September 2006 Archives

I am much too tired to put together any sort of coherent entry, so I leave you this week with several Random Stupid Thoughts Melissa Has Had in the Past 24 Hours:

1.)  Regarding dinner last night at 10 PM.  I had stayed after work to get some writing done, and I looked up and realized I was hungry.  So I go to the kitchen, search the cabinets, and lo and behold, find some cereal.  Apple Jacks or Fruit Loops, Apple Jacks or Fruit Loops.  Hmmm, I  think, I'll go with Apple Jacks, because I'm more convinced there's actually fruit in them, since they specify which fruit it is, unlike Fruit Loops, which merely specifies the (totally unnatural, I might add) shape.  Fruit Loops, I think, are the carb equivalent of White Castle's chicken rings.  And I'm certainly not touching those with a ten-foot-pole.

2.)  My New York Roommate calls me last night at 11 PM.  "Hey," she says.  "I'm in town for the day tomorrow."  First of all, WHAT???  You live on a different coast.  But this is oh-so-her, so I reply, "Cool," and pretend not to be impressed.  Which is oh-so-me.  Then she asks if I'd like to have breakfast with her at 7:45 AM.  In Los Feliz.  Now, I have not been to Los Feliz since the spring of '04.  It's like she asked me to meet her in Greece.  But I say yes anyway, cause I'm just a good friend like that.  And I get up this morning at 5:30 to go jogging before said breakfast, then realize it's dark at 5:30.  So I check email, Myspace, etc., then finally get out the door to go jogging around 6:30.  When I get back, it's 7:10.  And I haven't showered.  And enter my second stupid thought:  "I can get from Westwood to Los Feliz in ten minutes.  Fifteen tops."   

3.)  While washing my face this morning, I realize I have a little bump right below my ear, at the base of my jaw.  This, of course, is jaw cancer.  I call my mother to break the bad news.

Me:  I have jaw cancer.

Mom:  Jock answer?  Is that an STD?

Me:  JAW!  CANCER!  I'm dying.

Mom:  Oh.  That reminds me.  I'm taking stock of what furniture to move into my new office, and your grandmother offered me that China cabinet she has earmarked for you.

Me:  Take it.  I'll be dead within the year.

Mom:  Thank you!  You are just the sweetest daughter ever.

 

 

 

A Conversation with the Honeybee:

Honeybee:  Okay, so I'm getting an early start on my holiday shopping, and I've gotten the Hottie something, got you something, and I'm totally stressed out, because I don't know what to get for the Designated Driver.

Me:  I'm sorry?

Honeybee:  For Christmas?

Me:  You mean the holiday that's three months away?

Honeybee:  Yeah.  What should I get her?

Me:  Well, what are you getting me?

Honeybee:  Oh, I've got you all figured out.

Me:  How so?

Honeybee:  I know your hobbies.  I know what you like.

Me:  What are my hobbies?

Honeybee:  Being annoying.  So I got you a muzzle. 

Me:  I think we should add someone to our little group.

Honeybee:  Ugh... now you're just compounding my stress.  I'd have to figure out what to get them for Christmas.  Assess how they feel about taking me to the airport.  See?  Annoying.

I am starting a new tradition.  Right here.  Right now.  What is this new tradition, you might ask?  Well, here's the deal.  I'm sick and tired of online surveys.  The questions are part superficial, part quasi-retarded.  So I'd like to give you, the reader, an opportunity to design your own survey.  If there's something you're hankering to ask me, please, post your question in the comments section, or shoot me an email.  I will post my responses here.

I'll tell you what's up, Chlydia.  "Faux" is my new best friend because all of my other friends either a.) tell me I, like William Faulkner, can't write; b.) try to seduce my P.A.; c.) try to push me off a cliff; or d.) have stopped being anorexic and therefore no longer hand down their cool (but too big for them) clubbing clothes to me.   

More tomorrow, dearies.

Now where was I?  Ah, yes.  The weekend.  Sunday was restful.  There was the normal coffee drinking, jogging, painting of toenails while watching "Being Julia."  It's been a while since I've stooped to the level of giving myself a pedicure.  God, it sucks being poor.  Especially when you've ruined your right big toe five times.  How, you ask?  You paint it, wait 30 seconds, realize you're hungry, then slip into your houseshoes to go grab some string cheese.  Rinse.  Repeat.  I didn't become a rocket scientist for a reason, folks.  Plus, I'm used to someone else handling my feet.  I don't do well with such peasantry.

When my nails were finally dry, and I'd managed to throw on a slutty polka-dotted shirt (is it possible for polka dots to be slutty?) and some bitchin' capri pants, I headed out to dinner with Cliffhanger.  You'd think she'd be tired of seeing me, what with us hiking 20 miles on Saturday, then going to brunch, then to the bank, but she was determined to get on this blog with her new name, so dinner it was.  If you haven't been to Luna Park for the goat cheese fondue and the s'mores (complete with homemade graham crackers!), go.  Right now.  I mean, you might even see me there.  And I would steal your s'mores.  Anyway, dinner was lovely, and I was telling her that I can sometimes tell who reads the blog.  Like, I have an ex-boyfriend I can tell comes around sometimes. 

Me:  I know he checks the blog sometimes, but I don't get why.  He's the one who didn't want to date me.

Cliffhanger:  Duh.

Me:  Excuse me?

Cliffhanger:  (in her "duh" tone of voice) He checks it because he wants to see if you're dating anyone else.

Me:  (in my "I"m a sarcastic bitch" tone of voice) This from the girl who joined okcupid.com, then was appalled when she learned it was an online dating site.

Cliffhanger:  Are you going to keep throwing that in my face?

She's getting to know my ways already.  Three and a half hours after we started dinner, we realized it was past my bedtime, and so said our goodbyes.  God, can you imagine having to sit across from me and make conversation for three and a half hours?  What does one talk to me about?  Why does one want to talk to me?  But Cliffhanger pulled it off - she is the queen of charm.   

Monday morning, I got an email from Farrah asking if I could please send her all my September blogs.  Her evil workplace has blocked this site, so I send them to her manually.  After she'd read them, I got the following response:

"Talk about some passive aggressive shit talking while you were home----I loved it!"

Thank you for that, Farrah.  Like I needed to be reminded that I was Sylvia Plath sans the poetry and talent and suicide all last month.  Something in that Kentucky water... or maybe it was because my parents didn't have any moonshine in the house. 

Today I have accomplished a laundry list of things:  sent my pilot to our supervising producer on PD, spoke to Ballsy Gal re:  pilot and her agent, began to fan the fires of a bidding war between her agent and my faux agents, Internet stalked one of our current writer's ex-girlfriends (at his request.  He bet me ten bucks I couldn't find a picture of her.  What have we learned?  Don't tell me I can't.), read through the very first draft of my Monk spec and realized I kinda dig it. 

What did I forget to do?  Eat.  I hope this faux anorexia thing isn't starting again.  Especially not when there's free food all around me. 

Lay off, people.  Lay off.  Seriously.  I cannot be all things to all hooligans, and therefore I will be nothing to some hooligans.  Can ya tell I'm delirious?  I've been sitting in this room all day, hopped up on Advil, Diet Coke, and the blatantly suckfestish coffee I made this morning while the P.A. was out at Kinko's, so please forgive me. 

I guess it all started pre-dinner with Oscar Nom last Monday.  I had spent the day in the room (as I now spend every day), and my head was swimming as I headed to the Hyatt in Century City.  Our phone conversation had gone a little something like this:

Oscar Nom:  I'm done with my pitch.  Where do you want to have dinner?

Me:  Uh.....

Oscar Nom:  Well, what are you in the mood for?

Me:  Uh....

Oscar Nom:  Why don't you just come to my hotel?

Me:  Okay. 

So I try that.  I even make a right when I see the Hyatt sign and a large building that appears to be a hotel.  I walk in.  No Oscar Nom.  Search the lounge.  Nope.  The restaurant.  Nope.  Finally, he calls me.

Oscar Nom:  Uh...

Yep.  I went to the wrong hotel.  His was the next one over.  I am one smooth lady, huh?  Luckily, I walked in to find him sitting on an extra comfy sofa with two glasses (flutes?  What makes me sound classy?) of chilled champagne ready and waiting.  Footnote:  Get your nasty minds out of the gutter, we were in the lounge, not his room, assholes.  Although later, the waitress did let us know we were welcome to take our champagne up to said room.  To which we both stammered:  Uhhhh...

On with my week.  Not much eventful happened, aside from the fact that I sprained my thumb from typing eight bajillion words a minute.  No lie. 

Then, Friday night rolled around.  And by the time I rolled out of work circa 9 PM, I was starving and cranky and, well, morphing into what Mom would call a heinous bitch.  Ah, yes, I can just hear her laughing as she reads this, and thinking to herself, "That's my girl."  So, anyway, long story short, I yelled at the Designated Driver.  For something so trivial and so ridiculous and so utterly stupid (I mean, granted, I was right and all - wink, wink, nudge, nudge) that I was a little (okay, a lot) ashamed of myself.  For every night she's listened to me drone on about how work was stressing me out, or how I probably have hepatitis or lupus or kidney failure, and for every time she calls me to make sure I've eaten or remembered to take my pay check to the bank or to return a call (which, okay, might be odd, you'd think, but hey, I'm flightier than you remember me, I promise).  And then I just wanted to cry.  And I don't really do that.  Except during the last beat of that one Roseanne episode, where Roseanne's having trouble finding a job, and she and Dan just kinda break into a really quiet version of "I Got You Babe" as they're leaning against their kitchen wall.  And each other.  Jesus, I'm tearing up right now.  Somebody stop me...

Anyway, Saturday.  Okay, wait.  Addendum here.  Sometime earlier in the week, I got an email from the Artist Formerly Known as RR's Manager's Assistant with the following subject line:  "Can I get a Less Gay Nickname?"  Why, yes, yes, you can.  I was having trouble with her nickname, and we tossed a few ideas back and forth - I thought about calling her the Beekeeper, since, on one of our hikes, she walked right through a swarm of bees without one touching her (I was stupidly following, but she didn't tell me they were bees until we were about halfway through).  However, since our hikes are so hardcore, we decided on Cliffhanger.  I don't normally allow people to choose their names here, but Cliffhanger threatened to push me off a cliff if I didn't, and she, like the rest of the world, is taller than me, so I'm a bit frightened of her.  Plus she controls bees. 

So, back to Saturday.  I went hiking with Cliffhanger, followed by brunch at a very secret spot that I am not allowed to talk about, because it's quiet and not crowded and has absolutely delectable and cheap... food is not the appropriate term.  I would call it ambrosia.  And then we went to the bank.  In between exchanging a twenty for two rolls of quarters and trying to remember what it's like to actually have a paycheck to deposit, I realized that I don't go to the bank with just anyone.  So Cliffhanger, if you are reading this ridiculously long entry, please, consider yourself privileged.  Or... not.  You know, whatever.  So long as you keep the bees away from me.

Saturday evening, I got a call from the Honeybee (Jesus, could I write any more about bees?).  Her Internet had been down all weekend, and Heaven forbid she go 48 hours without writing a pissy comment on my blog (something along the lines of "SNL is funnier than you" or just plain "Learn to write;" to which I say "Learn to be nice.  Bitchface.").  Anyway, she bought me dinner, then I let her check her email while I watched a couple pilots (read: slept) on the couch.  And yes, I just called the Honeybee a bitchface, then told you she bought me dinner.  I am that much of an ass. 

But it's good to be back.  I'll finish up the weekend update tomorrow.  Right now, I'm hankering for home, and I'm still over in the Valley.  Talk about tragedy... 

Geez, I can't believe you're still reading this good-for-nothing blog!!!  Who does this girl Melissa think she is, not updating for a week?  Melissa thinks she's a very busy girl, that's who. 

Okay, enough of the third person bullshit.  Let me just start by saying I LOOOOVVVVVEEE my new job.  I don't think I've ever laughed so hard as I have these past two days in the room.  See, a couple of our writers came from the half hour world, one from The Simpsons, one from Will & Grace, and let me just say, these guys are brilliant.  I don't mean just them, but the whole room.  Another writer, for example, wrote my favorite episode of "Sex and the City" (aka the one where Charlotte's dog gets gang-banged - HIGH-larious).  Everyone plays off each other so well, and there's never a dull moment.

Second, I have never been so happy to be in L.A.  From the Hyatt in Century City, where I met Oscar Nom for dinner last night, to the lovely jaunt over the hill to Studio City, to our little bungalow with the pastel fish shower curtain that sits right across from the Passions set on the lot, I'm totally digging it.  Probably because I hadn't stayed in Kentucky for longer than a week in about four years.  I must have begun to take everything here for granted.  Well, no more, I say.  I've finally realized that L.A. is home, and I don't wanna leave.

Right now, though, I have to leave the blog, because I have a lovely night of television and ginger snaps awaiting me.          

MY DAY

8 AM - Wake up.  Hear my parents playing with the dog, who is yipping.  Roll my eyes and roll over.

9 AM - The Prof calls my cell phone.  Think seriously about getting up to answer, but it doesn't work out. 

9:15 AM - Smell pancakes.  Get up. 

9:30 - Eat pancakes.  Think seriously about going back to bed.  Instead, get on the scale in my bathroom (you know, for kicks), see I've gained three pounds while at home.  Resolve to make life changes. 

10 AM - Work out. 

11 AM - Proofreading for Mom.  Followed by more proofreading.

12 PM - Shower. 

1 PM - Contemplate whether salad or starving is a better option for losing weight.  Salad wins.

2 PM - Start up computer.  Open Final Draft.  Write a page and a quarter of Monk. 

2:30 PM - Run errand with Mom.  Receive four phone calls in two minutes.  I am the shit.

3:30 PM - Visit grandmother.  Wait for her to tell me I've gained three pounds.  The doctor has upped her Paxil, so she says nothing.

5 PM - Sit down at computer again.  Write five more pages of Monk.  Yay!!!

6:45 PM - Conference call with Line Producer.  This office move's gonna be fun...

7 PM - Dinner with Farrah at my new favorite Frankfort Hot Spot, Buddy's Pizza.  Pizza is even better than salad for weight loss.

9 PM - Head over to the Brick Alley for a vodka tonic.  For the first time ever, I know no one in there.

10 PM - Home to one of my favorite episodes of "Family Guy."  You know the one - where Peter has an endangered bird living in his beard, and the bird won't shut up when they're in the movie theater, and everyone's bitching at Peter, then when he finally quiets them down, this guy in the back speaks up, "Hey Eric, if you're in here, we're all going to Marty's after the movie."  I don't know why, but that's always had me in stitches.

Something tells me I need to start working again... but first, I'm going to sleep.

 

I am gearing up to leave Kentucky, and, as per usual, I have mixed feelings about the inevitable.  I usually end up being a total shit on my last day home, if for no other reason than to help my friends and family with the separation.  That being said, I've finally settled into a routine here.  Thoughts of the guy are starting to subside.  I wish things could have gone differently with that whole situation.  However, in my younger years, I myself never hesitated to stoop to the level of not returning phone calls from guys that no longer interested me.  Hell, I even left the country for six months without bothering to dump my boyfriend at the time, then met TOBIEL, so you can guess how that situation ended.  Of course, I was nineteen then; the ex-current guy is nearly 30 - and I would have expected more from him.  Despite all his ridiculous chicken shittery, though, I should add that I have no doubt that he will fall hard for some lovely girl in the future and make her very happy.  That being said, it's also a bit disturbing that he seems to avoid every event I might dis-grace with my presence.  Like our mutual friend Penny's birthday party last night, when he randomly didn't show up, even though she's a good friend of his.  I have never seen such lengths of avoidance, not even in myself, and definitely not expressed toward guys I once found attractive and who have ended up underwhelming me.  Usually, I don't give a shit if I see them or not.  It's only difficult for me to see someone I once, and might still, genuinely care for, but who doesn't return the feeling.  Clearly, what with his lack of attention, that is not the case here.  And maybe he did have a legitimate reason for not showing up, like, Big Trouble in Little China came on HBO at the last minute (yeah, I've totally used that excuse before.  Not.  Kidding.).  But Farrah, who rode up and back to Lexington with me, had a different opinion:

Farrah:  You noticed The Guy wasn't there...

Me:  Yeah...

Farrah:  It was totally your fault.

Me:  Thanks.

Farrah:  Seriously.  Why else wouldn't he have shown up?  He knows he's behaved like a shit, and he should be embarrassed to show his face around you.

Me:  Or he decided I'm not right for him.

Farrah:  But you're wearing your skank shorts!  *Footnote:  Here Farrah is referring to the ridiculously short shorts I purchased at half price last week - they are short, I tell you, short! - in Farrah's mind, they defy every reason for any guy losing interest in me.  They also prompted the following pickup line from Farrah's Fiance:  Did you get those shorts on Mars?  Me:  No.  Why?  Farrah's Fiance:  Because your ass is out of this world.  Laughter ensues.  End footnote.*

So there's an end to it.  I won't see him before I leave, unless he buckles down and decides to return the call I weakly placed to him last Saturday, which he won't.  And I don't know if he reads this, but if he does, I will apologize for my passive aggressiveness in writing about him on my blog.  But I won't apologize for calling his actions chicken-shittish (yeah, I know it's not a word, just go with it).        

Meanwhile, I'm soooooo excited about my return to L.A.!  Just be warned, my fellow Angelenos, that when I return....

 

...I'm bringing sexy back. 

 

 

I have always had a bit of a love/hate relationship with my hometown. Most of my high school years I spent pondering ways to get out - I thought about going to college in Seattle, mainly because that was the furthest place that existed in my mind. I hadn't thought to dream of Russia or Finland or the Ukraine or the Black Sea. Those places hadn't materialized in my very small realm of being. My plans for myself were marriage at 23 (WHAT???), law school, a couple of kids at 26 and 28. One of the problems with this ten year old's pipe dream is that I am, at 26, still outgrowing myself. I don't let well enough alone, and God forbid I get a nagging thought in my head, because I am the Queen of Following Through. Don't ever tell me I can't do something. I'll prove you wrong without thinking twice, unless you've challenged me to a lima bean eating contest. Now, spending so much time here again, I am feeling a little caged in. I wonder what my life would be like if I had to move back here (and who knows, it could happen). My best guess is I would become a bipolar nutcase like my grandfather, who has too much on his mind without any effective outlet through which to channel it. I would probably feel the need to drink every night, and I'm sure, with no way to pursue my career of choice, my self esteem would be dictated by whatever underachieving boy (here I say "boy" because I've only met about three "men" my age in my hometown - from what I can tell, they measure success in how many Bud Lights they can drink in a night - aren't beer guts sexy?) happened to be treating me badly that week. Mind you, I am not saying this is what everyone in my hometown experiences - my girlfriends here are absolutely lovely, beautiful, intelligent women who could charm the world if they so chose. I am just referring to Moody Me, and my own shortcomings. Namely, that I can't ever relax, and that I can only remember about four instances of contentment in my entire life. My restlessness, I have realized, is a controlling factor in my life, one that I won't ever be able to curb, and one which has dictated my unhappiness and my "if only" version of success. The thing is, there's always something to accomplish, always something else to do, and, although I realize that last sentence is completely sad and pathetic, I thrive on challenge. Which probably means I will never be truly happy. And when I see people here, who seem to be happy to take it slow, I can't say but I'm a tad bit jealous. Okay, really jealous. And I wonder where the girl who dreamed of getting married and settling down at 23 went. My guess is some loser boy challenged her to a game of air hockey, she won, and he could never marry a woman who beat him at air hockey. Or made more money than he did.

But on to men, cause I'm done with boys. Last night, I was treated to a lovely dinner by the Louisville Politician, who cooked for me! It has been so long since anyone who wasn't the Designated Driver cooked for me, so I was charmed and flattered beyond belief. He went all out - spinach artichoke dip, salad, steak, potatoes, and for dessert, Snickers ice cream WITH a Snickers bar cut up on top! Seems he's a reader and was patient enough to wade through that 800 question survey I did a while back. He has reaffirmed my faith in men, I have to say. Some people might call me an uppity bitch. I say I'm just a typical only child. Afterwards, I met up with the Dauditor at a nearby coffee shop. The Dauditor is great friends with the Only Boy I've Ever Loved. She had told me a while back that he was headed to Harvard Diplomacy School, and I thought to myself, "That is just where he belongs." We talked in depth about him last night. See, he just dumped his very serious girlfriend, who was getting ready to quit her job at the CIA to move to Boston to be with him. It's just like him to wait until the last minute, when she's given notice and rented her apartment, to drop the bomb that he didn't think she was right for him. He always had a flare for the dramatic. It's what will make him a roaring success when he's running the American Embassy in East Jakarta. Back when we were dating, he would use his flare for the dramatic in not telling me he had gotten back with his ex while trying to convince me to come to D.C. to visit him on his dime. Here's the thing, people. I have spies everywhere. If you're fucking around on me, I'm gonna find out. But it all kind of came together for me last night as I told the Dauditor, "The Only Boy I've Ever Loved cares as much for that tree over there as he ever did for me or anyone else." Please see above, wherein I specify my only-childishness. To TOBIEL, every creature was just as special as the next. He was (and most likely still is) the quintessential Socialist. He feels the weight of the entire world on his shoulders, and I couldn't stomach that, and he couldn't stomach that I couldn't help shoulder that burden. Frankly, it terrified me, who I was willing to pretend to be in order to be with him. But, luckily, he could see right through me. The Dauditor has asked him what happened between us, and apparently his reply was, "She's brilliant, she's amazing, but she's not for me." It's funny, because last night, I said to the Dauditor pretty much those exact words in reference to him only moments before she told me that.  Seems closure comes in bits and pieces over the years. If I saw him tomorrow, I'd offer to buy him a beer. And he'd let me beat him at air hockey without feeling threatened.

I was thinking the other day that a good name for a band would be Better Than Better Than Ezra.  Except, as we all know, it's next to impossible to top Juicy.  Or Good.  And for that matter, why isn't Good called Better?  And why am I writing before I've had my coffee?