April 2006 Archives

This icky, foggy, gummy weather is really starting to piss me off.  I did not sign up for this shit.  Can you tell the lack of sunshine makes me cranky? 

One thing certainly does make me happy, however, and that is that tonight, along with our production coordinator (whom I just told to shove a piece of pizza up her ass) and the 20th Talent Relations Director (to whom I would never say such a thing, as I might need Super Bowl tickets one day), I am going to check out spaces for our wrap party!  Yay!!!  H-Berts and G-Money have told me that if we don't get free drinks out of the place we're checking out, to move on with our budget (which is close to what I make in a year).  I'm thinking of pulling a Kimmy Kim with the ziplock baggies and the freezable apps... 

Also, in preparation for seeing "Stick It," I have been re-watching "Bring It On," and damn, what a brilliant movie!  Not.  Even.  Joking.  It does what any movie should do - convinces you that its world, in this case the world of competitive cheerleading, is an intriguing, interesting, and even important place to play for a couple of hours.  I kind of love it for that. 

Everyone have a good weekend! 

My poor, poor little Hottie!  She accompanied me (and the Designated Driver) to the Faux Agent's party on Saturday, and, lucky for her, had a sort-of bonding moment with the Faux Agent's roommate.  Unluckily for her, she did not have time to strike up the same sort of enticing conversation with the Faux Agent, since said Faux Agent sent me an email yesterday that, among other things, mentioned he thought the Hottie was cute.  So I rang her up at work yesterday with the following unfortunate news:

Me:  Yeah, the roommate you liked?  Off limits.  Faux Agent's called dibs on you.

The Hottie:  Shit, shit, shit!

A long pause as she bangs the phone receiver against her desk.

The Hottie:  Wait, is Faux Agent cute?

Me:  Totally.

The Hottie:  Oh.  Then that's okay.

Sometimes, it really must suck to be hot. 

 

I am very proud of myself.  I've thought of an idea for a rom-com so edgy that I can't even mention the details here for fear of insulting someone (which, like I've said before, is not the intent of this blog - we're all superficial, all the time here at xanga.com/mascriv).  I've been having a little trouble, after finishing the second draft of the pilot and sending it out for critique, in figuring out what to write next.  Granted, I'm dabbling in prose (albeit somewhat or verywhat crappily), but the script form is much more my thang.  I like the externalization of feelings through action, silence, veiled dialogue, routine.  Interior monologue - eh, not so much.  I mean, God knows, I have one, but exploring it is just not very much fun.  In fact, it's nothing short of terrifying.  Finding signs and symbols and action to translate internal monologue onto the screen = much more fun.  Guess I wasn't a Russian major for nothing, now, was I?

 

 

Where to begin?  This weekend was a virtual clusterfuck of retardation, coupled with some vodka tonics and a good dose of sushi.  It all started Saturday, when the Other Me came over for Dawson's.  I read her the logline of the episode, which was something like, "Upon learning of her acceptance to Harvard, Andie goes a little far with her celebration at a local rave."  I immediately designed a game entitled, "Which one of the Dawson's Creek squares is going to do X?"  Clearly, Andie.  But what about Dawson?  Would his anger at Joey and Pacey or his need to impress Gretchen cause him to cave?  And what about Joey?  She had just gotten back from the "Go" rave when this episode was filmed - shouldn't she know the ropes by now?  Well, folks, I'm not gonna tell you who did what and who couldn't accept consequences for their actions.  You'll have to watch the episode for yourselves.  But damn, it was a good game.

Saturday night found the Designated Driver, the Hottie, and I at Crazy Fish.  I was sulking, as usual, because one of the Faux Agents (he's a real agent - he's just not my agent... yet) was having a party at which I had to make an appearance.  I hate parties more than Stalin hated intellectuals.  But of course the Hottie was fluttering on about doing each other's hair and makeup, and I was stabbing my Kinta roll with a splintery chopstick, and we left the place with the agreement that no party was to be attended, we were all too tired.  We would go back and watch Requiem for a Dream, or some other rom-com (hahahaha).  Fast forward ten minutes, as the Designated Driver puts in some 'N Sync, and damnit if halfway through the second verse of "Bye, Bye, Bye" I didn't call up the Hottie and tell her to bring her party clothes over, we were going out! 

So we did.  It's funny, when you go to a party in this town, you run into everyone you know.  I, for example, ran into Date Boy, who seemed pleased to see me, although I left without saying goodbye to him, which I didn't specifically mean to do, but alas, I don't want him figuring me out too quickly, now, do I? 

10 AM the next morning I get a call from him, saying he's sorry he didn't come back last night when he said he was just going to get a beer.  He got caught in a conversation, and he felt really bad... now that's what I like to hear.  Guys feeling bad about themselves.  And telling me about it.  So he asked me over to watch The Sopranos.  Having no other plans for the evening, I accepted. 

In the meantime, however, there was the matter of Ballsy Gal's barbecue.  I had promised to make artichoke dip, but it was 2:30, and I'd had no coffee, no B6 - in short, I should have been headed to a halfway house.  Instead, the Designated Driver and I headed to Ralph's, not getting out the door for the actual barbecue until 4:30.  Which was a problem, since she had to be at work at 5:30.  Luckily, I had time to exchange double cheek kisses with Ballsy Gal and chug a Bud Light.  By the time I'd dropped the Designated Driver off, it was time to head over to Date Boy's. 

We sat through Big Love, then two episodes of Entourage, and THEN, right before The Sopranos, he decided to make his move.  Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed making out with him, but he had all that time... Then I remembered something.  Date Boy works at HBO!  So we missed the beginning, but he apologized as I was leaving.  The conversation went something like this:

DB:  You hate me for choosing right then to make my move, don't you?

Me:  Only a little.

DB:  Don't worry.  I'll get you the DVD of that episode.  

Me:  Damn straight you will.

And that, my friends, was a lovely way to start a week.    

Sorry for the lack of posts - G-Money has been deathly ill, and I think I'm catching her death.  That means more Flinstone vitamins, less productivity, scratchy, sexy, voice, blah, blah, blah.  I'm going to spend the weekend reading in bed, with a pit stop Sunday for Ballsy Gal's spring barbecue.  Which reminds me, I'm making artichoke dip... Better get on that. 

Ugh, ugh, ugh.  I've had to push my dinner with Oscar Nom until 9 PM tonight!  I'm usually asleep by 9 PM.  Hopefully, a glass of wine and some Thai food will revive me... but, since today is "Crazy Pants" day at work, I'm wearing black sweatpants (read:  I'm sooooo crazy I wear sweatpants to work!!!) and one of my many "I Heart John Deere" tank tops.  I cannot, repeat, cannot keep up my faux-homewrecking with such attire.  At this rate, I'll have Oscar Nom calling to "Get this girl some Diesel and Nine West, stat!"  Of course, he wore the same red plaid shirt the first five times I met him.  And he still looked hot... Ah, the good ole days, before he told me he was married...  Yeah, I'm definitely gonna have to go home and change.  Then I'm gonna drink a lot. 

I might have to move home.

http://www.kentucky.com/mld/kentucky/news/legislature/14365989.htm

 

Recently, I have gotten shit from a couple friends from home about my notorious end credit for the show.  On it, if you have night vision and speed reading capabilities, you can see I'm listed as Melissa.  This is a problem for people at home, to whom I've been known as "M.A." since Jesus was in Huggies.  Sometimes I even forget about this alternate identity - certainly no one out here uses it, not because I despise it or anything, but because you can't very well go 'round giving yourself a nickname.  It's lazy self-promotion, if you ask me.  But at home, for all intents and purposes, my nickname IS my name.  My father would use it when he was yelling at me about being late for curfew (this happened exactly once in all my high school years - sad, but true), and he still uses it to this day when he's yelling at me about changing my Kentucky plates so I don't look like a naive little hick girl and get raped if I have a flat tire (this is the pessimistic logic with which I was raised - assume the worst - and you know what, it's usually a pretty good way of looking at things, sadly, sadly, sadly).  Rape aside, I was feeling a little nostalgic for that nickname the other day, I guess it was Easter.  I actually went to church (read:  not my thing) by myself, which I shouldn't have done, especially since I think I was sitting in some old lady's seat.  She had osteoperosis and kept turning around to glare at me.  Point is, it was a really small church, and I was definitely the only one there alone, and I was sitting in Osteo Lady's seat, which I didn't mean to do, and it all got me missing home, and going places with my family, even places that are no fun, like church ( I can see Dad checking off the things in the program as they were complete - one step closer to food and whatever game was on), and being called by that other name, that only someone who really knew who I was would have the guts to try out. 

Luckily, Oscar Nom is in town, so I get to have dinner with him tomorrow, Date Boy is back from vacation, and Max is playfully loopy on painkillers. 

Peter the Tuxedo Spiffster!  With me.  Also looking spiffy, but not wearing a tuxedo.  This is the last picture, I promise.  Can you tell someone has learned how to copy and paste images?  I.  Am.  Awesome. 

And this is me.  Yesterday.  With a candle growing out of my head. 

And this is Max.  He's having his teeth cleaned at the vet as we speak, which, of course, makes me nervous, because they have to put him under and whatnot.  As if I need an excuse to be nervous...

This is New Elvis.  Awwww....

New Elvis with Ralph and Reesie.  Ralph has accepted Elvis as his Lord and Savior.  Reesie looks down on them with disdain. 

The house I grew up in.  Will Elvis reign supreme?  Or will Reesie burn this bitch down in protest?  Stay tuned...

This weekend, I am going to see my first Cirque du Soleil show.  Hopefully, it's the erotic one.  If not, it's a good excuse to grab Paco's on the way down to Long Beach. 

All this 80 degree weather has got me itching to buy a beach chair, which I still haven't done, even though I've lived here two years.  I think I just don't understand that going to the beach is accessible - I don't have to take time off or ride in a minivan for twelve hours with my stinky cousin in our matching bathing suits (welcome to my life at age 8 - not that I had to take time off then, but you get my drift).  Also, speaking of vacations, I think I am ready for a trip home.  However, now is not the time to approach H-Berts and G-Money about said rest and relaxation.  They called me three times when I left the desk to grab a sandwich the other day!  I'd scold them if I didn't love them so frickin' much.

And now, kittens, I must go.  Summer Waters is here, and, since she's a pal o'mine, I gotta entertain.  If you don't know who she is, you didn't watch the pilot, and if you didn't watch the pilot, you are partially responsible for my raging headache this afternoon.  Just remember, that's impotence for you.         

"I was thinking about it, and we don't hug very often," the Honeybee blurted as she was leaving my apartment Saturday. 

"Uh--" I stammered.  You see, I'm about as affectionate as a porcupine with poison pines.  Keep your distance, I'm cute, good for a laugh, but invade my space and I get a little prickly. 

"You hug the Hottie whenever you see her or if she's leaving.  So maybe we should start doing the same thing," the Honeybee continued.

I tried to explain that the Hottie is extremely affectionate, always initiating hugs, "I love yous," etc.  For me, well, I just... don't... do that kind of thing.  If anyone tells me they love me, I pretty much ask them to repeat themselves, just to make sure I've heard them correctly.  That, and, well, almost anytime I tell someone I love them it sounds oh-so-phoney, like I'm rehearsing lines, or spitting out something that tastes bad.  What can I say?  I'm a very uptight person - fucking sue me. 

That being said, just because I don't say it, doesn't mean I don't love you, or that I don't feel a shared laugh like a hug.  If I return your calls, I probably love you (unless it's work-related).  If I let you share white chocolate raspberry cheesecake, or touch my feet, that's big.  If I cook for you, you're like family.  If you've seen me cry, you probably are family.  What I'm saying is words and affection mean about jack shit to me.  I don't trust words - they're too often a mask for manipulation or apathy (not to be cynical or anything, but look, I know I'm a much more interesting person on my blog than I am in real life, all because of words - and how fucking sad is that?).  If I had my way, I'd communicate in music.  But it's just not practical to have Duran, Duran following me everywhere I go, now, is it?     

 

I just found out that my parents got a new puppy!  He's a Jack Russell Terrier.  For those of you who don't know, we had a Jack Russell named Elvis when I was in college.  Elvis was happier at any given moment than I have ever been in my entire life.  He was the only creature I've ever seen overcome with joy the minute I walked in the door.  Granted, he drove the cats nuts, but he meant well with his yapping and tail-wagging and general merry-making. 

A couple of months after I  moved to New York, I got a call from Mom that Elvis had been hit by a car.  See, we live kinda in the middle of nowhere, and people tend to forget speed limits exist.  You go as fast as you can without harming yourself.  Dogs are another matter.  Elvis didn't make it, Mom said.  It was one of the only times I've ever heard Mom cry (Dad's the cryer in the house - don't show him Bambi or Stepmom, or God forbid an overly sentimental Purina commercial - he'll lose it).  I remember her telling me this even more vividly because I had just come out of the subway, and it was the first time the pace of New York got to me.  I wanted nothing more than to stop in the middle of the sidewalk and cry.  And I couldn't.  So I kept walking, and on my right, I found a tiny park I'd never even noticed.  And I sat down there.  And cried.  And cried.  And nobody bothered me, for which I was grateful. 

For a few years, Mom and Dad have both been trying to work up the courage to get another dog.  I would pester them about it occasionally, but they'd say, "Oh, we travel so much."  I would try and remind them that, as with most anything in life, it's much easier to say no than to say yes.  For a long time, I didn't think that was true, but think about it.  There's always going to be an excuse not to do something you find terrifying.  Sometimes, like, say, if someone challenges you to an E Coli-eating contest, that's a good thing; others, it just holds you back. 

So, Mom and Dad, welcome back to dog ownership!  I promise, they'll let you bring him on the plane out here.       

So I'm jogging along this morning, grooving to a little Robbie Williams, when BAM!  That's right.  I ran right into a metal intercom post.  Ow, ow, ow.  Never mind that my arm has swollen to the size of Mongolia; I'm pretty sure there's a tumor growing and feeding right under the gag-worthy bruise I've developed.  It's mornings like these that make me question my depth perception, or lack thereof.

 

I know, I know.  I have neglected you for nearly a week, and now I come crawling back, hat in hand, to beg forgiveness... and you've already quit reading because you're bored.  So before you completely lose interest, I present a detailed account of my goings-on:

Friday, I went to the mix for our second episode.  The mix is where they do final sound, basically, and ours is at Sony, in a movie-theater like room where they provide you legal pads and pencils for your notes.  You also get free tacos, which keep you from hearing any of the sound effects since you're crunching on a hard shell.  As we were walking out, G-Money stopped H-Berts and me, pointing to this lovely little brick place.  "Hey, what happened in that building?"  H-Berts replied, "Oh, don't you remember?  We were in a meeting on the first floor of that building the day CVG (their agent) called to tell us we got our first writing job (on 90210)."  And we just stood there, right in the midst of the Sony lot, staring at that building.  Pretty fucking nifty, if you ask me.

Here's where the evening went south.  I left Sony at around 9:30, having received a text from Date Boy saying he was running late to the bar we were going to.  That's a problem.  Not the lateness.  The text message.  I hate text messaging.  I don't understand it.  I haven't quite figured out how to retrieve texts on my phone, so for about an hour, I thought he'd sent me a text that just said, "Running" instead of "Running late.  Be there at 10."  So let me set the scene for you:  It's raining, I'm starving (I have a tapeworm), it's close to 10 PM (read:  past my bedtime), and to top it all off, I have a splitting headache.  You can see where this is going... I get to the bar, and there's a line down the block.  The valet parking is full, and there is literally not a spot in all of Santa Monica.  So I call Date Boy.  Four times, leaving him messages about my progress.  The fourth one was "I'm sorry, I'm tired, I'm dying, I'm going home."  And so I did.  

Saturday, I had brunch with Ballsy Gal, aka the chick who wrote that "Boston Legal."  I hadn't seen her since September, and success has done... absolutely nothing to her.  Which is the way you can tell someone is going to keep being successful.  She's just plain classy, that one.  I did learn a very cool trick from her.  You know how, in breakfast places, they always give you really shitty fruit, like canteloupe and honeydew, instead of the stuff you really want, like strawberries and bananas and kiwi?  Ballsy Gal solves that problem very easily, with a breezy delivery to the waiter of, "If I eat any form of melon, my throat will close."  It's not true, of course, but who's gonna take a chance with that?

That night, I traveled to the Valley to visit the Honeybee and her boyfriend.  We made raclettes and watched Not Another Teen Movie, during half of which their landlord's huge Rotweiller was lying right next to me. 

Sunday, I took Max to the vet, where he was very brave and didn't cry once.  The Designated Driver went with me (Thank God!), and I was so happy to have her there, as I was pacing back and forth when the doctor took Max away to get his shots.  He gave me this look, as the vet dragged him away, one of those "Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me" looks, and I almost lost it.  I can never have children.  I'll morph into a gigantic nerve of stress and bad karma. 

And that, folks, was my weekend.  The week... we'll get to that later.  Right now, I need a nonfat double capp.