Sound.

I'd have to say I'm fairly good at blocking the sound of my day out, but some days you're just open to the world, you know? The singing of the train tracks in the morning, the hum and rumble of traffic, the squeal and sigh of the train as it skids to a stop, protesting all the way.

The office is quiet, staccato barks and clicking keys, water poured and sipped and gulped. The murmur of new hires 'thankyouthankyouthankyou' and the shifting weight of the building as coworkers swish by, swiftly, quickly, rushing to business or busy-ness.

Walking home is squeaky shoes and the flap-flap of bags too heavy, legs and feet sore, slapping the sidewalk. Train bells and snippets of radio, bass too loud or too low, thrumming through your bones. That's the way the bus feels, too, as it labors over the potholes, whining and shaking, a lumbering beast  working hard to be oblivious to the world around it.

Home is two paws thumping, two paws scratching, big excited gulps of air too fast around a chew toy. Its the jangling of keys and the jangling of the leash and the burst out the door to the nightly walk.

Once we hit Ninth Street the sounds of the city fall away and we're left with lonely cars and squeaky garages, quiet little plots, house and home, carefully tended and watered by hand. We descend again to the city, leaving the mountain stillness where it was- exposing ourselves to the buzzing neon lights and seven o' clock train horns.

I hear it every day but I tend not to listen. What else in the world am I missing?

And the Oscar Goes To...

I saw my name on the big screen. I had seen my name projected in the theater at Chapman, but this was different. Then I was a student; this time I was a professional. And on the screen at the Samuel Goldwyn Theater in Beverly Hills it looked great.

                 I worked on a documentary that the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences (the guys who give out Oscars every year) had made for Turner Classic Movies to kick off this year’s Oscar month marathon. It's called And the Oscar Goes to... I did some assistant editing work as well as some office work for the production (gotta start somewhere, right?). This wasn't my first professional project, but it was the first time I had the opportunity to go to a screening of something I was paid to work on.  I also worked on a movie last summer, Wish I Was Here, directed by Zach Braff, which should be in theaters in September, 2014.

                Dressing up and going to the premiere screening was an awesome experience. There were celebrities in the audience, as well as people I know and work with. But when I saw my name come up in the rolling credits I didn’t react the way I thought I would. I thought I would be proud, excited, scared… but more than anything I felt calm. It didn’t feel like as big of a deal as I thought it would; it just felt… right. I’m not sure how to explain it.

Brie, me and one of our LA besties Ms. Clay, Mr. Nelsen couldn't be there.

                I am not trying to become part of this industry to make millions or become famous (although I will not turn those down if I am lucky enough to get them), for me it’s about being part of something that will touch people. I want to tell stories and I think that filmmaking is the best fit for me as a storyteller.

I guess when I saw my name up on that screen I felt calm because it reminded me of all the love and support I have at my side. It was a gentle whisper that said, “You can do this.”

On Why Lindsay Lohan Will Always Mean A Lot To Me

I made Mr. E sit through Mean Girls again- partially because he swore up and down he'd never seen it and partially because The Constant Gardner wasn't doing it for me. This may not be the best movie, but I think it has it's place as more than just a teenage comedy, mostly because it reminds me that I am sometimes a Mean Girl.

Is that awful?

I think that's the beauty of the silver screen. In a day and age where we are increasingly impatient, we receive our information in computer generated portions. Here's THIS commercial, read THAT billboard, listen to THIS ad before your next crazy cat video. It's all packaged and gift-wrapped to have the most appeal to us, the biggest impact. In this, movies are king.

For a short amount of time we're transported from our routine drudgery to a reflection of our own world. It's prettier there (or dirtier, depending on what you're watching) and stories wrap themselves up neatly into picture perfect endings. The myriad of characters we meet in our own lives are portrayed by beautiful people, boiled down to stereotypes and ambiguous life choices. We watch the story and we fall in love, or out of love, or rage or laugh or cry as we see fit and in the end- in a perfect world- we all learn the lesson we can relate to and we are able to face our lives once more.

Thus, I'm able to say with complete confidence that I am a Mean Girl. I'm also a Nice Girl and an Outgoing Girl and a Shy Girl, but mostly I'm just a Complicated Girl which I think everyone else may be, too. I don't fit perfectly into that Mean Girl slot, but I think that was the point of the movie. It was fed to you with fluff and comedy and so many high school tropes I could DIE (over-exaggeration was definitely present), but the message is so profound I wish I could sit my own kids down to watch it every day.

Judging others doesn't make me any prettier. It doesn't make me any smarter or any more successful than they are, it just makes me a big old ball of negativity. Maybe that's common sense or maybe you learned that lesson years ago, but I'm imperfect and I think I need constant reminding.

Especially when I'm confronted with the opposite message every. single. day. Magazines, commercials, even blogs can't escape the compulsion to show that enviously perfect snapshot. We're shown trends and fashions and diets and lifestyles to aspire to, disregarding all of the complicated ways we live our unique, individual, perfectly imperfect lives.

I need reminding that those lives may be pretty or organized or on-time and work for those people, but that's not my life. It doesn't reflect me or my values or the things that I want in my life. And sometimes, it takes an hour and thirty-seven minutes of watching high-schoolers cat-fight on-screen with perfect hair days and endless legs to remember that.

I can be a Mean Girl, but that's not all I am, either.

I'm Tote-ally...Just Gonna Stop There

I made this. And it's probably one of the things I'm most proud of. So proud, in fact, that I kind of don't want to give it away. If only I was more of a Doctor Who fan.

I found this fabric a few weeks ago and seriously debated buying it for pillows in our living room. It was fun, and such a pretty blue, damask until you looked close enough and saw that silly TARDIS- what geek wouldn't love it? Well, this geek, actually. This is not the face of Doctor Who fandom.

Disclaimer: NOT our dog.

So it sat in my cart, calling my name. And then I remembered that giving brings happiness to both parties, so I made that order anyways. I've made a few of these bags before and I'm really happy with the way they turn out. It's such a simple pattern and it has a lot of customizable potential. The cuff is flirty enough to showcase TWO awesome fabrics and although there were no pockets in the pattern- I FREE HANDED THOSE SUCKERS. Yeah, you could say I'm pretty proud.

I ran into some kinks when both pieces of my bag (outside and lining) were cut funny: Spoonflower prints your fabric special, so it wasn't an off-the-bolt kind of thing which messed with my measurements, and Joann's was kind of having an off day at the cutting counter. In the end I just cut a few inches off of my pattern and made a smaller bag- I actually think I like it better smaller. I guess it just means I have to make another one for myself...

The Doctor Who fabric basically chose itself, then the multi-colored chevron was chosen by Mr. E (the color-coordinating master of the house) and I couldn't pass up a fat quarter of London landmark fabric. Especially for the travel-bug bestie of mine. Plus the minty-green inside of one of the pockets was from a homemade napkin at my wedding, so we're all rolled up in symbolism over here. Hopefully that makes up for the fact that I should have totally made this two years ago.

Slam-BAM that thing with a little travelling/Disney-themed cross stitch and you have a Christmas present, my friends. Good gravy I miss being crafty.

On How I'm Like JLaw...And You Could Be Too

We exited the theater like schoolkids for recess, a flutter of limbs as the audience scuttled out, reaching into jacket sleeves, holding doors, ambling our way through the dim hallways on our trek back to the real world.

My husband and our group loitered outside of the bathrooms as we waited for friends to weave their way through the Saturday night crowd. The atmosphere was tense between us as our minds raced to chew through what we had just seen, turning it over and over, absorbing all the last bits of interest and relatability.

There's a moment, right before the first person speaks, when we all hold our breath. We're waiting for the sacrificial lamb to start the slaughter, jostling each other, making eye contact as if we were penguins huddled on the cliff, pushing forward until the first bird fell in. Did we all feel the same way? How best to tell everyone- hyperbole? Graphic joke? Understated simplicity?

Movie-watching is a unique sport- it can be done both solitary and with others, but movie-experiencing is entirely personal. You can share the experience,  but it's still wholly your own, reflecting all the odds and ends and triumphs and heartaches and choices that make you different. Much the same way that books can stay with us, so too can movies. They're all stories, after all.

I didn't like American Hustle. I was so sure that everyone would agree. I felt that it was pretentious, unrelatable- the plot so labyrinthine that it was a wonder I could follow it. It was a nod to the visual film-making that I even knew what was going on. Don't underestimate the power of body-language, people. Or steadicam.

Instead, they gushed.

"So good."

"Wasn't that great?"

"Best movie of the year so far." A few titters- it's only January, after all.

"Not at ALL like the preview."

I frowned in confusion. Did we watch the same movie? Yes, I loved the actors too, and I could understand the guys enjoyed an eye-ful of the wardrobe (I think we could mold Amy Adams' chest with clay by memory, thanks), but it was much too long! How could you tell who was playing who when they were all playing each other?

Movies have always held a special place in my heart. I was practically reared on stories, both visual and textual. I could quote Star Wars on the playground and it only grew from there- so it was no surprise I fell in love with a man whose dream was to craft the silver screen. I live a little vicariously through him- after all, someone has to pay the bills. I enjoy being his sounding board, listening to his rants on the perils of 3D, learning from his experiences with story-telling and leading the audience. I was a part of that world in some small way and usually that's enough.

Until we're together with other film majors.

Suddenly my opinion feels glossed over. I don't "get" it. I didn't take those classes, I never sat in the editing bay going through dailies, I haven't worked 8 or 10 or 12 hour sets, so I couldn't understand. They try to be nice about it though, if not out of respect for me, then out of respect for my husband- that age old suffering borne by friends who endeavor to keep him out of the doghouse.

I realized that I was Jennifer Lawrence's Rosalyn, expertly hustled by those around me, mood swings and all. She was headstrong and naive, a bit of a bully in an effort to adapt to her circumstances, and often kept ignorant, but in the end she was revealed to be an untapped resource. I may not be all of those things (or I am, depending on the time of month) but I knew how she felt, making the best of her situation in the only ways she knew how. They may not have been the best ways, but they were those that were available to her.

How often have I felt that way? How often have you felt that way? Capable and confident in your own sphere but patronized and dismissed with ease when you attempt to expand.

My difference in opinion about a movie doesn't mean that I'm stupid. It doesn't mean that I don't "understand" what's really going on or that I'm too dense to read past all of the fluffy dialogue to see what they're "saying". The more I tried to explain why this movie didn't work, the more I got tight smiles and incredulous stares.

Let's All Resolve To...

This is my New Year's concession for blogging. It's almost expected, right? I need to write on all the ways that 2013 made me a better person, the obstacles I overcame and how I resolve to do amazing things in the upcoming year.

Maybe it's just the killer headache from too much holiday (remember that Berenstein Bears book?) or my absolute lack of enthusiasm for staring at my computer screen, but 2013 was a very angry year.

There was a lot of stress in our world when Mr. E graduated and we up and moved to LA- neither one of us particularly city-people. Sure, living here is great, but downsizing was a pain in the butt, budgeting is tough and we got slammed with a car break-down at the same time we were apartment hunting. Mr. E's playing heads-up-seven-up with jobs at the moment and I'm attempting that ruthless jump from temp agency to full-time employee- provided I continue to like this company.

But even outside our own sphere of the world things are looking pretty angry: we're hating on celebrities, we're hating on institutions, we're hating on everyone else's likes and dislikes, their choices, what they support, what they don't and how they do it. There's a lot of opinions out there, guys. I get it. There's a lot of ignorance, perceived or otherwise. There's anger and fear and shame and guilt and a whole host of negative qualities that could probably fill the internet a thousand times over.

I'll be the first to tell you that I can get angry easily. My coworker was very clearly (and very loudly) typing something repetitive today that just about had me kicking the cubicle wall (if I had to guess it'd probably be LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLZ,  the jerk). I get pissed when people go the speed limit on the freeway. I'm mad when my Disney Hidden World's game doesn't accept when I'm clearly pointing to the correct object.

None of this makes me happy.

I like to think that I follow a pretty wide range on the internet- those of you who craft, who read, who write, who snark, research, drink tea, hate tea, have kids, have dogs-who-think-they're-kids, love fandoms, love fans, support causes and just need somebody to talk to at all hours of the day (Hi, Twitter!). A lot of you preach to do what makes you happy. You pin it, you remind yourself of it all the time, but did you ever stop to think that it's less of an action and more of a choice?

World, let's make a resolution together. It doesn't have to be first or your list or kick off something else that's important to you. Can we please PLEASE remind ourselves to be happy. To let it go? To accept that the world does not play fair, does not have the same rules for everyone and we'll just have to agree to disagree sometimes. Stop the hateful comments. Stop the passive-aggressive responses. Every one of us is entitled to opinions but you don't need to say yours louder in order for it to be more correct.

I resolve to be a happier person in 2014.

I didn't need a generic time of the year to choose this, but it sure is a nice built-in motivator, isn't it?

Adding my Voice to the Chorus

The story of advent, for me, is one of faith. Faith that that night would come. Faith that a Son would be born. Faith that the star would lead to something .  Faith that no matter what you've gone through or your current situation, it's all about making it to tonight.

I didn't grow up with advent in our home, so the lighting of candles and this period of immersive anticipation was a little lost on me. The only thing we anticipated was going to bed or wrapping those few straggling presents. We watched the movies and we sang the carols, but reflecting on the coming of the King wasn't present.

And that worked for a while. It's easy to get lost in the ways of the world, focusing on the busy-ness and the obligations. It's easy to lose yourself in the spirit of Christmas without ever touching the Spirit.

This year was different. This year was a chorus of voices, perspectives on the season that I had never understood before- studying and exploring scriptures I had never bothered to understand past face value. This is advent. The building of this foundation, this filter to which we can look through and see the true story.

That Mary didn't just bear the Son of God, people must have thought she was nuts. Her excuse was communication with angels? Or Joseph who must have struggled with a few doubts on his cross-country road trip with a very pregnant young wife.

But it's the wise men who mean the most to me. To me, they walked the ultimate walk of faith. They weren't Christians or Jews to believe in a Savior, but their faith brought them the Son of God tucked into a feeding trough in the most humble of beginnings.

That's Christmas. No matter your background or your beliefs, what you've endured or overcome or are still struggling with, it's the belief that your journey has an end worth traveling to get to.

Tonight as I'm struggling to find a talent for the family Christmas Eve Talent Show, or grabbing a few more stocking stuffers, I'll remember that my journey doesn't end here.