29-Dec-2006

Hello?  Anybody out there?  I have been an atrocious blogger, but, according to my stats, you guys have been atrocious readers, so I'm not really apologizing.  Just guessing that, like me, you're all hopped up on egg nog and new beginnings, sans time to read blogs because you're too busy beating your parents' annoying puppy who won't quit jumping in your lap and trying to bite your face.  I kid, I kid.  Sort of.  If you're wondering where I was last week, however, I was sick.  So sick, in fact, that New Boss asked if I was, in fact, dying, and Cliffhanger, who was stuck in L.A. for an extra three days, poor girl, brought me Pinkberry at home.  How many times have I tried to get her to do this?  76,593, to be exact.  How many times has she fallen into my trap?  None.  In fact, she pretty much surprised me, so I must have sounded pretty pathetic on the phone.  She cheered me up, I'm not sure I did the same for her.  In fact, I'm not sure if I do that for anyone.  Maybe I should work on that.  But I'd probably screw it up.

Thursday, My Replacement and I boarded our flight, which was only stopping in Atlanta briefly before journeying on to Tel Aviv.  "Don't fall asleep," I cautioned her, "This flight is an ABC Family Christmas Special waiting to happen."  The flight from Atlanta to Lexington was uneventful, and the rents were waiting, tired, but waiting.  Friday night, Mom and I headed to Louisville for dinner and ballet.  We used to go see The Nutcracker every Christmas, but that has changed in the past few years, since I've mostly flown home on Christmas Eve.  So this was a treat indeed.  Except for the trip home, which I can't talk about, but, well.... anyway.  Moving on.

Saturday afternoon, my phone rang.  I checked the Caller ID.  Oscar Nom.  He's in Florida with his wife, but wanted to make sure I'd had a safe trip.  "And when are you sending me the first script you ever wrote?"  I asked him if he should be concerned about that right now, and he said probably not, but he was thinking about me, and about the script.  So later I went home, dug through all my boxes from grad school, and found a lone disk that had the script on it.  I am terrified to read it.

I'm going to skip all the Christmas stuff, or, better yet, just give you random words to describe it:  lasagna, fat preacher, cash, money, hos, country ham, designated driver, stars you can see, cheap wrapping paper, my cousin thinks I'm fatter than I actually am, bipolar disorder, peanut butter fudge (eight pieces in two hours), Roseanne, pecan pie in the Dauditor's kitchen (she said I was only trying to prove I wasn't anorexic), Angus the docile collie, three degrees of sexual separation among Frankfort Friends, and finally, home, sleep, Law & Order.

In fact, I was so caught up in all the festivities that I looked up on Tuesday and realized I owed Cliffhanger a draft of the pilot, but the third act was missing!  So to work I went, Roseanne on in the background, while Mom and Dad went off to their respective offices.  Wednesday, we had everyone over for soup, and I got to see Farrah, Farrah's Fiance, and Chlydia, among others.  Farrah cornered me toward the end of the evening, wanting to talk about some of my blog "characters."  She had several questions, one of which was, "What's Cliffhanger's real name?"  When I told her, she sounded it out, then said, "Huh.  I didn't think that would be her name, but I like it."  I imagine it's like reading a (poorly written) work of fiction and getting a picture of someone in your head, then when the movie comes out, the one you pictured as Sarah Polley is being played by Neve Campbell.

Thursday, I had to finish the pilot by 3:15, so Farrah's Fiance met me down at the coffee shop that morning for a spare set of eyes and some much-needed moral support.  It doesn't matter how secure someone is as a writer, whenever you're the first person to read something, you have to, and I mean have to, butter that writer up a little.  If you don't, you may be honest, but you're a horrible person.  And Farrah's Fiance was very helpful in the buttering-up regard.  We got the draft done and off to Cliffhanger, then headed up the hill to say hello to Farrah herself.  She had just chopped off her hair and was getting ready to dye it when we walked in the door, but, as always, she stopped to dole out greetings and hugs. 

Today, I had lunch with my grandmother.  This is always a controversial outing, but today, she didn't say anything to insult me.  Instead, she caught me off guard by asking me what of hers I wanted when she died.  I always have problems with these questions; my grandmother has made a lot of things possible for me, financially, and I'm grateful to her, and I know she has money, and I'm her only grandchild, but still.  Something about this question made me feel dirty.  So I replied, "I don't know, I haven't thought about it, and I'm not ready, emotionally, to have this conversation."  She opened her mouth to ask a follow-up, but I was quick.  "Who do you think really shot President Kennedy?"  It was the first thing I could think of, but it got her going.  Whoever says I can't keep a conversation going is mad wack.