December 2005 Archives

I'm done with Christmas shopping!  To celebrate, I'm going to drinks with the bosses' agent's assistant, aka my G-Money pimped out blind date.  We'll be hobknobbing with Heineken in BH, if anyone would like to stop by.  Also, props to the Designated Driver, whose Christmas present was a wonderfully delicious, comfy-cozy mattress topper.  I did not want to get out of bed this morning.  In fact, now that I think about it, I should hurry through drinks in order to get to bed sooner!

The Honeybee bought me a travel pillow for Christmas!  Now, instead of laying my head on the dandruff-encrusted sweater of the dope next to me, I will be red-eyeing it in style this Friday as I make my way home.  Additionally, the bosses have bestowed a very nice nugget of holiday change upon yours truly, and they also saw fit for me to start shopping at Banana Republic, what with their new petite department and all.  But here's the thing - I went in there yesterday, gift certificate in hand (yeah, yeah, I said I would shop for other people, but we all know that's not gonna happen till Friday night at the LAX duty free), and found a dress I loved for Safari Barbie's wedding.  However, Banana's sizes seem to cater to the overindulgent Middle American red states, because I tried on a Petite Zero and it was hanging off me!  My theory (confirmed by a story I read on the Internet) is that, as America's collective ass gets exponentially larger, clever stores make their sizes bigger.  How many women (and maybe it's not just women?) do you know who would buy something in a Size 2, even if it didn't look that great, just because it was a Size 2?  A lot, right?  And I have no beef with that.  I understand.  But when a Zero is hanging off me, ME, not Kate Moss, not one or both of the Olsen twins, that's when we have to start asking ourselves if this labeling thing has gone too far.  Meanwhile, I am perfectly content to frequent the McDonald's around the corner from 1635 in order to shape up for this wedding.

Please, dear God, let this week end.  I don't want to plan any more holiday parties (856 phone calls, most regarding baked versus mashed potatoes, as well as the exclusion of Jesus from our banquet room), have any more t-shirts silk-screened (59 phone calls, 2 trips to Sun Valley, and three typos, one that I didn't catch, which will mean a third trip to Sun Valley), or send cookies to anyone working on a studio lot (12 phone calls, one made by H-Berts when the delivery failed to arrive on time).  Why is it that people can't just do their jobs?  Why do they tell you one thing, then completely fuck it up?  It's no wonder I don't trust anyone.  Please, someone, restore my faith in the human race.  Although maybe you won't have to... I'm going to see "Just Friends" tonight. 

I HAVE GOT TO STOP DRINKING AT WORK!!!  H-Berts and G-Money like to break out the red wine at day's end, then work for another three hours.  I, meanwhile, am about to pass out on my keyboard, with H-Berts's voice ringing in my ear, "You're gonna be on this show, Melissa.  We're gonna put you in front of the camera.  Can you play twelve?  I think you can.  Lay off the booze."  But it was too late... Sigh. 

I am sooo close to finishing up this feature film spec I need to send to the agents before week's end.  For those of you far away from LaLa land, the town shuts down for two weeks around the holidays, this time starting Friday.  That means no one returns phone calls or emails, 911 goes on vacay, and you can get dinner reservations at Spago with ten minutes notice.  So seriously, I need to get this script to them.  Then why, you might ask, are you posting on Xanga instead of making cuts and tracking character arc?  Because I have a real hard time being satisfied with anything I ever write.  Except yesterday's post about Ryan Seacrest.  Maybe I should just send that to the agents...  To all of you who have been kind enough to read this script eight thousand times, my sincere thanks.  That goes for you, Designated Driver, as well as The Hottie, and The Wise Man, who managed to incorporate the following subtext into his actual notes - "I hate you with such a fervent passion it makes my bones curl into bowling pins that are curled."  Who says guys aren't honest?  Besides, it's the passion that matters, right, guys?  Right? 

  

Reason Number 387 why I need an iPod:

This morning, I am jogging along at a pace somewhere between snail and snail-half-assing-it-pre-coffee.  As I flip through the channels on my circa-late-90s yellow Sports Walkman (it weighs more than my free weights), I hear the following excerpt as "Golddigger" is fading off 102.7:

Ryan Seacrest:  (singing/rapping??)  Get down girl, go 'head, get down. (repeat twelve thousand times)

Do I really, really need to hear Ryan Seacrest's faux-rap disaster at 7:30 in the morning?  It's bad enough when he says shit like, "I've got my chai tea soy latte, my new Marie Claire, and now it's time to say, Seacrest, out!"  Oh, you are so out, Ryan, when I get ahold of three hundred bucks and a closet to push you from. 

 

 

 

Sometimes, I love the Internet.  How else would I have gotten two thirds of my holiday shopping done without leaving my swivel chair?  Other times, however, I'm not so sure.  For, with the wealth of information out there on the, uh, "Information Superhighway," how is one ever supposed to make an informed decision?  Example:  Five years ago, my mother convinced me that Wendy's hamburgers were made of earthworms.  How did you find this out?  I asked her.  Her response:  "I read it on the Internet."  Fast forward to, well, now, and my tendency to self-diagnose illnesses.  So I log onto WebMD and check my symptoms:  some coughing, sore throat, etc., etc.  Now, according to this most reliable of medicinal dictionaries, I have either A.) lupus, B.) renal failure, or C.) AIDS.  Hmmmm... I was hoping for the "common cold."  But no, WebMD is a conspiracy theory to terrify hypochondriacs and therefore ensure the financial prosperity of Blue Cross/Blue Shield.  Not realizing this quite yet, I call up my doctor.  Here is the conversation that followed:

Me:  I think I have AIDS. 

Doctor:  (riotous laughter)

Me:  No, I'm serious.  WebMD says--

Doctor:  (cough, cough, laugh, laugh)  --I'm sorry.  For a second there, I thought you said you'd diagnosed yourself with AIDS.  On the Internet. 

Well, when he says it like that, sure it sounds like I'm the crazy one.  But go on WebMD, people.  If you don't convince yourself you're terminally ill within a half hour's time, I will eat my hat.  Also, if you do diagnose yourself with AIDS, do not go see "Rent."   

Yesterday was a day without coffee, and, therefore, a day without a blog entry, mainly because my brain was swimming in a murky maze of caffeine withdrawal.  That, coupled with a journey to Sun Valley, left me plum tuckered by day's end, and I settled down to watch "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" at around 8 PM.  By 8:30 (and this has absolutely nothing to do with the quality of the film), I was fast asleep.  See, here's the deal:  It happens more times per week than I can count.  I tell myself I won't fall asleep if, due to one of my roommates waching something in the living room, I need to relegate my movie-watching to my bedroom.  No problem, I think.  My computer has a very wide screen, and the picture is of decent quality.  But I run into trouble when I snuggle underneath the flannel sheets, two pillows propped under my head... and before you know it, bang, I'm out.  Like a faulty lightbulb.  Alas, even Johnny Depp failed to keep my interest.  I feel I have jilted him, so I'll be trying the movie out again this weekend.  Maybe during daylight hours, though...  And I'll sit in a very uncomfortable chair.  Perhaps even on a stool.  That oughta keep me from nodding off.  But then if I do, BAM, right into the Christmas tree I'll go.  And then there'll be tinsel in my hair.  Good God, I'm such a mess, huh?

Also, I got a sweet email from my friend from home, Spierce, saying she's a reader.  Yay!  There's more than two of you!

Holy crap!  By my usually wrong calculations, Christmas is less than three weeks away.  In fact, I'd say it's not a stretch to call it two and a half.  I have got to get crackin' on this whole shopping thing.  Plus, the Designated Driver has promised Iplish and I a tree, complete with ornaments, lights, and the potential for apartment fires.  Granted, Iplish will only be around for about twenty-four hours of said arbor enjoyment, but I for one plan to spend the rest of the month curled up under the tree with the cats and a bourbon-saturated mug of egg nog.  Of course, this portrait of holiday perfection will be ruined when Peter starts humping Max, a sight that curbs even my enjoyment of the Tim Allen Christmas movies we will have running on a loop beginning this weekend.  Never let it be said that the girls at 1635 lack holiday cheer. 

In other news, the Tennis Pro was more than happy to accept my invitation to the office party.  I promised him filet mignon and karaoke.  Guys are so easy sometimes...   

My friend and former roommate Safari Barbie is getting married in D.C. on December 27th.  Resourceful as I am, I have already made my travel plans:  plane tickets have been purchased, rental cars reserved, and overpriced Williams Sonoma woodmill salt and pepper shakers shipped off to the happy couple, complete with an encouraging little note about love from Yours Truly.  However, as I was patting myself on the back for my organization and forethought, I caught sight of the small print at the bottom of the invitation:  "Black Tie Optional."  CRRRRRRAAAAPPPPP... Do you know what this means?  Well, I'll tell you.  It means that, instead of spending Christmas getting liquored up and watching every Bon Jovi concert from 1980 to the end of time (my dad owns them all on DVD and/or VHS), I will be digging through my closet for the crushed velvet and tulle that served as my prom dress at the conclusion of the last millennium.  Luckily, I will have several dozen of Mammy Jane's homemade bourbon balls to keep me company in the throngs of apparel combat.  However, if anyone would like to loan me a dress, I am also open to that option.  My family will thank you for the freed-up karaoke time.  Can you say "Dead or Alive?"   

Ah, the weekend.  A time for rest, a time for relaxation, a time for... "Narnia," the best movie of the year, in my not so humble opinion.  If you have spoken to me in the past 48 hours, I apologize for yapping your ear(s) off about this magical film.  Now, listen, people, it takes a lot for me to escape reality.  I might be enjoying a film, but in the back of my mind, I'm always thinking, "Yeah, she's about to get murdered, but at least her car's not leaking oil."  Or, "Yeah, the world's probably about to end, but at least these people have tried and true broccoli casserole recipes, as opposed to the new one I'm not gonna have time to sample before I make it for that very important dinner tonight."  But "Narnia" is the exception.  It is a phenomenal movie because, regardless of whether you're a naive child or a world-weary adult, it reduces you to a simpering pile of hope.  You can't help it.  You will believe in goodness, in nobility, in honesty and humanity.  Even if you try oh-so-hard not to. It is a shining example of why film is indeed unique, of how it differs in the way it speaks to you visually and emotionally from any other artistic medium.  So if you want to have a conversation with me within the next few months, go see "Narnia."  Otherwise, we'll have nothing to discuss, because that's all I'm gonna be yammering on about for at least the next sixty days.  The masterpiece comes to life December 9th.     

Mom has called me out on the "chilling" comment... and granted, I'm pretty sure I've been grating on her nerves this past month, but I'm an only child, I can't help it.  If my parents had wanted me to be more independent, they should have had at least seven more children.  Moving on, I arrived at work today determined to actually, well, do some work.  I needed to write a bio for my bosses for publicity purposes, organize the entrees for the holiday party, call up the production coordinator and give her revisions for the crew list, and the list goes on.  Enter G-Money with her new laptop, some breakfast sandwiches, and a gift certificate to Macy's.com, and damned if I didn't even sit down at my own desk until noon.  After all, we had to talk dresses for the holiday party, as well as peruse lunch menus as we noshed on meat, egg, cheese, and carb concoctions.  Speaking of said holiday party, if I asked someone to go with me over 48 hours ago and haven't heard back, is it acceptable to ask someone else?

So at last I am here to satisfy your curiosity.  The agent meeting went well.  And honestly, how could it not have?  Pair me with a couple of vodka tonics and some fancy schmancy potato skins, and I'm bound to have a good time regardless of the company.  Food and drink aside, however, the Agents, as they will come to be known, are charming, witty, and everything else they should be in order to successfully pimp out a few dozen insecure, afraid-to-make-eye-contact, eight-time fashion police offenders that, in laymen's terms, are known as writers.  Although I must say I felt a special bond with these two - so much so that, after my second drink, I confessed my love of hot dogs.  At which point they asked me the million dollar question - "Ketchup or mustard?"  My mind rewound to my conversation with the Honeybee a few weeks ago, and I responded with a quick sip of my Stoli, "Why, mustard, of course."  After that, the sky was the limit.  They asked to read something else, there was talk of next staffing season, and I am content to sit back and wait for their next move.  After all, one of my many talents is chilling.