NYE in...

This is my fifty-second post of the year. Next week, I'll post a new New Year's post, but I felt I should tip you off that I'm totally celebrating that I managed to pull this off...

I am still in Connecticut. JetBlue cancelled my flight back to California this evening. I'm torn. There's a part of me that felt this year's trip was a bit short (mostly due to that blizzard), but there is another part of me that really wishes she was in her own bed right now instead of unable to fall asleep in Darien in my sister's basement guest room, wondering if this sore throat is allergies or the beginning of an ear infection.

The older I get this push-pull is getting worse. There is a part of me that fully recognizes that the majority of my VIPs live on the east cost and it would be in my best interest to come back. But there is still a part of me that feels like I can't be my own person if I just come back and be what I've always been -- namely there for everyone else, feeling like an appendage to someone else's experience. As much as I dislike being so far away from the dearly beloved, despite the loneliness that can creep up on me, at least I feel like I'm living my own life. And yet what kind of quality of life am I having if I'm not sharing it with the folks that matter most. It's a conundrum.

I think this is best highlighted by the one thing that is keeping me awake right now: what am I going to do on New Year's Eve? If I was back in L.A., I only have one friend I could call on. But in CT, I have a couple of choices. First, I could babysit my niece, either with my mother or alone. I could call my brother who seems to be having a house party (though its been billed as a "couples party"). Or I could call some New York friends and perhaps go into the city for the night. There is a part of me that says, "call your friends! Be young, single, urban, cool!" There's another part, however, that rationalizes that I'm mega-fat right now and have no hip, cool, NYE in NYC clothes with me, plus Mom is really happy that I'm still in town. This seems yo be my life: unhappy with myself whichever way I go.

My sister asked me about my Plan. For years, I've had a five year plan. But now I don't. I really don't. And I'm vey confused about it. Life was easier when there were set goals. Currently, my life is like my NYE consternation: I don't know what to do. Nothing feels exciting and bold. It all feels worrisome and unfulfilling. Unfortunately, I fear that if I don't do anything, the years are going to just slip by and I'm going to wonder where all the time went one New Year at a time

Professional Gifts

It is that time of the year when random business partners give you token gifts to thank you for doing the job you get monetarily recompensed for all year long. It is in these moments when three things are exercised:

1) Proof that once again it is the thought that really counts because really, what am I going to do with one beautifully ornate martini glass filled with hard candy? Very pretty, but I don't drink martinis and if I'm going to serve martinis at a party, wouldn't I want a matching set of four or at the very least two?

2) People scrapping together $100 to give 20 co-workers a $5 gift to thank them for doing $50,000 in work at half the pay even in the middle of a horrific recession caused by people consuming goods they really couldn't afford.

3) Gracious acceptance of bars of soap, boxes of candy, and stationary. Don't get me wrong, I love stationary. Unfortunately, I also love my iPad which has access to my email accounts, Facebook, and Word documents. I will use the soap; I will eat the candy; I will write to my grandmother on the stationary. But more than likely, I will re-gift the non-perishable items to my neighbors next year.

Inevitably, every year one of the Runners, Office Assistants, or Receptionist will suggest that we do a Secret Santa, a White Elephant, or a Grab Bag. And every year, I have to be the Scrooge to put the kibosh on it. "It won't be much," s/he sincerely pleads. "It'll only be $5!" To which I have to ask them, "What are you going to buy our boss for $5?" "It's a grab bag!" "Are you going to buy a gag gift?" "Maybe!" S/He impishly smiles. "Why would you waste $5 on something someone is going to look at for two seconds and then put in a drawer never to look at again?" This goes on for sometime until the young person dejectedly walks away from me, but we won't have to do the Secret Santa, White Elephant or Grab Bag, and it's put off until the next year when the new cast of Runners, Office Assistants, or Receptionist have joined the company and think that I'm fun enough to pass this idea by.

Don't get me wrong, I love gifts! I love getting them and giving them. I love wrapping them! The gift thing is totally genius as far as I'm concerned, and I have to say that this year has been a stellar Christmas season as I have not received one gift that I'm secretly planning on putting into my re-gifting box. (Kudos to all those who have put me on your Santa list. To all of you, all I have to say is, "You know me. You really know me." *hugs*) But I find that the pressure to give professional gifts is enormously taxing. Especially as I'm in middle management so I'm still intimately aware that bosses can give really crappy gifts. But I'm also a boss of sorts, and it can get really expensive when you're working with all the assistants all the time asking them for favors beyond their call of duty. I always want to give something that looks more expensive (or is more expensive) than I'm willing to pay. I'm big on gift certificates which becomes an issue because gift certificates don't go on sale. If you want to give, say, five freelance readers a $15 iTunes gift card, you are paying out $75. It's much easier to go to Nordstrom Rack and get $15 lip glosses for $7. (Except maybe Charlie won't appreciate the lip gloss...) Back when I was at the P.D., I would make big baked good baskets. I would make mini muffins or brownies and cookies and just bring them to work and put out in the Break Room with a note. Merry Christmas! It wasn't until I moved to New York that I realized that this gift thing is much bigger in the corporate America. Which is weird because, as I've stated above, I get paid to do my job and if you think that a $5 box of stationary with my initial on it is going to make up for the fact that I didn't get a raise this year, you're drinking the Kool-Aid out of the CEO's mini-fridge. If anything, it makes me more resentful.

There is no easy answer to this token gift thing. It has to be done. It should be done! And I'm not saying that my boss, who makes twenty-thousand more than me a year should buy me a $100 gift to even it out. I just wish there was a way to signal that a charitable donation of $5 to a community service would actually be better than a $7 lip gloss. It would probably be really Scrooge'y (not to mention tacky, tasteless, crass, classless and rude) to post a note on my doorway the weekend after Thanksgiving that says something like, "My charity is Planned Parenthood this year. If you're thinking that you'd like to get me something to show your appreciation for all that I do for you, send them the money instead. Happy Holidays!" Hm. Do you think I could get away with it if use the stationary I received the year before to write it out?

Ordinary People

George Clooney. Ah, George. The things that I have said about you over the years. When I lived in New York, I would joke that I would meet you and you would see me and drop to one knee to propose. When I was moving to L.A., I would say how I would meet you on set one day, and you and I would become very close public friends but secretly date. When I got a job in the industry, I declared that it was only a matter of time before we were working together and often, like you and the Coen Brothers, but hopefully more like you and the Ocean's Eleven crew because that seemed like more fun. And when you moved your production office into my building, I silently plotted how to get a job as your head of development/personal assistant. And then, dear George, I saw you on the elevator and it was...depressingly ordinary. You are, it seems, just another human being. On a Blackberry. *sigh*

Like lots of boys and girls out there, I wanted nothing but a glamorous life that gave me things like money, prestige, fame, and accolades. Really, is that a lot? And I got involved in a lot of glamorous jobs. Probably none more than the one I currently have. Yet, the funny thing about this job is that I still don't consider it glamorous enough. And there are plenty of people who would agree with me because (A) it's TV movies and those are just ridiculous, and (B) I don't work with people like George Clooney. Because, really, unless you're invited to Julia's New Mexico ranch or George's Lake Cuomo villa, you're really not "in" the glamorous business, are you? You didn't really make it, did you? Everyone's a critic -- including me. There are times when I don't feel like I've "made it" because I'm not hobnobbing with George. And maybe if I could just meet George than that would be the pixie dust to transport my life from overweight, movie-of-the-week go-to gal to the Overnight Sensation That You Absolutely Must Know! But the thing is, even if I did reach across the elevator and tap him, nothing was going to happen other than, more than likely, him looking at me in surprise and confusion, and - let's face it -- disappointment that I recognized him and bothered him, nothing was really going to happen anyway. Mostly because people at George's level are wary of people at my level, because people at my level want people at George's level to pull them up beside them. "I anoint you as the next Overnight Sensation That Everyone Absolutely Must Know!" Not to say that it doesn't happen, it does on , and that's the problem. It leads people to believe that if they work it just right, it'll happen to them. "Hi, George, my name is Callafornia and I work on the 3rd floor in development. If you ever need anything just let me know." *Wink!*

My elevator experience with Mr. Clooney only solidified what I've known for awhile now, that when George sees me, he's not going to propose, befriend me, or even give me a job. He's going to look right through me on the way to his next meeting, while secretly hoping that I don't recognize him or at the very least, to please not bother him. And it was in that moment of finally seeing him, of being in touching distance, really, that I knew I was really over the glamour of the glamorous life. I'm not saying that I didn't forget to breathe for two seconds (I did), but when the surprise wore off, we were still travelling in an elevator and nothing magical was happening and so... well, nothing. And isn't that just a downer?

What I will say is this: it's more fun for me to make up crazy stories about famous people than to actually meet them. And when I do have my slight brushes with fame, it's funnier when I retell the story because then I can put a spin on it. I don't take it seriously...and none of my friends do either. We're all in on the joke at the end of the day, and believe it or not, that means more to me than a two-minute elevator ride with the biggest movie star on planet earth.

Sorry, George.

In Defense of a Good Scrubbing

When I was a little girl, I felt keenly entitled to being taken care of and any time anyone requested that I help with chores, I would huff with extreme petulance that I was not Cinderella (a book I was fascinated with, and -- oddly -- identified with the heroine regardless that I wasn't forced into indentured servitude by my evil stepmother). My grandfather thought my mother was too easy on me. But my mother had her own mental scars about weekend mornings wasted by doing housework and didn't want to do that to me. (You know, in hindsight, I was a really prissy kid? I wonder how that happened?) I did not do chores. In fact, you could barely get me to put my dirty clothes into the hamper. I resented not being rich. Really, I'm not joking. I used to make pronouncements like, "I'm not learning how to cook! When I'm an adult, I'm going to have a live-in chef!" To which my mother would reply, "You better hope that you're rich." And I would snap back with venom, "I WILL be." Yeah, that didn't work out the way I thought it would...

When I got a little older, I became much more philosophical as to why household cleaning was not to be engaged in. I'm a woman and until a man is willing to do his fair share of the housework, well, I'm not going to do it either! It was a moral stand! How dare my grandfather sit there and read the newspaper telling ME that I should be cleaning the living room. Not to mention that I was of Irish decent and for years Irish girls were indentured as scullery maids. I am not your maid, sir! My outrage ran high.... And then I moved out on my own.

I will admit that even when I lived on my own, I resented housework. Every time I picked up a can of Comet or took out the mop, I'd think of mob caps and pins curls. I'd think of Cinderella every time I had to sweep. But while I can be messy and lazy, I can't really live in dirt. It's gross. Ergo, I had to do what I had to do, so I bore my load and martyred on.

Fast forward to this past weekend. Over the last few weeks, we've been having a cold snap in SoCal, and we've been putting on the heat in the apartment. And as always, after a long summer's rest, the dormant heaters rush back to life pushing nine months of accumulated dirt and dust into the sealed off apartment. Since I've been waking up feeling congested, I realized that it was time for a spring cleaning. I was mainly interested in getting up the dirt and grime and less interested in the chores that are normally done in the name of a clean house like the bathroom. The bathroom will always be cleaned as it's a necessity as far as I'm concerned (seriously, how does one get oneself cleaned in a moldy shower stall?). I pulled everything out of my closet, out of my bedroom and used the broom on the ceiling, on the baseboards, and even high up on the walls not to mention the wood floors. I took out the comet and scrubbed the kitchen counters, the microwave, the toaster oven, and the stove backsplash. I took out the Swifter Wetjet and cleaned the floors, and Pledged the wood furniture. I pulled out the couch, and rolled up the carpet. I vacuumed. And I laundered linens. My fingers pruned and I smelled like four kinds of detergent, but by seven o'clock last night, I was done. And I felt...proud and accomplished. Weird.

I will not be hanging up my corner office aspirations to take up with Merry Maids, but I will say that there's something clearing about cleaning one's space. A mental preparation for something new maybe. Or perhaps just the pragmatic knowledge that I can drop something on the floor and not have to worry about picking it up. Whatever the reason, I'm beyond my childish notion that cleaning is a service that the poor and downtrodden perform for their "betters." In fact, there's something to be said for doing a task that requires a little physical labor in a time when nearly everything else is done sitting down behind a computer. And while I still enjoy utilizing my mind to the best of its ability, sometimes it's nice to just shut it off and do something with the rest of my body.

It's Coming on Christmas

I've been listening to 103-KOST or "the Coast" which plays constant Yuletide fare until midnight December 25th. Usually one Christmas song becomes my anthem for the season. My first year in L.A., it was "I'll be Home for Christmas" as I was surprising my mother by flying in for the holiday. Another year it was "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas" as it was 80-degrees right up until I got on a plane heading east where Connecticut had already gotten three feet of snow. Last year, it was "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" because of that scene in Meet Me in St. Louis when Judy Garland sings it to Margaret O'Brien to assure her that no matter where the family is, they will be together at Christmas. This year? "It's coming on Christmas" by Joni Mitchell. A song, mind you, that I wasn't familiar with until You've Got Mail. (What can I say, my family was more pop rockers than classic folk kinda people.) The first stanza of the song really speaks to how I feel about my move to California. (The second stanza is about choosing career over love which has nothing to do with me at all.) But that line about having a river to skate away on speaks to the rough year I've had. Between you and me? I'm very glad 2010 is almost over.

IT'S COMING ON CHRISTMAS

It's coming on Christmas
They're cutting down trees
They're putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on
But it don't snow here
It stays pretty green
I'm going to make a lot of money
Then I'm going to quit this crazy scene
I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
Oh I wish I had a river
I could skate away on

The People I Will See

You know I'm getting lazy when I post these kinds of blogs...

So, we had another screening at the Fox lot the other night, and I usually find that the movies I don't like have better turn outs than the movies I do like. Our newest Movie of the Week (MOW) stars John Corbett, Sarah, Paulson, Karen Allen, and Sam Elliott. And three out of the four showed up to the screening with Sam bringing his wife Katharine Harris of The Graduate fame.

Sometimes these events are surreal. The actors stay in the corner getting their picture taken while the faithful approach for a benediction...or something. I'm never quite sure. Nine times out of ten, the actor is also dressed 100% better than everyone else in the room. "Oh, there's X." Hair done. Make-up done. It's very lookie-loo. As for the actor, s/he looks terrified or completely remote. "Please, don't come over here." But this time, they roamed around, talked to people, and pretty much acted like everyone else. Which was kinda cool. Karen Allen kept getting lost in the crowd. Seriously, unless you knew she was an an actor in the film, she just looked like a really pretty and put together woman of a certain age. As for John and Sam, well, feel free to chat 'em up! John was especially genial. Too bad I had to leave early or else I would have probably been doing shots at the bar with him.

Hmm, on second thought, maybe it's best that I did leave early. Especially since I SAW HUGH LAURIE! Oh, I'm sorry, was I screaming like a little girl? As I walked up the stairs to parking level two, I looked down and right into the face of House himself. I tried to find a reason to slow my gait and get a better look at him, but all I had in my hands were my car keys and it was really cold outside. Oh well.

I think the next screening is on the Fox lot again come January. I'm totally losing 50lbs and bringing a clutch that I can spill at a moments notice carrying a change purse that doesn't snap quite right and business cards. Lots and lots of business cards! Hugh Laurie is British, those people are oh-so-proper. He would total stop and help me pick it up, right? Hey, a girl has got to have a plan...

The Places I Will Call

On a recent House episode, House calls the CDC in regards to a theory on small pox. He poses as a screenwriter. "Hi, I'm writing a screenplay. Is it possible that the small pox can survive for 200 years in a sealed glass jar on the ocean floor?" House holds up the phone and the guy on the other end says, "Well, theoretically, yes, it could..." House promptly hangs up on him. This sequence made me laugh because I make phone calls like that at least twice a month. "Hi, I'm calling from a movie production company in Los Angeles. We're working on a film and I have a quick question that I hope you can answer...."

Today, I made a phone call to Scripps Institute of Oceanography down in San Diego to ask them how to pronounce "Marianas Trench." We're in post-production on a movie and suddenly everyone's wondering if the actor said the word right. This has become part of my job. For some unknown reason, I am now the girl to go to if you have an obscure question that needs to be answered.

On Wednesday, I called Sunset Beach Town Hall in North Carolina to ask them about the Kindred Spirit mailbox. Mary said that she didn't know the history of the mailbox, but Judy should. But Judy was at lunch. When Judy called me back, she gave me Bill's home phone number. I called Bill yesterday. Bill is the Chairman of the Bird Island Preservation Society and did indeed know the history of the mailbox and also gave me the number of the person who put it up and tends it. I'm saving that information for the script process.

I also called the American Physical Therapy Association in Virginia to find out if a person with a MPT (Masters of Physical Therapy) would have the title of Doctor since our Art Department on one of films thought it was appropriate to put Dr. in front of a character's name, followed by MPT. APTA confirmed one can get a doctorate in Physical Therapy, but would have to complete a DPT (Doctorate of Physical Therapy). There's going to be a lot of CGI'ing on that one...

Back in August, I called the USO to find out what was served at the USOs back in WWII (whatever they could get donated). I called the Atlanta VA Medical Center to find out what volunteers are able to do at the local VAs past filing and making copies of files (yes, they can read to the vets). I called the L.A. Naval Recruiting Office to find out how old a chaplain can be (they top out usually at 42).

For the same project, I called the Atlanta History Center who directed me to the Kenan Research Center in regards to where Navy troops would have shipped out from Georgia for the Pacific theater. Mark said that they would have been put on a train to the west coast where they would have been shipped out from San Diego. So then I called the Southeastern Railway Museum in Duluth and spoke to Jeff about the path the train would have taken from Atlanta to San Diego and exactly which ones of the Atlanta area train stations are still around today (none, but Jeff could tell you the number of the train and what track it went out on!).

In the spring, I called a farm in Rhode Island to find out if local farms could be both a Christmas tree farm and a fresh produce farm (they can). I called the Salt Lake City school board to ask about integrating homeless students into public schools in the 1980s. I called Macy's in New York to ask permission if a character could work for them, and I called Amherst college in Massachusetts to ask if a character could go to their school (yes and yes). I called Century 21 about how real estate agents get their listings.

I used to hate making these phone calls. I used to scour the internet looking for answers before picking up the phone and just calling. However, I don't mind as much any more (unless it's a truly trivial question in which the answer is pretty evident). Why? Mainly because people are really helpful. Most people, when getting an out-of-the-blue phone call from a production company in Los Angeles are excited to answer whatever ridiculous question I can ask. And by the end of it, I'm usually getting invited out to wherever the person is. Which I think is pretty nice. "Make sure you call me if your ever in North Carolina," Bill said yesterday. "Stop by the farm if you're ever passing this way," invited the Rhode Island farmer. Amherst wanted me to send me a sweatshirt. Century 21 sent the set a real golden blazer and name tag with the character's name on it (we used it in filming). Macy's wanted to know if I could send a copy of the movie to them for their archive (which is interesting, especially if you've seen their new commercial in which they use clips from TV and movies with characters saying "Macys" -- our film did not make the cut). I won't go so far as to say that people are nice in general. My years as a cop taught me that they're not. And if I just called up and asked, "how do you pronounce Marianas?" I probably would be hung up on. But for the most part, I think people like to be useful.

At the end of every conversation, I tell the person the name of the movie, the month and station it will be broadcast on. Not only is it good marketing for the film, but because I know that it means something to people to see their contribution pay off. Even if it is only a farm that has both a Christmas tree lot and produce gardens.

Making a List

Just last night, I emailed a bunch of family members and parents of godchildren to gather the Christmas lists. I'm like Santa Claus only on a restrictive budget. In hindsight, I don't know how my single mother did it. Two kids, one paycheck? And yet Santa was very generous every year. I think lay-away had something to do with it. Anywhooo...

What I really love about getting the Christmas lists is to see who these kids are turning out to be. Sarah loves art projects and at seven is currently becoming a label shopper. Which Cracks. Me. Up. As so was her mother once upon a time. Sarah is into Justice. I had never heard of it before, and quite frankly, other than the sequins and the glitter, I kinda don't get it. But at least it's not adult-wear cut for kids, if you know what I mean. It's very conservative. Which I find interesting as her mother was a very conservative dresser, too, back when we were teens (still is; she has this adorable cardigan with sheep on it). I was also told about Sillybanz. Have you seen these? Honestly, what is it about kids that they suddenly all need the something at the same time? Reminds me of when I suddenly had to have a Cabbage Patch Kid when I really didn't care about them a month before Christmas. Sarah's sister Kathryn, however, is a Momma's Girl. Totally loves her baby dolls and Barbies. Which, hello!, BARBIES! I get Kathryn. I bought her a baby doll last year, however, and her mother says that the dolls are getting a bit out of control, so I'm not allowed. Kinda breaks my heart a little. But only a little as my sister has shared with me that her one-year old is showing up at Mommy & Me classes and ganking other little girls' dolls. YAY! I mean, not for rolling Mommy & Me classmates, but giving Auntie an opportunity to buy a Christmas doll! I'm waxing and waning between Itty Bitty at 15" complete with book and teddy bear and Corolle Calin at 12" made with low toxic plastics and machine-washable body. Decisions, decisions!

There are only three boys on my list this year: 6, 3, and almost 2. I do not find boys fun to buy for. It's all lights, noise, and hard plastics. I think I'm suffering some PTSD from Christmases past when my cousins used to wheel their lunking toys around and somehow I always got smacked in the head. ("Dump trucks don't fly, Jason!" Oh, sorry, flashback.) So, far it seems like it may be a Very Lego/Duplos Christmas for these fellas.

All in all, I think I'm just excited about Christmas in general as I didn't take a vacation this year (I bought a car instead. *Sigh* I'm still not over that injustice), so I'm really looking forward to getting away for a little while even if it is only going to Connecticut. But Connecticut certainly has it charms. Snow, ice skating, hot chocolate that actually warms up your insides on a cold, wintry day...not to mention some pretty adorable kids who are going to love me when I show up with Barbie shaped Sillybandz!

Shiny, New Hope

What did I say about my book getting rejected? Uh, yep. I also got a formal phone call from Disney telling me that I did not get the job, which I thought was nice of them since they kinda informed me the week before that I wasn't going to get it. And while last week I felt bereft, disappointed, and rejected, this week, I've got a little perspective and can actually feel -- what's that? ahh, yes -- gratitude.

The thing is, everyone who rejected me did it very gently and kindly, and in fact, offered up hope. According to Disney, the Senior Vice President liked me a great deal, but felt I didn't have enough experience, and in another year or two, who knows? In the meantime, they'd like to consider me for other positions, if that's OK? Yeah. Yeah, that's fine. I'll take that. And the agent who rejected the book stated that it took her awhile to make a decision as she really liked the concept and it worked for the most part, but the execution was a bit old fashioned. While I had left my heroine an avatar for the reader, today's picture book market requires a protagonist with a fully formed personality, warts and all. In fact, the agent sorta suggested that I use the kind of voice that I use in my adult humor books. Huh! Who would have thunk it? Neither one of the these rejectionists had to give me much past a "thanks, but no thanks" leaving me to wonder if I was a loser with bad breath and a neanderthal I.Q. (What can I say, I'm very hard on myself), but both actually left me feeling pretty good about myself. As someone who writes reject letters once a month, I know the difference between a brush off and a considered response, and I am grateful for the time and thought these individuals put into rejecting me. Who knew that was possible?

It's funny what a few days can do. Last week, the sky was falling and it was all rejection and dejection. This week, it's all rainbows and butterflies and self affirmation. Next week, I'll probably pick myself up and start the process all over again with shiny, new hope.

The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

I think I need to buy all my godchildren and nieces the Judith Voist book, Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. Why? Because I'm thinking I need to re-read it myself to see how it ends. Today, dear reader, I'm having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. First, I decided to email the recruiter at Disney about the position I interviewed for only to find out that their number one candidate is coming in for an interview this afternoon and if it goes well, they're going to extend an offer to her. Then I started to get emails from the Writers Guild of America and some lawyers about the automatic arbitration that is currently happening in conjunction with one of our productions, and it seems I made a mistake and sine the mistake I made was with the craziest of the crazies, I'm going to have to pay, pay, pay...and email the company's lawyer every action I've made since 2006 with this project. If I ever needed a hope of a new job, today would be the day.

Most people probably notice ebbs and flows of bad times and good times. I have noticed, however, that all my bad times come together. Like when one famous person dies, we all wait for two more to drop. This expectation of bad things cause me stress. Bundles of stress that make me want to throw up and cry all at the same time. For the most part, the boredom of my life can overwhelm me with ennui, but when the bad times come, I want to duck and take cover, and I long for yesterday when my biggest concern was whether to get take out or make dinner. Literally, I don't want to walk outside today. I don't want to drive. But since my book is still out with an agent, I'm just going to assume that that's the last of the bad things. I'll get rejected at some point this week. Better now than later, however. I would hate for that to be a harbinger of more terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days.

And Now I Know

Things I've learned this week:

*Martha Plimpton of Goonies fame and recently of Raising Hope is Keith Carradine's daughter! What!

*My godson is actually three and not two. (Good thing I caught that one before sending out the "You're 2!" birthday card.)

*I love dark and dreary days now that I live in the land of perpetual sunshine.

*Johnny Depp is 47! FORTY-SEVEN!

*I can go three days without my cell phone and not notice. (I left it in a purse I used over the weekend and only thought to look for it today.

*George Washington wrote about a two party system, "the alternate domination of one faction over another, sharpened by the spirit of revenge, natural to party dissension, which in different ages and countries has perpetrated the most horrid enormities, is itself a frightful despotism." Which means the contention in the nation's capitol has been going on since the first presidency, and I shouldn't be all that alarmed.

*George Washington had dentures made out of the pulled teeth of his slaves. Erm...

Stress Me Not

Hear ye, hear ye! I'm back on track! This is the 41st week of the year and this is my 41st post. I'd like to thank the month of July which allowed me to catch up and get a bit ahead. Thank you, July.

I had a face-to-face interview at Disney yesterday, something I've known about since Friday. What I've come to realize is that I don't deal well with stress and anxiety. Over the last few days, all I've been able to eat is pasta with butter, toast, cheese sticks, and sometimes I could force down chicken; but for the most part, I was sick to my stomach all the way down to my lower intestines. Gurgle, gurgle.

This is not something I've dealt with my entire life. I used to get butterflies in my stomach when I was younger and forced to give a class presentation. When I hit my teen years, my stomach would clench whenever I was forced to speak in public (and not in a cheerleading uniform). But about ten years ago, when I first had to stand up in front of a romance conference and pass myself off as a professional, I spent nearly three days in the bathroom afraid that whatever I put into my mouth wouldn't stay there. The pinnacle being the hour that led up to the moment. I was stuck in the bathroom listening to all those women talk about me without knowing who I was. About three years after that, I was lined up for my sister's wedding procession and had to duck into the lavatory at the top of the stairs, my mother shouting for me when it was just about my turn. Any big moment in my life now seems cause me to lose my lunch or at the very least dry heave. So, when I got the phone call that the Senior Vice President wanted to meet with me and promptly started to receive paperwork that would verify my employment should an offer be extended, my esophagus closed up and my GI track shut down.

There is one silver lining to this terrifying phenomenon: I think I lost five pounds in four days!

As for Disney, cross your fingers one and all. Just remember: If I get this job, I get free park hopper passes to the parks! There's something in this for all of us.

Lovely Things

So many lovely things have happened recently, and I simply must share them...

1) About two weeks ago, I went down to the mailbox to get the mail and under the mat was a FedEx envelope addressed to me. Inside the FedEx envelope were American Express gift certificates totaling $250. There was no note inside, so I researched the sender: Millward Brown, a marketing company with offices both in L.A. and NYC. At first, I was terrified that I unknowingly signed up for a new credit card with a 50% APR, but come to find out, I filled out a survey for Hollywood Reporter and won a sweepstakes! I never win anything, so -- YAY! I bought a customized frame for that Emily Dickinson house poster I bought around my birthday.
(a) I went to Aaron Brothers to frame the art and then noticed that Michael's Craft across the parking lot was having a 60% sale of customized framing. I saved $300! Woo-Hoo!
(b) The frame is ready one week early! I'm trying not to leave work right now...

2) I finally, finally heard from Disney in regards to a resume I submitted. It's only taken ten years and numerous submissions for multiple jobs. But! I had a very good phone interview, and John said that he was going to put my name forward as a candidate, but if this particular opening didn't happen for me, he'd like to keep my resume on file as he's the recruiter for three different Disney divisions. (Yes, please!) Fingers crossed, though, that the Vice President of the Disney Channel wants to meet with me to discuss "my qualifications further" as this job is perfect -- seriously-- for me, my abilities, and what I'd like to be when I grow up. Share The Secret and The Power with me, won't you? Good thoughts, good thoughts, good thoughts.

3) My boss decided that instead of updating the office laptops, we would all get iPads. I have an iPad. I don't known how to use it, but I have very high hopes for myself that my learning curve isn't too steep.

4) One of my brothers was visiting this past weekend with his lovely girlfriend. Due to circumstances beyond our control, my brothers did not have an especially close relationship with my sister and me. But I'm grateful we've been trying to rectify that situation now that we're adults.

5) My boss gave me another good piece of news, but I'm not allowed to talk about it. But I'm pleasantly pleased.

I don't ask for much out of my life. Even though I tend to be wary and pessimistic, I can usually embrace the happiness. These are moments people live for. No matter how menial, they should be celebrated. Lovely things are hard to come by. I'm going to enjoy them while they're here.

Name Dropper

A couple weeks ago, I received a forwarded email from my boss with an attachment. The attachment was a script we've purchased and the email was from Jamie Lee Curtis, actress, wife of Christopher Guest, daughter of Janet Leigh of PSYCHO fame and Tony Curtis of SOME LIKE IT HOT fame. I have Jamie Lee Curtis's email address...and had an irrational desire to email just to say "hi, remember me? I almost took you out with the office door? Remember that? Yeah, hi."

I was recently talking to my therapist about the fact that I love my job and hate my job at the same time. I love what I do, but I can't really talk about it without feeling like I'm bragging. Because -- hello! -- I get to meet famous people. When I inadvertently name drop, I feel like I'm purposely name dropping, but I can't help it because sometimes I'm genuinely excited. (Jamie Lee sooo nice!) But sometimes I'm genuinely perturbed. ("Call me Love"? *Gag*) But depending on who you are, you might either be impressed or repulsed when it happens, and I'm very cognizant of it. So, I'm torn. There's moments when I don't want to talk about my job at all. I don't want to be one of "those" people. Always ready with some production drama or actor gossip. People have whole careers based on it. At the same time, I'm not completely without my own petty indulgences. (There is currently a plan afoot to smoke George Clooney out of his office with some burnt toast. Camera phone will be ready!) Fame, and it's effect on people, is a weird thing. Which brings me back to JLC (hey, we have the same initials! It's a sign, doncha think? BFFs. Totally).

It must be weird to be famous. In JLC's case, she grew up with famous parents (one, who infamously made a mean comment about Marilyn Monroe -- bad Tony!) then starred in the cult classic Halloween at the age of 18. She's pretty much been known ever since. Which means millions of people know who she is, and she probably knows a couple thousand. A few hundred semi-well. About twenty, intimately. However, she'll be stopped on the street by strangers who think they know her and want to have an authentic interaction which might truly lead to BFF-dom or at the very least, a great story to tell everyone on Thanksgiving. It's strange. Anonymity is held cheaply by those who have it. But try to be on a popular sitcom and get onto a plane, and you'll have seven people stop you to take a picture and comment on your last job performance. And, no matter what kind of day you're having, you have to be nice to them. Think about that. I barely like most of the people I do know, I couldn't imagine having to pacify strangers.

I will not be emailing JLC. I will respect her boundaries. After all, I wouldn't email any other stranger who I almost plowed over with a door. But if I did, I'm sure she wouldn't mind. She's, like, so incredibly nice! We could totally be good friends. Sadly, we will never know...

Mea Cupla

I was doing pretty well there with the posting until a month ago and then I just fell down on the job. It's not that I haven't thought about blogging, I have. But I also have been so consumed with my job that it's been difficult to generate any enthusiasm to create more work even if it is in the name of fun. On the flip side, what little writing I have eeked out has been done either in my journal or on a screenplay that I've been writing. In other words, my real life has intruded.

I come to the Internet for a lot of things -- entertainment, socializing, research, etc. -- but when you lump it all together, what I really come here for is to fill time. Sometimes I log on with the same existential angst that drives me to the fridge three times in thirty minutes. I'm looking for something to sate my boredom, my need to commune, and to relieve this feeling that there's got to be something more to this thing called Life than what I'm doing in the moment which is usually nothing. However, as with the fridge, the Internet usually just lets me down. Sometimes, on the very rare occasion, there is cake I've forgotten or a missed episode of Modern Family, but for the most part...nada.

When my real life rears its head, however, I become incredibly entangled in what's happening in the moment and all other things need to go on the back burner. What I find funny about these times is that people get irritated with my lack of attention to them. I got a phone call from New York last night admonishing me for not answering my phone two nights earlier and not calling this person back. Another friend, who never calls me, admonished me for not checking in with her because she hadn't heard from me in so long. Don't get me wrong, these people are not high maintenance -- I got rid of those people -- but these encounters do make me realize that my life is usually a nice sedate pace, and -- for a lack of a better word -- boring. I'm usually up for anything because I'm not doing anything else. I will admit to you, dear reader, that I like a bit of boredom because boredom is manageable. You get to decide how to be un-bored. It's hard to shake when you're in the doldrums, but for the most part, there is not high drama that needs to be triaged and neutralized. I prefer that. Hence, why I'm single.

Even though I haven't been blogging, I have wanted to make some observations here, and I think I'll be able to squeeze one in soon. However, since most of my fellow bloggers haven't updated in awhile, I'm going to guess that summer has been pretty hectic for most of us. And for the rest of you...well, I hope there was cake in your fridge.

Sunday Night

Now that So You Think You Can Dance is over, there is only one night a week that I watch television. Sunday night. Why? True Blood, Mad Men, and Rubicon. Except, they're all kinda pissing me off. Is it me or...

• is True Blood especially bloody this season? I mean, wasn't the whole premise that the vampires now had the synthetic blood to drink and therefore it was safe for vampires and humans to mingle? I mean, sure, this whole season seems to be about the fact that vampires and humans are not really equal -- or even remotely alike -- but then again who the heck in Bon Temps is actually human? Seriously, people. I know I should accept a certain about of blood in a TV show about vampires, but this is a blood bath! (Or, as last night's episode showed, a blood shower...)



• is True Blood especially misogynistic this season? From Bill throwing a flaming torch at Lorena's head and setting her on fire to Bill twisting Lorena's head around while raping her as she declared her undying love for him; to Bill feeding off of Sookie until she's almost dead to her just forgiving him and jumping in the sack with him by the end of the next episode because she just loves him sooo much; to Tara's weirdly fun and sadistic relationship with Franklin, all the women on this show are suffering from Battered Woman Syndrome, and I'm finding it a little uncomfortable.



• is Mad Men especially depressing this season? Don Drapper as a divorced alcoholic = no fun at all. Even his womanizing is now creeping me out (Anna's niece? Ew).




• is Mad Men revealing a little too much in the damaged side of their characters? I'm looking for a little redemption here, people, and that New Year's Eve episode was almost my undoing. No, not Layne Price, Don! Betty is an unrelenting, miserable shrew. One felt bad for her when Don was cheating on her, but now that she's divorced her vendetta against the man is almost unpalatable and it makes Henry Francis less of a man in the process. Thank god for Peggy.



• is Mad Men gearing up for Stonewall? The riot happened in 1969, and it's only just 1965 in the show, but almost every episode this season there has been a gay vibe to it. From Lee Jr. forcing everyone to take a turn on Roger's lap to Don and Layne being identified as "queer" on New Year's Eve to Peggy's new lesbian friend, it definitely feels that way. Just bring Sal back already!



• is Rubicon going to say that 9/11 is a conspiracy? Right in the pilot, they let you know that Will's family perished at the top of the World Trade Center where he was supposed to meet them. Um, WHY were they at the top of the WTC on a Tuesday morning at 8:30AM? The restaurant didn't open until lunch. I'm completely ambivalent about Rubicon right now. I adore James Badge Dale. (He's my new fake husband.) But I cannot stand one of the executive producers of the show! (Side effect of working in Hollywood.) Plus shows like this never end up being as smart as they want you think they are. (See, Lost.) I'm watching for now, but there's already little tiny cracks in my interest. Fissures that might just break wide open and make me pissed off that I ever spent one minute of my life watching it. I'm just putting it out there....

A Little Personality

One of my little nieces has been very sick recently and continues to be in the hospital. Complications from her surgery last year, it seems. She's doing fine today and doctors say she might be able to go home on Saturday. Through it all, I've been very calm. Unlike last year when I was a complete mess. But Cara is quite the little trooper. And believe me when I tell you, the kid seems to be a daredevil, too. When I last saw her back in May, she was so very confidant that she was bodily throwing herself off the couch head first...at eight months. It was enough to give me a heart attack. Strangely, because of her innate fearlessness, I have a feeling that the only thing that is ever going to slow this kid down are things that will be beyond her control. Other than that? Look out world.

About seven years ago, one of my very close friends gave birth. I visited her about three months into her new motherhood. The baby, Sarah, calmly watched me as I fed her a bottle. The steadiness of her gaze, the curve of her lip, gave me the feeling that she wasn't too impressed with me. While usually babies will look at you blankly or close their eyes contentedly or wait happily to see what you're going to do next, this kid was considering me, dare I say judging me. It was a bit disconcerting. From the moment I met her, I knew that Sarah was going to be Serious. (And boy is she ever.) Don't get me wrong, she's still a carefree, jubilant child. But she considers. She is a thinker. Always has been, always will be. But it was the first time that I ever noticed that babies come pre-programmed with a definite personality past the bland Happy Baby and Cranky Baby monikers kids are slapped with.

The twins seem very much like babies I've seen before (probably their father, my brother). While Cara goes head first into the world, Chloe seems to be a bit more hesitant. While she too went for the edge of the couch, she thought twice about swinging her body over the side. She voiced her need for help, and my brother put her down next to the already-on-the-ground Cara. Abby, for her part, is a watcher. An observer. Why bother getting involved when you can just entertain me from here? Thanks...

I'm excited to see these three grow up, even if it is from a distance. These days, I've been wondering how I can close the 3,000 mile gap, but nothing is presenting itself. In the meantime, I will try to get to the houses of the babies in my immediate vicinity (yeah, A., I'm looking at you and J.), and appreciate small toes and fingers and fine baby hair, and little emerging personalities.

Today

My brain is on fast forward today. Things I'm thinking:

1) I cannot believe that my gorgeous twin nieces are one today. I'm seriously missing me some baby right now.

2) I'm missing baby so much right now that I texted my sister that she needs to get on a plane with her baby -- my other niece -- and come visit me. When she shot me down, I promptly booked my flight back to Connecticut for Christmas.

3) I booked my flight home for Christmas. Let me tell you something, it was pricey this year, and I had an awful feeling it was only going to get worse.

4) I need more money for a few reasons: (a) I need a vacation; (b) it would be nice to go back east for a week or two (see 1 and 2); (c) see 3.

5) I bought a belated birthday gift for myself. I saw this on Romancing the Tome (see Blogs I Read and You Can Too) and had to buy one. It was between the Flannery O'Connor house or the Emily Dickinson house because blue and pink are accent colors in my bedroom where the poster will hang. The Dickinson house won only because its Massachusetts and I'm a New England snob.

6) I want that poster to arrive, like, now.

7) I want to go home now. The funny thing about that statement is that I'm not thinking of a particular place, but a feeling. I want to feel calm, at peace, and content. I'm done with the running around, pursuing a career, and trying to gain or acquire something. I want to live the life of a dilettante. I want to have a very nice house by the Atlantic Ocean where small nieces can come to visit and where I can write whatever piece of literature I want whether it be a romance novel, screenplay, or kids picture book without worrying about how I'm going to finance such a life.

I'll Tell You a Story

When I was a little girl living on Candy Lane, my mother used to take me to the library once a week to pick out a stack of books. I loved this ritual. Really, I can't express the brilliance of going to a place where books are stacked to the ceiling once a week, pick out ten titles, read them over and over for seven days then bring them back and pick out ten new titles. Who ever came up with this, must have had a place in his heart for novelty or known small children who bore easily. Anyway... One of my favorite kind of books to borrow were picture books. The kinds with no text. Why? Because I liked to make up my own story. In fact, I was pretty sure I was very good at this storytelling and used to make everyone in the house -- mother, grandfather, uncle, baby sister, babysitter -- listen to me while pointing out the pictures. And can I just tell you, sometimes one page would take three minutes. (I was very long-winded as a child. I bet you're shocked!) Flash forward thirty years....

After a business trip to New York where I met up with a friend and her six-year old daughter, I was inspired to write a children's picture book about the experience. I came home, wrote up the text, and sent it off to my former roommate and asked her to illustrate. The pages came last week with my birthday card. Over the weekend, I laid out the pictures to rewrite and shape the text so that visuals and story flowed seamlessly. About mid-way through the project, I got light-headed and had a bit of a flashback to when I was a young girl racing outside to show my father a picture book I got from the library and to tell him the story that I imagined it told. Here was that same exact experience, but this time in real life. It was no longer a fantasy, I was actually writing the story the pictures told.

Whether the book gets picked up by an agent or whether it gets published is almost not the point (almost), but it occurred to me that I've been a very fortunate individual. I have lived out most of my childhood dreams and fantasies. I have created them and made them into adult experiences. And that does count for something.

It's My Birthday, Too

Today is my birthday. And these are things I'm thinking:

1. I love cupcakes.
2. What's the chances of me winning the lottery today? I'm going to buy a ticket just in case.
3. I had a lovely dream last night that included a very nice looking man...and a professional football team photo shoot (I don't know).
4. I would like to go to the beach and read all day, but then again spending my birthday alone seems pathetic even if it is what I would like to do.
5. I need to buy that Tommy Hilfiger dress I tried on three weeks ago.
6. I have now told about twenty people that I have no plans for my tonight, but secretly I do. It involves a delicate salad and a glass of champagne. But that sounds boring and people just wouldn't understand, so I refuse to admit to it.
7. I can't decide whether I want to see Despicable Me or Salt this weekend. Why do these decisions seem to have more weight around my birthday?
8. I don't know where I want to go to lunch and in about one hour this will be all anyone will ask me.
9. This year, I will lose weight!
10. I forgot my cell phone at home (it was plugged in). I don't know what's worse: dreading all the missed calls and texts or getting home and realizing no one called me.

Sister Gaga

I recently watched the new Lady Gaga video, Alejandro. It reminded me a lot of the Madonna videos from the 1990s, and maybe even a little of the event videos of Michael Jackson. It seems we have found the heir apparent and it wasn't Justin, Usher, or Brittany, baby. Of course, Gaga is like Madonna is other ways, too, but her desire to make "performance art" might just be another way to say "reinvention" and "pushing boundaries" which is totally the Material Girl.

While watching the video, I couldn't help but to think of Like a Prayer. I don't know if anyone went ballistic over the obvious nun/martyr nod in Alejandro, but I do recall the rage that Madge encountered by showing a black Jesus and some burning crosses. However, as a Catholic, I'm pretty sensitive to Catholic symbology, and I found it very interesting that both Ms. Ciccone and Ms. Germanotta -- Roman Catholics -- chose to go balls out for their Mother Church. Because, basically, both videos are a big middle finger to its religious rhetoric and dogma. Lots of blasphemy and sacrilege in both. Makes me nervously giggle, "You're sooo going to Hell!" Like when DeeDee and Shannon used to wear dangle'ly earrings and blue eyeshadow to school. (H. E. Double L.) But it also made me question why Catholicism is such a breeding ground for artistic expression. What is it about it's restraints that causes some Catholics to want to push back against the wall? Maybe it's the fact that so much art has been made in the name of the Church. Maybe its the fact that the imagery is so iconic that its easier to reference. Maybe it is the repression of self and self-flagellation martyrdom. I don't know. But it is quite fascinating when you start to really think about it.

I like that there is a new artist out there that is making music videos relevant again. (OK, somewhat relevant. More like entertaining, but let's not split hairs.) And regardless of the fact that her soul is so obviously damned, I'll be waiting to see what she does next.

Out of It

I was interviewing a young, just-out-of-college twenty-something-year old who mentioned that she worked for some rapper's indie label, and I had no clue who she was talking about. However, my equally young but-not-as-young-as-the-interviewee colleague knew exactly who she was talking about. As my colleague is not exactly a hip, edgy urbanite who would know who an obscure rapper is, he must be popular enough to have penetrating the In The Know zeitgeist. It seems, I am now officially Out of The Know. According to all marketers and advertisers, once you're on the other side of 34, you are no longer a desirable demographic. IE, your expendable cash is now going towards mortgages, college tuition, and whatever insane thing your 10-year old harps and harps and harps on you to buy for them. You see, you're spending money on Nike sneakers and iPads, but they're not for you. They are for the under-35 set. So, there it is. One day, you're In, the next birth day you're Out.

I've been thinking about age a lot lately, mostly because my birthday is coming up, and it seems like every year after I turned thirty, I've gotten into a weird head space right as July approaches. I get all philosophical and start questioning my life path and more pointedly what I have or haven't done in a year and what's different this year than last. I like when there's a noticeable difference (unless that difference is a larger pant size). And get really funny and introspective when there's not. DD recently noticed that I'm crankier at work. (Mostly, because I've somehow managed to become the office manager.) And suggested that I need to take a vacation. But it's not a vacation that I need really. It's a shift, mentally, towards something else. What it is, I haven't a clue, and I'm not being disingenuous and holding back on you. Most times, I think it's a husband and kids. Afterall, I'm over 35, I should have those by now according to my culture. Sometimes I think it's more money as the over 35 set should be in middle management. Too bad middle management pay hasn't kept up with middle class consumerism. Other times, I think it's the distance between me and my family. But I used to think that I was unhappy because I was too close to those very same people, so, *shrug* who knows? For the most part, I'm just feeling around in the dark here, probably like most of you.

My young colleague came into my office after the interview was over and wanted to assure me that I wasn't "that old." She went on to say that I don't even look my age. I look much younger! (She really is a darling.) However, how do you explain to a Los Angeles-cenric twenty-four-year old, it's not your thirty-six-going-on-thirty-seven looks that you're stressed about (though stress will do a number on them, so I might want to think about that vacation)? No, I worry about relevance, what my life means, whether something wonderful passed me by when I wasn't looking, and if, possibly, my chances for something fulfilling dwindles the closer to forty I get. It's the kinda thing that might get me a blank look and that would really depress me.

Life isn't easy. Not for anyone. And most of us can blame our height, our weight, our sex or sexual orientation, our skin color or hair color, our religion, our financial situation, and -- yes -- even our age, but I don't think anyone is walking around with it easy. I guess, it's recognizing that life is hard in general and trying to make the best of what you do have. In my case, there's nothing stopping me from going anywhere or trying something new. I'm healthy, I'm smart, and according to my young colleague, I'm young looking. Maybe I don't know rappers any more, my pop culture references are ten years out of date, and advertisers are trying to appeal to my non-existent children instead of me, but I'm OK with that. Its actually the nice thing about age that I have embraced completely and totally: I don't care about those things anymore. And its a relief.

I Wonder...

Since the rise of the comic book movie franchise, people have been clamoring for the one iconic super hero who has never been given a movie of his -- actually, her -- own. In the great comic book canon, Batman, Superman, Spider-man, Hulk, and, yes, Wonder Woman are pretty much the ones we Gen-Xers know and idolize. I could've cared less about the Fantastic Four and X-Men. However, both have had a couple of movies now with X-Men digging further back to do more creation movies (next up? The White Queen, Emma Frost). They are re-starting (again) the Spider-man franchise, bringing Peter Parker back to high school. The Hulk has been made twice, and now they're talking about a third one because obviously they didn't get it right with Ang Lee or Edward Norton. Batman has had two very successful franchises now, with more Nolan to come. And there are whispers about another possible Superman. But no Wonder Woman. The very fact that the Green Hornet and Captain America are getting movies before the lady is just a league of injustice to mankind. (Sorry, couldn't help myself.)


The argument has been that WW has had many, many incarnations. That every time the definition of "She's Hot" changed, the great comic gods scrapped the current lady lasso'er and started again. So, from Amazonian princess to goddess (special like Superman) to Emma Peel'ish super spy (not special like Batman), she was started and re-started again. So, if they were going to do a movie, which generation of Wonder Woman fan would they appeal to? (Which is total b.s. as the Chris Nolan's Batman franchise plays within a defined universe without catering to the fanboys and its a huge, huge hit with everyone.) Last year, there was a great surge of interest in a WW movie, and rumor after rumor was heard around town about the imminent Wonder Woman film. Then, suddenly, a web site appeared to reveal that a movie was underway and someone had been cast. Who was it? Megan Fox! A great uproar went up and Warner Bros. (who owns all live action DC Comic heroes) quickly sent out a release saying that it was a hoax.


In the midst of all this hoopla over comic book movie franchises, DC Comics must have gotten the brilliant idea to re-start the Wonder Woman story all over again, with a new outfit to match. Is it me, or does she look a lot like Megan Fox?

Open Door, Closed Mind

I am currently hiring for a position within my company. I have a feeling that I might have missed my calling as an HR hiring agent because I kinda like reading resumes and playing god with people's lives. This is probably not surprising to anyone who knows me. However, in this capacity as She Who Holds The Power, I've noticed some things:

First, I'm a snob. Not an Ivy League snob, but an anti-California snob. I'm always looking for the outsiders. I don't want someone who went to USC and majored in film because I don't care what your teacher said on the subject and, quite frankly, I hired you to answer the phone and not give me your two cents on how being a receptionist is just a rung on your way to becoming President of the Universe. I used to think that, too. Now I'm in middle-management hiring the Receptionist. I like people who went to college in Indiana and majored in accounting. Someone like that is going to be grateful to get their foot in the door and will get an agent a coffee without trying to pitch their latest screenplay. At the end of the day, I like underdogs. Underdogs are scrappy and willing to take lumps and get paid crap for it. I also like east coasters. If you were brought up anywhere between Philadelphia and Bangor, you're probably going to get an interview with me. In the three times I've interviewed, I've nominated two girls from Connecticut, both of them ultimately got the job. (That's because Nutmeggers rock! But that might just be a personal bias. Ahem...)

Second, looking at some of these resumes makes me sad. I want to know how someone got their B.A. but no one bothered to tell them HOW to get a job. Academia is all well and good if it actually does what it's supposed to: prepare you to go out into the world and become a productive member of society. Part of being a productive member of society is gaining employment and keeping it. If you don't know that you're supposed to start a cover letter with To Whom It May Concern or Dear Sir or Madam and not Hi! then all is lost in polite civilization. Additionally, your resume should not be a list of jobs and titles, but jobs, titles, dates of employment, and a list of duties. Seriously, some of this is pathetic and not in a condescending, disgusted way, but in a "this poor child is $100,000 in debt to Sallie Mae and she's never going to get a job in corporate America!" way. I think every University should hand out What Color Is Your Parachute with every diploma. Some direction is needed.

Third, I'm aghast at the lackadaisical method some people respond to getting a call back for an interview. Some people really want a job. Other people don't seem all that happy that you did call them back. Have I interviewed for jobs I really didn't care if I got or not? Sure. But I'm always grateful for the opportunity.

Last, I am an awful awful person. I get a resume, read it several times, speculate on the fabulousness of the person who had these experiences and mentally hire them on the written spot only to instantly recoil the minute they enter the conference room. Jeans to an interview. Strapless summer dresses. Badly fitted clothing. Hair in the face. Crippling shyness. Bad posture. And, yes, unattractiveness (which makes me feel like a horrible, horrible person!). I actually will send some of these people through to the next round of interviews just to see if others think that the resume balances it all out. It doesn't. Which means we're all horrible, horrible people.

With that said, if you know an east coaster who went to an out-of-state college looking to break into the business, send me their resume. If they're from Connecticut, dress well, and remotely attractive, they'll probably get the job.

Must List

I'm reading the current issue of EW right now, and I've reached their "Must List." The "Must List" is the ten things this week that the editors of EW think are important for any pop culture addict to be in the know about. Which gave me the idea for this entry especially since I agreed with most of the Must. So today, I'm writing my Must Watch list.

1) So You Think You Can Dance. This is the only reality show that I have left in my ouerve. I used to watch Project Runway but then it moved to Lifetime, and I can't seem to find it any more. And America's Next Top Model, but then they started casting skanky hos that have back story but no real ability to be a model. OK, so maybe that's what it always was, but when the girls turned stupid and skanky, I was done. But! SYTYCD -- in fan-speak -- is unlike any other reality show as most of its contestants have talent and the judges actually judge and don't just give their opinion leaving it up to 12-year olds to crown their favorite boyfriend of the week. At least, not until the last few episodes. Until then, Nigel treats the contestants like they are in a real chorus line, or at least, in The Chorus Line, and it feels authentic somehow.

2) Huge. It's a new show on ABC Family about an obese girl who is sent to fat camp by her parents. To her, the fat camp is an indictment and rejection by her parents. But the best thing about this show is the fact that they don't tip-toe around the different emotions that go into over-eating, and they are not shy about showing vulnerability, self-hatred, and desperate hope for change. The characters are never judged from an outsiders' point of view and easy fat jokes are never made at the expense of a character. It is a strangely sensitive show that wraps up tidily with teenage angst. And it's probably exactly the right format to address the "Fat Issues" in this country.

3) True Blood. As Freud says, vampires represent a repressed desire for sex. But it doesn't need to be when watching True Blood. Good Lord! The show is girl porn. Mostly because of the jokes. The gratutious nudity, the outlandish storylines, and the so-over-the-top-they-remind-me-of-my-family characterizations make this some of the best popcorn viewing on TV. (That is, until someone violently rapes their vampire ex-girlfriend, twisting her head around in the middle of it while she confesses her love for him. Um, ew.)

4) Pawn Stars. OK, so maybe I lied a bit about SYTYCD as Pawn Stars is definitely a reality TV show, it's more like a cross between Antiques Roadshow and COPS. I don't DVR it like I do SYTYCD, but if you catch it on the History Channel on a random weekend, I swear you'll be mystified. "What's this: a big, tattooed lunk discussing a Revoltionary War Bond printed by silver-smither Paul Revere with a guy who wants to sell it for a Gibson guitar? Where am I?" Vegas, baby. It's crazy.

5) Mad Men. It's not on yet, but I'm counting the days -- 18! -- until it's back on. Last night, AMC did us all a favor by re-airing the pilot -- I forgot that Peggy got birth control pills, no wonder she thought "it" was impossible -- and some of the other more pivotal episodes from that first season. By 11PM last night, I wanted to watch all three seasons all over again. (Except I don't own them on DVD. Now would be the perfect time to remind you that I'm also counting the days -- 16! -- until my birthday. Ahem).

6) Toy Story 3. It's in the movie theaters, so you can't enjoy it from the convenience of your own home, but let me tell you something, Pixar is making the best films. Not the best animation films, but the best film you will see in a long time. TS3 was written by the scribe of Little Miss Sunshine and it's storyline is so poignant that anyone who went from childhood to adulthood and has dealt with nostaligia will probably bawl their eyes out at the end. It seems ridiculous to say that I cried at a cartoon, but they got me last year with Up! And they got me again this year. Loved. It. It's not often that I would be willing to pay for a movie twice, but I would probably do it here.

7) Pinkberry: The Movie 3D. This quirky video was put together by William Morris/Endeavor. I don't know why they did it, but I get the feeling someone was putting their tongue firmly in their cheek and trying to make a point to the higher ups...

8) John Adams. For Fourth of July, I put in my copy of HBO's John Adams mini-series. Yes, I watched all seven episodes over the last three days. And by 5PM yesterday, I was crying all over again. (That last episode is a killer!) But it reminded me of how well it was done and how -- when done right -- a mini-series is a Must Watch event. Netflick it if you haven't seen it. From production values to the acting, it's very well done.

Alright, so I couldn't come up with ten Must Watch things, but a list of eight isn't too bad. At the very least, you can click on that Pinkberry link now and get a three minute laugh.

Illumination

It's Fourth of July yet again, and I am thinking about the second President of the United States, John Adams. Last year, Hugh asked me why Americans make a big deal out of Independence Day, and I didn't have an answer for him. However, in the meantime, I stumbled along this quote from John to his beloved wife Abigail:

The second day of July, 1776,* will be the most memorable epoch in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward forever more.

Add in a hamburger, my mother's potato salad, a bottle of light beer, and a pool, and I'm right there with you, Johnny. Happy 4th, everyone!

(*the Declaration of Independence was signed on July 2, 1776. It would take two days to ratify it, making the official birth date of America, July 4, 1776.)

Big Game

There's a little game that happens in L.A. that one can't help to become a part of. Basically, it's "Spot the Star." You'll be out somewhere, and *bam* suddenly you're face-to-face with Geena Davis. Or you're stuck at a stop light on Hollywood Boulevard and you're smack-dab in the middle of a film premiere, and Jessica Simpson is walking in front of your car. Last week, when I went to the Grease Sing-A-Long at the Arclight in Hollywood, I walked right past Seth Meyers.

I call these gets. Kinda like a safari. But an even bigger Get was this past Saturday at the Orpheum where I went to a screening of the newly restored The Leopard (1963) and sat a few rows back from Helen Mirren. That's Dame Helen Mirren to you and me. Big game, indeed....

Open for Business

Last Christmas, I came to the realization that I can be married now. I've spent the majority of my life thinking, "I can't get married now! I've got things to do!" And I've tried a good amount of those things, but now I'd like a companion to get through the rest of my life. A good guy who wouldn't mind giving me a baby while he was at it. In the past, I've been told that I've been "closed" to the idea of a husband so I would have to "open" up and let the Universe know that I'm ready. Well, I have opened myself up, and have all but said, "I am now OPEN. Any time you'd like." Which I've done by going out in skirts and make-up and have made eye contact with the male of my species. (This is huge for me.) Unfortunately, the only thing I've heard in response to my Grand Opening is the equivalent of crickets chirping. I wasn't too worried about this until this past Monday when one of our writers - a single 40-something with a marriage wish of her own - came into the office. We were chatting about our dating lives when out of the blue she asked. "Well, what do you want? Do you want to be married?" Then paused. Reader, in that pause, my heart seized in fear. And there was the answer. Deep down in my bruised psyche, I still don't want to be married. In that pause, I was completely repelled.

OK, sure. Maybe it was the confrontational way she posed the question. Maybe it was the fact that I was not on the same mental track as she was when the question was posed, and I froze under pressure. But, I don't think so. I know panic and that was panic. Even though I've opened up my mind to the idea of marriage, I still haven't clasped to my bosom with feverish need. I'm still pretty ambivalent about it. I mean, if someone I love, adore, and admire comes along and asks me to marry him, I'm going to say yes. But, here's a pretty big but - and a small, sad confession - I don't know if that's ever going to really happen. I'm chubby, and I'm now getting old and on the wrong side of 35. I've been single for a very long time and even though I was "closed" there should have been some hint that some guy out there found me attractive enough to at least ask when the hours of operation were. But there hasn't, and so... well. The likelihood seems minimum, if you know what I mean. Which means, it's up to me to go out there and knock on some guy's door to ask if I can buy what he's selling. Except, I'm still not at the point where I want to get married more than anything else on God's green earth, so ...eh.

The writer went on to say, "if you're wishy-washy about [getting married] then you're going to draw guys to you who are wishy-washy about it, and you'll never get married. You have to be serious about it, and then you'll find a guy who wants it, too." To which I say, I'm so wishy-washy about it, Kenmore could brand me.

I don't know what this means. I don't not want to get married. I'm not one of those militant, anti-marriage girls. "It's female imprisonment!" Um, no. I guess, its just that I want to be married to the right person. And I'm pretty sure that's what everyone wants. And maybe that's what being open is really about. Open to going out and meeting people. Open to taking risks. Open to looking and feeling silly knocking on some guy's door. And even open to the idea that maybe I won't have to knock on that door now that mine own is ajar.

Dream Job

Recently, it was pointed out to me that Oprah's OWN network was offering Average Americans the chance to have their own show. The premise seemed easy enough: Pitch your show idea and yourself, and you could be the next Oprah! This appealed to me, of course, because my ego is the size of Montana. So I looked into a bit further. Upon closer inspection, I realized that what they were really looking for were reality show contestants. You pitch your idea and yourself, and you could be picked as a candidate for the reality show to compete for your own show on the network. This works out nicely for Oprah because not only does it give her content for her new network, but the person who is chosen already an audience who feels invested in his or -- let's face it, more than likely -- her success. Smart, O. Really, really smart.

Let me confess, dear reader. I believe in the one in a million shot. I do. Why? Because if it's a possibility, there's a probability. And if there's a probability, there is a shot that one day my number will come up. Is it a gamble? Yeah, but in this case, it's a silly risk that I'm willing to take. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. And if a little time spent opens up an incredible new opportunity, why not? So, I looked a little closer at the application. The questions ranged from "what college did you attend and what was your major? Why did you choose this school?" to "what's your favorite TV show, celeb, magazine, athlete, movie, and book?" But the question that I really stumbled over, the one that made me go all existential was, "What is your dream job? Why aren't you doing it?" To which I thought, hmmm...

First, let me say that I find it sad that the automatic assumption is that most people aren't doing their dream job. But I guess, if I look at the people around me, about half are not currently employed doing what they would really like to do. (One could suppose, too, that if one was applying to a reality show to host one's own show that one isn't doing their dream job as their dream job is to host one's own show and those kinds of opportunities don't come around all that often.) But it made me ask myself, "What is my dream job?" A long time ago, it used to be actress. But these days, I know that acting is less about inserting yourself into a movie production and more about surrendering yourself into a role that has nothing to do with you. (In fact, truly great actors give up themselves completely and craft a whole new personality. Witness Daniel Day-Lewis in just about anything. People think he's nuts, but that's because he's able to be schizophrenic without being crazy. There's a trick!) At one point, I wanted to be a director who directed her own material. But then I realized that I didn't want to be responsible for the crazies and the egoists on set or the studio budget. No thank you. So then I just wanted to be a screenwriter. That's when I realized that screenwriters are basically treated like crap. You see, most directors are not writers. But they want a writer to write their vision. But then the writer wants to insert their own ideas into the script because they have a different point of view, and usually the script was theirs to begin with so they feel they have a better handle on the material. Then the director treats the writer like the writer is a moron who doesn't understand visuals or even the English language because didn't the director tell the writer exactly what he/she wanted?! And the writer rants that the director doesn't understand story development. And then the actor thinks that the writer and the director don't understand the essence of his/her character and wants a re-write so that he/she can delve further into the emotional motivations of the character's actions. Basically, everyone on the set wants the writer to think for them, and make them sound/look good, but then the writer is not allowed to have any ideas of their own. You never see a writer get up at the Oscars and say, "despite the crappy acting and the non-existent direction, I won this Award anyway!" No. Usually, the very relieved writer is up there licking boots, "Thanks to the director who understood my vision and the actors who made my characters come alive." And that's only if -- a very big if -- someone decides to finance your script at all. Dream job? I would probably bit through my Night Guard.

I have to admit, I've been pretty lucky about trying a few different career paths before settling on the one I'm on now. Magazines felt redundant and simplistic. Cop was soul destroying. Book editor felt important, but mostly frustrating and overwhelming. And now? Well, now I get paid to read which is probably the closest thing I can get to a Dream Job. Does that mean that there isn't something out there right now that might be a better, dreamier, Dream Job in the future? No. In fact, I didn't even know what Development was until I was in it. But right now, I feel pretty lucky to be doing what I'm doing. And while it has it's ups and downs, for the most part, it's pretty dream to be having.

Six Months

This picture is killing me. She might look like her dad, but that 'tude is all Mom.

It's a Noun

I'm getting a little worried. Since the beginning of the year, I've been feeling a little, oh gosh, whatsit again, umm, DIM. Yes, that's it. This thing keeps occurring where I can't find the right... um, the right... uh, it's a, you know, it's a noun? Gosh, it's on the tip of my tongue. Forget it. Whatever. It'll come. Anyway, I'll be talking, right? And I'll try to make a joke. Or a valid point. Or even just get out a coherent thought, and, just, *POOF*, it's, like, gone! Its distressing! I can't seem to talk any more. My vocabulary used to be, like, HUGE, and now it consists of, like, sixty words...or LESS! This is very upsetting. I mean, I used to be smart. People thought I was smart because I sounded so smart. It was so nice! And now? Now, I'm an idiot!

I first started to notice the, um, slips, I guess? Around the middle of last year. Right before I turned 36. And I started to make all sorts of jokes about being the litmus test for all those moms out there who thought their kid was the reason they lost their mind. You know, haha? But this isn't funny. I'm freaking out here, people! The other day, I was trying to make a joke with two teenage boys about telling time with a protractor, but I couldn't remember "protractor." And I kept fumbling for it. They tried helping. "Hourglass?" "No. It's a thing you use to measure the stars." "Sextant?" "No. Not the stars. I meant, um, you know, angles? You use it in, like, fourth grade. It's, like, plastic? You know, 90-degrees and stuff." And, by the way, when did I become a ninth grade girl who puts a question mark at the end of sentence?! WHEN!

For a little while there, I was using my hands a lot. They were little bridges. If I just, you know, MIMED it? It would come. I'd snip my two fingers together, and *click* "scissors" would come out. I would finger wave over my hair, and *bam* "highlights." Now? No, now, I can't even mime because the memory path is, just, like, GONE. All of this was brought into full relief just last week when I was in New York. All my smart publishing friends were talking, saying things like, "solipsistic," and "banal," and "anodyne," and I thought, "I used to talk like that, too. What happened?" Seriously, did L.A. suck my brain out? Did age catch up to me? Am I Charlie?

Some days are better than others. I believe last Monday --the infamous protractor joke day -- was one of the worst on the books. Nothing was coming. I'd start to say something, and, just, you know, GONE. Every little, oh good god, it's a noun, every little one wouldn't come. I was at a complete loss of...loss of... *sigh* What is that stupid word.

...

WORD. (christ.)

The Third Option

I have recently returned back to L.A. from the east coast where I spent quality time -- definitely not quantity time -- with family and friends and business associates from my publishing days. All in all, it was a productive and lovely time. So productive and lovely that it made me debate, once again, a move back "home."

These days, I'm kinda done with the career goal. Time and time again, I've set my sites on some glamour job with the hopes that it will give me money, prestige, and validation. That through hard work, I would feel valuable. Unfortunately, the only thing I've ever gotten from work are these bunched muscle knots in my back, usually directly below my right shoulder blade. (They hurt like the Dickens. Seriously.) And because I'm done with My All Encompassing Drive Towards the Ultimate Career, I've been looking at something I've often overlooked before, mostly because I was given it in spades, my relationships.

I don't want to sound like I just realized that my relationships are important. That's incorrect. I have journals filled -- and I mean that -- with platitudes like, "I'm so lucky to have been blessed with a large loving family, and I love them back!" usually followed by something like, "But I really wish they didn't smother me to death!" And a Sex and the City worthy, "I think my best friends are my soul mates. Who says your soul mate has to be a man?!" On the heels of which I would write, "but I still want to get married. So, if I could just find a guy that I love and who loves me back, that would be the ultimate." However, I think the waning need to become CEO of NBC/Paramount intersecting with the birth of gorgeous little nieces is making me reassess the the primacy of my intimate relationships over my over-driven ego to Make Something of Myself. As with everything, too much of one thing is not good. And I have never been good at moderation (hence my weight. Heh).

I talked about this push-pull desire to go back to the east coast with Edie and my sister. Both, of course, are advocates for the migration back. However, both understand the subtle reasons to just stay put, too. (Honestly, one knows when one is loved when one has such supportive and empathetic people in one's life. I really am blessed. One tick in the Go Back column? Be closer to Edie and my sister again.) Even though, occasionally, I'll try to imagine a different reality -- as in "what if I had just stayed in New York?" -- I've only done it as an alternate universe scenario. I don't wish that I never left New York. In fact, right before I left New York, I was beginning to become anxious that the window to make the Big Move to Los Angeles and Start All Over Again was closing. Because, let's face it, there comes a point in one's life when money and position start to make an impact. In one's 30s and 40s, it's about staying put and trying to grow something. Whether that's getting married and having babies or a career trajectory or buying a fixer-upper house (or all the above), its the time in one's life that one pours the foundation of their golden years. And that's exactly what I feel like I'm missing right now: A foundation.

My newest anxiety? I'm sliding toward 40, and I don't know what I want that foundation to be. Once again, I feel like the window of opportunity is closing and I better make up my mind. I hate this feeling. I feel like it comes over me a lot. But it's probably only every five years. You know, right around the time I pull up stakes and start over again somewhere else. But because I'm in my 30s and my biological clock has started its countdown, I feel like I have to be very careful where I place the next foot. I'm starting to ask myself a very important question: What do I want my life to be about? To be a an utter cliche, what is the meaning of my life? Fortunately, I believe we get to make that decision. Unfortunately, I don't want it just one way. I want it all ways. And I want enough time in which to put it all in so that I don't have to do it all at once. (Hm, I really do have to get a handle on that moderation thing.)

Interestingly, on the ride from JFK into Connecticut, my brother-in-law joked that my sister couldn't seem to stay put for more than a few years. Every couple of years, my sister wants to move. Whether it's to a new town for a new job, or a new apartment because it's bigger, better, closer to something Kate needs to be closer to, they pack and move. My BIL does not understand this. He had one house as a kid then his parents divorced and he had another house. Then he met my sister. He's been on the move ever since. Kate laughed that she couldn't help it. Every few years, she feels stagnate and an overwhelming urge to pull up stakes and move-on overcomes her. So, this roving gypsy lifestyle seems to be in our DNA. For Kate every two years, for me, every five. (I think I got the better end of that deal.) Kate admitted that it wasn't always cheaper or better, but there was always some reason that she could come up with that required the move. Much like how I can always come up with a reason to go out and start a new career.

While I was in New York, partying with my old friends, slipping into old routines, popping up to Connecticut for the weekend to celebrate some family milestone, I saw exactly what my life would be if I did move back. Exactly what it was before I left, and -- to be frank -- that depressed me a little. Because if I did move back, I would want it to be different somehow. I wouldn't want to be back in publishing necessarily. I wouldn't want to have to muscle my way through the City and put back on my armor. I wouldn't want to feel obligated to go into Connecticut whenever a family function necessitated it. These were all reasons to move out west the first time. I felt I needed to get away from my smothering family love, and my soul mate girlfriends to actually go out, be myself and maybe find a guy to create something new with. And while some of that happened -- I definitely feel like I've found my center -- and some hasn't -- seriously, where is that man?! -- I know the move was the right move. But now it's five years later, and my roving gypsy heart is calling for a new adventure while my soul is tired now and just wants to be loved and thinks maybe it's time to cash in my chips and go home. While I long for the Known, I know I will want it only for so long before I loathe again. So I wait with the hope that a third option will come along and break this awful cycle of mine and give me exactly what I need. Something that appeals both to my gypsy heart and tired soul.