January 2008 Archives

Can also be called "One of the only Romantic Comedies I Like."  Too bad my dinner tonight involves Mexican food.  Oh, well. 

My parents are going to a funeral today.  A funeral of a woman I didn't know that well - she went to my parents' church and never learned to drive.  That is the extent of my knowledge of her.  So you might be wondering why my parents attending a funeral would make front-page blog news.  To which I say, do you READ this blog?  Yesterday I recounted the E! True Hollywood Story of the cast of Full House.  Any boring old thing is fair game here.  But funerals are never boring when my parents are in attendance, especially my father, who is the proverbial funeral shit-stirrer.  Yes, the man who cries at every episode of Little House on the Prairie can't stand a normal woe-is-me funeral, so he considers it his job to make sure everyone is having fun.  Case and point, my Uncle Ronnie's funeral several months ago.  Ronnie was not the most responsible member of our family (I write as I sit my unemployed ass on the couch with Law & Order on in the background), and to that end, he was not particularly punctual.  So when he wasn't fully cremated in time for his own service, my father remarked, "Isn't that just like Ronnie?  To be late for his own damn funeral!" 

Then there was my Uncle Sarge's funeral... Uncle Sarge was my great uncle, the brother of both my grandmother and the infamous Mammy Jane.  So of course he attended Mammy's eightieth birthday party.  My parents, who were out of town camping with the annoying dog, did not.  I was asked to go in their place, and, since the Honeybee happened to be visiting that weekend, she came along.  There was cake, there were flasks, there was the proverbial group photo, which my family insisted the Honeybee join.  Fast forward several months, when Sarge has kicked the bucket.  Someone decided it would be a good idea to make Sarge a funeral collage, which they did, with posterboard and streamers and the photo of Mammy's party, among others.  I found my father staring at the collage, so much so that no one else could really get a good look.  "What are you doing?"  Says I, "There are other people here who want to see pictures of Sarge jitterbugging and herding cattle (or whatever the hell else Sarge was doing in those photos - the man liked to dance.  And drink.  Often at the same time.)."  And my dad says, "I'm not in this collage."  I respond, "So what?  He was an uncle-in-law.  You're not fair game for a funeral collage."  "But..." Dad sputters, "But...The (Honeybee) is in this collage!  I've been a member of this family for twenty-five years, and she trumped me!"  "Well," says I, "Guess you should have gone to Mammy's party." 

Dad is now upset with me.  Very upset.  And granted, that comment was a bit snarky.  But it was NO REASON for him to stand beside the funeral collage for the rest of visitation and point to the Honeybee, telling everyone who looked upon her that she was "Melissa's special friend."  It confused my grandmother in particular, since I'd just been through a bad break-up.  With a BOY.  But it made my dad feel better to tell everyone I was a lesbian, so whatever.

I was discussing the funeral the 'rents are attending today with my mom, and I have gained additional insight into the dead woman.  Apparently, when I was three, said woman asked me what I wanted for Christmas, and I responded, "Hamburger buns."  So she sent me a card with a dollar in it so I could buy myself some hamburger buns.  I'm wondering why I would have asked for them - they don't seem to be any sort of forbidden fruit item.  Can anyone think of any reason why hamburger buns would have been a holiday-worthy treat in 1983 Kentucky?  Cause I got nothin'. 

Guess what, all you peeps who haven't been commenting?  Now, you don't have to register with Movable Type to let me know who you are and what you think of my shabby-ass blog/life.  What you cannot let me know?  If you are peddling some sort of penis enlargement/EDD/QVC product.  If that starts happening, I will lift the moat once more. 

Carry on.

Several of you have complained (aka Chlydia) that you cannot post comments on this site.  This perturbs me, in a time when everything perturbs me.  I'm going to try to work this out - meanwhile, if you couldn't before and now can post a comment, please let me know.  Or something.  I won't be able to fix any problems, but I'll bite my nails and cry in the corner because here I've been thinking no one loves me enough to comment, when perhaps it's the site.  Bah!!!

The pilot is (relatively) finished.  I was going to try to get away with not really looking at it anymore and sending it off to the powers that be, but Cliffhanger texted me as soon as she got off the plane last night demanding (not asking if it was done, mind you) that I email her the script immediately.  I pity people who don't have soul-crushing drill sergeant friends to keep them in line. 

I also pity Jodie Sweetin, whose meth addiction got a poor excuse for screen time in the E! True Hollywood Story - Full House I watched this morning.  All I'm saying is it should have taken top billing over the Olsen twins' successful clothing line/exercise video/pre-porn empire.  Meth is much more interesting than success. 

Which brings me to Heath Ledger.  I'm sorry he's dead.  He was hot, he was talented, and he named his daughter Matilda.  And I like that name because of the Roald Dahl book.  Anything else I say won't be profound or snarky, so I'll shut up now. 

I am distraught.  At the end of my rope.  At the end of my noose, even.  I am a few hours away from finishing this pilot, which tomorrow must go to one of my VIBs (or Very Important Bosses), as well as the agent I met with on Thursday who ALLEGEDLY wants to sign me (and I'll believe it when I see a check or someone brings me free bagels with chive cream cheese - either one.  I'm not picky).  Apparently, this is a big deal, despite the whole I-haven't-signed-with-him-yet and still have to go back to the agency and meet some of the partners this week.  But Cliffhanger and the Staff Writer are practically throwing me a frickin' ticker-tape parade, so I s'pose that, whatever happens, it's worth celebrating.  So much so that Cliffhanger has left me all alone to finish the pilot while she goes crazyin Vegas with the single nickel I gave her to play the slot machines.  According to her latest text, I am ten cents richer.  Finally... some income!

Despite all the stress of, you know, producing something that will trick people into believing they can make money off me, I have had a lovely weekend.  Dinner at Tender Greens (if you're ever in Culver City and strapped for cash, stop by - nothing costs more than ten dollars) Friday, hiking Saturday morning, Mexican food with Prancers Saturday night, then writing all day yesterday. 

Let me just stop myself right here - I am a diva when I'm writing.  I lose all sense of decorum, I will eat an entire pound of chocolate MERELY TO PROCRASTINATE and not because it tastes good, and I get upset if I can't find an episode of "Little House on the Prairie" to keep on in the background.  Did you hear me when I mentioned the word procrastinate?  Okay, good.  Because yesterday, I discovered Facebook.  So you'll be glad to know I was able to put the chocolate down in lieu of stalking everyone I have ever met and whose name I can remember.  I now have almost forty friends.  I think I can break a hundred before I get this &*&#$ pilot done.  If it weren't a frickin' national holiday, with people not checking email and spending their days at the beach and whatnot, I would SO TOTALLY have already broken a hundred. 

Yesterday, I spent a sum total of three hours on Facebook.  Between scenes.  During lunch.  And I may or may not have sidled on over to see if anyone had confirmed/validated/whatever the proper Facebookian term may be our friendship while I was in the midst of writing the crucial Act III break.  They hadn't.  Assholes.  Anyway, as a result of this newfangled way to make every adult on the planet feel like they will eternally be in middle school, I got behind on my writing.  I was supposed to grab dinner from Bay Cities with the Designated Driver, and they close at 6.  She knocked on my door promptly at 5:30, when I had just installed the Good Karma function on my Facebook page. 

"Oh, no," says I.  "I am right in the middle of this VERY.  IMPORTANT.  SCENE.  And I cannot possibly think about food until I can understand the central conflict.  Not only of this character, but of the world.  Because these issues I'm dealing with in the script, they are small, but they can be applied on a larger scale, see, and how can I stop now?  I cannot.  And I cannot leave to get something so trivial as food, when art is feeding my soul--"

"--So you want me to bring you something back?"  Says the Designated Driver.

"I couldn't ask you to do that." 

"So you want maple turkey with havarti cheese, the works, and hot peppers, right?"

"Oh, fine.  If it makes you feel better, go ahead.  But I can't even think of eating--"

And she was already out the door with a roll of her eyes.  Half an hour later, I ate that entire sandwich in five minutes.  Then I washed my hands and went back to Facebook.  

Art's cool and everything, but given the choice, I'd pick a turkey sandwich every time.   

I did not picket today because I have to psyche myself up and/or out in order to see WICKED tonight!  That's right.  Cliffhanger and I will be enjoying the hit musical on the house, courtesy of her exorbitant holiday spending at the Grove's Coach store. 

Don't worry, though.  I have spent my day productively - applying to tutoring jobs, food shopping (did you know Coffeemate makes a Blueberry Cobbler flavor?  That alone made my day), and that favorite pastime of the unemployed, emailing ex-boyfriends about my current fascination with "The Real Housewives of Orange County."  Seriously, boredom works wonders at melting past tensions.

I was GOING to post a photo montage of my adventures in Japan.  Alas, the Honeybee has failed to email me said photos, and I wouldn't be caught dead uploading my own pictures.  What, did you think I actually had any marketable skills?  So when that idea fell through, I was GOING to post a photo montage of my adventures with Guitar Hero.  Alas, my Crazy Cousin, aka the 40 year old version of me, has failed to email me said photos, probably because she's off promoting economic development in my home state with a trip to Detroit.  Or something.  Yeah, I don't know what she does.  Except that she's every bit as cool and manipulative and cooly manipulative as I am. 

So I 'spose the photo posts will have to wait.  And weren't you just holding your breath to see me with the two pound holiday weight surplus?  Tomorrow, my dears.  Tomorrow.  Or the next day, if my friends and family revel in procrastination as much as I do. 

And no, I'm not referring to my parents' mega-annoying, mega-yipping, abominable Jack Russell Terrier.  What has prompted this entry, you might ask?  A desire to let you all know that I am not dead!  I'm not!  Even though I have gone a revolting two months without writing.  I can blame the strike, I suppose, for I was caught shortly after I posted the mask photo below and fired via viciously polite memo from NBC.  I won't post the entirety here, but you know you're underappreciated when you recieve a memo whose subject line is "Services No Longer Needed."  I was tempted to send a response to NBC with the subject line "I Wouldn't Piss on you if you Were on Fire."  But I am lazy. 

Now that I am back from my world travels (if Japan and Kentucky can be counted as "traveling the world"), I am settling back to unemployed life in Los Angeles.  Unemployment is difficult for me.  I despise sitting around the house, no matter how many "Real Housewives of Orange County" marathons Bravo broadcasts to tempt me.  So this unemployment term, I have developed a set of daily rules:

1.)  Must get out of bed by 8:30 AM.

2.)  Work out.

3.)  Apply for at least five jobs, anything from juggler to Japanese tutor.  Note:  I possess neither of these skills, but I feel the need to paper the town.

4.)  Get dressed.  Sweatpants do not count.  Neither do belly shirts, Melissa, no matter how much you whine.  Yes, your abs look fabulous, but no!  Belly shirts do not count!

5.)  Take a walk around my neighborhood every afternoon.  Watch the happy families play on their lawns and converse with neighbors, or argue at the dinner table.  Still in their work clothes.

6.)  Let my friends and family know how much I appreciate their support and be careful not to take my frustration out on them.  Cliffhanger told me the other day that she couldn't tell if I thought she was a horrible person, and my eyeballs nearly popped out of my head just as my heart was in the process of breaking into a million pieces.  For me, it's always Opposite Day.  Maybe it shouldn't be.

In other news, I walked the picket lines at Fox (yes, I hate NBC more, but Fox is closer to my house - how's that for having principles?) yesterday and ran into H-Berts, G-Money, the Staff Writer, Entourage, and, well, I guess I didn't run into Prancers, since she picked my lazy ass up and drove me the two blocks to the studio.  But I discussed my single New Year's Resolution with H-Berts as we marched all militant-like:

H-Berts:  So how was the flight to Tokyo?

Me:  Fine, except for the landing, cause I saw this cockroach right as we were about to hit the ground.  And it was right above me.  And I couldn't scream, cause it's not good to scream when your plane is landing, so I kinda... flicked it on the sleeping Chinese girl next to me.

H-Berts:  (horrified, stunned)

Me:  But my New Year's Resolution is not to flick bugs on people anymore.

H-Berts:  Glad to see you've set the bar high for yourself this year. 

Happy New Year!