February 2006 Archives

When I am more in the mood to write, I'll catch you up on my non-existent life.  Meanwhile, Former Daily Show Correspondent gave me a shout-out on his blog - http://www.bobwiltfong.com/blog.php .  Ah, how I'm taking this town by storm.  Or not. 

Things I have accomplished today:

1.) Jogged three miles.

2.) Showed up to work in a timely manner, even though my hair was wet.

3.) Made "the first good pot of coffee since we hired you," according to G-Money.  Whatever.  I'm here to trade information and mingle with celebrities, not bow at the foot of Folger's.  Or Starbucks, as is the case with us high rollers.

4.)  Finished brainstorming and outlining my character arcs for my O.C. rewrite.  One of our writing producers gave me some pretty awesome notes... the good thing about getting notes from a writer is that they not only give you criticism, but they also have very specific and brilliant suggestions for fixing the flaws.

5.)  Looked over the first draft of the short I wrote and emailed it to The Wise Man.  I've gotten to the point where I can't look at it with fresh eyes.  There's something both terrifying and comforting about that feeling, probably because you know it's out of your hands, if only for a short while.

And now I have to go give a former Daily Show correspondent a tour of the set.  If you're not busy tomorrow, drop on by 1635!  There'll be artichoke dip, there'll be Amaretto, and what party would be complete without a keg stand?   

Today I had lunch with Music Assistant, aka the girl who hooked me up with Season One of "Roswell."  Now, any of you who know me will know that I freak out at the slightest sign of a catastrophe - I lightly bump the parking garage wall at work, I expect to find the entire structure crumpled in a heap when I return the next morning; my credit report can't be accessed, I'm being erased as a person.  But here's the thing I discovered about Music Assistant.  Not only does she have the hook-up when it comes to DVDs and other TV fanatic paraphenalia, but she grew up in Inglewood.  And we all know what that means... that's right, folks.  Over chicken lasagna and steamed vegetables, Music Assistant mentioned that she used to be in a gang.  And I am officially trying to adopt her philosophy on stress. 

"Whenever things start to get a little hectic for my boss, I try to put it in perspective.  Sure, you might not have gotten that Black Eyed Peas song you wanted for Big Momma's House 2, but at least you've never been stabbed." 

I would like to take this moment to warn everyone that I am making my famous artichoke dip for the party on Saturday.  Actually, it's not my artichoke dip; it's my best friend from high school who stole my boyfriend's mom's artichoke dip.  Now that I look at that sentence, I feel the need to clarify.  The best friend didn't steal my boyfriend's mom; she stole my boyfriend.  Her mom, meanwhile, was making artichoke dip, while I was crying in a heap on the couch because, not only had my boyfriend just dumped me for my best friend, but Dead Poets Society was playing on Starz.  AND Starz was my parents' only movie network, so I couldn't watch Happy Gilmore instead.  Triple heartbreak, am I right, folks?  The good news is, she got my boyfriend, whose face got fat, and I got artichoke dip, which remains delicious and satisfying and non-fat-faced.

And now, more about my weekend home:

Friday/Saturday:  I wolf down a deep fried chicken sandwich with mayo at LAX.  I didn't have time to eat pre-airport, simply because there was a golf cart fiasco (who knew that I would be responsible for tracking down stolen carts and punishing the offenders?  Although, let's admit it, that last part was pretty fun).  I drooled on my travel pillow all the way to Chicago, snagged a Cinnabon, and strolled onto the flippety flappety no-bigger-than-a-pelican plane that took me to Louisville, at which point the rents met me.  Dad cooked lunch, and I put on Season One of "24."  Eight episodes later, I woke up from my snoring on the couch to find Mom waiting with some blueberry cheesecake.  I ignored all calls and fell back asleep, waking up with my face covered in blueberry glaze.  I love being home.

Sunday:  I visit my grandmother.  She manages not to insult me or my intelligence, although she does ask why I'm not married yet.  I debate telling her it's because I want my bedpost notches to number at least 20 before I consider lifelong monogamy.  Instead, I shut up and meet Farrah and Farrah's Fiance at the coffee shop.  As often happens in a small town, we run into other people we know, and, deciding we haven't had enough quality time (just the three of us), the two of them decide to come to dinner.  Meanwhile, I go for a visit to Mammy Jane, who dishes up coffee and cake and her legendary sweetness.  She really is a doll, that one.  While I was visiting, Seventh Grade Crush left me a voicemail saying he'd like to see me, so I call him up and tell him to join the dinner party at my house.  He agrees, but only after asking me what we're having.  Gotta dig his honesty - it's like my propensity to ask who's gonna be at a party before I agree to go.

Monday:  I won't even go into this, but basically Sprint tried to check my credit when I was getting ready to sign a new contract with them, and apparently my credit report is blocked.  Not bad.  Just blocked.  NO ONE can access it.  The hippie-turned-corporate type waiting on me seemed to think it was because I was a CIA operative.  I promptly axed his dreadlocks and called the credit bureaus.  But basically, I've had to write about five thousand letters to find out why the fuck no one can check my credit.  It's perfect.  I checked it three months ago.  Something tells me this is not gonna be a fun battle. 

Fast forward a few hours, I leave my parents at the airport curb, and, like always, feel a little bit like that kid trying to be brave walking into her first day of school.  Head held high, travel pillow clutched tight like a security blanket, but really about to burst into tears. In fact, yesterday at work, I was so down that our associate producer showed up mid-afternoon with a Venti Starbucks cup of coffee.  "I thought you looked kinda sad this morning, so I brought you something to cheer you up."  I sometimes forget there are people out here who care about me, too.  It's nice to be reminded.  Also, my superior connections with the Other Me have landed the Designated Driver an interview with the Great Man.  God, I'm name-dropping like crazy, aren't I?  But I am a bit proud of myself for that one.  Yep, I rock.       

Although I am too tired and stressed to write about it now, please know that my trip home was an infinite success.  I didn't see everyone I wanted to see, but I got a good soul sampling of my sumptuous Southerners - Farrah and Farrah's Fiance, the 7th Grade Crush, Mammy Jane, and of course, Mom and Dad.  I love going home, but, in a way, it makes me so depressed I can't think straight.  I cried the entire flight back from Louisville to Dallas.  It's funny, how being taken care of and knowing you're loved can make you feel five years old.  More tomorrow, dears!

I am not giving you much of an update today, except to say that I'M GOING HOME!!!  Yay, Kentucky!!! 

In all my golf cart euphoria, I forgot to share the details of my lunch with the Other Me yesterday.  The Other Me and I used to work together, and by "work together," I mean watch Dawson's and order pizza while our bosses were in NYC and New Zealand, respectively.  Occasionally, when our hectic work schedules permit, we do the same now, provided I have not passed out face first into a vat of mayonnaise on the craft service table, and that she's not traveling with her boss (who shall be called The Great Man) to someplace like London or Japan.  But yesterday, we began a new tradition of lunch on the lot, and I began a new tradition by officially taking myself off the market.  See, this past year, I've had a lot of shit going down love-wise.  At any given moment, I had at least three guys half-assedly (as guys tend to do) vying for my attention.  If one disappointed me, I easily moved on.  There were lunches, there were walks on the beach, there were candlelit dinners... and now, I'm fucking tired.  I'm tired of flashing charming smiles, flirty giggles, of hair-tossing, of bend-snapping.  Soooo over it.  I proclaimed my so-over-it-ness to the Other Me over turkey sandwiches at the News Cafe:

Me:  I've had it with boys.  (And here I relate a stupid boy story which is actually kind of funny and cute, as stupid boy stories tend to be).

Other Me (who is very direct):  You should have told him to look in his pants and find his penis.

Me:  I know.  I think I should take myself off the market.

Other Me:  Whoa, whoa, whoa.  Is this because of the AIDS thing?

Me:  Yeah, I'm not cured yet.

Ah, she reads me so well, that one.  Guess it's a name thing.     

I used to think I'd be one of those perky gals hoofing it across the lot, a smile for everyone they met as they politely but briskly performed whatever task it was they'd been sent to perform.  I would be thankful for the fresh air, the sunshine, the ability to stretch my legs and get my heart rate up, like those women who work in office parks and change into sneakers to exercise during their lunch hour.  But no more.  For I have discovered... the golf cart.  It's sleek, it's red, it sports our logo in the righthand corner of the windshield.  And nothing makes it hotter than me sitting behind the wheel, laid back, sippin' on Diet Coke while chatting on my cell. 

In other news, my dad called me yesterday after emailing me an (admittedly) funny joke he'd written. 

Dad:  Did you get my joke?

Me:  What joke?

Dad:  My joke.  The one I emailed you?

Me:  (impressed) You wrote that joke?

Dad:  Yep.  Just came to me. 

Me:  Nice job.

Dad:  So I was wondering, could you get it to Leno?

Me:  Uh... I don't know him.

Dad:  But you work in the same industry.  You probably know someone who knows him.  Isn't that how things get done out there?

He's got a point.   

The Honeybee has finally linked me!!!  Go to www.honeybeemanor.com to see the comparison photos of Yours Truly and Vladimir Putin.  Also, if you're bored and lonely and don't think you have enough alcohol to get you through the night, watch "Boston Legal" this evening.  Why, you ask?  Because my pall Ballsy Gal wrote it, and she rocks.  Not only is she my age, she's more talented than me times three to the infinite power.  So show her some love, if you've got no one else to show it to.   

Lately, I've been confused about something.  You're probably wondering where I'm gonna go with this one, or you're wondering how you ever came to be so bored as to read this blog when there are 4 seasons of "24" floating around on DVD.  But rest assured, my confusion is simple.  You see, when I'm stuck in traffic, or hit my head on the edge of a table, or can't find my size jeans at the Gap, the typical "fuck" expletive is not enough.  Instead, I use the following:  "Fuck me in the goat ass!"  I've been saying it forever; thankfully, only when I'm alone.  But my question is this:  Do other people say it?  Let's put aside the improbability of fucking one in the goat ass (goats are notoriously stubborn creatures, after all), as well as the all-out vulgarity of the statement.  Did I make it up?  Is it weird if I did?  Would it be less weird if I were to exclaim "Fuck a goat in the ass?" 

And I know some of you complain that I never use this blog to talk about what's actually going on in my life... it's all television and pop culture and "Dawson's."  But believe me when I say this - I'm just that shallow.  Plus, I'm passive aggressive enough without using my blog to let someone know how I really feel about them.  Yes, I'm talking to you, Person Who Took the Last Piece of Bread at Dinner Last Night.  I would say "Fuck you in the goat ass" if I weren't so sure you'd enjoy it.  Perv.   

Just a reminder, anyone who has clothes for my friend's mom (she's a 4/small), please let me know.  I'm shipping some tomorrow, but would love to have more for the end of the week. 

Also, does anyone have a recommendation for body work?  No, not plastic surgery, you corrupt little Hollywood monkeys!  That's gonna have to wait till the agent, the staff writing gig, and the cocaine addiction.  I mean for my car, which, according to the place Volvo sent me, is gonna cost me $1800.  Now, I would like to eat again within the next century, so I am looking for reasonable alternatives.  Any suggestions would be much appreciated.

And clothes!!!

I am starting to crash.  And not just my car, which had a little run-in with the 20th Century Fox parking garage last night.  Needless to say, it wasn't pretty.  Jack Bauer was immediately called in, then Nina Myers showed up and held a gun to Jack's head.  "Tell her where to get that scratch buffed out and your daughter Kim gets a swift kick in the pants."  I ended up just calling my Volvo dealership this morning, and they recommended a place which I'm taking my car to tomorrow.  They offered to just give me the paint and have me do it myself, but that idea sounded about as good as Yoko Ono on helium, so I politely declined.  As a result, however, I lost a decent amount of sleep and would like nothing more than to shoot espresso beans into my veins.  Therefore, I leave you with this, another example of Only Child Syndrome.  This symptom is called "I'm always right."  Because I am. 

Last Night's IM with the Honeybee, during which I was eating a dinner of applesauce and... applesauce at my desk.  Apparently, this dinner sounded heavenly to said Honeybee:

  HB : oh, man

HB : i want that

Me : no! back off, bitch.

HB : i'll cut you!

Me : it's "i will cut you."

HB : i'm quoting my own self!

Me : but you're doing it wrong.

 

 

I have come to the realization that I might be a bit of a flirt.  God knows, I never meant it to happen.  See, I don't come by it honestly.  My childhood was filled with books, ponies, and meticulous to-do lists.  I never really gave a rat's ass about so-called "fun" - aka giggling, note-passing, putting ice in someone else's bra.  Not for me.  I was too busy upping my page count on the spy novel I started writing when I was eight.  I won't divulge too many details here (it is an unfinished masterpiece), but let me just say that there were Russians, there were guns, and there was gratuitous sex as soon as Mom bought me that book with the fat, ugly cartoons rubbing their naked bodies all over each other.  I think it was supposed to explain sex, but really, it just made me have to run to the bathroom to vomit.  The woman's hair was awful - like her crimper was coked out of its mind.  But I digress.  I am a flirt, and this trend has only recently crept up.  I think it's an L.A. thing, where people are so fucking charming on the phone, and you suddenly find yourself with this whole new sleazish-persona.  Like "Yo, yo, yo, Rob, my man, what is UP?  Can you shoot me that new draft in PDF when you get a free second?"  What?  Did I just use three consecutive "yos" in a row?  Soooo not my style.  And the constant phone chatting is usually followed by the "We should have drinks."  Hollywood drinks are unique to... well, Hollywood.  It feels really strange the first time (hehehe), cause you're kind of thinking "Is this a date?  Who's paying?"  etc., etc.  But after awhile it's just one more inch of your life that work is sucking from your Steven Bochco-addled brain.  So imagine my surprise when the Irish Asian re-addressed this issue over IM yesterday:

IA:  I have a sexy drinks tonight.

Me:  What's a sexy drinks?

IA:  Oh, you know, if she has a sexy voice, she's funny, she uses words like "sagacious."  There's a good chance something else besides trade talk could happen.

Me:  If she's funny, she's probably ugly.  And if she uses words like "sagacious" in everyday conversation, she's either studying for the GRE or trying too hard. 

IA:  I thought you were a sexy drinks.

Me:  Until you saw me--

IA:  Until you rescheduled on me three times. 

Me:  Oh.  Right.

IA:  Then I was like, "She's just not that into me." 

Me:  I was busy!  I think they were re-running "A Woman Named Jackie" on Lifetime that week. 

IA:  Well, maybe this notes session for your pilot can be a sexy notes session.

Me:  Definitely.

I'm not sure, but I think I just agreed to make out with him in exchange for pilot notes?  Oh, the corruption in this town!  You can't see me, but I'm shaking my fist right now. 

I started today off with a pitiful case of what Mom has deemed the "can't-help-its."  I won't go into the gory details, but it boils down to this:  whining, whimpering, banging one's head against the nearest hard surface.  It most commonly occurs in only children, for they are the ones accustomed to getting their own way.  And, they know that if they misbehave, you're not going to kill them, cause there's no replacement child waiting in the wings.  Want to spank me?  Fine, I'll just finish off this arsenic here-- What's that, no spanking now?  I thought as much.  Yes, only children with the can't-help-its are a "Law & Order:  SVU" episode waiting to happen, especially when they grow up.  And I am no exception.  Happily for all you innocent folk, there were chocolate doughnuts waiting at the office when I got in, saving us all from my rage, strife, and infernal squawking.  I must not have fooled the P.A., however, who asked if it was "my time of the month."  I promptly fired him, then called him back when I discovered the coffee had yet to be made. 

I think maybe today's grouchiness was caused by the fact that I sent out my pilot for its first round of notes.  And it's a strange feeling.  Because up until now, my eyes are the only ones that have seen it.  I would compare it to sending your perfect child, your little darling, with his soap-shining face and clear blue eyes, off to Kindergarten, only to get a call from the snickering teacher a few hours later - "Johnny's masturbating at his desk.  Did you teach him that?"  In other words, you allow something very personal into the world, and you don't know if it's a Doogie Howser or a Ted Bundy.  All you can do is keep your fingers crossed as you hit "Send." 

 

I never thought it would happen, but I am in love.  So many times before, I have been disappointed... casual emails unreturned, abandoned but for the late night booty call, "Melissa, I'm just not that into you... I'm into your best friend."  Blah, blah, blah.  But now... things are different.  Because now, I have discovered "Roswell."  If you haven't seen it, at least watch the teaser in the pilot.  It's one of those television moments where everything comes together so perfectly, in a way that makes you want to cry and clap your hands and do the nod/smile combo that makes you look oh-so-sly, as in, "So this is the journey I'm about to be taken on.  Sign me up!"  Swoon...

Other Weekend Tidbits...

1.)  I finished a draft of the pilot!  Anyone who would like to read it, please let me know.  I have a feeling I'm gonna need a lot of help with this one.

2.)  Got a massage on Saturday.  When I came home, I had the following conversation with the Designated Driver:

Designated Driver:  You're relaxed!

Me:  Yeah, and I'm not sure I'm into it.  It feels weird.  Dirty, even.  Who am I?

3.)  We've decided to have a party on February 25th.  Is this a problem weekend for anyone?  Last time, we did Labor Day, and so many people were out of town.  Not that it wasn't fun... but look, we want as many hotties there as possible.

4.)  And this is MOST IMPORTANT.  A friend from home's mom's house burned down, and they lost pretty much everything.  So if any of you have clothing you don't need anymore, her mom is a size 4, with tops in a small.  I'm going to go through my stuff this week, so if you have anything you'd like to donate, please, please, please let me know.        

Tomorrow, I am giving myself the day off.  Seriously.  No errands, no chores, no... okay, I'll probably start brainstorming short ideas, but other than that, nothing.  I'm getting a massage at noon, then it's off to the movies BY MYSELF.  I can't remember the last time I had a whole five minutes where I didn't have to converse with another human being, and, honestly, if it were up to me, I would spend most weekends camped out on the couch with some tortilla chips and seven layer dip, ignoring my phone and watching Food Network.  Sure, the idea of other people excites me - the potential for pickup lines, witty comebacks, love at first sight - but stick me at an actual party and I'll most likely hover next to the wine bar, fearful of eye contact with anyone I consider above me on the objective scale of attraction.  All this is not to say that I don't love the people in my life - I do.  Well, most of them, at least.  It's just difficult for me, being an only child who pretty much stayed in her room the first sixteen years of her life to read and re-read that quintessential comedy "Wuthering Heights," to spend every waking moment interacting with others.  There are a few exceptions, and by "exceptions," I mean people who, when I'm interacting with them, don't make me feel like they're sucking the very seratonin from my body, thereby obliterating any possibility of a good mood.  One of them, of course, is my mom.  Another is the Honeybee.  However, not to worry - you too could be on this list, if you respond truthfully to the following question: 

What was your favorite early 90s TGIF show?

a.)  Mr. Belvedere

b.)  Perfect Strangers

c.)  Full House

d.)  Just the Ten of Us

If you have the same answer as me, you can't be all bad, and are somewhat worthy of my dropping seratonin levels.

Yesterday, I had one of those very Hollywood, not-so-mover-and-shakerish moments.  I was making my rounds to several different departments, chatting people up, introducing myself, and delivering invitations for G-Money's birthday bash (which I, sadly, will be missing due to my Old Kentucky Home visit).  I came round to the music department, where I got to meet one of my favorite assistants.  We chat on the phone all the time, but I'd never met her in person.  Now, Music Assistant's favorite thing is to pass out DVD collections like Tivo's going out of style, so it was no surprise that I left our five minute conversation with Season One of "Roswell."  Fast forward ten minutes, when I've ambled over to set and am waiting for the flashing red light that means we're rolling and anyone who walks in will be fired to go off.  And who do I find standing next to me?  The creator of "Roswell," who happens to write for our show now.  So I show him the DVD.  "Free," I mouth.  And he shakes his head at the loss of royalties.  Next to us, some random guy whispers, "Is that show any good?"  And the Creator turns to him with, "It has its moments."  Then he winks at me.  Ah, inside jokes.  Do they ever get old?

Last night I left work early for my dinner with Oscar Nom, and I'm happy to say he picked an Italian place in Santa Monica where the lights were low and the wine plentiful.  Now I know I'm not the most attractive sheep in the herd if you stick me under fluorescents, but light me from below with a puny candle and I could easily be mistaken for a long-lost, not quite as pretty and therefore bitter Deschanel sister.  And Oscar Nom is always quick with the compliments, for which I have to say I adore him.  We weren't two alcoholic beverages into the night before he asked:

Oscar Nom:  Whatever happened with that script you wrote, about the girl who had an abusive husband, then he dumped her for her sister?

Me:  (please keep in mind this was my first script ever) The one with the dying grandmother and the horses where they're about to lose their farm, and then there's a rape in the beginning that leads to an unwanted pregnancy, and where the hot sister is a fledgling Hollywood starlet, but no one wants to cast her anymore, and she has to go back home because her younger sister is attempting suicide because she can't get over the fact that her sister stole her abusive husband?

Oscar Nom:  Yeah, that one.

Me:  Everyone who read it said it made them want to slit their wrists.

Oscar Nom:  Huh.  I loved it. 

Me:  Yeah, but don't you think there was a little much going on in the melodrama department?  And maybe it was a little--

Oscar Nom:  --Twisted? 

Me:  Exactly.

Oscar Nom:  That's what I loved about it.  Knowing you, and then getting to see how warped your mind actually is.

This from the guy who wrote one of the world's most twisted movies...  Yet he is so durn sweet.  He called me this morning, just to tell me he had a great time.  What a gentleman.  Even if he is married.  Sigh...