The first step is admitting you have a problem...

Hello friends, it's been a while.

I would apologize for my lengthy absence, but probably you have missed me far more than I have missed you. I mean wait. Take that, reverse it. Aw what the hell it's been a while how've you been? Good? Good.

It's been a dark time chez Olivia. Literally. I know you're all going to scream and convulse, raise your palms to the heavens and cry, "WHAT IN GOD'S NAME WERE YOU THINKING?!??!", but for a while there, I went brunette. I don't know what came over me. Maybe it was the gray, overcast skies of Washington or my deep seated need to truly become Bella Swan and find my own sparkle vampire, but I just decided one day that it was time.

And then I spent the next six weeks regretting it. (Sorry, Meghan, you really did do a fantastic job on the color but it truly isn't me.)

So I'm back to blonde and back to writing and I write to you today to share with you an important story and a few important lessons for the holiday season.

You see, today was the first day I have worked a Black Friday. Weird, because I've worked retail in the past but somehow I always managed to duck out of it. Not because I wanted to sleep off my feasts, mind you, but because I had my own very important shopping to do.

Now, there are few things that have translated across the generations, especially between my mother and me. She has an innate ability to fix things, I have an uncanny knack for breaking them. She has a sixth sense about choosing the right animals for pets; the last animal I was allowed to choose is very fat, very dumb, and likes to bite people when they try to pet him.

But one thing has not been lost. My mother and I share the gene for shopping. And I'm not talking about your run of the mill oh-I'll-get-this-because-it's-on-the-list-and-gee-look-it's-on-sale shoppers. I'm not even talking about the die hards who will knock an old lady over at Loehmann's to get a deal on a leopard print Moschino Cheap and Chic trenchcoat A STEAL AT $250. No, my mother and I have a savvy shopping mentality that will get anyone through the holidays, and I was made even more sure of that standing on the other side of the counter this morning.

My morning began at the ripe old our of 2AM, my phone's alarm clock beeping in an almost apathetic way, as if even it didn't believe we were actually doing this. But oh, phone, we were. Some things are worth going to bed at 6pm for. Well, most things are worth going to bed at 6pm for, because let's be real, how awesome is it to go to bed at 6pm? It's like, fuck you world, I have important things to do in the morning and I am going to be prepared THANKSGIVING NIGHT TV BE DAMNED.

ANYWAY, I woke up and had to take a shower and slap on a pretty face and get ready for the hoards. My mother rolled out of bed and did something similar, but with less green eyeshadow. She dropped me off at the mall at 4, which was already hopping because a bunch of stores had already been open at midnight. While I was mopping and sweeping and vacuuming, she moseyed on over to Target to fight her way through the crowds to buy me the Vampire Diaries DVDs I so desperately want for Christmas. (Go ahead, judge me, I don't care, at $12.99 they were a STEAL.)

And this is where I get to the strategic part. I saw lots of rookie mistakes today. My mother saw lots of rookie mistakes today. C'mon people. Shopping isn't a science. It's an art. You have to hit the stores with purposeful, delicate, yet confident strokes. So here are some tips.

1) Get sleep. I mean, seriously. This should be simple. The people who stumbled into Sephora at 6AM with glazed eyes who'd been shopping since 10PM which was just after they had loaded themselves up with tryptophan immediately following a day full of beer and football? Poor choices. You know those people don't know what half of that shit in their bags is. I don't care if they had $12 HDTVs at Walmart last night. If you want that TV, you do the smart thing and get sleep.

2) Plan ahead, dude. There's a reason they print those ads with everything that's on sale. That way you know what you're going to get. And what stores you can skip. Do you really need those Charter Club cardigans (a deal at $39.99 for a poly-cotton blend!)? No. You don't. Skip that store.

3) Think about how much you really love your family. I mean seriously. Do you love them enough to stand in line at the Electronics section of Target for three hours to pay hundreds of dollars for a TV they could get on Craigslist in about three months? Here's your answer: no. My mother and I are smart because we know our limits. We know where to get our electronics. From reputable dealers like Goodwill and the street. Those places don't make you wait in lines and usually their products come with fun bells and whistles. Like our TV. $40 at Goodwill and all you have to do to get it to work is hit it hard on the upper left corner a couple times while hitting the ON button. FUN! What sale TV from Target will do that, I ask you?

4) Know when to quit. Did you only buy two of those snowglobes with the candle holder? It's fine. That's plenty. Are they only 75% off today and maybe Aunty May will decide to show up and whatever will you give her if she does come? Go home. Aunty May is usually a bitch anyway and sure as hell won't bring you anything. Also, once you get some sleep you will realize that those snow globes were a terrible idea and you will want to return them anyway.

Also, and I know I already tweeted this, but I'm going to reiterate it. If you can't figure out how to work the credit card reader at the cash register, go home. Because you shouldn't be allowed to have a credit card. Or drive. Or have a job with any kind of responsibility.

So those are my tips. I have lots of other ideas but I have to go to bed now because I have to do this all over again tomorrow. Thanks for reading, if you did!

Love and kisses,

Olivia
who is very thankful for run-on sentences and doorbuster deals

Update: I am a genius

Epiphany: this show will be called, "Olivia: MAKEUP EMERGENCY!" Fulfilling freshman year hopes and dreams, one murder at a time.

Besides, I already have a theme song...

Dial M for Makeup

First of all, congratulations to the Harvard Class of 2010! You guys graduated! Welcome to the real world! Would I relive this year for any money you could offer me? No. But do I think I learned some valuable lessons? Probably.

On to the purpose of the post. Since relocating, I've been reminded of many things about my mother. Some are good, like her french toast. Some are interesting, like her names for things (she cannot remember a store/person/place's name to save her life). Some I cannot mention for fear of her wrath. But some are undeniably awesome. Such as her penchant for library DVDs. Her current taste is for BBC series about feisty British ladies. Possibly the most amusing of which is Rosemary and Thyme, which is sort of like if the two fat ladies lost weight, took up gardening, and solved murders on the side. The idea of gardening consultants turned crime fighters may sound ridiculous, because it is. But it is also AWESOME.

So as my mother began the third season of R and T, as I like to call it, I began musing on the other unlikely sleuths of fiction. There's my mom's other favorite new-to-her series which the DVD covers call A Dorothy L. Sayers Mystery. But there are three of them. So it's deceptive. Anyway. In them, Harriet Walter plays Harriet Vane, a 1920's mystery writer who gets accused of poisoning her lover (she's acquitted at the eleventh hour). Then she finds a body on the beach that disappears after she finds it (it resurfaces eventually though). And, in my favorite episode, she is called in by the dried up old ladies at her Oxford women's college alma mater to solve a series of increasingly creepy pranks (the offenses include burning a dummy dressed up as a professor in effigy, leaving Latin notes quoting Virgil in inconvenient places, and scaring a lady playing an organ). Throughout it all, she's got her trusty member of the upper class, Lord Peter Wimsey.

Then of course, there are my favorites: the Sookie Stackhouse novels, about a vampire-dating, mystery-solving cocktail waitress, the Stephanie Plum mysteries, in which an awesomely teased Jersey girl stumbles onto murders while chasing bail hoppers, and the indomitable, invincible, incomparable Veronica Mars. (By the way, did you know you can watch almost every episode of Veronica Mars and virtually every awesome WB show at TheWB.com? Oh, did I just make your summer for you? You're welcome.)

So this got me thinking: this could be a new career for me. I mean, what is more attractive than a blend of makeup and murder? I can see it now: Olivia, the charming but misfit makeup consultant who stumbles upon bodies in the back halls and trash compactors in the depths of Alderwood Mall. Clad in a slightly Star Trek-y jacket and armed with a brush belt, this brassy blonde solves the cases that leave even mall security stumped. A strangled store clerk in a parking lot planter? Could it be a torrid Build-a-Bear love affair that met a fuzzy end? The charred remains of a loss prevention manager? Was it to burn the evidence of a heist at Yankee Candle? The possibilities are endless, people. Endless.

I'm just waiting for Hollywood to call. Any second now...

The post in which I learn to make my blog more relevant to the general friend public

Ok, so it has been brought to my attention that no one reads this blog (except for Rachel. HI RACHEL I LOVE YOU!) Now, not only was I aware of this, but I was completely fine with it. I mean, how many millions and millions of blogs are out there? How many are more interesting than mine? Probably 99.99999999%. I'm cool with it.

But then it turns out that because my blog is so boring, my dear friend Mary didn't bother to read it and even though she was in Seattle the ENTIRE TIME I've been here, we had no idea that the other was here. This is sad. So after finally meeting up in a very Sleepless in Seattle fashion (only in Seattle, not New York, so kind of not the same thing), Mary made a suggestion. Shout outs. My blog should be filled with shout outs. The logic is sound: people don't want to read my boring northwestern ramblings, they want to read about THEMSELVES! Totes fair.

Now, you may be wondering: how can you say anything about us when you are basically living in cosmetic isolation in Lynnowherewood, Washington? I will tell you. If there is anything I love about living here besides free makeup, it is the fact that my friends have been so incredibly awesome about staying in touch. So I feel quite qualified to give shout outs and updates. You don't have a blog? Well I do, and I intend to publish things about you on it. HA!

So here goes. Ms. Mary B was in town assistant directing an awesome new opera called Amelia at the Seattle Opera, which I had the pleasure of viewing this past Saturday. Don't know if any of you have ever gone to see new opera before, but it usually sucks. No lie. This, however, was surprisingly good! The music was beautiful, the set was incredible, and the direction was sublime. I'm sure Mary had everything to do with that. I won't go into detail about the show, but for you MT buffs, it's basically Miss Saigon in reverse, minus the crappy music, Lea Salonga, and bui doi. Plus, according to Mary, it's got some major Rent vibes going on. I don't see it. But still it was awesome and Mary's indomitable mother was there, and we became best friends.

Meanwhile in NYC, all the stars seem to be doing well! As I mentioned, Rachel is the only person who ever reads my blog. Therefore my shoutout to her consists of discussing how attentive, supportive, and lovely she has been through this move. Rachel and I have a special relationship. We can sit on the the phone or Skype for hours doing nothing but talking about food. Or not talking. Mostly because one of us forgot to hang up. But Rachel is secretly planning to move to Seattle and we're going to start a musical theater themed Top Chef competition, so we'll be together forever soon. You heard it here first, folks.

Alison is being funny at UCB and being all friendly with SNL peeps. Plus she's awesome and sometimes allows me to be in her inner circle. In case you didn't know, she's hilarious and is currently taking New York by storm. As is Barry, who was in last week's 30 Rock playing the part of a very hot waiter. Check out 10:40 below:



All my SNM peeps seem to be doing well, and hopefully will be hearing some great news very soon! Fingers crossed! Meanwhile, Jen went to get crepes yesterday at the Burlington Mall and was SHOCKED when they weren't good.

My mother will read this blog anyway so there is no need to shout out to her. Especially since she's sitting next to me covered in small furry animals. The dogs and cat are in the bedroom so don't even ask what she's hanging out with.

Were you not mentioned here? That's because you don't talk to me enough! Talk to me! Email! Comment and make shout outs to yourself with cleverly disguised screen names!

Missing and loving,

Olivia

Damn you, Sparkle Vampires!

So there is a phenomenon I would like my East Coast friends to know about. It’s very serious and unexpected, and I need to share. I call this phenomenon sparkle vampire weather.

If you were able to avoid watching the Twilight movies or reading the books, good for you. Let me give you a brief course. Stephenie Meyer, the “author” (read: evildoer) who concocted that travesty of teen fiction decided that the reason that vampires can't be in the sun is because they **SPARKLE**.

This is what happens when bad writing happens to good myths.

So where do these sparkly vampires go to keep their iridescent identities concealed? Why, none other than Washington! Right where I happen to have moved! Because this is where the sun comes to DIE.

It is cold. It is rainy. It is cloudy when it isn't rainy. It is snowing when it isn't rainy or cloudy. But it's always cold. Look, Boston, I get that you couldn't drink your water for a couple days. That sucks. But it's like 70 there on average in May and it's like -20 here.

Also, nothing has the same name here. Edy's is called Dreyer's, Hellman's is called Best Foods (although that whole "Bring out the best" slogan makes a whole lot more sense that way, but I DON'T CARE IT'S WRONG), Shaw's is Albertson's, there's not a single Dunkin Donuts in the STATE.

So I'm just going to blame it on Stephenie Meyer. It seems only fair.

Pacific Renewal

So it’s week two of working and it’s also day off number two of this week. And since yesterday was the day of laziness and oversleeping, today is by default a day of introspection, reflection, and regression via the viewing of some of my favorite romantic comedies from high school.

Currently showing: How to Lose A Guy in 10 Days, featuring the incomparable talents of Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey. Probably each them consider this the highest moment of his or her career.

….or not.

Still, this movie has a special place in my heart. You see, when Mom and I moved to New York, we transported the contents of a five bedroom, two-level house into a one-bedroom apartment. Thankfully the place had 11 foot ceilings, because we literally had to pile the boxes clear to the ceiling. The couch was on its side for a week and the day we found the television, we celebrated. Of course, we had no place to sit and watch said television. But as soon as we were able to put the couch down, we decided it was time to watch that sucker. Of course, this also presented a problem. The walls were still all blocked so there was no way to hook up cable or even try to get a signal on an antenna. Plus, while we had found the DVD player, we couldn’t find the DVDs. Quite a pickle.

Thankfully, walking down Broadway that Sunday, I saw that the new release, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, was on SALE for $10! (Clearly they knew that it was gonna be a big seller.)

So over the course of the next week and a half before we finally found the box of DVDs, I must have watched this movie 20 times.

It truly was a magical time in my life.

So, anyway, as I’ve been watching this movie I’ve been thinking about that summer, when I was in New York, with my mom in a one bedroom apartment in a strange city. I knew no one and I had three months before I started school at what I hoped would be a dream come true.

This prompted me to pull down my journal from that first summer through that first year. As proven by my blogging abilities, I’ve never been the most consistent diarist. But reading this diary just brings back all the feelings I was going through at that point and how uncertain I was. And I don’t know what to think about this, but the similarities here are kind of eerie. New place, no friends, one bedroom apartment with my mother, uncertain possibilities, and most of all an overwhelming sense of being at loose ends.

My dreams, of course, have changed. My diaries from high school are filled with angst about agents and auditions, weight and hair color, scales and monologues. The dreams I held at that point were very clear: Broadway, musical theater, fame. Now the dreams are way more vague. Something in theater? Something creative? Moving to Oklahoma and pursuing my dream of becoming Ree Drummond? Honestly, at this point, I just want to perfect my smoky eye technique.

But at least this time, even though I don’t have any friends here with me, I do have plenty of friends in far away places supporting me. And they, as I have recently been told, are wishing “kickass” things for me. So that’s definitely a step in the right direction.

Also I have a puppy. This makes all things better. And even if I may need a little bit longer to settle into this new situation, she seems to be fitting right in, as I discovered last night when I walked into my mother’s bedroom and found all the other residents of this apartments conspiring against me:

99 boxes of books on the wall…

So here’s the thing.

I have a lot of books. I don’t think you can end up at Harvard without reading a lot of books, but there’s a lot of books, and then there’s me. I have a sick amount of books. This was made clear to me when I had to ship 22 BOXES OF BOOKS to my mother before moving here. Alex and Carrie are officially saints for helping me pack and ship them.

Those 22 boxes were AFTER I had sold or donated 8 huge bags of books. So, needless to say, I was already feeling like a bit of a bibliophile when I got here.

That was before I opened a closet here and saw an ominous stack of boxes labeled “Olivia’s Books.”

“Mom,” I said, apprehensive. “These are just boxes you repacked, right? Like, there’s just a bunch of blenders and socks in these…?”

“Oh, no! Somehow those ended up here when I moved out from Massachusetts. I figured you’d come get them eventually.”

“So they’re books. Like, actual books? Like, my books?”

“Yeah. You can’t have had that many at your apartment, could you? There’s so many here!”

If she only knew…

So, all told, there are over 30 boxes of books here. They range from nice little eight-pounders to boxes I’m sure my mother had to get two of the movers to carry. And now I’m supposed to find a place for all of them. Have I mentioned that my last apartment was lined in built-in bookshelves? And that right now, this apartment has one $30 Ikea bookshelf I bought two days ago, in a fit of delusional optimism?

Help, someone. Pretty soon I’m going to look like this:

 Maybe not so ironically, this image courtesy of the Monroe County Library, where I first started taking home an unhealthy amount of books

Anybody want some books?

No, wait, actually I will sleep on them. I will hide them in closets. I can’t give up my books. It’s like that Ke$ha song (and yes, I put the dollar sign in there because it is all part of what makes her AWESOME), only my books are my drug. But they don’t have a beard.

And if you don’t get that culture reference, we are no longer friends.