Fantastic Fest 2010

If there is one festival that I don't want to miss for the rest of my film career, it's Fantastic Fest. It's in Austin, TX and it's basically the best thing that ever happened to me. Austin is an amazing food town. Day one--we stand in line for tickets, and then headed over to Torchy's Tacos for breakfast tacos. I have Rene R. in Los Angeles to thank for this recommend. Breakfast tacos were amazing.

There was a lot of eating done at the Alamo Drafthouse, where you can't take pictures of the food cause there is movies playing, but everything is delicious. The fresh baked chocolate chip cookies, the shakes, the pizzas....everything is good. A friend had mac and cheese and it looked awesome. Needless to say, I gained some weight in Austin.

The last day there we went to Gordo's---home of the most amazing donuts. Above is a picture of the bacon/maple donut. It was---in a word---heaven. If calories didn't exist and my hips weren't expanding at an exasperating rate, I would eat one of these every week, and then feel like I am going to die.

Okay, I know there is swearing..but c'mon, this is great

Ray LaMontagne's been there

Daddy's new babies

These are the neighborhood raccoons that my dad has adopted in lieu of his turtle. I don't think they are supposed to be pets. Also, I know that they will eat anything, but I'm not sure it's a good idea to actually feed them m&m's by the bag-full. These little guys will soon be diabetic.

Going back-back to Cali-Cali

Yep, you heard it right. I'm moving back to LA. Farewell NY, hello LA. Goodbye humidity, snow, and streets that are so dirty they turn your feet black when you walk around in flip-flops. Hello sand and sun and driving my own car and turning up the radio and singing as loud as I want. Farewell subway!

Little wins

Today was, let me just call a spade a spade, a total shittastrophe. I stole that phrase or word, whatever you want to call it from a man who sat next to me on a plan that was delayed for hours on the ground on one end, and then had to circle forever on the other end, and finally what was supposed to be 5 hours of my life turned into 10 hours. Me and this man went the entire flight and never said anything to each other, but the minute we touched down and made it to the gate and started to stand up he just said, "Well that was a shittastrophe." And all I could say was, "Did you just make that up?" He said, "I think I did." And I said, "Well, I'm taking it."
So yes, today was a shittastrophe. After weeks, okay, months, of thinking that I have Celiac because when a man happened to be rooting around in my small intestine he said it "looked" like I have celiac...and thinking "better safe than sorry" living my life without wheat (okay, for the most part, okay, for some of the part---okay, for at least 2 meals a day) I finally find out today that it's not the case. Not that my doctor would ever call me back with the test results. Nope---I had to commit to stalking. Not even mild stalking---like 2 phone calls a day stalking. Finally today I get the most Russian administrative person in the world who says, "What's your name?" (think really heavy Russian accent. Think Boris and Natasha. Think "this bitch is probably holding a chilled glass of vodka in her hand right now and wearing a big, fur hat")
I say, "Arianne Ayers, and I'm very concerned that I haven't heard back from the doctor. I've left several messages, I've emailed, and I'm afraid I can't get off this phone until I know if I can eat gluten."
"Okay, be hanging on" she slurs. (Don't fault me here, Russians sound like they are slurring sometimes)
I'm on hold for, no lie, 10 minutes.
"Hello?"
"Yes," I say, "I'm still here.....waiting..to see if bread is my friend."
"Doctor no pick up yet?"
"No, no doctor has picked up."
"What your name?"
So, I repeat my name and she gets my chart.
"You are fine, goodbye."
"No! Wait, do I have celiac? I need to know!!!!!!"
"Hold on," Natasha says. Actually Natasha makes her sound like a sexy Russian, which I am sure she is not, so let's call her Helga or Olga. Olga!
No lie, on hold for another 10 minutes.
"Okay, Miss Ayers. You do not have the syllabus."
"What? Is this a college course? What do you mean syllabus?"
"You," and now she's frustrated, "do not have syllables."
"What? Syllables?"
"Whatever that thing you are worrying about, you don't have. Goodbye." And she hangs up.

Needless to say, I am not feeling satisfied by this diagnosis.

The only thing that cooled my anger slightly was when Dana put on her tutu and danced around the office, saying in a Russian accent, "YOU DO NOT HAVE SYLLABLES."

I hate Olga.

Then off to complete my 2-day if-you-got-robbed-in-a-foreign-country-and-have-an-emergency-passport-and-would-like-to-get-a-new-one-no-one-will-help-you-nightmare. Ugly passport photos? Check. Old passport that somehow made me look like a supermodel and which I hate to be giving up? Check. Special passport form? Check. Check? Check.
I need to expedite this passport, so I need the paperwork to be there tomorrow. I apparently put it in the wrong envelope to get it there tomorrow and the woman behind the window at the post office on 31st street has just been waiting all day to make someone look foolish. Now that someone is me. "Well, somebody put this in the wrong envelope!" She was yelling this and everyone in line was looking at me. You know what, they can snicker all they want, because those different types of envelopes are confusing to someone who basically exclusively uses Fedex in their daily life.
I correct my error and go back to the window. She yells again, "If someone needs their passport expedited then SOMEONE needs to write expedite on the envelope!"
"Okay, really? Cause now you're just being mean. It doesn't say that anywhere!" I was kind of surprised I had the guts to say anything.
"How do you think they are going to know to expedite it?"
"Um, because there are two different PO Boxes listed on here, one for expedited passports and one for regular passports and one for passports that need to be expedited, so I assumed that putting the right PO box on there would clear everything up!"
"You think they're gonna figure that out?" At this point, and not to be racist, but she might has well have added Honey-Chile to the end of her sentence---and not in a sweet way either. In a completely "I'm talking down to you" and demeaning way.
I resisted the urge to say, "Oh, you're right. It's a government agency, why would I expect any intelligence?" If I had said that she probably would have set my package on fire right there---ooh, and tampering with the mail is a federal offense, so she would have gone to jail! Damn, missed my chance.

After those two experiences, pretty much everything felt like heaven. Oh, I made it home before dark, amazing. Oh, I got the DVD player to work right away, awesome. Only one roach? Sublime. A Brita filter full of cold water? Amazing!

Okay, not everything after that was amazing. I still can't sleep. Boo. I would definitely take a sleepless night over dealing with either of those two ladies again...ever.

Comedy of Ayers

If I ever take the time to write down my life story, that will be the title, "A Comedy of Ayers." Why? Well, things just seem to happen in my life. I don't want to laugh at them at the time, but later all I can think is "really? really? could that happen to anyone but me?"
Let's start with last week's running debacle. I decide that in all this triathlon fun I'll try to run with the running club that leaves from the running store at Columbus Circle and runs through the park twice a week. One of those times is on Monday night. Let's take into account that last Sunday was the NY City Marathon. Many people from that running club happened to participate in the marathon. Let me tell you, that if I ever run 26.whatever miles, I will not be running the next day, nor the next week. In fact, if I ever run that far I'm certain that it will be because the world has gone all 2012 on me and I'm staying just ahead of the cracks in the earth's crust. Even then I would probably just give up and be like, "Its my time" unless maybe I was holding a baby...but it would have to be my baby and I would have to be saving it for what I knew was a good life, cause if the world goes funky I am not saving my baby to be hunted by crazies who want to eat it like in The Road.
Anyway, needless to say, these runners who are running the day after the marathon are hardcore.
I show up and sign in and ask, "I'm like a real beginner. I can barely run...am I going to be way behind or horribly out of place, cause you can tell me if I am. I can take it."
"No," says the incredibly fit black dude, "you'll be just fine. This is for all levels."
Here's the long and short of it, even though there is a pacer in the back for the "slow" people, I still fall behind and get lost in the park (and this is not my fault, this is the fault of the park for being confusing and the fault of NY for making me so reliant on street numbers). So lost that I end up about 20 blocks north of where I'm supposed to be. I'm supposed to be on the "lower loop"---like that means anything to me. Fearing another trip through the maze that is Central Park at night, I decide to walk around the park, down the East side from 95th to 60th St and across Central Park South back to Columbus Circle.
I walk into the store and am instantly greeted by 4 panicked pacers. "What happened?" "We were so worried!" "You should have told us you were slow." (F U) "Do you want a water? Powerade? Grape? They are free."
"No thank you," I say, trying to hide the fear of being lost in the park, the shame of being slow and getting lost, the frustration that my first few triathlon training experiences aren't going smoothly, and about a trillion other emotions, "I'll just take my bag if that's okay (they run a bag check there too)."
"We're so sorry," says the blond who wore shorts even though its in the high thirties.
"Bag please."
"See, look at the map, we were on the lower loop."
"Yes, its all very clear, ON A MAP! IN THE LIGHT!"
"You look upset."
"Bag please," I ask again.
"Are you sure you don't want me to show you on the map?"
"No thanks, just the bag, " now my voice is strained and trembling.
"Are you sure you don't want a Powerade? Grape is my favorite!"
And at this point I'm just about to tell peppy-Mc-runs-a-lot that I don't give two craps about her favorite Powerade flavor. I hope that you all choke on your Powerades...leaving people in Central Park! I could have been raped!
Instead I burst into tears.
"I just want my BAG!!!!!!!!!"
Yep, I think the combination of tears and screaming got my point across. She hands me my backpack and I leave, embarrassed beyond belief, and I vow to never see any of those people ever again.
I'm more of an alone runner anyway.