Moments ago, I stood in the writers food kitchen & wolfed down chocolate covered orange thingys from Trader Joes. I spaced out for what may have turned into 5 whole minutes, just stuffing my face, not a care in the world and, for once not counting the number of chocolate diet destroyers I was consuming. That was until a horde of writers swarmed past me, and a few shot me questionable glances. Yup, just the weird girl from the production office who typically stays out of our way, (which we love!) but today she must have lost it. Did you see what she was eating? Gross! Only we writers are allowed to eat that way!

I’m not knocking the writers per se. In fact, one writer (my favorite one! he actually acknowledges us production people! i know! i’m blown away too!) is treating my office to Coffee Bean today. Anyway, the only person I’m knocking here is myself. Here’s the girl, here’s the Korlina, who last week was all “must.start.diet.NOW!” who finds herself scarfing down chocolate rather shamelessly. Ugh, so out of character! I’m usually overly aware of my surroundings & who or what routinely lurks around the corner. For whatever reason, today I wasn’t myself. Today I forgot my cardinal rule of not being a pig openly, ever. 

Last night I wasn’t myself either. Nobody likes laundry, but I almost had a panic attack over it. There was just so much! Oh, and the pudgy girl in my apartment bldg, the one who no one cares much for because of her lousy “hate the world” attitude, was hogging one of the washers. If J hadn’t been around to calm me down, I would have been SO done. If anyone had witnessed the way I was on the verge of meltdown, they would have thought I had just been diagnosed with some rare disease. Nope, just laundry folks! Come back next week and I’ll probably be in panic mode over not having enough butter in the fridge to use for mac and cheese!

My stress must stem from some other unknown source. Perhaps I’m repressing what’s really bothering me. Oh, that’s right, the finances. Yeah, perhaps it’s the finances. Perhaps it’s because I’ll be working later than usual this week, which means no time for the gym. I swear I was getting back on track too!

I better go. Some Staples supplies just came in (for realz) and I must must must deliver them to the proper persons in this office. Did I mention some of my tasks at this job drive my crazy? I can’t wait to be snuggled in bed tonight, dreaming of Aruba. Dreaming of not having to pass out Staples supplies. In the meantime, I’ll continue being so done with this day and, I’ll savor the Coffee Bean that just arrived (as I pass out supplies).

Friday, oh Friday. I should be all smiles as I type at my desk. I should be anticipating the weekend, only hours away. Instead, I sip coffee (it’s delicious, whoever made it in my office) & fight the urge to tear up because crying at work, well, just sucks.

Moments ago, I stumbled upon a basset hound blog, thanks to good ‘ole Google! Immediately, I added this cute blog to my blogroll. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this, but I ADORE basset hounds. I grew up with them & became a fast basset lover. Who really can resist their long droopy faces, the ears that they trip over repeatedly, or the way in which they love EVERYONE they come across? (warning: don’t invest in a cute basset pup with the thought in the back of your minds that it will grow to be one hardcore watch dog. not.going.to.happen).

When the first family basset, Millie, died, everyone (especially my mom) was devestated. I was a junior in high school. I recall being obsessed with the Sarah Brightman CD, “Time to Say Goodbye,” at the time. Whenever I would play a track my eyes would swell and, of course, I’d remember Millie. I can honestly say, after encountering countless dogs during my lifetime, that she was the sweetest thing in the world. She didn’t have a mean bone in her body. My mom used to say that Millie was a “hippy basset” because all she wanted to do was love and be pet. We had to put her down because she was suffering from cancerous mass cell tumors. She suddenly wasn’t interested in food. This was a HUGE red flag ’cause bassets (especially pleasantly plump Millie) heart food! Running out of ideas, I set a single green bean in front of Millie one evening after supper. I was hoping she’d eat it and that the green bean would miraculously cure her because it was a veggie. I was either extremely stupid or extremely delusional. Perhaps both.

 ’Lil Sis, since she’s the brave one, carried Millie to the car on the day we’d all have to say farewell for good. The next basset was Sadie (otherwise known as SadiePants & still going strong at 9 years old). She is nothing like Millie. As a matter of fact, she’s kind of evil. Thankfully, we all love her anyway (she’s lucky she’s so darn cutesy cute).

So anyway, when I discovered Basset Blog and, found a story about losing a basset hound, (a story I can relate to) I wanted to crawl under my desk and sob. What’s wrong with me? I’m not even PMSing!

Maybe THIS is my true, deep rooted crazy Korlina problem that makes me depressed on this Friday at work… 

On the way out the door this morning, I lamented to J that I didn’t feel great about myself (my body and, thus, myself to an extent). I’ve probably gained about 10 lbs from the weight I was at last year. I know I can get a handle over it if I just work out more, but I dunno… it has just been so damn hard lately. Oh, and the days where I try to limit my calorie intake, I feel lethargic, mopey, irritable, and mad at the universe. I swear, I don’t know which is unhealthier, being a bit overweight now or being insanely stressed to the bone. I was 10 friggin sexy pounds lighter when I was a stressed out wacko. I was too busy to think about food. I know, shocking!

J, being J, told me that I still look great and, that yes, I will get back on track. The past weekend trip to Vegas where I ate myself silly probably didn’t help in my current state of ”Oh, whoa is me, I’m fat” this week.

Being a girl and having body image issues is no fun. I’m not always like this. I’ve been confident in my body plenty of times during my life. I’m just going through a phase. I suddenly really care. I care the moment my jeans start not fitting and, the moment when doing cardio at the gym feels hellish.

Once the weight commences to drop, my ego will get the boost it desperately desires. In the meantime, I’ll ignore (yeahhhh right) the guy in my office eating the chocolate cookie ice cream sandwich at the moment.

This is just awesome! It’s now official! At the end of June, I am flying to Aruba & meeting my family there for a week of heavenly & overdue vacation. Oh, and J is coming as well! He’s met my parents once before, but now he gets the privilege of meeting ‘Lil Sis. I have a feeling that they will hit it off for some bizarre reason. Why is that bizarre? Well, ‘Lil Sis and I have always had quite an… umm… tumultuous relationship. But yup. They’ll like each other!

As I sit and type at my desk, killing time & [trying to kill] my desire to snack, I giggle with anticipation about the trip, regardless of the fact that it’s months away. I try not to think about the “months away” part for I do rather prefer having something to look forward to (besides my birthday, also in the fun June month. presents are always welcomed!) that tops “The Hills” or “American Idol.”

Now my mission must entail getting fit and fab for the quickly approaching June journey. The clock’s clicking, Korlina! Okay, I know I have a penchant for talking in the 3rd person at times. I promise to [try to] monitor it, but note that often times it’s an involuntary reflex; a sneeze I cannot hold in.

One thing I have been “holding in” on my blog is elaboration on my “blushing disease.” I mentioned it many blogs back (specifically, in “The Skin I’m In”) and, yes, I know this post is entitled “Aruba! In June!” but thought I’d take the time to elaborate on it now on this fine Thusday that I wish could be a Friday.

Ever since I was a little girl, I had a secret talent. I could blush at the drop of a dime! Noo, nooo, it wasn’t as simple as turning slightly pink when a teacher called on me in class. Noo, nooo, noooo, I didn’t (and I don’t) become Crimson Face only in the presence of crushes or folks who make me nervous. I unsuccessfully battle the blushes every day now, just as I battled them growing up. I will gladly give you an example of all the blushing I’ve done (that I can remember) this week. Here goes…

(INT. OFFICE. AFTERNOON- Korlina, at her desk, takes deep breath as she prepares to pour her soul out).

Monday: It’s morning. Naturally, there’s Starbucks. Naturally, the girl at the counter comments that she likes my shirt (what? it was a cute shirt!). Then, very naturally, I BLUSH before I can even say thanks. My blush grows deeper as I wait for my coffee at the far counter. Why can’t I get this under control? Why can’t I take a compliment without having to look like I’ve been out in the sun for 2 whole hours without sunscreen? Why? WHY?

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday: Whenever someone/anyone in my office building that I’m not too close with tries to engage in a conversation with me, I get so uncomfortable and blush. It’s not like I have crushes on these individuals, or that I crave their respect. I.just.don’t.get.it. This entire phenomenon forces me to be quite withdrawn at work because I’m so ashamed of my fire engine red face in these situations. One time I even went so far as to pretend to see something outside my office window, so that the person who was attempting a convo with me didn’t have to witness Big Red Korlina (damn, I hope that’s not kinky slang I don’t know about).

I saw an episode of “Grey’s Anatomy” once where a little girl had a medical condition that made her blush whenever anything set her off. Although it was sort of adorable the way she, like I light switch, would turn beat red whenever Dr. Alex Karev checked in on her, I also felt bad for the girl! Scratch that, I empathized with her! All she wanted was to be normal. She felt as though her blushing was getting in the way of her everyday life. Thus, she opted for surgery. I sometimes wonder if I have a similar or identical condition. I wonder if I need surgery (along with Acutane. weep.)

I also know that, despite the plethora of zits & the uncontrollable blushes, I’m a happy girl. I’m going to Aruba after all, the first time in 4 years I’ve been able to take a vacation! What’s there to bitch and moan about when you have that? Now I just need to get my ass to the gym!

Today I wanted to shake things up a little bit and, in shaking things up, my hands furiously shake as I type this post.

 This morning, on my commute to work, I made a familiar pit stop at Starbucks. I’ve gone every single morning this week because I’ve been a bad bad Korlina. Sorry, I digress! Typically, on my Starbucks outings I’ll order a tall espresso-type drink. Not today, folks! I thought, “Hey, I’ll order a venti caramel macchiato today to shake things up! Brilliant!”

Fast-forward to 2 hours later, at work, with co-workers who are.not.pleased to share an office with me in my “state.” I cannot sit still. Even when I do sit down to type an email or to handle an annoying phone call from stage at my desk, I fidget constantly. I shuffle papers around, write notes to myself on post-its, (that I probably don’t have to write because I can commit the crucial stuff to memory) keep putting my hair up in a new ponytaildo, and march through the hallway on my way to the copyroom, nearly knocking out 5 people (new record!).

Oh, and I left out one piece of relevant info… ooops! I drank my body weight in green and black teas before 11am. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking AND, yes… I.was.on.ceiling. Nevertheless, it felt pretty good. The caffeine overload upped my work performance. I must have completed a thousand tasks and counting today with what felt like only the snap of my fingers!

Now, at approximately 4:30pm, my hyperactivity remains. Not only does it remain, but it also seems to have spread to the 3 other co-workers I share this office with at the moment. As I type away on the blog, they dance in their desk chairs to “Pick Yourself Up and Try Again.” Ah, Aaliyah, how you bring me back to my high school days at track practice when all the girls would warm up with a stretch, then some kick ass dance moves. Now I’m rockin’ in my desk as well. Caffeine, you knock my socks off! (kinda literally, cough).

Today I was transported back to about 4 years ago when I was what they call in the production  world a very “green” PA. I had never heard the words “call sheet” or “production report.” When ADs blurted into the phone “copy that” I would immediately dash over to the copy machine, expecting to find documents that they needed me to copy for them. I didn’t realize “copy that” meant that they understood what I had said on the phone. Yeah, I was that lame.

The learning curve did not come without warning. My bosses repeatedly commented, “You’ll get it. There’s just a learning curve.” Oh, how I quickly began to “get” most day-to-day shit. Food was the most important aspect of a TV show. If a certain woman executive, we’ll call her L, didn’t have a whole wheat bagel ready for her on stage every morning, there would be hell to pay in the production office. Also, my producer, who we’ll call S, once almost had a breakdown when her pizza was overcooked.

I also “got” that your role, in the beginning of your production life, is a thankless one. Forget flexible hours in the beginning. Forget about making plans with friends for drinks on a week night because, knowing your luck, you’ll somehow get stuck running off scripts in the copy room and have to drive them all around the fuckin’ town. Oh, and you might get a flat tire along the way in some remote part of West Hills. AND you might get so lost in gated neighborhoods with horses galloping around (you think I’m kidding, don’t you?) that you don’t even get to go home and sleep for a few hours. You end up driving from your script drop-offs back to where you came from… WORK!

There was a time during this “learning curve” that I would stress out more than I thought any human being was capable of stressing out. Here’s a day in the life of the old Korlina at work and what would set me off…

FLOATING CLOUDS BRING US BACK TO 2004…

Korlina (moi) brings back 25+ lunches for both the production and writers’ offices. Korlina is exhausted & hungry. Once Korlina delivers everyone’s lunch, complete with 2 napkins and cutlery, she licks her lips in anticipation of her tuna melt (even though it’s probably not as warm and gooey as it was before I left the restaurant and placed it in my trunk). Korlina throws herself down on her uncomfy desk chair, takes out her delectable sandwich, (at this rate anything of the food variety would constitute as delectable) and is about to take one big bite wheeeeeeeeeeeeeen…

“Kooooooorlina!!!!!” It sounds like a little kid in a playground whining & on the verge of major meltdown. It’s the one and only S, one of my bosses, and the show’s producer.

I bolt up from my desk, forgetting about my hunger. When S calls your name, you run, run, RUN to her office doorway. “Is everything okay, S?” I let out breathlessly, already knowing that NOTHING is okay when she calls my name. “This PIZZA, ugh. It’s overcooked! Didn’t you tell them not to overcook it???” S not only sounded like a spoiled brat in a playground, she looked like one too. I was waiting for the moment when she would throw the damn pizza at me, on my new shirt (thankfully, she did not, but I have heard PA horror stories where burritos were thrown at PAs who messed up a producer’s food order).

“S, I’m so sorry. I did tell them to not overcook your pizza, I…. umm umm ummm,” fumbled my words. And started to cry. A lot. Started to sob. A lot. My other bosses, R and M, were standing behind me, arms crossed, looks of disdain and simulataneous disappointment on their faces. They were like S’s security guards. Oh sorry, did I say security guards? I meant to say slaves. I flew out of that production office without saying a word, but somehow R knew what I was up to. “Korlina, you don’t have to go back [to the restaurant]. S doesn’t want you to do that!” But I knew deep down that that was just a lie. It was just a stupid test, and at the time, it was a test I wanted to pass.

Today, where I am now in my “production career,” I just laugh at memories of my old self. Sure, I still get uptight about some ridiculousness on occasion, but for the most part, I breathe deeper and care much less about the stupid bullshit.

For instance, this morning. I was expecting an important package for our make-up dept. to be delivered via UPS (why of course). It was supposed to arrive yesterday, so I became concerned when it still hadn’t appeared this morning, especially when the make- up lady needed it urgently for today. My heart rate increased after I got off the phone with UPS. They claimed to have records that showed it was delivered yesterday at 1:06 p.m. Ugh, great. It was dropped off to a girl and they didn’t have record of a name (again, why of course). After frantically asking every girl in our building, even the girls downstairs who have less to do with the show, if they in fact had signed for a package, I began to lose hope. I also began to think about the look on the make-up lady’s face (I’ve seen the look before, guys. It’s NOT pretty) when I’d have to tell her that her package was lost.

As I called back UPS, chatted with another rep, still not getting anywhere really, (“maam, we delivered it yesterday at 1:06 p.m.”) I started to feel something different. A “wow, I must be growing up, caring less, knowing this WILL in fact get resolved, or all of the above” something different. Since 2004 up until about this time in my life, in 2008, I realize that nothing is perfect & that I don’t have control over every situation in making what ever thing is not perfect perfect. It was a hard lesson to learn, but it was worth the pain. It was worth the pain because now I can at least pretend to go back in time, to S’s doorway, to a grown woman acting like a playground toddler, and understand the situation differently. I would say, “Sorry, S, it won’t happen again.” Then, without a tear in my eye, I would sit back down to my uncomfy chair (perhaps even recline a bit!) and take a huge bite out of my rather lukewarm tuna melt sandwich. I’d think to myself between chews that yes, it’s just not worth it.

You’re not floating around all the casinos in a haze, struggling to recover from your bout of food poisoning. The last time I was in Vegas was around Thanksgiving. J and I mutually agreed that it would be a fab way to celebrate Turkey Day & to just get away from this crazy town for a while. J also loves poker and was hoping to play in a poker tournie. Well, we could hardly poke at our turkey dinners, even though they were from a fancy pants Wolfgang Puck dining establishment. J had no energy to play poker. He could only muster up enough energy for a lame video poker game. I had saved my money for a mani/pedi & massage at our hotel. That didn’t happen either because I opted to stay in bed and watch some yummy chick flicks, to J’s chagrin. I was just too tired to get my ass outta bed!

Two days before our Thanksgiving trip we both experienced extreme food poisoning syndroms. We either contracted it from Dominos or Quiznos (we’re so healthy!). I’ll never forget when my symptoms sprang up over fro yo at Pink Berry with my pal Nate. I suddenly had to cut Nate off, even though he was in the middle of one of his hilarious work misadventure stories. I bolted from my clear green stool and sprinted as fast as I could to Trader Joes to use the… uhh, facilities.

When I made it back to my apartment (thankfully Trader Joes is merely a mile away) I called J. His voice sounded as weak as mine. He had experienced tummy problems throughout the day. It didn’t occur to either one of us then that we both had the same sickness and, that our tummy problems would only grow grosser as the night progressed. We were poisoned! We mumbled our good-byes between our groans and, prayed that we would both be healthy by the time we hit the road for Vegas in 2 days.

All of last week I was paranoid that we’d come down with food poisoning again, thus not being capable of enjoying Vegas to the fullest in our “recovery stage.” However, this time around was nothing like the last. We (gasp) could eat! We could walk around different casinos for extended periods of time and not feel as though we were going to (ouch) collapse! We could drink (yay) large quantities of alcohol! We didn’t have to stay in bed all day and squabble about whether or not we’d rent a chick flick (yum) or guy movie (blah) next! We went to bed past (omigod) 10pm! We had lots of (blush) sex!

Now I’m sitting at work, jealous of J because he very wisely took today off. I will have to work out for hours every single day this week if I even think that I’m going to burn everything from this weekend off my untoned body. There was a time that I can honestly say that I was buff. I ran for about an hour every single week day, and hiked either Fryman or Runyan Canyon on the weekends. Oh, and the drinking… the DRINKING! I used to have a tiny glass of red wine after work on nights I felt stressed. I rarely feel stress where I work now, but somehow I’m drinking every night! This sounds so sick, but I wish I had the willpower to be one of those girls who can starve themselves. It would make the whole working out and not drinking as much thing so much easier, don’t ya think?

I was trying to wrack my brain, on the ride back from Sin City, as to what was my favorite memory of this particular journey. I could say something lame like, “the whole trip was so glorious that I can’t think of only one moment or memory,” but I’ll refrain from the lame on this lovely Monday afternoon. My favorite moment was when J and I found our favorite slot machine, “The Quack.” If you don’t know about “The Quack,” (and I’m pretty sure that it’s not actually called “The Quack.” I’m just always too apathetic and/or drunky drunk to inspect the damn machine) it’s the most awesome slot machine… ever! All these different animals, even a beloved basset hound, grace the top of the machine. The goal is to land on three “quacks.” When and if you do so, you try to land on one of the animals above for points. The cutesy-cute animal noises the machine makes always kills me. Please, please, next time you’re in Vegas, or any casino really, check this thing OUT! They are rather hard to come by though, hence our excitement when we spotted one in The Rio.

I played a round of “The Quack” as J left me to search for an atm. After a while, he came back, watched the rest of my game, (not as successful as my first “go”) and then I let him take a seat in front of her Majesty of Quackyness. As he began his round, he grabbed my waist and held it tightly. I had never felt so loved and in love and deliriously happy. It was just something in that moment that summed up “us.” There is no one else in this whole wild world that I want by my side. I knew this before our “Quack moment,” but the Quack moment re-emphasized this knowledge in every fiber of my being (cliche but oh so true, my friends).

The worst part of the trip happened when we got back from Vegas. We had stopped on our way back at his parents’ place, where we had left his fish. We hung out outside for a while, basking in the days last rays of sunlight. Spring has finally begun, guys! It was a beautiful night, what with the day lasting longer than usual and the birds singing and even bunny rabbits prancing about the lawn. Unfortunately, the sun went down & it was time to once again hit the road.

When I got in the car, I heard my phone beep. I glanced down at my phone, a missed call. I clicked my options menu to see who had called, but I didn’t recognize the 818 number. I became mildly concerned when I discovered that the person whose number I didn’t recognize had left a message. Is it just me or is there something quite disconcerting about phone calls with messages from unknown callers?

 I put my phone on speaker because I was in such suspense, wanting to check the message immediately while waving to J’s parents from the car at the same time. What I heard after pounding in my voicemail password truly stirred me. It was Sean. It was Sean, a guy from my past that I had casually dated a year and a half ago, and he was calling me, Korlina, out of the blue now? I didn’t even listen to the full message. I was somehow snapped back into reality, with the knowledge that J had just heard the line, “Hi, Korlina, it’s Sean,” and with the knowledge that I hadn’t waved bye to J’s rents. I was in a stupor, to say the least.

J shot me a concerned glance. With furrowed brows, he asked me who he was without having to verbally say anything.

I told him that Sean had been a guy I casually dated, blah blah blah. I told him that Sean had been an alcoholic in a literal rehab sort of way. I told him that Sean had been a major mistake. I told him that Sean… WARNING: this is gross… had been very physically forceful in trying to have butt sex with me. I.will.never.ever.have.butt.sex. After that physically abusive incident, (luckily he was too much of a drunk to hurt me and/or force me into butt sex. I know, I know, I was a complete fucking IDIOT to date a drunk and think “well, he’s fine when not drunk!”) I never returned his calls. He got the hint quickly after about three ignored phone call attempts.

What made me so angry and stirred up over Sean’s out of the blue message yesterday was that a.) J heard it and didn’t overreact. Instead, he listened to my explanation, told me that I really could have skipped the attempted butt sex part, and said that he trusts me. He trusts me & hopes that I would trust him as much if the tables were turned and he got an out of the blue call from an ex girlfriend or ex hookup (which I have, even though I didn’t react as calm/cool/collected as J did AND it was earlier in our relationship). Sometimes it makes me feel guilty when J is so cool about everything because I know I’m never gonna be as cool as him. Hello? I’m Miss Drama Queen! b.) Sean was baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad. He treated me like dirt. Dirt that he wanted to fuck. I don’t know why I got into even a hookup thing with him, but it happened. I’m so ashamed of once allowing myself to deal with guys of his shitty variety. The reminder of that part of my past always leaves me wound up and disturbed. c.) J and I had had the perfect weekend get-away to celebrate his birthday, and this was going to leave a damper on everything.

It turned out that Sean’s voicemail didn’t leave a damper & that J and I got over it pretty quickly. We stopped at Don Cuco’s in Acton on our way back home and had 2 giant cadillac margaritas. Those always help! Oh, yeah, being in love and never wanting to be with anyone else in the whole wide world helps as well. It helps blurr the memory of bad past relationships. It helps us look forward to the future with the one we can’t live without out. It helps eventually fade those old, unwanted, rotting past relationship memories into nothing. Nothing but dust that you curse at in a fleeting moment for worsening your allergies. ASSSSHEEEEW! God bless you. Why, thank you.

Is less than satisfactory. In that, I mean, I still have ACNE at the baby fresh age of 26. I’m not diggin’ all the zits, the sometimes cystic zits. I didn’t dig them when I turned 12 and, yes, still hatin’ on them at 26.

Nope, I’ve never had a bad case of “backne.” Nope, no true blue zits on my chest or arms either (I’ve seen arm zits & would rather have those buggers). If the higher powers that be decided that, in order to combat facial acne for the rest of my life, I’d never live another day without backne, chest, and arm acne, I’d be TOTALLY cool with that. In fact, I would pay 100 bucks a month for that luxury. That, my pals, would be a big expense for me on my already strict budget, but I’d be oh so willing.

I can only count like 2 times since I’ve been out in LA that I had “flawless” skin. It’s been on my mind lately because, well, it always wreaks havoc on my self-esteem. This wknd, as I’ve already mentioned, my bf and I are Vegas bound. His bday is Friday and, frankly, perhaps even selfishly, I want to look fabulously sexy for his big birthday night in Vegas. My dear friends, it’s so hard to do when I have nothing but gross, red, volcanic bits of chaos splattered across my face.

You can say it, I know… I know. People are dying and starving all over the world, animals are abused, and bottles keep getting filtered into a bottomless pit of waste. Commence the violins. Honestly though, why can’t I be like my sister? She doesn’t.even.wash.her.face, but even so, never goes a DAY without baby smooth skin. Why can’t I be like her??? WAAHHH! The violins are now getting pissed.

On my way to work, I have to drive through Beverly Hills. Driving through the land of Bentleys and other fancy pants cars that I don’t even know the names of, I think of my old derm. I used to see a dermatologist on Roxbury Dr. My health insurance at work sux so bad that my regular doctor won’t let me see a derm. She’ll only send patients to derms if they have skin cancer. I don’t know if I’ve mention this fact in the old blog, but every doctor I have encountered in LA (except for the Roxbury derm) has been SHITTY. I had nothing, NOTHING but the best possible care in every aspect of my health back in Beantown. But here…. no! I had to pay over 100 friggin bucks to this anonymous skin doc after EVERY visit. Okay, I need to take a breath now. And cry. I can’t afford him anymore.

When I did see Dr. R (we’ll call him Dr. R) he helped a ‘lil. He gave me various antibiotics. Still had some cystic acne, however. It just wasn’t on every single surface of my face anymore. To make matters worse, there were side effects with these pills. Not only did it interfere with my birth control, (gasp) but it also made me SO red in the face when I stepped outside at the first nano second of sunlight.

I will get into my blushing disease (I call it a disease, but I don’t know if it really is) some other time, but the red I had in my face while on these meds was.not.normal. Marshion-like, really. I looked like a marshion from… perhaps Saturn, or any other place that all you can think of is bright, sickly red.

Yeah, of course I contemplated Acutane, but hesitated to go through with it every time I thought enough was enough because, yes, I might want to have kids someday.

One day, one day I might grow out of this 15 year phase. In the meantime, it will always bring me down, and it was ALWAYS make me feel less pretty.

Does anyone have any skin suggestions? I’ve tried a laundry list of things. I’ve tried altering my diet to no diary, no soda, and no red meat. Didn’t help. I tried Pro-active. Also, no help. I’ve tried countless brands of face washes, regular soup, not washing at all, and to no avail, tear. It’s not like anyone has ever whispered “Pizza Face” as I’ve passed by, it’s not that bad. To me though, it’s bad enough.

I decided to compile a list of the little things in life that I quietly, mentally give thanks to each and every day (or most days).

1. My Bose alarm clock. It’s been getting me up every morning since my freshman year of college.

2. My amazing shower water pressure. Ahhhh!

3. J’s Brita that I use to make coffee.

4. Special K (the new kind with the chocolate bits).

5. Good Day L.A.

6. Starbucks (for mornings when I need more than my homemade coffee’s caffeine)

7. Either a tall soy green tea latte or a tall skim caramel macchiato. Don’t ask why one tastes better with soy, and the other better with skim. One of life’s great mysteries!

8. Any of my Radiohead CDs. It makes the drive through the canyons all the more pleasurable and, strangely ironic.

9. My “go-cart” of a Corolla because gas prices suck ass. Sorry to swear and all!

10. My lack of actual real work at work. Hence, the Perez perusing, blogging, online shopping, and sanity. Hey, I used to work 12+ hr days. Is not fun & Korlina was not sane!

11. Wine or a cocktail post work. ‘Cause, ya know, I have such busy days & I yearn to unwind somehow (yeah right, Korlina. Nice excuse, lush! Hush, Korlina, and pour me another!)

12. Bad reality TV (Idol, Rock of Love, The Hills, Keeping Up With the Kardashians…)

13. My cozy bed with the Northern Nights sheets that my mom got me for XMas.

14. My green tea eye gel, so I look refreshed from my hectic days!

My next post will be a more abstract dedication of thanks for the “bigger picture” things in my life. This edition was, eh, the materialistic version. However, whenever I’m feeling down & think thoughts such as “the entire universe is out to get me, eeek!” I’ll consult in this list. That way, I’ll always know that everything’s not broken.

I walked into my office today, a ‘lil on the early side. These days, it’s been a rare thing to arrive 15 minutes early. Hence, I took advantage of the situation.

 What’s that you say? HAHAHA. No, no, I didn’t catch up on my (small, thank god) workload, read emails, or follow up on requests. Instead, I spotted a People magazine sitting on my co-worker’s desk…. TADAAAAH!

Okay, it was time to catch up on juicy celeb gossip. I haven’t been on top of it in the last few months thanks to sinking my teeth into all the wonderful blogs out there!

Of course, as is per usual, the articles were dull overall. I don’t care that Drew Barrymore and the annoying Mac dude (does anyone else find him obnoxious?) have found “true love.” I don’t care about the slut who went onto “Moment of Truth” just to gain money, 15 minutes of fame, and destroy her marriage. However, I DID finally stumble upon an article of interest.

If anyone has not yet flipped through the March 17th edition of People, please, please run, don’t walk, to your nearest newsstand! Oh, and turn to page 89. The article is entitled “Cat Burglar.” There’s a big ass pic of a black Siamese cat, staring intently at the cam, surrounded by nothing but ‘lil stuffed animals. Already my heart was going pitter patter and squealing, “too cute for words” with delight. Once I finished reading the too cute for words article, my heart squealed louder.

This Siamese cat, named Cwtch, (pronounced “kutsch” for “cuddle” in Welsh, even more adorable) got to being in the People spotlight because of his klepto ways. Once its owners brought a precious baby girl into the world, Cwtch began his mission to steal stuffed animals for the baby. A stuffed elephant one day, and perhaps a stuffed dino the next. The owners of the feline felon felt horrible, and even put up posters for people to reclaim their children’s stuffed toys, but no one emerged to reclaim anything.

 Cwtch’s story made me laugh so hard that I was in tears with the giggles when all my co-workers arrived. They didn’t find the humor after I struggled, between hysterical bouts of laughter, to explain the amusement in the story. “I don’t get cat humor,” one co-worker stated. If you love cats, read “The Cat Burglar.” Then at least I (fingers crossed) won’t be the only one cracking up about a Siamese cat who just wants the new baby to be happy.

Yesterday was the busiest day I’ve had at work since I started back. I’m not complaining, I rather enjoy not sitting around, twiddling my thumbs, and watching the clock. However, that is not to say that I don’t equally enjoy a nice slow recovering Hump Day morning, catching up on the blog & munching on a Cliff Bar (yummmm).

Sometimes I think (I know I’m not the only twentysomething girl out there pondering this) I drink way too much. I do not need alcohol. If some meanie were to tell me, “You can’t drink for 2 whole weeks!” I could succeed in this “cleanse” exercise. Would I love it? Nah, I like at least a glass of red wine every night to unwind. On the other hand, the 3 or more I’ve been consuming on a nightly basis (if it’s not a vodka tonic or a potent margarita) has been overkill.

I could blame my drinking problem on stress, (I was off work for over 2 months & the finances are almost in a state of normalcy) my genes, (my mom drinks) my boyfriend (he got me hooked on cadillac margaritas), or just my addictive personality. Blaming the art of drinking on environmental and physical factors is a waste of time, people. I think many peeps (myself definitely included) drink out of habit. Click on tube, plop self down on couch, sigh ’cause the workday is DONE, think about red wine, drag self off couch, pour generous amout of wine into humungo wine glass, plop self back onto couch, watch Idol, finish glass, drag self off couch, pour even more wine the second time around, spill wine on just cleaned carpet, make mental note to dab carpet lata, plop self onto couch, begin shouting at TV (what was christina thinking?), slurr a few comments to boyfriend, yawn, and more wine. Yikes.

Tonight my plan is to hit up the gym (haven’t been there since… Friday!) & reward myself with not 3, but a healthy 1 glass of wine. I’ll let you know how that goes. I’m an old dog. 1 glass will be an interesting trick.

A week from this Friday I’ll be living it up in Vegas with J. It’s his birthday celebration. I cannot wait to get away from this town for a few days w/ J, play the slots, dine at nice restaurants, sleep in a gigantic hotel bed, savor the breakfast buffets, and perhaps lay out in the sun if it’s warm enough. Fingers crossed! My pasty skin needs some fun in the sun.