Thought yesterday while Anthony Edwards was in the office: Is there any way possible for me to ask him to sing "You've Lost that Loving Feeling" without seeming like a total imbecile?
Thought this morning: Am I going to get a car to and from JFK this time (for BEA)? Or am I going to have to get a cab? I better get freaking car service. Why am I always the ugly step-kid around here?
Thought one minute ago: How do I get my police FTO to stop sending me pro-2nd Amendment, pro-social conservative chain emails without revealing that I've totally gone over to the dark side?
Thought on Saturday while sitting through the first ten minutes of the opera: Oh my god, I think I'm going to fall asleep! Please God, don't let me be the un-enlightened boor who falls asleep at the opera.
Thought on Sunday while watching State of Play: Russell Crowe looks awful; is he ever going to be hot again? Someone needs to talk to him about character actor versus leading man physical appearance. And Ben Affleck's sideburns are too long. Did they make him grow them out because that's the only grey hair he has and they needed to age him up a bit? It looks weird.
Thought last night while watching 60 Minutes: Wow, my generation is totally screwed. Maybe I should cash out my 401(k), pay off all my debt and start stashing money in bonds, savings accounts, and under the mattress.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
If You're Happy and You Know It
Yesterday, my boss came in to me and said, "We have the new Richard Russo." "The new, new Richard Russo. Or Bridge of Sighs in paperback." "The new, new one. It's still in pages. I emailed it to you." Joy, people! Absolute bliss! I printed it out and brought it to Cameron. "Here's the Rick Russo. Do you want it, or, umm, should I read it this weekend and then give it back you?" Wink, wink, nudge, nudge, flutter the eyelashes in a shameless ploy to get my way. "You can read it this weekend if you want." I literally clasped the pages to my bossom and danced away. Which, of course, earned me a big laugh, but was actually a spontaneous reaction to my happiness.
When I'm happy, you know it. I piroutte, shimmy, bounce while clapping my hands and giving "spirit fingers", or shake my butt like a dog. In fact, it probably looks kinda childish. I remember once coming back from a good day at the firing range with the cops, and skipping in the parking lot...in my uniform. My sargeant mentioned that skipping and a gun belt don't really go together. Maybe he was right considering I wasn't a cop for very much longer after that. My opinion on the matter, however, is that happiness is so fleeting. It comes when it comes, and I don't think there's anything wrong with celebrating it. So what it I look like I'm nine. So what if it's ridiculous or immature. I really don't care. I'm happy. So let me be happy. Lord knows, it'll pass.
When I'm happy, you know it. I piroutte, shimmy, bounce while clapping my hands and giving "spirit fingers", or shake my butt like a dog. In fact, it probably looks kinda childish. I remember once coming back from a good day at the firing range with the cops, and skipping in the parking lot...in my uniform. My sargeant mentioned that skipping and a gun belt don't really go together. Maybe he was right considering I wasn't a cop for very much longer after that. My opinion on the matter, however, is that happiness is so fleeting. It comes when it comes, and I don't think there's anything wrong with celebrating it. So what it I look like I'm nine. So what if it's ridiculous or immature. I really don't care. I'm happy. So let me be happy. Lord knows, it'll pass.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Tick...tick...tick
I'm sitting here watching the clock tick like slow molasses towards four o'clock, hoping against hope that my boss will get bored enough to send us all home at five. We are at the end of a long week, and have actually gotten done everything we can possibly get done without a writer delivering. Please, let us go home. Please!
You ever feel like a kid again? I'm not talking about the young-at-heart bs people talk about, but a literal kind of feeling that occurred when you were a child, and comes up at you from behind now as an adult. That's the kind of Lost time loop feeling I'm having right now. (Man, I'm going to be bummed when Lost is over and I can no longer make these kind of au courant references.) As a girl sitting in the mint green cider-blocked classrooms of St. Joseph's Grammar School, I would keep my eyes glued on the big white clock over the blackboard, willing the second hand to move faster. Especially on those days when I knew we were getting out early. Please be 1:20, please! That's what I'm reliving right now, except instead of staring at a hair thin black line sweep over the numbers and head back toward twelve again, I'm staring at the nine point font down on the right hand corner of my screen, watching the colon blink the seconds away.
It's not like I have anything planned for tonight. In fact, I'll probably run across the street and do my grocery shopping before popping by Blockbuster and CVS. Then home, Jeeves, to make dinner and watch a flick. Not exactly pressing matters. But it's the freedom I crave. The freedom from putting in my time like I'm some sort of convict. Freedom from sitting here and staring at these blinking colons. Shouldn't you just be able to go home when you're done? Seriously... An Australian friend of mine once commented that Americans certainly log in more hours at work than any other post-industrial country, but we seem to get less work done. I completely agree with that assessment. We might work 50, 60, 70 hours a week, but we'll find ways to goof off for a good 25% of that. Earlier, I was listening to people talking about placing bets on Facebook poker...while they were playing it! HOME. PLEASE.
It just turned 4:27. Oh my god, this day will never end.
You ever feel like a kid again? I'm not talking about the young-at-heart bs people talk about, but a literal kind of feeling that occurred when you were a child, and comes up at you from behind now as an adult. That's the kind of Lost time loop feeling I'm having right now. (Man, I'm going to be bummed when Lost is over and I can no longer make these kind of au courant references.) As a girl sitting in the mint green cider-blocked classrooms of St. Joseph's Grammar School, I would keep my eyes glued on the big white clock over the blackboard, willing the second hand to move faster. Especially on those days when I knew we were getting out early. Please be 1:20, please! That's what I'm reliving right now, except instead of staring at a hair thin black line sweep over the numbers and head back toward twelve again, I'm staring at the nine point font down on the right hand corner of my screen, watching the colon blink the seconds away.
It's not like I have anything planned for tonight. In fact, I'll probably run across the street and do my grocery shopping before popping by Blockbuster and CVS. Then home, Jeeves, to make dinner and watch a flick. Not exactly pressing matters. But it's the freedom I crave. The freedom from putting in my time like I'm some sort of convict. Freedom from sitting here and staring at these blinking colons. Shouldn't you just be able to go home when you're done? Seriously... An Australian friend of mine once commented that Americans certainly log in more hours at work than any other post-industrial country, but we seem to get less work done. I completely agree with that assessment. We might work 50, 60, 70 hours a week, but we'll find ways to goof off for a good 25% of that. Earlier, I was listening to people talking about placing bets on Facebook poker...while they were playing it! HOME. PLEASE.
It just turned 4:27. Oh my god, this day will never end.
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