January 2006 Archives

Despite the fact that my eyeballs feel like they're about to explode, I've had an extremely productive day.  Act Five of this pilot I'm writing was being a real bitch, so guess what I did to its free-loading, gold-digging ass?  That's right.  I cut it.  Just chopped it right off, except for one touching break-up scene involving a red turtleneck and a stolen Monet.  According to all of my biz-natch friends, it's fine for a pilot to be written in four acts.  So Take That, Robbie Williams.  If anyone gets that joke, I will bake them a pie.  And if anyone wants to read this piece of shit and give me constructive criticism, please let me know.  Speaking of constructive criticism, how happy am I that the Shitkicker In Chief's State of the Union didn't interrupt my regularly scheduled "24" last night?  I would have been so pissed, what with my imaginary love affair with Jack Bauer.  Remember, Jack, that special time we shared between 12 AM and 2 AM?  I thought it meant something to you.  But then ya just had to go off and live in sin with that slut from "Spin City."  

Despite my break-up with Jack Bauer, there are several good things happening in my life right now.  Here's a run-down:

1.)  The Honeybee ventured all the way over the hill to have lunch with me on the lot yesterday.  However, she had to be escorted off the set when she upbraided one of our celebrity cast for not responding to the fan letter she sent him fifteen years ago.  Okay, okay, maybe that last part's not true...

2.)  The Wise Man volunteered to direct a short if I'd write it.  See, like most Hollywood imbeciles, I've been wanting to dip my toe in the directing pool for quite some time, but I'm... terrified.  Yeah, that's the word.  So being able to shadow him and still care deeply for the material will be eternally helpful in getting me off my comfy writing perch.

3.)  Oscar Nom is in town!  He's such a man.  And by such a man, I mean he always picks the restaurant at which we gorge ourselves on alcohol.  And food, too.  Sometimes.  But he apparently has gotten it into his head that he owes me a birthday dinner, so he wants to take me someplace nice.  Which is fine with me, as long as I can order at least one entree to go.  I mean, why waste a reservation that I'd never be able to get on my own?       

ONE MORE SUPERLATIVE

The Best Trooper... My Mom, who, in the midst of our serious conversation Saturday, said (and here I could hear her lip quivering), "Melissa, you do realize you can tell me anything, but you don't HAVE to tell me EVERYTHING."  But even when I do tell her things she might not want to hear, she always makes me feel better.

WEEKEND SUPERLATIVES

In no particular order, making no particular sense, but I am tired and sick and a little hungry, all this without even being hungover, so bugger off, whores.

Best Pickup Line... "So, wanna go back to my place and play Punch-Out?"  If he'd said Oregon Trail, I would have so fallen for it.  Something about cholera and rancid meat really gets me going.

Best SAG Acceptance Speech... S. Epatha Merkerson.  "And while I'm up here, I need to publicly thank my divorce attorney!  Woo-hoo!!!" 

Worst Idea Ever... From the Irish Asian, while dining at CPK Saturday.  We were talking about the Agents, who are semi-friends with him.

Me:  Now, Agent Who Looks Like Randy Quaid is married, right?

IA:  Right.  Wait.  Do you like the other one, aka Agent Who Doesn't Look Like Randy Quaid, But Who Looks Like John Stamos With a Voice Like Barry White?

Me:  Um, no. 

IA:  It's just, I thought, cause you know, I could make that happen.

For those of you just tuning in to the Faux Reality that is Hollywood, dating your agent is just about the worst idea since the Jump to Conclusions mat.  Just imagine...

Agent:  You haven't been putting out enough lately.  I'm staffing you on "One on One" until you get a little sluttier. 

Or...

Me:  Please stop beating me.

Agent:  Honey, I'm just trying to prepare you for your pitch at Lifetime next week.

And now I'm off to snort some Zicam.

 

 

Last night, H-Berts and G-Money let me go home early.  And by "early," I mean 9 PM.  I actually had this overwhelming feeling of joy, followed by sheer panic... Um, what was I supposed to do for the two free hours I had prior to bedtime?  When I got home, the Designated Driver was there (I know, it's a miracle, right?).  Sadly, she's been sick.  Even sadder, I know if I were sick, she'd be shoving chicken soup down my throat and Zicam up my nose.  But I haven't had time to take any sort of care of anyone, myself included, so she had to content herself with a mere conversation with Yours Truly.  And, as you can probably tell from this blog, I am pretty much the most boring person on the planet.  I work, I sleep, wash, rinse, repeat.  Any conversation I have with another person inevitably comes back to how to schedule shower time into my daily life.  But this weekend, ohhh, this weekend... yeah, I'm working on Iplish's film and so will have to keep the drinking to a minimum.  As for other plans:  Tonight - Drinks with the Bosses' Agent's Assistant, aka the G-Money Pimped Out Blind Date.  When I told G-Money about this, she said, "Expense it."  "I have an expense account?"  I replied.  G-Money - "Ya do now."  Not that he ever lets me pay, but whatever.  Saturday, dinner with the Irish Asian (must remember to bring home his script with all my notes on it from the office).  Sunday, drinks with the Talent Agent, who may or may not have a soul, but I nonetheless find him amusing.  I also find it amusing that only agents who rep actors are referred to as "Talent" agents... cause writers and directors are most certainly not talented.  Speaking of which, we have an extra celeb on set today, and I must be off to see him work his magic.  Y'all have a great weekend, okay?       

Ugh, ugh, ugh.  All this hypochondria, and what do I have to show for it?  The beginnings of a nasty cold, coupled with some nausea and general grumpiness.  Grumpiness being my normal state, however, I'm not too worried about its implications as a symptom.  What's really bad is, although I've been popping Flintstone's vitamins like... well, Flintstone's vitamins, I've been taking the free food as it falls into my lap.  G-Money couldn't finish her buffalo wings, so guess who grabbed them?  I mean, I ate a tangerine afterwards, but geez.  What do I, never want my white blood cell count elevated? Luckily, the day hasn't been too stressful yet - although I'll probably be here till at least 10, so there's no telling what tragedies might befall us before then.  I've also been listening to a lot of nostalgic music on pandora.com, which is pretty much the best website in the world (my thanks to The Wise Man, who referred me to said site in order to get me off his CD-burning back).  What you do, see, is you create your own little free account, put in the kind of stuff you like to listen to, and pandora finds you different artists with similar sounds to the artists you've already said you dig.  Pretty cool, huh?  Almost as cool as the library card I acquired this past weekend.  I never drool more than when I'm in a library, and Saturday was no exception.  Sadly (although I'm also excited about it), I won't have time to re-visit this weekend, as I will be working Iplish's film, with a quick break Saturday to give the Irish Asian script notes.  It's his first attempt at a pilot since his "Perfect Strangers" spin-off didn't pan out, and I have to say he pretty much rocks.  Not only is he actually good, but he sat down and hammered out an entire script.  That takes balls, yo.  See, when you're writing, the first couple of pages are always fun - full of promise, tone-setting, you're thinking oh, these characters are so kooky and original, then wham, Act II rolls around and suddenly you're Harry Potter sans the good genes, getting fucked up the ass by a knife-ended broomstick because everyone knows you're a narcissistic little nitwit and threw your own name in that goblet of fire.  And let me tell you, folks, sometimes that ain't fun.  But seriously, www.pandora.com .  Good times.  Good times.         

A lot of you have been asking me what's going on with this WB/UPN merger, and truth is, I have no clue.  No one has a clue, no one saw it coming, but I can't help but be happy about it because it adds another chink in the armor of my theory that Les Moonves is the most powerful man on the planet.  That and it moves me closer to my dream job, staff writer on "Girlfriends."  Luckily, I am going through a "productive" phase, as opposed to a "surf the web and drool phase" or a "need my mommy" phase, so I'm not too worried about it.  Instead, I am trying to whip this pilot into shape for the agents, who asked me what I was writing next.  Now, keep in mind, they had just said "You should really delve into some original material, we think."  So I replied, "Funny you should mention it, because I'm writing a pilot."  Was I telling the truth?  No.  At least not until the next day, when brainstorming and character development commenced.  So now I've almost got it to the point where I don't think people I ask for notes will stop speaking to me.  In other words, it's not sooo embarrassingly bad.  In fact, I'm kind of starting to like it.  It's one of those things where I've had the characters in my mind for a really, really long time, and they were just sitting there, like "When the fuck are you gonna let us out to play?"  And so I did.  In a very soapy, very "I can tell this girl digs The O.C." kind of way.  Speaking of my "O.C." spec, the bosses have found out about it... in a very Hollywood way, over cocktails at their agent's holiday party, at which point they responded "That sneaky little bitch."  Ah, I love them dearly.  Now, do I shove said script in their faces as the uncertainty of our futures weighs heavily upon us, or do I get them drunk and take advantage then?

Although the shit is hitting the fan here a bit today (we have yet to see whether it is good or bad shit - such is Hollywood), I did get a call from Oscar Nom.  Some background on Oscar Nom:  I "interned" for him when I lived in NYC.  And by "interned," I mean went drinking with him and watched free cable at his office/apartment.  But I hadn't heard from him in a few weeks. 

Oscar Nom:  Hey, it's me.

Me:  OMG, where have you been?

Oscar Nom:  My cell phone got completely destroyed.  I had to go through old phone bills to find your number.

Me:  Wow.  Creepy.

Oscar Nom:  I know!  (pause)  So listen, I read your script...

Me:  (sitting up, alarmed)  Uh, what script?

Oscar Nom:  The one you sent me three months ago.  YOU KILL ME.

Me:  Holy crap.  That's my least favorite script ever.  I can't believe I sent you that.

Oscar Nom:  Oh.  Well, uh, I really liked it.

So, liking the script aside, his reading totally caught me off guard.  I didn't remember sending him the script, which I've already kind of outgrown - the most applicable analogy here is as follows:  It's like someone seeing you naked back before you got a chance to lose the Freshman 15.  You want another chance.  But you're not gonna get it, cause you were drunk and made a bad decision, and, well, you blew it.  Luckily, I'm pretty sure he still thinks I'm hot, even if he now knows I can't write for shit.  Shit, shit, shit.   

Every once in awhile, you see a movie that sticks with you.  Or there are, at the very least, moments you can't let go of.  Like in CHINATOWN, when Roman Polanski oh-so-effortlessly rips Jack Nicholson's nostril in two, or in that paragon of all that is right with the film world, GO, when Sarah Polley passes baby Aspirin off as X, encouraging the poser teenagers to "take a lot of pot with it.  I mean, like, A LOT of pot.  Like, a lot."  I get it.  I get the tendency to relate everything in your life to something you see onscreen, to take lessons away from film, to let its energy and the way it allows you to look at your own world affect you.  What I don't understand is my mother's endless quoting of DRUMLINE, which she apparently saw for the first time this weekend.  Our Saturday chat went something like this:

Me:  So, I'm really having a crisis here.  Should I have a bagel or cereal for breakfast?

Mom:  Oooohhh, good question.  It reminds me of that scene in DRUMLINE, when the girl tells the guy she's a Southern sister, and they don't do casual--

Me:  --Stop.  I get the point.  And you're right, I should go with cereal. 

Mom:  SNAP!

Me:  Please don't say snap.

Regardless, I think I will be suckered into watching said film, if only to interpret Mom's advice over the next few months.  And for those of you who asked me, I have opted for Kentucky instead of NYC for President's Day.  But the real good news of the day is that we are getting Chipotle for lunch!  That's right, the White Castle of Mexican food!  It's like that scene in DRUMLINE, when they really wanted a chicken fajita burrito with tomatillo-chili salsa...

Look, people, I know you're anxious to hear all about my ongoing shenanigans, but there's no need to get violent about your need for my lack of wit.  All I have to say is, working fifteen hour days is doing wonders for my mental health.  I don't have time to worry.  I don't have time to have dramatic love altercations (although, come to think of it, I pretty much gave those up when I was... I was gonna say 15, but now I'm thinking it was more like last year).  Yesterday, for example, I was in the office by 9 AM, headed to set downtown around 4, and was in my car to drive home by midnight.  I'd probably be bitching and complaining if set were a place at which I had to drag cables, fetch coffee, or wait in line for food.  But it's not.  I get my own headset, and I sit in my chair watching the monitors during takes.  It's pretty much like what I'd be doing if I were at home - watching television.  Except this is more like a television/theatre combo, with the hotties standing ten feet away.  I could touch them, if I wanted to.  But I don't.  Because I also want to keep my job. 

There is no excuse for my blogging delay.  Oh, wait!  Yes, there is!  I've been introducing myself around set, high-fiving celebrities, and eating free pizza all freakin' day!  To top it all off, H-Berts and G-Money have been showered with affection from their other successful friends.  Affection at this level, however, comes in the form of gigantic muffin baskets and tropical fruit hampers.  That's right, folks, I said hampers.  Filled with tropical fruit, most of which G-Money won't touch due to her rampant fear of malaria.  Which means more for me.  And I think I deserve love from a hamper after this fourteen hour day. 

In the whirlwind that is our first day of shooting, I haven't had much time to concentrate on my love of "Roseanne," my hatred of Ryan Seacrest, or my numerous infectious diseases.  And honestly, what else is there?  I've been wracking my brain, and the answer is, not much.  I've also been doing random Internet research on volunteer opportunities, which my mom thinks will help dissolve this random mental breakdown thingie I've been/was going through, but the place where I want to work, Project Angel Food, requires a weekday orientation.  And I'm pretty sure if I took a day off now, I'd get fired.  It's not that I do a lot, it's just-- well, okay, I'm here basically every waking hour in case something disastrous happens, so I WAIT to do a lot.  So I don't see how I can work that one out.  And some of the requirements to work at AIDS Project Los Angeles are pretty stringent - I mean, I speak Russian, not Spanish, people.  Shouldn't learning a new alphabet be enough?  I want there to be some kind of charity where I bake a lot of pies and deliver them to people who either smush them in my face or offer to share with me.  Speaking of which, this whole production thing has really brought my appetite back.  I guess getting up at 5:30 to go jogging before you have to report to set helps, but then there's craft services, with their smiling vats of Krispy Kremes and fresh coffee and muffins and fruit and carbs, carbs, carbs.  But I wasn't one of the dumbasses who minded carbs in the first place.  And that is all there is to my life right now.  Good night.   

Ryan Seacrest is a horrible human being.  He does this thing, this horrible awful thing on his radio show (and no, I'm not talking about his open infatuation with high fashion or hair gel).  No.  This is a trick that people can play on their significant others when they suspect them of cheating.  What happens is some chick from 102.7 will call up said suspected cheater and tell them that, as a promotional thingamabobber, they've won free flowers to be sent to the recipient of their choice.  Today's trick went a little something like this (I don't remember the guy's name, so I'll just call him Jose).

Woman:  All you have to do is give me a name and a message for the card.

Jose:  Wow!  That's great.  And you won't charge me anything?

Woman:  Not a dime.  All I need is the name.

Jose:  Then I guess I'll send them to Racquel. 

Woman:  And the message?

Jose:  I miss you, baby.

Jose's Wife:  (chiming in) Jose?  This is your wife.  Who the $%^*% is Racquel?

Jose:  Uh, uh, I don't... she works with me.

Woman from the Radio:  And you miss her?

Ryan Seacrest:  Jose, this is Ryan Seacrest.

Long, awkward pause as it is ascertained no one gives a shit that Ryan Seacrest is on this call. 

But Jesus, what is wrong with him?  One of these days, Ryan, when I figure out how to clean the tape player in my car...

I may have made a bad decision.  Today, at the Commissary (aka the cafeteria on the Lot), they had three dollar crab cakes.  Gross, right?  Well, hear me out.  No way, no how was I about to eat three dollar crab cakes.  You couldn't pay me enough Chuck E. Cheese tokens to buy that gorilla doll (you know the one - that crazy, keyboard-rockin' ape).  But then... like a light from the heavens, or from the emergency room I'm sure I'll end up in tonight, there it was.  If you bought the special, you got a free raffle ticket, the prize of which was (drum roll, please).... Season 4 of "24!"  So I buckled.  I bought the "Conspiracy Crab Cakes" (so named in honor of "24).  If I win, I plan on toting the set to my hospital bed.  I wonder if my insurance will pay for a DVD player...  Or maybe imitation crab doesn't cause food poisoning. 

Taken from a phone call with the Honeybee, last night at approximately 7:48 PM. 

The phone RINGS.  I pick up.

Me:  Hello?

The Honeybee:  Change of plans.

Me:  Do we have plans?

The Honeybee:  No.  But I'm changing them.  Plan B.

Me:  Good.  Cause I'm busy tonight.

The Honeybee:  Doing what?  Watching "Roseanne?"

Me:  (mumbled) Yes.  (then, defensive) But I just got Season One, and it's before all the plastic surgery and schizophrenia, and Darlene's barking during her social studies class, so Roseanne has to ask George Clooney for time off--

The Honeybee:  Plan C.  We're no longer friends. 

 

 

 

I'm morphing into a superhero, I think.  Haha, I'm just kidding.  But seriously, I have gotten a ton of stuff done today.  I started out the morning with a jog, then rushed through the shower and headed to the dentist.  The last time I went to the dentist, which was six months ago, I hadn't been in, count 'em, one, two, three, four years.  In fact, I could barely eat the night before when I went to dinner with my writer friend Oscar Nom.  He wanted to talk about my writing career (he's kind of my mentor), I wanted to talk about my deathly fear of cavities (I've never had one - a cavity that is; or a writing career, now that I think of it).  And, like most "diseases," if they exist, I'm pretty sure I have them.  However, imagine my surprise the next morning, when the following conversation occurred:

Dentist:  (examing my X-Rays) So, you haven't been to the dentist since the Clinton administration?

Me:  My teeth sympathize with the Left. 

Dentist:  Well, you have perfect teeth. 

Me:  Are you coming on to me?  Or are you just a Democrat?

This morning's visit was practically a repeat, sans the political whimsy.  No cavities, no gingivitis, but plenty of free toothbrushes, dental floss, and a hot towel to put over my face to relax me.  Not that I need relaxing.  I'm the calmest person in this chair right now. 

And guess what?  Less than a week till we start shooting!!! 

 

"Good and evil, right and wrong were invented for the ordinary average man, the inferior man, because he needs them."

The Wise Man sent me this quote this morning, and, while I find it a tad pretentious in an endearing Hitchcock way, I've been pondering it, mainly because it complements nicely a speech by The Misfit in the Flannery O'Connor short story "A Good Man is Hard to Find" (I was reading it yesterday). The Misfit is talking about the first cell they put him in in the penitentiary (he's a serial killer), saying, "Turn to the right, it was a wall.  Turn to the left, it was a wall.  Look up it was a ceiling, look down it was a floor."  What he's really talking about, of course, is the distinct lack of free will in his life.  So I began to think, what is the ideal situation?  Free will, inhibited by the delineations of good and evil, the definitions
of which are mediocre at best, with infinite choices and the impossibility of satisfaction, or the jail cell, with a fixed course of action about which one never has to have a conscience, because said actions are predetermined by lack of choice?  Free will can be overwhelming and exhausting; lack of choice stifling.  So I choose to answer my own question with a Hemingway quote:  "Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know." 

And none of this has helped me solve my original predicament.  Baked Doritos or Cheez-its?  Fucking free will...

Have you ever had a nightmare about a movie you haven't yet seen?  Saturday, after several white chocolate raspberry martinis poolside at the Avalon Hotel, I settled down in my flannel penguin pajamas, a little Season 3 of "24" to soothe my... okay, well, white chocolate-flavored alcohol pretty much soothes my nerves, but regardless, I drifted off to the calming lull of Jack Bauer saving the world.  Or Los Angeles.  Same fucking diff, am I right, folks?  However, I woke up at 3:35 AM in a cold sweat, convinced there was someone in my apartment besides Max (who was snoring to wake the neighbors a la Bryan Adams).  Now, normal people might just take a few deep breaths and shake it off.  But no.  Not me.  I am not normal.  Not that I'm special - I don't think anybody's actually normal.  I also don't think that these normal people who don't exist will, after having a nightmare about the tremendously horrifying previews for Hostel, do a quick check of the house with their snoring cat in one hand and a dull bread knife in the other.  Said people who don't exist will not then barricade themselves in their bedroom with a heavy desk chair pushed up against the door, carefully tucking the bread knife under their alarm clock.  See, this is why I don't think I could live alone.  But God, don't those previews really make you wanna go see that movie?  Stick Jay Hernandez in a ball gag, throw in some cruel-intentioned Eastern European whores, and I am so there.      

Okay.  It's official.  I want to be proposed to at Souplantation.  I came to this conclusion last night, when I was dining at said restaurant with the Designated Driver and the Honeybee.  Unlimited Caesar salad, 31 flavors of soup, and for God's sake, all the pizza breadsticks, blueberry muffins, and cornbread you can eat!!!  To top it all off, I know I'd be the hottest girl in the place.  Most everyone else wears flower-print sweater sets and looks like they once taught elementary school.  So if you think you'd like to spend the rest of your life with me (silly, silly you), offer to "refill my shrimp bisque" (God, what is it with me and the inuendo lately?) at Souplantation, and I'm bound to say yes.  Plus, you get a ten percent discount if you're a Triple A member.  Which I am, in case you find that sort of roadside preparedness attractive.

 

Today, I pruned a ficus.  No, that's not something perverted.  Although my jeans did end up wet... and wow, this sentence is not turning out like I planned.  Anyway, yes, I am now an expert in ficus pruning.  It was a lovely day for it, seeing as to how it's 80 degrees or some such nonsense outside. 

Now to the question of the day:  Should I go home to Kentucky or to New York for President's Day?  I've been missing my family an awful lot lately.  Sigh...

The following conversation took place between me (Me) and the Irish Asian (IA) over IM this afternoon.  The Irish Asian is responsible for everything good that is happening in my career.  As you can see, he is quite the bright future reality television showrunner:

IA: Hey what was that ABC reality online dating show they had earlier this year?
IA: I can't remember what it was called
IA: Hooking up!
Me: Why?  Do you want to be on it?
IA: No, I think I was on it
Me: What????
IA: They shot that whole thing before I totalyl dried out
IA: ABC News produced it
IA: Just kidding, I wasn't on that show
Me: Man, I thought I knew a celebrity. 
IA: You were this close
Me: What was the premise?  To introduce two people and see if they'd hook up?
IA: No, it wasn't that tawdry
IA: It followed four or five women who were meeting guys online, and their various dates, etc.
Me: Well, I'd like to develop a reality show called "Will They Do It on the First Date?"
Me: And the spinoff - "Will They Use Protection?"
IA: Hahaha. And the third show, when it's a runaway smash hit, hosted by Shar Jackson: "Can They Find a Babysitter"

Yeah, I don't know if anyone else finds that last bit funny, but I nearly vomited into my Diet Coke.

Last night I worked until 9 PM.  Not bad, considering there is plenty of food, caffeine, gum, and hairspray stocked at our office.  See, the entire business runs like a gigantic lock-in, sans the bowling alley or human flypaper game.  I, however, am not accustomed to the long hours.  I can handle them, but only if I do absolutely nothing else.  For example, last night I drove home grooving to "White Lines" (think "Shaun of the Dead"), gave the cats fresh water, and settled down to watch "Law & Order," my usual weeknight routine.  However, about ten minutes into the episode, I was passed out drooling on the couch.  By the time the Designated Driver rolled in at 10:30, I was barely prepared for my usual farce of pretending to be awake when I was actually drooling onto the couch pillow that Max humps on a thrice-weekly basis (when Peter's heart condition renders him unable to perform his usual molestation).  I've never understood my propensity to feign alertness when I am so clearly not.  The Designated Driver pretends not to notice, but here is the conversation I recall from last night:

Designated Driver:  (re:  "Law & Order)  Oooh, so what's happened in this one?

Me:  (slurred) Uh, Sam Waterston's really pissed about global warming, or abortion, or midget facial paralysis--

Designated Driver:  (skeptical) Uh-huh.

Me:  And Mariska Hargitay and Vincent D'Onofrio just did it in the bullpen while S. Epatha Merkerson videotaped--

Designated Driver:  --Uh, they're on three different spinoffs. 

Me:  Yeah, I'm not awake.

Designated Driver:  I figured.

H-Berts, however, has read my mind regarding the work exhaustion factor.  He called me into his office this morning with the following words of wisdom:

H-Berts:  Either you order us an espresso machine, or we're all starting a mandatory cocaine habit.

Me:  I'll call Williams Sonoma. 

H-Berts:  They have cocaine?

Me:  Gourmet.  And it comes with free pumpkin muffins.

 

No, I'm not dead.  Even though my soul may not be functioning, my brain is strong as ever, especially after a long trip home and the eating schedule my mother imposed upon me as soon as I deboarded the plane.  For some reason, I have been losing weight at a fascinating pace, and, even though I ate more lasagna over the holidays than Garfield on an Italian-themed bulimic binge, I've only gained two pounds back.  But enough about my deteriorating fat/muscle/brain cells.  I fear that, since so much time has passed since my last entry, I must give a trifling account of each day.  So here goes:

Friday, December 23rd:  The bosses tell me not to bother coming in today.  I ask if I am fired.  They laugh.  But they don't answer me.  Oh, well.  I needed to do laundry anyway.  Then I go see "King Kong."  I highly recommend it to anyone who has a soft spot for sentimental monkeys.  Especially sentimental monkeys who are not afraid of heights.  Since I've been given the day off (or fired, I'm still not sure which), I decide to celebrate my solo movie trip with a concession hot dog.  If it were up to me, I'd buy a hot dog every single time I went to the movies.  But there's nothing that makes a guy think "I never want to sleep with this girl in a respectful way" more than seeing her chow down on a hot dog.  And dripping mustard all over her face. 

Fast forward to night:  The Honeybee comes over, bearing Season One of "Monk."  God, it's like they made a television show about me, if I were a genius detective and a widower.  I wonder if Monk ever logs on to Web MD...

Saturday, December 24th:  The parents pick me up at the Cincinnati airport.  I call Delta once we get home to let them know I will not be on the 20 minute journey from Cincinnati to Louisville.  They tell me I've been a bad girl and slap me with a $200 fine.  I begin dictating a letter to the FAA via my mother, who drags me outside by the ear.  Apparently, I need to take a walk to "cool down."  And then it'll be time for another snack.  Happy Early Birthday, Jesus.

Sunday, December 25th:  Apparently, Delta was wrong.  I have not been a bad girl, cause Santa brings me an iPod!!!  As I'm loading Tupac's Greatest Hits onto my new contraption, my mom catches a whiff of "Dear Mama" and immediately steals the compilation.  After the Hip Hop war has simmered, we all pile in the car to go see the Baptist side of the family, aka my dad's peeps.  I love them, really, I do.  But not only do they not drink or swear, they also can't cook.  Luckily, my father sets his watch for two hours once we walk in the door, and it doesn't matter what we're doing once those two hours have passed (I, for example, was mid-conversation about a Satanic horror film with My Favorite Uncle when Dad tapped me on the shoulder), we are in our coats and passed round for hugs before you can say "Silent Night." 

Monday, December 26th:  Did this day even happen?  Seems I spent it lounging on the couch reading Capote's "In Cold Blood" (an excellent nonfiction account of a killing spree at a Western Kansas farm in the 60s), but I didn't write in the journal I don't keep about it, so I guess we'll never know.

Tuesday, December 27th:  Up at 4 AM to drive to the airport for Safari Barbie's wedding.  And, you guessed it, I have my senior prom dress in tow.  I rent a canary yellow Chevy Cobalt at BWI and head for the Hampton Inn.  I spend the day writing and re-watching that paragon of cinematic virtue, "Red Eye," which, at about 80 minutes, is the antithesis of "King Kong."  Later, at the wedding, I enjoy Chicken Chesapeake (my college buddy Smarty Pants hit the nail on the head when he cried, "It's meat wrapped in meat!  How can you go wrong?"  He said the same thing about the scallops and bacon combo passed before the meal) and a little faux-Swing dancing with Smarty Pants and My Really Smart Ex-Boyfriend.  He's getting a PhD in neuroscience.  I don't even know the correct way to abbreviate PhD. 

Wednesday, December 28th:  Back in Louisville at 9 AM.  I am sooo tired and hungover that I flag down the little golf cart man, pushing old women in wheelchairs out of the way while screaming "Shotgun!!!"  And off to ground transportation we speed.  Mom and I decide to have "Girl's Night," since Dad is working late.  But, uh, that didn't really work out.  I fell asleep at 8 PM while she watched syndicated "King of Queens."

Thursday, December 29th:  My Friend Farrah cooks dinner for me.  I love it when other people cook for me.  It makes me feel so taken care of.  Not that I have anything to complain about on that front - A LOT of people have been checking in on me, making sure I'm doing okay, trying to dissolve my anxiety.  The Designated Driver, my mom, the Honeybee, the Wise Man, the Hottie.  One of the aforementioned people has tried to explain that all my anxiety would disappear if I had a regular sex life.  Bet you'll never guess which one...

Friday, December 30th:  We have all my high school friends out for brunch.  Anything I write here will not do them justice.  Suffice it to say, they are some of the loveliest, crudest, most honest people I will ever meet, and I'd trust each and every one of them (okay, maybe not all of them, but you know who you are) with my life.  And boy can they devour quiche and fried pork products.  Friday night I was treated to some quality food (which adhered to my mother's eating schedule) and conversation by The Entrepreneur (so deemed because hard work is endemic to him), then was home in time for my nightly dose of "Roseanne."

Saturday, December 31st:  I ring in the New Year with Vincent D'Onofrio and a "Law & Order:  Criminal Intent" marathon on TNT.  If this is not indicative of my future old-maidery, I don't know what is.  Not that I really give a shit.  I'd rather see Vincent improv-ing his way through a cocaine high 24 times in a row than be packed into a bar, getting beer and rufees "accidentally" spilled all over me.

Sunday, January 1st:  The parents and I go have lunch with my aunt and her... lover?  I don't know the appropriate term here.  However, I do know that said aunt makes killer beef stroganoff and chocolate pie.  Hello, two extra pounds.

Monday, January 2nd:  High school friends Penny, Farrah, and the Shopaholic bring me coffee, cause they want the scoop on something they think happened.  I was sad that I did not live up to their expectations, but such is my life.  Hopefully, they still love me.  But probably they don't.  Regardless, they got some free lasagna and homemade rolls out of it. 

And home to L.A.!  Delta, the official airline of Satan, delays my flight because of a "tornado" (yeah, right) and "fear of crashing."  Blah, blah.  Just get me there on time, people.  I tried to fine them $200.  They promptly entered my name on the "No-Fly List."  I'm not a terrorist, just a girl with a maxed-out Visa card.

Now I'm sitting at work, wondering when the bosses are going to break out the alcohol.  It's after noon already.  We could at least have some White Zin...