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Treadmill licking; stylish jeans; other important stuff

One of the things Tobey likes to do is squeeze his little body in between the space between the treadmill and the wall and then lick the treadmill. (I tried it once, didn’t see what was so great about it.) He was doing this just now and I looked over and our eyes met and I’m pretty sure he looked back at me with a look that said, “I’m sorry, but I have to do this.” Other things he has to do? Eat Kleenex, come running when he smells turkey (even if he’s asleep), bark if he hears dogs and occasionally try to seduce computer chairs.

In other news, yesterday I went on an audition held at the building where Chelsea Lately is taped and it was the single most fashionable place I’d ever been. Every single person looked like they had a stylist. Some were in jeans but the jeans were in saucy color and looked brand new. My jeans are just in regular colors and look medium old to acid washed.  Ok I don’t really own acid washed jeans anymore but you get what I’m saying. I did once own an entire denim outift that was white with black polka dots. I looked like a Holstein.

Now you might be thinking, “You? Looking like a cow? STFU,” unless you know me well or have known me over the years enough to know that I used to be fairly bovine. Sometimes I like to hide this fact because I’m worried if people know I used to be fat they will then look at me now and think, “Oh yeah, I see it!” however I’m also still mentally scarred enough from all the years of being the fat kid to think it might do me some good to just say it instead of trying to hide it.

Also something which started in New York which always amused me is people thinking I must have it so easy because of how I look. To me this is sort of like if someone got mad at me for being a small Asian woman. I would hear the words but wouldn’t take them in because the person being described just isn’t me. I also occasionally get, “Oh, like you’ve ever had trouble getting a boyfriend?” as if I was the prom queen. Some day I will dig deep into my past and barf photos and stories all over you. Look forward to that day!

In other, other news, I just wrote back to a message I received on Facebook and now I’m receiving all sorts of replies which is making me realize the message I responded to was a group message. I didn’t realize this. That story had no point.

Also yesterday after the stylish audition where I forgot that wearing dresses to an audition gives the mic guy nowhere to hook the mic battery pack so you’ll end up essentially getting naked in front of a room full of people while they search for a place on your undergarments to clip the thing, I went to Teresa Strasser’s book reading. I met a lot of very nice ACS fans who said a lot of very nice things and now I have a big head and am a total dick.

Perhaps you are wondering what Adam said to me on my first day on the job? So I’d auditioned the first week of January and found out I got the job over the weekend and was to start that Monday. Monday rolls around and I’m sitting in the studio and Adam walks in and I wave and he sees me and then says, loudly, “That’s Alison?” I’ve been giggling about this ever since. [Do I need to explain that he was making a joke? Pretending they’d hired the wrong person? I think it’s clear however maybe the italics don’t really get across the exact tone of voice.]

Did I have anything else to tell you? Ummm… Ummmmmmm….. I’m going to be on The Film Vault this week… um… and I haven’t been able to individually respond to everyone who’s said really nice things to me but I just want to thank you all.

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The final day of my tryout, Dustin's lament, smug phone chat, ugly purses

So I’m overdue in posting this link to the last show of my extended tryout as newsgirl on the Adam Carolla show podcast. Perhaps you’ve noticed the way I go back and forth between calling it podcast or show? It’s because I don’t actually know which is the official name and I don’t want to be that asshole who has a whole conversation with someone named Larry and then wraps it up with, “Talk to you soon, Lenny!” Know what I mean? Alice hopes you do.

So once again the show was super duper fun even if I made the mistake of having a kind of extended conversation about what they’re looking for about 4 minutes before the show started which is akin to an athlete doing something that undermines his or her confidence right before a big game. What’s an athlete’s confidence killer? Standing next to a much bigger athlete in the mirror? Improperly carbo loading? Someone weigh in.

“Why did you do that??!?!?!” asked Dustin, putting his head in his hands and then banging his whole head plus hands on the bar in front of us when I met up with him after the show to catch him up on every delightful nuanced thought I’d had in my head for the whole week. “I don’t know! If I had handlers I wouldn’t get into this kind of trouble!” I explained. He missed the unsubtle cue to become my personal assistant for no money.

This is what Dustin and I look like when we’re having a discussion during the holidays

Then the trackball on my blackberry refused to roll left causing me to send out an unfunny tweet before I’d had a chance to revise it. It was a Deleted Tweet nightmare. (For those who don’t know what I’m talking about, Deleted Tweets is a segment I do on my show where we share tweets we thought of sending but thought better of for whatever reason.)

My friend James’s friend Rob, who also has a Blackberry, fixed my trackball though. In the midst of the trackball fixing James smugly turned to Dustin and said, “Wow, this is like an commercial for Apple.” Then I pretended to have an actual conversation on my Blackberry while knowingly looking at Rob and said, “This is a commercial for Blackberry!” Then we all went home and didn’t have sex with anyone. (For what it’s worth I’d prefer an iPhone but I’m still with Verizon which provides absolutely no cell service in my house but gets high marks in Consumer Reports.)

But back to the podshowcast, we talked about all sorts of stuff including shaving, pigeons, my attempt at original reporting, Courtney Love’s twitter defamation suit, getting dickrolled on a submarine (for those who are familiar with my show, Elliot The Pie Guy is my friend who was in the navy), birds falling from the sky and other assorted important stuff. I’m still cracking up about Bryan’s drops during the strap/strop discussion and his comments during the pigeon counting conversation. The guests were Michael Swaim and Dan O’Brien of and they were really funny, just as Greg Fitzsimmons was really funny the day before and TJ Miller was really funny the day before that.

It felt a little sad not going to the studio yesterday. I realized I accidentally left my mechanical pencil and hi-liter there which I’m thinking might be the nerd version of leaving your wallet behind. (The hot girl from the 80s version would be leaving your banana clip and convertible purse cover behind.)

Remember these atrocities? Anyone?

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I'm way too busy to deal with outdated sock conventions

All the cool people in my apartment—and yes, I’m the only person in my apartment—have decided no longer to buckle to the pressure to match socks. Do you hear me, Hanes? NO MORE.

Wait, not Hanes. Actually I think these socks are Calvin Klein. Well, one of them at least. Does Hanes even make socks? God, I’m so socktarded!

Anyway, I now look homeless from the ankle down. It’s very chic.

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rat gas

There is a disgusting smell in my parents’ dryer. At the time of this writing the smell has actually come out of the dryer and is funking up the hall. I would describe it as a pile of bile but my dad thinks it’s “just rotten smelling.” I’d also allow “a bile pile.” Anyway, it’s probably a mouse or rat in the piping. I wondered if it would be better if it were a bird or kitten. I can’t decide. Anyway though, this conversation just happened:

ME: So wait, does that mean rat gas is getting blown all over my clothes?
MY DAD: no, it’s going the other way
MY MOM: yeah, other way.


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My approach to fashion

Me last night, while idly spooning a blob of mustard off my t-shirt: It’s nice to have a comfy t-shirt that’s so old that you don’t care at all if you spill on it.

Me today, while sitting at my computer: What is that horrendous smell that’s like a mixture of malt-o-meal and blue cheese? Oh my god, it’s my shirt.

I’ll have you know that I didn’t sleep in this biohazard of a garment. I slept in something else and then woke up and threw on this disgusting shirt.

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