March 2007 Archives

Things That Make Me Happy:

1.)  I've finally finished a (slightly vomit-worthy) draft of the short story, to which the Honeybee and Chlydia can attest.  I tried not to make it too self-indulgent, but, well, have you ever read this blog?  All I ever do is indulge myself, and I expect the same from others, apparently.  But I am grateful for their input.  And their lack of hatin'.  Kisses! 

2.)  The Wise Man is coming to Yoga with me and Cliffhanger tonight.  I spoke to him on the phone about an hour ago, and he confessed to being extremely nervous.  I was extremely nervous too, my first time, especially since I was late, and Cliffhanger had to lead me into the center of the room, with forty people staring at me as I rolled out the mat I'd never used before.  I'm sure poor Cliffy was ready to die of shame as well - I had embarrassed her and must be beheaded, she proclaimed.  Oh, wait.  Really, she just made me get Pinkberry with her afterwards. 

3.)  That the Faux Agent replied to an email I sent him Monday with the following:  "I just noticed I never replied to this, my b.  Please, as you know, keep the material flowing and the lines of communication open."  He could have just not responded at all, but he had to let me know he was thinking about me.  Awww.... I feel loved. 

Things That Make Me Sad:

1.)  That I now have to send out the short story and have panic attacks and feel majorly embarrassed.  See Number (1) above.

2.)  That Cliffhanger will be gone this weekend and next.  WHAT AM I GOING TO DO WITHOUT HER???  On any given day, she's one of the four people who keeps my head from exploding.  And the other three don't wanna have to up their respective responsibilities, I'm sure.  So guys, work it out amongst yourselves and let me know who to call with what crisis.

 

I know, I know.  I've been neglecting y'all, but this damn short story is going to be the end of the career I don't have.  This is not to say I'm not enjoying it - I am.  But I'm hesitant, nay scared, to give it to people.  I always fear judgment.  I care what other people think and am not afraid to admit it.  I'm downright uncomfortable in my own skin at times.  And that especially goes for right after I send something out for critique.  I'm getting more and more of an objective eye toward my own work, but I don't always trust it.  Which is where friends come in.  So I have to be careful to send things to people who will still love me if my writing sucks.  Sigh...

In other news, my mother has offered me the following trip:

 

I have been accused unjustly.  Prancers, of anti-jogging, anti-knee problems, stance indicated her displeasure with Wednesday's blog entry.  "You made me sound like a big ole fatty!"  Says she.  Well, I am here to tell you that that is not true, no way, no how.  She's skinny as a crack whore with an eating disorder.  And she even bakes fat free brownies and gives yours truly exciting snacks, like pretzel treats and organic peanut butter.  She refuses to use the mustard I keep in the fridge, in fact, because it is not organic.  It is French's, suitable only for white trash picnics and trips to the state fair - luckily, I'm a fan of both. 

Cube Boy has also berated me for not writing about him, oh, EVERY SINGLE ENTRY.  I waited for him to say something funny, which he did yesterday, as he pulled up a chair and sat a spell.

Me:  Why are you looking at the ceiling like that?

CB:  I'm imagining what you're like in bed.

Me:  (rolling my eyes)

CB:  I imagine you're good.  But only because you're so competitive you wouldn't want someone spreading it around that you're not.

Me:  (rolling my eyes again)

CB:  Sometimes, Melissa, we just take a compliment.

And yet I'm still trying to find the compliment in there...   

Almost every year, I make it home for Derby, aka the horse race to end all horse races, the TITANIC or STAR WARS or GO (hehe) of the horseracing industry.  And every year, I fly home on the red eye Thursday night and stumble off the plane at 5 AM to meet my parents, who are waiting with open arms and thermoses of coffee, because there is no time for sleep Derby weekend.  Not even for me, who needs ten hours a night.  By nine, I am showered and either a) helping Mom get ready for the thirty plus weekend houseguests my parents host every year or, and this is the more likely option, b) on the phone with Chlydia, the Shopaholic, Penny, Farrah, or the Dauditor as I toss back shots of Beam and figure out how I'm going to wear my hair for The Oaks. 

The Oaks, though less well-known, is my favorite race of the weekend.  It's a race for the mares the day before Derby (not that a mare hasn't won the Derby, mind you - Winning Colors, anyone?), and we usually all pile into a few cars and traipse over to Keeneland in our suits, sundresses and soap-shining, hungover faces.  My favorite thing about Keeneland - the hot dogs.  I usually eat about five of them during the course of the day, and somehow, on this most magical of days, I manage NOT to smear mustard all over the front of my dress.  

Last year, the party continued at the Entrepreneur's house.  Not only does he know how to paint, fix, and pimp rides, the boy can also grill.  So we eat.  And I somehow get someone to drive me home, the whole time keeping my fingers crossed that members of Dad's biker gang (not kidding) have not taken over my bed.  But Mom, even when she's drunk, is good about keeping my room mine, and it's a good thing, cause I'm very possessive of my bed.  Why?  Because my bed at home is the most comfortable bed IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE, including but not limited to Pluto and beyond.  Plus, I get to sleep amidst all my blue ribbons and trophies of yonder year, for everything from soccer to horseback riding to English Composition (suck on that, Chlydia!!) to Physics.  I used to be smart, people.  Very, very smart.  But not smart enough, on Derby weekend, to avoid my grandmother's pleas that I attend Jesus's house with her on Sunday morning.  I don't mind though, mainly because I know I will be too drunk to have to listen.  Plus, the communion wafers are pretty awesome.  So I don't worry about it as I drift off for two hours of peaceful slumber. 

When I wake up, Mom is cooking, and Dad is demonstrating the lifesize singing Dean Martin doll I got him a few Christmases ago to a rapt group of law enforcement officials.  And who says we're not classy?  But I pay it all no mind.  I just grab some coffee to go, because it's Derby Breakfast time.  What's the Derby breakfast, you ask?  Well, it's only my favorite thing ever, because, even though the food is way too greasy, even for me, and the Southern belles slightly faded-looking in their hoop skirts, THERE ARE STILL CLOGGERS!!! And I can simultaneously watch and heckle cloggers when drunk, or sober, really, especially when they strike up their metal to "Roll with it, Baby."  And then I hear my dad, "Why do they clog to this song every fucking year?  Why not Poison?  I hate this song."  So I have no choice but to heckle - it is my father's wish.  Luckily, my boisterous drunk friends are always pleased to help.  

We still have some time to kill before the actual Derby, so we head to - you guessed it - THE BAR!!!  Now, look, I'm making it sound like I'm an alcoholic.  Not true.  Not true ever since an unfortunate drunk blackout episode in Russia back in 2001, which I can tell you about if you ask me, but during which I'll probably cry and wish for my mommy.  Anyway, where was I?  Ah, yes, we're at the bar.  It's around this time, 10:30 AM, that I'm hoping, hoping, fingers crossed, for my grandmother to call.... and yes!  She does.  "Melissa?"  She asks.  "Where are you?"  I look around at the bar, at my friends nearly missing each other with darts and pool cues, and I reply, "I'm at.... (I see one of my friends, passed out drunk, leaned against the wall)... the homeless shelter.  Where I am EVERY Saturday morning at 10 AM."  "Oh," she bought it.  "Well, I was thinking, maybe we shouldn't go to church tomorrow.  I'm not feeling so well."  Me - "Awesome!!!  I mean, Jesus is sad?"  And that's that.  She flakes on me (and Jesus) EVERY YEAR!!!  I hate it when people flake.  It's backpedaling and false.  Jesus hates it too.  But on Derby day, it makes me HAPPY!!! 

For the actual race, it depends on which political party is in power.  With one, we can pull some strings, with the other, we're stuck in the infield with all the pot-smoking hippies and poor people.  Which sucks.  So lately, we've been pretty loyal Keeneland attendees.  And we inevitably end up seeing EVERYONE we know.  Last year, for example, I did shots with my high school biology teacher in the ladies' restroom.  At around 5 or so, the horses run.  Very quickly.  And I inevitably cry for the one who comes in last - one year, I told one of my friends visiting from out of state that they shot the pony who came in last.  He started crying, too, and I laughed at him for being so gullible. 

By the time I get home on Derby Eve, I always find a bunch of drunk bikers littered about the house.  My mom is sometimes doing something odd, like vacuuming spilled lasagna off the kitchen floor with a Dustbuster (read:  drunk!!!).  But, again, I'm too tired to notice.  And even though I don't go to church the next morning, I spend it and the flight home thanking the WBJ for family, friends, Jim Beam, and shitty cloggers. 

So why all the nostalgia?  Because this year, my dearests, I am not going home for Derby.  I am heartbroken, I am sulky, and I still can't believe it, but there's just no way.  I'll be crying for that last horse on my own couch out here in L.A., where I have no trophies, no law enforcement bikers, and where, inevitably, mustard will be spilled on whatever top I'm wearing.  But such is life.               

There's this girl who sits next to me when I actually show up at work.  We'll call her Prancers.  Prancers has to listen to me squawk on the phone all day about random shit, like a certain relative with hepatitis, or my parents' annoying habit of camping in their own backyard, or how I hate romantic comedies and think they should all be destroyed.  Well, today, as I was walking past Prancers' desk, we had the following conversation:

Prancers:  You're here late.

Me:  I went for a run this morning. 

Prancers:  That's crazy!  You know, they say running is bad for your knees.

Me:  So is being fat.

AWWWWWWW, SNAP!!! 

 

As many of you know, St. Patrick's Day was this past weekend.  And if you don't know, it probably means you are still drunk from said holiday, propped up against a lightpole with a splitting headache, wondering why your ass hurts.  Not that that's how my weekend went.  I'm speaking hypothetically here.  There were a couple of potentially unpleasant situations I had to navigate, since I was party-hopping (albeit half-assedly) on Saturday.  The first was a barbecue at one of the Faux Agents' houses.  This was an obligatory party - it was one of those shindigs I had to attend, just to show my pretty face and smile and wave and get the hell out before anyone could figure out how dorky I really am.  Always the good sport, Cliffhanger agreed to come with me, as she's supposed to have drinks with the Faux Agent sometime in the future (wherein I imagine they will spend the entire time toasting my name and talking about how godawfully AWESOME I am).  The barbecue started at three, but, of course, we were fashionably late and walked in a little after seven.  I spotted the Irish Asian, and thank goodness, because he was the only person I knew, so I made a beeline for him.  But he was deep in conversation with some twitty little slut, so I had to do the whole pretend-I-didn't-just-wave-at-him awkward thing, and then I felt the need to backtrack through the crowd, so I turned to make a run for it, but Cliffhanger was on my heels, so I nearly mowed her over.  "I need to find the Faux Agent," I said.  Now, we had seen about four people inside, watching TV, but surely, I thought, surely Faux Agent isn't inside with those four, when he has EIGHT HUNDRED wasted guests in his backyard.  I was wrong.  We walked in and stood in the corner conversing for a second before I heard him call my name.  And I thanked my lucky stars that he recognized me - that's a big fear of mine, that I'll have to remind someone I've only met in person several times who I am.  Especially when they're drunk.  But we said hi, Cliffhanger introduced herself, and then we made our way back outside.  The Irish Asian had had enough of his previous companion, so he made his way over and issued an invitation to the Friday Night Lights wrap party.  Wrap parties are a sore subject between me and Cliffhanger, as I did not ensure her presence at the PD one.  But look, I'd only met her once, she really didn't find me all that interesting, and that was that, or so I thought.  And, for the nine billionth time in my life, I thought wrong.  Anyway, I was seriously considering the invitation, when Cliffhanger reminded me that there was dinner to be had, then a party at the Wise Man's, and there was just no time to trek from West Hollywood to Silver Lake then to Santa Monica and back.  So we politely declined on our way out, and I breathed a sigh of relief that that whole schmoozing thing was over.  Not that I don't love Faux Agent.  I do.  He's one of my favorite Hollywoodites.  But I am a mere white trash peon with no fashion sense and a Sarah Polley obsession.  So it goes without saying that a backyardful of Hollywoodites would make me uncomfortable.

By the time we had dinner and met up with the Designated Driver outside the Wise Man's place, it was past eleven.  The Designated Driver looked tired, mainly, I think, because she'd been dealing with family all day, but I was very happy she made an appearance, and I was thrilled, thrilled I tell you, to see the Wise Man and both his roommates.  Somehow, he finagled an invitation to Yoga from Cliffhanger, because apparently he wants to see me vulnerable.  That, my friends, is laughable.  And charmingly inappropriate, as the Wise Man often is.  The Designated Driver left a little after midnight, which was too bad, because that's when the dance party started.  I only danced once, and only then because the Wise Man's roommate forced me, but we ended up staying at the party till around three, reclining against the couch cushions a la Daisy and Jordan in THE GREAT GATSBY, unable to move or speak without everything feeling really heavy.  I suppose I'm more Jordan than Daisy, since I don't have a voice that rings with money, or whatever the quote may be.  Nope, my voice rings of spud guns and whiskey and Limited tank tops from 1998.  Also, I sometimes sound like a squawking chicken.  A vulnerable squawking chicken.   

I have passed on your thoughtful and intuitive comment re:  our impending marriage to Cube Boy, Chlydia, and he responded, "I would marry you, Melissa, if you weren't so morbidly obese."  Also, Cliffhanger, in response to your comment re:  my huffiness, he responded, "You need to spend less time worrying about your huffiness and more time worrying about your blood sugar and dangerously high cholesterol levels."  In response, I crammed more White Cheddar Cheezits and pancakes in my mouth.    

Then, later, as we discussed potential honeymoon destinations:

Me:  Booze cruise!

Cube Boy:  That sounds great, but, you know, you should really consider losing some of that "holiday weight" before the cruise.  It is bikini season, after all.

Me:  "Bikini season" is not a phrase.

Cube Boy:  Sure it is.  Like "gonorrhea season" or "chlamydia season."   

A Conversation With Cube Boy:

Cube Boy:  (perusing the National Eating Disorders Outlook newsletter sent by Cliffhanger) Why does everyone think you're anorexic?

Me:  WTF, dude?  Are you calling me fat?

Cube Boy:  No.  I'm calling you an idiot.

Me:  Why?

Cube Boy:  Because you say stupid shit.  Shit that makes you seem stupider than you actually are. 

I am utterly and completely stressed.  There are so many things I'd like to be able to plan for, but I can't, not yet, because I don't know what's happening in the next few weeks.  I wish I could be more specific in my bitching, but really I can't, not yet, but just know that I am FREAKING OUT and eating lots and lots of ramen noodles and wanting to hide somewhere and cry and stop having a new recurring nightmare wherein I have magically unearthed deleted scenes from GO, but the scenes are traumatizing because Sarah Polley actually dies.  And if Sarah Polley were to die, well, then what would happen to me?  From your silence, I can tell you don't know, so I'll tell you - I would quit the business, because she is all that is good about the business, move to a cabin, eat more ramen noodles, and stop worrying about the little things, like my career, my family, liars, cheaters, and wifebeaters, or finding a cure for HIV.  Which I worry about daily, since I came very close to receiving the Biology Award in high school.  I mean, really, that makes it my responsibility, don't you think?  

I am writing a short story.  An embarrassingly personal short story, so embarrassingly personal, in fact, that I want to curl up in a corner and just blush the night away with burning cheeks and pounding heart.  The idea that I will actually be letting people read this blubbering idiocy makes me laugh.  They will see it's me.  They will know.  The questions is do I care?  Do they care?  Probably not.  They will care more about the fact that I am a wee toddler in the prose world, just able to walk and form complex sentences, craving nothing more than a little love and some applesauce.  It's not going to happen.  Did I also tell you I started a novel?  I have let Cliffhanger read the first seven pages (correction:  the first six pages - in typical Hollywood exec/manager/producer form, she lost the seventh page, then blamed me).  Why Cliffhanger, you ask?  That's what one might call a long story, one which, if I told you, would cause you to knock on my head a la Biff Tannen and scream, "Hello?  Anybody home?"  So we'll go with the short answer - she is mean.  So mean, in fact, that it took her THREE HOURS to give me notes on six pages.  Now, granted, she was very kind when giving the notes - she has a very diplomatic side to her, so she'll ask, "Wouldn't it be better if--" or "Maybe it would help clarify if--".  I, however, find diplomacy demeaning, and end up responding, "No, it would not be better!!!  It would be better if I just jumped off a bridge right now and put myself out of my misery because I am not, I tell you not, going to law school."  "Okay," she'll say, "You're overreacting.  As usual."  Me - "But I've wasted hours of your time, and you'll never get them back, and I should just stop, I should stop subjecting everyone to this total crap.  It's total crap.  You're missing your daughter's dance recital, and your marriage is on the rocks, and it's all because you're taking time away from your family to give me notes on my crappy prose!!!"  Her - "Ummm... I don't have children.  Or a husband.  You must take the squawking down a notch.  And then we're going to work on managing your delusions."  Cliffhanger is annoyingly even and soothing when I'm trying to argue with her.  "Also," she continues, "this would go a lot faster if you'd stop arguing with everything I say."  Hrrmmphh...She's right, of course, but I can't resist, "Well, if you hadn't lost that seventh page, you'd actually be impressed with my writing.  Page Seven is awesome.  Pulitzer awesome."  Her - "I'm sure it is."  See what I have to put up with?       

I have a disease.  It is called Foggy-Headed, Heart-Thumping, Groggy Anxiety Disorder.  Because that is how I have felt for the past two days.  It's kind of like I'm getting a cold, but will my body let me just go ahead and get all-out sick?  Oh, no.  I have to hover in this kind of half-assed, wishy-washy limbo, wherein I can't really get out of bed, it seems, until after two in the afternoon, and, when pressed to attend social engagements, I stare, cow-eyed, at the wall until I fall of my chair/bar stool, then someone pronounces me "No fun!" and I am carted off home. 

I don't mean to complain.  All in all, it was a lovely weekend, with hiking and brunch and cleaning and laundry.  One horrid thing did happen.  So, remember the POC?  What?  You don't?  Well, she worked with me on PD, and held her birthday at a swanky club downtown, one at which I do not belong, but I thought, hey, why not?  What are the chances I'll ever get to go again?  And Cliffhanger was down, so after dinner with The Hottie, we set out on our expedition.  First problem:  The club had no sign and was located in a dark alley behind a Chinese restaurant.  Interestingly enough, if you look up "exclusive" in the dictionary, it is defined as "a club with no sign located in a dark alley behind a Chinese restaurant."  It goes on to state "Does not accept Discover Card or Melissa."  However, at this particular exclusive hotspot, the line was a mere two hos deep, so Cliffhanger suggested we circle the block to see if we could find street parking.  We did, but to no avail.  "Let's just valet," Cliffhanger finally sighed, but she sat up straight when she realized that not only was the valet wearing a tux, but said valet was also no longer accepting cars, and the line that had contained only two scantily clad women a mere five minutes ago now held forty-five people, all in cocktail attire!  Cliffhanger looked down at her jeans, then over at my frizzed hair.  "What are you thinking?"  I asked her.  "I'm thinking this looks like a clusterfuck," she answered.  I was inclined to agree with her.  I love the POC, but I'm not sure we would have fit in, with what we were wearing.  And isn't the point of living in LA to be able to wear jeans ANYWHERE?  That's certainly why I moved here.  Regardless, we ended up at Royale, a new place at Wilshire and Rimpau (Cliffhanger, am I making up that cross street?), and it was all high ceilings and chic decor and Turks having a party.  In fact, we were hit on with that line - "So, are you two Turkish?"  Cliffhanger could pass, what with her long dark hair and withering smile, but me?  Come on, dude.  I'm as girl-next-door as Elisha Cuthbert, sans the porn career. 

And now back to my mysterious disease...

So many people use their blogs as a forum for bitching.  I have been known to do the occasional rant, albeit passive aggressively, but, today, I'm declaring a No Bitching Zone on this here blog.  It's fun to read about people's everyday trauma.  Other people's.  Not my own.  Whenever I write about my trauma, I end up sounding like a whiny, superficial bitch who's never had anything really bad happen to her.  Oh, wait.... Today, then, I am making a list of my favorite things, in no particular order:

1.)  When the Shopaholic calls me at 5 AM, then leaves the following message (I screen at 5 AM - if someone is dead, I will call back immediately; if someone is not dead, I will call someone in the caller's immediate vicinity and have said caller killed, or at least their stomach punched or hair pulled out by its very roots):  "Hey, it's Shopaholic.  Just calling to see what you're up to (read:  SLEEPING).  I'm driving to work... oh, hey, you know what's funny?  I just realized it's, like, 5 AM where you are!"  Laugh it up whilst you can, my friend.  Whilst you can.  Just for that, I'm having someone burn down all the shopping malls from Ashland to Louisville to Cincinnati and back.  You'll be lucky if you can find an ill-fitting plaid shirt from the sale rack at Abercrombie amidst the embers.

2.)  When someone asks me if I'm free on a particular night, and Cliffhanger, who of course is nearby, because why wouldn't she be, and who of course is getting impatient with my hemming and hawing, responds, "I'll put it in her schedule."  Then she looks me up and down, shakes her head with disdain, and begins to laugh.  My clever response:  "Can it, Troll."  So I am now furiously researching whether or not trolls are allowed to be five foot eight with a keen sense of fashion, or if they're all short, hemming and hawing and bitter little beings with out of control hair who hide under bridges and fling insults then scamper back under their bridges because they don't want to admit they're being passive aggressive.  Ha.  Ha.  Ha.  But seriously, I do like it when she keeps my schedule.  I'd just like to see a hard copy every now and then.  I mean, is a daily itinerary too much to ask?  It is?  Really? 

3.)  When people IM me AS SOON AS I sign online.  Look, I know I'm popular, I know you desire my company, but don't you know I'm trying to settle in and scouring the office for Saltines because I am starving to death?  If you really loved me, you'd have a pizza delivered instead of your non-nourishing, "Hey, what's up?"

4.)  When I can tell I'm getting sick.  Then I get all grouchy and start taking things out on the people I love, instead of hiding under a bridge or in New Boss's office with Law & Order, soup, and copious amounts of Vitamins A, B, and C, all courtesy of Flintstone's.

Now what have we learned?  That I am a troll.  But a hot, desirable, worthy of daily itineraries troll.  I will now go torment some goats. 

 

Double blog, double blog!!!  Mad wack, huh?  But I just have to share something with you.  Cliffhanger and I have this "tradition," you see (and here "tradition" denotes something we've been doing for, oh, we'll say six months, give or take a nanosecond).  We send each other things through the mail.  Not letters, not care packages, but random hickadowhatsits, like cheap pinkish pencil sharpeners or powder blue kites or peanut butter sandwiches in Ziploc.  Why?  Because we are bored with all other forms of communication, which we have beaten to death as if they were all dead horse pinatas.  Why email when you can express your feelings with a small pumpkin left over from your company's Halloween carnival?  Why pick up the phone when a stuffed plush pony, packed in a padded envelope and sealed from inquiring minds, says it all? 

Which is why what I received today came as no surprise.  That's right, folks, Cliffhanger got her elegantly manicured paws on the National Eating Disorders Association Winter Newsletter.  It was, she said, sent to her by mistake, and she felt the need to pass it on to me.  What's even funnier than the fact that this newsletter is so chock-full of information that it weighs more than I do is that JUST YESTERDAY, the day after Cliffhanger popped this sucker in the mail, I had an argument with New Boss about whether or not eating disorders are funny.  And now I know for sure that they are, because I nearly vomited up a lung when I opened my near-weekly envelope today.  It is, without a doubt, one of the best care packages I've ever gotten.       

 

 

 

 

 

 

So, remember how, a week or so ago, I was all "My cousins don't know how to use condoms?"  Well, I'll let you in on a little secret.  I am glad.  Why, you ask?  Please see above.  This is my cousin with his newborn daughter who, at three days, is already a better dresser than I am (note the barrette, complete with ribbon and bow, and classily striped blanket).  Her mother, aka my cousin's wife, is the ultimate multi-tasker.  Not only does she have an MBA, she is currently in her third year of law school.  Conveniently enough for her new daughter, she is also on Spring Break.  She's the kind of person I imagine hops out of bed for a power-walk and a protein shake, then somehow styles her hair perfectly in under ten minutes.  She will study for the Bar Exam this summer while rocking her daughter to sleep, and I imagine Cousin himself will have New Daughter out on the golf course when the weekend rolls around.  But seriously, isn't she oh-so-adorable?  We are a good-looking lot, says I, and good-looking lots have no use for condoms.     

I have blog block.  This is different from writer's block, cock block, chip off the old block, blockhead, New Kids on the Block, or Hangin' With Mr. Cooper, when Mr. Cooper lived on the block.  It's not that things aren't happening in my life - I suppose they are, because, ya know, I tend to freak out about at least three things daily.  Yesterday morning, for example, I had a meltdown, not a mere panic attack, with its slight inability to breathe and increased heartrate, but a collapse-on-the-couch and die for lack of heart and oxygen meltdown, this one regarding my college education.  "But didn't you graduate from college nearly five years ago?"  You might ask.  To which I would reply, "Yes, kind friend, yes I did.  From a very expensive school, half of which, with my wit and charm, I managed to pay for, the other half of which I stuck to my parents, mightily, because I wasn't quite smart enough to get all of it paid for."  How could I have done that to them?  I wondered yesterday.  How could I make them pay for my ridiculously expensive college education, just because I turned out a little smarter (and a little snobbier - perhaps that is the more accurate statement) than most people in my family would have expected?  I called my father. 

Me:  Dad, do you ever regret all the money you and Mom have spent on me, and feel like you have nothing to show for it?

Dad:  Why, now that you mention it...

Me (irritated):  Just let me talk to Mom.

Dad hands the phone off to Mom. 

Me:  Mom, do you ever regret all the money you and Dad have spent on me, and feel like you have nothing to show for it?

Mom:  Good question...

Me:  Let me talk to the dog.

Mom holds the phone up to the dog's ear.  Not kidding.  She'll let me talk to the cats, too, if I ask her.  But back to Elvis, the Jack Russell Terrier who has replaced me as Number One Kid in my parents' hearts.

Me:  Elvis, do you think Mom and Dad spent too much money sending me to Vanderbilt--

Elvis:  WOOF!!

Me:  Put Mom back on.

Elvis:  Before I do, know that your delusions are getting out of hand. 

Crazy dog...   

   

Okay, I hate to have to point this out, but you people have not been helpful at all in terms of finding me a way in to the Sarah Polley screening tonight.  In a moment of desperation, I emailed Successful Writer and am patiently awaiting his response.  I suppose I could call Oscar Nom as well, since he's into all that indie shit, but I need a couple more cups of coffee before I stoop to begging.  Besides, I am still worn out from the weekend.  Cliffhanger's birthday party continued into the wee hours of the morn on Sunday, and I just can't stay out that late anymore.  Someone please tell that to the peach cobbler at Swingers, which has kept me from my bed many a night.  Oh, wait.  I don't sleep in my bed anymore.  I have taken to sleeping on the couch to ward off Kevlar Vince Vaughn.  Plus, the Designated Driver totally threw me for a loop last night by not getting home from Vegas until midnight!  Now, that's all well and good - far be it from me to keep someone from the nickel slots.  The problem last night was that I had been to see ZODIAC, and she had told me she'd be home around 6.  So I get home a little after 8, and she's not there.  I call her.  She just got on the road and won't be home till midnight.  Why is this a problem?  Because I am alone in my apartment and there is a serial killer on the loose.  Oh, wait.  It's not 1972.  Well, that's a relief.  I was worried there for a second.