September 2005 Archives

Something good has happened today, and, although I wish I could share it with you kind folks who (don't) read my blog, this one is for me and me only.  To celebrate, the Hottie, the Designated Driver, and I are all heading to Successful Writer's house for some classy red wine and a glimpse of the very spot in the dining room where Orson Wells kicked the bucket.  Perhaps he choked on some of the cold pizza Successful Writer always seems to keep stocked there...  After the party, we'll be at the Arclight for the opening night of "A History of Violence."  Now, I don't care much for Viggo Mortensen.  Okay, maybe it's not him, maybe it's his face, which is so chiseled you could carve a turkey on it.  Regardless, the movie looks promising, and even if I don't like it, I'll pretend to.  After all, the writer will probably be sitting right behind me, and that is the Hollywood way.

In other news, my G-Money pimped-out blind date rescheduled on me!  G-Money's take on the situation:  "If he does it again, I'll tell CVG (her agent, aka blind date's boss) that we're firing him."  Ah, I love it when G-Money gets all Shannen Dougherty on me. 

But seriously, why should guys have to be bullied into dating me?  According to my writer pal Entourage, I've got the best of both worlds.  Here's his explanation from our monthly outing to The Snake Pit.

Entourage:  You were an ugly kid, weren't you?

I SLAP him.

Entourage:  Wait, wait.  Hear me out.  You were awkward growing up, so you had to overcompensate by being both smart and funny.  Now you're hot, but you've got the wit to back it up, and you know how to not take a guy for granted.  Because you used to be ugly.

I SLAP him again.  But he's right.  In an insulting, politically incorrect way.  But how did he know that, while growing up, I hated to shower, got chunks of Snickers bars stuck in my braces, and once let my hair grow into a mullet?  And who knew that, after all that, I would turn out to be such a prize?   

Today H-Berts called me into his office with a daunting task.  I always know I'm about to be hit with something big when someone asks "You have a degree in Russian, right?"  And today was no different.  Luckily, it did not involve translating intelligence documents or smuggling cheap fifths of Stoli (they cost about a buck in St. Petersburg, where said brand is manufactured) through customs.  Although I must say, this heat wave might warrant a trip to the northern reaches of Russia just to cool off!  Zing!!  No.  My task this morning was to mark passages from Chekhov's "The Seagull" that might induce two actors running lines to toss precaution to the wind and have kinky sex in a dressing room.  In zombie makeup.  Because said actors are performing "The Seagull" as zombies.  "Wha, wha, wha, WHAT??" you might protest.  But don't bother.  If you've actually read "The Seagull," you will have realized that most of the characters are, in fact, zombies, torn between the yearning to live a fuller life and the wastefulness of such yearning, as it only feeds on the most precious of life's commodities:  time.  And if you didn't get that reading from "The Seagull," you are a dolt and a dollard and I hope you're home the next time Captain Obvious comes knocking!  Sorry.  Must be the heat.  And the fact that there are so many passages in that play that might lead to sex!  Chekhov allows everything to simmer right below the surface, so that a conversation about carriage horses and quinine becomes a virtual hormone/forbidden lust rave that makes me want to...

Derby pie for anyone who finishes that sentence most creatively.   

 

Here is my impression of every "House" episode ever:

Someone has some sort of strange, disgusting disease or impediment.  The female doctor wants to cure it in a traditional manner.  Enter Hugh Laurie, blue eyes popping like he just snorted coke off a hooker's hip, and, sho' 'nough, he's got a crazy scheme.  No one likes it.  The female doctor hrrrrmmmmpphhs.  Sela Ward shakes her head, which is difficult for her because of all the plastic surgery, then murmurs something about legal ramifications.  Babies cry, animals sneak into the shadows.  Nobody trusts Hugh.  Oh, but what's this?  At the last minute, his crazy scheme worked!  Hot damn, that hasn't happened since... last week.  God, people, get a clue!  Hugh Laurie is always right!

Now that we've got that settled, I'm off to watch "Win a Date with Tad Hamilton." 

I'm back, bitches!!!  Thanks to Mammy Jane, who doled out her chocolate pie recipe while simultaneously rehydrating from her vigorous exercise class with a glass of White Zin.  I told her my tragic story from Sunday, and she interrupted me right when I started to describe the chocolate cake's demise with "You know, I just love you so much."  Right back atcha, Mammy, even though I know you are more likely to enter a Tom Cruise look-alike contest than log on to this atrocity of convenience known as the Internet. 

Suffice it to say, the chocolate pie turned out just plain superb.  I didn't attempt the meringue, because meringue is, to quote my mother, "like a bitch who won't put out."  At least to our taste buds.  In other words, you work at it, you pamper, you make sure it's comfortable, then wham, you get the door slammed in your face, either because the meringue has collapsed into a simpering pile of sugar and egg whites, or because it turned out perfectly, and you decide to try it only to get what tastes like... a simpering pile of sugar and egg whites.  I'd much rather have Cool Whip.  It may be cheap, it may be a late night booty call you don't quite respect, but goddamn it, it leaves you feeling satisfied every time.

So anyone who wants a piece, stop by my place.  No need to call first.   

Disaster strikes.  Perhaps it was my blatant insult of Cousin Brian's broccoli casserole, perhaps my foolish trust in AOL recipes.  Regardless, the chocolate raspberry cake The Pony and I tried to make last night fell apart faster than an alcoholic in a bourbon distillery.  The Pony was very kind about it - he tried to make me feel better with unprovoked comments of "It tastes good, it's just the consistency's a little off."  I responded to his pleasantries with "Take it to the trash!"  Now I wouldn't feel so bad had I just been baking for myself.  But I hate letting people down.  And I will not let him down, even though he only likes hot blondes who can cook.  So this morning on my way to work I did what I do during any time of crisis.  I called my mother.  Now I can tell when my mother's preoccupied - I have a test I use on her when I think she might not be listening.  All I have to do to snap her back in line is tell her I'm pregnant.  After her first, "That's nice, dear," she'll switch over to panic mode and I have her full attention.  When I had her full attention this morning, she referred me to my Mammy Jane.  For those of you who don't know Mammy, she's my great aunt, my grandmother's younger sister, and you know that relative you have that you think is the best cook in the world?  Mammy can kick their ass any day of the week and twice on Sunday.  Then she'll beat them at golf.  She has dinner parties for thirty people just so she can "play with her dishes," and her chocolate pie recipe is famous in our part of the country.  I used to carry it in my wallet on a little index card when I first moved to New York.  I didn't know anyone in the city, and somehow having that recipe with me at all times kept me from being totally homesick.  Sadly, several months into my New York life,my wallet was stolen by androgynous crack whores at the Au Bon Pain at Third and Broadway, and now here I am, having disappointed The Pony, and interrupted my mother, with no chocolate pie recipe to my name.  And where is Mammy?  That's right, folks.  My 85 year old, terminally ill aunt is at exercise class.  I am counting the minutes till noon, when my mother has promised me she'll be home.  Hold tight, Pony, unless you find a blonde with better skills.  I'll understand. 

I am the type of person who likes to know how things end.  If I'm reading a mystery, I'll call up my mom, who has undoubtedly disposed of the lowly fiction in one sitting, and ask her to tell me what happens.  And she'll tell me.  Because she loves me.  She's not like certain friends of mine who squawk, "What???  That'll spoil it for you."  No, it won't.  I love knowing the end so I can single out the clues, the red herrings, and the path that you can only see when looking back.  I love giving the all-knowing nod or the snobby smirk that is my trademark as I'm reading or watching.  It is infinitely more satisfying than the single anticlimactic moment that comes with the solving of the mystery.  Because the steps along the way are so much more intriguing.  Now don't get me wrong.  I'm not saying I want to know how my own life's going to turn out, or who's going to win the World Series of Poker in the year 2089.  If I knew what was going to happen to me, I'm sure I'd screw it up somehow.  Like, on the first date with the guy I was going to marry, I'd tell him that we were going to have one drug addict and one nympho as offspring, but they were attractive and we'd be rich once he got off his lazy pot-smoking ass and started his own company.  Or I'd totally skip a loved one's major surgery because I knew that a.) they'd turn out fine and b.) if left alone on that fateful night, my Tivo would fail to record a new episode of "Reba."  For all of you wanting to make fun of me right now, have you ever watched "Reba?"  It's fucking hilarious.  What's that?  You're never home Friday nights at 8?  Right.  Neither am I.  I swear.  No, I mean it.  Never have I ever zoned out in front of the television on Friday night with some cookie dough ice cream dribbling down my chin and onto my sexy-ass terrycloth robe.

Does anyone want to hang out tonight?  Must... escape... the WB.       

G-Money has set me up on a blind date.  In her oh-so-Remington Steele-smooth way, she rung up her agent's assistant last night under the guise of getting a copy of "E-Ring."  At the very end, she casually dropped the "just send it to Melissa.  Have you met her, she's great.  You guys should meet, you know, coffee, drinks, or maybe even dinner.  She'll call you first thing in the morning.  Kay, bye!"  I, of course, thought she'd forget about the whole thing, but imagine my surprise when I stumbled in this morning, half-blind from my early eye doctor appointment (I'd just like to take this opportunity to point out that my eye doctor is also a cosmetic surgeon - the next time I go in for some lense adjusting, I'm totally trying the whole Botox fad) to G-Money sitting at my desk.  "Did you call him yet?"  So I did.  When I hung up with the news that we were going out next Thursday, she replied, "Oh, my God, I would sooo love it if you guys got married."  H-Berts felt the need to chime in here with, "He's 22.  He's too young for her."  Which is why I go to an eye doctor who will shoot my smiling face up with Botox.  Hopefully, since I'm already a patient, I can get in before next Thursday.

I cannot tell you how upset I am.  Those bastards at Fox have done it again.  They've pushed the Season 5 Premiere of "24" from January 8th to January 15th.  In protest, I am going to hold my breath starting... now. 

Okay, that did NOT work out.  G-Money just came by and offered me her last Xanax if only I would breathe again.  So until January 15th, I will have no choice but to take full advantage of Keifer Sutherland's soothing voice in that poor excuse for a thriller known as "Phone Booth."  God, that movie's been syndicated more than Seinfeld.  But wait!  I just remembered I missed both Seasons 3 & 4 of "24."  This is excellent!  I can call the P.A., send him over to the Fox lot... wait.  Screwed again.  He's on a script run.  That little brownnoser, doing his job.  

Thoughts of a Dawson's session with the Other Me are the only thing getting me through today.  I hope she reads this and brings me cupcakes from Clementine... they go quite well with Xanax and Josh Jackson.     

To all those barraging me with phone calls asking if RR is, in fact, engaged to JO'c, yes, it's true, they're hot, they're meant to be together, and no amount of whining to me is going to change the fact that you will never sleep with either of them.  So I apologize to you for your pitiful lot in life.

Moving on, I'll give ten bucks to anyone who can guess how many times I've watched that wickedly funny, pre-brainwashed Katie Holmes master-"Pieces of April" (like what I did there?  I thought so) this week.  Something about that kooky ex-drug addict trying to whip up sweet potatoes and canned cranberry sauce for her cancer-stricken mama just gets me.  It's enough to make me start looking up flights home for Thanksgiving at the now-bankrupt delta.com.  Of course, my own family Thanksgivings aren't quite as eventful.  I prefer the years when my mom has everyone over to our house.  This allows me to:

 1.) sample everything before my loud, obnoxious, and inevitably early family arrives

 2.) make sure I have a double for the broccoli casserole I know my cousin Brian will show up with.  He makes his with rice and cream of mushroom soup and everyone smiles and pats him on the back because he's a man and wasn't it so thoughtful of him to try cooking?  Fuck that, I say.  If you can't cook, don't peddle your wares on your extended family at Thanksgiving.  Save your retarded excuse for a casserole for someone who will still love you even though it tastes like baby vomit.  I won't.  I see you once a year and you're not making a good impression, so I have no qualms about the rudeness of making a duplicate.  Although it's not really a duplicate when it's so much better, is it?

3.) do quick shots of vodka over the kitchen sink when everyone has adjourned to the den to watch football.  My mother usually waits for my second trip to said sink before she discreetly pulls me aside and asks for a screwdriver.  By the time my extended family has left and my father has relegated us to our respective sofas to watch "Extreme Makeover:  Home Edition" or some other such reality rubbish, we are both thoroughly plastered. 

On another note, I need to get out of the country.  Does anyone want to come with me to Russia this winter? 

Today on Oprah, she made Jennifer Aniston cry and gave ten million dollars to the victims of Hurricane Katrina.  Now you can go right ahead and judge me for watching Oprah while splayed out on my boss's couch in a Newsradio robe, but hear me out.  I get in this morning and get an email from G-Money saying they're not coming in.  This was what was supposed to happen on Friday, except when I ventured back from the kitchen with my toasted bagel and chocolate soy milk they were both sitting at their desks.  And here I was ready to crank up some Family Guy and Rosemary's Baby and maybe even a little Go.  I know what you're thinking, and yes, my life does suck.  But today, it was like an unexpected gift, a treasure chest without the hassle of the map and the Temple of Doom and whatnot.  Until I realized that I had left home without my standard pack of Polanski and Sarah Polley.  My only choice was to crank up the crappy cable in H-bert's office, where I caught up with Days of Our Lives ( I was an avid watcher when I was twelve, but damned if it isn't the same freakin' day of their lives - these daytime programs really know how to string out their subplots), Oprah, and even a Fox 11 Special Report about people being taken hostage in a Long Beach check-cashing store.  So just remember, folks, the next time Gary Coleman appears on your screen encouraging you to get your pay early, don't go to the Long Beach branch.    

Years after the rest of the world, as often happens, I have discovered itunes.  Don't bother calling me today.  I'm listening to J. Lo. 

The only two things that have happened to me today:

1.)  I colored a pepper for children with cancer at Chili's.  The final product bore a strong resemblance to what I imagine John Lithgow looks like when he sleeps.  I cringed having to look at it, but hopefully it will do someone some good.

2.)  I slammed my finger in a door.

Things that happened to me yesterday:

1.)  I had my first Red Bull and vodka, then had the strong urge to run laps around the Arclight instead of watching Just Like Heaven. 

2.)  Mark Ruffalo came onscreen and I simmered down.  And by "simmered down," I mean "started to drool."

3.)  A guy with a very large chin (perhaps "jutting" is the more appropriate adjective) asked for my number at Successful Writer's party.  The nerve - I was sitting very close to the Tennis Pro on the sofa.  Strong-jawed men with acne should know better than to hit on me when I'm sitting right next to the guy (read:  eye candy) I clearly showed up with.  And maybe telling him I didn't have a phone wasn't the best response, but come on, guys, show some judgment.  Don't stick your neck out there when I'm holding an axe!  I don't bother you when you're running game with someone hotter than I am!  I know my place.

 

       

I was out to dinner with my neighbor The Pony last week, and for some reason the conversation we had seems to be sticking in my brain.  The Pony, for some reason completely unfathomable to me, is single, and he has no qualms about pointing out the shortcomings of the fairer sex.  Here's how it went down:

Me:  So what stereotypes about women are true?

The Pony:  You don't want someone who's going to treat you well, you're always looking over your shoulder for something better--

Here he trails off.

Me:  What?

But he doesn't answer.  He's watching the hot blonde waitress bend over to pick up some fallen edamame.  The Pony adores blondes.

In response to his rant, which I, sadly, do find true in most of my tribe, I have decided to compile a list of what I love about men.  So this one's for you, Pony.

1.)  You don't force me to talk.  If I want to sit and stare out the window for hours at a time (which I find myself doing more and more the longer I live in L.A. - the smog, in an impenetrable alliance with Coffee Bean's Cafe Vanilla, has gradually sucked away a great deal of my brain cells), you're not going to bother me with questions like "What are you thinking?," "Do I look fat?," or "Is there something you need to tell me?"  No!  I'm a lazy bum, that's all, now let me be numb for a few fucking minutes, please!

2.)  Along the same lines, you hate talking on the phone.  So do I!  See my previous entry, wherein I discuss my fear that whomever I'm talking to is secretly stabbing their voodoo doll of me as I fumble to ask them what they're doing tonight. 

3.)  You don't scheme.  I used to be a big schemer with a precise plan for how to go after a guy.  I know, I know, this is crazy, but it's something to talk about with your girlfriends while you're painting each other's toenails and eating Rocky Road.  With my 24th birthday and one psychotic ex-boyfriend, I ceased the scheming and took up a perspective I credit to my male counterparts.  If we want to see each other, we'll see each other.  If not, I'm still hot.  All is well. 

4.)  You like to drive.  Good.  See Number One, where I admit I like to stare out the window.  Not good to do while driving, especially when driving with a guy, who will inevitably comment that I drive like a girl.

5.)  You think I'm Julia Fucking Child if I whip up a batch of Duncan Hines brownies.  Except I'm shorter.  And, I'd like to think, easier on the eyes.  This does not apply to the guy who dumped me right after I made him dinner.  But nice move.  I couldn't have done that to someone with a straight face.

6.)  If I have too much to drink at dinner and find myself, once home, tossing my cookies when we're supposed to be having some quality alone time, you will wait patiently outside the door and, once I'm finished, will still try to make out with me!  You are awesome! 

7.)  You are expected to make the first move, and in most cases, you do.  And I never know when you're about to, because I'm a ditz about these things.  You can whisper sweet nothings in my ear all night long, but until you try to stick your tongue down my throat, I will assume you find me as attractive as... Julia Child.  So thank you for having balls.  I don't.

In short, to all the guys in my life, you rock. 

 

 

 

Having once again been dodged by the Wise Man when I tried to ask him out, I found myself in a dilemma at 9:30 this morning.  Do I risk having no one to get drunk in the corner with at my friend Successful Writer's party/screening of Just Like Heaven tomorrow evening?  After mulling it over for several seconds, I decided OF COURSE I don't show up to a party in the Hills without a little eye candy on my arm and a Ziplock bag for the brie.  So I pick up the phone at this ungodly hour and dial my pal the Tennis Pro.  Now, I know, I know, this is not behavior that would be condoned by that horrid stack of filth known as "He's Just Not That Into You" (to which I say so what?  I'm just not that into him either, but I'm twenty-five, fuck true love).  Rant aside, shame seems to disintegrate when you share a one-bedroom with said Tennis Pro and his alcoholic friend Dino for two months.  Ah, Dino.  The only man who has felt me up while he was asleep...  But I digress.  Here is what a 9:30 AM phone call will get you in this town:

Me:  Hey!

Tennis Pro:  It is nine thirty in the fucking morning.  Why are you calling me? 

Me:  Were you asleep?

Tennis Pro:  No.  But I very well could have been.  So rude...

Whatever happened to subtext, people?  To playing games, to telling yourself you're only imagining that the person on the other end of the line sighed and made faces when they heard it was you and not someone hotter ringing them up?  And does the Tennis Pro not remember the time he dialed me at 7 AM to let me know there was a commercial on 102.7 for our favorite Mexican restaurant?  I don't need to be sold on the place, it's already my favorite!

Well, apparently he does remember this injustice, because we'll be hobknobbing with Successful Writer's brother Successful Director at the Arclight tomorrow.  If anyone's in the neighborhood, I'll have brie and crackers in my purse. 

To revisit the 20th Century Fox lunch-providing aspect of my job, I just had the following conversation with one of my bosses:

G-Money:  When you go get lunch from the kitchen, what do you, like, get?

Me:  Oh, ya know, today I toasted some whole wheat bread and added a touch of crunchy peanut butter and blackberry preserves.

G-Money:  Wow. 

Me:  I know.  Isn't it--

G-Money:  --Depressing?

Me (crestfallen):  Yes.  (then, brightening)  But I got Cheez-its too!

I have to jump to high-five G-Money. 

What a touching scene.  Much like the smattering bits of genius between Pacey and Joey that make up Season Three of "Dawson's Creek," which the Other Me and I have been watching faithfully since last spring.  I mean, I almost gave up on the show when Dawson started sporting that godawful pea coat, but damned if the W-fucking-B wasn't smart enough to realize their star was, in fact, more forehead than charisma.  Enter Pacey as the main contender for whisking Joey's virginity into oblivion, and I am once again hooked.  In fact, I stayed up past my bedtime last night just to see the pathetic look spread across Dawson's massive forehead when he discovered that his best friend and ex were, in fact, an item.  I would have kept watching, except the next episode's description reads "Dawson and Pacey use a regatta to wage war for Joey's affections."  Unless said regatta involves Pacey poking Dawson's eye out and forcing him to cover the socket with a patch, I can't say I'm too thrilled about this one.  But I'll watch, if only to get to the point where Pacey and Joey actually rip each other's clothes off and go at it.  Sigh.   

Why oh, why, Fox Broadcasting Company, must you thwart me at every turn?  Today, in yet another weak moment of Hollywood hypocrisy, I sent the P.A. over to the Fox lot to track down Season One of "The O.C."  Granted, I don't do this often, as he is most likely rounding up breakfast burritos for my hungover boss in the AM.  In fact, the one and only time I had a DVD crisis was after I completed Season One of "24," when, if you'll remember correctly, Nina Myers had some serious 'splainin' to do.  Well, my sleaziness was rewarded by the distressing news that 20th is not the studio, even though Fox is the network!  Therefore, propaganda rat bastards that they are, they do not carry half-price DVD sets of my beloved O.C.  So, 20th, you may provide me with a weekly paycheck, a meager stipend for health insurance, hell, you even foot the bill for my lunch of bread, string cheese, and Snickers bars most days, but damn you and your failure to provide the poetry of melodrama, dry wit, and tanned hotties that is "The O.C."  I quit... your discounted DVD store.  At least until I finish Season Two of "24" and have to know when someone's going to off that no-good trollop Kimberly Bauer.