October 2006 Archives

Today is the first anniversary of one of the worst days in my life, less because of the actual day itself, more because of the dark period it triggered.  I've talked (albeit very cryptically) here about it, but today I'm only going to say that I'm over it, I'm done, and I'm happier now than I've been in a long time.  So yay-rah for me, assholes.

I'm having a string of peaceful weekends.  I used to hate peace (that didn't sound right); now I dig it, because now it doesn't mean being left alone with thoughts I don't know how to handle.  I'm getting better at writing when I'm not in the mood to write (and so am better-equipped to deal with any persistently intrusive thoughts), and I also think I'm becoming less ADD about my writing.  I buckled down both afternoons and got a lot of shit done.  Friday night, I even went to dinner with a Vandy kid.  I was impressed that he'd made the effort to fly out here for one party (I did the same when I was living in NYC, except then it was to have dinner with my then-manager; I slept on the tennis pro's couch and got stood up by a guy who would later offer me a job because he felt bad about standing me up that night five months prior; said guy was Ex-Boss, and such was my humble beginning).  I was not impressed, however, that the kid spent the whole time talking my ear off about HIMSELF.  The worst thing you can do when you're at dinner with an only child is talk only about yourself.  Especially when you're supposed to be kissing said only child's ass.  And how the fuck can you talk someone into believing you're a good writer?  What's that, you say?  Pitching?  Well, fine, argue with me, but I will always believe they're two very different skill sets. 

I proclaimed my dinner dissatisfaction to Cliffhanger on our Saturday morning hike (and yeah, yeah, Cliffy, I know you said something about our hikes being "sacred," and "not blogging material," and "JC, Melissa, can't you ever shut your freakishly small mouth?," but you also don't like Question Day, so I'm going to do it, just this once). 

Cliffhanger:  So he talked about himself the entire time?

Me:  The entire time.

Cliffhanger:  Doesn't he know your ego needs a little stroking?  Like, stroke, stroke, slap?

Me:  What's stroke, stroke, slap?

Cliffhanger:  You know how you're really cool because you're good on the page AND you're good in person?

Me:  Awww... that's so sweet--

Cliffhanger:  --But you're also really short, and you need a lot of attention.  

Long, long pause wherein I am trying not to cry.

Cliffhanger:  That's stroke, stroke, slap.

Saturday night, I went to see LITTLE CHILDREN.  Before the movie, the Honeybee asked me what it was about.  I mentioned pet dinosaurs, a rock quarry, Mel Blanc; basically, I pitched her The Flintstones, so halfway through the movie, I could feel her staring at me with red-hot angry eyes.  It's the same look I got when I told the New York Lawyer DAWN OF THE DEAD was a psychological thriller, not a gore-fest.  I mean, if you wanna get technical, it's an allegory for consumerism, but she didn't see it that way, at least not after sweet little Vivian took a juicy bite of blood and snappy tendons from Lewis's neck.  Now who wants Pink Berry?

Speaking of which, I'd like to take this time to thank the New York Lawyer for saving my would-have-been royally sodomized ass.  I might have mentioned this before, but she's one of the maybe five (or 5,000; whatever - we don't need to get techinical here, do we?) people I know who is so obviously smarter than I am, and in such a modest way.  We spent a winter traipsing through St. Petersburg back in '01, then took one of the longest train rides ever (wherein the border guards tried to confiscate our passports and Visas, then threatened to throw us off the train) and had a blast in the Ukraine.  Also, she has been my TOBIEL spy for years, as they attended the same college.  She was the one who called and told me he was back with his ex, even after he'd called me the day before, offering to buy me a plane ticket to come visit him.  She was the first person I called, in a panic, when Oscar Nom finally told me he was married... Ah, good times.  Good.  Times.

Yesterday, after researching sexual misdemeanors and brainstorming for the pilot all afternoon, Cliffhanger showed up with her roommate, and we all piled into the Designated Driver's car to get Bay Cities.  Now, it's funny, because a year ago, one of the worst days of my life, I was at Bay Cities, finding out something horrible (and, let's admit it, something horrible that was also somewhat my fault) that was only one link in the chain.  But yesterday was lovely.  The sun was setting, oil and vinegar were dripping from our sandwiches, and I didn't have an unpleasant thought in my head as we ate.  In fact, I'd go so far as to say I didn't have a single thought in my head, but that would make me sound stupid now, wouldn't it?                

A Phone Conversation with the Designated Driver:

Me:  Hello...

DD:  Why are you calling me?

Me:  Just to tell you I love you...

DD:  Uh-huh.  Seriously, what do you need?  You leave your lunch at home or something?

Me:  No.  My headphones.

DD:  Headphones?  Why do you need headphones?

Me:  Because I'm trying to write, and I can't create without them!

DD:  (sighing) Can you wait till 1?

Me:  (sighing) I  guess so. 

You know what's fun?  Networking.  It's especially fun when you are starving, but trying to have a conversation with a hot guy and so cannot snag a chicken skewer for fear of biting off more than you can chew or possibly impaling said hot guy with said skewer.  So instead you go for hummus and pita, which only makes you more hungry, and you eventually collapse in a wave of nausea onto the scary silverish couches.  THEN you look up, and who do you see?  Ex-Boss.  And he says, "Well, well, well."  And you call him an asshole.  You then have the following conversation, except it's not just with him.  It's with him and this Random Vandy Girl who has just moved out here, and, the more we talk, the sadder and more confused she looks, as if maybe she's regretting her change of venue:

Ex-Boss:  So, how are you doing?

Me:  I'm fine.  Got a new job.  Loving it.

Ex-Boss:  No, no, I said who are you doing?

Me:  No one.

Ex-Boss:  What???  You???

He then turns to Vandy Girl, mutters something, and I, of course, have to pipe in.

Me:  What did you just say?

Ex-Boss:  I was telling her about how we used to sleep together.

Me:  I don't remember that.  Must have been really drunk.

Ex-Boss:  Oh, you were. 

Date rape aside, it was really lovely to see him.  He's a VIP at one of the studios hereabouts, and I can't think of anyone who deserves it more.  I was his very first assistant ever, so he was still used to doing things for himself.  This led to shenanigans like naptime right after lunch, when I would curl up in his armchair, and he'd stretch out on the couch, and we'd just sleep for about half an hour.  We were lazy like that.  He also graciously put up with The Other Me and I's "Dawson's Creek" fetish, and, of course, he won't let me forget that September day when he saved my car from being towed.  I told him I was working on a "Monk" spec, to which he replied, "That's perfect!  Because you're obsessive-compulsive.  And you solve crimes!"  In.  Deed.    

 

First off, I'd like to thank everyone for their kind words regarding Mammy.  She will, indeed, be missed.  However, I know she would want me out on the town, celebrating her life, rather than mourning her loss (although we all know you can do both at once).  So celebrate I shall.  And celebrate I did. 

Last night found me and Cliffhanger at Doughboys, home of the world's best red velvet cake (and I've sampled a lot of red velvet cake, yo).  I didn't know before we got there, but she booked her baby client a job (please correct my incorrect non-insider lingo if and when necessary, Cliffhanger)!!!  Celebrations were in order, what with her being all official and whatnot.  I mean, it's no surprise that she's finding success.  She's got mad talent, integrity, and (I'm convinced) a stellar plot for my demise, so anyone she reps should consider themselves one lucky duck (or actor, as it were).  We have formulated a pilot idea, about which I am way psyched (shut up), and, as has happened both times we've been at Doughboys, we looked up from our Zen mad genius and realized it was midnight.  Sooooo past my bedtime....

And now I'm at "work," getting a lot of writing done, being forced to stop for an El Torito lunch date.  New Boss, whom I already love dearly, wants to read me, so I'm going to give him my O.C. the next time we both decide to show up at the office on the same day.  But who knows when that will be?  His words... "Melissa, just because they gave us an office, that doesn't mean we have to, like, go every day."  Holla.    

Today is a very sad day.  Mammy Jane, of chocolate pie and golfing and dinner party fame, has passed away.  Mammy who couldn't sit in a room with me for more than five minutes without exclaiming, "Oh, I just love you so much!", and Mammy who was only supposed to live six months with her diagnosis, but instead stuck it out for five years.  Mammy who was much more of a grandmother to me than my own could ever be, even though they're sisters.  The last time I saw her was when I was home in September.  She could barely hold her head up, but was trying to eat, and later that week, she called me, because she was so upset - she didn't remember me being down at her house at all.  It's fine, really, because I'd rather not remember her like that anyway.  I'd rather remember last September, when I called her up for her chocolate pie recipe.  She, of course, saw right through me.  "Are you trying to impress a boy?"  She asked.  "Because you shouldn't have to cook to impress a boy."  Later, we had a laugh when said boy started dating another girl in my building.  "Guess I should toss that recipe," she said.  Or her eighty-first birthday, when my cousin (of ice skating tag fame - he's her grandson) and I took her out for three rounds of Salty Dogs at the Dragon.  Or how, when I'd go down to her house, sometimes Ernestine, her younger sister would be there, and they'd be deep into wine and card-playing.  If Mammy was losing, she'd say, "Oh, poot!"  And then Ernestine would say, "Jane, just say fuck like a normal human being."  But Mammy was special.  Last summer, when I was at a family dinner, my grandmother remarked, in her lovely way, "Is it the fashion to wear tops that barely cover anything, Melissa?"  And Mammy retorted, "You're just jealous cause you couldn't get away with wearing that, no way, no how, but Melissa can.  She has a lovely figure."  Mammy always had my back.  I think we had a strong connection because she reminded me so very much of my mother, and I was always astounded that she, Mammy, wasn't my mother's mother, instead of the one she ended up with.  But, then again, Mammy had a strong connection with everyone.  In a room full of people, she could single you out with a look, a gleam in her eye, one that said, we have a secret, you and I, and let's not share it with anyone else.  The last thing she said to me was, "I love you, and I am so very proud of you."  I would say she could sense that it was the last time we'd talk, except Mammy ended all the conversations she had with me by saying just that.  And meaning it, every single time.   

Guess what, everybody?  It's QUESTION DAY!!!  What?  Tuesday is question day?  But, Melissa, what about last week?  Well, I'll tell you what about last week, imaginary reader.  Last week, my time was largely occupied by staring at a.) a blank wall; or b.) daytime television; or c.) Max and Peter humping each other.  Or spooning.  So let's get to it. 

Who took Justin Timberlake's sexy in the first place?  --The Honeybee

Ah, yes.  If I had a nickel for every time someone has come to me seeking counsel on this very subject... I think, Honeybee, that you are misinterpreting JT's lyrics.  If you were to eject the goddamn Pippen soundtrack that perpetually rests in your goddamn CD player and turn on a little 102.7, maybe, just maybe, JT could get through to you.  He's "bringing sexy back.  You motherfuckers don't know how to act."  Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe he's addressing the male faction of his generation.  As in, "you motherfuckers don't know how to be sexy, so I, JT, am gonna show you.  What qualifies me to show you?  I sleep with Cameron Diaz.  You sleep with a beer buzz."  The crucial point you've missed is that NO ONE took Justin Timberlake's sexy.  He's had it all along; it's just that now, in 2006, he's determined that he needs to bring it back in style for all mankind, so that we may all one day sleep with Cameron Diaz.        

This weekend, I did not have a single panic attack.  I would go so far as to say I was relaxed.  Can you believe it?  Last week was a mish-mash of fevers (cabin and otherwise), coupled with cobbler and one too many showings of RED EYE.  But the weekend was lovely. 

Friday night, I went to dinner with CVG's ex-assistant.  It was same ole, same ole.  He told me I looked hot, I told him to shut up, he tried to put his arm around me, the phone rang, I ducked out of his grasp.  Cliffhanger has the most poetic sense of timing (and time management, which she's still trying to convince me is an actual concept that I should try to master).  After saying goodbye to my "date" (anyone who gets away with jabbing his finger at my ribs I have to call a date), I met up with said time management guru and her pal at Pink Berry.  Pink Berry is better than anything else in the world.  And yes, I know, that's the best, most specific description of anything, ever.

Saturday, the Designated Driver came hiking with us.  I am convinced that Cliffhanger will, indeed, push me off a cliff one of these days if I make too many puns, but I swear, if I have to survive one more hike with her belting out "Benny and the Jets" for two hours straight, I might just jump.  It's not that the girl can't carry a tune, but she doesn't know the words!!  Then, the Designated Driver tried to outdo her by singing the states in alphabetical order; Cliffhanger foiled that plan by adding a clever two-step to her Elton John fiasco, and, for the first time, I understood why some members of my family have attempted (and some successfully) to take their own lives.   

Thankfully, the hike was cut short because the Designated Driver and I had to head down to Orange County for the DD's sister's bridal shower.  I won a pumpkin carving set at Bridal Bingo, so I guess now I have to buy a pumpkin.  I'm thinking road trip to the Roloff farm in Oregon.  Who's with me?  No takers?  Wimps...

Speaking of pumpkins, I need to figure out a Halloween costume.  Comments?  Suggestions?  I will finish up the weekend's tomfoolery tomorrow, I promise, for there is still a good deal left to discuss.

 

You know what's a good movie?  SUMMER RENTAL.  Sadly, I keep mistakenly timing my errands so that I get home, turn on HBO, and there go the closing credits, a photo montage set to "Turnin' Around."  Then I curse the fuckers at Bed, Bath, & Beyond for taking two hours to wrap the bridal shower gift I need for this weekend.  Didn't they realize they were interfering with my John Candy feel good comedy time? 

And I wanted to write about my lunch today, but said lunch companion has FORBIDDEN it.  So y'all can take it up with him, while I go watch the closing photo montage of SUMMER RENTAL. 

An IM conversation with Mom:

Me:  I'm totally stressing out.

Mom:  What else is new?

Me:  Hey!  Enough of that.

Mom:  Shouldn't you be working on your Monk spec?

Me:  Well, yes, but that would involve getting up off the couch, finding my car keys, walking downstairs, getting the disk it's on out of the car, coming back upstairs, putting the disk in my computer, then re-saving it.

Mom:  So?

Me:  The Butterfly Effect is on FX, and I can't get all that done in one commercial break!

Mom:...

Me:  The stress is killing me.  I think I need to be getting laid.

Mom:  Yes, you do.  That will help with everything.

I feel like I have plans with someone Thursday night, but who said person is has totally escaped my mind.  So if I've made plans with you then, please call me up.  It's not that I don't love you, it's just that I've lost my Day Planner.  And my mind.  Kisses, Melissa.

Please prepare yourselves for a slightly disgusting story.  Okay, correction.  I didn't used to think this was disgusting, until I told the Fiery Redhead about it, and she said, "That's the most disgusting thing I've ever heard."  I decided then and there never to tell her about my love of Cool Ranch Dorito and mustard sandwiches.  So here goes... I have always had a problem with pierced ears.  Not other people's.  Mine.  My right ear, in particular.  Every time I go for 24 hours without wearing an earring in said ear, my cartilage goes all Zsa Zsa Gabore and the hole closes.  So, about once a year, I make the journey over to the Claire's in Westside Pavillion and get my ears re-pierced, and every time, I feel like I've accomplished something significant.  Especially when they give me that bag - you know the one, you probably remember it from when you were ten.  It's bright and pinkish red and blares, "I Just Got My Ears Pierced at Claire's!!!"  I swear, it feels better than voting.  The one beef I have with Claire's (okay, besides the mini-highlighters and handcuff earrings they're peddling) is that everyone can see you while you're getting your ears pierced.  People stop in their tracks on their way to Papyrus just to see if you'll scream.  Today's crowd included a middle-aged woman with her toddler and a dwarf lady with big bangs.  And I did not scream.  I didn't even need to hold the teddy bear.  Fuckers.

 

 

I realize that my earlier entry made me sound like a depressed nutcase (and also like Michelle Kwan).  So I feel the need to reassure you all that I am, indeed, happy.  So, without further ado, here is a list of things I accomplished today:

--three loads of laundry.  Of course, I used what I described to the Staff Writer the other day as the "Melissa method," which basically means I put too many clothes in each load, then forget to clean out the lint trap on the dryer, so nothing ever gets dry.  I then PRETEND that said clothes are dry, put them away, and bitch when I smell like mildew.  It's really quite effective.

--mopped the kitchen floor.  Five times.  Let me explain.  We had people over last night (and, by the way, if anyone wants leftover pie, you have only to drop by.  I can't eat it because I'm training for an anorexathon), and, as always happens when we have my dirty whorish friends over, the kitchen floor got dirty.  So I mopped this morning.  Fast forward five minutes, as the floor was drying, when I decided I needed more coffee.  Off I go, pad, pad, pad, across the wet floor.  In my dirty flipflops.  Mop.  Repeat, as I decided I would really like cobbler with ice cream for breakfast, and I should really traipse over to the refrigerator... aww, dammit!

--bought two new purses, the same design, one in red, one in black.  Put my 1995 black purse from The Limited that has the permanent mustard stain on it into the trash.  Big deal for me.

--wrote three pages of this novel I started a few months back.  Prose is not my strongpoint, but you know what?  I don't care.  AND I compiled all the pages I've written over time (I am the queen of saving snippets here and there under different names, in different folders; hell, I even found part of it handwritten in my journal from July).  All told, I have forty typed pages, single space.  And we all know, page count is more important than quality.

Now I have to get off here and start watching "The 4400" before the Honeybee yells at me. 

 

Some people from home (aka The Dauditor and Chlydia) seem concerned about my well-being.  Unfortunately, I can't talk about what happened to me last week on this here blog.  Not that I really want to.  It's not for sharing with people who can take me or leave me, as I imagine most of my readers can.  It's also not for those who don't have a flare for the melodramatic, as I do, and as you can probably tell from my cryptic tom-foolery.  So instead, let me just say that I am fine (in fact, better than fine, because something wonderful came from last week's misfortune), and, aside from a nagging propensity toward uber-sensitivity and a chronic case of jangled nerves, all is well.  That being said, if you're thinking of saying something mean or even just facetiously jabby at me right now, kindly refrain.  I will smile through it, but probably burst into tears once you're out of my line of sight. 

Patheticness aside, I really did have a lovely weekend.  After hiking with Cliffhanger on Saturday morning, the Designated Driver invited me to come ice skating with her and her charge.  Now, I don't mean to brag, but I kind of grew up on skates, skis, and horses, so my balance is decent.  My cousin and I used to play tag on various roller and ice rinks, which I'm sure upset parents everywhere and caused bodily injury to at least a hundred other children.  We also used to have other kids hold up broomsticks so we could jump them on our roller skates.  Where were our mothers?  As a result of this parental neglect, though, I'm good at skating.  I kicked ass at skating on Saturday, which is surprising, since I haven't been in about eight years.  It was all very mellowing. 

Speaking of mellow, this entry is so fucking boring I think I'm falling asleep.  If you must take something away from it, though, let it be this.  My self-worth is now determined by how good I am at ice skating.  Thank you.

An Open Letter to This Week:

I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but we are through.  We had our fun, our little tango with danger, with death, with potential civil unrest and ruination.  But I am officially moving on.  Why, you ask?  Because you, this week, blow more goats than a hooker at a bachelor party. 

All I have left to say is thank God (and the wee baby Jesus, of course) for the Staff Writer (who literally kept me from bursting into tears all Monday afternoon), the Designated Driver, the Honeybee, Cliffhanger (who burst out laughing when I told her my situation, at which point I realized it was pretty fucking funny), the Hottie, Mom, and, of course, hawk porn.  Otherwise, I might have found myself zombified in front of an episode of "The Nine" with an open jug of Clorox and a non-spell-checked suicide note. 

Seriously, though.  Thanks for all the fun times.  I really enjoyed being anally raped up the ass (yeah, I'm being redundant about anal rape, fucking pick a fight with me, I dare ya) for 96 hours straight. 

Love and Hugs,

Melissa 

I deserve to be shot.  Correction.  I want to be shot.  Another correction.  I wantED to be shot, now my ulcers have disappeared, and I am a happy camper.  That's all the information you're getting out of me now.  But I will answer another question:

What do girls REALLY think of guys who like football?  --Staff Writer

Girls think the same thing about guys who like football as they do about guys who don't like football.  They think, "Gee, there goes another underwhelming specimen of humankind who won't want to commit, can't cook, and is slightly overweight but no one cares; Sign me up!"  Point being, girls are stupid, and guys are fat.

However, if you're asking me personally what I think of guys who like football (and I can only assume you are, since this question came from an email to me), I'll tweak my answer.  I tend to like guys who like football more than guys who don't like football.  There are a couple of reasons for this phenomenon.  First off, I care not for metrosexuals.  I mean, granted, it's not hard to have better fashion sense than I do (I'm wearing Target flipflops right now, for God's sake!), but if you're, say, a better cook than I am, well, not only will I be insulted, but I'll also think four times before I even consider jumping your bones.  And the last thing you want is a girl who thinks before she jumps in the sack with you.  Duh...  Second, I tend to like football season because of all the white trash food that goes along with it... hot dogs, nachos, seven layer dip, pigs in a blanket, chess pie.  You Kentucky folk know the drill.  Plus, game days are the only time when it's even semi-appropriate to wear sweatshirts (says my inferior fashion sense).  Which means a covering up of the layer of "football fat" one develops over the course of four hours.  In short, I dig guys who like football, but it's more important that they dig me when I'm fat. 

 

Ah, yes, the moment you've all been waiting for.  Question day is upon us.  So, without further ado, here I go:

Actually, I've tried it, and it's a lot of fun.  Somewhat foul, but fun.  Ha.  Ha.  Ha. 

From:  Cliffhanger

To:  Melissa

 

It's not hawk porn. THAT's what I'm interested in.

 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

From:  Melissa

To:  Cliffhanger

 

http://www.customflix.com/Store/Trailer.jsp;jsessionid=a0MnNvYPqDL8?id=205035

 

Hawk porn. 

 

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

From:  Cliffhanger

To:  Melissa

 

Now I'm obsessed with how un-fun hawk sex really is. I mean, supposedly they mate for life. If a man jumped on my back as I balanced tenuously on a rail/wire/branch and did a couple quick jabs with no cuddling, I don't think I'd defend communal territory. Especially if after successful copulation I have to pop out multiple eggs. Like birthing a watermelon, people!

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

And I think that's all there is to say/see about hawk mating.  Everyone please thank Cliffhanger for her inquiring dirty mind.

 

I promise to answer some more questions tomorrow, but right now, I need a turkey sandwich and some apple juice.  Because I'm five.

Where did THAT weekend go?  Seriously.  One minute I was writing non-funny entries about the word "pony," the next I'm back here again, writing pathetic treatises that mourn the passing of my free time.  Not that I object to the way in which any of it was spent.  Okay, okay, there were those three hours on Saturday evening during which I had a small OCD-related panic attack.  But that is to be expected from me.  These days, I can even hear the Designated Driver filing her nails on the other end of the phone as I squawk about my "problems."  In fact, I was telling G-Money about it this morning, and she replied, "You know, they have pills for that."  Duh.  But pills were what threw me out of whack to begin with, so that's not up for discussion right now.

Friday evening, I had planned to go straight from work to the Honeybee's house, but I realized mid-afternoon that my laundry needed to be done.  So I drove over the hill and back to fetch my dirty clothes, which I threw in the washer before we headed out to dinner.  Don't ask me how, but I was roped in to a fierce match of Dance, Dance Revolution, which I subsequently lost to Kylie Minogue's Love at First Sight.  Damn workout mode... but I did burn 12 whole calories.

That night, as I was trying to drift off to sleep for my supposed 7 AM wake-up call, the hooligans at the road department decided to power-wash our street.  For the 80th time this month.  Therefore, I had slept a total of two hours by the time I met up with Cliffhanger and headed into the Hills.  We squabbled about brunch in the car beforehand.  She suggested trying a different place; I pouted; she slapped me.  Then we hiked seven miles, got back in the car, and resumed the fight.  "I'm thinking of getting oatmeal at the Super Secret Brunch place," she spoke up.  Now, this would have ruined my entire life, because we have this ritual, see, it involves a little sweet, a little savory, a little splitting, and a little bit of the only happiness in my life.  So this was most definitely going against plan.  But I couldn't let HER know that (um, at least until now, since she is masquerading here as "dbits" and posting questions about hawk mating rituals).  So instead, I pulled a typical Melissa, aka, looked out the window and sighed.  And it worked.  Score one for the passive-aggressives everywhere.

On that note, I have a splitting headache and am going to split.  But tomorrow is question day!  Yay!!!

   

For the past two days, there has been no writers' room.  Which means I have nothing to do but sit and stare at the wall of wedding decorations I've created.  I mean, I GUESS I could be working on the second draft of my Monk spec, but who wants to do that?  Not me, not when My Replacement and I, who sit literally a foot apart when I'm out of the room, have invented a game called "Words That Make Me Laugh."  One of the funniest words I know is "pony."  If anyone says it, I immediately start cracking up.  My Replacement feels the same way about the word "bombed."  So, after eight hours of careful thought, we came up with the following sentence:

"I was so bombed I beat up a pony." 

Then the P.A. drew a picture of himself beating up a pony.  And gave it to me.  It is now on the wall with the wedding decorations.  To top it all off, My Replacement and I have lapsed into our full-on Kentucky accents, which frightens just about anyone who walks in the door.  The redneck slap-happiness must stop.   

Sometimes, I get writer's block.  My cure for said writer's block is to chain myself to a chair/couch/bed (seriously, people, get your minds out of the gutter), computer on lap, crank up whatever compilation I've been using to work on a specific piece, and not get up until I've written a certain number of pages.  It doesn't matter if they're good pages, mind you.  Just pages.  Pages and pages of crap.  And I've found that this, in general, works for me.  But I literally woke up this morning with a little performance anxiety.  My xanga stats are through the roof this week, which means more people are reading, which makes me slightly nervous.  What do I have to say that amounts to anything?  The answer:  nothing.  Or, I thought nothing.  Until I called Mom. 

Me:  Hey.  I just called my Super Friendly Insurance Agent, and did you know he used to be a drug addict? (more on that later... or not... but, seriously, such confessions are the reason I can't call him unless I have a good 20 minutes to chat... he's the king of TMI.)

Mom:  (ignoring me) Well, I just got off the phone with someone from Dove.com.

Me:  (not listening yet) Uh-huh.

Mom:  And do you know what that bitch had the nerve to ask me?

Me:  (interest piqued... what on earth could this woman have said to piss my mother off?)  Well, was she a Republican?

Mom:  She wanted to discuss "Hollywood morals."

Me:  You mean Dove like the soap?

Mom:  Yeah.  Apparently, they want to clean up the entertainment industry.

Me:  Fuckers.

Mom:  That's what I said.  And you know what else I told her?

I'm quiet now, because Mom is, how do you say, "worked up."

Mom:  I told her, "My daughter works in Hollywood, and it's not about projecting values, it's about making money.  So until you change the climate of this culture, you can forget change in the industry." 

Me:  Wow. 

Mom:  And then she said, "Don't you think family-oriented television is important?"  Now, Melissa, what does that even mean?  Family oriented?  Most of the stuff that happens in our family wouldn't be allowed on television, and I'll bet that's true for every family across the country.

Me:  (not getting a word in edgewise)...

Mom:  And then I said, "You feel free to attack an industry any time you like, but you start talking about my child, and I'll beat the shit out of you."

Me:  So basically, the Dove woman called me a slut, and you went all redneck on her ass?

Mom:  Yes. 

 

Taken from an email from the Staff Writer last night...

A while back, The Other Me wanted to set me up with this Guy she knows.  I told her no way, then listed the ways in which the opposite sex has repeatedly disappointed me.  Then I thought back on all the good times I've had with The Other Me - Dawson's nights, screenings, premieres, her continuous encouragement regarding my writing/career (she and Ex-Boss both are very good about making sure I'm not resting on my laurels too much), the fact that she brings me cupcakes every time she sees me, and I realized that the girl's got integrity.  She wouldn't set me up with just any hobo pedophile, especially since she knows all about my OCD, hypochondria, and propensity to be a complete and total hermit.  And, since I have recently decided to mingle with all, but only befriend those with integrity, I should probably shut the hell up and listen to her.  So, in the spirit of making everyone hate me, I've come up with a list of things a guy must do to make me happy (aka to deal with my shit):

1.)  No falling in love with my best friend.  Although, that being said, I have several at this time in my life, but you catch my drift.  This happened to me in high school, and it was just about the worst, most Lifetimish thing ever.  Plus, my best friend at the time totally ditched me for said guy.  Lovely girl, that one.  How did I ever stop being friends with her?  And why do I have trust issues?  Somebody fucking ring up Nancy Drew, stat.

2.)  You must be okay with not leaving the house for at least 48 hours.  Especially if there's a Monk marathon on USA.  Or a Final Destination marathon on TNT.  Or a TNT marathon on Showtime.  Or if I just decide to watch Go twenty-four times in a row.

3.)  You also must be okay with my Sarah Polley obsession, and you must pretend that it's healthy.  This goes double for Scott Speedman.  Or any Canadian threesome combo therein.

4.)  Don't say things like:

--I used to/currently deal/use drugs.

--I can't stand to have a woman make more money than me.  Oh, but I'm unemployed (from a guy in my hometown - Fucking.  Classic.).

--Unprotected or bust!  Bust, buddy.  Bust.

5.)  If you say/do something, mean it.  Aka if you, say, have dinner with my parents, then never call me again, you are officially an asshole.  Integrity, folks.  It's not a GRE word. 

Oh, also, on a completely different note, several people have asked me when I'm answering those survey questions.  And the answer is, never, unless you start sending me more.  I think I've only gotten like, five, so until I get at least 10, there'll be nothing from me.  And I'm out...

 

Good news.  The jaw cancer appears to be in remission (when I announced this resolution, the Staff Writer proclaimed, "See!  I told you it was a zit."  Yes, I force my superiors to examine my various deformities.  I'm sooooo getting promoted).  Also, now that said tumor has disappeared, I seem to have lost five pounds.  Score two for me.  

My weekend started out (very typically, I might add) with a late Friday night at work, then home to That 70's Show and another restless night.  I have NOT been sleeping well.  I'm remembering all my dreams, waking up in the middle of the night, alternately freezing or burning up, then stubbing my toe on furniture I didn't remember I had while trying to turn the fan off.  Regardless, I woke up early Saturday to go hiking with Cliffhanger.  We went our standard 14.4 miles, she conjured up the bees, we did some rock-climbing, some repelling, she fell off the Hollywood sign and I drug her to safety... stop me if you're not believing any of this.  What we really did was hike 7.1 miles, then head to the Super Secret Brunch Spot.  "It's more crowded today than last time," Cliffhanger mused, looking down at me with one eyebrow raised.  "I didn't tell anyone!"  I promised.  She hrrmmpphhed.  Now, I'm guessing that what we get there (again, I can't reveal too much) has about 5,000 calories, all told.  It's a good thing she has one of those ped-o-me-hick-a-do-what's-its that tells how far we hiked, and how many calories she's burned (she's 5'8," I think, although I can't really see to the top of her, I'm 5'2" on a good day).  Saturday, she burned something like 750 calories, so, since I'm shorter, I'm guessing I burned about 749.  Right, guys?

Saturday evening, the Honeybee and I finally got to visit a psychic.  Her name was Savannah, and she talked like Rosie Perez on downers.  Now, I haven't been to a psychic in about five years.  And that time, the Honeybee was also with me, sitting at my feet, listening to my reading.  What she was not doing that last time, was sitting at my feet, affirming, "Sing it, Sister!" every time the psychic said something about me with which she agreed.  Faux-sie Perez told me, basically, that my career would soar, I'd have lots of money, but that I was cold and unaccepting, so my personal life would remain in shambles unless I let go of my fear.  Um, since when is my personal life in shambles?  And since when am I supposed to give a shit about my personal life if I have enough money for Tivo and takeout?  You know what an exciting personal life gets you, Faux-sie?  Distraction.  Disappointment.  And possibly an STD.  But enough about my reading... it was my turn to snicker when she told the Honeybee, "You have a very important decision to make.  And you'll make it.  And it will affect the rest of your life.  Possibly well.  Possibly badly."  Hahahahaha!  I'm soooo glad I didn't get THAT reading.  Give me wealth and a fulfilling career and loneliness any day.

Sunday, the Tennis Pro and I headed out to see Hollywoodland.  I had been writing all afternoon, so when he called to tell me he was downstairs, I realized I was wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt from Dad's motorcycle gang.  Unacceptable movie-watching attire.  So I changed into jeans and a sweater.  Fast forward to Act I of the movie, when I'm sitting next to the Tennis Pro, thinking, "I'm enjoying the movie, but it's also good to see him.  And he's the perfect movie-watching partner.  He doesn't hog the armrest.  He's quiet.  He doesn't look at me to see how I'm feeling."  And then I realize... my sweater is on inside out.  I tell the Tennis Pro.  "Really?"  he says, clearly pretending not to have noticed.  And I kind of love him for that.  But then, he comes out with, "Nobody cares."  Um, clearly all the people in the darkened theater were looking at my inside-out sweater, as opposed to hot Robin Tunney (and, by the way, our Co-Producer, whose birthday it is today, told me I looked like her.  So thanks for that blatant lie.  It was sweet of you.  And Happy Birthday!  Liar...). 

Then, the Tennis Pro dropped me off at home, where the Designated Driver all but shoved me into her car to go pick up the Hottie.  We had dinner at Crazy Fish, which is one of my favorite spots.  As per usual, the service sucked, and I always miss The Pony when I'm there, cause he introduced me to it, but it was lovely to see the Hottie.  Our waitress was a very bitter woman, and therefore not inclined to strike up a conversation with said Hottie, so we actually got to enjoy our dinner in peace. 

This morning, I coupled a gray skirt from Express's 1997 fall collection with a green turtleneck, then slapped on my black Guess heels, and looked at myself in the mirror.  And I thought to myself, I look hot today.  I don't often have thoughts like that, especially not when I'm wearing cheesy 90s clothing with my hair in a bun.  But today, I just looked happy.  Possibly because my personal life is in shambles, but at least now I know.  Possibly because I was looking forward to going to work.  Possibly because I went the entire weekend without a single panic attack.  Well, if you don't count the whole "My sweater's on Inside-out" shenanigan... But you guys won't tell anyone about that, will you?