Friends came over for dinner the other night, which was awesome. There was impassioned Atheist rhetoric (alcohol may have been involved), chasing of toddlers, pizza that was cold long before we got around to it, water-powered rockets in the dark. Good times. Miss Ella, after much posing and “Um…”-ing, tried on my last Princess Fiona dress.

Ella, enchanted.

Ella, enchanted.

She was so excited she was trembling, and in the first several pictures I took she is tense, blushing and afraid to move. It was adorable. It didn’t take a lot of coaxing before she was curtsying and vamping though. I told her that I’d alter it to fit her-it’s a simple dress, and it will just have puffier sleeves and a longer skirt on her, which is more princessy anyway. She’s going to wear it for Halloween, and I’m going to paint her green and teach her “the secret” of how I do my makeup. Looks like wigs with built in ears are now commercially available, so I don’t even have to make one.

Oh Yeah

Clearly, I'd already had my coffee

I enjoyed making a little girl happy like that again. My absolute favorite part about being the princess was the way kids would light up. I remember so many moments like that. The little girl waiting for me whose mother said “We heard that Princess Fiona would be here, so we’ve been waiting since 9!” The tiny little girl in the Snow White costume who hugged me and cried because she was so happy. The waves of pink and yellow and blue dresses surging over the crosswalk between events at the El Capitan. Amazing stuff.

Getting ballet lessons

Working in Hollywood keeps you on your toes.

That job was a paradox. I loved it so much, but I would never, ever do it again. I loved the attention, the glamor, the autographs, the endless compliments. Hell, who wouldn’t enjoy being a movie star for a living–and yet I could take off the makeup and be a “normal” person. Well, not really normal; the craziest shit always went down after the green washed off. But the point remains; it was the best of times and the worst of times. I never forget that while I was in the spotlight, most of the time I was also living in a motel. I walked on the red carpet the day before the Oscars, but I also sometimes only could afford the dollar menu for dinner. (I did always have coffee and cigarettes though. Not that my priorities were fucked or anything)  That while I was in a fascinating mishmash of crazy, I had become a fascinating mishmash of crazy. Ultimately, I was one of the crazy people that had that job. I just was crazy in my free time and sanest in costume.

Oh, the eyes

Me, looking off camera in search of my mind.

It did give me a host of awesome stories. I mean, I got to meet Bono! I almost got run over by Nicolas Cage at Trader Joe’s in West Hollywood! John Voight asked me directions to the Egyptian Theater! It’s a famous landmark less than a block away, how the fuck can you be Hollywood goddamn royalty and not know that?! But I digress. There are plenty of those stories, just like there are plenty of happy little girl stories, and they are the best souvenirs and extended trip to California could ever hope to provide.

Oh shit, that's Bono

I have a picture of me Nobel Laureate!

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