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