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Archive for January, 2012

My Kingdom for a Thicker Skin

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 12:17 PM
Tuesday, January 31, 2012

I hate conflict.

Which, in a word, completely sucks.

OK, I know! “Completely sucks” is two words; you are right!

See – I hate conflict so much that I anticipate it and try to defuse it before it even happens.

It’s no accident that I – a singer, writer and performer – spent about 8 years of my professional life overseeing the Customer Care departments for major corporations.  It was my job to make sure everyone was nice to everyone, that all conflicts would get resolved and result in the greatest possible benefit for all involved.

Similarly, it’s no accident that despite my passion and talent and hard work I have poured into my creative endeavors, I have yet to reap any real professional (read: financial) success from them. Why?

I hate conflict, weren’t you listening?

(*sorry- was that too abrasive?*)

The older I get and the more I care about making money, I realize IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO MAKE MONEY WITHOUT CONFLICT. Whether it’s the contract negotiation process, the inter-office relationships, the client and/or lawyer disputes that arise in the independent contracting business… conflict is everywhere. The more famous a person gets, the more people ‘out there’ want to take that person down. How could a girl afraid of conflict survive out there in the real world?

It appears to me that the people who have the distinct advantage are the ones who are not just not afraid of conflict… they love and EMBRACE conflict.

You know those people? (Or maybe you ARE one of those people?) You know, the ones who gets all excited and high at the prospect of a fight; those people to whom the word “NO” rolls off the tongue easier than any other syllable. (I was raised in the improve comedy world of “yes, and” where everyone involved agrees to agree, no matter how absurd the premise.)

O, my kingdom for a hierarchical society based on the principles of improv!

But in the meantime… I think I have no choice but to toughen my skin.



Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Improv comedians always agree. Standup comedians are notorious fight-pickers. Yet another reason it makes NO SENSE for me to do standup...

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Grey’s Anatomy is Crack. And Crack Sucks.

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 12:45 PM
Monday, January 30, 2012

I’ve written before about how I’m obsessed with Grey’s Anatomy, how I’m addicted to Grey’s Anatomy, and how my addiction with Grey’s Anatomy grew so large and so deep that its stars actually started stalking ME. How, in a word, Grey’s Anatomy is like crack.

Well, readers, I’m here to tell you: Crack Sucks.

You know how at the beginning, crack is all awesome and fun-producing and high-making and people bonding?


But then you know how after a while, crack takes over your life, becomes your obsession, and causes you to miss out on life’s important events because your slavish devotion to it trumps all else?


And finally, you remember how in the end, crack doesn’t even work anymore but you still can’t seem to put it down; it doesn’t fulfill its initial promise of total perfection and happiness, and ultimately, destroys lives, but you JUST CAN’T STOP without intervention?


At this point, I hate Grey’s Anatomy.

Wait – I’m sorry, Grey’s Anatomy! Don’t leave me! Please!!  I didn’t mean that!!!!!

It’s tough, people. Isaiah Washington, T.R. Knight, and Katherine Heigl are gone. (No I still don’t care what the actors’ names are – I Googled them if you must know. O, but how I loved their characters.) Meanwhile, the ones who are still around are getting a bum deal. Miranda Bailey keeps getting paired with hot men she has no chemistry with. McSteamy is getting old, McDreamy is getting annoying, little Grey is a pill, and Sandra Oh’s character’s journey off the deep end was 100% not believable, nor is her chemistry with the hot red haired guy.


The new episodes sit on my Tivo like so many old chocolate truffles in the cabinet – beckoning even as you know they are BAD BAD BAD. I know I may get a temporary high when I eat them – or watch it – just as surely as I’ll know I will get that feeling afterwards… you know, like I just wasted my calories/time. And perhaps even caused a little diarrhea.

Time for rehab…


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Some of the only GA cast members I actually still enjoy watching. Et tu, Shonda Rhimes?

Flashback Friday! (Nobody Walks in L.A.)

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 12:14 PM
Friday, January 27, 2012

Every Friday, I post an oldie but a goodie blog for your enjoyment. To those of you who just started reading The Grownup Girl recently, enjoy the “new” blog! To those of you who have been with me from the start, but have memories like mine, enjoy the “new” blog!

And to those who were with me from the start and who already read this blog and burned it into your memory, word for word, photogenically, I say:

What are you doing wasting your time dilly-dallying on my website? Get out there and find me a book deal!

If you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below.

BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – Nobody Walks in LA – the BLOG

So I was walking down the street the other day and bumped into a friend who was walking the opposite direction…

Cack cack cack cack cack! (my bad imitation of someone laughing)

Just kidding. We ran into each other at the Starbucks 6 blocks from my house.

From whence I had driven, of course.

It’s not that NO one walks in LA. Obviously, some people do walk… mostly, to their cars from their house or from their cars into their place of work. Or to the bus stop, for those who can’t afford a car. Or… on 3rd Street Promenade, the blocked off street of Santa Monica where cars aren’t allowed to drive. Or, Hollywood Blvd. If you’re a tourist, a drug addict, a hooker, a Scientologist or some guy who likes to dress up like the Hulk.

You know what no one in LA also doesn’t do? (Work that double negative out in your head. I’ll give you a second.) No one stays up late. Correction: people stay up late here. But if they do, they are in their own houses, or their friend’s house.

Bars close here at 2am. On a WEEKEND. That’s the same time bars close in New Haven, CT, and they don’t even sell alcohol there on a Sunday. In (mostly) boring DC where I grew up at least bars stayed open until 3 on weekends, which always seemed super early in comparison to its nearby and much cooler cousin, New York. When I first moved out to LA I was sure this glamorous town full of party-hopping celebrities and rock stars would be a totally happening scene, all night long. But the town is eerily quiet, come 2:30am.

Move closer to my neighborhood, which is Beverly Hills-ish, and it’s downright spooky at that hour. Tumbleweeds are practically blowing down the streets. We went out Saturday night and tried to get a latte after hours. After getting turned away from two different ‘hip’ places (no, not because we were in jeans – because those places had already closed by midnight) – we finally had to make the choice between Nic’s which is actually one bar that I like in Beverly Hills, and a random café across the street, which we wound up choosing because it was more casual and we didn’t feel like drinking.

That café? Was the Twilight Zone.

The waiter cracked bad joke after bad joke, continued jabbering on about himself way after his expiration date, and the one dish he and the owner swore up and down was the place’s best – the cannoli – was disgusting and we sent it back. Everything we ordered – the coffee, the “croissants,” and the desserts – were either barely edible or not edible at all (the cannoli). Every other person inside the place was about 20-25 years younger than us, which is crazy because who lets their 3 year old toddler out that late without a chaperone?

The worst part is that I’m sure I’ll go there again & again, now that I’ve discovered it. Why? They’re open until 4am. I’d like to patronize them just to help them stay in business, just so that at least there continues to be SOMEPLACE other than iHop open after 2am in my neighborhood. So, everyone who lives in or around Beverly Hills: Go patronize that café that’s open across from Nic’s. Yeah, the one with the fire.

Hell, next time, I may even walk there.


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

The walk-in Vodka Bar @ Nic's in Beverly Hills. AKA where we SHOULD have gone.

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Looks Like a Princess

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 11:34 AM
Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Kayla and Brittany are my kids’ favorite babysitters. They both are super cute and adorable young women (I’m guessing their ages are in the 20-23 yr range), both are great with the kids, smile easily, and are warm and friendly.

But their personalities are not what set them apart and make them the FAVORITES. After all, the kids adore Rachel (who promises and sometimes delivers treats), they have fun with Brianna, they play well with Sara, and they see Ericka (Esther’s old nanny and now our part-time housekeeper) as another family member. All those sitters were and are wonderful with our kids – affordable, reliable, and know how to get the kids to play quietly, listen even more quietly, and most importantly, to SLEEP.

What all those other sitters are NOT, however, and what Kayla & Brittany ARE, is…


Kayla and Brittany are not only great babysitters, they are – in the eyes of my kids and especially Racheli, my 5 year old tastemaker – BEAUTIFUL. They are, in the words of Racheli, “like princesses.”

Both Racheli and Esther, my 2 year old, mention Kayla and Brittany often, throughout the day. Mind you, Brittany has only babysat ONCE so far, and Kayla maybe three times. But the blonde impression firmly imprinted itself upon their little Disney-saturated brains.

I don’t try and use this as a ‘teaching opportunity.’ I haven’t scolded them for preferring blonds, I haven’t warned them that they shouldn’t so readily accept the advertising world’s definitions of beauty, and I haven’t reminded them that princesses come in all shapes and sizes. (Well, strike that; according to Disney, Princesses do come in all COLORS now – but in all SHAPES and SIZES? Not so much. More of a Barbie complex when it comes to the size 0/2 princess bodies.)

The truth is, it doesn’t appear to me that their wide-eyed appreciation for Brittany and Kayla’s hair and eye color (did I mention both have blue eyes, too?) comes strictly from the TV/books/media. It is possible it is an organic preference they developed (somewhat) on their own. I remember as a very small baby, my son Yehuda would stare and stroke blonde hair for as long as we’d let him – and he never acted like that with any other color or texture.

Okay, full disclosure: the fact that it could be a ‘natural’ preference is NOT the real reason I’m passing up this opportunity to use this as a teaching opportunity.

The REAL reason I’m keeping my mouth shut is that I have no desire to rock this particular boat. They love the babysitters – hooray! That means my kids will most likely not attack and/or make the babysitters cry and/or make the babysitters run defense the entire night until midnight when we finally get home and/or drive the babysitters to call me after we’ve only been gone an hour or so, sobbing and/or demanding that Aharon and I come home right now and warning me they will never come back, and/or threaten my kids they will call the police on them if they don’t behave while they wait for Mommy and Daddy to return…

Yes – those are all scenarios that have happened before. My kids are amazing but I never said they were perfect angels, did I?

Bring on the princesses…


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Kayla. I mean Brittany. Whoever she is, I hope she's free next Saturday...!

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Livin’ La Vida Loca

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 12:26 PM
Tuesday, January 24, 2012

I mentioned waitressing at Vida in my last blog so I figured I’d better bang out the stories before my excellent memory kicked in again and another six months passed before I remembered to do it. I’m not sure what possessed me – a Yale grad – to try waitressing, but at the time I had a notion I could be An Actress, so I probably decided it would be a good job to have, working at nights and all, while I was running around on auditions and shooting commercials, TV shows and films in the meantime.

Sorry, guys. I was laughing so hard I choked.


Needless to say, my Acting Career didn’t quite pan out as I had hoped. Maybe someday I’ll post my “acting reel” up here so you can laugh along with me.

But back to Vida… it was owned & run by this punk rock chef whose hair was generally either bright pink or neon orange or something in between, and whose awesome food was pretty nearly matched by his awesome temper (he punched out one of my fellow waiters on New Year’s Eve, which especially sucked because it was during the first shift so we were short the whole night) and his awesome managerial skills (that same night he “pooled” all our tips and when he divided them a couple days later and handed me mine, I was short over two hundred dollars).

I was a terrible waitress, mostly because I cared too much what people thought of me. I REALLY cared too much that no one ever left decent tips. (Readers, once again, let me use this platform to help my brothers and sisters in the service fields out there – SPEND AN EXTRA DOLLAR OR TWO AND TIP 20% WHEN YOU EAT OUT. Nuff said.)

I also am way too much of a leo to be a good waitress, which in non-astrological speak means that I inherently feel I should be the one being waited upon. The world just doesn’t feel right to me when I’m the one doing the waiting on others.

I’ll give you exactly two seconds to feel bad for my husband.


Let’s move on.

There were some fun aspects to working at Vida, like meeting (and waiting on) lots of celebrities and rock stars. Pee Wee Herman is the main one who sticks in my memory. And the hostess at the time was this tragic, ethereal beauty who had a daughter, Clara, with Flea (of Red Hot Chili Peppers). She was really cool (the mom; can’t remember her name offhand).

She asked me to babysit once, and I did. I babysat Clara at Flea’s house (mostly I remember Clara had TONS of energy; I was exhausted after just a couple hours with her) and I politely declined when Flea asked me afterwards to come on board as Clara’s full time nanny.

So if nothing else, Vida was worth the stories I got out of working there. Plus, working as a waitress over the holidays was fun in a Poor-Me-I’m-Such-A-Victim-Having-To-Work-On-Christmas-Eve-And-New-Year’s-Eve experience, too.

Good times…


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

If I had played my cards right that could have been ME inside that Flea/Anthony/Clara sandwich.

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posted by BatSheva Vaknin 1:03 PM
Monday, January 23, 2012

Years ago, when I was reading the police report of my broken wrist to fellow party-goers (I know there is all kinds of wrong about what I just said, but for now, let’s leave it for a future blog) – one of my captivated audience members was a tall guy whom I thought was gay until he tried to make out with me.  I kissed him a little but wouldn’t let him do anything more – which came as a huge relief later, when I found out not only had he given me GHB (commonly known as “the date rape drug”), but also that he was married.

[WAIT – I forgot to say, if you are my parents or my kids and you are reading this...? This is just a joke – GOT YA! APRIL FOOL’S!! Now please close your browser and pretend this never happened, K?]

Coast clear? Back to the story… A few months later, I ran into GHB Guy at Vida, a restaurant I had just been hired by as a waitress. (A blog’s worth of stories about this place – including the one about how I wound up babysitting Red Hot Chili Pepper Flea’s daughter, Clara – making a mental note…) Anyway, GHB Guy came in to Vida with his wife. It was my FIRST night training as a waitress, & first thing, I was assigned to their table, of course. GHB Guy and I just sort of grinned politely at each other, and that was it.


Cut to: six months later, when I bumped into GHB Guy one evening, while we were both walking down Fairfax Blvd. (an EXTREMELY rare occurrence in LA, by the way, to run into someone “while walking”). GHB Guy looked like his was lit from within with a fire and passion – and when I asked, he told me he was on his way to study Kabbalah. I didn’t know what that meant but it sounded cool. (It would be another 6 years, give or take, before I discovered Kabbalah myself.)

A year later, I ran into him again at a small live show – a friend of mine’s band was playing. I told GHB Guy I didn’t drink anymore. He told me he didn’t either. He also was divorced. We may have clinked ginger ale glasses. I don’t think we said much else.

Oh yeah – the only other time I saw GHB Guy after that was on TV; he was accepting an Academy Award.

Now that’s LA.

Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

GHB - a little slice of heaven. And, uh... date rape. And... an Oscar?

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Flashback Friday! (This I know is True)

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 1:33 PM
Friday, January 20, 2012

Every Friday, I will post an oldie but a goodie blog for your enjoyment. To those of you who just started reading The Grownup Girl recently, enjoy the “new” blog! To those of you who have been with me from the start, but have memories like mine, enjoy the “new” blog!

And to those who were with me from the start and who already read this blog and burned it into your memories, word for word, photogenically, I say:

What are you doing wasting your time dilly-dallying on my website? Get out there and find me a book deal!

If you hate to read, just click on the audio link, below. !

BatSheva (BatSheva Vaknin) – This I know is True – the BLOG

I’ve lived a long while, and learned much in my 28 or so – COUGH – years… and I thought it’s about time I stopped hogging all this important information, and start sharing it with the world. So here goes!


1.      You should never ask a woman if she’s pregnant. NEVER. DO YOU HEAR ME?? I don’t care if it’s been two years since she gave birth, that belly she has is from her last pregnancy. I know her stomach is enormous. I know her stomach appears to be bigger this week than it was last week. Don’t. Ask her. If she’s pregnant.

2.      The reason women’s boobs get gigantic when they are pregnant is NOT because they are filling with milk. The milk doesn’t come until the baby is born, dummy. The big boobs are there for one reason and one reason alone: to distract your husband from your large belly and big ass. God is brilliant.

3.      If you throw gum on the ground, you’ll step on gum within a week or so. Don’t tempt fate. Trust me on this one.

4.      If you like food more than alcohol, you are probably Jewish. Seriously, check your lineage on your mom’s side. Told you.

5.      Chocolate is good for you. Period.

6.      Don’t trust anyone who tells you they have found their soulmate. In fact, TRUST that they have NOT found their soulmate if they tell you they found their soulmate. Off the top of my head, I can think of two friends, very spiritual, sharing, and smart women. They both “knew” they had met their soulmates. I was jealous. Until, a couple years later, when one of those two women had married a completely different guy. The other married her “soulmate”… and then divorced him. She’s remarried now to a different guy. I mean, I’m into my husband and everything, but who am I to know from soulmate?

7.      Drinking olive oil before drinking a lot of alcohol does NOT prevent you from getting wasted, nor does it prevent you from getting alcohol poisoning the next day. If my kids ever read this blog, I’m just guessing about this one, I wouldn’t really know since I’ve never gotten drunk.

8.      Crap. I had a really good one, but I forgot it.

9.      Some of the smartest and best people didn’t go to college, and some didn’t even graduate high school. I can say that with authority, because I graduated Yale with straight A’s, and some of my best friends and peers never came close to college.

a.      Corollary: Happiness is more important than getting into a “good” school.

b.      Corollary to that Corollary: On the other hand, going to a good college does help you think of cool words like “Corollary.”

10.      If you forget something you were going to say or do, go back to the exact physical place you were when you first had the idea. You’ll see – do that, and you’ll remember what you had forgotten! Argh, but I’m sitting right where I was before; why can’t I remember what I wanted to say for number 8?? It was such a good one!!

On that note…


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Yummy on Salad. Not so much before drinking 17 kinds of alcohol.

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What’s the Word for…?

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 3:53 PM
Wednesday, January 18, 2012

I wanna be a millionaire, so frickin bad.

The first time my husband heard my son sing that, he grabbed him and shouted.

“Don’t say that!”

“Honey!” I quickly intervened. “He said ‘frickin.’ ‘Frickin!’ Not the other word. It’s a slang – it’s okay, he heard the song on the radio, they play it on the radio – that word is okay!”

My husband was confused. With his Israeli-accented ears, and in particular because he’d never heard of the term “frickin,” my husband just assumed that he had heard my son pronounce the word “fucking.”


My husband is very sensitive about words. He believes that words have TREMENDOUS power, especially when spoken aloud. The ancient spiritual Kabbalistic sages tell us that using words to gossip or say negative things can actually shorten the years of our life considerably.

I am sure they are right.


I am also in love with slinging a shocking word or a comforting slang or a zinger here or there, to garner attention for attention’s sake.

Wakes you up.

I’m a writer. I’m a singer/songwriter. I’m an actor, a comic. Words are my currency.

I am a lifetime member of the Church of Storytelling; I love the effect words can have.  Shock them, make them laugh, make them think, make them argue, make them agree, make them feel guilty, make them complicit, make them understand, make them connect, make them heal. Make them laugh.

Make ME laugh!

I love being a Democrat not just for the position the party takes on social & economic issues, but because WE HAVE MORE FUNNY PEOPLE THAN REPUBLICANS DO. Nyah Nyah nyah nyah nyah!

Ummm… maybe I’d better sign off before my life gets shorter or I start censoring myself or I get all my republican friends mad. (Though to you guys, I ask: Where are all your comedians? Life is too short not to laugh!!)

K, I’ll shut up for real now.


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

My guy is funnier than your guy.

Cocktail Club

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 3:05 PM
Tuesday, January 17, 2012

When I was around 24 years old, my friends and I created an exclusive membership-only organization: Cocktail Club. My girlfriend Nicole was the President, Richard was either co-President or Vice President, and I was probably the Secretary or something like that.

Here were the rules (as I remember them, which means maybe this didn’t happen at all, but if it did, it went more or less like this):

  • Once a month, a Cocktail Club member would host a cocktail party. I think it was always on a Thursday night.
  • The host chose the venue, and supplied things like cups, napkins, food/hors d’oeuvres, juice and other mixers.
  • The guests brought the alcohol. Entrance to a Cocktail Club party was only allowed under 2 strict conditions:  1. The invite, and 2. Each guest had to bring one unopened bottle of alcohol. Vodka, Rum, lots of wine, cases of beer… entry was denied to any guest who showed up – member or non-member – who didn’t bring their “entrance ticket.” Didn’t matter if you came as a couple – two people meant two bottles. (With this system, even though people drank a lot at each party, the host was always left with a bottles and bottles of leftover wine & alcohol.)
  • Members attending the party were allowed to bring one, and only one, non-Cocktail Club member.
  • The host, on the other hand, could invite anyone he/she wanted. So the parties always had completely different feels to them, depending on who was hosting, where they were hosting, and who their crowd of non-Cocktail Club member friends were.

I asked Nicole if she had the original copy of the RULES but sadly, she didn’t. She did, however, remember two rules I had forgotten:

  1. 1. Only clear or light-colored liquids allowed. This rule, I believe, went into effect following the party at our friend Katie Brown’s Hancock Park mansion (rented from the King of Malaysia, if memory serves) where I gracefully managed to spill my glass of red wine all over her white sofa. This was the same Katie Brown who went on to give Martha Stuart a run for her money with her cooking TV shows, workshops, etc… Whoops.
  1. 2. As soon as the party was over, people had to leave immediately. No stragglers. This way, the host would never have to worry about dealing with energy-suckers after hours.

My friend Caroline hosted her event at the Chateau Marmont, supposedly in the same bungalow where John Belushi died. One person hosted his at a comedy club. Another outside, in a lush garden. I hosted my event in my Spanish style, hardwood floor apartment.  People like Margaret Cho showed up and got drunk with the rest of us.

What happened to cocktail club? In a word: Rehab.

Two of our core founding members went into AA and Al-Anon, others of us “cut down” or completely stopped partying, and the whole thing promptly fizzled.

And in another word: Love! (My friend Caroline met her future husband and the father of her 2 kids at cocktail club, too.)

Reunion, anyone?


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

It all happened here... the drinking, the fun, the magic, the... um...drinking.

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Why Can’t I Just be Happy???

posted by BatSheva Vaknin 1:06 PM
Monday, January 16, 2012

Let me start by saying I AM happy.

As a teen and in my 20’s, I used to get depressed all the time. I was in therapy for years and years and years and I was on antidepressants for a couple years, and yes, I had a few instances where I couldn’t stop crying for like, two days.

That’s all in the past!

[Wait – but I’m only 28!?! Oh, never mind....]

Yet, here I take to the airwaves (fine, the “blogosphere” – but doesn’t ‘airways’ have a nicer ring to it?), to voice my frustration with the fact that I’m never happy.

So let me clarify.


….ABOUT, specifically…




What can I say; I am a Leo.

Translation: I think I am very important. And you should think I am very important, and everyone should think I am very important. So, when I’m not invited to certain exclusive parties, or asked not to sit in a “reserved” seat that I (being a Leo) sat right down in without asking who it was reserved for (duh – me! Uh… right?) – I’m just not happy.


I’m ALSO not happy when I AM invited to certain exclusive parties – parties almost no one else I know is invited to – or asked to sit in the front with the other “reserved” VIPs.


First of all, that’s when the old low self esteem chooses to kick in.

In my head, when it happens, I’m like, “who am I to get this honor?” and “Why did they even invite me? I don’t really know them that well… Is it only because of my boss who is about to be a major TV star?” After all, I’m not even in my company’s TV show [REMODELED, on the CW, airing tomorrow @9pm, HELLO, SET YOUR TIVO/DVR/SCHEDULES ACCORDINGLY!?!]… but perhaps my boss’ VIP-ness has rubbed off on me?

Another thing that makes me not happy, when these things happen, is that I suddenly feel bad for everyone else who wasn’t invited to the exclusive party/section. I waste time in that front row, or at the party, stressing about it; wondering why my friends who weren’t invited weren’t invited, and worrying that they know I’m there and hoping their feelings were not hurt.

Along those lines, I love to entertain… but I always feel bad when I have a party and don’t invite every single person I’m friends or acquainted with. After all, I know how it feels – I get sorely disappointed when I’m not invited to a wedding by someone I invited to my wedding.

In other words, I care WAYYYYYYY to much about this ridiculous shit.

In OTHER words… why can’t I just be happy?


Sheva (BatSheva Vaknin)

Gossip Girl/Romeo & Juliet Couture Party... on the inside, I'm crying. Ish.

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