the slack daily

Liar.

I remember a conversation I participated in (maybe it was on Consumating?) where someone asked

what do you do when you can't stand yourself? 

When I chimed in with some suggestions, someone responded:

I have a hard time seeing you that way. It makes me think that everything you write is a lie. 

I remember being shocked, because I the one thing I strive for when I blog or interact with someone online is a sense of honesty.  I know there are times I could be funnier, I could be more dramatic, I could make myself look better, but for me, the one thing I adore about this medium more than anything else is that I want it in some way to be relatable.   I'm always pleased when someone tells me you are exactly like your blog.  It means that while I'm letting you look through the Viewfinder lens, that brief snapshot helps shows the bigger picture. 

I've been thinking about it a lot today, as I sit here in front of the computer knowing that I should be somewhere else right now, and if not there, I should be doing forty-three different things that do not include updating this blog.  I was at the gym today, running on the treadmill, trying to rewire my brain to get over this crushing sense of STUFF that looms over me.  As I wrote to my husband today

Every single moment of every single day I feel like I should be working on something, because there is always something I have to do.  If I'm not at work, I should be doing my Flixster stuff for extra money.  If I'm not working on Flixster stuff, I should be blogging at one of my two blogs. If I'm not blogging, I should be at the gym.  If I'm not at the gym, I should be picketing.  If I'm not picketing, I should be washing the floors, cleaning the bathroom, doing the laundry, paying bills, finishing thank you cards, working on the other two writing projects that have been completely ignored since the PAW came up, etc. I'm adding another job to the list (which I have to, because the fact is I can't cover my bills on what I make and I don't want to start piling on debt again.)  At the end of the day, I am always left feeling like a failure because I didn't even nearly get enough done.

I know that people do this - they're called parents - and that's precisely why I can't have kids.  I can deal with stress when it's localized - a script due in two days? No problem.  Gotta find a place to live by next week?  Sure.  Need to run a sick dog to the vet at 3am?  I'm out the door. 

While I'm eating better and working out more, my nails are ragged and my skin is dull and I need a proper haircut and color.   Thankfully, these are the sort of problems that will benefit by a band-aid in the form of a bottle of Vamp, a box of Feria and a pair of scissors.

I could drop something, let something go, but my thought is that the one thing that slips through my fingers, the one opportunity I let do by is the one thing that could make everything a little bit easier.  That's not a chance I'm willing to take.   

I'm being interviewed by a fabulous woman for the Adopt-a-Writer project, and one of the questions she asked was what would people be surprised by most as your life as a writer?  Currently the answer would be panic, exhaustion, and the frequency of nervous breakdowns.   (Don't worry K., this won't be my actual answer.  Well, it will, just a bit more eloquent.)

Of course, at the end of the day, this is all a choice.  My choice.

I have to remind myself of that on days like today.

That's no lie.

Wednesday, Quickly...

Another one of those not-post posts:

1.  Why were these not available when I was mailing thank-you cards for the wedding?

(Via Laughing Squid.)

2. If I do not have an opportunity to buy and wear this dress, I will die.

(From Les Habitudes.)

3.  The starting lineup for Puppy Bowl IV has been announced!

(Via my husband's Twitter.)

Scenes From Hollywood, Part 38423984.

Yesterday I worked the early shift at the gym.  Now the gym I work at is tiny: three studios (one for spinning, one for ellipticore, and one for yoga) plus Women's and Men's Locker rooms.  That's it.  You have to walk by the front desk to check in, and since nothing is computerized, you have to interact with the front desk staff to get to your class.  (Unless you're Brandon Davis, who just hands you a hundred dollar bill and assumes you know what to do with it.)

In addition to that, there's only five people who work the front desk, and three who cover the morning shifts: younger slackbrother j., me, and D., who has one arm, so there shouldn't be an issue in telling us apart.  Most people who take classes at the gym - most Hollywood-types, most perfectly nice - have gotten to know us over the years (or in my case, 6+ months) so we chit-chat when they arrive.  Yesterday, one of my favorite clients, one of the founders of the Bill Foundation, showed up with a copy of Sunday's New York Times.

Oh my god, Nina! she exclaimed.

A few seconds later, a well-known actress walked in the door.  Nina, I saw you-- she spots the copy of the newspaper on the counter --I saw this yesterday!  That's so cool!  We all chatted for a moment about the craziness of the industry when another client entered.  A woman who I am endlessly cheerful toward, but who acts like I don't even exist.  The two women I talked to turned to the new arrival - an art collector - and showed her the paper. 

Look, Nina's in the paper!

The art collector attempted to furrow her botox'd brow.  Who's Nina?

The first two clients looked at me, confused. Um, Nina? one of them said helpfully, motioning toward me.

I waved and smiled.  That would be me.

She looked at the paper, looked at me, shrugged and walked away, leaving the other two women standing there, horrified.

I shrugged. Hooray for Hollywood!

...

In other news, I've finally uploaded some of the photos from our wedding, which you can check out in all their glory here.  Hey, it's only taken me eight-and-a-half months.  Now if I could just finish the rest of the thank-you cards, I'll be set...

Sunday's New York Times.

If there's one thing the strike has taught me, it's that being interviewed is always nerve wracking.  A week ago today, I spoke to reporter  Melena Ryzik - babbled, more like it - on what it's like to be a striking writer with a real job. Or three real jobs. (Soon four real jobs, I picked up a Sunday gig.)

The interview comes out in the Arts Section in tomorrow's New York Times, but if you look at first page of the Arts Section online, you may notice something(one) who looks familiar...

The full interview (and photo, thanks to Tomás!) starts here. 

It's Your Turn to Rub the Nipples.

It's been chilly in Los Angeles so we've turned the heat on at the Detective Agency.  The building's heater is as rocky Britney Spears' grip on reality, so the temperature inside the apartment range from Arctic to Third-Circle-of-Hell.   

The result is that we're all suffering from a bit of dry skin, but none so much as Daisy.  While most of her coat remains silky smooth, her belly -and most specifically, her nipples - get flaky and scaly, which makes her itch.  The itching makes her scratch.  She'll scratch 'til the point where her belly bleeds.  Which will make her stop scratching - for a second.  And then the cycle repeats.

Of course, she doesn't do this during the day.  Daytime is spend curled up, snoozing in her crate or next to me on the couch or next to Will at his computer.  No, scratchytime is reserved for 1am, after we've drifted into a light slumber.  Night after night we wake up to thump-thump-thump-thump as her hind leg beats out a staccato rhythm.  To say that it's keeping us up is the apex of understatement.

We've added flax oil and pumpkin to her food.  We bathe her in the nectar of virgin goats.  We've tried the humidifier to add some moisture to the air.  But the only thing that seems to give her - and as a result, us - any relief is Udderly Smooth Udder Cream.  Every night before we go to bed, one of us calls for the Wonderdog and rubs the thick, goopy white cream into Daisy's nipples.

But sometimes we forget.  And it's those moments, when a sleepy Will reaches for me in the middle of the night, when his warm breath whispers sweetly in my ear:

I thought it was your turn to rub the nipples.

If someone bugged the Detective Agency, there's no question that we'd be arrested for something.

Lazy/Laser Blogging.

Posting chat transcripts is almost as lazy as posting bulleted lists when it comes to blogging.

But I'm lazy today.

Enjoy.

A Typical Conversation Betwixt Me & My Husband:

backtobattan: It's like she's trying to shoot lazers from her eyes but they won't workbut she's constantly trying

3:40 PM stop the car, that the funniest thing I'll ever say

3:42 PM backtobattan: Crack myself up

3:46 PM backtobattan: I quit being funny now

 I'm also pretending to shoot lazers

 me: From your eyes?

 at whom?

 backtobattan: just around, with my eyes

3:47 PM me: But surely with some purpose?

 backtobattan: just bouncing around the cube

 or gleaming it

 me: I would shoot lasers at people

 maybe at a safe

3:48 PM backtobattan: they might burn

 me: the safe will burn

 blow open the safe, take the moneybags

 backtobattan: That's a common hero misconception, you can't control your lazers, they just burn shit up

3:50 PM me: How do you know?

 Besides, some of the money has to survive

 If you blow up 50 million dollars then 25 million probably survives

 half is fine with me

 backtobattan: I give these things a lot of thought

 me: Think about a bomb

3:51 PM the correct placement of a bomb decides what blows up

 A laser doesn't cut through everything 'til eternity.  Something survives.

3:52 PM backtobattan: yes but you can control the amount of explosive and direction of blast. For an eye lazer to go through steel at close range you have to expect it will go through the back of the safe, through the wall and into the next room.

 Unless you're telling me that they have precision eye lazers

 which i don't buy

3:53 PM me: But what's the diameter of the ray?

 it's small, yes?

 backtobattan: the standard Superman II size

 me: so imagine you run it on the bottom of the safe __________

3:54 PM then you cut the sides

 not in the middle, at the edges

 on maybe even on edge

 and then the top

 or you cut a door in the middle

 it destroys everything BEHIND it, but not the stuff to the side

3:55 PM backtobattan:  just don't think that an organ like an eyeball, even a lazer eyeball is capable of precise cuts like that.

 me: actually a door in the middle is prolly best, as cutting along the sides would damage the safe deposit boxes with the moneybags and jewels

 fine, then you measure and practice

 and figure out how far back you have to stand to blow off the front of the safe

 but not the back.    the problem is that you want it all now now now and I'm all about patience and figuring out how to master it so I can use my laser eyes to my advantage

 3:56 PM backtobattan: keep dreaming

 can't be done

me: prove it 3:57 PM backtobattan: fine, I'll get lazer eyes

 me: Good luck, does that come before or after paying DWP?

Fight For It.

I was just getting in my car when I checked my phone and noticed a tweet from the JustJENN which read

The Joker - Heath Ledger- is dead?! WHAT!?

That can't be right,  I thought, and I drove home through the drizzle, wondering if she was talking about the new Batman movie, perhaps?  Does the Joker die at the end?  I let myself in the apartment and before I let Daisy out of her crate, I went to my computer.

Heath Ledger, dead at 28.

I found Daisy and walked her through the rain, wondering why I was so upset.  Sure, I thought his work in Brokeback Mountain was great but I wasn't really a fan.  As I poked around on my blogroll, I discovered that a lot of people were experiencing the same sort of shock.

We aren't surprised to hear about a Brad Renfro, but Heath Ledger takes us aback.  But the lesson is this:  those who appear to have it all  - looks, fame, success, money -  can still feel as if they have nothing.  It's one of those uniting moments of our humanness.  We all know joy, but we all also know sorrow.   You'd be hard-pressed to find someone who hasn't experienced utter, gut-wrenching hopelessness. 

Now everyone has a different take on what they find hopeless.  I once knew a man who came to work after the funeral of his mother but needed a week off and therapy to get over the death of his dog.  We can judge what is worthy through our own personal filter.  I know that I'm guilty of doing so, especially when I read blogs.  Will will vouch for this, as he hears my irritated voice calling out you'll never believe what she's bitching about now, she might as well be saying boo-hoo I have too much money feel sorry for me!  But everyone's got that dark place.  And for some of us, that darkness has no other side.

There's no news on whether the overdose was accidental or intentional. 

The other lesson is this: life is fleeting.  Cliched, but true.  A few years back I was living the proverbial high life, collecting residuals, occasionally working, living in a big fancy house on the hill, playing WoW and throwing cocktail parties.  Now I'm working three part-time jobs and considering a fourth (on Sundays!), I'm running two blogs, I have a punishing workout program, I'm attempting to get in my 12-15 hours of picketing a week (currently failing miserably) and oh, yeah, there's that whole business of living: grocery shopping, doing laundry, hanging out with my husband, walking the dog. 

We all have stories like this.  I'll admit that there have been times, even recently, where I've collapsed in an exhausted, weepy heap and declared that I'm hopeless.  I just can't do it anymore.  But after those moments (or, erm, days), I pick myself up and dust myself off and vow to work just that much harder.  Survival isn't just to get us through post-apocalyptic times.  It's also to get us through today.

Because fighting for it?  That's the essence of our humanness, too.

 

 

Easily Annoyed.

Some people get annoyed by bad drivers or people on cell phones at the gym.  While such issues register on my radar, it's just as easy for me to tune them out.  However, there are some things I just absolutely, totally, one-hundred-freaking-percent can not get over.

Manners.

I'm not talking elbows off the table, using the right fork or the correct stemware (says the girl who drinks champagne out of a juice glass), but some common-sense basics.

Say thank you. I don't think that ever good deed demands a handwritten note inked in blood and sent via carrier pigeon, but I don't think it's too much to expect an email thanking the giver for their kindness. 

Bring something if you're asked. If the invitation requests that you BYOB, or a dish to pass, bring a what you're drinking or a dish to pass.  And while we're on the subject...

Bring something, part two.  If it's a gift occasion (wedding, birthday, etc.), unless you have been specifically told not to bring anything, bring something.  That doesn't mean big or expensive.  One of my favorite gifts from the wedding is a hand-written note a friend wrote us. 

RSVP.  Sooner than the day of the party, please.  In the age of Evite, I'm shocked at how many people don't RSVP at all.

People who use the "I'm just brutally honest"  as an excuse to be an asshole.  If you're trying to hurt someone's feelings, have the nuts to go for it.  But don't couch an insult or character assassination as "telling it like it is."  It's called tact. 

Everything is empowering.

Don't get me wrong, I love the idea of empowerment (although I hate the word.)  Shining a light on those who have remained in the dark, not only accepting but inviting those who have felt marginalized or ostracized truly is progress.   Knowing who you are and choosing what to do with your life and your body, and feeling good and strong about that is a wonderful thing.  But sometimes it feels like the 'empowering' choice is taken in lieu of actually examining the choices we make, or why we feel what we feel.

But now everything is automatically empowering, without looking for the reasoning behind it. Taking your clothes off for money is empowering.   No-strings-attached fucking is empowering.  You-Go-Girl (and Boy) bravado - nothing's wrong with me, they're clearly the ones who are screwed up - is empowering. 

While I don't believe in constantly blaming yourself for everything that goes wrong, the fact is that we are formed by our choices.  And we don't always make the rights ones. But the Empowerment Pendulum seems to have swung so far that instead of taking some responsibility when we make the bad choice, we  celebrate as Not My Fault.  A friendship break up?  They're mental.  The boy likes her and not you?  She's a whore.  You go on a date and it doesn't work out? They're messed up! 

Sometimes things aren't empowering.  They just are.

Naturally, I'm positive that I have been guilty of all of these at one point or another.  In fact, I am about to write a letter of apology to one couple who is still gracious and kind enough to extend me their friendship even though I haven't been the best friend back.  I'd prefer to be perfect, but for right now I'll have to settle for being a self-aware shitheel. I'm working on it.  But before I do that, I have to go brush my teeth.  My teeth which could lead an Army, they're so damned empowered.

 

The Clip Show!

The Daily Randi goes all High School Musical in Church.

AgentLover is back, and has questions for Michael Ian Black.

My husband has to roll for agility in his performance review.  But what about charisma?

I institute the Post-Apocalyptic Workout Home Game!

Enjoy...

More Fun in Tinseltown.

Remember when my manager's assistant asked hey, do you have a blog?  (If not, go here.)

Well, a few short days after the New Year, I saw that he had sent me an email.  Odd, I thought, as he rarely sends email (or uses the Internet, as evidenced by his juno.com address.) 

Maybe this is a brand new year, I thought.  Maybe this is the year something's set up, maybe this is the year that it doesn't take eight months to set a meeting and when we do go into the meeting we'll be prepared and it won't be like that time that we were expected to pitch an entire series in the room for a line of toys we had never seen before, maybe this is the year where he follows up on meetings after we've followed up the most we can, maybe this is the year when we do the research on what's selling where and ask him for an introduction that he doesn't ignore the request and then tell us, eight weeks later that his 'phone call wasn't returned' or that he 'doesn't know anyone.' 

Maybe, just maybe, this is the year, I thought.

I clicked on the email:

One day, when I was a freshman in high school, I saw a kid from my class was walking home from school. His name was Kyle.It looked like he was carrying all of his books...

(The rest can be read here.)

The email continued:

It's National Friendship Week. Show your friends how much you care. Send this to everyone you consider a FRIEND.

If it comes back to you, then you'll know you have a circle of friends. WHEN YOU RECEIVE THIS LETTER, YOU'RE REQUESTED TO SEND IT TO AT LEAST 10 PEOPLE, INCLUDING THE PERSON WHO SENT IT TO YOU.

...

Curious, said Older SlackBrother J., that our career makes him think of suicide.

Needless to say, I didn't send it back.