Monday, January 30, 2006

A sudden breeze about the ankle.

According to a lightly engraved brass nameplate and several small (but official-looking) bits of white embossed cardstock, I am now employed. Fancy pants and all.

My first day of work at the new job was ten kinds of exhausting, six varieties of fairly pleasant, and three distinct types of terrifying. The terrifying really started yesterday, because the agonizing prologue to this kind of event is a snowball of nervous energy, not the least bit hampered by the logical knowledge that they probably wouldn’t have hired you if they didn’t think you were competent. Or at least trainable.

That kind of confident awareness is fine and dandy when you first accept the job offer, and it even allows you to quit your old retail monstrosity with an air of satisfying self-validation, but it’s another thing altogether when it’s suddenly 11:00 the evening before your first day, and for some reason you can’t shake the visual image of walking face first into the glass lobby door while the receptionist at the front desk phones your supervisor to ask if he had any back-ups for that new girl that was supposed to start today as she watches you get loaded into the back of an ambulance.

This particular fear of entryway-related humiliation, in addition to various other strands of professional uncertainty, is what sent me into an uncharacteristic panic attack yesterday. Luckily, my very good friend Kate was there to talk me down from the ledge:


Kate: Take deep breaths. Have a glass of water.

Meldraw: What if they fire me before noon?

Kate: They won’t. They’ll love you! Seriously, you probably won’t even have your computer set up by noon. You’ll spend all morning getting your photo ID taken, and filling out forms for HR, and talking to IT to set up your voicemail, email and various and sundry passwords.

Meldraw: I’m going to make an ass of myself. And for the rest of ever, everybody’s going to be all, “Hey, there goes that girl who made an ass of herself.”

Kate: You won’t.

Meldraw: And this isn’t just a job. This is a career move. Lord, starting tomorrow, I’m basically an adult. With an adulty job.

Kate: I hate to say it, but you’ve been an adult since you starting paying for your own utilities.

Meldraw: But this sort of cements it, doesn’t it? I mean, there’s no going back. I can’t be a kid again. Ever.

Kate: Would you want to be a kid again? I wouldn’t.

Meldraw: I don’t know. I never really wanted to be an adult.

Kate: I didn’t either, but just today I was reminded that, as a child who couldn’t ice skate, I was left on the ice by my sister. In front of the Zamboni. This is why I don’t ice skate.

Meldraw: Er…so. What you’re saying is…as a kid, you are almost entirely at the mercy of others.

Kate: Yes. And think of middle school.

Meldraw: I hated middle school.

Kate: And then high school! And who wants the pressure of trying to get into college again?

Meldraw: I guess getting through middle school and high school, and getting into college, getting through college, and getting OUT of college…those were all accomplishments.

Kate: I’d much rather be older and have more choices than be younger and not have a clue.

Meldraw: I’m just torn between wanting so badly to take control of my own life and be my own person and live up to my own expectations, and being scared of the responsibility that entails.

Kate: I understand, but I still maintain that it’s better to be an adult. If for no other reason than you’ll be an adult for a lot longer than you were a kid. With luck, I mean.

Meldraw: You have a point.

Kate: Yes.

Meldraw: The thing I really, truly miss as a kid is absolute comfort. The kind of comfort that comes from being absolved of responsibility…placing all your faith in someone outside yourself, like your parents. That feeling of security? That’s not something I think I’ll ever have again. People with religion have that feeling. I don’t.

Kate: But you have to realize that some things are certain.

Meldraw: Like what?

Kate: Like that your parents and your sister will always care about you, no matter what you do, and you know that’s true.

Meldraw: Well, yes.

Kate: And that the really good things in life can’t be bought and are not dependent on finances. Also, there are a lot of things you have now that cannot be taken away from you: an education, skills, knowledge…intangibles.

Meldraw:
Awareness.

Kate: Yes. It’s like this: I was shopping a couple weeks ago in this store where they clearly make their employees wear their ridiculous trendy clothes. There was this girl working there wearing plaid pants and a teeny t-shirt. With the bad teenage posture, she was just so sad looking. And I thought, well, I may have put on about twenty pounds since I was sixteen, but I will never be as uncomfortable about myself as I was then.

Meldraw: I suppose that’s true. I will never again be forced to wear trendy clothes to satisfy some socio-psychological requirement. But are you ever really completely comfortable with yourself?

Kate: No. But I’m way better off than that girl, and me at her age.

Meldraw: Yeah.

Kate: I will never have to wear something that anyone will refer to as “ass khakis,” which I did then. I admit it.

Meldraw: Well, yes…you’re right. I’m in a much better place than I was as a teenager.

Kate: Yes!

Meldraw: It sneaks up on me, but…I’m definitely a lot more comfortable with myself than I used to be. I feel like my own person.

Kate: That’s because you ARE your own person. You have a fancy pants job! It’s cool, isn’t it?

Meldraw: Yeah, it is, come to think of it.

Kate: That’s right.

Meldraw: Thanks, Kate.

Kate: So, wohoo! This is the Eve of Excitement! I’m excited for you!

Meldraw: Thank you. If you’re excited for me, then I can be too!

Kate: This is me, sitting here doing that I’m-so-excited-I’m-shaking thing!

Meldraw: Aw! You rock.

Kate: No, you! You rock. YOU ROCK MY SOCKS OFF!

Meldraw: Yeah. I rock socks like nobody’s damn business.

Kate: Truth.

Meldraw: I’m a sock-rocker.

Kate: No one rocks socks like you do.

Meldraw: That’s right!

Kate: Damn skippy it is.

Meldraw: I hope those people tomorrow are Velcro-ing their socks to their shoes, because I’m going to rock them right off.

Kate: It’ll be like Miami Vice in that joint! All loafer, no sock.

Meldraw: Everyone in the building will suddenly feel a breeze about the ankle.

Kate: The place will be filled with confused Midwestern insurance types, all standing around barefoot, with shoes on, while a conga line of socks snakes its way around the building.

Meldraw: So jaunty!

Kate: Totally jaunty! I hope everyone wears the good socks, with no holes.

Meldraw: I feel so much better.

Kate: I’m so glad.

Meldraw: Kate, you’re the best evah.


And with that, Kate armed me with a new and improved visual to replace the head-meets-glass ambulatory scenario from earlier. You can’t NOT smile while picturing a multi-colored conga line of mismatched socks dancing merrily through a maze of cubicles, led by myself, the Pied Piper of Sock-Rockage. It’s simply not possible.

Kate also armed me with the reassurance that it didn’t really matter what happened my first day, because there isn’t much I could have done that would have made them fire me. Even if I somehow managed to spill coffee on the VP (which I didn’t), or destroy an expensive computer system (which I don’t think I did), or inadvertently call my boss the son of a motherless goat in Lebanese (I’m almost entirely certain that was not Lebanese), and even if they DID fire me, it still doesn’t really matter, because there are intangibles that can’t be taken away from me. And my favorite intangible right now just made the best Miami Vice joke I’ve heard in ten years.

Friday, January 20, 2006

Can you hear me now?

Dude. This new phone is all kinds of awesome. It has a camera! I can totally realize my lifelong dream of being a secret agent. This could only be better if my shoe was a phone and my cufflinks were blow-darts.

I should test my phone. Who can I call and bug at this thoughtlessly late hour? Ah, my parents. Of course.

[beep beep beep beep beep beep beep. SEND] “Hello. You are being connected to the Verizon Wireless Roaming Plus network.”

Wait, what? That can’t be right.

“Please have your credit card ready.”

WHAT?!

“If you are a Verizon Wireless customer, please hang up and dial *711.”

[click] Alright. You’re the boss.

[beep beep beep beep. SEND] “Thank you—calling—Verizon Wireless. For—calls—please—hang—dial—now.”

Crap! Where’s the signal? Quick! Get near a window! Dammit, it’s not working! Wait, now the signal’s better…no, lost it again…wait! There it is! I just have to stand here with my nose four inches from the refrigerator, on tip-toes, without breathing. What did I miss?

“Para español—”

Shit. Maybe I should just press 1. 1 always means English.

[BEEP]

“Please hold.”

I wonder what option I chose. (I hope it wasn’t “To make a toll call to Paraguay, press 1.”)

“Hello. You are being connected to the Verizon Wireless Roaming Plus Network. Please have your credit card ready. If you are a Verizon Wireless customer, please hang up and dial *711.”

But…I just…isn’t that what I…? This is going to be a long night, I can already tell.

Maybe I should look in the manual. Okay…page 3…
Getting Started. Step One: Install the Battery. Okay, check. Step Two: Charge the Battery. Done. Step Three: Power the phone on. Right-o. Step Four: Placing and Receiving Calls…aha! To place a call, use the keypad to enter the number. Oh, well, excellent, because I wasn’t sure about all those little shiny buttons with the Arabic numerals on them. Good to know. Press SEND to make the call. When you are finished with your conversation, press END.

Right. Well, that was helpful. If you’re Amish.

Where is my invoice? Maybe I skipped a step in the activation process. Ah, here we are. Nope, I did everything on this list. Twice. Maybe I should go online and look at the website, since it’s in bold print here.

[click click click click click. Beeeeeeeeeep MMMrrrrooooooooorrrrrgggggghhhhhhh.] (I have dial-up.)

Hmm…online FAQs. Here we are: “I keep getting a recording when I try to make an outgoing call.” Call customer service. Okay, but the not being able to make outgoing calls thing might be bit of a roadblock there. Now I have to find my home phone (which I lost somewhere in my apartment about a week ago), and get offline, because I am the only person left in the Northern Hemisphere who still has dial-up. And if DSL is going to be as hard to set up as this damn phone, I will have dial-up until 2017.

Where is my home phone? Oh, hey, this is why we have that “page” feature on the handset base. I guess you just press this button, and—oh HAHAHAHA! I just scared the crap out of my cat, who was sleeping on the pile of laundry in which my phone was hiding, until the laundry started ringing. For a split second, she got that “Holy Jumping Jesus” look on her face, with her ears facing all the wrong directions, before she flew across the room and into the closet. She is going to be so paranoid about clothes from now on.

Good times.

Alright, where’s that customer service number?
[beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep] “Thank you for calling Verizon Wireless customer service.” You’re welcome. “Please enter your ten-digit mobile telephone number.” Alright. “Please enter your seven-digit Location Code.” My what? “Please enter your seventeen-digit Order Number.” Holy cow. That’s a lot of…oh, CRAP. I messed up. “That is not a valid Order Number.” Really? Because I thought we were allowed to just make up those number combinations. Do I have that wrong? “Please enter the last four digits of your social security number.” Fine. “Please enter your ten-digit mobile telephone number.” This isn’t really a recording, is it? This is somebody that’s bored in the service department, talking like a machine and then giggling maniacally into a pillow.

“Please hold.” Thank God.

Wow, that’s some jaunty elevator music. I wonder how you get what must be the most soul-crushing job in the world: composing jaunty elevator remixes of really terrible cell phone jingles. Do you go to school for that? What kind of thesis do you complete? I bet somebody takes it really seriously. I wonder if they get irritated when they have to place a recording of someone saying, “Thank you for holding, your call is important to us!” right in the middle, because it interrupts the flow, and they storm out of the sound booth while adjusting their beret and gesticulating wildly about the death of modern sound.

“HellomynameisSomethingSomething, thank you for calling Verizon Wireless customer support. Do you mind if this phone call is tape recorded for our use so that we may better serve you in the future?”

“Suit yourself. But you should know I sound very different on tape than in real life. I’m not that nasal, I swear.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s fine. Go ahead.”

“What can I do for you today?”

“I’m trying to figure out how to activate my new phone.”

“I’d be happy to help you today.”

“Well, good. Okay.”

(Silence.)

“So, okay, well…I did everything it told me to on the invoice, but it’s not letting me make any calls.”

“May I have your mobile phone number, please?” (I gave it to him.)

“Do you have a Motorola V276 phone?”

“Er, well…it is a Motorola. I don’t know exactly what the model is. It’s, um, silver and black. And it looks a little like a UFO. Does that help?”

“My computer is telling me the phone is not activated.”

“Okay, well. Can you activate it?”

“Um, well…let me bring this up on another computer. May I have your mobile phone number again, please?” (I gave it to him. Again.)

(Silence.)

“It’s telling me the phone is not activated yet.”

“Well, at least it’s consistent.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Can you fix it?”

“It doesn’t seem to be going through. Let me get my supervisor. Can you hold?”

“Nothing would make me happier.” I wonder if it’s SomethingSomething’s first day.

[click] I think beret guy might be on to something, here. This music really is the death of modern sound. You’d think they could at least invest in a Time Life boxed CD set or something.

“Hello, this is La Shaaaaaawnda. THANK you for calling Verizon Wireless customer support. Thank you SO much for holding. I would LOVE to help you today.”

“Um, okay. I can’t seem to get my new phone activated.”

“Well, that’s what I’d really LOVE to help you with today.”

“Alright.”

(Silence.)

“Have at it.”

“May I please have your mobile phone number?”

At this point, I’ll have my new number memorized in no time.

“May I ask, are you calling from the mobile phone in question?”

“Well, no. The phone won’t let me make any outgoing calls, what with it not being activated and all.”

“Can I just say, THANK YOU so MUCH for not calling from the phone in question.”

Is she making fun of me?

“Um…you’re welcome.”

“So MANY people try to call from the phone in question. This is just MUCH easier for me.”

“Any time.”

“I’d like you to dial *22890 and hit send, if you would do so please, THANK YOU, and that should begin the programming process for your phone.”

“You want me to stay on the line while I do this?”

“Yes, THANK YOU, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Wow. Girlfriend either has a really outstanding lack of awareness of how condescending she sounds, or she’s been yelled at by her boss one too many times for not saying “thank you” enough. I bet she has a big sign in her cubicle that says THANK YOU in red letters so she doesn’t forget. I bet it’s got darts in it.

“Is the mobile phone connected to the service? Do you hear music?”

“Well, yes, actually. It’s more than a little jaunty.”

“Oh, GOOD. Please let me know when the phone is finished programming.”

“Will do.”

(Silence.)

“Has it finished programming yet?”

“No. Still jaunty.”

“Hm. You should have gotten a message by now.”

“No, I’m still rocking out to the death of the modern—wait, there it goes. It says, ‘Commit OK’ on the screen, and I have no idea what that means. Does my phone have commitment issues?”

“No, it should be all set now.”

“Alright, thank you for your—”

“Now call someone.”

“Pardon me?”

“Make a call from your mobile phone, if you would BE so kind, THANK YOU, so that I can make sure your calls are going through properly.”

“Oh, alright.” Hm, it’s late. I can’t call my own house, because I’m tying up my own phone line with the customer service rep. I guess I’ll call Mom. Sorry, Dad, I know it’s past your bedtime, but I don’t have a choice.

[beep beep beep beep beep beep beep. SEND] It’s ringing.

“It’s ringing.”

“Hello?” (Mom.)

“Hi, Mom.”

“Did the call go through?” (Verizon Lady.)

“Yes, the call went through.”

“What?” (Mom.)

“Oh, good, now hang up on the other party.” (Verizon Lady.)

“Oh! Sorry, Mom, I gotta go. Can I call you back?”

“No, your father is sleeping. What’s going on?”

“Oh, well, then can you call me back?”

“What? What are you doing?”

“Please hang up on the other party, so that I can call your phone and make sure you can receive calls properly.” (Verizon Nazi.)

“I’m trying to set up my cell phone.” (To Mom, slightly panicked.)

“Please hang up on the—” (Verizon Nazi.) For crying out loud.

“Mom! I have to go! Can you call me back?”

“On your cell phone?”

“Wait, my old cell phone or my new cell phone? What? No, never mind. Call me at home.” Why is the Verizon Nazi laughing at me?

“When?” (Mom, bless her.)

“I…I don’t know…in ten minutes? IhavetogonowBYE.” This conversation is stressing me out.

“Okay, bye.” [click] My poor mother.

“Alright,” (to the Verizon Nazi), “I’ve hung up with the other—” Aaah! The new cell phone is ringing, LOUDLY, and oh my God, I think it’s playing a Ricky Martin song.

“Is that you calling my phone?”

“Yes, that’s me.” (Verizon Nazi.) “Your phone should be functioning now.”

“Boy, is it ever.” How the hell do you shut this thing off? Memo to self: investigate volume control and Latin Pop exorcism.

“Well, I would just like to THANK YOU so much for calling Verizon Wireless customer service, and ENJOY your new mobile phone and thank you SO much for becoming a new Verizon customer, because we just LOVE and appreciate your business.”

Why do I still feel like she’s making fun of me?

“Um, yes. Thank you for your help.” [click]

I don’t want to be a secret agent anymore. This is stressing me out. I don’t even want to think about what customer service is like for the cufflink blow-darts.

Thursday, January 19, 2006

The Golden Globes (And no, I'm not referring to Scarlett Johansson's breasts.)

I got sucked into the Sparkly again.

I could go on and on about the misconception of awards shows as some sort of quantification of merit, rather than the Hollywood Political Olympics that they really are, but I think I already did that once, so I’ll spare you. More often than not, the Emmys and the Oscars make me roll my eyes with a vague sense of entitled disgruntlement as the overexposed studio productions and Nielsen-whore television monstrosities take home 1,017 awards, while my indie favorites and understated actors get snubbed again.

But sometimes, they get it right, at least a little bit.

The Golden Globes were fun this year. Somehow the winners were justifiable, for the most part, the speeches were a little less comatose than usual, and most people avoided shopping at Career Suicide Couture. The red carpet media was appropriately garish and provided a lot of material for those of us with an overdeveloped sense of snark. For whatever reason, the Globes were unusually enjoyable, but that could have had something to do with the hideous glass of Dr. Pepper and vodka I was drinking.

I made a conscious decision at the beginning of the evening to abandon any pretense of intellectual activity, hang my shame at the door, and splash about the shallow end of the pool with my ghetto drink for a couple of hours. I happened to run into a few extra-snarky friends online who were also watching the show, and we had a glorious virtual Globes party. (Kate? You rock.)

Over on the E! channel, Isaac Mizrahi started things off by admirably throwing himself into the fray with such voracious dedication to being as appalling as possible, that he may well be my new favorite red carpet maven. Only Mizrahi could be so appealing to me while I’m strolling the aisles at Target, but so atrocious while I’m watching him squeeze Scarlett Johansson’s breasts prior to the awards broadcast. I had no idea that the most important question of the evening would be “Are you wearing underwear?”

The stars themselves were in fine form, dressed to the nines (sometimes even the tens), and looking generally superior to everybody else. There were fewer mishaps than usual, I think, although I’d like to send out a friendly PSA to Drew Barrymore: I’d like to support you, dear, and I’d hold up a big perky sign proclaiming my love for you, because I know you carry the weight of your family name and your battle with drugs must have dragged you down, but I have just one word for you, sweetie: brazier. Google it. It’s really hard for me to concentrate on my Dr. Pepper mixer when your nips are winking (sadly) at me in Hi Def.

The ceremony was speckled with equal parts predictable and un-, but I was generally pleased with the winners of the major categories. Most notably: Best Actor in a Television Drama Series, Hugh Laurie, and Best Television Drama Series, Lost. It’s worth mentioning that Hugh Laurie, toward whom I may be biased because he is my TV boyfriend, was finally recognized for his stellar work on House after being snubbed by Emmys last year. I’m happy to see the Hollywood Foreign Press recognizing the depth Laurie brings to the character that has most critics doing nothing more than dog-earing the page for “caustic” in their thesauruses. Of course, that statement might mislead you into thinking the Hollywood Foreign Press actually has a purpose in this world, and it doesn’t really, so take that for what you will. I’m also happy for Lost, both because the show is original, engrossing, and intelligent, and also because I think the Desperate Housewives are incapable of being desperate when they hoard nominations like nuts in winter.

Several of the night’s acceptance speeches were fantastic departures from the laundry list of gratitude that usually weighs down these events. Geena Davis launched into a touching tale of wonder involving a little girl in her first party dress who tugged on Geena’s skirt and thanked her for inspiring her to want to become the first female President of the United States, before confessing that it “didn’t actually happen. But it could have.” Hugh Laurie, in his adorably British way, wrote the names of the 172 people that deserved to be thanked on little slips of paper, put them in his pocket, and drew out three at random. He ended up thanking the script supervisor, the hair stylist, and his agent, though he noticed that last one was not written in his handwriting. The man who co-wrote the screenplay for Brokeback Mountain thanked his typewriter. Steve Carrell read an acceptance speech he said was written by his wife, which was peppered with high praise for her, and concluded by thanking “Nancy, my precious wife, who put her career on hold in support of mine and who sometimes wishes I would let her know when I'm going to be home late, so she can schedule her life, which is no less important than mine.”

I like it when celebrities have personalities.

I confess that after about the first hour of the broadcast, my recollection of it starts to get a little fuzzy. It’s entirely possible that American Idol won for Best Documentary or Six Feet Under won for Best Comedy; I don’t really know, because by that time the vodka had reached the memory section of my brain, and my remembrance consists mostly of “Damn, Harrison Ford looks OLD,” “I see somebody left Patricia Arquette an anonymous reference to a hair dresser after the Emmys last year,” and “How can I not have any popcorn in my apartment?”

In all, I had a great time Monday night, because I was in good company with friends who are just as hypocritically shallow as I am. It’s probably for the best that they were not actually in the room with me, because I suspect my little victory wiggle dance over Hugh Laurie’s win would earn me a hearty helping of mockery that would last at least until the Oscars.

Saturday, January 14, 2006

Me, myself, and Michelle.

You ever wonder what it would be like to be someone else for a day? Like maybe you could slip in and out of the lives of your neighbors, your coworkers, the person standing next to you in line at the grocery store? Would you embrace the opportunity to abandon your identity for a day and take a sample of something different?

Now what if it wasn’t your choice? What if your body had suddenly been switched with someone else’s without warning? What if your identity were plucked away and replaced with a random one, but nobody told you? What if it happened several times in a day, personas cycling like an iPod shuffle, leaving you with no discernable “me.”

I had that day today.

I get this a lot: “You look JUST like this girl I know.” People sometimes stare at me strangely while talking to me, before eventually confessing that they know my doppelganger, and she lives in Sheboygan with two hippies and a dog named Clive. What do you say to this? How do you respond? “Well, there are a lot of us out there.”

Sometimes they’ll even say, “You look just like a girl I knew in college, and what’s more, you speak in exactly the same way, and have the same sense of humor!”

“Oh, that was me,” I say. “But I’m in Witness Protection now, so don’t tell anyone you saw me, ’kay?”

Anyway, today was a strange sort of day in which I was constantly mistaken for somebody else. This morning, a young man approached me and asked me with an excited grin, “Hey, didn’t you go to Millard High School?”

I told him I had not, and in fact, did not go to any high school within a thousand miles of here.

“Oh. So, you didn’t have Mr. Capford for English Lit, then?”

I wondered briefly if he actually expected me to say, “Oh, well, yes actually. I flew in for 6th period everyday.” Out loud, I confirmed that I did not have Mr. Capford, no. Idiot. He meandered sadly away. I felt the littlest bit guilty that I was not what he expected.

Later in the day, while I was at work, I was helping a regular customer find products for her craft project. She kept calling me “Michelle,” which is not my name. I corrected her once or twice, but eventually gave up, and thought about how I could draw attention to my nametag. Maybe I could just sort of “drop” it nonchalantly onto her eyeballs.

On the way home from work, I stopped at the grocery store because my apartment was under a Yellow Alert. I needed toilet paper. I got a few other things as well—mostly high in calories—and went home. When I started emptying my grocery bags, I found a jar of tomato sauce that I had never seen before in my life. I stared at it, baffled, and then did that thing where you look around the room in confusion, even though there is nobody else in the apartment to say, “Hey, why are you looking around in a confused manner?” It was clearly not a jar of tomato sauce that I would ever place in my cart, because it looked like it had the consistency of tempera paint and was large enough to feed most of Southern California. Obviously, the checkout girl had placed this bucket of tomato squish into my bag by accident, and it probably had belonged to the woman in front of me in line. I wondered if she noticed it was missing. I also wondered if the checkout girl really thought that I would need such a large quantity of sauce when everything else I bought tonight was painfully she-lives-alone-sized.

After my groceries were put away, with my new bucket-o-sauce taking up half my refrigerator space, I went out to get my mail. I got a little excited as I saw all sorts of interestingly colored things in my mailbox (the more colorful your mail, the more people love you), but the warm feeling ebbed when I realized they were all addressed to Karen Somebody-or-other. My name is not Karen any more than it is Michelle, and I realized that all of this fun post was meant for the apartment next to me. When I separated out all of Karen’s fun letters and magazines, I was left with a droopy little half-sheet brochure advertising a discount rate on mortgages. I don’t even have a house.

This evening, when the phone rang, I should have known it would be a wrong number. I almost laughed when the voice on the other end of the line asked for “Michelle.” I should have played along and pretended to be a Michelle for a little while. I wonder how long I could have carried on a coherent conversation.

This is one of those days where you just go to bed hoping that the world will straighten itself out while you sleep. It’s an odd feeling to be snubbed by your own identity. It’s rather like my “me” took a day trip to Vegas for some slots and a show, and left my body behind to fend for itself. I hope when I wake up, the “me” will have returned, preferably with a nice double-cherry jackpot and a little plastic Siegfried and Roy.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

What the hell is a meme?

I seem to have been tagged with a meme.

Show of hands, how many people here have heard of a meme? Yeah, me neither. Apparently, in the blogosphere, there exists a mutation of the age-old chain letter available only to bloggers. It is called a meme (rhymes with "dream"), and it is very similar to those email questionnaires that we loved to spend an hour and half filling out when we were bored at our computers in college. Remember when we really thought that people were interested in what our favorite smell was, or whether we prefered vanilla ice cream or Rocky Road, or our exact name as it appears on our birth certificate? But by the time you recieved your 1,342,647,293rd email questionnaire from that girl from your college lit class who ended all her sentences with "seriously...LOL!!!?!," you started to think maybe those things were not so cool.

The good news is that memes appear to come from bloggers of like minds, so they're likely to be far more intelligent and interesting than "summer or winter?" "Hugs or kisses?" "Boxers or briefs?" Also shorter, which is really key, because I tend to write lengthy topic introductions.

The other upside of blogging memes is that when you post, you link to those who came before and after you, and so blog readers gain access to good blogs they may never have previously explored. And really, who couldn't use another blog to peruse when your boss steps out of the office?

The particular meme which has found its way to me happens to be a Screenwriter's meme (started by Fun Joel). I routinely read several good blogs written by screenwriters because I am just that crazy about film and television, even though I make no claim to it. I am not in "The Biz," although my brother-in-law is a movie critic, and I like to pick his brain. My only other connection to any successful Hollywooders would have to be my friend Diane Kristine, who writes the House, M.D. reviews at blogcritics, and who recently interviewed Lawrence Kaplow, one of the House screenwriters. Diane Kristine, incidentally, is who tagged me with this meme.

So, without further ado—The Screenwriting Meme for People Who Like Writing, but Without the Screen, So Much:

What is your earliest film-related memory?

When I was seven years old, my babysitter took my sister and me to see My Stepmother is an Alien in the theater. (Don't judge me. I was seven.) The movie was PG-13 for sexuality, and I'm certain my parents had no idea. I remember feeling vaguely daring as I watched Kim Basinger strut her PG-13 self all over Dan Akroyd's house. When the time came for the inevitable PG-13 sex scene, my babysitter suddenly decided I had seen enough, and forced me to hide under the chairs for the duration of the scene. I knelt among the empty popcorn boxes and sticky seat bottoms, and listened to Kim and Dan moaning, PG-13-ishly, and thought about the best way to lock the babysitter out of the house when we got home.

Name two favorite lines from movies.

It's slightly embarassing how much this question (command?) bothered me. If you know me, you know that I am a movie quote fiend, and choosing my two favorites is rather like asking me to choose which of my children will be granted a full scholarship to Yale, and which will be fed to the Olsen twins at the rehab clinic. So, here are two of my many, many favorites, undefinitively:


  • They all have husbands and wives and children and houses and dogs, and, you know, they've all made themselves a part of something and they can talk about what they do. What am I gonna say? "I killed the president of Paraguay with a fork. How've you been?" – John Cusack, Grosse Pointe Blank

  • Nigel Tufnel: [on what he would do if he couldn't be a rock star] Well, I suppose I could, uh, work in a shop of some kind, or...or do, uh, freelance, uh, selling of some sort of, uh, product. You know...
    Marty DiBergi: A salesman?
    Nigel: A salesman, like maybe in a, uh, haberdasher, or maybe like a, uh, um...a chapeau shop or something. You know, like, "Would you...what size do you wear, sir?" And then you answer me.
    Marty: Uh...seven and a quarter.
    Nigel: "I think we have that." See, something like that I could do.
    Marty: Yeah...you think you'd be happy doing something like-
    Nigel: "No; we're all out. Do you wear black?" See, that sort of thing I think I could probably...muster up.
    Marty: Do you think you'd be happy doing that?
    Nigel: Well, I don't know - wh-wh-... what're the hours?
    – Christopher Guest and Rob Reiner, This is Spinal Tap

Name three jobs you'd do if you could not work in "The Biz."

We've established that I'm not in The Biz, unless you get some sort of honorary ShowBiz achievement award for beginning your fifth consecutive year as a loyal Entertainment Weekly subscriber. (And frankly, if I have to read one more "Shaw Report" by Jessica Shaw, I might qualify.) But were I to choose a life beyond the glamours of my current post as Multimedia Specialist for an insurance company, I would be:

  • An Olympic equestrian.

  • A sculptor who works only in Lincoln Logs and french fries.

  • A writer. My first book would be a chronicle of my adventures dressing up in large food-product costumes and standing in front of restaurant establishments that didn't hire me.
Name four jobs you have actually held outside the Industry.
  • "Pony Walker" at the Maryland Renaissance Festival. My job was to place small, disgruntled children on the backs of small, disgruntled ponies, and lead them around in small, disgruntled circles while the parents bought beer and learned how to throw knives. I had to wear full peasant regalia and stay "in character." By "character," they meant we had to speak with Olde English accents. Mine sounded more South Jersey than anything.

  • Sales associate in the children's department of Sears. My early exposure to Big Corporate Retail may have been the beginning of what made me cynical. Eight-hour exposure to a Blue's Clues tape playing on a constant loop next to the register caused me to develop an unfortunate Pavlovian reaction. To this day, if I see any blue animals with unnaturally large heads, I fall to the ground, clutch my arms, and rock back and forth, murmuring, "We've just figured out Blue's Clues, because we're really SMART!"

  • Secretary and office clerk at an Air Force base. I worked in an office, surrounded by a lot of people wearing camouflage. I thought that was funny since camouflage is really not stealthy at all when you're surrounded by white walls. I learned a lot about the inner workings of the American military system, including where to find several large men (and a few kick-ass women) to have your back when you need it.

  • Sales associate, teacher, and all around managerial type at an independently owned craft store in the Midwest. Next week is my last week, thank God, because now I'm a grown-up.

Name three book authors you like.

P.G. Wodehouse. Sometimes Chuck Palahniuk. And at the risk of sounding utterly pop, J. K. Rowling.

I need to read more.

Name two movies you'd like to remake or properties you'd like to adapt.

The Last Unicorn, which was an excellent book and a haunting (if imperfect) animated film, is currently in pre-production as a live-action movie, and seems to have been stuck there for the last four years. I don't know if it will ever get made, but I wish I was heading that project. I'd also like to adapt the Calvin & Hobbes comic strip into a loosely based, satirical, live-action television show. It would be a very, very dicey project, and would require the writing skills of someone far more competent than myself, but I would like to see a fresh translation that stays true to the timeless genius of Bill Watterson.

Name one screenwriter you think is underrated.

The undiscovered ones that keep plugging away, despite rejection in a cuthroat industry. The ones that are currently fetching coffee at television studios for loud men in ugly sunglasses, bussing tables in a cafe in Hollywood, and going home to pound their heads against their computer screens in frustration. The ones that haven't written the next Lost yet. Or maybe they have, but it hasn't seen daylight because of crazy politics and beligerant studio heads. Keep on keeping on, guys.

Now I'm supposed to tag people of my own. The only blogger I know who is remotely connected to the entertainment industry is the one who sent me this, and I do not personally know most of the people who write my favorite big-time blogs. So, I'll go with two people whose thought processes I enjoy, and one big-name blogger who will probably have no idea that I even linked to her, but you should read her blog anyway:

Thursday, January 05, 2006

Movin' on up.

I was offered a job today.

It’s a real, live, honest-to-God, grown-up, fancy-pants job, complete with benefits and a salary. It does not require me to wear a name tag, or count a cash register, or vacuum, or wear an apron. I will no longer have to say, “Hi-ya! Is there anything I can help you find today? Because I have a college degree that makes me heartbreakingly overqualified for this retail nightmare and I’m looking for an opportunity to hone my sadomasochistic tendencies, and I think you just might be the ticket.” Okay, that last part may have been in my head.

Anyway, I’m about to be gainfully employed and on the road to financial stability. I have a whole list of things I’m looking forward to now that I will have benefits, various forms of insurance, and more than $175 a week. Here are a few:


Going to the eye doctor:

It would be nice to wear reading glasses whose lenses do not routinely throw themselves from the frames. One of the arms actually dangles when you pick the glasses up, and I’m pretty sure that you’re supposed to have two of those little padded feet on the bridge. I guess the actual prescription is sort of important, too, and fewer ocular migraines would really lower my Advil budget.


Getting high speed internet:

I am on the internet all the time. It’s a requirement of my business, sure, but let’s be honest. iTunes is the boss of me, and in a fair and just world, it should not take 55 minutes to download “Baba O’Riley.” My current dial-up dinosaur ties up my land line, and since my crappy cell phone plan only gives me about twelve and a half daytime minutes per month, my land line is how people usually try to get in touch with me. For the last month or so, all anyone ever gets from me is a busy signal. Several people have expressed concern that I might be unconscious on my kitchen floor with the half-dialed phone in one hand and a bloody spatula in the other, entangled in the cord of a rampantly misbehaving electric beater, while my cat licks the blood from my head wounds. This is not the case.


Speaking of crappy cell phone plans:

Twelve and half daytime minutes per month really doesn’t cut it. I need a new cell phone plan, desperately, and I prefer to find one that is giving away free phones. My current cell phone is from about 1998, and is the size of a toaster oven. It has also lost the ability to hold a charge, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to buy yet another battery for it. I’m not even sure they make batteries for this model anymore. I would have to find it in the antique district of upstate New York, and I’m not up for that kind of travel. The only redeeming feature of the phone is its army-style camouflage faceplate, which I like because it has more than a passing resemblance to a tank. Still, an amusing self-referential visual witticism does not a proper communications device make, so it’s time to move on.


Having my teeth cleaned for free:

I’m not a big fan of having strange men stick their giant, latex-clad hands into my mouth and root around with sharp objects, especially when their distinguishing facial features are conveniently obscured by a mask that prevents me from picking them out of a line-up later on, but actually paying for this “service?” That’s just wrong.


Going to the doctor:

On the outside chance that I really do have a violent confrontation with my kitchen appliances, it would be nice to know that I can see a medical professional. I haven’t had health insurance since the military finally realized that a 23-year old woman who had graduated from college and moved out of her parents’ house was not really considered a “dependent” anymore. Luckily, they never told that to my father, who still pays for my…


Car insurance:

The VenJetta is a nasty beast of mythical proportions, and I would be insane not to insure myself against its sense of humor. You never know when it is going to intentionally plant itself in the middle of an intersection and cause an accident. My father still graciously has my back on this one, but it’s about time for me to take responsibility. (And with that sentence, I guarantee you I just made my parents’ hearts stop.)



These are just a few of the things that occupy the top of my “It’s about freaking time” list. Even as I look forward to these Mature Adult Perks, I’m still sort of reeling at the idea that I got my very first job offer today. I think it’s entirely unfair that I was offered the first job I interviewed for, with ridiculously comfortable compensation, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m pulling the wool over somebody’s eyes.

These people actually want me to come work for them. For reals. Don’t anybody tell them what they’re in for, mmkay?