6-Nov-2006

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?