May 2006 Archives

Hello, all!  After my vodka-induced haze of yesterday, I have had trouble re-grouping for today's post.  But I'm here, here being at the office, getting some writing done and catching up on Season Two of Monk.  I have realized that I see the phases of my life through television shows - 24 (aka What I Thought I'd Be Doing with my Russian Degree), Dawson's (aka Why Didn't I Watch This Show in High School so I Could be More Like Joey Potter and Make Fun of Jen Lindley?), and now Monk.  This one should be self-explanatory if you are in any way familiar with my life of late.  If you're not, here's a snippet of what it's like to be my friend. 

The Hottie came over Sunday night, bearing In Her Shoes and a smile on her face.  We sat down on the couch, and having not seen each other for awhile, the following transpired:

Hottie:  We should talk a little before we start the movie.

Me:  Yeah, sure. 

Hottie:  How are you?

Me:  I'm fine. 

She realizes I am staring at the wall.

Hottie:  Are you okay?

Me:  Sure.

Hottie:  You look like you're thinking about something.

Me:  It's nothing.

Hottie:  No.  Come on.  You can tell me. 

Me:  I'm wondering if I could have been gang raped and totally forgotten about it and so now I'm dying or pregnant and don't know it.  Or that I got into a car accident and someone died and I don't remember it, but they're going to come arrest me. 

Long, long, LONG pause.

Hottie:  I'll just put the movie in, then.

Wise decision, my friend.  Wise decision. 

 

A weekend post!  What a treat for you... Look, the only reason I'm doing this is because I've been guilted into the realization that I no longer update every weekday, that I'm "slipping," that I should never have learned to read or write if I'm not going to share my lack of talent with the world.  And lucky for you, something happened to me today that forced me to put pen to paper, or, in this case, fingers to keyboard.

I wake up this morning and make my to-do list:  first to Starbucks for a cup of their burnt-to-shit but oh-so-caffeinated coffee, then back to the Supervising Producer's house, where I plan to knock out a few pages of the outrageous rom-com before going for a jog, showering, then strolling across the street for a free LACMA experience.   Pleasant day, right?  Wrong. 

I go to Starbucks, get my coffee, then spring for a blueberry muffin.  Hey, this is kind of a mini-vacation for me, why not treat myself?  So I'm singing along to Incubus or Modest Mouse or LFO or whoever the fuck was on the radio, the sun is shining, I arrive at the front porch, retrieve the paper, unlock the front door... Except it doesn't unlock.  Or at least it unlocks, but it doesn't open.  That's when I recall a conversation with the Supervising Producer, wherein she said, "Don't futz with the bottom lock on the front door."  Oops.  I must have futzed with it.  What can I say?  I get one too many SVUs under my belt at night, and I get a little paranoid, okay?   So I think, I'll just go around the side, clamber up and over the fence, and let myself in the back door (which the one key I have also opens).  So I trot around back, and there's the gate, six feet tall, and me, 5'2". 
Okay, I'll just drive home and get a chair.  Which I do.  And I put the chair up against the gate, and it's still too short for me to climb over without breaking some needed limb.  So I call the Supervising Producer, who puts her husband on the phone, who stays with me on the phone as I go 'round to the various neighbors.  No one is home.  At this point, I tell him, I'll just go to K-Mart and buy a stepladder.  Which I do.  Again, too short.  But just barely.

I wander over to the other next door neighbor's house, but she doesn't have a doorbell, so I just start yelling her name.  AWK-ward.  She appears, in her robe, then opens her garage so I can drag out her ladder and attempt to heave myself over her wall and into the backyard.  But this wall is even taller, and I'm a fraidy cat, so it was no use.  She tells me to call a locksmith.   I head back over to the Supervising Producer's porch and read the paper (have I ever done that before?  No) while waiting for my instructions.  Finally, her husband calls.  "Shawn will be there in five minutes.  He's one of the neighbors.  He'll take care of everything."  I reply, "Are you sure?  It's kind of hard--" 

But I don't have time to finish my thought, because Shawn appears.  He's young, he's ripped, and he's running towards me.  He introduces himself, then asks which wall I'd rather him scale.  "Uh, uh--" I stammer.  So he chooses one for himself, knocks the stepladder out of the way, and hoists himself up and over with his bare hands. 

I call Supervising Producer's husband back. 

"Is Shawn a ninja?"  I ask. 

He replied, "Yes.  Yes, he is." 

People have been asking...

How are you? 

Fine.  Not that you really give a shit, but I'm feeling just dandy, working six hours a day and returning home in the daylight. 

How's your mom?

She's got a cold, poor thing, and I feel like I should be doing something to help her.  I think she wants me to quit calling to ask if she's okay so she can actually get some sleep.  But we all know I am not the type to leave well enough alone.

What time of day do you normally update?

Whenever I fucking feel like it.

Why haven't you been updating every day?

Because I wanted you to have nothing to look forward to.

What happened to Date Boy?

I shot him.  I kid, I kid.  But this whole hypochondria thing is keeping me from ever wanting to touch anyone.  Ever.  Again.  Is this healthy?  I hope it at least means that I'm really smart and think too much.  Maybe it will make me a mad genius!

Who is Oscar Nom?

He wrote the movie Halle Berry won her Oscar for.  And he was nominated for doing so.

Do you read other blogs?

Why, yes, actually. Much better blogs than my own.  But the only one I'll admit to is:

www.johnaugust.com - He wrote Go, and Charlie's Angels, and Big Fish, and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and I would kiss his feet if I ever met him.

What are you doing this weekend?

Ordering takeout and watching Tivo.  Without you.

When are you coming home?

July 1st through the 10th.  And, people from home, we are thinking about doing brunch at my house again on Sunday, July 9th.  Does this work?

What is your favorite episode of Law & Order:  SVU?

It's called "Loss," and it's the one where they fake-kill Alexandra Cabot when she gets all tangled up in the mayhem of a Colombian drug cartel.  JH is in it, and, even though he gets blown up, he's awesome.  And he was so kind to my parents when they came to visit set. 

Who is your favorite actor/actress?

Sarah Polley.  Hands down, no contest.  She wears her heart on her sleeve in the most subtle, truthful way.  If you haven't seen The Sweet Hereafter, go rent it now.  Be warned - there is incest, but Atom Egoyan makes it beautiful.  Wait, did I say that? 

Why do you blog?

To give you something to look forward to.  And to keep myself from looking up diseases on WebMD. 

 

 

Finally, finally, finally we are moved.  I'm not going to pretend this move was as drawn out as the first one, but it did hurt a little.  Sadly, I have neglected my writing for over a week, something that doesn't often happen in my world, so I'm feeling a bit... restless.  I plan to use my housesitting time to get some peace and quiet this weekend (and I'm getting paid - YAY!).  Wait, let me back up.  I am housesitting for one of our supervising producers this weekend.  Monday night, I went over to her house to learn the ropes (aka learn how to use the remote).  But the Supervising Producer wanted to make sure I felt completely at home, so she showed me basically every nook and cranny.  Finally, when she pointed at the oven and said, "That's the oven," her husband exclaimed, "Honey, quit treating her like she just escaped from a mental institution."  He then proceeded to show me into the living room, where he brought out a contraption that looked very much like the detached controls of a 747.  "This is the remote."  The Supervising Producer spoke up, "Learn how to use it.  I don't want to come back and find out you spent the entire weekend reading a book."  So I think I did learn.  But the true test will be tomorrow night... Fingers crossed.  Also, they have a LACMA membership, so I'm planning on taking full advantage of that.  And I probably will do a little reading....shhhh, don't tell!

Today, H-Berts and G-Money are back on the lot, but I'm at our development offices, and I have unpacked pretty much everything, all while booking travel for them and for myself.  You know, I used to think Delta was the official airline of Satan, but now I'm pretty convinced that title belongs to US Air.  I should have known something was up when I went to visit the Honeybee some years ago and asked her father (who is a pilot for US Air) how planes work.  His reply was, "It's  MAGGGGIIIIICCCC!!!"  And then he two-stepped out of the room.  But today, my belief was reaffirmed when I tried to book G-Money's ticket home over the phone (she was using miles to upgrade, or else I would have done it online), and I was hung up on not once, not twice, but FOUR TIMES!!!  I called back the fifth time and asked to speak to Ashton Kutcher, cause fo' sure I was being punked.  I mean, Max pre-toenail clip could work the phones better than that.  And if this is how they work their phones, how the hell can we expect them to properly operate the four planes they own that are never on time? 

And now... for the first time in God knows how many years, I'm leaving the office at 4:30 PM. 

 

Oscar Nom fixed my bumper.  Yes, yes, laugh it up you kinky pervs.  But seriously... last night, we were walking out of the Casa Del Mar after several glasses of champagne (he told me I should have valeted, I said I didn't have any cash, he said he would have paid - oh, to be a kept woman... sigh), and I pointed out the problem.  He proceeded to pound it (haha - these jokes write themselves, don't they?) back into place.  And now I don't have to worry about a piece of my bumper flying off and gouging a pedestrian in the eye.  Reason Number 867 to be a faux homewrecker. 

Funny, how the last day of production feels so much like the last day of school - we're all catered sushi and chocolate fountains up in here today, and rightfully so.  Our crew kicks ass.  They've worked together since "Buffy," then after that, they did "Angel," so it comes as no surprise that any time we have a "stunt" (aka one punch thrown to the stomach in a quick bar fight), they drum their fingers in delight. 

I, of course, am still in the throes of wrap gift hell.  But it all has to be done today, because, after today, we are no more.  I even got a memo on my desk yesterday morning saying my official wrap date is next Thursday, May 25th.  Now, this made me a little nervous.  See, H-Berts and G-Money are such kick-ass writers that the studio just re-upped their overall deal (aka "We'll pay you seven figures not to write for any other studios").  I am included in said deal, but this memo seemed to blatantly disregard that fact.  So I trotted over to set, thanked G-Money for the Target shampoo she brought me from her guest bathroom (I fell in love with it when I house-sat for her last summer, and they don't make it anymore - probably cause they're too busy peddling bullseyes), then asked her, "Am I fired in a week?"  She took a look at the memo, then laughed.  "Um... no.  Guess we should have talked to you about that, huh?"  Job safe (for now, at least), I laughed. 

Now I must go put stickers on boxes of coffee mugs.   

From the wrap party, with our POC and the 20th Talent Relations Gal.  That's right.  I said relations. 

H-Berts and G-Money have okayed the week of vacation this summer!  Yay!!!!  And the production office has Baked Cheetos!  Yay again!!!!

And it's my mom's birthday!!!  Triple YAY!!!

Note to Self:  Do not start out a wrap party by drinking champagne, followed by two vodka tonics, followed by a shot of Knob Creek, followed by two Cosmopolitans.

Another Note to Self:  If you are to engage in such collegiate "boozing," be sure to also take advantage of the free gourmet food at said wrap party, as opposed to leaving your plate of filet mignon and rice pilaf with your date while you go dance to Chumbawumba. 

Third Note to Self:  If JOC asks you to get in the middle of the circle and do a solo dance:  Do.  Not.  Obey.  Him. 

Fourth Note to Self:  Thank God for Islands' cheese fries.  

Spending the week stuffing 300 t-shirts into mass-ordered gift bags almost made me forget about my exciting Monday night.  Last week, I wrote that I needed to get JOC to sign my dad's "Joe's Apartment" DVD.  I'd already spoken to RR about it, and, when I told her it was one of my dad's favorite movies, she responded with, "Is he a pothead?"  She proceeded to tell me that JOC was at the Derby (jealous!), but she'd give it to him when he got back.  In the meantime, I decided to hang on to it.  Imagine my surprise when who shows up Monday night, Tito's Tacos in hand, but JOC, right at my desk.  "I brought you food.  Let's watch the Clippers game," he says, striding into H-berts's office and flicking on the TV.  Yeah, I've met him once.  Maybe twice.  But here's the magic of JOC - he's been on sets since he was, like, two.  And he knows EVERYONE by name, and he knows where they're from, and he'll know their favorite cuisine.  It's what he does, because he knows it's important.  So, in addition to getting him to sign my dad's DVD, I also spent two hours with him watching the game and eating tacos.  Just me and him.  Afterwards, he drove me to my car, since I have to park far away.  Nice guy, that JOC.  Nice guy. 

Today has been alternately exciting and disappointing... Exciting because when I arrived at work this morning our wrap gifts were waiting!  And they were perfect.  Not fucked up.  In any way.  My ulcer immediately disintegrated.  But THEN, as I was walking back from set, I thought, I'll go say hi to everyone in the production office.  I hadn't even turned into the door when three of my colleagues (all women, mind you) skipped squealing out.  One of them, our production coordinator, managed to squeal right in my ear:

"Johnny Depp's been sighted smoking next to the ADR stage!!!!" 

I didn't need further convincing to hop on the back of that golf cart.  Now, correct me if I'm wrong, people, but isn't Johnny Depp supposed to be a chain smoker? And if not, shouldn't he be, so that his smoke break would last five minutes longer and I would get to see him?  Shame on you, Johnny Depp.  Thank you for NOT smoking.  NOT.  So, yeah, he wasn't there when we got there.  

BUT I got a voicemail from Oscar Nom (a girl simply cannot pick up her phone while trolling for Johnny Depp) saying he's in town again next week!  This'll be, like, three weeks in a row I'll get to see him!  And his message was so cute... "I know Tuesday night is PD night for you, but maybe Wednesday night can be our night? "  I am not a homewrecker.  I am not a homewrecker .  Really, I'm not.     

And I totally just ganked this picture of Max from Iplish's blog.  Sure, it's her picture, but he's my cat.  It kind of looks like he's hula dancing in his sleep, doesn't it?

I can now cross out all the items on my To Do list of last week, except the Paxil prescription.  The conversation with my doctor went a little something like this:

Doctor:  Now I'm no doctor--

Me:  (panicking) WHAT??

Doctor:  What I meant to say is, I'm not a psychiatrist.  But I think what we're looking at is a case of OCD, combined with Hypochondriasis. 

Me:  Which means?

Doctor:  You need therapy.

Me:  And AZT?

Doctor:  For the last time, you don't have AIDS. 

Me:  Whatever...  Are you sure the lab didn't spell my last name wrong?  It says on their website that the specimen requirements--

Doctor:  Lose my number.

Typical man...  But seriously, it was nice for someone to acknowledge that what I've been going through is not normal.  If you're one of my closest friends, or if you're my mom, you've been listening to a lot of whacky shit from me.  And I know it's whacky.  I can tell that at some points, and at others, it's so ridiculously real.  It's really frightening when your memory starts playing tricks on you - combine memory with imagination and you've got one clusterfuck of a nightmare.  Anyway, I'll can the melodrama for now and go back to what's really important - labeling gift bags! 

Wrapped up in wrap party/wrap gift hell.  Will return one of these days.    

Also to do:

Find a date for the wrap party.  I'm thinking the Tennis Pro.  He's a good dose of eye candy, and he won't hit on me unless I ask him to. 

I just read the following headline on AOL.com: 

"Goose Befriends Cancer Patient."  Apparently, it's a video, which my lame ass computer at work won't play, although I'm anxious to see the goose and the cancer patient strolling hand in webbed foot through the park, splitting concessions at the movie theater ("Extra butter for my friend Goose here"), grabbing two spoons for a pint of Ben & Jerry's.  Some things just scream "SITCOM," don't they?  And some things just scream "Melissa needs to get off the Internet and get her shit together... when she stops laughing about the goose and the cancer patient." 

I have a to do list five miles long for this week, including finishing an outline for my outrageous rom-com, making some headway on this crappy novel I started writing (I'm one of those losers who's been working on a novel, albeit a different one every year, since I was eight - what can I say, third grade was cake, and I get bored easily), getting our Supervising Producer to read my "O.C." spec, dinner with Safari Barbie's husband tonight, dinner with Oscar Nom Wednesday (and deciding whether or not to give him my pilot, which involves a homewrecking girl and her dead husband, who was much older and more successful than she...hmmm.... who could that be about?  Well, except he's not dead), getting JOC to sign my Pop's "Joe's Apartment" DVD, prepping the pilot to give to the Faux Agents at our dinner next month, and demanding that my doctor write me a prescription for Paxil when I go see him on Friday.  A note about my doctor:  He thinks I am a lunatic.  Another note about my doctor:  He is right.  Which means either he writes me that prescription or I call him every day with a new disease I've concocted.  My favorite so far is the herniated ovary.  I'm not sure what it is, but it sounds really cool.  And painful.  I think we know which option he'll choose... 

When you begin to understand there's no such thing as fact, the world becomes both terrifying and beautiful.  Throw in a bit of the visceral, a thumping heartbeat here, a gentle touch there, and you've got pretty much the best life has to offer.

Please don't mistake my fear for crankiness.  Although I am cranky that I've been a burden on so many people lately.  My poor, poor mother....

Last night I had a dream that there was a gang war going on in my hometown.  For those who know, there's not, right?  I think it was particularly concentrated in Montrose Park... Let me know, so I can sleep tonight!