the slack daily

A Fond Farewell.

If you don't follow me on Twitter, you missed the events of yesterday which went something like this:

Will: Let me know what I can do to help out [with the New Year's Eve party prep.] 

Me:  Mmmkay.

...

I: print out recipes, take inventory of the liquor cabinet and the pantry, create lists and head off to multiple grocery stores.

Will: watches football on the couch with Daisy.

...

Upon my return from the grocery store:

Me: Honey? 

Will: What do you need?

Me: Can you do me a favor and drink the rest of this beer?  I don't have room for it in the fridge.  Oh, and eat this cheese.  And these cookies.  And there's like the smallest bit of gin left, can you just polish it off so I can toss the bottle?

Best. Wife. Ever.
...

I should be writing about the past year, but hell, I spent the entire year writing about it.   I have some Big Plans in store for 2008, I've got garlic crostini to bake and mushrooms to stuff and bubbly to chill, so you'll have to wait...'til next year.

Big love,

the slackmistress

Everything that is Wrong with Women...

...in one single article.

Long story short: ESPN sports writer is in multiple fantasy sports leagues.  His pregnant wife makes a bunch of picks this year, and ends up beating the pants off of him.  She then begs to write his column, so she can "humiliate him on a famous sports Web site."

She meets a bartender who wants to be a sports writer. He's in multiple fantasy sports leagues.

She dates the bartender who becomes the sports writer. He's in multiple fantasy leagues.

She marries the sports writer.  He's in multiple fantasy leagues.

She gets pregnant by the sports writer. He's in multiple fantasy leagues.

More:

Anyhoo, Bill claims that being in all these leagues "helps his column." I call B.S. because he was in all these leagues when we met and he was a bartender. He also claims that checking magazines and newspapers and Web sites for NFL info helps his picks column (we know this isn't true) and that his annoying phone calls with his annoying friends help his column (sounds like a stretch, right?).

The only reason her husband is defending why he participates in fantasy sports - something he's been doing since before they met - is because she's got a problem with it.  And because he can't say "I used to do it for fun, but now I do it to get away from you, you controlling little twat"

True, he checks his Blackberry during an "X-mas party" (she was too busy out curing cancer to spell out Christmas, I imagine.) Yes, that can be annoying.  However, it's also a art of his job, a job that pays the bills and might provide insurance and gives her this opportunity to "humiliate him on a famous sports Web site."

"According to Bill, my record is 127-104-9, putting me 23 games over .500. I have no idea what the "over .500" part means or why it matters but Bill seemed to think it was really impressive."  She continues to say that she doesn't understand why Statisticians refer to it as "over .500" and don't "just say that I picked 59 percent correctly or whatever the number is."  It's because that's the terminology they use.  Like when you refer to the cluster of DNA expelled from your uterus as a baby. Is it honestly that difficult to understand?

But it's not enough to beat him.  No, when he wins in another league, she complains that outside of the prize money:

This particular league has a huge trophy that will now be moving in with us. Awesome! Who needs a new piece of art or a vase when you can showcase an ugly 3-foot-high trophy? I can't wait to clean his office and accidentally "bump into it" and break it into 10 pieces -- this will be the highlight of my winter other than any time our son pees on Bill during a diaper change.

The only confusing part in this entire scenario is how he ever came to have sex with her in the first place. 

My holiday wish for him is an uncontested divorce. 

And my holiday wish for her? I hope she has six happy, healthy little boys. 

Who are all exactly like their father.

(A hat-tip to my fantasy sports playing husband, who emailed me the link this morning.) 

Playing Offense.

I was alerted by a reader that the image in my last post might be found offensive by one of the world's major religions.  I apologize if this was the case.  I can promise you that it was absolutely not my intention.

In an attempt to remedy this situation and in the spirit of this season of goodwill, I offer you:

Daisy the WonderRabbi

Daisy the WonderKali

And...

Hopefully now no one feels left out.

Happy Holidaisy!

Voluntary Commitment.

This morning when my alarm went off at 4:53am, I thought today's blog post could document my day in pictures. It's not a particularly brilliant or even novel idea, but I figured it was better than rattling off lists or cataloging the contents of my TiVo. (Although my list of WGA DVD screeners grows... "No Country For Old Men" anyone?)

I snapped a picture in front of my Macbook at 5:09am.

At 5:10am I realized that perhaps this wasn't such a hot idea after all.

Speaking of hot,  Violet Blue has come out with her "Top Ten Sexy Geeks of 2007."  While last year I managed to skate onto the list of runners-up (delicious company, all), this year there's nary a slackmistress to be found.

And it's not all that surprising. While 2006 was a year of self-promotion (and a healthy dose of self-discovery), 2007 has been rockier in that regard. While personally it's been the most phenomenal year of my life - marrying Will will do that do you (although now that he is married, you'll have to take my word for it), this year I was busy biting off more than I could chew.  While I made time to blog (and vlog), I didn't have time to promote myself at all.

Because this year was the first year since 2000 that I made no money (minus residuals and royalties) writing scripts. Sure, I pitched a bunch of places, wrote a spec pilot, and did some copywriting here and there, but actual paying work slowed to a grinding halt.

People who don't know a lot about this business might think that's somewhat humiliating  to admit in a public realm.  But it's just the reality of Hollywood.

Which means this year also marked my return to a Real Job. Not a career, mind you. I initially thought I should try to get an office job instead of scraping by with the mishmosh of three jobs I currently have, but the plus of the gym and my two freelance gigs is that they're mindless. The gym can be stressful in dealing with Hollywood-type personalities and such, but when I go home, my time - and my brain - is my own.

I realized last night that I'll always remain on the periphery of New Media.  I don't live in San Francisco, I don't socialize with the LA Tech Crowd (although I have been invited!  They're incredibly friendly, I either have an attack of shyness or have to work) and I'm working on eleventy billion new projects that I just don't have one ounce left to devote to anything else. 

And the fact remains that I love to write fictional material.  It doesn't have to be high-budget, it doesn't have to be for conventional media.  I'd produce a webisodic show myself (I actually have a pitch ready-to-go) except that I lack both a crew and the cash to make it myself.

I've been dipping a toe in every pool hoping to come up with a backup plan, but everything that I want to do takes total and complete commitment.   This past year I was able to commit to one person for the rest of my life.  So committing to two or three projects over the next year should be a snap.

Happy Assface Day!

Last night at the gym, me and a late-50-something client:

Client:  Merry-- I mean Happy-- I mean...oh, dammit.

Me: Don't worry, I'm a Merry Christmas who can totally pass as a Happy Hanukkah.

Client: Isn't it funny that you can insult someone by just trying to wish them well?

Me:   I try to look at the intention. If you say 'Happy Assface Day' to me in a kind tone, I'll take it.

Client: Well Happy Assface Day then!  I think I'm going to adopt that from now on.

...

My earliest memories of Christmas are my parents arguing while they assembled the fake Christmas tree.   For some reason their harsh tone didn't worry my wee toddler brain, but reminded me that there were a whole host of fabulous, forbidden adult words to learn from an overworked and overtired parent. 

Every year, along with bubble lights and gold-flecked elves with crazy eyes that seemed to follow you around the room, SlackMom would haul out the brand-new JCPenney catalog for Older SlackBrother J. and I to peruse.  We were supposed to put our initials next to anything that caught our eye. 

Of course we wouldn't get all of these things, but it was just to give Santa - the same Santa who preferred a salami sandwich and a beer to cookies and milk - an idea of what we wanted.  I happily complied, scribbling my shaky NB across Barbie Dream Homes and Mickey Mouse Phones until one day I stumbled across the Valhalla of Holiday goodness: Neiman Marcus Christmas Book. 

SlackMom had a Neiman Marcus credit card. She didn't use it mind you, except for small purchases, things that you could buy for the same price anywhere else, except that it was Neiman Marcus.  She would explain to me as we walked through the heavy glass doors into the perfumed interior, that it was a way to feel like a million bucks without spending it.  Like a 1970s Holly Golightly marching into Tiffany's to get her Cracker Jack ring engraved. 

But at six years old, once I saw that list of polo ponies and life-sized Barbie cars, I knew I had found my One True Catalog.  After that year, mom started hiding the catalog.  After I tore the house apart to find it, she requested it not be sent altogether.

I've had a few of those get-everything-you-want Christmases.  When work was steady and the paychecks were constant, I went a little bit overboard every year.  The house was decorated and dozens of cookies were baked and parties were thrown and lavish gifts were exchanged.  I don't live like that anymore, and minus my big white fake Christmas tree, I don't miss it all that much.   Having been on both sides of the money equation, I can say for certain that money makes things easier.  But it doesn't really make things better.  Or happier.

But to be honest, I really wish I didn't have to work next week.  And from reading out there in blogland, there's a whole bunch of you that feel the same way.  I no longer want polo ponies or jewelry or life-sized Barbie cars (although you might say I already own the last one.) What I want for Christmas is to sleep late, eat breakfast with my husband, and have a few uninterrupted hours where we don't have to do anything but eat cookies and read books and watch TV.   If the house could somehow become magically clean in the process, I'd be in heaven.

...

Call Guinness:

I had to jet over to Target today to pick up a gift card for our cleaning woman at work.  Yes, Target.  Five days before Christmas.  Time elapsed from the moment I stepped out the door to walk to my car and then moment I crossed the threshold to my apartment?  Forty-five minutes.  I rule.

Inspiration Point.

Anonymous Mom tagged me in a meme that poses the question what song inspires you to write? I was thinking about this last night as Will told the story of discovering Rob Halford of Judas Priest is all about the diction.  I adore music, but I'm not into music the way that Will's into music.  Will requires music to survive the way most of us require oxygen.  An intense love of anything (music, comic books, 80's videogame-inspired cartoons) can lend itself to douchebaggery  when it's discovered that you are not in the know, but the thing that I love about Will is that he desperately wants to share each part of his discovery with you.  The song has a story, and Will always has his own story about the song. (Which kinda demands a podcast, don'tcha think?) 

Anyway.

Recently Will took part in a National Mixtape Trade sponsored by the fine folks over at the CDP.  (Why yes, it's the same CDP that recently released a book, and yes, I know that I should do the same with the slack.  Stop telling me what to do!  You're not the boss of me!)   Will burned me a copy of the mix as a thank-you for mailing out his.  The only place I truly listen to music is in my car, so I slid my copy into the Mini's CD player, where it remained for an entire month. 

Music doesn't always remind me about a past that I can't change, but about a future that I can create.  An excellent album - whether it's a mixtape or a single artist - is like an amazing script.  I become personally involved, I react to the music, to the chord changes, to the phrasing.  I may not know the technical elements behind it, I may not realize the awesome amount of work it took to evoke a solitary refrain, but I can recognize the emotional element as it takes me along for the ride.  As I listened to Will's mix over and over, a script that had been floating in my head for months started to take shape.  The characters began to form, I could hear bits and pieces of dialog and start to tug on those delicate threads of story that begun to weave in and out of my synapses.  When the CD started to skip from overuse, I decided that I had marinated on it long enough, and it was time to sit down and write.

And that's how my spec pilot, The Ballad of Max & Trevor was written.

Thanks to my husband, you can download the mix here.

You can download a .pdf copy of the script (which is copyrighted and registered with the WGA and all that jazz, so if anyone's feeling like a stealerpants, just know that I can and will find you and cut your thumbs off) here.

I need a lot of dirty, ragged late 70's music for my next script, which will be so far afield from anything I've ever written that it may as well be someone else writing it.  Stay tuned.

...

Thanks to all that attended, the blogger get-together was a smashing success.  About ten of us braved the elements (aka the slight drizzle that gets blown into STORMWATCH 2007! on local news) including Annika, Leyla, Louis, Rachel, TC and of course my charming husband, Will.*  Everyone discovered why Will is called Sam, my suspicion was confirmed that I am actually someone's arch-enemy (I knew my shiny clothes and boot collection would come in handy) and that champagne + vodka = love.  There are few things that make me happier than fabulous people with fabulous drinks having a fabulous time.  So thank you to all who made it out, and we'll try to make this a regular thing in the New Year...

 

*Aaaaaaaaaah!  I left off Mike and Randi!  True confession time:I totally copied and pasted the list from Mike's blog because I was being lazy.  Crime, she never pays!  Except when she does.  Mea culpa, folks.

Unnecessary Giftness.

It's t-minus nine days 'til Christmas (eight if you're reading this on Monday!) and if you're anything like the rest of the Universe, you haven't even started your shopping yet.  The problem is rarely time or money (that's what credit cards and personal days or for!) but what on earth to get your loved one?    Sure, you can  fall back on boring old standards.  I mean, anyone can purchase a Wii or a Lexus or an iPhone.  But aren't those things you'd rather buy for yourself? 

From the day after Thanksgiving until Christmas Day, we're force-fed a steady diet of carols and bell-ringers and white chocolate peppermint mochas and lines to see Santa and A Christmas Story.  Your cheeks hurt from smiling and your stomach is killing you from eating Peppridge Farm "Pirouette" cookies scavenged from the office gift basket for lunch.  You're sick of Christmas Cheer than ends at the cash register and is torpedo'd in the mall parking lot.  The pants are tighter, the blood sugar is higher, and the stress is through the roof.

In the spirit of that kind of Christmas, I present these presents for you:

For the Man Who Has Everything

Cologne is a common go-to gift, and it seems like everyone's got a scent these days.  You can go designer, erring on the side of Jean Paul Gaultier, D&G, and Armani.  But anyone can walk into Macy's and pick up a overpriced, homo-erotic gift set.  You can go celebrity, but I still can't figure out why anyone would want to smell like Michael Jordan (who I imagine is one part perspiration, two parts Cuba Gooding Jr.)

But the truly bold, truly unique gift?  You gotta be willing to get sexy and BRING IT!

The man who has everything can now smell like a pitbull.  (Which if any of the pitbulls I've had are any indication, is a combination of two parts farts and three parts love.)

For the Woman Who Has Everything

If American Sitcoms have taught us anything, it's that there's an entire nation of men who don't listen to their wives.  In fact, men do not possess the ability to communicate at all, instead preferring a secret language of baseball statistics, mumbling, and making farting noises with their armpits.  Christmas (and Valentine's Day) is usually "make-up" time, when you've got the chance to buy back her love with diamond earrings or fuzzy bathrobes or a vacuum cleaner.  But a gift that shows that you truly love her?

The TooDaLoo two-person toilet.  According to a recent column in the SFGate:

The TwoDaLoo is perhaps the first (and perhaps the last) toilet designed for two people to use at the same time. The company's research found a basis beyond the potential water savings of one flush for two: toilet as relationship therapy. It says 36 percent of us already go to the bathroom in front of our spouse.

"When you're most relaxed, that's the best time for you to communicate with your partner, discuss your concerns and learn from them to grow as a couple," says Romeo Mendoza, president of WiseRep.com.

Light some candles, grab your ESPN magazine and invite your wife to a romantic getaway for two!  You can save your marriage and go green (hopefully without actually going green) at the same time!

 

For the Kids Who Have Everything

There are two things that are true of almost every kid:

1. They don't know how good they've got it, what with that not having to worry about bills and stuff;
2. They think work is fun.

Combine the two and you've got  'Your First Sweatshop.'

Instruction Manual!

Cute l'il Hello Kitty Sewing Machine!

According to this site, kids can learn to sew as early as six years old, but I bet your kids are smarter and more talented than most, so you can start 'em even earlier!  Plus little hands and young eyes are probably better for all delicate beading and  handiwork anyway.  If they give you any lip, just have everyone playact like Hello Kitty - who doesn't have a mouth.

As for me and Mr. Boy, we're not exchanging gifts this year.  The only thing I want for Christmas is to sleep late, spend a day with my husband on the couch eating cookies, and maybe a shoebox full of hundred dollar bills left on my doorstep.

Happy Holidays, everyone!

...

Don't forget! Will and I will be at Bar Lubitsch at 8pm this Monday, December 17th if any LA blogfolk want to come hang out, and see what a cheap date I become after working for fourteen hours straight! If you don't see us in the front room, make sure to check out the back (there's a room behind the bathrooms.)

Strawberry Crush.

According to  everyone, it's Blog Crush Day.  Alas, I cannot reveal a Blog Crush (minus my husband, of course) because I can't remember the last time I stopped to read a blog, much less develop a crush on it. Life has been sans commercials lately. Workworkworkpicketworkwritepicketworkbloggroceryshopwalkdogworkblogvlogwaitisthatmyhusbandwork.  I barely have enough time to pee.  So instead of actual content, today I'll just provide a few old photos that others have deemed crushworthy.

I can be further Flickr-stalked here.

...

 

Now on to blog hatecrushes! She called me fat.  Purchasing her recently-expired domain name: dick move or the ultimate in nerd revenge?

...

Don't forget! Will and I will be at Bar Lubitsch at 8pm this Monday, December 17th if any LA blogfolk want to come hang out, and see what a cheap date I become after working for fourteen hours straight! If you don't see us in the front room, make sure to check out the back (there's a room behind the bathrooms.)  Also, no matter what Will tells you, I do think handjobs are cheating.  Unless he pays for it, and then it's just business.  Feel free to email me for details.  (About the meetup, for handjobs you're on your own.)

Faith.

A honk and a screech of tires against the street outside makes me think that someone's driving a getaway car.  I'd say I hope that they're getting away from something good, but that would defeat the purpose of getting away.

Speaking of getting away, it's being reported that Diablo Cody and her husband Jonny split up.  Supposedly journalists first took notice that her "Jonny's Girl" tattoo was missing, as apparently we now catalog the inkwork of press darlings.  I'd say that such people have way too much time on their hands, but then again, I have a blog.

Upon finding out about the breakup, Will said to me

Are you going to break up with me when you become successful?

I looked at him.  Baby, please.  What're the chances of that happening?

Tomás and I discussed the ups and downs of this business while we picketed today, how it can be - hell, it is -  incredibly difficult to stay upbeat and open maintain creative energy and focus when times are tough.  Regardless of whether or not you believe in any higher power, faith is something you need in this business. Faith in yourself, faith in your ability to persevere, faith in your talent.  The one thing I tell anyone who wants to be an actor or a director or a writer is that you can be amazing and talented and work your ass off and never get a shot.  Or you can get a shot and do amazing things and then never get another shot.  You just never know how it's going to work out.

Will and I just celebrated our seven month wedding anniversary.  Which came a few weeks after our one-year anniversary of dating, which came a few weeks after our one-year anniversary of meeting.  We like to keep track of these things, because it's a source of endless amusement.

Longtime readers know that professionally, things have been incredibly rough for the past three or so years.  Add to that a big breakup and a move and, well, faith had been in short supply 'round these parts for a good long time.

Talking to Tomás reminded me about this, reminded me that I'm not the only one who feels this way, and that I'm not the only one who's hit a rough patch.  Things with Will haven't totally been a cakewalk, and while lately my time is short and I imagine my patience is shorter, he reminds me to have faith.  Not just in us, but in myself.

Things have been tough.  It's not that they've gotten any easier.  To be honest, with the demands on my time and my energy, going from 4:45am 'til midnight some days, it's actually been tougher.  I am exhausted, the apartment is filthy, I survive off sandwiches made by a wonderful wife of a Teamster and cookies baked by the Strike Captain's wife that are brought to the picket line.  I haven't gotten any proper exercise in ages, minus the eight-to-twelve hours I'm on my feet.  Our finances dictate that there will be no Christmas gifts exchanged this year.  I should be miserable.  I should feel worse.  But for the first time in ages, I finally have faith that it's gonna be okay.

...

Blogger night is back on, although we don't have a room reserved or anything of the sort.  Will and I will be at Bar Lubitsch at 8pm this Monday, December 17th if any blogfolk want to meet up.  If you don't see us in the front room, make sure to check out the back (there's a room behind the bathrooms.) I'll send around an email to those who were interested...