November 2006 Archives

Venice, why do you torture me?  Most of the time, when someone asks me to meet them in Venice, my answer is a decidedly flat, "No."  It's not because I have anything against the ocean, or the surfer dudes, or the competitive Island's franchise.  It's because every effing time I agree to a dinner date in Venice, I end up lost.  Such was, once again, the case last night, when Oscar Nom suggested a Thai place there; I didn't have a better idea, and, besides, it's Oscar Nom, not a member of the "will still be friends with Melissa even if she acts like a diva" club.  So I got there fifteen minutes late, flustered, but still looking nice (I haven't done laundry in a long time, and last night I ended up wearing some sort of fitted black jumper that I think I stole from my high school best friend's mom), only to find Oscar Nom waiting with some summer rolls and a bottle of champagne.  I was recounting my story, apologizing, but throughout it all, I couldn't help smiling, because it's been a while since I've seen him (and what can I say, we both get a kick out of each other), and all of a sudden he just barely touched my hand with his, caught my eye, and said, "Melissa, please don't ever, ever change."  Well, sentiment aside (and I will confess I was thrown off by his request), he doesn't have to worry.  I've been the same person since I was about three, so my guess is I will continue to be stubborn, aloof, forgetful, paranoid, and extremely difficult to put up with.  He did have some extraordinarily good news, which I can't broadcast here, but suffice it to say, I'm very happy for him. 

He's still pestering me to let him read the pilot... I mean, clearly, I should just suck it up and send it to him.  I like it, I'm proud of it, but if you'll recall a little bit about yesterday's entry, I don't want him recognizing himself in it.  Sticky situation... sticky situation, indeed.  But he continues to be a champion of my career, so I'm guessing the least I could do is flatter him a bit.   

      

It has been a ridiculously long day for no apparent reason, other than the fact that I am back in pilot outline hell.  Okay, okay, I enjoy it, but the whole concept of "structure" is starting to grate on my nerves.  It's hands-down the hardest thing about writing, at least when you're writing in script form (I won't pretend to know much about any other kind).  Character is the most important element, but structure is the most difficult.  I've always found character development to be a bit of a breeze - it's the fun part, where you let yourself spend hours speculating on what type of toothpaste Character A would use, or where Character B lost his virginity, or how Character C consistently takes his off his glasses to eat (and yes, most of this stuff never makes it onto the page).  Character is easier for me, too, because my characters (or at least my main ones) are always based (albeit very loosely) on people I know.  Creepy, but true. 

The pilot hell is not all hell, though.  Yesterday, I had another notes call with Cliffhanger, who is not only mistress of the stroke, stroke, slap, but also of the backhanded compliment, which is a totally different animal.  One of the first things she said to me when we got on the phone was, "I was pleasantly surprised at how well this turned out."  Aka (and here I am translating Cliffhanger's musings), "I was getting really nervous with the beat sheet, because I thought what have I gotten myself into?  But apparently, Melissa, you don't suck as badly as I thought you did.  Ooohh... Meerkat Manor's on.  Those crazy felines.  Just look at them digging in the sand!"  No, no, I kid, I kid.  She gives very specific notes, and offers good fixes (of the non-drug variety), both of which gifts I have found heretofore unique to other writers (which is why other writers are usually the first people from whom I get notes; and damned if I'm not the queen of parentheticals today).  I'm also the queen of bad segues that aren't really segues...       

Take JUST FRIENDS, for example... Why?  Because I watched it again last night, as promised.  This time, Cliffhanger joined me, post-notes call; however, since we can't do anything like normal people, we headed out to Pinkberry first.  In line at Pinkberry (which, for those of you playing at home, is a DESSERT place), we decided we were hungry.  Like, actually hungry.  For real food.  So we got our fro-yo treats, headed back to Cliffhanger's car, and sat, shivering, trying to drum up ways to get CPK without leaving said car (because it was FREEZING).  I ended up calling the Honeybee, getting the restaurant's phone number (and a good deal of flack from the Honeybee herself), then having Cliffhanger call them.  Apparently, CPK has deemed it ridiculous to accept take-out orders after 9:45 PM; however, if you physically go to the restaurant and sit down, you can do so until 10 PM.  Would someone please explain this to me?  I mean, I'm not opposed to sitting across from Cliffhanger and having some completely inappropriate dinner conversation, but geez... WTF, CPK?  WTF?  By the time we arrived home and sat down in front of the television, it was 11 PM.  The Designated Driver voiced her surprise that I wasn't bitching about it being past my bedtime, but, as I always say, one must make sacrifices for Ryan Reynolds. 

I'm making a sacrifice for Oscar Nom tonight, though, by tearing myself away from Tivo to meet him for Thai food in Venice.  Apparently, he's bringing champagne...

 

   

I am trying an experiment.  This week, I have watched/will be watching JUST FRIENDS every single night.  Next Monday, I will report my findings to the question "Is Anna Faris still the funniest human being on the face of the planet, Pauly Shore aside?"  I'm thinking she will be.  The bad news is, my friends and family are falling victim to my new obsession.  My parents and the Designated Driver were forced to sit through the movie Sunday night (by the end, whenever Anna appeared onscreen, my dad would fall out of his chair, roaring with laughter, before she'd even said anything), the Honeybee arrived early for Writers' Group last night to find me vacuuming, putting out chocolate doughnuts, and singing "Love From Afar," and Cliffhanger is coming over tonight because she has never seen the film and fears, what with my one track mind/beating a dead horse mentality, that we will have nothing to talk about if she doesn't partake of its hilarious goodness.  I'm seriously debating calling up Oscar Nom and asking if he's opposed to getting takeout for dinner tomorrow night...    

Since I can't seem to concentrate on anything else lately, and I want to avoid thinking about the fact that Mom and Dad are gone, I'm going to continue to talk about JUST FRIENDS.  How is this possible, you might ask?  Well, it's possible because today I got a call from the Wise Man, with whom I have somewhat of a precarious history.  Actually, I'm only saying that because I know he reads this and will get a kick out of my deeming it a precarious history.  Our phone conversation went a little something like this:

WM:  I know we have somewhat of a precarious history--

Me:  (thinking... I should figure out a way to work that into the blog)

WM:  --But I want to confess something.

Me:  (thinking... Oh, shit.  You never want to hear that from anyone...well, at least I never want to hear that from anyone.  It can only mean disease, illicit affairs, or, in the case of a friend, that they are in love with my high school boyfriend who loves them back and now I'm getting dumped and losing my so-called best friend... now where was I?)

Ah, yes.  The Wise Man.

WM:  I really, really like JUST FRIENDS. 

Me:  Me too.

WM:  Awesome. 

Me:  Yeah.  It is. 

And it continues to be.  JUST FRIENDS... bridging the gap between precarious and history.  What does that even mean? 

 

A girl takes a few days off to spend Thanksgiving with her family, and what does she get?  A barrage of emails asking where she's been, what she's been doing, blah, blah, blah.  I even got one from Mom demanding to know the identity of my guest blogger, and I'm currently seeing her at least twelve hours a day (Mom, not the guest blogger).  I suppose I can't complain - no one likes to feel missed more than I, but seriously, people, get a life.  And Mom, stop emailing me when you know you're going to see me in twenty minutes. 

My favorite correspondence came from the Staff Writer, who writes:

 so i was checking email, reading the internet, etc..., and then i decided to catch up on my xanga.com/mascriv for my update on your life...

 

I am busy with Mom and Dad and turkeys (not in that order), so everyone please enjoy your respective Thanksgivings, as well as this guest blog from an anonymous member of the clan known as Frankfort Friends:

What gives?

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite night of the year to go out

I was on the phone with Mom this morning, and somehow we got to talking about my claustrophobia.  If you've ever been on an elevator with me, you know about it.  I watch the floors tick by with wide eyes, I'll stomp one of my feet very lightly if the doors don't open quickly enough... basically, I'm a nervous wreck but trying to hide it.  In fact, I won't get on an elevator by myself, because I don't think I would know what to do were I to get stuck.  Step 1 - Panic attack; Step 2 - Heart attack.  Not good.  So I will often wait until someone is going with me to get on a car.  When I was younger, however, I was even worse.  Mom referenced one event in particular, when I was eight years old.  She had depositions in Louisville, and she took me with her to have a fancy lunch, then sit, reading, outside the conference room at the law firm.  I was very studious, as you can imagine, and toted a wide variety of literature - Great Expectations and The Babysitters Club.  However, it wasn't until we got to the lobby of the building that we realized her depos were on the 32nd floor.  I freaked, as I tended (and still tend) to do.  So guess who walked up 32 flights of stairs?  Yep, that's right.  Me.  And guess who walked up 32 flights of stairs in heels, because I was too scared to go by myself?  If you guessed Mom, you guessed correctly.  How much do we love Mom?  A lot.  Anyway, I was apologizing (finally) for this incident this morning.

Me:  I can't believe I made you do that!  (pause)  Do you ever think I'm, I don't know, more difficult to be around than most people?  (Here I am hoping for a "No, everyone is difficult, once you get to know them.  Human beings are complex" speech)

Mom:  Yes.

Me:  Uh... do you want to elaborate?  Maybe I'm more complex than most people?  Maybe?  (This is bullshit.  I know very well that each and every person is just as complex as the next).

Mom:  By complex, do you mean spoiled?

Me:  Well, isn't that your fault?

Mom:  Whatever, dear.  What.  Ever.

Seriously.  What would I do without her? 

 

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!  There.  I feel better.  I have been working on this pilot outline non-stop all morning, and, as you can probably tell, I'm about to go all trichotillomania on my scalp.  I think it's ready.  Maybe?  Fuck, I don't know.  I keep making changes, then remembering stuff.  I think a lot of this is because I've never written my outlines for other people to read.  They are usually scrawled, longhand, on a legal pad or a steno notebook or the palm of my hand, and I almost always get tired of writing them by the time the third act rolls around, so I just go to script.  But I have to learn to do formal outlines.  It doesn't help that New Boss keeps coming by my desk, asking what I'm working on (and at one point I had printed out a hard copy and was reading it over), then trying to grab said hard copy from my hand when I tell him he can't read it.  I ended up literally rolling up the pages and beating him with my homemade weapon. I'll let him read it when it's ready... as a script.

I tried to explain the whole proofreading/double-checking everything to him.

Me:  So I'm reading it over, just checking to make sure everything tracks--

NB:  So you're like Santa Claus?  Checking it twice?

Me:  I thought you said I was anorexic.

NB:  (triumphant) You're Santa-rexic!

     

Today, I am in a good mood.  I swear it.  I promise you.  Despite this good mood, below please find a list of things that have annoyed the shit out of me over the past five hours:

1.)  If I get one more fucking message from Dwight of "The Office" fame, I am going to clobber someone.  I've gotten this call three times, and you know what, it's not that funny, and if you knew me, you'd know I have a personal vendetta against one of "The Office" cast members, so I don't really watch the show.  Personal vendettas trump entertainment any day, says I.  What does not annoy me about "The Office," you ask?  Jenna Fischer.  Which is good, since one of the writers at work walked by my cubicle and asked, "Has anyone ever told you you look just like Jenna Fischer?"  No.  But thanks for that.  Maybe I, too, can one day marry a horror writer from my hometown.  Oh, wait.  No more hometown guys... that drama got me in way too much trouble over the past couple of years. 

2.)  Another guy at work whom I don't see too often, but whenever I pass him in the halls, he whispers, "You are so beautiful" or "Damn, you're hot."  Yeah, I fucking know, McCrazy Pants, and I said no when you asked me out this summer.  Take a goddamn hint!  Your retarded attempt at giving me a compliment was funny the first time - now it's just plain annoying. 

3.)  People asking my advice.  And by "people," I mean friends.  Haven't we established that I'm a taker, not a giver?  Find someone else to bother.  I know I may seem like I have all the answers, but I know jack shit about anything relevant. 

4.)  Someone else made the coffee at work today, and it was way too weak.  Who can tell? 

It's a good thing The Other Me is coming over for a little Dawson's reprieve tonight.  She'll tell me to shut up and eat a cupcake.  And she'll even bring me one. 

Thanks, everyone, for the kind (and yet snarky) words yesterday.  You'll be happy to hear I am feeling much better, thanks to eleven hours of sleep, Zicam, and the general Zen attitude I have adopted of late.  We'll see how long that lasts... I meant to post the first guest entry on Sunday, but I was nearly dead to the world, so I apologize.  You'll just have to wait till this weekend to be rid of me for a day.

Saturday night was New Boss's birthday party.  Now, I despise party planning, so it was a good thing New Boss did pretty much all the work himself.  The guy we had to deal with at the venue was a total assface (and, I later discovered, an assface with Pink Eye), averse to the idea of mac and cheese on a spoon served as an appetizer; really, against fun in any way, shape, or form.  When I arrived Saturday, though, the Pink Eye king hurried to introduce himself, then gave me a bunch of playing cards on ribbon to hand out to guests for the open bar.  I started handing them out as people came in, until New Boss came up to me, took the cards from my hand, and said, "I don't want you working.  You're here to have fun.  Here's a drink.  Drink it."  So I did, but only after he'd introduced me to a couple celebs.  Did I mention I Heart New Boss?

I was mid-conversation with G-Money by the time the Tennis Pro arrived, and we had a laugh at his expense (I had forgotten to put him on the list - serves him right for not picking me up).  She had just been trying to tell me that I should start dating again, since I would be a homeowner at thirty and need a man to drag the big garbage cans out once a week.  I figure I'll be able to pay someone to do that.  After two gin and tonics, the Tennis Pro also wanted to talk dating.  "Girls out here - there's something wrong with them.  They're all seeking some sort of validation."  Me - "Well, you only date actresses.  Duh!"  Tennis Pro - "No more.  You know you're the only real girl I know out here?"  ***From Melissa's Self-Published Hollywood Dictionary - Real = Ugly***  Me - (with a disgusted roll of my eyes) Thanks a lot. 

Yesterday, Cliffhanger and I had our first conference call regarding the pilot.  She was giving me notes on the beat sheet/half-assed outline.  Now, one of the many odd things about this town is that the people you end up working with often become your friends, or, as is the case with Cliffhanger, you start working with your friends, because you can (sometimes) stand them and (sometimes) trust their talent/intelligence.  So there's no separation in work and personal life.  Half of my not dating is because I want to wait around to see who makes it, and who moves back to their corn farm in Iowa.  Here's a brief excerpt from our conversation yesterday:

Me:  I think one of the main problems we have right now is too much story.

Cliffhanger:  I agree.  Here's what we could do.  (she pitches me a semi-brilliant idea)

Me:  That's great. 

Cliffhanger:  (she is now reading me an excerpt from an email sent to her by one of her admirers)  What do you think that last sentence means?

Me:  Anal sex. 

Cliffhanger.  Oh.  Moving on, there's a typo on page 2--

Me:  Fixed. 

Cliffhanger:  And I think the joke at the end of the teaser doesn't make sense--

Me:  Okay.

Cliffhanger:  And you really think he meant anal sex? 

We do a bang-up job of balancing work and the overly personal, if I do say so myself.    

  

   

I feel like death.  Death, I tell you.  My shoulders ache, my brain feels like oatmeal, and my throat - forget it.  My face is burning up, but my hands are freezing.  Also, I am cranky.  You know what would make me not cranky?  If someone were to bring me homemade brownies.  I'm just sayin'.  High maintenance and cranky do not a good match make. 

Today, New Boss took me to lunch in order to brainstorm some notes for his feature.  I am not used to brainstorming with my boss, and I have to say, I'm totally digging it.  When he likes a pitch of mine, I feel my existence is validated.  But, as with anything, after a couple of hours, you start to get loopy. Once we'd made a couple of breakthroughs and suffered a couple of disappointments, we had the following conversation:

NB:  I have a goal, as your boss.

Me:  What's that?

NB:  We need to spice up your life.  No more game nights. 

Me:  But I like game night.

NB:  No.  I'm going to have to set you up.

Me:  And it will end badly, and I'll stop coming to work because I'm depressed and broken-hearted.

NB:  Hmmm...

Me:  See?  You can't spice me up.

NB:  I've got it!!  You'll start shopping at Forever 21.  Mission accomplished. 

(He goes back to his chicken panini, then stops)

NB:  Also, I feel you might be anorexic. 

Me:  Okay, one intervention at a time, dude. 

Why do I have the sinking feeling that we'll be taking a field trip to the Grove? 

 

 

 

New Boss just cruised into the office and presented me with the biggest chocolate chip cookie I have ever seen.  It's practically a cookie cake.  I heart New Boss.  And cookies. 

As many of you know, the rents will be stopping by the City of Angels for Thanksgiving this year.  This is the first in a long line of new traditions which I hope to establish, mainly to stay away from Cousin Brian's godawful broccoli casserole, which, as I discussed last year, everyone tells him is wonderful, because he's a man, and isn't it so cute that a man would try to cook?  You know who better learn how to cook?  My future house husband.  And he's not getting any mad props for it either, cause he'll be living off my wealth, scoring fake prescriptions off my therapist, and having an affair with the nanny I pay. 

Now that that's established... I'm looking for suggestions about what to do with said rents for a week.  And Mom, don't give me that crap about how you just want to spend time with me.  NO ONE just wants to spend time with me.  If they do, I know it's just because they want to score some blog shout-outs, and you're not above that level of scheming, even if you are my mother.  Everyone likes to be talked about in a public forum.  Right?

Next order of business... guest blogging.  Here's how I think it's going to work.  I'm starting with a couple of Kentucky people (not that they know it yet), then moving on to Vandy, then out here, so the guest postings will be chronological.  I mean, a lot of you know me now, but you don't know what I was like when I was, say, 14.  And wouldn't you like to?  Perhaps our first guest poster will be able to shed some light on the subject... Look for it this weekend!  

Last night, after staying "late," aka 6:30, I booked it over to Geisha House for my friend's book release party.   POP!  is a novel about losing your virginity (well, not yours, personally, I suppose, but who am I to judge?  I don't know how you lost it... scratch that - if you read my blog, I most likely do know, because you're my friend, and, well, that's what friends talk about, right?) in the hopes that it will make all your relationships afterward much less awkward in the physical department (and again, I don't mean you.  Clearly, there is no hope for your physical relationships being any less awkward than they already are.).   It's young adult fiction, and I'm really getting a kick out of it so far... ah, the memories... the bra-fumbling, the premature ejaculations, the back seat of a Ford Aerostar.  Yes, yes, I kid, I kid.  But seriously, if you get a free moment, check it out on Amazon:  

http://www.amazon.com/Pop-Aury-Wallington/dp/1595140921/sr=8-1/qid=1162926777/ref=pd_bbs_1/104-7842317-6255924?ie=UTF8&s=books

Now I'm off to get more coffee, except the guy in the next cubicle has constructed a fort at the entrance to mine (you know, a chair, a white board, a box of paper), so I can't get out.  Clearly, he is flirting with me.  Or trying to get me killed if by chance there is a fire. 

I am getting mixed responses on the guest blogging front - some people love the idea, craving the spotlight and the chance to publicly berate me, others have called me out for being lazy.  I can have people calling me many things:  fat, incompetent, insipid (then asking me if I know what that means), passive aggressive, but I can't take the laziness shot.  Therefore, I have formed a plan to bore each and every one of you to tears with the exhausting details of my tedious weekend. 

Friday night, after a long day of working on my own stuff, I got a call from New Boss around 6 PM.  "Why are you still there?"  He asks me.  "Uh--" I reply.  "Why did you come in at all today?"  He continues.  "Uh--," Me.  "Go home!"  Him.  So I do.  I kill time until I have to meet Cliffhanger for dinner (she's supposed to call me when she's leaving work) by watching the cats punch each other in the face.  After thirty minutes observing Peter's left hook and Max's super sonic paw block, I realize I've left my cell phone in the other room.  And I have a missed call/scathing VM from Cliffhanger.  Oops!  Score one for the scatter-brain.  I'm really smart, I swear I am, but sometimes I wonder if I got the short end of the common sense stick.  Anyway, we meet up at Doughboys for the third time in two weeks.  The plan is to get some pilot brainstorming done, but we are, after all, giggly girls on a Friday night, so that doesn't really happen... what happens is more like some general philosophizing on love, a red velvet cake sugar high, and a critical discussion of Kenny Loggins' Danger Zone.  

Saturday morning at the Super Secret Brunch Place, however, we were all business, with our pens and Sharpies and 26 pages (double-spaced of course) of my useless word vomit in front of us.  I have a very difficult time letting people read my word vomit.  I'd rather be seen naked.  See, when you're brainstorming for something, it's a lot of fun, because you really don't have to restrict yourself, but when you're not restricting yourself, and you haven't read over whatever it is you're spilling onto the page, your actual personality/sociopathic thoughts begin to shine through.  So letting someone else read these things, which aren't even close to being anything like a first draft, well, it can be nerve-wracking.  Because she knows this about me, Cliffhanger's favorite trick is to sit right beside me as she's reading my pages, stopping only to make sure I'm looking at her while she rolls her eyes/snorts/or bangs her head on the table/against a wall, all the while raising her hands to Heaven and screaming, "How is your career over before it's even started?"  Then I excuse myself to the restroom, abandoning word vomit for actual vomit... and tears.

Only hours later, it was time for Game Night.  Please see above, wherein I reference being really smart, but I think the winner of the night was the Honeybee's BF, who quietly kicked ass in a very humble way.  I'm still the queen of Taboo, though, what with my mad inside joke communication, as well as the ability to instantly judge the intelligence level of my teammates, thereby knowing which cultural lexicon to use in order to maximize word recognition.

Yesterday, I met up with the Tennis Pro to see BORAT.  It is hands-down the funniest movie I've seen this year, if you can take a healthy dose of crudeness and male nudity (and I certainly can - I find it refreshing, honestly).  I did find myself thinking during one scene, "They could get herpes from that."  But that's just where my mind automatically goes.  I have already explained why the Tennis Pro is an ideal movie-watching partner, but I left out one very important fact.  We have the same sense of humor.  So much so that we were the only people in the packed theater having a conniption fit of laughter during what we considered to be the movie's funniest moment.  Of course, we weren't looking at each other as we had our respective conniption fits, but we didn't have to.  See, we're secure in our humor connection, bitches. 

After fake dinner at the Cheesecake Factory with the Tennis Pro, I continued on to another fake dinner with the Designated Driver at Tijuana's (I made a stop in between to drop the very first draft of Monk off at the Honeybee's house).  We were talking, as per usual, about me, and I was asking her about a relationship of mine that didn't work out.  "Do you think, if I had (done this) differently, we would still be together?"  She responded, "No, I think you're not co-dependent, and he wanted someone co-dependent, and that's that."  I think she has a point, but that got me thinking.  I am a decidedly independent person.  I'm not needy unless the other person is meeting me halfway in terms of neediness, and I'm certainly not co-dependent (well, only with specific people - you know who you are).  If anything, I am unsure and standoffish, so much so that I'm sure a lot of guys have questioned where they stood with me.  And the answer is, I don't know.  What I do know is, I am a difficult person to be with.  I don't make it easy for guys.  I like to push people as far as I can, just to prove to myself that they don't really love me.  For example, this ridiculously long blog entry.  Why are you still reading it?  How do you still love me?  What's wrong with you?

 

     

Yes, yes, I'm a bad blogger.  Somebody tie me up and spank me.  But not if you're ugly. 

I've been thinking, with the onslaught of non-blog writing I've been getting done, that I might open this blog up to a couple of guest posters, so y'all don't feel neglected.  Thoughts? 

I just got the sweetest call from H-Berts, checking to make sure I'm doing okay.  What a lovely surprise!  He also wanted to let me know he'll be putting in a call to Ballsy Gal's agent, who is currently reading me.  When people are so blatantly kind, I want to burst into tears.  Does that make me a sappy Kodak commercial?  Probably.