27-May-2006
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."
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."
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