I spent the last couple of days reading Save the Cat (thanks Nicole!), an amazing book on mainstream screenwriting, and it has been incredibly inspirational.  I’ve been stuck on my screenplay for, gee, months now, letting it languish unfinished on my computer, a black-comedy orphan.  But the book has given me direction, and I’m excited to restart the writing process.  Let’s just hope I actually do and not just talk about it.

…Which brings me to the crux of my problem.  This past year, it seemed the worse things got career-wise, the less I was doing for it.  I preferred sitting in the garage rather than spinning my wheels.  At least the garage was comfortable (had it wired for the internet).  But what I love most about January is the promise of a fresh start.  It’s not necessarily an actual new start, of course, but mentally, the new year allows me to shake off the shackles of the previous one.  I want to stop being mostly talk and start being mostly action.  It’s time to grab the steering wheel and drive my own life.  I’m looking forward to hitting the road.  Car.

For instance, I’m still waiting for my Dog News Daily money. Alan Siskind, who runs the “company” is a cold man, to put it succinctly. I worked very hard for the company, but when I finally stood up and demanded back pay (over $3400), I was greeted with threats. I took him to court at the beginning of the year and won… But I still haven’t received a penny. Thus, Alan Siskind wins my “Horrid Person of the Year” award. And in case you were wondering, I wrote his wife, a former studio exec, pleading my case. Nada. Zilch. Zippo. So, she wins the “Accomplice of the Year” award. I hope next year I can give them both the “Finally Did the Right Thing” award. I won’t hold my breath

Twenty eleven was also a year of loss. I lost a really good friend due to a dime-store Svengali, a certain pinkish eyewear, and an extraordinarily rigid code of friendship conduct. Let me say this: if one fight was enough to undue every 5-year relationship, then no one would have friends. Isolationism really only works for the Swiss.

Loss also occurred at the end of this year with the sudden death of a family member. We are still dealing with this daily.

Then, there is the issue of my acting career. On one hand, it was amazingly creative and fulfilling with my sketch duo, Sparklepuss. We wrote and produced a live sketch show and several Web shorts, one of which was featured on the front page of Funny or Die. And I am also finally SAG-E! Huzzah! On the other hand, commercials were sloooooow, and I booked not a one. Money-wise, I’d love an upturn in 2012. I am not cut out of cubicle cloth.

So, I guess “weird” kind of sums up 2011. I have no idea what to expect from 2012, but I figure if the human race is still around, we’re all ahead of the game. Happy New Year.

Specifically Animal Kingdom.  I was waiting for my husband and niece to come off Expedition Everest (I’m not a roller coaster fan) when I decided to finish a root beer float by the small body of water next to the ride.  I immediately noticed a heavily made up, beskirted young blonde clutching a Prada bag and arguing ( in an Australian accent) with someone on the phone.  The conversation was loud and funny, so I, of course, eavesdropped.  I almost didn’t notice the cherubic, patient man sitting on the steps nearby.

Yes, tweens, it was Nick Jonas.

Those tennies are white, yo.

The girl, of course, was his sweetheart (ironic!) Delta Goodrem, a star in her native Australia.  The hulking black dude with him?  I’m pretty sure it was his dad.

Wear a beaker hat.

Try to resist, gentlemen.

While grocery shopping today, I was complimented by not one, not two, but four gentlemen on my hat.  And by hat, I’m pretty sure they meant boobs.

You might even get one of the gentlemen to offer you a “great avocado.”

I’ve done all I can.  I’ve passed on the secret of the Beaker hat.  Balls are in your courts, ladies.

Balls.

“Do you consider your work chick lit? I mean, it’s so funny…”

Ah yes, that old saw. The bane of my existence. The rain on my wedding day. The ranch dressing in my hot fudge sundae (thanks a lot, Ruby Tuesday’s!)

Women aren’t funny. Why does this stereotype linger on so… like the dishes I leave in the sink for my husband to wash (yay, feminism!)?

Of course, in this day and age, even the staunchest chauvinist has to admit that women like Sarah Silverman, Tina Fey, Amy Poehler, Whitney Cummings (OK, not Whitney) are outright hilarious. But many people don’t extrapolate that into saying that women as a whole can be funny. Instead, comediennes like those above are rare specimens that somehow transcend their gender to actually (gasp!) make a male laugh.

It’s like my (ex)friend who said to me, “I hate hanging out with girls. You’re different, though,” as if I was to get down on my knees and kiss his feet for allowing me into his holy male inner sanctum.

Instead I answered, “Too bad you’re gay. You’d have made the perfect wife beater.”

Turns out, he was the one with no sense of humor.

Michael Cera in Los Feliz (as Pavement pleaded, cut your hair).