August 2006 Archives

I have to say, I did not intend to be so transparent in my entry yesterday.  However, when I'm upset, I'm upset, and I communicate best through my writing, so if I offended anyone, deal with it.  It made me feel better, and that's what matters.  Sometimes. 

Mom and I took a lovely jaunt to Somerset Tuesday, returning last night.  She had depositions there, so I tagged along to get some writing done (which I did, thank you very much) and generally be a pain in her ass.  Now, she was working from nine to five each day, so I had to find ways to entertain myself.  In Somerset.  Where there were only three channels on the hotel television.  After the first day of writing for pretty much five hours straight, I was feeling a little Jack Nicholson at the end of Act II of The Shining, and Mom was still in depos, so I called my Ex Film Professor/Writing Partner.  He's a fifty year old man, but get him on the phone and he is all types of an old maid.

The Prof:  How goes it with The Guy?

Me:  What guy?

The Prof:  That bad, huh?

Me:  (shrugging)

The Prof:  You should call him.

Me:  No frickin' way!

The Prof:  Why wouldn't you?

Me:  Because he didn't return my call a month ago, then didn't return an email I sent him, and my pride won't let me. 

The Prof:  Forget your pride.

Me:  You are a hopeless romantic. 

The Prof:  Thank you.

Me:  I, for one, prefer not to spend my time chasing guys whose actions make it clear they have no interest in me.

That shuts him up.  But just for a bit.

The Prof:  It does make sense for you not to call him.  Because you're never moving back there.

Me:  I don't know that--

The Prof:  You're never moving back there.  You do know that.  So it becomes like dating a married man.  Why go on the first date?  You might fall in love, then you're fucked.  People have got to be 95% the same when they start out, then there's room for 5% change and compromise.  That's it.

I am quiet for a moment as I let those words sink in.   

The Prof:  Just... don't take it out on the next guy.

And those are about the wisest words I've heard spoken on the subject of bitterness.  Then he continues.

The Prof:  Or the doctor you end up marrying. 

And as I chuckle, I remember why I love this fifty year old man, my ex professor, who has somehow, somewhere, become one of my best friends.  And not just because he wrote ERNEST RIDES AGAIN.   

During the past month, I have declined (okay, not straight up declined, but been reluctant to accept) at least two nice young men who have asked me out.  It wasn't that they weren't attractive or kind or interesting.  In fact, quite the opposite was true.  I, however, had just come from a, while not particularly hurtful... well, okay, it was hurtful, but perhaps I should call it a slightly deceptive situation (although, to be honest, we've all done our share of deceiving, have we not?), in which the guy apparently pretended to be crazy about me, then one day I call him up, leave him a voicemail, and he never returns my call.  I am not the type to call back when someone doesn't respond to my voicemail (unless you're the Hottie, the Designated Driver, the Honeybee, or my mom), but I did do some checking (we have mutual friends), and said guy is not dead, so the only other excuse I could come up with was that he had lost interest (and here I'm not blaming him - shit happens, ya know?).  My friends pulled out all the stops - he's intimidated by you, he's not ready for you, he doesn't want to think about all he'd have to give up to be with you - I've heard it all before, and my response every time is the same.  I roll my eyes.  Cause, sad as it is, if you care about someone, all that other crap falls by the wayside.  I can't deny it - my feelings were hurt.  So enter some new guys, some lovely compliments, followed by a continuous roll of my eyes ("You know I just told you you have beautiful eyes, and you're rolling them at me?"), a few reprimands from my Ex Film Professor/Writing Partner, who wasn't hitting on me but told me I looked particularly lovely that day ("You know when a man compliments you and you roll your eyes, all you're saying to that man is that you think he's a gigantic dumbass," and then, re:  the guy, "You should have slept with him" - ah, the man's solution to everything), and here I am.  I wish I could accept a compliment, I wish I could believe anything, but really, at this point in my life, with a new, more stressful job and a career to get off the ground, I don't have time for the upset I went through this past month.  Don't shower me with compliments - instead, how 'bout a "Melissa, quit being a whiny bitch and tell me what you want me to pick up for dinner, since you've had a long day at work.  Also, in case you needed reassurance, I don't have AIDS."  Oh, and try returning my calls.  Okay, okay, my call.  But I shouldn't have to (and won't) try you more than once.     

People in L.A. have been calling to make sure I wasn't on the plane that crashed in Lexington.  And, as you can probably tell from the fact that I can still type, I thankfully was not.  That being said, any way you slice it, the whole situation blows goats.  I've wracked my brain trying to think of worse ways to die than a plane crash, and so far, the only one I can come up with is dying in a plane crash while IN the plane's cramped bathroom.  This is why I don't use airplane bathrooms.  Well, okay, that and I'm claustrophobic.  I might have a graduate degree and fluency in three languages, but I cannot for the life of me work those flimsy plastic locks, and I just know I wouldn't be able to make it out in time to reach my seat cushion that allegedly doubles as a flotation device. 

The whole thing is also weird because, last Thursday, I had a nightmare that one of my Kentucky friends died in a plane crash.  Thankfully, said friend is fine, but I couldn't shake the feeling all day that something was off (and don't think for a second I'll let you all know which one of you it was - that's just too weird).

Nothing else seems worth writing about.  Home is lovely, and I've sat curled up all afternoon with a mug of hot chocolate and my Monk spec, which I must say is progressing nicely.  I saw most of my friends yesterday at Chlydia's.  It's so funny - I have absolutely no interest in fantasy football, but I have every interest in just sitting around with them.  They could make prison fun, and for that, as well as the fact that they are safe and happy as far as I can tell, I am truly thankful. 

At last I have the will to write.  All this gearing up to leave town has been stressful on poor little ole OCD, control-freak me.  There has been no time for chitchat, schmoozing, or "24."  Suffice it to say, you should have seen the jig I did when my drinks cancelled tonight.  There's no way I would have made it - it's only 8:30, and I'm already curled up in my bed, enjoying our wireless capabilities while "Roseanne" plays in the background.

Saturday night, as many of  you know, was my birthday party.  Now, I'm quite torn about these house parties of ours.  My problem is I see people I haven't seen in months, then I chat their respective ears off as everyone else sits around feeling ignored.  Okay, maybe everyone else sits around chatting, and their feeling ignored is mainly in my head, but there were several people I wanted to spend more time with on Saturday that I didn't get to, and I don't want said people to feel slighted, so I'm passive-aggressively apologizing on my blog.  That being said, to the people I did get to spend time with - I wouldn't trade it for the world.  So there.  I had my limit of two chocolate martinis and a Heineken, drank two bottles of Aqua Fina, and called it a night. 

Sunday morning, I was up bright and early (read:  8 AM) for our staff's trip to the L.A. Convention Center's bridal expo.  I don't know how many of you have ever been to a bridal expo, but that is some fucked up shit right there.  I understand the ring sizers, the photographers, the cake samples, but break out the random line dancers and the plastic surgery advocates, and you've lost me.  Luckily, I was paired up with our staff writer.  Even though we only met that morning, we pretended to be engaged to get people to talk to us.  As we walked, he wondered why all the vendors we'd spoken to had given him the evil eye.  Finally it hit me - "I'm not wearing a ring!"  I cried.  "They think I'm a cheap bastard!"  He cried.  So we hightailed it to the ring place to get sized for some cubic zirconia.  Ah, fun times...

Monday night, aka my actual birthday, G-Money figured out it was my birthday around 6:30, and, fuming that I hadn't told either her or H-Berts, immediately sent me home.  I found tons of lovely gifts awaiting me from Mom and Dad, as well as a bedding upgrade from the Designated Driver (she seems to think that my needing 12 hours of sleep a night stems from the fact that I don't have an adequate mattress, sheets, or pillows - I seem to think it stems from the fact that I'm a big fat lazy ass).  Then, the Hottie, the Honeybee, and the Designated Driver took me out for dinner.  Did you know that, in some parts of the world, sake can be made to taste like chocolate cake?  I didn't either.  Regardless, we made it through the night with only one sketchy guy coming up to the table to get the Hottie's phone number.  I mean, seriously, if you need to have an uninterrupted conversation with the Hottie, don't take her out in public.  It's not like we were ho'ing it up at a bar.  We were at a nice restaurant, trying to have a nice dinner, and here comes Serial Rapist Pedophile in his striped linen pants and Birkenstocks.  Um, hello?  Do you REALLY think impolitely inserting (haha!) yourself into our conversation is going to get you into the Hottie's (thankfully not striped linen) pants?  Oh, you do?  Never mind, then.

This morning, I went to the dentist.  Nothing raises my self esteem like hearing I once again have no cavities.  AND I got a new toothbrush.  Was your Wednesday morning full of such positive reinforcement?  I thought not.

And now, back to the "Roseanne" episode where Darlene's poem wins a prize and she doesn't want to read it at culture night but Roseanne makes her.  Written by Joss Whedon.  Word.

 

 

Today does not feel like my birthday. 

I feel like death.  Probably because my first official "late 20s" birthday is fast approaching.  I could use some cake right about now...

Oh, and I haven't been writing much because a.) see above and b.) work is hell trying to get everything wrapped up before I leave.  If anyone knows anyone who wants to be a writer's PA, please, please, please let me know!  Like, now.

Barring a serious hiking injury tomorrow morning, I will be spending the next two evenings at the Hermosa Beach Film Festival, where the NY Filmmaker has some shorts being screened.  If you've got nothing better to do, come on down!  I'm told there is an excellent sushi restaurant that doubles as a reggae club right next door.  Need I say more?

www.hermosashorts.com  

Yesterday, I got a call from RR's manager's assistant (say THAT five times fast) asking if I wanted to go hiking on Saturday.  Now, I am an extremely guarded person, so naturally there are some preliminary questions I feel I must put forth.  First and foremost, define the term "hiking."  See, I've learned from (bad) experience that some crackpots in California do not differentiate between "hiking" and "rock climbing."  The former, I'm fine with, so long as I'm not sporting my Gap flip flops; the latter, well, I'd rather die.  I mean, come on, people, we work in the entertainment industry, so I know all you fuckwits have seen the first ten minutes of CLIFFHANGER.  That one scene was enough to put me off both rock climbing and rocks in general.  Throw a pebble at me and I'll have a panic attack.  No, no, RR's manager's assistant assured me, it's not rock climbing, it's hiking, as in, about three of you could fit on the path.  Fine.  You know all that shit you learned in middle school bonding workshops?  (Not bondage, mind you - those workshops came later).  You know what I'm talking about here - the trust fall, the spirit fingers, the goddamn high ropes course?  Well, I am not ashamed to admit that I did NOT go on that high ropes course, I sat at the bottom and drank Capri Sun while the rest of my class frolicked in the trees.  I'm sure some of you must be thinking what a wimp I am, but, look, I've pretty much known who I was and what I wanted since I was circa six months old.  There will be no pushing of the envelope here, especially not when said envelope is made of trees in which I decidedly do not wish to frolic.  And you know what?  I'm still smart, and I'm still hot, and I'm still the only one of you to have seen BRAIN DONORS.  So get off my back.  I'm hiking eight miles on Saturday morning at 7 AM.     

Every day from noon to three I seem to be experiencing anxiety.  It's the strangest thing - those are the three hours every day that I'm at my most worried.  Perhaps it's low blood sugar... Or perhaps I'm just a loon.  I'm open to any other theories, though. 

As I posted on Friday, my writing partner has been in town all weekend and leaves tomorrow.  We have been in the process of writing a script for the past three years.  We'd be working on it, then something crazy would happen with one of us, and we'd have to stop, but we've always come back around to it, mainly because we both love the idea so much.  Long story short, three years ago, as we were beginning to brainstorm about story, characters, etc., we made a short list of who could play each part (this is mainly "pretend" work you do to give your brain a rest), and we came up with Katie Holmes as an idea for the heroine.  Fast forward to this weekend, as we were looking back over our huge stack of notes from three years ago, when my writing partner read the following quote to me:

"What is Katie's main problem?  How could someone like Katie Holmes ever have any problems?  What's she got to worry about?" 

I laughed my ass off, tumbled out of my chair, and vomited on the carpet.  What a difference three years make, huh?

The Designated Driver has introduced me to "Cathouse" on HBO.  For those of you who don't know, it's a reality show about a bunch of women who live and work in a Nevada brothel.  And it's graphic.  Granted, it's no "9021-Ho" or "Hot Bods and Tail Pipes," but there's definitely nudity (male and female - how refreshing) and adult content.  I am fascinated by this show, mainly because it has taught me that I would make the Worst.  Prostitute.  Ever.  First off, the whole hypochondria thing does not make for quality romance, paid or unpaid.  Second, most of the guys who are paying for sex are not attractive.  Big shocker, I know.  I'm not judging here, but sex is just not something I'd be willing to pay for.  It's like ketchup at McDonald's - it should be free, or at least come with the purchase of all the emotional baggage I (or anyone) bring to the table.  And getting paid for sex... I think that would make me feel like a, well, prostitute.  Getting paid for sex with McDonald's breakfast, though - I'm willing to consider it.  At the end of the day, it's all just semantics.

 

       

I am a very busy girl.  Which is why I only have time for a brief review of Final Destination 3:

Death to Tweens + Roller Coasters + Tanning Bed + Exercise Machines = Delightful

And I think I just managed to spoil pretty much the entire film.  Go me.  Now to mentally prepare for an whole weekend of writing, as my ex-film professor/writing partner is in town (he wrote one of the Ernest movies), and we're trying to finish a script in five days.  We'll see how that works out...

 

Quote of the day from G-Money:

INT.  G-MONEY'S OFFICE  - EVENING

G-Money is on the phone.  Melissa gestures wildly to get her attention.

G-Money (into phone, talking to a studio VP who has no idea of Melissa's existence):  Hold on, hold on, Melissa's having another one of her paranoid, neurotic episodes. 

 

Good Things That Have Happened To Me Today:

1.)  I bought my plane tickets home!  August 26-Sept. 13th.  Yay for me!

2.)  Harrison Ford sighting at Coffee Bean.  As in, he was right behind me, probably checking out the gigantic piece of lint I later learned was on my ass.

Tonight, dinner with the ex-agent's assistant at Sunin.  Yummy!  I say that in reference to the food, people. 

 

OMG, OMG, OMG.  I just had this nice entry typed up, and I must have hit the self-destruct key, cause it disappeared!  WTF??  Now that I have lost my will to live, I'm going to go watch some directors' reels on H-Berts's couch.  Maybe I'll write later...