Run Away With Me

Sometimes, to make extra money, or any money at all, I go on commercial auditions. Sometimes I even book them. (Rarely, but sometimes.) The ones I usually book or at least get call-backs for are normally running-related. This is because I ran cross-country and track in college and I still run a lot. This is also because all of the other girls at the auditions typically come dressed in yoga pants and slinky little tank tops, an outfit befitting to say, painting your toenails, but certainly not going for a run. Anyone who has ever run (competitively, or just somewhat seriously) knows if the wardrobe calls for "running attire" this leaves you with a few very specific options: those very short shorts with the built-in underwear, short spandex (or long ones if it's cold), a sports bra or one of those longer sports bra shirts, a t-shirt or tank top works too, and of course running shoes (shockingly some of these model girls even forget those sometimes).

Anyway, the other day I had an audition for an online running ad. The audition request read:

Description: EXPERIENCED runner, physically toned and fit, 25-40. No on-camera lines, but voiceover dialogue will be recorded at the shoot. Please wear running attire for audition. If cast, you will need to provide two sets of running attire for the shoot. Auditioners will be asked to demonstrate running ability.

This is for a 30-second commercial to be distributed through Google TV.

This is a non-union project.

Yet the above failed to mention that it was actually a commercial for a runners online dating service (“You know, runners trying to meet and date other runners”). During the audition I had to read a script that said something like, "With my busy schedule it's just so hard to meet people. I wish I could find someone who shares the same passion I do for running and the outdoors." And I had to say that while jogging in place.

You just can't make this stuff up.

A Brief History of Me.

Lilibet Snellings

is writing in the third person.

hopes that someday she and her best girlfriends will outlive their husbands and move to Miami to live like The Golden Girls.

has never met a Gemini, a Canadian, or a person from Maryland she doesn’t like.

was once an assistant at a modeling agency. Getting models to go on castings is a skill she likens to herding domestic house cats.

realizes “domestic house cats” is redundant.

is terrified of what kids can do on computers these days. Doesn’t trust anyone under 12.

is fairly convinced the only people who read her writing are the editors who are paid to do so, and her grandparents, if she mails them a copy and writes a sweet note.

does a lot of ridiculous things to support herself while living as a freelance writer in Los Angeles; chief among them sitting in the giant glass box behind the concierge desk at The Standard Hotel, for seven hours at a time.

was once in an Alamo Rental Car commercial, but it was only on the Web. Was once in a Nike soccer ad, but only her legs. Was once on an episode of Entourage but only her elbow.

won a free-throw shooting contest in 4th grade making 9 out of 10 baskets. Got her picture in the local newspaper (small town, must have been a slow week for rabid raccoon sightings). Has been terrible at sports with teams and/or balls ever since. Excels at sports with no teams, and no balls.

still runs lots of miles most every day.

ran a marathon and actually quite enjoyed it.

once drove off with the gas nozzle still stuck in her car. *

her personal purgatory would be forever looking for her car in a never-ending parking garage with John Mayer’s “Your Body Is A Wonderland” playing on a loop.

hopes heaven is a giant breakfast buffet.

once drank an entire bottle of hot sauce for 500 dollars. Doesn’t suggest doing this. The burn is twice as bad on the way out as the way in.

wants to know how Bob Costas knows so much about so many different sports.

has always wanted to know: Who PUT the cat IN the bag?

really wants to know what the hell ever happened to The Food Pyramid.

used to find it wildly amusing when she was little and her brother would pretend he was retarded in public places, and, at, let’s say, KB Toy Store, or, Toys R Us, would throw himself on the ground screaming and flailing around until her sweet Southern mom had enough and would grab him by the arm and yell, “Get up! Get up, damnit!” and strangers would be like, “Oh what a horrible mother treating her retarded son like that.” (He was really good at this.)

is sorry if the above offended anyone.

is pretty sure flip cups (which on the East Coast we call “Cups”) was invented in her basement in 1993. If anyone has any evidence to the contrary, please let her know.

used to have a pet goldfish named Tuna until he popped**

has no idea how the Internet works. Would love for someone to explain it. And until someone does, is going to accept “it’s magic” as the explanation.

has no idea how dry cleaning works. Believes that it too is magical. Doesn’t really care for an explanation.

once had her credit card company ask if she was considering a new line of work.

has a lot of good stories.

hopes you read them someday.

*There are conflicting theories as to whose “fault” this actually was. There are four potential suspects: Me, because I was driving the car. Rachel, because she was pumping the gas. Katie, because it was her car. And Heather, because she accidentally forgot to pay for her bag of Fritos inside. The prevailing theory is that it was Heather’s fault because of Karma and all (we went to Boulder).

**There are no conflicting theories as to whose fault this was. While I was out of town, Heather (same Heather, bless her) my roommate at the time, was supposed to feed poor Tuna (R.I.P.) three flakes of food a day. Instead she fed him three handfuls of food a day. And he popped. Like actually exploded.

I Was Workin' as a Waitress at a Cocktail Bar..

Overheard on the same night...

"Well what in the world were you doing poking holes in beers and chugging them with 18 year-olds?" from a 30-something woman to a 30-something man.

And:

"You see, when I was in AA..." from a man to his date, while drinking a Kettle One martini, up, with two olives.

After reading Joan Didion's "On Keeping A Notebook" I had two thoughts: why have I never read this, and my God I do the same thing. Unlike Joan D though, my million little thoughts – bits of dialogue I overheard, observations, advice, notes to self, funny Southern expressions my parents say, lists of books I should have read by now, lists of films I should have seen by now, lists of words I should use but never do, all of these things – are written, scribbled, really – on hundreds (well maybe not hundreds but lots and lots) of little pieces of paper – on pulled-out pieces of notebook paper with the perforated edges still attached, on Post-It notes, yellow ones, green ones, pink ones, some faded, some still bright, on cocktail napkins, on the back of flight itineraries, on brown Starbucks napkins, on the back of a Pink Dot coupon, on ripped-out blank pages from the back of books, and a countless number of them are on the ripped-out pages of my cocktail server pad, things I scribble down while at work, story ideas, characters, notes on what people are wearing, saying. One of them (for instance) reads: German man, bad breath, wind pants, windbreaker, drinking half ice-tea, half-Diet Coke. Others are scribbled on the same side of the sheet as food orders. One reads: Spicy tuna roll, extra sesame, shrimp tempura, no mayo, salmon sushi, and below that: If you say “Don’t Touch My Mustache” really fast it sounds like “You’re Welcome” in Japanese.

Book Review of "In The Spirit of Capri" By Pamela Fiori for Interiors Magazine

Written by Lilibet Snellings

From its caves with crystal blue water to its rolling hills dotted with spearmint, salmon and canary colored houses – the bougainvillea, olive groves and lemon trees creating the canvas in between – to its local people – women in skinny black slacks or relaxed linen dresses, their bronzed skin bejeweled in turquoise, coral and gold strolling through the Piazzetta alongside tall, tan men in crisp white pants, with bold, solid colored sweaters draped over their shoulders to get an after dinner limoncello – every aspect of Capri is a vibrant, colorful affair. Yet there is nothing flashy, or flaunting, about it. It is, on the contrary, the epitome of understated elegance. Like its effortlessly glamorous denizens, it doesn’t have to try to be anything, it already is.

In Pamela Fiori’s new book In The Spirit of Capri, she shares her cherished memories of the Mediterranean island (longingly reminiscing about the linguine alle vongole) while telling the history of the island itself – from the first days Roman emperors romped ashore, more than 2,000 years ago, to the glitzy, glamorous and lusty nightlife of the 40s, 50s and 60s – when Audrey Hepburn, Grace Kelly and Rita Hayworth – among many others, were dancing, drinking, tanning and romancing on the storied island’s shores. In the book, which has 150 illustrations (old paparazzi pictures, snapshots of locals, photographs of The Blue Grotto, the most famous of Capri’s many caves) Fiori, who is the editor-in-chief of Town & Country, speaks of the destination she so adores in a language which, like the island itself, is understated and graceful – there’s nothing too frilly about it: “If I could create the island of my dreams,” the opening line reads, “I could not improve on one that already exists. I mean, of course, Capri.”

Grande Non-Fat Latte, Hold The Small Talk

Why do Starbucks employees not realize that their early morning customers have not yet had their early morning coffee and are not perky and peppy and do not want to chat. We don't even want to smile. And honestly, I really wish you wouldn't either, Mr. Goooooood morning and WEL-come to Starbucks what may I get started for you today?" If I ran a Starbucks I would tell my employees that before 9 am they had to be grumpy and irritable. It's much more relatable.

(What Not) To Do List

As if the endless wonders of the world wide web aren't distraction enough, when your office is your house, or, in my case, my apartment, the everyday distractions are endless. It's amazing all the things you suddenly realize you need to do when you're supposed to be doing something else.

Maybe I should pluck my eyebrows?
Maybe I should check the mail, again.
Maybe I should water that plant, it looks a little dry, no?
Maybe I should go through the closet and see what old jeans would make good cut-offs?
Maybe I should bleach the bathtub? It's been a while, right?

Yes, that’s what I’ll do! I'll bleach the bathtub! Then, I'll have to open every window and door after bleaching the entire bathroom, determine the apartment a bio hazard, leave immediately, and seek shelter at the bar down the street, where the air is much safer and where there happens to be a very reasonable Happy Hour going on.

Genius.

"A" Royal Pain

I finally got a new Blackberry today (free of charge thanks to my much needed cell phone insurance; I might be Verizon's most expensive customer). I needed a new one, because, for the last two weeks or so the "A" key on my keyboard hasn't worked. This wouldn't be a big deal if the letter A weren't, oh I don't know, probably the most commonly used letter in the English language. The @ key used in place of "at" and the + key used in place of "and" have helped, sure, but not quite enough. And while I have to admit I sort of enjoyed trying to come up with ways to phrase things without words that have an A in them, it got old after a while. For instance, last week, I was stuck in the Atlanta Airport attempting to get back to L.A. on stand-by and was trying to explain the situation via text. Try texting someone you're stuck in the Atlanta Airport without using any A's, I dare you. This is what I came up with while riding the monorail from Concourse B to Concourse T for the third time that day:

I'm stuck in the biggest city in the st8 which is on top of Floriduh.

I could have called, of course, but that wouldn't have been any fun.

It Just Gets Funner and Funner (!!)

Ok, ok, ok, fine, it's true, they are getting exercise, and that's a good thing -- sure -- with American children getting/being so fat and all. It could be worse, yes. They could be inside Twittering or something I suppose. I just wish they didn't SCREAM every time they bounced. You would think the thrill would have worn off by now. It's as if they have the memory of a goldfish (30 seconds or so, they say). Every trip around the bowl is a new adventure. Weeeeee!

Double Bounce

My next door neighbors got a trampoline today (how they fit that thing in their "yard" I do not know) and I don't think I will ever get any work done from home again. At least not until school starts. After three straight hours of bouncing -- and screaming -- these little hellions (and what sounds like the rest of the neighborhood under the age of 11) are still going strong. The trampoline is directly below my window. I really wish I had some water balloons. Or a BB gun.

Tomorrow is my grandparents' 62nd wedding anniversary. Or, it would have been. He died a week ago today, at the age of 92. During this past week, as my Mimi and I sat, side by side, and laughed and cried, she told me all sorts of stories about their long and happy marriage. This, is one of my new favorites:

We were driving back from Columbus, Georgia on one of those real country roads, you know Pop never liked to take the main roads, and we passed a building, a factory type building, and I said, "Oh, that's where they can Osage Peaches," and he said, "No, that's where they can Osage Pimentos." And oh, we argued and argued about it for the next three or four miles until finally he said, "Goddamnit Betty, I'm going to turn this car around and show you." So we flipped around and went back and on one side of the building it said Osage Peaches and on the other side of the building it said Osage Pimentos. Oh we laughed and laughed! If only every argument could be settled so amicably.