Yesterday, after spending my morning videoblogging, my afternoon picketing and my evening working, all I wanted to do was shove some food in my face (thank you, anonymous benefactor, for picking up the tab at Swingers for WGA members. I enjoyed my ahi tuna sandwich and we tipped on the full tab, I swear) and crawl into bed.
I pulled on my PJ's (we need to get the pilot lit on the furnace, so it's incredibly chilly) and burrowed into the covers. As I switched off the light and went to kiss my husband, he said softly
You know something?
His voice had that vulnerable edge, that I-am-about-to-say-something-important-so-listen-up. I turned over on my side, resting on my elbow. What?
Dee and Dennis are twins, right? So why didn't they both go to school with the rapper who Dennis thought was retarded?
Dennis says that he knows that L'il Kevin is retarded because he went to grade school on the short bus. But if Dennis and Dee are twins, shouldn't they both have been in school at the same time?
I came up with some plausible explanation (maybe they went to different schools, maybe Dee was held back) and then turned back to go to sleep.
...two minutes later
Y'wanna do it?
Because discussing continuity errors on It's Always Sunny is supposed to get me hot?
...two minutes later
And because you can never have enough It's Always Sunny, a clip from the episode in question:
Also, we're looking at the Los Angeles Blogger Get-Together to be Tuesday, December 18th at the Red Pearl Kitchen (we looked at Bar Lubitsch, but I can't find an email for them and I refuse to actually use the phone. Anyone?) If you're interested, please email me so I can put your name on the evite. This isn't an invitation-only thing, and you'll be able to add people to the list. I just want to get an idea of how many we'll be...
Breaking News: Actually, I'm leaning toward MONDAY, December 17th. Not Tuesday.
Friday Morning, the day after Thanksgiving. 8:30am
Younger slackbrother j. has informed me that he's taking SlackDad for the day, so all I have to do is figure out something for SlackMom. This is easy, as it usually involves shopping, making fun of people, and alcohol. I can do this in my sleep. Or I could, if the phone would stop ringing. I fumble for the cell phone.
It's your mom. Your father forgot his blood pressure pills.
Have you called his doctor?
He doesn't have a doctor.
The guy in the white coat. The one who prescribed him the pills.
He's got a refill, she tells me, we just need to head to the local WalMart.
The local WalMart is probably 45 minutes away, I respond. Plus it's Black Friday, which means that we'll all have heart attacks before we get inside. I rub my face, and Will, seeing that I need reinforcements, hands me a mug of coffee.
I'll call WalMart, maybe they can send the prescription out here.
Great idea, there's a CVS a few blocks from--
I hear a rustle, and suddenly SlackDad's on the phone.
We need a WalMart.
We've already covered this. You can pick it up at the CVS, it's just a few blocks from your hotel.
Just take a right and--wait, sorry, I thought your hotel was on _____. That's wrong. Just get it called in, and I'll pick you up and take you there. Just call me when you're ready.
He hangs up.
Everything okay? Will asks.
I have no idea.
Forty-five minutes later:
My cell phone rings. I answer.
Right and then where? SlackDad asks.
You said the CVS was to the right of the hotel.
No, I said that I was wrong, I remind him. You were supposed to have your pharmacy call it in there, and I'd take you...I hear cars in the background. Where are you?
SlackMom grabs the phone. Your father said that the pharmacy was just to the right of the hotel, but we've been walking this way and we haven't seen it yet.
I ask the question, even though I already know the answer. How long have you been walking?
She whispers into the phone. Forty-five-fucking-minutes.
Just stay where you are, I'll come get you.
I threw on my glasses and some clothes and grabbed the car keys and found me parents up a few miles - toward the right - of their hotel.
I knew where I was going! SlackDad insists.
Yeah, you were going right, SlackMom responds.
We get his blood pressure medication and the day is saved. I consider for a moment asking him to share, but I figure a glass of wine with SlackMom will accomplish the same thing.
Last year's classic: Thanksgiving, Slackfamily-Style.
I have no photos of the extensive feast plus three desserts (Chocolate Cranberry Torte, Lemon Pound Cake, Pumpkin Pie with Ginger Streusel.) This is why I'll never make it as a food blogger. Moving on...
Today marked my first day back at the gym (working, not working out) in about a week as I took off Friday. SlackMom and I hit the much-maligned-by-Mr.-Boy-and-I Craft Fair, where I saw plenty of random pieces of felt glued together, knit potholders, and enough "ironic" babywear to clothe the grandkids of the current crop of Jacksons, Sages and Sophies. However, to be fair there was some JustJENN-quality crafting going on, specifically Jodi and the chicks over at the Tired Girl Collective. They didn't even make fun of me for looking decidedly unslackmistresstry by showing up with greasy hair and glasses. There's a story as to why I had to roll out of bed and out the door on Saturday morning, but you'll have to wait for that one.
So this morning finds me back at work, and signing in clients for the Trainer Who I Made Cry (TWIMC.) Normally he pays his gym fees on Friday, but he and I were both not at work. When he walked in, I asked him about his holiday and his family and his health and his flight. Then I broached the subject...
Hey, TWIMC, since neither of us worked on Friday, we can roll everything over to next Friday.
I paid before I left, he told me. I can prove it.
Oh, no worries, I told him. That's cool, thanks. I went to turn on the lights in the spin room, and when I turned around, he was there holding something out to me.
Here! He thrust the piece of paper under my nose. It was a receipt for last week's fees. See? I told you. His eyes were shiny and his hand was shaking.
I nodded. Uh, thanks. He walked away, and I thought it's not even 6am and I've already begun.
There has to be a way to harness this trick for good. Or cash.
For some reason, I am intimidating. I'm not particularly tall, unless I wear boots. Although that's nearly ninety percent of the time, so scratch that. I think that I'm relatively friendly, although in cases where I don't know anyone in a crowd if my social overtures aren't responded to, I'll retreat back into my shell. My husband, on the other hand, is a magnet. For women. Blogging women. There's been a lot of his-readers-are-now-my-readers and his-blogfriends-are-now-my-blogfriends and vice versa. This is insanely groovy. However, there's also been more than a few cases where his female readers have been less than amused that BetheBoy became BetheHusband. Is it that more women read blogs than men, so I notice it more? Or does he does he digitally secrete some pheremone that draws in the crazy? And if so, does that make me crazy? Stay tuned.
Edited to Add: When I say "crazy" I mean Anonymous-Hatemail-Sending Break-Into-Your-House Types. (I get the former, he's gotten the latter.) In case, y'know, anyone was confused.
Yes, I have joined the Twitterverse.
Los Angeles Bloggers who read this: are you up for a blogging night? Not where we actually blog, mind you. But where we drink (blogging to commence later.) Will and I were thinking a weeknight in December, maybe December 17th or 18th? Weigh in.
BetheMarriage is coming back. Soonish.
Overheard on the Picket Line:
Picketeers: Honk for the writers!
Black Range Rover: Honks; driver raises his middle finger in salute.
Picketeers: Enjoy Beauty and the Geek* 14!
For Those Playing Along at Home:
A few ways that you can support the striking writers (and those put out of work by the strike.)
Wondering why we've taken The Office away from you? Watch this.
Think writers are overpaid, lazy SOBs who drive million-dollar cars and dine on the flesh of endangered animals? I'm here to say it ain't so.
Participate from the comfort of your own computer. Sign the petition.
Wanna let the Media Moguls know how you feel about the whole thing and have a couple of bucks to spare? Check out Pencils to Media Moguls.
We may be pencils down, but Ryan from the CDP is going razors down. He's refusing the shave until this whole thing is resolved. (The slackmistress endorses said action, but is not partaking as the Yeti look is just not for her.)
Have more than a few bucks to spare and want to help those caught in the middle? Check out this post.
Live in Los Angeles and want to be a part of something BIG? Come join us at tomorrow's rally in Hollywood!
(I'll be at the above. I swear. Not like today, where I worked from 5:30am-12:15pm, then came home and laid down justforasecond and got up about 10 minutes ago. Gack.)
Mistaken Identity, Part Deux:
*No offense intended to anyone on this show. After all, you have a job that doesn't involve picking up people's sweaty towels. Unlike me. Oy.
The SlackParents are coming to LA for Thanksgiving. Now while I advertise that we have two couches here at the Detective Agency, SlackDad assured me that they'd be finding a hotel. Last week, SlackMom sent me their flight information.
Where are you staying? I emailed her.
I thought we were staying with you, she responded.
Which would be fine, except that I had invited another friend down from San Francisco. While said friend is wee, there was no way I was fitting two Slack-sized-parents + wee friend on two couches. I hyperventilated for a good five minutes until Will said I'll just go stay with younger slackbrother j.
Oh, you're not getting off that easy, I told him.
SlackMom emailed me to say not to worry about it, they'd book a room. I breathed a huge sigh of relief, and went about the task of finding a hotel room. I sent her an email listing a few places, and ended with:
There's another place that's close (Hotel X) but the reviews have it being really dirty, so don't stay there.
hotel x -- there are a lot of those which one?
I wrote back:
Hotel X is dirty, the reviews are terrible so don't even bother. I reiterated the other places I had mentioned in the previous email.
She emailed me back:
okay, i was going to go with the hotel x by - but i think i will make reservations tomorrow for [other hotel I mentioned]
I'm looking forward to their visit, but she's right about one thing: it's gonna be an adventure.
This morning Will called me at work.
Tied to what? I asked him.
Our blog stats, he responded, we're neck and neck.
I've had a recent spike in readership due to being mistaken for a hot young screenwriter, videoblogging about the strike from the perspective of a writer that doesn't have a gazillion dollar overall deal and a harem of trained circus monkeys to do my bidding, and a couple of shout-outs on teh Intrawebz. While my husband gets turned on by hot labor activist action, I'm a gambling woman.
Then let's make it interesting, I told him.
Working at the gym, I'm completely cut off from the online world, as we have a computer but it's just for show. So when Will called me at 11:00am, I knew something was up.
We need to reschedule the bet, he told me.
You can't reschedule a bet!
But I got a mention in MediaBistro's Fishbowl LA today. It's not fair, I'll beat you.
Then you'll beat me, but I won't welch on a bet. What kind of pussy do you think I am?*
I mentioned our little picketing crew in my last post, but you can see us in action here. That's Tomas rocking the bullhorn. I hear myself on tape all of the time, but so I shouldn't be constantly surprised that I sound like the lovechild of Kathy Griffith and Betty Boop.
I couldn't make it out to the picket line today. Fridays nearly always decimate me as I work from 5:30am 'til 2pm. I didn't get to sleep until 1am last night, so you can see how that would be problematic. So I'll just leave you with a sign from a very generous bunny:
*This is the sort of talk that gets me Hot Labor Activist Action, so you may want to try this out at home.
I took my post at the midway gate on Alameda over at NBC at about 1:15pm yesterday. I didn't see any of my compatriots around, so I introduced myself to everyone and got down to the job of Making Some Noise. When I picketed the Dreamworks shoot Hotel For Dogs, my friend S. and I realized that we'd have an easier time getting some people to honk if we flashed a little leg. Because that's the sort of commitment I have to the strike effort, every day I get up, don my slackmistress uniform (boots, knee socks, short skirt, t-shirt), and head out to fight the good fight.
(Which may explain this post by my husband.)
The Post Captain kept telling me to engage the passers-by. Lean into the street! I explained to him that I while I believed in our cause, I had no desire to end up splattered across someone's windshield like a bug. Thankfully a few minutes later S., P. and T. showed up, bringing popsicles and a blowhorn. Our little crew is like a full-on broadway show, minus any actual musical talent. As we paraded and chanted, the news crew began to form. An NBC News reporter apprached us, and I stepped aside so he could speak to the Post Captain. Instead he said, can I talk to you?
He asked me to take off my sunglasses so I was squinting directly into the sun, and asked me about what I thought about Ellen crossing the picket lines. While I'm used to spouting off in front of a camera, it's a wholly different experience being put on the spot while standing outside in the hot sun. I texted Will who caught me on the 5 o'clock news. He promised me that I looked neither melty nor sounded moronic. Phew.
The reason for the extra added publicity was that singer KT Tunstall was coming out to play a short set in support of the writers.
(A crappy video taken with my camera can be found here.)
As we stood around, listening to KT sing I thought this probably isn't what other pickets were like. We're a Guild. We are picketing. But we also have semi-private concerts, stars, and a grown man dressed as a bunny bringing us snacks.
Bunny suits and concerts aside, this strike is simply about sharing the ungodlyinsaneohmygodhowmuchmoneyhavewemadeyou? If they're truly earning no money off the Internet, then what's the harm in giving us a percentage of that "no money." Or could it possibly be, that they're not telling the truth? You be the judge:
Time to shower and hop and head out to NBC. Hopefully today I'll get some footage of what it looks like when you give a group of writers a blowhorn and the impetus to use it...
Updated to add: I just took the WonderDog out for a quick pee, got tangled up in her leash and completely bit it on the sidewalk. I'm shockingly scrape-free, although I turned my ankle pretty bad. My solidarity this afternoon will have to be from the couch with an ice pack. Viva!