I'm lucky if I don't have a Cheerio stuck in my hair and I can guarantee I will have some kind of toothpaste stain on my shirt or jeans.

Anyway, so this woman with her "adult" coffee and her "adult" heels walks by and the guy in front of me stops, turns around and stares at her for what feels like hours. So I of course, having kept walking, bump into the man and he seems annoyed that I've temporarily blocked his vision of the woman. As if by staring at her, he's somehow telepathically communicating that she's his soul mate or some other nonsense. Like she's gonna just stop, put her carry-on luggage down and say, "I noticed you were eerily looking at me. Do you wanna…I don't know…maybe have sex in the airport lounge?"

Okay, I get that sometimes people just want to look at pretty, shiny objects. And I also get that some women wear ultra short skirts and bright red lipstick because they want to be stared at. Kind of a win-win, except when sleepy, grumpy, unkempt Cecily is walking behind the "stare-er" in the airport, then it's a win-win-lose.

Now, I'm gonna try to remember some other thoughts from my two months on the road and in the meantime, don't forget to enter our Dating Disaster Contest. And if you'd like to share anything personal with me or just say "hi", feel free to email me at shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com

Moms, Boundaries and Hollywood Actors Part Two

And now for the conclusion of the saga between my Mother and poor, sweet actor Josh Lucas…

So after my Mother and I wagered a $200 bet on whether or not I'd receive an email from Mr. Lucas, I refrained from discussing the issue with her for fear of it deteriorating into a full-blown fight. About a month later, I unfortunately shared the story with a friend of mine and shortly after, I received an email from someone with the address joshlucas123@hotmail.com. It read as follows:

"Dear Cecily -
My name is Josh and I met your mother a few weeks ago in Texas. I really appreciated her forthrightness in speaking to me and was a little intrigued when she told me about you. I hope you don't mind that she gave me your e-mail address and I'm sorry it took me so long to write to you but I've been out of town on business.

I, too, am an actor and spend much of the year in Los Angeles. I'm sure we would have a lot to talk about and I would love to hear back from you whenever you get a chance and maybe we could meet up for coffee when I get back to L.A. It would be great to speak in person, as e-mail doesn't always tell the 'tale of the tape'.

Love, Josh"

Okay, so I read this and laughed and then made the huge mistake of SENDING IT TO MY MOTHER with the note, "I guess you were right. He really was into meeting me. You've got 200 dollars en route to you Madame!" But ya see, my mom didn't get the absurdity of it all and THOUGHT THE EMAIL WAS REAL. So even after I told her, "No, Mom. This was a joke. My friend sent this," she tirelessly argued with me, insisting, "If the email address has his name in it, it has to be real." This went on for months, with her repeatedly asking, "Did you write Josh Lucas back yet?" and "Where is my $200?" Finally, I had to get my buddy on the phone to explain that he had in fact sent the email and that it wasn't from Josh.

Reluctantly, my mother sent me my 200 bucks which I happily accepted and immediately signed over to my therapist. As for Josh, I hope he's happy even though we were never able to 'tell the tale of the tape' (whatever that means).

Thoughts about all of this? Please email them to me! I'd love to hear from you!

Moms, Boundaries and Hollywood Actors

Let me set this up for you. A few years ago, my Mom was on vacation in New York and saw Chris Noth (AKA Mr. Big) at a restaurant. As someone with little to no (okay absolutely no) boundaries, she went over to his table, sat down and told him she just "lovvvvvvvved Mr. Big" but that he should "stop treating Carrie so wishy-washy." Why he didn't call security is beyond me, but alas.

So cut to a few years later and my Mom has joined a Dallas film society which hosts advanced screenings of movies, followed by receptions with director/producer/actors. Some film came through and after flitting about the after-party, she settles upon actor Josh Lucas. Mind you, I thankfully wasn't there, but she relayed the play-by-play that I will now share.

Mom: "You were just precious in the movie."
Josh Lucas: "Thank you!"
Mom: "You have just the prettiest blue eyes! I bet people tell you that all the time."
Josh Lucas: "Oh sometimes…ya know…"
Mom: "You must have girls just hanging on your every word."
Josh Lucas: "Well, I…"
Mom: "My daughter is an actress in Los Angeles." (Note: not true)
Josh Lucas: "Oh?"
Mom: "Yes…and she's single. You should call her."
Josh Lucas: "Um..I…errr…"
Mom (starts digging around in her purse for her cell phone) "Let me just find her phone number for you." (Finds number and starts to write it down.)
Josh Lucas: "I'm not really a phone guy."
Mom: "Okay, well then let me give you her email." (She writes down my email.) "You better call her honeybuns. She's a catch."
Josh Lucas: "Will do."

My Mom then calls me later that night to tell me to "expect an email from Josh Lucas." I, mortified, tell her that's not going to happen and we wager a two hundred dollar bet.

For the follow-up to what happened with this insane exchange, tune in Monday!
Do you have similar stories of boundary-free parents or other insanity? Email them to me!

Open Letter to Jesse James

Hey Jesse James…how did that sex rehab go? Did ya get all the Bombshells out of your system? Just 28 days of talk about how your "inner sex addict" made you (allegedly) cheat repeatedly on your wife was probably all you needed to swear off tatted, chesty women forever…right? Don't you hate it when your "addict" tells you to wear swastikas and do "goofy, Nazi" poses? Oh those silly inner-sex-addicts!

I just hope that you and Tiger and Tiki Barber (did he go to rehab?) and Larry King (is he too old for rehab?) were able to heal properly, what with all that art therapy and exploration of why you might choose to lie over…and over…and over again to someone you have publicly claimed to love.

I can totally relate, buddy. I'm addicted to talking about you! Sorry if it bothers you, but I literally can't help it. My "Gossip-addict" is acting up again! You know how it goes. But hopefully through Gossip-Rehab, I'll learn how to pull it together. I'm also addicted to wearing my Snuggie to inappropriate places. Will 28 days of "Inappropriate Snuggie Re-hab" be enough?

Back to you: we're all rooting for you, Champ.

Signed, Every Scorned Woman
P.S. In the words of Ani DiFranco, "Just give up…and admit you're an a$$hole."
(Note: I realize this may sound a little angry so please forgive me. As a woman who has been cheated on, sometimes I get riled up when I hear of infidelity, but I probably just need "Scorned Woman Rehab". Okay, it's out of my system.)

Wanna talk about cheating men, women or anything else? Email me!

The Type of Girl Who...

As the deadline for the "Worst Date Ever" contest gets closer, I thought it was time to share one of my worst dating experiences. Had actually gone out with a guy a handful of times (let's say five) and we did all the "normal" things daters do. Dinner and a movie here, cocktails there, a few make-out sessions in his car, blah, blah, blah. It all seemed to be going well, so you might be as surprised as I was to hear that at the end of one of our lovely nights together, he said the following:

"Listen, Cec. Can I call you Cec?" (Not if you're about to say something lame, you can't.) Listen, so I've been dating this other woman at the same time as you (which was fine, seeing as how we were far from exclusive) and the thing is…Cec…Cester…Ceciloniky, that she's more the kind of girl, ya know, who you take home to meet Mom."

I suppose off my look of discomfort, he followed that up with, "Wait, that didn't sound right. What I mean is…she's the type of girl you have a relationship with and you're more like Ms. Funny pants." (I kid you not…he called me Ms. Funny pants. At least I wasn't Miss Funny Pants or Mademoiselle Funny Pants. It gets worse.) You know, like she's the type of woman who might leave a toothbrush at your house, but you…like you're just not that kind of person." What? Ms. Funny Pants doesn't leave toothbrushes? "Like, okay, ya see she's the woman who'd be like a real active PTA Mom and you…you're just…ya know, Cec." That's Ms. Cec Funny Pants to you, sir.

It went on and on and continued to get worse until I finally, thankfully, got out of the car. I don't know whatever happened in his relationship with that non-funny-pants wearing woman, but I do know that the guy sent me a friend request on Facebook recently. I guess he was sick of seeing toothbrushes laying around his apartment.

Make sure to enter our "Dating Disaster" contest on www.shescrazyhesaliar.com. You could win a $500 shopping spree to Victoria Secret, which might just make that bad date well worth it. Also, feel free to email me with comments, questions and even concerns to Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com

Just a Small Town Girl...

Did a little karaoke last night and when a fun-loving, UCLA-looking group got up to sing "Don't Stop Believin'", I had a flashback to my early 80s obsession with the band Journey. No, it wasn't on-par with my love for Duran Duran, (although with Journey, it was all about the songs, not the impossible good looks and puffy, white shirts of Simon LeBon.) I slow-danced to "Open Arms" with Tom Nesbitt (sorry Tom, if you're reading this, the truth must be known) and I played spin-the-bottle in our Waco playroom, while "Faithfully" gently played in the background. Oh and then there was the roller-skating. How the lights would flash different colors when "intense" songs came on like "Separate Ways" and "Who's Crying Now" and we'd all prematurely end our games of Ms. Pacman to rush out to the floor and really "feel it." ("Hold on to that fee…a…yeee…a…a…lin")

But like most wondrous things/obsessions with men, it all came to an end when I actually got to meet one of them. My Dad was the program director for a radio station and for some reason, they were running a contest in which the prize was "win a day of bowling with Steve Perry". Why wouldn't it be, right? Because everyone knows that the passionate singer for the power-ballad hit-makers had to be a good bowler, surely?

So when the big day came, of course I insisted on being there. I wore parachute pants and a fedora, for some reason and when my parents finally got around to introducing me to Mr. Perry, he barely looked my way. I realized, this man clearly doesn't care about me like I care about him. It seemed that our chances of making little Steve Perrys were now out of reach and I was devastated. Here I was, "coming to him…with open arms" like he'd asked me to and he was not reciprocating.

But guess who was there to pick up the pieces? Go on…guess. I'll give you a hint: it rhymes with "Ryan Adams" and involves the Summer of 69'. Yep, for some strange reason, Bryan Adams was also there; (I think he was the band's opening act) and when he saw Steve dismissing me, he immediately rushed over to tell me he liked my hat. Damn right he did. Mr. Adams saw the real me that day and Steve Perry totally missed out. Cuts like a knife, doesn't it Steve? Cuts like a knife. (For the record, I still love the band Journey and will sing along with them every time. But Steve and I are totally through).

Ever meet one of your heroes to find out that they weren't so amazing after all? Email me at Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com and tell me about it!

Doing A Little East Coast Swing...

Just got back from a great trip to Philly wherein I somehow refrained from a) eating a cheese-steak and b) talking about Donovan McNabb. And believe me, as a Dallas Cowboys fan, I wanted to discuss it with every single person I saw. The guy at the airport who got the cabs, the cab driver, the hotel bellman, the check-in guy, the room service guy. I wanted to say things like, "Hey, don't worry about getting the door. I can just McNabb it myself" or "I'm just gonna order the potato skins…and maybe some REDSKINS?" But I didn't say a single word. Not a one. That's not true, actually. But I was kind about it…Sort of.

Anyway, the trip was wonderful as was the trip to Indianapolis the day before. I had fun on the "Bob and Tom Show" and got to meet up with a really great woman whom I've worked with on-air for years, (she drove in from Ft. Wayne!) Plus, of course got to do some fun TV press for the book!

I realized I was getting exhausted and/or sick near the end, however, when I started crying over every single, little event. I kept a list and here it goes:

Cecily cried when…

1) There wasn't a Starbucks in the terminal
2) Big Mike was saved on "American Idol"
3) She saw how bad her hair looked on one of the talk shows…
4) No one would discuss Donavan McNabb with her
5) The sun set.
6) She passed the bar ("Smokes") where she used to hang when visiting her good friend Debbie in college. (That very same bar served her blue drinks which later caused her to throw up in a White Castle prompting an older gentleman to ask, "What you been drinking tonight? You ain't drinking no beer. What you been drinking? Mad Dog?" True story.)
7) The sun rose.

Just a tad tired…but still, all is good! And the "She's Crazy, He's a Liar" book tour continues…

Just to make me feel better, please comment or email me the 'craziest' thing you cried over. Remember, I cried once when I heard the song 'Gold Digger' by Kanye West.

Why Would You Name a Frat-House to Begin With?

Just a tad more on my recent book tour in Washington. I hadn't been back since I graduated years ago and I wondered if I always romanticized D.C. because I had so much fun there in college. It was, after all, the first city where I learned to shoot blue Jello-shots, where Redskin fans made me cement my love for the Dallas Cowboys, where I fell in love with someone while holding hands in a Georgetown park. Everything was so ridiculously new and hadn't been jaded yet by the Los Angeles out-of-work-actor pool. Even Bill Clinton (who I was and still am madly in love with,) had for the most part only shown himself to be an honest man, incapable of deceit. (For the record, I don't condone infidelity, but if Bill and Hillary had an "understanding," I wish I'd known his affinity for short, Jewish girls. Right here, Bill. Right here.)

Turns out that I wasn’t just romanticizing that city. It's alive. It's thick with hope and movement and yes, some struggle but still…it's alive. One thing I will say is as the cabbie drove me from National (I refuse to call it Reagan) Airport to my hotel in Chevy Chase, I began to tear up from so many memories. "Ah, there's the seafood restaurant where Craig broke up with me. Oh wow, that's the Metro station where I threw up. Ohhh, that's the off-campus frat house which the fraternity guys named "Gyna-Land." (Yep, it took me until I was a Junior to realize why they called it that. Gross.)

When people name the city in which they grew up, they usually say the one where their parents raised them. For me, college is the place I grew up. It's where I learned that when you love someone, they might love you back and they might not. I learned to do my laundry and set my own alarms and kinda figure out just who I wanted to be. Don't get me wrong, Texas is my home and I love it, (Hook Em'!) but D.C. is where I grew up. "Ah, Gyna-land."

I'd love to hear from you! Feel free to email me thoughts or questions to: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com

The Password Is...

Started the book tour for She's Crazy, He's a Liar in Ft. Lauderdale and was delighted at how gorgeous and nice everyone was. Really cool place with friendly, down-to-earth people and the perfect amount of glam. Ya know what's even more glamorous than East Coast beach towns? Venezuela, which is apparently where my cell phone went while I was in Florida. Let me explain. You see, apparently someone cloned my mobile phone (how, I don't know. I can't even get my iTunes to work). They figured out some kind of pin number and security code, programmed it and then off that "cloned" phone went, I suppose to shake hands with Hugo Chavez. (Side note: I heard Sean Penn give an interview where he said something like "Chavez was merely misunderstood by the U.S. media." I'd like Sean Penn to move down there for a few years or forever and then get back to me about how "misunderstood" Chavez is. Stick with "I am Sam", Sean…it suits you better.)

Anyway, so when I went to use my phone, a little automated voice came on and said "This phone is not recognized by us". (I wonder if when then cloners used it, they got a message that said "We totally recognize you. Tell Chavez hi.") A lovely stressed out medical student at the airport heard me say "What the F?" and asked if I needed to borrow his iPhone, which literally took me five minutes to dial. I told him, "Don't worry, this isn't an international call" and he, while clutching his book about the gastrointestinal system, said "I don't care. I don't care about anything anymore.")

Once I got my cell phone carrier people on the phone, they asked for my password, which of course I didn't know. So they asked my security question which was "What is your favorite hobby?" How was I supposed to remember what my favorite hobby was nine years ago when I set this thing up? Hmm, favorite hobby, favorite hobby. "Crying?," I guessed. I could hear the guy typing that into their database. "No, it's not crying," he said matter-of-factly. "Any other idea of what it might be?"

Hmm, what did I do on a regular basis that might be considered a hobby? I don't snowboard or knit or collect stamps. What is something I frequent? "Worrying?" I asked the guy. "You want me to try 'worrying' as your favorite hobby?" "Yeah, well, it's not my favorite, but it's something I do most often." He tried and it didn't work. I could tell that the stressed out medical student was getting antsy to put his phone away so I told the mobile carrier guy to let me have a few hours to try and figure out who I was in 2001 and I'd get back to him.

Turns out my early 2000s hobby was "Mai Tais", which has long since changed. However, "Mai Tais" seem to still be a favorite for whoever it was who also cloned my American Express card.

I'd love to hear from you! Feel free to email me thoughts or questions to: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com

Top 5 reasons Sandra Bullock shouldn't have dated/married Jesse James in the first place!

Okay, as Woody Allen (and many others) eloquently stated, "The heart wants what it wants". And as someone who has dated/loved wake-n-bakers and doll collectors, I realize I'm throwing stones in a glass house by pointing out that Sandra shouldn't have ever fallen for this guy. (Wake-n-baker just heard the word "stones" and got excited). But couldn't most of us have seen this coming?!

Let's take a look at some of the signs:

1) His parents actually named him Jesse James, just like the notorious bank robber!
That's like meeting someone named Benedict Arnold and then being surprised that he betrayed you. Or worse..."Hey, I just got set up with some guy. He goes by something, something Hitler? I wonder if he's cool?"

2) Married a porn star!
Uh, it's not like Sandra could just say, "Oh my husband hooked up with a porn star once." She has to instead say "My husband hooked up with a porn star and then he married her. And obviously had unprotected sex with her at least once because they have a child." What a prince!

3) He uses hair gel even though he hardly has any hair.
I understand that we shouldn't judge someone based on their looks, but when you're Sandra Bullock and you like the "bad boys", why not get with a bad boy who doesn't look like a cross between Mr. Potato Head and Verne Troyer?

4) Donald Trump fired him.
Alright, I realize this happened after she was married to him, but still he's a tool and he refused to ask his rich wife for help on "The Celebrity Apprentice", even though he was supposedly there to raise money for charity. To be fair, according to Wikipedia he did raise 20 grand for the Long Beach Education Foundation, so that's good. But this was after they were married and she couldn't have known this would happen. (Wikipedia also says he's a chump. Okay, no…but I did try to add that to Wikipedia and they said "No.")

5) He has one tattoo (among many) of an octopus eating a crab and another which allegedly says "Pay up Sucka"
I don't know about you, but when I think "good man", I don't imagine crustaceans and threatening messages about money inked on their very squatty bodies.

In conclusion, I wish for two things with regard to this mess: 1) That Sandra up and leaves him for good and finds herself a great guy. 2) That Wikipedia finally accepts my "chump" addition to the Jesse James page (and also accepts my contribution to the "Shrek" page, where I tried to add that I was once married to "Gingy" and that we have a child together named Scone.) I really need to make better use of my time.

Readers, I'd love to hear from you! Feel free to email me thoughts or questions to: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com

Blind

I found out recently that the name "Cecily" is from a Latin word meaning "blind" or "the dim-sighted", which I find painfully appropriate, as I can't see. Oh it's not so much that my eyes are a problem (although as I get older they are going into the 20-100 range), it's more what my insane brain convinces my eyes they are viewing. I once asked a doctor about it and he explained that while there is nothing wrong with my eyes, I merely see what I want to see. In other words, if a situation or a person is too boring or painful, I replace the visual stimuli with something more interesting to me, e.g., hundreds of beagles running through a yard or Robert Pattinson's giant head. I do not want to see my ex's new wife and so when I run into her at the Grove, my mind replaces her hair extensions with the sticky, beautiful hair-gel of Edward Cullen and tells my eyes, "Hey, look at this instead. You'll like it better."

Sometimes it works the other way. If my crazy-brain is bored and wants to create a little drama, it sketches out that ex's wife and replaces the image of say...a street sign...with her face. "Oh my, there's Blond girl...there's Blond girl," I once said to my friend, Greg. ("Blond girl" is what we called one of my ex's insipid, hacky comic-of-a-girlfriend back in the day). "No Cecily," he replied worriedly. "That's a yield sign. See?" "Oh yeah, well, it kinda looks like her."

A few days ago I was at Ralph's Grocery when my neighbor (whom I can't stand due to his...loud...90s...techno...music) passed by me and said "Hi." My mind replaced his face with that of another neighbor's Labrador Retriever named Knuckles. I assume this was to protect me from the annoyance of seeing him near the deli meats. Luckily, I did not say "Oh hey Knuckles!" because I fear he'd have then called the mental health authorities.

I guess my point is this: if I run into you and seem disproportionately happy, I probably think you are Snoopy or Knuckles or Topher Grace. If I seem unhappy however, my mind may have replaced your face with that of an ex or worse, an ex's new girlfriend/wife. Is it too late to call those mental health authorities?

Let me know what you think about my blog or my book! Email me at: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com

Good Voice/Bad Voice

I once had a talent agent say to me, "Your face is too big for television." (This was right after she told me I should change my name to "Cecilia Hernandez and tap the 'Hispanic market' just like that guy Geraldo did". Yep). Then a few months later when I was applying for a job as a bartender in a rundown pub in East Hollywood, the owner of the bar said, "You know...you're not gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous, but you're not Kathy Bates." Just out of the clear blue, unsolicited, he felt it necessary to inform me that while I wasn't gorgeous X 3, I was not a heavyset character actress. (For the record, I think Kathy Bates is lovely and a fine performer.)

I have had this bar owner's words plus countless agents/casting directors/Texas Mothers' (including my own) in my head my whole life, just circling through the gray matter that is allegedly my brain. (Wait, why would it "allegedly" be my brain?) "More lipstick", "Big face", "Unsinkable Molly Brown", "Geraldo", just over and over again on a loop while I try to put my best (and least "Misery"-inspired) face forward. I bring this up because I've found that these words have influenced the way I feel about myself in relationships. "Is my face too big?" I ask myself as a first date is going in for the kiss. "Might I possibly, accidentally of course, whack him in the knees to keep him locked in my home after a horrible car wreck and subsequently make him change the ending to his novel?" (Okay, this "Misery" thing is really sticking with me).

Point is, they got to me. And I think there's a "they" who gets to all of us, which is a real shame. Whoever your "they" is, remember that "they" had a "them" too and while it might be different words that get thrown around, we're all affected by what others think. Before this dangerously becomes a delightful Dr. Seuss poem or an unfortunate "Cathy" comic strip, I'll just say this: try to keep the good voices in your head, (ya know, the ones who tell you how beautiful you are) especially when you're on dates. Wow, that didn't sound as creepy before I wrote it down, but I think you get the idea.

Readers, I'd love to hear from you! Feel free to email me thoughts or questions to: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com

The Shame Spiral of a Modern Girl

I literally said out loud today, "Within one year, I have to be less crazy". The fact that I'd have to say that out loud means that I am probably not going to reach that goal. This declaration was prompted by the fact that after dreaming about ex-boyfriends all night (some good, some bad), I tried to convince myself that I had an elevator in my house. It's not quite as insane as it sounds. I was doing laundry and as I was lugging my towels onto the elevator from my 4th floor apartment to the dingy laundry room on the first floor, I got an overwhelming sense of anxiety/sadness/craziness wondering why I didn't own a house with a washer and dryer IN IT. So I thought, "What if I just pretend that I'm SO rich and centered and accomplished, that this elevator I'm on is taking me from one story of my mansion to the other?" Sure, I'd have to come up with a reason that a (possible) gang member tagged my personal elevator walls with the words "Hector will own you" and perhaps I'll need a back-story as to why my personal elevator often stops on a floor that has 40 other mailboxes. But these are just details that can surely be sorted out in time.

Also for full disclosure, I should mention that as I was declaring my hopes to be "less crazy", I was dressed in Dallas Cowboys sweatpants, a black t-shirt with a giant tiger on it and a pink Snuggie, all signs of a less than healthy psyche.

Maybe it's best that I repeat my new mantra, "Within one year, I have to be less crazy" as I take myself down to the first floor of my enormous mansion. Perhaps that mantra will help me come up with an explanation as to why I have a landlord who lives in my house.

Readers, I'd love to hear from you! Feel free to email me thoughts or questions to: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com

Seriously, Un-Tag

I talked about this a little in the book, but I feel like it's important to reiterate this advice: Ready? Un-Tag.

Let's say you're dating someone (newly or otherwise) who happens to go out on the town without you and play beer-pong at a bar with hot people you've never met. With me so far? And let's say one of those hot people has a digital camera because "Oh what fun! We're playing beer-pong on a Tuesday night because we're sooooo craaaaazy like that" and they take picture after picture of your boyfriend (or girlfriend) guzzling beer while a group of drunken, blonde women clap and cheer him on. But let's say that "hot digital camera girl" just can't leave it at, "Oh, how nice. I compiled some great drunken pictures tonight of other people's boyfriends and I'm gonna have a gay old time putting these pictures in my scrapbook. Someday when I'm old and gray, it will be so wonderful to look back through this scrapbook and remember it all."

No..."Hot Digital Girl" can't leave it at that. Instead she uploads all of the photos onto Facebook and TAGS his (or her) name so that when you log on and read your "status update" feed, the first thing that pops up is your boy (or girl) friend playing beer pong with hot blondes. Which in and of itself is fine. But, it would be nice if they simply hit the button "un-tag" so that I...I mean, we...didn't have to necessarily see it. (For the record, I am pro-beer-pong).

It's not just the dating world where the concept of un-tagging matters. Anytime someone from my past insists on it, I get nervous. “Jen has tagged you in a photo.” Yeah, LA Cecily doesn’t need to know that high school Cecily was in the Mime troupe. I’ve gotten tagged a lot by people from college and I have to say that LA Cecily, had she come face to face with college Cecily, would have had her arrested. Not just for the loud, incessant partying but also for the fact that she wore body suits. Tight, red body suits. Untag.

I’ve become so accustom to un-tagging that I forget I can’t just un-tag things in non-Facebook life. For example, I like indie rock bands in small venues, except in Los Angeles because people won’t stop yammering. Un-tag. Worse, there’s always some tool who yells out the name of some obscure bullshit song they want the band to play. “Play track 8 from Cold War Kids’ latest. Play that song Jon Brion did for the Blankety Blank soundtrack that you can only get on the B-side of Deathcab for Cutie’s private vinyl recordings.” We get it. You spend time at Amoeba. You want to bang Zooey Deschanel. The Silverlake Lounge is actually too mainstream for you. Ya know what, douche-hole? They’ll play what’s on their set list and you’ll like it. Un-tag. I’d also like to un-tag that guy who makes loud groaning noises in my yoga class. Yes, upward dog feels very stretchy, but this isn’t a porno sir. Un-tag.

And now...for some beer pong.

Readers, I'd love to hear from you! Feel free to email me thoughts or questions to: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com

Unpack

Here's a little Cecily fun-fact. Usually, after I've returned from a trip (and it can be a two day excursion or a three week vacation) I throw my suitcase on the floor of my bedroom, open it and then unpack it slowly over a month's time. Actually, I usually throw the suitcase on the floor the minute I walk into my apartment and then I drag it into the bedroom a few days later. It's not that I don't mean to unpack and carefully either wash my clothing or hang it neatly in the closet like a real grown-up woman. I just somehow never get around to it and instead retrieve items on an as-needed basis. "Wonder where that green Banana Republic t-shirt is? Oh there it is, crumpled under my jeans in my carry-on. Surely, it's wearable?!" I then, of course pull it out, wear it and hope no one asks questions. "I need to charge my iPod. Hmm. Why, there's my charger...right there next to my travel soap in the "side-pocket" of my luggage. I'll just grab that and get that iPod charged right away."

Eventually over time, my baggage gets unloaded back into my life until it's time to re-pack and start all over again. The similarities between the baggage I leave on my floor and the baggage that has come with so many (let's say more than 15) failed relationships is obvious. I think, "I'm just not gonna deal with any of this now and then over time, bit by bit, I'll unload it all onto someone else." That green Banana Republic t-shirt at the bottom of the suitcase is no different than the "I get crazy-jealous when you seem happier to see that chick from your improv class than to see me" moment. It's gonna come out eventually but it may take awhile to present itself.

I guess ultimately this is a good thing. It might terrify someone if I unloaded my suitcase full of crazy all at once. Just like clothes and chargers, I'll get around to unpacking it all when the time is right.

Readers, I'd love to hear from you! Feel free to email me thoughts or questions: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com

On The Wings of Gross

As someone who is fairly (okay, completely) addicted to reality television, I am ready to admit that I love nearly all dating competitions. Bret Michaels’ bandana/hair extensions combo in “Rock of Love”, Flavor Flav’s giant clock-necklace and simply Ray-J’s smile have all been enough to get me though a hangover on a Sunday morning. And it’s with that said that I can’t believe I’ve gone this long without discussing ABC’s “The Bachelor: On the Wings of Love”. The show reminds me of the good old days when dating shows like “Elimi-date” would capture moments of potential love-birds (read: out-of-work actors) exclaiming with straight faces, “You are my soul-mate. But there’s a better soul-mate for me over here and I’m gonna go with that soul-mate. Bye, other soul-mate!”

So before that exciting finale next week, (Oooh will Jake pick Vienna, Tenley or that wildcard producer, Jason?), I’d like to say the following: if a guy ever said to me that his “heart was crying” when he broke up with me or that he hopes to have a “little boy crush” on his wife 20 years down the line, I will respond by vomiting and then possibly impaling myself on something. Oh hey Jake…hope you didn’t read that!

Here are five more things I’d hate to ever hear from my hypothetical TV bachelor:

1) Our journey has been so special. But all journeys must end and mine is gonna end with that red-head over there.
2) Cecily, I can see inside your heart and it appears your arteries are a tad clogged.
3) If eyes are the windows to the soul, your window is double-paned…(wait…what?)
4) Hey, love your Pradas! Can I try them on?
5) When you hug me, would you mind moving over to the left a little? You’re kinda blocking my light.

(And two more for good measure)

6) When I kiss you, I feel just like I did at my first Hall and Oates concert.
7) Cecily, will you accept this rose? And will you accept this other boyfriend I have on the side?

As I write all of this, my “heart is crying”. I suppose we should just end this “journey” here.

Are you a Reality TV Love junkie? Let me know! Email me: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com