November 2005 Archives

Tonight is my big meeting, and I still haven't figured out what to wear.  I don't want to look like too much of a slut, nor do I want to cross the line into "writer" territory (aka plaid shirt and drunken smirk).  I'm hoping to get there early and toss back a shot of Jim Beam in order to ward off the coughing that's been plaguing me, as well as any stray nerves that might invade my personal space.  There's nothing worse than being nervous, and there's no better cure for it than drinking.  Wish me luck!

Surprise, surprise!  I'm back, stuffed full of turkey and wine and small town gossip.  Even though yesterday was possibly the worst day of my life, what with a twelve hour journey, a Super Shuttle packed full of UCLA Co-eds and their ridiculously typical views of Los Angeles ("I feel stupider since I moved here" - Please, you're wearing a Dawson Leery-inpsired pea coat.  You weren't that smart to begin with), college ("It's soooo hard."  Hahahahahahahahahahaha!  That's all I have to say about that), and this slut named Katie they all discovered they knew.  Oh, my God, you had brunch with Katie!  Oh, my God!  Wherever you are, Katie, fuck you and your brunch dates.  You are the reason I had to endure squeals of delight and adrenaline-induced laughter from three blonde chicks and a sexually confused guy named Phil.  Top that off with no coffee to be found anywhere from here to Pasadena (granted, I was only looking in my office, but still), and you can pretty much see how I crawled into bed around 8 PM, pulled the covers over my head, and cried for my mommy (and Mom, now that you've been introduced to the blog, Welcome.)  Of course, although I fell asleep around 8, I forgot to set my alarm for 9 to pick up the Honeybee from the airport.  When she called, I found myself making VRRRMMM noises to simulate my car's engine, as if I were driving instead of slobbering onto my pillow with "24" playing in the background.  I told the Honeybee I was dropping Keifer Sutherland off before picking her up.  And, since L.A. makes people stupider, she believed me. 

My Thanksgiving was absolutely delightful.  We had everyone over on Saturday, since I didn't get in until 6 AM Thursday morning, only to turn around and sleep till 2.  But my family knows how to show up, eat, and get the hell out so that my parents and I have plenty of time to drink. 

Another highlight of my trip home was watching "The Girl Next Door."  I had gone down to my pal the Entrepreneur's place to pick up some movies (he believes in "Shaun of the Dead" as a cure for all that ails you just like I believe in "Go"), and he happened to be watching said romantic comedy.  I, of course, couldn't help but join in when I saw the bewitchingly cute Emile Hirsch, followed by Elisha Cuthbert aka Kimberly Bauer.  I just had to see if she was going to do anything death-defyingly stupid.  And she didn't.  So way to go Elisha!   

Since everyone and their dog is posting about Harry Potter, I feel the need to throw my hat in the ring.  Not about the film's actual merits (or lack thereof), but a more general discussion of movie theater etiquette.  Because, due to Sociology's annoying friend Likes to Yap During the Movies, I barely remember anything about said film.  Except the fact that Ronald is gonna be a legal hottie in about a year.  Until then, I shall make due with anyone from 18-22.  I need to practice with the younguns.

Here are some general rules that, if you're going to see a movie with me, you should follow to the letter:

1.)  If you purchase popcorn, ask for butter in the middle.  Otherwise, I will consider your intelligence sub-par, to say the least.

2.)  If you purchase popcorn, include an order of Reese's Pieces.  The combination is a delightful State Fair in your mouth.  Sans the ferris wheel and inbred carnies, of course.

3.)  Feel free to speak to me during the commercials.  We can chat politics, movie stars, hell, even the weather.  However, when those lights dim and that green screen with the trailer rating appears, shut your godawfully annoying trap.  Otherwise, I will long for that buttered popcorn to lodge in your throat and saturate your arteries with cholesterol.

4.)  Do not, under any circumstances, speak to me once the movie has started.  I don't care if you're choking on popcorn, your arteries are clogged, or some line of dialogue has triggered the memory of your first pet Sparky and the day you had to send him to Doggie Heaven.  Shut.  Up. 

5.)  In the same vein, don't ask me questions.  Examples:  The Sixth Sense... Wait, so, is Bruce Willis like, dead?  Armageddon... Wait, so, is Bruce Willis like, dead?  You get the picture.

6.)  And this is perhaps the most important.  I know some of you consider movie watching a bonding experience with your friends.  In horror flicks, you will grab each other's arms and squeal; in comedies, you'll share a look chock full of laughter.  Don't try that shit with me.  I consider movie watching a personal experience.  I can't stand when the person sitting next to me looks over at me during a funny/scary/disturbing part, wanting me to share their reaction.  Nope.  Sorry.  Not gonna happen.  But if you want to bond with me, there are other ways.  Wink, wink.  Wait.  What?   

If anyone has not been to Santa Barbara, I highly (and by "highly," I mean I'm actually high as I write this) recommend it.  The sunshine, the lack of smog, the serving of brunch until well in the afternoon... ah, the serenity. 

In other news, a couple of agents at Gersh read my O.C. spec and want to meet me.  Suckers...  Wonder what I should wear... Suggestions?

What a difference a cup of coffee makes... After stumbling through yesterday feeling straight out of "Requiem for a Dream," I am back with a feverish fervor that... burns.  What? 

I FINALLY had my G-Money pimped-out date last night, and let me tell you, CVG's Asst., as he will now be known, was quite the charmer.  Not only did he purchase the beers, he appeared to have ironed his shirt, a feat I have yet to conquer.  In the eyes of my grandmother, this is a sin equivalent to the ill-fated Tower of Babel fiasco.  How will I ever communicate with my husband if I don't know how to starch his shirts?  Anyay, the drinks were fantabulous, the company pleasant, but by the end I was almost snoring into my Heineken, I was so tired. 

Today, however, I started out my morning with some French Roast Starbucks and a poppyseed muffin.  The coffee was perfect-o, but the muffin was NOT one of those 1,000 calorie warm buttery things, so I was not as pleased with it.  I love inhaling two thirds of my daily calories via breakfast baked goods.  There's something so fantastically fall about it.  But don't think I stopped there.  Oh, no.  Today, the office ordered from one of my favorite BH cafes, Jack and Jill's.  H-Berts picked up some pink and white cake that, due to his case of the flu, he couldn't finish.  I grabbed it as soon as he said he was about to vom... I can't let that stuff go to waste, even if I am going to get the flu next week!  There's white chocolate chips dotting the icing, for Christ's sake!

And now, the Staff Writer from Planet Talented, as I like to call her, has stopped by.  Being the hip chick that she is, she saw fit to bring me a mini-bar bottle of Courvoisier.  And in my book, there's no better way to start the weekend than with a swig of the stuff that made The Ladies Man famous.  Happy Friday all!   

I need hot chocolate.  I made the mistake of hallucinating through my day sans-coffee, and now I find all the symptoms of withdrawal running rampant:  bags under the eyes, pale skin, loss of will to live.  Can anyone help me?  Oooh, baby, baby, it's a wild world.  Hard to get by... just upon a Diet Coke. 

Gulp.  What kind of horrible faux-blogger am I?  I left all of you people who don't bother to comment high and dry for an entire week!  How relieved you must have felt.  A week without my pop culture-influenced rantings, discount DVD namedropping, and cooking shenanigans.  Where have I been, you ask?  Here is a detailed recounting of my every move from this weekend on:

Friday - The Honeybee and I go to see Saw II.  It's so lovely having her in town.  After all, she's the only person to whom I'd admit that that movie made me crave a hot dog like processed pork was going out of style.  Which I think it already has... As we're leaving the theater, we proceed to have the following most boring conversation west of a retirement home:

Me:  I sure do like mustard.

The Honeybee:  Yep.  Mustard's good. 

Other people with whom I'm not so close would probably distance themselves from me after such a revelation, but that's the thing with the Honeybee.  She doesn't mind my retarded, boring word vomit, and I don't mind her hearing it. 

Saturday:  I rush to the grocery, hoping to pick up some baking supplies before I have to let the maid in (the maid is always late).  The maid is early.  I curse her name as I'm searching high and low for bread crumbs, then curse myself for acting like a bored housewife who curses at the maid while she's trying to find bread crumbs. 

Saturday afternoon:  Sociology is in town, so she and I take a hike in Griffith Park with her pal Physics.  Physics is cool, except he likes to skip.  If you like to skip, and I don't know this about you, keep it from me.  I will loathe you and your optimistic view of both the world and the gaits you use to travel through it.

Saturday night:  The Designated Driver has a sex toy party in our living room.  I drink way too much wine and eat way too much goat cheese, so much so that I contemplate buying a pyrex dildo named Lancelot who packs about the same number of inches in length as I do in height.  I whisper my intentions to the Honeybee, who replies, "Oh, God no, you can't buy him.  There would be blood everywhere!"  Luckily, we are sitting in the corner where I can snort red wine through my nose unnoticed.

Sunday:  God decides He loves me, bestowing an all-day Roseanne marathon upon my used-to-be angelic self.  I seriously consider going to church.  Instead, I eat some cheese.

Monday:  I have only vague recollections of Monday, mainly because I was hurrying to get home to Season Three of "24."  But I'm pretty sure I have that bird flu whatchamacalit after a conversation with my hypochondriac bosses.  The need to ban Web MD on all of our computers.  But no, they ban porn instead.  Go fucking figure.

Tuesday:  My father calls to see where the new laptop he ordered is.  I remind him that I  am not Dell, nor can I call there after I dropped the F-bomb several times during the month-long negotation with their service department when I was trying to get a new power cord.  I'm pretty sure I'm on their "No-Fly" list.  I wonder if "I will hunt you down and shove my five foot long Pyrex dildo up your ass" would have gotten me further....

Wednesday:  It's Dawson's night with the Other Me!!!  I must prepare for the hormones, the hype, and the high forehead.  Wish me luck! 

           

Today has been particularly satisfying in terms of the things I needed to accomplish/things I actually did accomplish ratio.  I woke up pre-alarm, greeted the dawn, answered a couple of emails, then set out to make a grocery list.  I even walked my lazy ass into the kitchen to count the eggs in the refrigerator!   That's efficiency for you.  I knew the day was going to bring a number of wonders when I set out for my morning jog only to be blessed with Right Said Fred.  See, when you don't own an iPod, you are at the mercy of the DJ-yapping, Rod Stewart-loving atrocities L.A. calls radio stations.   Thank God (whom I hear loathes Rod Stewart) for Jack FM.  By the time I had hacked off half of my work to-do list mid-morning, I was ready to start writing.  Which I did.  For over an hour.  And now, after a turkey sandwich and a blast of warmth from the heater in my office, I am ready for a nap.  Perhaps I will settle for some hot chocolate...

Oh, wait, no time to nap just yet.  H-Berts, who has been writing behind closed doors with nothing but Tangerine breath mints and decaf coffee as sustenance, just called me into his office with the following faux proposition:

H-Berts:  Melissa, call the Writers' Guild.  See how they react when you tell them you're writing Act V of this episode.

Me:  I think they'll burn this bitch down. 

One day, I will take the WGA by storm.  But alas, today is not that day.

Keep in mind that I'm not giving you the context for this conversation (because what fun would that be?), but the following is quite possibly the funniest phone greeting I've ever gotten when I called my mother:

Mom:  Let me guess.  The doctor called back, and you actually DO have AIDS. 

Wow.  What kind of hormone-induced, toxic, blathering cloud of sentiment was I high on yesterday?  Not to fear, folks, I'm back, complete with scathing glares and total disapproval of any sort of trust in humanity.   To celebrate the return of my old self, I headed over to the discounted DVD store and purchased Season 3 of "24."  As of now, I find the real-time format to be a more-than-adequate substitute for true love.

Something about this weather has enveloped me in a wopping episode of sentimental nostalgia.  But not general nostalgia of the leaf-turning, fire-burning, turkey-baking type.  This is more specific to one memory:

I am twenty, living in Saint Petersburg, and it's summer, the season where there is barely any darkness.  Instead, the clouds turn a rosy pink at 2 AM, and it is impossible to sleep (I know, I know, I'm usually the type to be passed out on the couch by the time "Prison Break" rears its ugly head, but this is different).  Because we can't sleep, The Only Guy I've Ever Loved and I are out for a stroll along the banks of the Neva, which is the river that runs right through the city.  In winter, it is completely frozen, bank to bank, from the prison that housed Lenin to the Hermitage that housed the czars, and drunk Russians like to drive their ancient Novas across the ice in wild zigzags.   But tonight, this morning, we don't really know what time it is, and it doesn't matter, the water is lapping at the edge of the shore, and I stop to watch it.  The Only Guy I've Ever Loved is also the only guy who knows and respects that there are times I live completely in my head.  So he lets me stop without asking why, and I'm just standing there, looking at the pink clouds, at the Baltuka plant across the river that manufactures my favorite beer (it tastes a little like Sprite, dark Sprite), knowing that he is right behind me, making sure no one disturbs me.  I don't think I've ever loved anyone like I do him right then. 

Tune in tomorrow for a return of the jaded, cynical me.  Perhaps I'm better that way...        

It's been an epic week in the life of 1635.  Not only is everyone trying to rock their mattress springs with someone else in the building, making for a regular Melrose Place-plus-a-landlord-who-waters-the-cement-type habitat, but I taught the Pony (who, with his 400 threadcount sheets, is possibly the worst of the Andrew Shue-wannabes) how to make Derby pie.  We used Knob Creek instead of Jim Beam for a good dose of sophistication, then settled down to watch "Go" while waiting for the chocolatey goodness.   The Pony had never seen it, but I'm pretty sure my opening comment as the Columbia Tri-star logo appeared onscreen sealed his opinion.  All you have to do to get someone to suppress their true feelings about a movie they've never seen is to let them know you judge your friends by whether or not they like said film.  Their respective dislike of "Go" has caused me to quit returning  a friend's calls, dump my one true soulmate, and put an abandoned kitten back on the street.  While he was crying.  Life begins at 3 AM.  Accept it, embrace it, or don't fucking call me. 

As many of you know from my griping and complaining for the past... however long you've known me, I like to gripe and complain.  I will bitch for years about that one snide comment you made about my scrunchie choice back in 1987.  So it's no surprise how much of a toll this move has taken on me.  However, now that we are semi-settled in, I thought I'd give you a glimpse of my nicer side. 

Here are the top 5 things I love about being on the lot:

5.)  Residing a mere 50 feet from the writing staff of both "Arrested Development" and "The Simpsons."  "The Simpsons" staff has the Rolls Royce of golf carts... maybe one day, Mitchell Hurwitz.  You deserve it.

4.)  The discounted DVD store.  I know I swore you off back in September, but today, when I entered your hallowed halls for the first time, the amazing prospect of buying all the seasons of "24" for less than a hundred bucks slammed me in the face like a barreling Mac truck chock full of Reese's pieces.

3.)  Curly fries at the commissary.  To which I say, to hell with you, Arby's!  I don't need the 15 minute drive to Santa Monica any more. 

2.)  All the tech guys who tell me to have a nice day, or tell me my eyes are beautiful.  Except today when that happened, I smiled back, and the guy looked at me kind of funny.  So I turned around, and there was a much, much hotter girl behind me.  Whatever.  I had curly fries to look forward to.

1.)  My own office!  Complete with windows that actually open and a very nice view of... the barbed wire that divides the lot from the adjacent neighborhood and a shed so creepy and creaky it can only be used to molest children. 

Wow.  I did not expect the last two words of that top 5 list to be "molest children."  I need a drink. 

To All of you Lovely People (Person?) Who Read my Blog:

I'm sorry.  This past weekend, what with the plethora of tequila shots, bad horror films, and the rest of my life reading somewhat like a horrific Jackie Collins novel, I've lost my blogging Mojo.  Top all those things off with a more-than-slightly Satanic IT guy handling our move, and there's no question why my will to live is slowly seeping onto the vomit-green carpet of my new office.  Which I locked myself out of this morning.

Luckily, "Jarhead" comes out Friday.  If that trailer didn't give me such spine-tingling, mind-blowing chills, rest assured I'd be after some cheap household cleanser to drink while writing out my last wishes on a steno pad from the writers' room.  Man, the Designated Driver would be pissed - although, you know what, I think the maid's coming tomorrow.  She'd get a fat tip if she had to clean me up off the floor.  I'd be helping her, really.