#ginger ambition

[gingerambition]

Sprang is Hurr

I hate spring almost as much as I hate summer (sweating, sunburn, frizzy hair, lakes made of 75% pee, and an abundance of youths flocking to the air conditioned mall’s Starbucks). While I realize I hold the minority opinion here, I am not taking this stance to be some sort of season hipster who chooses to dislike something simply because the majority enjoys it. 

The only reason people love spring is because it’s not winter, and loving something for what it’s not, instead of what it is (a gloomy soggy mud dumpster littered with travel sized plastic Popov bottles) is fucking stupid. It's the same reason we have an orange hormonal tween whose parents' won't monitor his social media, for president. People voted for Trump just because he wasn't Hillary. AND LOOK WHERE WE ARE NOW. Amber Wooster said it best, “I’m just thankful that Syria didn’t bomb us for poisoning the children of Flint or gassing natives at Standing Rock.”

Politics aside, we can all agree on one thing– hating the word "moist.” (Personally, I think “discharge” is worse.) Moist is only acceptable when describing the flavorful layers of an angel food cake. Sorry to deflate your spring boner, but it’s THE DEFINITION OF MOIST. Every surface you touch, walk or drive on from April to June sounds like a clapping puke covered toddler - just a bunch of brown squishy smacking. That palpable moisture in the air is the earth sweating, the pits of our pubescent planet working overtime to detox after the holiday binge. I don’t know about you, but I’m not trying to hydroplane in my heeled boots walking from my car into a Cracker Barrel. 

But cuter outfits! I feel my cutest when I'm wearing so many layers my body shape is just “rectangle” and even the silhouette of Big Foot has more wasit definition than I do.  The harder it would be to describe me for a police sketch, the better. That is my style. Which is why at least my first wedding will be in the winter. But here we are, knee deep in engagement parties and bridal showers. Good luck wearing heels that won't sink into the shit colored depths faster than my tanking credit score. Don’t even think about wearing anything white or pastel, unless you’re trying to be a walking example of the “before” outfit in a Tide Pod commercial. I too have been tempted to break out a seasucker skirt, having seen enough Old Navy commercials spreading spring positive propaganda to have me temporarily believe spring isn’t that bad. Then I look outside...

But all of the snow is gone! You know what that crispy, deep, sound buffering, white blanket was covering? All of the garbage our morbidly obese country won’t walk five extra feet to throw into a trashcan. Once the snow has melted the state of Michigan looks like a post-apocalyptic fairground sprinkled with used napkins, plastic utensils, and one flip flop that always has me thinking, who threw just half a pair of flips out the window? Like in what scenario is that the appropriate response besides, “Bet you won’t throw one flip flop out the window.” I like snow. Snow means leggings, and slippers, and replacing vanilla flavored coffee creamer with peppermint flavored vodka. Melted snow means clear roads suburban moms treat like massive sidewalks to jog down with their leashed children. But when I honk, I’m the asshole? JK I don’t honk! That’s rude. I blast some v sexually explicit rap. 

But nature! You mean the crusty leaf buds dotting tree branches like my unshaven legs after wearing my fancy going out leggings for a week straight? Wake me up when the leafs can provide a function, like shade or musical festival crown materials. Don't even get me started on flowers. People lose their GOD DAMN minds over these little uncircumsized petal dicks popping out of the soil. But I have news for you, know what's better than flower buds? FULL. ASS. BLOOMED. FLOWERS. 

It’s just a super confusing time in the year because I want to wear flannel under a quilted vest, but I also want to drink iced coffee and paint my nails Bikini So Teeny by Essie, and those are two aesthetics that should never be paired together– like drinking Coors Light while nibbling on cucumber tea sandwiches. Anyways, I’m now emotionally drained. Rant over, time to take a nap. Wake me up when I can drink on a patio without a jean jacket.

[gingerambition]

I’m Back Like Herpes

Let me start off by saying how deeply and sincerely apologetic I am for leaving you all so suddenly without so much as a "brb." I'm sure you've thought of me, summoning my witty repartee during your longest of mid-day work shits. Where have I been you may ask? Well back in Mid-September a former West Coast co-worker approached me about joining her team as a remote part time video producer  – which I obviously jumped on faster than a 47-year-old bottle blonde divorcee clad in Victoria's Secret PINK at a Thunder Down Under show that just asked for participants to join them on stage. Between my full-time marketing gig, and the additional 15-hours a week pumping out viral unicorn/millennial pink/glitter hair parts/J. Law and Emma Stone is our spirit animal BFF goals content, I barely have time for my CSI marathon Wednesdays on Oxygen, let alone time to complain about men and old people, young people, and everything else in-between.

Professional progress aside, my BFF and I are living in a 2nd story suite owned by a kind older couple that only watches period dramas on BBC with full volume because they can't understand the accents, but instead of turning on closed captioning they just jack up the sound. AKA still living at my parents' house with my cat, and I purchased a truly life changing Amazon Fire Stick to combat the sound of Harry Potter rejects going on walks in the rain. Apparently every road in the UK in unpaved and the kitten heel trend is alive and well.

Oh, and I have a boyfriend. No assholes, it's not "too soon." I didn’t try to nail down the first dude I met back home for some guaranteed trips to Olive Garden so I could slink back into my comfort zone of wearing oversized sweatshirts as lingerie. Prior to my darling PharmD I went on an alarming number of first dates, and a truly surprising number of second dates. I'm not a fan of Yankees fans, or people whose advice on being single is, "fall back in love with yourself first, you know, really figure out what you want, focus on you, stay busy, pick up a hobby." Sweet strangers, I love me. I never stopped loving me. My relationship with myself has always been, and probably will always be, my priority. How I feel about myself sets the stage for how I feel about everyone, and everything else. Plus I have no free time and more blank adult coloring books than connections on LinkedIn, and I accept everybody. Oh the joys of being annoyingly self-aware. 

I wholeheartedly believe when it comes to dating the only way to figure out what you want in a partner is to figure out what you don't want. Process of elimination. How do I know I don't want a boyfriend who wears a handmade necklace made from the teeth of his dead dog? Because I went out with him. Live and learn. I also dated a divorced firefighter, a Jewish Repblicanish lawyer, a classic rock loving lamp-builder, the older brother of a girl I went to high school with whom I had to bail out of jail (him, not her - she's a lawyer, ironically enough), a guy who called me "aggressive and not flirty" to my face but still kissed me, a baseball coach with a New York? accent despite having never been there, and a carless cat owner– just to name a few. Throw enough shit at the wall and eventually something's gonna stick. If this boyfriend happens to be the one that sticks, that’s awesome. If it doesn't, I'll be okay then too. 

To the men of 2017, the shit you put me through - the shit I put you through - each and every one of you deserve your own posts. I learned a lot about what I want, what I deserve in a relationship, and a hell of a lot about what I don't want. Unfortunately my insane work schedule does not allow much time for creative writing aside from captioning videos about thicc AF puppys. I In fact the only reason I have time to write this longer than intended update is because I'm on an Amtrak on my way to Chicago for my sister's 25th birthday and I forgot to download the iTunes "Girls Trip" rental I purchased before hopping aboard. Won't make that mistake again on my way home Sunday. That's all for now hot dogs and tacos. Until next time. 

PS. I'll try not to ghost you again, I know how shitty that feels. ISN'T THAT RIGHT, ADAM. 

[gingerambition]

Ginger vs. I-U-D-Day

Thanks to my trusty uterus I have a new point of reference for answering the question, “Rank how you’re feeling on a scale of 1 to the worst pain you’ve ever experienced.” I’m all about girl power, but getting my IUD inserted was the *only time I’ve wished to be a dong-swinging member of the white man club (*with the exception of every other day since Trump has been elected). During the procedure all I could think was, “God if you exist, you will turn my axe wound into a sack, shrink my already non-existent boobs, and give me really strong uninformed opinions about what women can do with their bodies.” Alas that did not happen, and I walked out with the same flesh bag of organs and girly name Siri still cannot pronounce, with which I entered.

Ladies and fellas in the know, you can skip this paragraph, I’m just providing a little background on what an IUD is and does. So IUD stands for intrauterine device, and it’s a form of long term birth control. It gets pushed through the vagina, past the cervix, and resides in the upper part of the uterus where it can hang out for like 5-10 years, depending on which kind you pick. There’s some little strings at the end so when you’re ready to add something besides cats to your family, your doctor just pulls it out. It’s allegedly painless, like taking a command strip off the wall. No guys, you can’t hit it or move it with your dick. It’s so far up there you’d have to stop and ask for directions, and we all know you’re not going to do that. I could go into further detail, like how copper IUDs differ from hormone IUDs, but I’m not a doctor. Hell, I’m barely a functioning 26-year-old woman. It’s fucking absurd to me though, that someone invited this little sandwich garnish looking thing to prevent pregnancies, but Diet Coke slushies still aren’t a thing. 

A few of my girlfriends who already have them told me that getting an IUD will feel like a really intense pap smear (the test for cervical cancer). For those of you who don’t know what a pap smear feels like (male readers), let me explain it in terms you will understand. Remember middle school when you would put two Pringles in your mouth to look like a duck beak? Imagine those deliciously salty Pringles are made of the world’s coldest metal, and instead of being placed between your lips, they are cranking open your vag like it’s the goddamn Chamber of Secrets. Then the doctor pretends your cervix (that wall your Hulk-like dick can bump during drunk sex) is a cotton candy machine, and furiously swirls a cotton swap around like it’s closing time at the State Fair. 

The thing is, pap smears have never bothered me, so I thought this spawn-preventing installation was going to be easy as reciting the intro to “Law & Order: SVU.” My body has endured tattoos (*tattoo, if anyone in my family is reading this), Brazilian bikini waxes, and a few college hangovers so severe I prayed the grim reaper from Sims would show up at my door, leaving my spirit to haunt the frats who told me dancing on tables was only for hot girls. All of this resulted in the self-inflicted impression that I could stomach what looks like a weird Colgate flosser, being shot into my vacant (sigh of relief) baby apartment. I haven’t been so wrong since making my March Madness bracket and guessing who murdered Megan in “The Girl on the Train.” It’s like the physical personification of getting your cable and internet setup in a new apartment. 

It’s a different kind of pain, because it’s not topical like scraped knees from a blowjob on cement. It’s so deep inside you that it’s hard to tell what’s happening where. You just lay on your back with so many tools in one hole you feel less like a woman and more like a pencil holder. You’re not like, “Oh yeah, there it is, my cervix is being slowly pulled apart like the gooey center of a Chips Ahoy commercial.” You just feel general reverberating echoes and intense pressure in the form of knotting, burning, hard to exhale, cramping pain below your belly button but above where a porn star’s landing strip would end. In all the whole completely worth it affair only takes about 15 minutes, but not one of those minutes passed without my near certainty I was going to shit myself and pass out – not necessarily in that order. 

Gynecologists should take a page out of European Wax Center’s book and have their offices blast some Justin Beiber top 40′s bullshit to muffle the inevitable screams, or in my case repeatedly yelling “FUCK” at progressively louder volumes. It took all of what little self control I possess not to fold myself in half, cradle my womb like I’m Mary in a Christmas Eve nativity play, and sob apologies to my lower half. Your lady lining can get snagged, scratched, and scabbed resulting in some Boston Massacre-esque stains. They give you a pad so thick it looks like the nurses are just ripping out parts of the hospital’s insulation and telling girls to stick it in their underwear. So don’t wear leggings to your appointment unless you want to walk out with such an aggressive diaper booty it looks like you’re on your way to a Pamper’s audition. There’s also this super fun game you get to play for the next 48-hours that’s called, “Am I peeing iodine or did I shart?” Obviously take the day of the procedure off, and the next day if you can because 1. you deserve it, and 2. you can cry in the shower without time restraints. 

Horrible in-the-moment-pain and dramatic analogies aside, making the switch from the pill to an IUD was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. It’s been three days and I’ve already probably saved at least $100 from no longer stocking up on Plan B during my weekly grocery runs. Bread - check, eggs - check, milk - check, Option 2 (the cheaper Rite Aide brand morning after pill) - check. But seriously, jokes aside, it was liberating AF to delete my daily “no baby time” pill alarm clock. Plus, as an added bonus, I’ve already learned a lot more about what I’m capable of and how far I can push myself outside my comfort zone. For example, I can stick an entire heating pad in my pants. Until next time. 

[gingerambition]

Ginger vs. Bath Bombs

I told some friends I didn’t like using a bath bomb and the way they reacted you would think I told them I enjoyed watching videos of sea turtles who get stuck in six pack rings and their shells grow around the plastic. It was almost as bad as the time I told people in California I don’t like avocados. 

Sharing a van with my mom means I’m alone a lot. Sometimes my girlfriends take turns driving out to my neck of the woods to take me on little trips. Not so different from when my Grandma started driving with her blinker on instead of her headlights, so I would take her to Target so she could walk up and down every aisle only to learn 90% of things were made in China and she wanted none of it. Anyway, they took me to the mall. I put on real pants. It was a big day for all involved parties. 

Being a woman and having absolutely zero self control with a credit card, I had to buy something. I had just finished watching an Insider video about how Lush’s stores are supposed to resemble a deli. Blocks of soap and other pro-bathing goodies are displayed so deliciously, so delicately, you’re afraid your small child or buzzed friend would stick a product in their mouths. Not gonna lie, I was tempted, and I wasn’t even drunk (yet). We’ve all seen the viral videos of glittering rainbow bath bombs being dropped into water and mushrooming like a fabulous atomic bomb that would make even Jack from “Will & Grace” speechless. If you haven’t seen the videos, you’re probably one of maybe ten people in the world that actually puts their phone away after saying “good night” to your day’s Tinder matches. Side bar, if I’m saying “night” to you it’s so I can scroll through Instagram’s popular page and favorite screen grabs of Christian Grey without notifications interrupting my deep dive for another 2 to 5 hours.

I left the store with three bath bombs. Something about them having an essential oil with a calming scent that also helps produce serotonin in the brain. I wasn’t really listening, I was too busy thinking, “I am going to snapchat the shit out of these little fuckers.” They could have been made from crystal meth and the crushed souls of Whole Foods employees but as long as they looked cute I would’ve bought them. Anyways, baths aren’t really my thing. I hate half laying, half floating there trying to not to get my hair wet or pee. The last time I enjoyed taking a bath I had a mermaid Barbie doll whose fin changed color in the water and I was legitimately afraid a shark would come up through the drain, and that was just like ten years ago. But this is the year of me trying new things! Like bath bombs and having a guy stick his thumb in my asshole. 

By no means am I a laid back kind of gal. My friends would say I have more in common with The Zodiac serial killer before they would describe me as chill. I have a hard time relaxing as is, so this whole bath bomb experience was going to be an uphill battle. I filled up the tub, dropped it in and it just kind of bobbed like anytime I’m super drunk trying to give a BJ without puking all over the guys dick. In addition to being high strung I am also impatient, so I kept breaking it apart into smaller balls to speed the whole thing up. Didn’t my bath know I had season 3 of Lifetime’s timeless Canadian hit series, “When Calls The Heart” in my Netflix queue to finish?

I was in the water for maybe five minutes. I took the mandatory suggestive legs in a bathtub Snapchat, listened to one song on my “Guys R The Woooorst” Spotify playlist, and picked out a few floating dog hairs because when you have a yellow lab everything is always covered in a dusting of albino water-resistant porcupine threads. Then I was outta there faster than Catholics running to their cars after communion at Christmas Eve mass. Hot water doesn’t relax me, it makes me feel like I’ve been roofied. I started sweating like when an interviewer asks about my Spanish, which I’ve listed as a “special skill” on my resume after only 4 years of taking it in high school. When I got out of the tub I’m pretty sure I resembled Leo in “Wolf of Wall Street” trying to get in his car after doing all of the quaaludes. I didn’t even put on my bathrobe right away. My heart felt so slow that I just laid on the bathroom floor like a CSI murder victim. 

Consider me team hot tubs. I spend enough money on bathing suits I wear maybe twice a year now that I don’t have a spring break to go on. Plus isn’t drinking in hot water the same as drinking on a plane, you get drunker faster? Drinking alone in a bathtub is too Allie in “The Notebook” for me, maybe if an ex builds me a house I’ll give that one a go, but consider me a skeptic. Then again I probably have unrealistic expectations of what should and should not happen in a hot tub after years of making my Sims “woo-hoo” in the heart-shaped one. All I’m saying is, if I have to sit in a human-size bowl of water at my ideal Panera soup temperature, I better have a glass of champagne in one hand and a boner in the other. I may or may not be describing my dream date on The Bachelor sans Seal singing “Kiss From A Rose,” stage right. 

Now I have 2 bath bombs left and zero desire to use them. Unrelated question, what happens when a bath bomb is dropped in a pool? Asking for a friend, obviously.

[gingerambition]

Ginger vs. Pole Dancing

You read that correctly people, yours truly attended a pole dancing class over this past weekend for a bachelorette party. However what I did or, or wholeheartedly attempted to do, is in insult to all levels of professional dancers and any sort of vertical support beam. I feel the need to send an Edible Arrangement to apologize for the dumpster fire that was me drunk body rolling. Now if the class took place in my freshman year dorm room, with my twin XL bed-in-a-bag setup from Bed Bath & Beyond, I’d be significantly more in my element for some good ole’ fashioned dry humping.

My plan was to look at pictures of the studio on Yelp and wear whatever color the walls were painted so I could blend in as much as possible. My friend wore a halter top with a built-in-bra that she chose because, “It will be easier to take off.” To which I said, “Jesus Christ, it’s a pole dancing class not a stripping class.” She seemed disappointed. We were supposed to wear heels, it was honestly the only time I’ve ever regretted throwing out my wedged Target sneakers, but we all ended being barefoot anyway. Almost every girl in attendance had years of tap, jazz, or ballet behind them, if not all three. I still struggle to pat my head and rub my stomach at the same time, that’s what I’m working with in the coordination and rhythm departments.

There were six poles in the room - two rows of three, and nine of us including the teacher. (Side bar - how much did that sound like the beginning of the best story problem ever? Brb becoming a math teacher.) Anyway, the instructor, a 45-year-old woman so fit and perky she could pass for a waitress on Vanderpump Rules, taught from the middle front pole. Had she spent the 90-minute class showing us how she glued on her fake eyelashes without multiple breakdowns, I would have learned something. Instead I left with so many bruises, which she called “pole kisses,” it looked like a toddler’s birthday party used my calves and inner thighs as a pinata. Before learning how to spin we had to pick stripper names, encouraged to make it dirty. Most of the girls chose their first pet’s name and the street they grew up on, pretty standard. I on the other hand, decided to go with, “Three-Hole Wonder.” Then we split into two groups, group one made up of five girls, and group two had the remaining three. Obviously I opted for group two so I could chug some more liquid courage in the form of Barefoot Pinot Grigio. I’m 99% that’s what my church uses for communion, but I won’t be able to confirm that theory until the next mass-required holiday I'm dragged to. 

So group two, or “the B team” as we affectionally dubbed ourselves, had a much tougher time with the choreography than the wildly talented group one. At one point my friend (who opted to go by ”Butt Princess” for the day) stopped and said, “Nope, my body doesn’t do that.” Maybe it was the excessive pre-gaming we did in my childhood room that resulted in my mother DDing us to the class in her red minivan, with only one functioning automatic door, but that’s just a guess. Insider tip, the pole actually spins on its own, so you just grip and lean into it to gain momentum. The hard part is keeping yourself up using just your hands and the back of your knee. I was hoping for some sort of pulley system like you you get strapped into when you go rock climbing, and a possibly a spotter or two. At this point I was sweating pure vanilla vodka, so the instructor put some chalk shit on the pole like I’m Aly Raisman about to do a bar routine, and not a petrified ginger with zero upper body strength who immediately slid down before getting a full spin in each and every time. My arms day is any time I try to pick up my increasingly large cat, okay. I think my biceps saw the “Fantasy Fitness Studio” sign and said, “Oh fuck that, we cannot hold up this ass,” and dipped into the neighboring pizza place in the strip mall. 

Once we learned the individual moves and got a couple practices twirls in, one by one we had to show off what we had learned. Most of the gals received praise from the teacher in the form of cheering or yelling encouraging phrases that could be lines from a rap song like, “Get it girl!” or “Work that pole!” What did I get? A monotone, “I’ll take that,” “Stop jumping into it,” or “Someone get this girl a shot.” Fuck man, the Three-Hole Wonder was really trying here. It’s the only time being too wet has been a bad thing. Then our busty mentor put it to music (I had some serious boob envy). I made everyone else look like Magic Mike in leggings. At one point I thought I had the hang of it, and I got really into the hip swings, but then I turned around and made eye contact with the maid of honor who just shook her head at me. Luckily we ran out of time before the B team had a chance to do the full routine to the music. Better yet, we were such a train wreck that no one in group one took pictures of us because they couldn’t look away long enough to get their phones. I even got to sleep in on Sunday because I didn’t need wake up early and untag myself in any Facebook pictures. Oh, I did like one part though. We laid on our stomachs with our hands under our chins and did this little kick, I felt like the little mermaid taking senior pictures. That is until we had to follow it up with this move where you stand to the left of the pole, hold it with both hands, and kick your legs into a V - I fell literally every time. My knees look worse than the window where I was single in college. I can’t even make a V with my legs if I lay on my back and the jaws of life are pushing them apart. 

If I ever try to pole dance in public I’m pretty sure people, including the other dancers, would throw dollar bills at me to make me stop dancing. The only thing I learned that day is I am past my pole dancing prime, and peaked back in middle school. If your basement had vertical pipes while you were growing up, you know what I’m talking about - or maybe I just had an exceptionally slutty group of childhood friends. It has been almost five days since the class and I am just now able to raise my arms above shoulders again. I’ll leave you with this, if you ever decide to take one of these classes at least stretch first. And maybe drunkenly try out, and successfully complete on, an American Ninja Warrior obstacle course to make sure you can support your own weight. Until next time.

[gingerambition]

Ginger vs. Rompers

Rompers are the clothing equivalent of Pizza Rolls, they look really good in the picture but just making you feel shitty. You wear one to bottomless mimosas with some random girls you met on Bumble BFF that remind you of everyone you hated in High School, just to prove to your mom with a Facebook that you leave your apartment and occasionally wash your hair. Fast forward five hours later and you’re peeing half naked in a Chinese restaurant you bribed your high Lyft driver to stop at, with the romper’s left leg in some weird puddle that’s probably been there since the place used to be a Pizza Hut. 

Rompers are like ex-boyfriends. You see your romper hanging up in the back of your closet next to your Jessica McClintock prom dress, and you can’t remember why you stopped liking it. Then you put it on, or remember it has a large ombre roman numeral ten on its pale stupid thigh, and immediately say, “well 100% fuck that.” Then you forget about it until you’re halfway to blackout going through your old Facebook albums at 2pm on a random Thursday you took work off as a “mental healthy day,” and the process starts all over again. 

If I started wearing rompers in college I would still be a virgin. There’s no sexy way to take off a romper. Rompers are the new chastity belt. Taking the thing off would have lasted six time longer than losing my virginity, and that’s me rounding up. Rompers make adult women look like slutty toddlers. If a stripper wore a romper her song would have to be Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird.” Your top and pants should only connect if it’s Halloween and you’re dressed as Sandy from “Grease,” or you’re Channing Tatum in a Velcro police uniform.

Rompers are formal onesies that professional drunks wear so they don’t “break the seal” too early at the bar. The amount of effort it takes to take off the fucking thing and put it back on after peeing pure Pino Grigio at happy hour requires Oprah’s-favorite-things-episode level energy. They are just jumpsuits an Old Navy exec decided to up-cycle in a conspiracy to make every woman who loves a good deal, look like sassy background actress on “Orange is the New Black.”

I just made the mistake of wearing one to work. It was an even bigger mistake than the time in told coworkers at my San Francisco office that I don’t like avocado toast. I woke up feeling like Christmas morning. I felt Olsen twin level skinny after my morning coffee shit and having fasted for eight hours, aka sleeping. One La Croix ten minutes into my workday and my carbonated water engorged fupa turned my adorkable romper into full-blown maternity pajamas. I looked like the unwanted child of the Michelin Man and a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon- I was just folds and yards of brightly colored fabric. People could have played pin the waist on the Ginger without their blindfolds and they wouldn’t be able to find my middle. I was Aunt Marge in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban floating off to print my Anne Taylor Loft return label. 

If you haven’t peed yourself just a little in a romper and been so self conscious other people can tell, that you considered ripping your thong off with your teeth and throwing it out in wall mounted feminine sanitary products dispenser, you’re a fucking liar. 

[gingerambition]

That One Time I Went to CAA

Everything I know about agents in Hollywood I learned from episodes of “Entourage.” So last year when I had a meeting at CAA in LA I was pretty anxious. Fast forward to now and “Walk of Shame Shuttle” didn’t get renewed, CAA stops emailing me, and I return to my pre-reality show days of eating Taco Bell 3-12 times a week. I feel comfortable writing this because I’m sure they are off blowing smoke up the balloon knots of the Chrisleys’ extended family or something.

A little background first, CAA is the Creative Artist Agency. They are kind of a big deal, they and William Morris Agency are the top two in the galaxy for anything and everything entertainment related. Basically anyone your pop cultureless mom can name from seeing on TV or hearing on the radio has an agent at one of the two, until they get red rovered to the other side and someone like Perez Hilton freaks out. 

The night before this big meeting I, naturally, turn dinner plans into a bar crawl. Not because I wanted to try the sampler platters at six different places to compare the size of their sides of ranch, but because I am a picky ass eater so for me to consume a full meal I need to kind of have a bunch of little (lol large) courses along basically a 5k route. Ended up sleeping at a friends house and borrowing an outfit. Luckily she had plenty of Express-esque floral sundresses and a jean jacket to fit my “brand,” which I was told is, naive looking, fresh voiced, midwest gal with a dirty mouth. To which I said, “does this mean you’ve been taking to my dentist?” and then no one laughed. 

Being the omniscient TV and A-E list celeb junkie I am, I instantly recognized the building from acting as no-name office for different movies and I recognized the orange lobby string ceiling art from Ashley Benson’s ( the prettiest and littlest Pretty Little Liar) instagram. I would have been content taking a bunch of selfies and peacing out. 

DEAR GOD did I look out of place that day. I was like Anne Hathaway in “Devil Wears Prada” on her first day of work- which, I’m sure, the mass of 6 agents I met with thought added to my charm. The intern or assistant or whatever soulless youth who picked me up from the lobby got my name wrong, and when I corrected him, he looked at me like I had the power to Avada Kedavra his career. 

I was dropped off in a large conference room directly next to the elevator so I didn’t get to accidentally graze a rapper’s arm with my side boob while getting an office tour. The most impressive part of the meeting was the spread of beverages in the conference room. I felt like I was in one of Lisa Vanderpump’s restaurants- there was sparkling water, bottled water, Pepsi AND Coke products. Obviously I had a Diet Coke and make the horrible mistake of calling it pop and not soda- which earned me another chuckle. I felt like that one self aware kitten on a live stream video that adoption places use to get pets into homes faster. They said seeing me in person gave them a better sense of who I am, which made me feel like I use too many filters on Instagram.

I was beyond under dressed, they (2 guys and 4 girls) were all in what I’m sure were non-Nordstrom Rack designer suits. I complimented one of the girl’s on her engagement ring which I’m sure could put my friends and I out of student loan debit, with enough cash leftover to throw a theme party.

They asked my interests: eventually getting into stand-up, improv, making up my own racy song lyrics to already racy songs, and writing. Then a couple of them chuckled, and told me to wait on writing a book until the show gets picked up further. They agreed I had some great, refreshing, midwest sense of humor and basically implied they called dibs on me if the show took off- which, obviously, it didn’t. It’s like they sobered up before they could get me to their lofted bed dorm room. So at least I don’t have to worry about writing a book and can just continue to buzzed vent blog- a skill I wish I could be endorsed for without resulting in all my aunts and uncles rejecting my connection requests on LinkedIn. 

I was in and out in half an hour and didn’t even get my parking validated. BUT I did see an orphan Barbie head in a bush outside the building, which I hope some emo youth on a longboard took a black and white picture of for their High School art show and won like, $200 bucks.

[gingerambition]

Scream Queens

If “Glee” is Beyonce and “American Horror Story” is Jay-Z then “Scream Queens” has to be Blue Ivy. At first you’re all, ugh this could have been the hottest thing ever, but you love it anyway regardless because of it’s creator. Basically Ryan Murphy is basically gay Beyonce and he rules television.  

I watch a lot of TV, like you name it and I’ve seen at least one episode season of it. My apartment building doesn’t allow pets so I leave the TV on all day incase someone hears some meows from my contraband cat I can say it was just the latest fucked up episode of SVU. 

Anyway, “Scream Queens,” I’m super into it. It’s a smarter version of MTV’s “Scream” (”Those are slasher movies. You can't do a slasher movie as a TV series.” -Noah Foster, fictional “Scream” hottie), where the show is very aware of itself, mocking or briefly alluding to the same doubtful thoughts you yourself are having about the show. 

It’s so fantastically over the top in it’s exaggerated characterizations of stereotypes (rich sorority girl, metro frat boy, girl from a small town whose best friend is her dad) that it can get away with cringe-worthy dialogue. However it’s not such a mash-up of what’s already out there that it lacks originality. Jamie Lee Curtis as the dean, and the super random Nasim Pedrad as the sorority alumni lawyer, are series standouts. I am saying this based on seeing one episode fairly drunk on Shock Top Honeycrisp Apple Wheat beer with my boyfriend, who so obviously hated the show and spent the two hour premiere playing Candy Crush and “accidentally” looking at half naked girls on Reddit.

The people that won’t like this show are the same group that share “The Onion” articles on Facebook and take them seriously. Personally, I live for black comedies that parody pop culture. Jamie Lee Curtis has this monologue after one of the murders about teens and technology and it had me hand over heart, one arm to God-ing. Ariana Grande texting the killer to stop and asking for help via Twitter? HILARIOUS. Makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time about what we have become. as a society. My favorite part had to be the subtle reference to NPR’s “Serial” podcast. Did you catch that? Also a “Gone With the Wind” reference that I think any viewers born after 1994 won’t understand.

I honestly thought Jamie Lee Curtis’ acting career had gotten as shitty as the poop yogurt she's the spokeswoman for, but she Freaky Friday-ed her way back onto my betches I want to be like when I’m old, list. Sidebar, what’s with the one Chanel always wearing ear muffs? Also am I the only one unconvinced by Abigail Breslin playing a bitch? Like she just (2008- wtf I am old) played American Girl Doll, Kit Kittredge. My Breslin doubts are about as strong as my questioning of the new Starbucks pumpkin spice latte recipes, so I’ll get over it.

The one casting choice that raises one perfectly threaded eyebrow is Lea Michele. I know she is to Ryan Murphy what Jennifer Lawrence is to David O Russell, but it just seems too soon to play another quirky young adult’s attempt at finding her place, whose hotness is always half ass concealed. Either pull a Lizzy Caplan in “Mean Girls” transformation, or let her smoke show flag show- don’t add a neck brace and some glitter clips and think your work is done. Seriously hoping Ariana Grande’s character isn’t fake dead like Nick Jonas, because I don’t think I can take her breathy asthma attack voice for another episode. All I can say about Nick Jonas is that Disney Channel is the fairy godmother of puberty. 

Can’t wait for the next episode, in the meantime, I’m off to organize the garbage.