Okay. I have two INSANE, can’t-sit-still-for-desire-to-vomit and/or sprint out of the ROOM while glaring at you — absolutely unresolvable pet peeves.
One is the general concept of chewing. I have to actually restrain myself from physically maiming someone — even The Hot Boyfriend — when someone decides to, you know, stand over you, sit directly next to you, get within about six feet of you and stand there blankly staring at the wall doing nothing for society and CHEWING. Munching. Grinding their stupid teeth on whatever piece of lard they happen to have immediate access to and having that SOUND reverberate in your EARLOBE.
My second biggest pet peeve isn’t ridiculously off-base from the first… but deals with individuals who also STAND OVER YOU either staring at THE AFOREMENTIONED WALL or talking TO A SIBLING while eating something large and fluffy that takes forever to consume and generally fills the oral cavity almost completely. Then they proceed to converse. Nonono… not only converse, but continue on nonsensically for HALF AN HOUR while you are attempting to work and potentially do something productive instead of talking with your mouth insanely full of Costco-sized marshmallows or a loaf of bread or last week’s homogenized LASAGNA.
Face Stuffer: “You didn’t even (stuff face, stuff stuff) recognize Jeremy, did you?”
Sibling: “He’s taller. He looks angry to me.”
Face Stuffer: “Yes (stuff stuff) he’s got (stuff) a (stuff) bad (stuff stuff stuff) attitude”
Sibling: “Maybe deep down he’s like, I Don’t Wanna be a Christian. I Don’t Wanna be a Carpenter”.
Face Stuffer: “Maybe he’s like (BIG STUFF) oh shit.”
…
I desperately need coffee.
– Ashley
Well if this one goes down, I’m screwed.
American Airlines flight 203 from Miami International to LAX. Finally going home. Finally.
However, printing out my boarding pass after a foiled attempt to upgrade (calling the airline when you’re in the back of a line of 30 trying to do the same thing you are is theoretically very crafty, until some wheezy chick named Arlene tells you that you aren’t a preferred “AAAdvantage Member” and unworthy of first class upgrading), I was placed in seat 32A.
Back of the plane. Window seat. Ugh.
I suppose it could be worse. I could be fated to a middle seat at the VERY back in row 39, in between a cueball bald gangmember type and this gorgeous African American woman I’m 95% sure is a vampire. I stood behind her on the breezeway. She has acrylic toenails. I’m not sure what else could possibly be a sign.
However, as I made my way down the aisle — past the coveted First Class rows and the oversized, square-shaped grey glory of the actual person sized seats — I suddenly noticed something amazing. Spectacular! Mind-blowing, even.
Wait for it……
The coach seats. Had. PILLOWS.
Pillows! With mini-blankets! Awaiting our bottoms to mistakenly sit on them while trying to lodge our Second Personal Items beneath the prison seats and balance a Chai Latte at the same time!
I stared at my pillow-mini-blanket set and all of it’s shrink wrapped wonder. ”Hello,” I murmured softly, carefully plucking it from 32A’s scratchy cloth seat and depositing it onto my lap. ”You do exist…”
There’s an airline out there that still gives you pillows. I could see a unicorn now and be significantly less astonished.
Now if they would only serve me a damn drink…
Severely deprived of an Adult Beverage, Ashley Avis
12.15pm, Monday. 7-8 minutes early. We’ve finally landed in Miami International, an airport I’d graced once before at age 18, attempting to fly from a tragically ending Miss Teen USA pageant to my Tampa senior prom.
Flying middle seat in a 17-pound white faux-Swarovski prom dress? Next to a vomiting baby? Not advisable.
I’m headed back to LA after an astonishing nine days with my family. Holidays are officially over, and I’m rendezvousing with Hot Significant Other at LAX. Five hours of Pricelining, Travelocity-ing, and Kayaking later — I was able to not only schedule our flights to arrive within ten minutes of each other, but craftily convinced a Delta agent (oh, you morons) to waive the Random Last Minute Fee and utilize my I-Hate-Delta-Anyway 42,000 miles to cover my significant other’s overpriced ticket from New York. Saved a cool 190 reticketing + taxes + actual person phonecall with that one.
Silly Delta.
Landed in Miami International, which is essentially an idiot fest of massively overweight families dragging even more massively overweight offspring. Half of these Fat Child Things carried some kind of food item that would inspire even more obesity. I ogled the post-Christmas ridiculousness. Our world has really come to this, hasn’t it? Yes, Ashley, yes it has.
Deboarding, I tugged my delightfully happy (purple) Liz Claiborne carry-on behind me, swishing my hair (I’d actually washed it pre-flight), and pausing to call Dad about a marketing idea. I glared as another Fat Offspring Product rolled his 2-ton bag over my freshly polished boot.
I needed a drink.
Stashing my iPhone away, I began trekking down the D gates, eyes narrowed and searching for anything resemblant of a bar/pub/shitty restaurant-with-full-bar — anything. Au Bon Pain… no… Harry’s Country BBQ… hell no… CocoBay… yyy– no alcohol, damn it… Random Generic-Looking Martini Bar Randomly Next to Gate D37! Perfect.
Increasing my speed (being wary of the slick undersole of my new boots, I’d tripped three times already — contemplated fake lawsuit, deferred), I eyeballed and concentrated on the only available hightop table, situated conveniently at the end of the bar area and away from all of the annoying tourists connecting to their annoying Midwestern connections. Faster, I willed my gray knee-highs, faster faster faster… almost theeeere… BASTARD!
A (literal) monster of a man lumbered over to the Stool of Refuge, somehow rolling his mass over one side of the lone seat and sitting. It was like watching the blob consume a building.
I squealed to a halt, eyes flashing. I could even tell that my ridiculously happy new carry-on was pissed. And it’s freakin’ inanimate.
Two more children — semi-liquid food of some sort smeared barbarically across their faces — skidded by me, screaming.
Need. Liquor.
Looking helplessly around for another seat, even one at the bar, there was absolutely nothing to be had. Similar angry looking traveling regulars (we should really form a clan) stood at the outskirts of the Martini bar, waiting like alcohol deprived lions.
I gave it about eight seconds before turning on my heel, making a (surpassingly graceful) pirouette on the slick terminal floor, and marching back toward gate D40.
“At least I washed my hair this morning,” I grumbled under my breath. There’s nothing worse than being in an airport, needing a drink, and feeling like a heaping pile of unattractive crap on top of it all. I suddenly remembered the sudden blemish on my forehead that had appeared venomously overnight, and felt even more sour. I wanted to shove all the ridiculous sweat-pant-wearing youngsters and steal their Uggs.
Okay, that’s a little angry. But anyway.
“NOW. BOARDIIIING… First Clazz!”
I’d continue ranting about the Morons Within, but they’re calling us to board the next death bird. Till a politically incorrect next time.
– Ashley Avis
AshleyFlies.com – A Blog of Toils, Travel, and Vehement Hate of DELTA.
Meeting with Maverick – Part 1
It’s January 4th, and my manager is likely twelve seconds away from killing me.
After moving to Los Angeles post five years of Serious-Actors-Train-Here Manhattan, my manager (the utterly and mystically fabulous Robyn Bluestone — whom we shall reverently refer to as Fabulous Manager) attempted to begin setting up agency meetings.
Agency meeting after agency meeting rolled into my inbox! How delightful! Glorious! Perfect for the actor who’s 101,369 on IMDB!
My first week of agency meetings occur in June 2009. I make the mistake of not only cutting — but dying — my entire head.
Enter the bombing of all agency meetings that week. I felt like I looked like a really tall groundhog with an equatable hairstyle. They were all small and boutiquey, thank God… but it’s not good to bomb, regardless.
The next two months I spend BACK in New York, filming Nelson George’s Left Unsaid with Bridget Barkan and Chyna Layne. No agency meetings.
September rolls around — and I get an offer to sit on a cruise ship around the world for two months. And do a little ballroom, sometimes. I take the gig. No agency meetings.
November and December roll around, bringing with them the holidays and an unexpected weight gain of 14.5 pounds. Damn good thing I’m 5’9… but I still notice the lack of six pack (okay, let’s not kid ourselves, I haven’t had a six pack since I was sixteen). and cringe. No agency meetings.
At 12:54 a.m. on JANUARY 3rd — I open up my iCalander just for the hell of it. There, in green, and listed under the obnoxious orange tab of the IMPORTANT STUFF category…
MEETING AT MAVERICK. 4pm. West Hollywood!
Maverick… Maverick Maverick Maverick… right! MAVERICK ARTISTS was the agency that Fabulous Manager had rescheduled for me four times. The first was an audition conflict. The second was a Nelson George project / NYC conflict. The third was a Fly-Back-To-LA-JUST-For-the-Meeting-And-Get-Delayed conflict. The fourth? I don’t even remember.
But there it was… in electric sunset orange… Meeting with Maverick. Attempt number five with the strong boutique that holds a Twilight star.
I immediately drank a glass of wine and went to sleep.
Meeting with Maverick, Part 2
We catch up with Ashley six hours after she remembers she has an agency meeting tomorrow.
The next morning, I threw on clothing (oh — by the way — I’m living in a HOTEL at this point, that’s another story) and attempted to wash my mane via the decrepit pipes that inhabit the Marina International Hotel’s bathroom structure. To no glossy-haired avail, I threw on a swipe of eyeliner and called it a day.
[ NOTE: When living out of a hotel: There is absolutely no point in trying to do the "pretty LA actress" thing. Let the under-eye circles and escape from the Lesbian Landlords fly. ]
After stepping out of the closet-bathroom (and battling the sliding door, which didn’t shut — or fit on the hinge), my helpful significant other shook his head gently. He always does this when I successfully choose a really, really bad outfit. Usually his horizontal head bobbing is paired with a fondly snarky comment about my recent association with a Star Wars character.
I don’t LAYER well. I can’t help it. ”Hip fashion” is not the utmost of my general concerns. The only thing I can accessorize properly is a freakin’ ballgown.
I change, smear on more eyeliner to appear brooding (I am brooding at this point) and trot out to my tiny silver Saab. Significant Other follows. I inquire if we should obtain a beer before my agency meeting, and if he’d wait for me. They never usually take long. Significant Other agrees.
We make the nausea-inspiring trek to Hollywood (after living there, and then relocating to Venice, I try to avoid the traffic and hair extension lifestyle as much as humanly possible). After thirty minutes in traffic, we finally pull up to North Vine street, and spot an Irish Pub across the way.
Forty-two minutes to The Agency Meeting. We both eyeball The Irish Pub, mutually salivating. The light turns green. With a silent nod between us, we park the car, throw the keys to the valet, and sprint into O’Malley’s or O’Faddey’s or whatever the place was called. It’s huge, and they have Wannabe Actresses in knee-highs and school girl kilts running around with 40s.
We’re not in Manhattan anymore.
We find a seat, order a round of Guineuss, and are assured that turkey burgers can be out to us in a record 12 minutes. We consume our feast, and order another round.
Twelve minutes to agency meeting.
The stress of the day — the escape from 29th Avenue Lesbianism (again, another story) — coupled with the natural I Have To Do Awesome paranoia — began melting away. Now, I have the tolerance of an Irish person anyway when it comes to Beverages, so it wasn’t like I was anything close to drunk. I wasn’t even tipsy. I was just… nicely… relaxed.
The gigantic turkey burger helped, too.
“Ash, you have three minutes to your meeting,” suddenly exclaimed Significant Other. I nodded, grabbed one last steak fry, and darted down the pub staircase. The building was directly across the street. I made it to the 17th floor exactly on time.
Forty-five minutes later, I was skipping out of the building.
I’d nailed the meeting.
It’s not for the sake of over-confidence or back-patting that I say I nailed the meeting… but compared to the recent meetings of ’09 that Fabulous Manager had so graciously set up… with this one, I felt different.
I didn’t spend an hour trying to pick out a “this is me in six different ways” outfit. I didn’t spend another hour doing stage makeup to cover up the fact that I’m perpetually a little bit tired. I didn’t curl my hair, I didn’t wear a gigantic LA push-up bra, I was just… me.
The Sci-Fi loving, Poe Shadow reading, slightly disenchanted but still infatuated with the industry and all it boasts — me.
And two days later? Fabulous Manager forwarded the email.
I was signed.
Delighted by the Winning Guineuss and Lack of Sleep Combination,
Ashley Avis
AshleyFlys.com, Log 1. 5:05 pm, New Hartford (i.e. The Boyfriend’s Family’s House) in New Hartford, CT.
Presently Drinking: wine & coffee, in separate glasses.
Presently Eating: burned scone.
So after a few delightful individuals petitioned the resurgance of my Manhattan-made-me-cynical writing, I finally decided to sit down… consume several of my favorite things at once… and submit myself to WordPress. It kind of feels like walking into a prison on Lost.
Anyway, weird-ass analogies aside (and because the Pinot/Dunkin’ combination has resulted in a strange, temporarily askew mental state)… here’s a quick recap of the last 12 months of my existence:
February 2010: A few days at Sundance in Park City, Utah post enduring a bomb threat by angry clients. Note: Don’t ever form a webdesign company and give away cheap design for next to nothing, then try to outsource to China. Render self “theoretically homeless” for 36 days.
January 2010: Leave apartment on THE OCEAN because landlords are a pair of 65-year-old lesbians, and they have 12 page Google-stalked you. Note: Take down 10 year old Myspace page that innocently says you enjoy the consumption of strawberries while taking bubblebaths. Another note: Be more aware of bookshelves in future fully furnished apartments that primarily house volumes such as “The Shocking Mysteries of the Female Orgasm”.
December 2009: Escape apartment on ABBOT KINNEY because landlord allows himself to routinely enter apartment without notice, and does things like assault you in the street when he leaves your door open and gets your shit stolen. Note: Find new apartment with less crazy landlord. Another note: Find an apartment on THE OCEAN.
November 2009: Fly to New York for meetings. Hate New York for the first time, ever. Loose storage keys, get into a fight with manager at Manhattan Mini on 213th and Broadway. Break into storage locker. Fly to Paris two hours later. Note: Fly AirFrance more often — the amount of complimentary alcohol they almost force upon you is shocking. Another note: Don’t loose cell phone charger in Paris airport. You will be screwed.
October 2009: Have one blissful month in Venice, California. New city, new friends, new apartment. Wake up eerily happy, all the time. Wake up to even more eerily perfect weather, all the time. Note: Don’t go back to Manhattan any time soon. Another note: Pay overpriced car loan.
September 2009: Road trip from New York to Los Angeles with a crapload of photography equipment and random stuff. Note: Don’t ever drive Saab more than 20 miles at a time, every again. Another note: SELL THE F*#)@-ing SAAB
August 2009: Road trip from Los Angeles to New York to visit aunt in Wyoming. Saab blows up half way to Denver. Obtain AAA, and not the alcoholic kind. Pay some jackass named Al $1,400 for a new fuel pump “imported” from Colorado.
July 2009: Fly to New York to reignite things with The Boyfriend. Realize being single without the love of your life absolutely sucks. Throw him a surprise birthday party in SoHo. Purposely overdraft bank account to obtain The Perfect Sexy (Surprisingly Orange) Dress. Successfully re-ignite things with The Boyfriend.
June 2009: Run around Los Angeles and date. A lot. Date some guy who works for some charity. Get read tons of obscure Spanish poetry. Consider another relationship. Consider the possibility of insanity.
May 2009: Move to Los Angeles. Be miserable in a tiny room for several weeks. Get kidnapped by an Oscar winning producer. Get locked into a room and get told “You Will Eat Sushi with Me Tonight” by another Oscar winning producer. Consider moving to Alaska.
April 2009: Bad month. Actually break up with The Boyfriend. Pack up life, store half of it at 213th and Broadway. Get proposed to. Don’t accept. Book a one-way to Los Angeles.
March 2009: Okay month. Audition for lots of pilot season crap. Do really well with the depressing and/or Sci-Fi related stuff. Get close to a pilot. Fly out to LA to screentest. Get down to the wire. They chose “the celebrity”. #*@!.
February 2009: Bad month. Go through heart-hurting things with The Boyfriend. Wonder if moving to Los Angeles is a good idea. Wonder if he’s dating something else.
January 2009: Worst month ever. Break up with The Longtime Boyfriend due to marriage/playing house fears. Don’t want to mutually own plate sets anymore. Spend the New Years Eve countdown in the bathroom of a yacht, hiding from a Middle Eastern Billionaire. Miss boyfriend. Start auditioning for pilots.
__________
(burp). So, in writing that I’ve easily consumed a good portion of this glass of wine, as well as most of the coffee. Exceptional cranial displeasure has resulted, so I think I’m going to go take an Advil and make out with The Boyfriend. Because The Boyfriend rocks, and is a really good kisser.
Welcome to AshleyFlys.com. Because DELTA sucks. — Ashley Avis
