July 26, 2010

Thanks, Mel

From an unnamed production office for an undisclosed television show in an address-withheld building in LA where the elevators are shockingly slow...

Sometimes, like the moms I used to nanny for who would call me at 8 o'clock in the morning because they had been up since 5:30 and had lost all sense of what time girls in their early twenties- me- might arise on any given morning, I feel as though I no longer have a clear sense of the world outside my own office world.  We focus a lot on pop culture for our show, so last weekend when I was at a bachelorette party and one of the very smart and nice girls said, "Is it true that that Heidi girl from The Hills had a lot of plastic surgery?  I thought I saw that on Yahoo..." I had to stop myself from naming- off the top of my head- every procedure that that girl Heidi had, and also refrained from adding details like what high school I know her creepy TV husband Spencer went to.  I often forget that just because every man, woman, and intern on our show can detail things like what time Lindsay Lohan arrived at court last week (six minutes late, you guys!) and what she ate for dinner her first night in jail (well, actually, some news outlets reported that it was turkey tetrazzini while others called it a turkey casserole), that's not something that people with real jobs necessarily follow or take any interest in.

All of this is to say that I have no idea whether anyone else has listened to the recordings of Mel Gibson yelling at his baby mama.  In my office, for example, once we've all staggered into work for the morning, if there's a new tape, we play it from the big TV/computer in our office and invite people in to join us as we listen to it in its entirety.  Then we quote it all day to each other, and if you haven't listened at all, you can get a sense here of some of the more delightful material from the earlier tapes.  So when I ask office mate for a stapler and he says no because I look like a bitch in heat and he's going to burn my house down, and I find it disturbingly hilarious, I become slightly concerned that by the time I leave here I will have lost any sense of appropriate communication among colleagues.  When telling someone that I will put them in a f*cking rose garden seems like a good answer to whether or not I want to go buy lunch with them, I think I need an HR check.  Or a new job.  Where I might be given some slack for yelling profanities.  And then laughing at my own inappropriate joke.

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