The Password Is...

Started the book tour for She's Crazy, He's a Liar in Ft. Lauderdale and was delighted at how gorgeous and nice everyone was. Really cool place with friendly, down-to-earth people and the perfect amount of glam. Ya know what's even more glamorous than East Coast beach towns? Venezuela, which is apparently where my cell phone went while I was in Florida. Let me explain. You see, apparently someone cloned my mobile phone (how, I don't know. I can't even get my iTunes to work). They figured out some kind of pin number and security code, programmed it and then off that "cloned" phone went, I suppose to shake hands with Hugo Chavez. (Side note: I heard Sean Penn give an interview where he said something like "Chavez was merely misunderstood by the U.S. media." I'd like Sean Penn to move down there for a few years or forever and then get back to me about how "misunderstood" Chavez is. Stick with "I am Sam", Sean…it suits you better.)

Anyway, so when I went to use my phone, a little automated voice came on and said "This phone is not recognized by us". (I wonder if when then cloners used it, they got a message that said "We totally recognize you. Tell Chavez hi.") A lovely stressed out medical student at the airport heard me say "What the F?" and asked if I needed to borrow his iPhone, which literally took me five minutes to dial. I told him, "Don't worry, this isn't an international call" and he, while clutching his book about the gastrointestinal system, said "I don't care. I don't care about anything anymore.")

Once I got my cell phone carrier people on the phone, they asked for my password, which of course I didn't know. So they asked my security question which was "What is your favorite hobby?" How was I supposed to remember what my favorite hobby was nine years ago when I set this thing up? Hmm, favorite hobby, favorite hobby. "Crying?," I guessed. I could hear the guy typing that into their database. "No, it's not crying," he said matter-of-factly. "Any other idea of what it might be?"

Hmm, what did I do on a regular basis that might be considered a hobby? I don't snowboard or knit or collect stamps. What is something I frequent? "Worrying?" I asked the guy. "You want me to try 'worrying' as your favorite hobby?" "Yeah, well, it's not my favorite, but it's something I do most often." He tried and it didn't work. I could tell that the stressed out medical student was getting antsy to put his phone away so I told the mobile carrier guy to let me have a few hours to try and figure out who I was in 2001 and I'd get back to him.

Turns out my early 2000s hobby was "Mai Tais", which has long since changed. However, "Mai Tais" seem to still be a favorite for whoever it was who also cloned my American Express card.

I'd love to hear from you! Feel free to email me thoughts or questions to: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com

And the Tour Begins...

Check out my TV interviews for "She's Crazy, He's a Liar" in Ft. Lauderdale and Tampa: (Same dress...two fun shows!)

South Florida Today

The WSFL Morning Show

Plus, Cal the artist who drew the fabulous cartoons in the book got spotted!



Have you been spotted reading the book? Let me know! Email me your photos or just to say hi to: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com

New Reviews!

She's Crazy, He's a Liar" has two new reviews! Whoo hoo!

Datedaily.com!

and from a fellow author, Annmarie Ortega!

Do you have your own review? Feel free to email me your review, comments, questions or just say "hi" at: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com

Top 5 reasons Sandra Bullock shouldn't have dated/married Jesse James in the first place!

Okay, as Woody Allen (and many others) eloquently stated, "The heart wants what it wants". And as someone who has dated/loved wake-n-bakers and doll collectors, I realize I'm throwing stones in a glass house by pointing out that Sandra shouldn't have ever fallen for this guy. (Wake-n-baker just heard the word "stones" and got excited). But couldn't most of us have seen this coming?!

Let's take a look at some of the signs:

1) His parents actually named him Jesse James, just like the notorious bank robber!
That's like meeting someone named Benedict Arnold and then being surprised that he betrayed you. Or worse..."Hey, I just got set up with some guy. He goes by something, something Hitler? I wonder if he's cool?"

2) Married a porn star!
Uh, it's not like Sandra could just say, "Oh my husband hooked up with a porn star once." She has to instead say "My husband hooked up with a porn star and then he married her. And obviously had unprotected sex with her at least once because they have a child." What a prince!

3) He uses hair gel even though he hardly has any hair.
I understand that we shouldn't judge someone based on their looks, but when you're Sandra Bullock and you like the "bad boys", why not get with a bad boy who doesn't look like a cross between Mr. Potato Head and Verne Troyer?

4) Donald Trump fired him.
Alright, I realize this happened after she was married to him, but still he's a tool and he refused to ask his rich wife for help on "The Celebrity Apprentice", even though he was supposedly there to raise money for charity. To be fair, according to Wikipedia he did raise 20 grand for the Long Beach Education Foundation, so that's good. But this was after they were married and she couldn't have known this would happen. (Wikipedia also says he's a chump. Okay, no…but I did try to add that to Wikipedia and they said "No.")

5) He has one tattoo (among many) of an octopus eating a crab and another which allegedly says "Pay up Sucka"
I don't know about you, but when I think "good man", I don't imagine crustaceans and threatening messages about money inked on their very squatty bodies.

In conclusion, I wish for two things with regard to this mess: 1) That Sandra up and leaves him for good and finds herself a great guy. 2) That Wikipedia finally accepts my "chump" addition to the Jesse James page (and also accepts my contribution to the "Shrek" page, where I tried to add that I was once married to "Gingy" and that we have a child together named Scone.) I really need to make better use of my time.

Readers, I'd love to hear from you! Feel free to email me thoughts or questions to: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com

Blind

I found out recently that the name "Cecily" is from a Latin word meaning "blind" or "the dim-sighted", which I find painfully appropriate, as I can't see. Oh it's not so much that my eyes are a problem (although as I get older they are going into the 20-100 range), it's more what my insane brain convinces my eyes they are viewing. I once asked a doctor about it and he explained that while there is nothing wrong with my eyes, I merely see what I want to see. In other words, if a situation or a person is too boring or painful, I replace the visual stimuli with something more interesting to me, e.g., hundreds of beagles running through a yard or Robert Pattinson's giant head. I do not want to see my ex's new wife and so when I run into her at the Grove, my mind replaces her hair extensions with the sticky, beautiful hair-gel of Edward Cullen and tells my eyes, "Hey, look at this instead. You'll like it better."

Sometimes it works the other way. If my crazy-brain is bored and wants to create a little drama, it sketches out that ex's wife and replaces the image of say...a street sign...with her face. "Oh my, there's Blond girl...there's Blond girl," I once said to my friend, Greg. ("Blond girl" is what we called one of my ex's insipid, hacky comic-of-a-girlfriend back in the day). "No Cecily," he replied worriedly. "That's a yield sign. See?" "Oh yeah, well, it kinda looks like her."

A few days ago I was at Ralph's Grocery when my neighbor (whom I can't stand due to his...loud...90s...techno...music) passed by me and said "Hi." My mind replaced his face with that of another neighbor's Labrador Retriever named Knuckles. I assume this was to protect me from the annoyance of seeing him near the deli meats. Luckily, I did not say "Oh hey Knuckles!" because I fear he'd have then called the mental health authorities.

I guess my point is this: if I run into you and seem disproportionately happy, I probably think you are Snoopy or Knuckles or Topher Grace. If I seem unhappy however, my mind may have replaced your face with that of an ex or worse, an ex's new girlfriend/wife. Is it too late to call those mental health authorities?

Let me know what you think about my blog or my book! Email me at: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com

She's Crazy - Spotted!

Spotted at Hollywood and Vine, a reader who just can't put the book down! (Note: she is not in the driver's seat, which would officially be dangerous.)

If you spot the book or someone reading it, email me a picture, won't you? Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com

Good Voice/Bad Voice

I once had a talent agent say to me, "Your face is too big for television." (This was right after she told me I should change my name to "Cecilia Hernandez and tap the 'Hispanic market' just like that guy Geraldo did". Yep). Then a few months later when I was applying for a job as a bartender in a rundown pub in East Hollywood, the owner of the bar said, "You know...you're not gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous, but you're not Kathy Bates." Just out of the clear blue, unsolicited, he felt it necessary to inform me that while I wasn't gorgeous X 3, I was not a heavyset character actress. (For the record, I think Kathy Bates is lovely and a fine performer.)

I have had this bar owner's words plus countless agents/casting directors/Texas Mothers' (including my own) in my head my whole life, just circling through the gray matter that is allegedly my brain. (Wait, why would it "allegedly" be my brain?) "More lipstick", "Big face", "Unsinkable Molly Brown", "Geraldo", just over and over again on a loop while I try to put my best (and least "Misery"-inspired) face forward. I bring this up because I've found that these words have influenced the way I feel about myself in relationships. "Is my face too big?" I ask myself as a first date is going in for the kiss. "Might I possibly, accidentally of course, whack him in the knees to keep him locked in my home after a horrible car wreck and subsequently make him change the ending to his novel?" (Okay, this "Misery" thing is really sticking with me).

Point is, they got to me. And I think there's a "they" who gets to all of us, which is a real shame. Whoever your "they" is, remember that "they" had a "them" too and while it might be different words that get thrown around, we're all affected by what others think. Before this dangerously becomes a delightful Dr. Seuss poem or an unfortunate "Cathy" comic strip, I'll just say this: try to keep the good voices in your head, (ya know, the ones who tell you how beautiful you are) especially when you're on dates. Wow, that didn't sound as creepy before I wrote it down, but I think you get the idea.

Readers, I'd love to hear from you! Feel free to email me thoughts or questions to: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com

The Shame Spiral of a Modern Girl

I literally said out loud today, "Within one year, I have to be less crazy". The fact that I'd have to say that out loud means that I am probably not going to reach that goal. This declaration was prompted by the fact that after dreaming about ex-boyfriends all night (some good, some bad), I tried to convince myself that I had an elevator in my house. It's not quite as insane as it sounds. I was doing laundry and as I was lugging my towels onto the elevator from my 4th floor apartment to the dingy laundry room on the first floor, I got an overwhelming sense of anxiety/sadness/craziness wondering why I didn't own a house with a washer and dryer IN IT. So I thought, "What if I just pretend that I'm SO rich and centered and accomplished, that this elevator I'm on is taking me from one story of my mansion to the other?" Sure, I'd have to come up with a reason that a (possible) gang member tagged my personal elevator walls with the words "Hector will own you" and perhaps I'll need a back-story as to why my personal elevator often stops on a floor that has 40 other mailboxes. But these are just details that can surely be sorted out in time.

Also for full disclosure, I should mention that as I was declaring my hopes to be "less crazy", I was dressed in Dallas Cowboys sweatpants, a black t-shirt with a giant tiger on it and a pink Snuggie, all signs of a less than healthy psyche.

Maybe it's best that I repeat my new mantra, "Within one year, I have to be less crazy" as I take myself down to the first floor of my enormous mansion. Perhaps that mantra will help me come up with an explanation as to why I have a landlord who lives in my house.

Readers, I'd love to hear from you! Feel free to email me thoughts or questions to: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com

Seriously, Un-Tag

I talked about this a little in the book, but I feel like it's important to reiterate this advice: Ready? Un-Tag.

Let's say you're dating someone (newly or otherwise) who happens to go out on the town without you and play beer-pong at a bar with hot people you've never met. With me so far? And let's say one of those hot people has a digital camera because "Oh what fun! We're playing beer-pong on a Tuesday night because we're sooooo craaaaazy like that" and they take picture after picture of your boyfriend (or girlfriend) guzzling beer while a group of drunken, blonde women clap and cheer him on. But let's say that "hot digital camera girl" just can't leave it at, "Oh, how nice. I compiled some great drunken pictures tonight of other people's boyfriends and I'm gonna have a gay old time putting these pictures in my scrapbook. Someday when I'm old and gray, it will be so wonderful to look back through this scrapbook and remember it all."

No..."Hot Digital Girl" can't leave it at that. Instead she uploads all of the photos onto Facebook and TAGS his (or her) name so that when you log on and read your "status update" feed, the first thing that pops up is your boy (or girl) friend playing beer pong with hot blondes. Which in and of itself is fine. But, it would be nice if they simply hit the button "un-tag" so that I...I mean, we...didn't have to necessarily see it. (For the record, I am pro-beer-pong).

It's not just the dating world where the concept of un-tagging matters. Anytime someone from my past insists on it, I get nervous. “Jen has tagged you in a photo.” Yeah, LA Cecily doesn’t need to know that high school Cecily was in the Mime troupe. I’ve gotten tagged a lot by people from college and I have to say that LA Cecily, had she come face to face with college Cecily, would have had her arrested. Not just for the loud, incessant partying but also for the fact that she wore body suits. Tight, red body suits. Untag.

I’ve become so accustom to un-tagging that I forget I can’t just un-tag things in non-Facebook life. For example, I like indie rock bands in small venues, except in Los Angeles because people won’t stop yammering. Un-tag. Worse, there’s always some tool who yells out the name of some obscure bullshit song they want the band to play. “Play track 8 from Cold War Kids’ latest. Play that song Jon Brion did for the Blankety Blank soundtrack that you can only get on the B-side of Deathcab for Cutie’s private vinyl recordings.” We get it. You spend time at Amoeba. You want to bang Zooey Deschanel. The Silverlake Lounge is actually too mainstream for you. Ya know what, douche-hole? They’ll play what’s on their set list and you’ll like it. Un-tag. I’d also like to un-tag that guy who makes loud groaning noises in my yoga class. Yes, upward dog feels very stretchy, but this isn’t a porno sir. Un-tag.

And now...for some beer pong.

Readers, I'd love to hear from you! Feel free to email me thoughts or questions to: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com

Unpack

Here's a little Cecily fun-fact. Usually, after I've returned from a trip (and it can be a two day excursion or a three week vacation) I throw my suitcase on the floor of my bedroom, open it and then unpack it slowly over a month's time. Actually, I usually throw the suitcase on the floor the minute I walk into my apartment and then I drag it into the bedroom a few days later. It's not that I don't mean to unpack and carefully either wash my clothing or hang it neatly in the closet like a real grown-up woman. I just somehow never get around to it and instead retrieve items on an as-needed basis. "Wonder where that green Banana Republic t-shirt is? Oh there it is, crumpled under my jeans in my carry-on. Surely, it's wearable?!" I then, of course pull it out, wear it and hope no one asks questions. "I need to charge my iPod. Hmm. Why, there's my charger...right there next to my travel soap in the "side-pocket" of my luggage. I'll just grab that and get that iPod charged right away."

Eventually over time, my baggage gets unloaded back into my life until it's time to re-pack and start all over again. The similarities between the baggage I leave on my floor and the baggage that has come with so many (let's say more than 15) failed relationships is obvious. I think, "I'm just not gonna deal with any of this now and then over time, bit by bit, I'll unload it all onto someone else." That green Banana Republic t-shirt at the bottom of the suitcase is no different than the "I get crazy-jealous when you seem happier to see that chick from your improv class than to see me" moment. It's gonna come out eventually but it may take awhile to present itself.

I guess ultimately this is a good thing. It might terrify someone if I unloaded my suitcase full of crazy all at once. Just like clothes and chargers, I'll get around to unpacking it all when the time is right.

Readers, I'd love to hear from you! Feel free to email me thoughts or questions: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com

For Review

Wanted to share the book's first review in Campus Circle. It's online below and will go to print in their Los Angeles paper this week. Happy, happy, joy, joy! (Do people still say that?) Either way, it's exciting!

Check it out here!

Have you read the book? Let me know what you think! Email me at: Shescrazyhesaliar@gmail.com