Kit Kat Gaga Tacky Tan

I don't know if it seems like my posting has been erratic, but it's felt erratic. I'm just sort of treading water to keep my little nose from filling up with the floodwaters. It's been a raining and a raining round here. Sorry, I'm watching Treme. Which btw is the best show on tv, hands down, and makes other tv shows look silly. We were planning to cancel our cable, but then Treme started, and you can't watch it on Hulu or HBO.com or anything, and so we are basically paying $100 a month to watch Treme. Great financial planning. Ok back to this episode of morning becomes eclectic. 

Are you totally excited ? I am. 

I'm working on editing the Lady Gaga parody video. Should be done in a week (if I don't sleep) or two (if I do). I think it's going to be great, and the photocinenews guys are going to do a 24 hour exclusive premier on their site once it's done. I feel like I'm learning so much so fast. It's like finals week, and I'm cramming an entire semester into my brain in 72 hours. Last night I was editing in my sleep. I was having dreams that I was editing live conversations I was having in my kitchen with Nipper and Jack. It's going to be so good. I swear you're going to laugh at least twice. 

In the meantime, I managed to get a little bit of work done around the house. Some spring cleaning, some planting, some laundry. I booked a commercial that I didn't audition for. Not too shabby. I cleaned the fridge. Like CLEANED it. I found this clock that I'm 99% sure my grandmother had in her kitchen, or maybe in the little room off her kitchen where she did her sewing. The same company has been making these Kit Kat clocks for over 70 years. The eyes and the tail go back and forth, and Jack has named it Fiona, Lightning McQueen, and Doc Hudson. Did your grandma have one? I feel like almost everyone had one of these clocks in their childhood, and now so will Jack. 

The Parker Palm Springs. My ideal lawn and garden, and I my ideal place to get a tan.

Oh and I got a spray tan. What? I know. I'm have a secret trashy side. I only reveal it when very tired or you know every summer, when my urge to have a deep dark hawaiian tropic tan, and a lush green grass yard in the middle of the desert. I know that's akin to saying that I feed my child bisphenol for breakfast, but I can't help it. I love tan skin, and I love green grass. Sue me. So I tried to go to this French salon in West Hollywood where I went years ago. It was quick, painless, not messy, and I looked tan for a week! This is something I don't experience in the real world. In the real world I am pasty, pink and freckled. 

The lovely front desk at Point Du Vue where bad things don't happen to good people. (minus the time a girl who was trying to fix my bad home dye job, dyed my hair cherry red by mistake, and then stripped it until it was cantaloupe colored, not very practical for playing tv mom) 

I tried to go there, but they don't do it anymore. Maybe because they realized it wasn't French to be fake tan. Did I give up? No ma'am . I looked up airbrush tans near me, and found a place that won some kind of "best of" award. I arrived at the place which was a little further from my house than I hoped. I don't mean to malign strip malls, because a lot of good stuff can be found in them, (fact) but this was in a pretty tacky one, in the middle of nowhere. Did I leave? No. I needed to get well, and this place was the only place with the cure. 


I went inside, and found no one at the desk. There were two old men speaking Armenian and fixing something in one of the tanning rooms. I waited 3 minutes, until girl who looked like she moved here from Ohio three weeks ago came out from the back carrying towels. She was extremely tan, minus her moonpie face which was a pale pinky bisque color. All Maybelline. Her blond hair had been teased into an incredible high ponytail. If there wasn't a bumpit under all that hair I'm a monkeys uncle. It was her first day, and she as being trained by a teeny tiny Armenian girl, also tan, who was all business. She said she'd be with me in minute.  I ducked into the bathroom which was filthy, and smelled disgusting. I'm sure you thought, that's when I left right? No, I did not. I'm not a quitter. 

The images you are about to see, are going to blow your mind. Looking at them now, I can't believe I was there. I don't know why I didn't run. I don't know why I sat through every freaky thing after another. Midwestern politesse? Morbid curiosity? Here's the room where she took me to do my spray tan:

ick

It was more Bolivian prison than tanning salon

You see the hair dryer in the picture above? After the girl airbrushed my nakedness to roughly the color of a mighty oak, she informed me that I needed to dry. Huh? She turned on two fans, and handed me the hair dryer. She told me I should focus it on my face and chest and she'd be back in ten. Did I mention the door didn't close properly and we had to push a chair up against it to keep it (mostly) shut. Did I mention her old Armenian dad and his friend were now (of course) hovering around outside it. 

So there I am, naked, sticky, BROWN, wearing a shower cap, drying myself with a hair dryer in a dirty room in the back of a strip mall in Pasadena. Oh how the mighty have fallen. After nearly 20 minutes (the girl never came back), I got dressed and left. 

Here's the thing though, after the shower, it looked awesome. I mean, just natural normal tan. I was supposed to leave it on for 8 hours, but I was so skeeved out by the place I took a shower as soon as I got home. So it was on for maybe an hour total. Maybe if I'd left it on, I'd be an ebony princess. The world may never know. I'll never know. 


Ok, I'm going to lay down now.