the slack daily

(wo)Man vs. Self

 

I'm working on it.

The Next Step.

Woke up at 4:50am.
On the road to Santa Monica by 5:20am.
Three blocks away from the preferred parking (which I shelled out an extra $20 for) at 6:10am.
The half-marathon was supposed to begin at 7:00am.

We were told that preferred parking was going to close at 6:30am. We had 20 minutes to go three blocks. Will had to pee so I let him out and told him I'd meet him at the starting line.

At 6:48am I reached preferred parking. I was told by the race official that it was closed. We were dead-ended at the beach, so I asked him where else I could find parking. "On South Venice" he told me and then waves me away. There was a line of cars behind me who were about to be told the same thing.

I turned down an alley and grabbed my phone. I didn't know where South Venice was - I don't go to Venice. A car behind me honked and I realized the entire traffic jam was coming my way.

At 6:58am I was two miles from the starting line with no place to park. The lots were either full or unattended, the street parking filled up with the extra 2,500 people who were running the race that morning.

At 7:05am, I finally parked - a half a mile from the starting line.

I texted Will. "I don't think I'm going to make it." There weren't any other racers around me, I was stranded and the race had begun five minutes ago.

I admit: I started to cry. I had trained and gotten up early and because of parking - something that I had planned for by getting there with plenty of time and paying extra for preferred parking - and it didn't look like it was gonna happen.

"They haven't started yet," Will texted back. "I can not run," he continued.

"No, go," I texted back. "I'll figure it out."

I sprinted toward the starting line (.63 miles I learned later) and got there just as the horn was going off. I ran straight into the corral of runners and began my 13.1 miles out of breath, frazzled, and really having to pee.

I used the facilities (aka, race porta-potties, aka gross central) at Mile 2. Relieved (in more ways than one) I just decided that while my goal was to come in under three hours (I was hoping to run an average of a 13-minute mile) I would be happy just to finish.

I ran the first four miles, then walked through the water/electrolyte station.

At Mile 6 my back seized up. I started to run/walk.

At Mile 8 my feet started to hurt.

At Mile 10 I told myself "now you just have a 5k to finish."

At Mile 12 I restarted my playlist, because I was pretty sure that I would hit the Dirtbombs "Wreck My Flow" which would take me to the finish line. If the Dirtbombs don't make you want to move, then there's something wrong with you.

At Mile 12.5 I realized that I was going to hit the song early. I unhooked my iPod.

Repeat.

Repeat.

At Mile 13 I saw Will.

Repeat.

I finished at 2:45:10 - a full 15 minutes better than I thought I would.

I still don't consider myself a runner. I don't particularly like it, but I appreciate the lesson. Place one foot in front of the other. Remind yourself not to worry about however many miles lie ahead, but just the next step.

The Dirtbombs "Wreck My Flow"

Present and Produce.

Two blog ladies who I really love - Sizzle and the Hollywood Housewife - put their new year's resolutions in the form of a mantra or an intention, something that is an overall guiding principle for the 365 (366?) days ahead.

The last six months has a whirlwind. The second half of 2011 saw me getting back into the writing game full-time as I made my return to tween TV on the new Nickelodeon show How to Rock (premiering February 4!) I went from noodling around on a couple of scripts to run-throughs and tape nights and the writers' room and a regular paycheck and other exciting developments that I will have to share with you at a later date.

I find that I require a lot of downtime. Or I think I require a lot of downtime. I tune out "to think" and "to work on a new idea" and while I do that, about 10% of the time is spent thinking the rest is literally in a time-suck that finds me coming to two hours later leaving comments on strange Tumblrs.

So my intention for the year is to be present and produce. Whether it's scripts or blog posts, whether it's miles run or time spent with Will (rather than time spent next to Will on our respective laptops on our respective projects and respective Twitters.)

Of course, we won't be producing any offspring. My uterus will retain its amateur/Olympic Hopeful status.

Here's wishing you everything you could possibly want in 2012, by granting you the wherewithal to actually go after it.

Hearts,

sm

Say Goodnight, Gracie.

In the late 70s, George Burns starred in Oh God and Oh God, Book II. The movies were in a constant loop on cable a summer later. My brother Jeremy and I watched them over and over (and over and over) until we could recite them from memory. One day, my mom had had enough.

It wasn't that we were spending our summer inside, planted on a scratchy wool cushions of the sofa and slurping back Pepsi Lights, but that George Burns was so much more than what we were seeing.

That evening she took us out for our favorite candy (chocolate covered raisins for me, something gummy-ike for Jer, I think) and then we crowded around the glow of the TV for the "Burns and Allen Show." During commerical breaks Mom told us about  Gracie Allen and George Burns rose through the ranks of vaudeville, then radio, then television.

It was in black and white and it looked old even on our new TV, but I remember being so awed at the fact that something that was written so long ago could still make me laugh and Gracie Allen was probably the first truly funny woman I had ever seen.   

Later that year, our 4th grade teacher at Ben Franklin School (Mrs. Keen?) taught us how to write formal letters. The assignment was to pick people you looked up to, and ask them for an autographed picture. She would take care of sending the letters off.

The year was 1982, and most kids chose to write the cast of Star Wars.

My mom told me that Gracie Allen died before I was born, so I chose to write to George Burns.

Over the next few months, letters would come back in care of Ben Franklin School. Autographed photos of Mark Hamill and Harrison Ford and Carrie Fisher. And then one day, an envelope came for me.

I forgot about the letter until yesterday, when a package arrived on my doorstep from SlackMom. 

 

Dear Nina

Thank you for the nice letter. I'm just sorry I couldn't get around to answering it sooner. I'm very honored that you chose me. I thought a letter would be nicer than a picture.

It's nice to know that today, kids still look up to someone. It's a nice feeling. I had my heroes when I was young. Abe Lincoln. Thomas Jefferson. I knew Jefferson personally. That's a joke.

I'm not really that old. I'm older. Anyway, sweetie, stay happy and healthy.

Love

George Burns

 

He sent it from Hollywood Center Studios Which is not far from where I spend my days writing comedy now.

Thank you, Mr. Burns. And goodnight, Gracie.*

*Lizzie McGuire won a Gracie Allen Award for comedy in 2003. How cool is that?

Things I Learned While Watching Pretty in Pink.

• That first outfit that Andie wears was my dream outfit that I attempted to recreate (poorly.) I don't think there re pictures, although I rocked the vest CONSTANTLY and did a lot of boxy jackets with pins.


• If you didn't want to be Annie Potts character Iona in Pretty in Pink when you grew up, then we wouldn't have been friends in High School.


• Iona talks about her friend missing Prom... "She realized nothing was missing...it was side effects from missing the Prom." WHICH IS WHY I WENT TO PROM STAG.


• I coveted that pink Kharmann Ghia. I now drive a pink Mini Cooper.


• I met director Howard Deutch at a party a couple of weeks ago. I tried not to fan out, so I turned to talk to the person he was with. His wife.


• Watching Andie listen to her messages from Duckie reminded me what a big deal it was to get a phone in my room. The phone jack was there...I just wasn't allowed a phone of my own until I was in 8th grade.

• I modded my gym suit my freshman year. I think there were boxer shorts with a ruffle that I wore under my gym shorts.


• I'm still a Duckie girl. (I married mine.)

OPERATION RESOLUTION!

It's the most wonderful time of the year to discover how we irrevocably screwed up the past three hundred and sixty-some days. Wasted hours, ruined relationships, missed opportunities litter the halls with a bloated fat man in a diaper who was way cuter when he was Baby New Year 2010.

Usually the only thing I resolve to do is floss, because it's the sort of resolution I can handle: cheap, easy, and it only takes a couple of minutes.*

But I'm trying something new for this year. This year, we're gonna crowdsource that shit.

What should my resolutions be? Professional, personal, vegetable or mineral, it's up to you. Leave 'em in the comments - or - if you prefer to be anonymous, you can drop me a line here on my Tumblr (anonymous question enabled.)

I'll post the best ones (or all of them, or the ones I'm going to attempt, or whatever the hell I want) on January 1, 2011. 

 

 

 

*Insert sex joke here.**
**Insert sex joke about inserting here.***
***Insert sex joke about inserting here.****
****Prepare for sex joke event horizon.

CATS ARE EVIL, or How I Twitter Through Anything

If you think you've broken your ankle*, I suggest you do it on Twitter.

 

 

Thanks to everyone who kept me company (and kept me laughing): Virginia, Caissie, Gene George, Nutcase, John, Miss Grace, LateandSoon, Mocoddle and finally NOVYSAN for realizing he was closer to me than Will was and picking me up and taking me to the ER.

 

*It was only a bad sprain. The nurse was shocked. I HAVE BONES OF STEEL.

Why I'll Die in the Zombie Apocalypse But That's Okay Because Chances Are You'll Already Be a Zombie By Then, Too.

So last night was the premiere of the much-anticipated Walking Dead, which began with a law enforcement official shooting a little zombie girl holding a stuffed bunny*.

Will: They don't waste any time, do they?

Me: She was a zombie, it's what you do.

I will have to turn in my Nerd Card when I admit that I haven't read the graphic novel. Not by choice, it's just that usually when I remember things I want to buy/read/see I am nowhere near a place to buy/read/see them. When I heard that Walking Dead was going to be made into a series I decided I wouldn't read the source material, but go back afterwards and see if there was anything I missed. I'm a completist that way. (You can give me my Nerd Card back now.)

Watching disaster movies (which while they skew horror, you could argue that they're easily disaster movies as well) always make me wonder how I'd react in the same scenario. I realized that while Will and I had discussed our wishes for what happens to us after we die or have to go on life support (Will has said he wants the plug pulled as soon as his pants go out of fashion), but we hadn't discussed what happens after we become undead.

I told Will that I would be upset if he didn't shoot me when I became a zombie. Unless I was a hot zombie, because then I'd want him to first take photo to show everyone what a hot zombie I made. Then he could shoot me. Never turn down a decent photo op.

But if we didn't end up zombies, what then?

But it's moments like these that I am reminded of a not-so-long-ago project of mine called the Post-Apocalyptic Workout, in which I was documenting my prep work for the Zombie Apocalypse.

Everyone always imagines themselves the hero but let's face it, most of us aren't. Most of us are just the hangers-on looking for someone to tell us what to do and then arguing when they tell us what we don't want to hear.  Like how I shouldn't go back for me dog.

This is why I'm going to die during the Zombie Apocalypse: I'm going back for my dog.

Will and I have a joke that's not really a joke but we say it in that ha-ha way which means this is serious but we're going to pretend it's not that we can both walk, so saving Daisy is our number one priority in any situation. Daisy is not Lassie. She will not pull you out of the well and call you an ambulance and mix you a drink at the end of a long day.

No, Daisy is the con artist of dogs, making you feel like you are the most important thing in her world at any given time. Daisy hates cats and dogs and squirrels, but Daisy does one thing better than any other animal on the planet, and that is that she LOVES YOU AND ONLY YOU.

In our ragtag group of survivors, when people would be going on about their parents and their kids and their wounded (listen, if zombies movies have taught me anything, it's that you gotta shoot the  wounded), I will wave that all off and say dasvidaniya, suckers I'm not leaving my dog who won't protect us from the zombies and in fact probably draw the zombies to us because her penchant for butt chewing sounds like Darth Vader attached to a Hoover vaccum so you'd better go on without us.

In summation: The Walking Dead is awesome and when my inevitable zombiefying happens in the apocalypse**, please do me a favor and take me down in one shot.

 

*The only moment of cringe-worthiness for me was when Mr. Law Enforcement Official co-opted a horse to ride into the city. I knew it wasn't going to end well. And it didn't. (Although you could argue that it ended well for the zombies.)

You asshole! I screamed at the TV while Will reminded me that it wasn't a real horse.

**This means IF I AM ACTUALLY A ZOMBIE. Not if I tell you I feel like a zombie or if I'm just sleepy. I have to be eating actual human*** brains.

***Clarified because I have been know to eat non-human brains.

It Gets Better.

He used to tell me that I smelled like diapers.

He sat behind me in nearly every class in Junior High due to the cruel nature of the alphabet. He whispered sweet nothings into my ear.

You're fat. You're ugly.

You smell like diapers.

I n Miss Stebel's homeroom I ran for Homeroom President. It wasn't the top job - that was Class Representative*.  I didn't think it would make me popular, but I thought it was something.  A position. Maybe it would come with a little respect.

He decided to run against me.

I ran a campaign. There were posters and 3-minute speech written on index cards. I wore a skirt and my hair in a bun and felt presidential.

He went up there and said "Vote for Me" and sat back down and continued his barrage of insults as I sat, smiling back the intense feeling of shame that I could feel radiating out from every pore.

He won.

...

He ran into someone I know recently.

He is balding and paunchy and imagines himself a writer.

He doesn't do anything even remotely writer-like.

When my name was brought up, he said "oh yeah, I remember her."

He would love to do what I do.

Maybe when he pops up, I won't remember him.

Life has a way of working itself out.

I'm 38 years old...and it gets better.

 

*I ended up winning Class Representative in Seventh Grade because there were no popular people in my class. I would go to Student Council meetings early so I could pick out my seat before the popular people got there. Because if I got there after they did, the only choice I would have was to sit down next to them. And then they would proceed to slide their chairs to the other side of the room. 

I ran for Vice-President of Student Council at the end of Seventh Grade, hoping still that I could change things from the inside. When I lost...again...I decided that I would stop concentrating on an group that truly didn't want me and start devoting my time to friends who did.

 

(Crossposted to my Tumblr.)

A Love Letter.

At some point, we may have met. At a panel, at a conference, at a meetup, at my house.

We may have crossed paths holding bourbons in a dark, crowded bar, or clutching margaritas in our house. You may have been invited for a cocktail party, for our Christmas Potluck, for no particular reason except that we met you and weren't embarrassed to say YES WE WANT YOU TO BE OUR FRIENDS.

People are still laughing at the Internet. I'm still saying there are so many people that I have been privileged to meet (and have over to our house!) and there is still a host of people that make me think I need to purchase more glassware.

This is not a love letter to the Internet. The Internet is a tool.

This is a love letter to the people who have learned to use that tool.

You have made my life so wonderfully full that I'm fit to burst.

If you think this is about you...you're probably right.