25-Sep-2006

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...