Casual Friday the 13th

From an unnamed university in the greater San Francisco Bay Area...

I've briefly mentioned before that people in this office don't care how they look, myself included. Because of the outreach aspect of my job, I do sometimes have to care how I look, namely when I am out in the field recruiting for our program.

I've also cared yesterday and today, because it's Orientation. I'm showered, I'm wearing my makeup and clothes I did not pull off the floor of my bedroom this morning, as well as somewhat uncomfortable shoes with pointy toes. I may or may not be wearing a blazer. Officemate stepped it up somewhat, but she is of the "eff you if you don't like the way I'm dressed; I'm good at my job" disposition, so she's not as fancy-professional as she could be.

My boss tries to look nice, but for various reasons, always looks disheveled. Hair a mess, makeup apparently applied by a fourteen-year-old in the dark, shoes that in no way go with what she's wearing. It's par for the course. I know I've mentioned the red sweatshirt with the saxophone player she wore at my interview before, and while today's outfit is better than that, I don't think it necessarily conveys the level of put-together professionalism someone in her position should display.

Despite this, she really cares about how other things look. She has more than once lectured me about my appearance; and I really had to choke back laughter during that talk, because despite my lack of effort in that area, I can't explain how much bigger fish she has to fry in our department, and like I said, I think I do know how and when to step it up.

Today, she's upset because there aren't tablecloths to put on the tables before we put boxes of pizza and cans of soda on top of them. Never mind that our whole damn department seems to be imploding and I've come the closest I've ever come to saying "I quit" and walking out the door in the middle of the day, no, it's the lack of tablecloths that's the problem.

But I am not writing to complain about my boss. Oh no, I am writing to congratulate my colleague, who said to me after hearing the tablecloth lecture (why the admissions coordinator is responsible for procuring of tablecloths is beyond me), "for someone who doesn't brush her hair, she sure cares a lot about aesthetics."

If same sex marriage were legal in this state (booooooooooooooooooooooo, jerks), I would have proposed right then and there.

Bad Ride

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

 
Forgive me, dear friends, for my absence (is something I've been saying here a lot lately).  Here's the thing:

When I was 19, my parents were getting divorced and I was living abroad in a country where I was legally allowed to drink.   This did not go well for anyone, certainly not me.  For Thanksgiving that year, my abroad group gathered, I contributed peanut butter and banana sandwiches to the potluck, and then drank my weight in wine and Desperados (for those not classy enough to have experienced Desperados personally, they are beer with tequila in them and also what someone told me, "all the bums who live in the metro station drink").  After that I tried to make out with a boy in my group who most certainly did not like making out with girls, not even at parties, got lost, and the whole event climaxed with me getting punched in the face by a taxi driver.  Seriously- Black eye punched in the face.  I made it home, and all ended well enough.  But the thing about that story is that I've been waiting for coming up on 10 years for it to join the ranks of other goofy stories of drunken debauchery, and it's never quite made the transition.  It was just too upsetting at the time to make the leap to silly anecdote.  And that pretty much sums up what's been going on at my office this last week.  Like, if that cab driver applied for my immediate boss' position, with the odds stacked that he would once again punch me in the face, I would welcome the change.  I hold out hope that soon enough I can resume tossing off the yuck of this office, but until then I'm asking for any leads on where I can get a Desperado and a good ice pack stateside.

Super Tuesday

From an unnamed university in the greater San Francisco Bay Area...

Everyone is really bugging the shit out of me today. I know that's got to be a shock. I've been here an hour and I already think I'm either going to go home or on a murderous rampage by lunch, and this point, I can't decide which is preferable. Here's who I'm hating today:

Annoying workstudy: bitch is always singing and humming to herself. Even when I put on music. She also stands uncomfortably close to me when she's asking a question and does that nervous laugh thing after everything she says. Good workstudy hates her too. It's awesome.
Incoming students: One of them sent me an email with the phrase "please advise." I cannot explain how much I hate this phrase. I'm always tempted to advise them to eff themselves, but instead I directed this gentleman to an email Officemate sent last weekend containing the exact information he swears is not available anywhere. I have special prejudice against "please advise" because my supervisor at my internship used it all the time, essentially as code for "what the hell is this?" My friend B says it's code for "here, you deal with this shit." Either way, it's silly office-jargon and I do not care for it. I told my Dean that I hate that phrase a lot and he sent me an email with the subject heading "Advise This." He is the best.

Boss: Is at a Dr.'s appointment but keeps calling me to ask me to tell the cleaning crew who's here to do stuff; even though she was here this morning and was supposed to give them assignments. She keeps mentioning she got here at 7:30am today like she deserves some kind of prize. I'm tempted to remind her that I was here all summer and haven't taken like 30 hours of sick leave in the past two weeks, but I don't think that will benefit me in any real way.

On the plus side, I'm wearing new shoes! They're super cute. I keep looking down at them, the one bright spot in this day so far. Until lunchtime, that is.

Tyra Mail

From an unnamed university in the greater San Francisco Bay Area...

I'm working from home today and it's awesome for the following reasons:

1. I am not work
2. I am still in my pajamas
3. I've been listening to Ambrosia's Biggest Part of Me on repeat for like 20 minutes, something discouraged in my office. (I really like it when he says "Make a wish, baby...")
4. America's Next Top Model reruns are on Bravo

I don't think K and I have ever appropriately documented our love of Top Model on this blog, but god do we love it. This is the cycle where they go to Brazil, with that girl Allison who has big ole eyes and loves bloody noses.

What? You don't know what I'm talking about? You don't like that show; it's fixed and looks stupid and Tyra annoys you? Go to hell. It's incredible. Back before I moved up to this undisclosed Bay Area location, K and I and two other folk would get together to watch ANTM on a weekly, drink wine and analyze the show and its contestants. It was the closest thing to a religion we had.

So excuse me, everyone, I have to go pray.

Upright Position

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

I've constructed an inflatable slide from my second story window and filled the office mini-fridge with beer.  Get me a PA system, friends; I want to do this thing.

If yesterday was the day that Jenny the HPOA took over the internet with her dramatic "I quit," and today is the day we learned she faked it, then let us raise our glasses even higher, our voices even louder to Steven Slater whose F you was as real as it gets.  To you, sir.  You are a vision, and an inspiration, and if you need to know where to get Munchies Mix now, you let me know. 

Hero Squad

From an unnamed university in the greater San Francisco Bay Area...

I don't have much to say at the moment; everything is kind of regular around here. There's work to do, work I don't hate, and while apparently our graduate students are incapable of reading an email entitled "Registration Instructions" and call me to ask for information that is clearly and readily available in said email, their banality has yet to make for an interesting story, except for the one student who called me to verify information that he already knew. When I told him that yes, his understanding of our course registration process was indeed accurate, he replied "See, I don't really need your help at all; you're just a crutch." Waste my time and demean me? Kudos to you sir.

Anyway, things are kind of humming along here in a normal way, with no pranks or exciting events---wait!! My boss is throwing a "watch slides from my long vacation" party this week. She sent out an email inviting everyone in the office to attend and closed it out with the phrase "please feel free to wear safari attire." Oh I will feel free. I will feel so free. Generally this office is so discouraging about my beloved pith helmet and khaki separates, but this Thursday, I can live my Jumanji dreams with her blessing! So magnanimous.

Okay what was I talking about? Oh yeah, this. This girl is my new hero. (And really is a pretty serious HPOA in my opinion, even with the glasses.)

Apples to Mondays

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

This is a picture of one of the tables in the courtyard outside my building.  For whatever reason, in response to some rotten Granny Smith or Fuji or Gala, a person- presumably a professional person of some description- decided to permanently carve "F*ck Apples" into a table using an instrument of some kind, their force of will to share this message, and probably their other hand to cover up what they were doing.  Amazing.  And in the spirit of totally juvenile dislike, I say the same thing to Monday today...except I don't carve it in a table.  I do, however, use my force of will to figure out a way of sharing it that isn't just saying, "F*ck Mondays," and I do use my body to cover my computer as I type so that no one I work with realizes that not only am I not doing my job, but more than that I'm complaining about it while not performing it.  I may have better luck just carving tables.

Don't Stab Me Bro

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

Today, for a brief and glorious moment, my office mates and I left the building to go across the street.  One of my office mates, M, had a friend who was shooting an episode of NCIS-CSI-L+O: LA (none of us really knew or asked) and he told M that M should come to set and get some of the catered lunch.  Because on set catered food is usually real tasty, M told our other office mate B that he should come, and because I don't like anything good or free and delicious to happen without me, I invited myself along, too.  I pretended to give them an out if they wanted to go alone, but I think that as I put my lunch of leftovers back in the fridge it was clear that I was getting me some set food.

So we headed across the street, stealthily avoiding a (noble but annoying) Greenpeace volunteer on the way, and were trying to figure out where exactly M's friend was in the throng of extras and crew people and general outdoor shoot chaos.  As we stood scanning the crowd, a super grungy, brown-toothed homeless man came running at us.  He was wearing a filthy trench coat and a beanie in pretty hot L.A. summer weather, and he was shaking a giant cup at us yelling for a quarter.  I felt terrified.  I was sure that I was about to get all kinds of cut up right there on Wilshire Blvd., and that when I finally got out of the hospital and managed enough strength to return to work my immediate boss would say something like, "You know, you guys never checked in with me before you went across the street to get stabbed or whatever it was you were doing."

But the homeless guy ran right past me and grabbed M.  Not that either of the men that I was with attempted to shield me with their body or throw a block of any  kind when it looked as though the crazy might have been coming right towards me in my pastel cardigan.  (They have, accordingly, been added to the growing list of people who would be of no use to me in a bar fight.)  Anyway, the insane homeless man was holding and shaking M.  Oh.  Right.  Because he was M's friend, and he was just playing a homeless guy for money.  On TV.  He introduced himself all around, and I had met him before, but forgave him for forgetting because I was feeling generous of spirit after that whole threat of imminent shanking passed.  Then he ran back to where he was taping because I guess that some people get a job and then commit to doing it/well even, and we all decided to go back to our office.  Not sated, but also not stabbed.  A fair draw.

Serendipity

From an unnamed university in the greater San Francisco Bay Area...

My day began with a 3+ hour training session run by the central admissions office. As longtime readers know, I hate the central admissions office. Graduate admissions is a constant battle between the department and the university proper and the university always seems to win, because they were here before me and they'll be here long after I leave (please please please let that time be soon). Suffice it to say, I was not looking forward to this training.

But lo and behold, it was actually good. Interactive, informative, dare I say: enjoyable. I LEARNED things. Things I didn't know before! I can't tell you how rare that is for training sessions like this. In the ~4 years I've been working in higher education administration, I've attended several institutionalized trainings, which usually go like this.

Pick up your packet.
Grab coffee and muffin.
Spill coffee (okay that might just be me).
Read the things in your packet while you wait for the speaker to begin.
Doze off/space out/doodle while the speaker reiterates everything you just read in the packet.
Q&A, in which people ask extremely specific questions that apply only to their jobs/situations. Speaker answers a minimum of 2 follow-up questions before suggesting that the questioner contact him/her personally.
Sneak out before the thing is over because you can't take another second.

In the interest of full disclosure, I did leave this training early, but mostly because I was anxious about getting things done in the office, and not because I was bored out of my skull. Progress!

Meeting with admissions people from departments all over campus was first depressing, then gratifying. If I was not the youngest person in the room, I was easily the second-youngest, and most of the people were old, short, overweight and poorly dressed. Not kidding. Dudes had long hair, women were wearing tennis shoes and homemade shawls. It was not a pretty sight. Good god, let me get out of here before I become one of them, I said to myself.

But then the commiserating started. As I texted to my friend M, we have many differences, but one key similarity: we all hate the applicants. We complained about dumb applicants, bitchy applicants, applicants who need to have things reconfirmed four or five times. International applicants, non-California residents, reapplicants....we all hate them all. It was life-affirming. So enjoyable was the work-related commiseration, I was almost tempted to tell these people about this blog, but then remembered that for the sake of keeping my job until I finally fulfill my dream of becoming of a trophy wife and living out my days in my Infinity Pool, I need to prevent my place of employment from knowing my true feelings.

The joy of commiseration was so great, I really want to extend to you all (both?). Would you like to anonymously guest-post-bitch about your jobs? It's fun, I swear.

Art Imitating Life/Pants

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

 As I've shared before, I not only torture myself at my every day job, but also drive around Hollywood during moments that I can sneak away from my desk and audition for various inane commercials.  Today I tried out for a spot for a communications company where my lines were hilarious guesses at what DSL- which they were cleverly knocking- might actually stand for.  I thought about suggesting what I'd always heard it stood for, but that's less about the internet and more about, say, Angelina Jolie.  Well, I guess there's a reason people look her up on the internet...

Anyway, I had to dress "business casual" for my audition this morning, which meant that I, along with every other girl there who looked creepily like me as we were all auditioning for the same part, wore a bold-colored blouse with buttons and a ruffle of some sort tucked into either slacks or a pencil skirt.  Seriously.  Every girl in that room.

The audition went regular/fine/who can tell?, but the miserable part was going to my real office and actual desk job afterward, because I was embarrassingly overdressed.  Quality of office wear and height of success have an inverse relationship in entertainment, so who wants to suggest that there so unimportant that they've got to dress up in the kind of trousers and high heels I was rocking all day?  No one.  But I bet at my pretend office in the commercial, where everyone dresses up and dresses well, no one would tell me to go to hell or to blow them as my two office mates just did, and who wants to work somewhere where you never get that kind of love?  Again, I'd say, the answer is no one.  Or at least not me.  Or at least not me unless someone offered me any kind of other job doing anything at all anywhere in the world.

Time Flies

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

I went away to the East Coast this past weekend, and after I flew overnight on Thursday (sleeping for 2 hours of a 4 hour flight to Chicago, pinching myself into consciousness for a 2 hour layover, and then dozing on a 2 hour flight to Boston) I went to lunch in Providence on Friday and stayed up until 2:30 p.m. and then napped to the Kourtney and Khloe and their ridiculous shenanigans (although I do think that Scott is real-life Patrick Bateman and no one is taking it seriously enough) after which I saw 2 plays and then stayed out late for drinks and then repeated that the next day when I saw 3 plays and had even more drinks and didn't go to bed until 4 in the morning, but didn't get to sleep it off because the day after that I got up early to hang out with a 3-year-old and 1-year-old who are the cutest of buttons, but children nonetheless and then this morning I got up at 3:45 a.m. Providence time- which was 12:45 a.m. L.A. time- and L.A. was where I was headed to go directly to my office which was particularly horrifying because after I'd been up for 2 hours, I saw on Facebook that one of my office mates hadn't even gone to bed for the night and I knew that I was so effed that I couldn't concentrate on work all day and wasn't even sure I could post more than a single sentence on the blog, and for those keeping track: I didn't.

You've Got a Frenemy in Me

From an unnamed university in the greater San Francisco Bay Area...

Be forewarned: this post has nothing to do with my job. I'm still way too over it to discuss it.

I've been listening to a This American Life about frenemies; stories of the friends you hate to love, love to hate, and for one reason or another, just can't quit (even if you wish you knew how). There's stories about women who became frenemies after dating the same dude, sister frenemies, and even the invention of the word "frenemy" which apparently can be attributed all the way back to the Bhagavad Gita.

When talking about portmanteaus like frenemy, Ira Glass consulted a woman from the Oxford English Dictionary who shares my disdain for people who believe that they've "invented" words simply by combining two other ones. Por ejemplo, "linner." It's like brunch, but I'm sure you can figure out which two meals it's between. A girl in my junior high thought that her family invented the word, and she thought it was actually a good word. But that's not my favorite example. My favorite example is much more recent and ridiculous. I'm talking about how Sarah Palin recently likened herself to Shakespeare in defense of using the word "refudiate."

If she'd only used it once, I'd cut her slack; who amongst us hasn't been thinking of two words to use and instead of choosing one, creates a new hybrid? Remember on Mean Girls when LiLo's character starts to say "great" and then decides to say "cool" and it comes out "grool"? We've all been there. But then Palin also used "refudiate" on her Twitter feed and could not attribute such an action to tongue-tiedness, and decided to call upon W's infamous "misunderestimate" and Obama's nonsensical "wee-wee'd up" and claim that she's just participating in word creation in the great tradition of the Bard.

But of course, the Prez was just using seriously dorky (and in my opinion, totally non-presidential) slang to describe people with ants in their pants (way more presidential), and we all know what mastery of the English language Bush II possessed. And in fairness to my old 7th grade English classmate, she was 12 at the time. But I still remember thinking she sucked, not only for believing she invented a word that is clearly not difficult to invent, but also being proud of it. "It's like, between lunch and dinner!!" If I had had my shit together at the time, I would have said something like "wow, that's really lad. That's like, between lame and sad." But because I wanted to be invited to her birthday party, I laughed. And frenemyship had begun.

Assignment: Asinine

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

Remiss indeed, S.  For my part, I've definitely not been extra liking my job, but I've almost reached a point where I'm not extra hating it either.  I'm sort of extra busy at it, but also extra apathetic.

See, recently the higher ups at our show have been worried about our ratings/competition/continuing relevancy, which has meant a whole lot of ideas/policies/procedures that we are all told are super important for a week until they are either forgotten about or ignored to death by the writing staff, and then abandoned.  For my nervous-disposition part, I do frantic research for every new task our staff is given as I imagine our meetings turning into- I almost said that one serious drama where Holland Taylor is the law school professor, and then I remembered that in fact it's "Legally Blonde"- a classroom where we will all learn our lessons in preparedness by the harsh hand of the Socratic method.  I worry about each new assignment or requested contribution all the way until the meeting where our presentations are due, and the big bosses ask if everyone thought about what they were supposed to think about, and are satisfied with a room full people silently nodding.  Sigh.  All that time I wasted when I could have been coming up with clever Facebook statuses.  But now at least I've learned my lesson: Waste my time blogging and complaining about my job rather than waste my time doing it.  That's the stuff of Aesop, friends. 

Not My Job

From an unnamed university in the greater San Francisco Bay Area...

Well K and I have been quite remiss in posting these past two days. It's either because we've been extra-loving our jobs or extra-hating them. You decide. (Hint: it's always extra-hating.) I don't feel like getting into why my job's been lame lately, so instead I will regale you with things I've found online that I like a lot. It's like Follow Friday except it's Wednesday night and we're not Twitter.

Why isn't Joshua Jackson my boyfriend yet? I'll see you all at Pacey-Con 2011.

Which do you prefer: early Ian McEwan or late Ian McEwan? Defend your choice. (Ahem-hem)

Sweet Valley High in the future: Liz is living in some kind of dystopian Sex and the City; Jessica's still whoring it up.

If I could learn to dance like Janelle Monae, I wouldn't need any of y'all.

Finally, a classic.

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.

Status Update

From an unnamed university in the greater San Francisco Bay Area...

Quick Facebook check-in. Show of hands: working friends, who's pissed that it's Monday? Pathetic friends, who got soooo drunk last weekend? Bay Area friends, who still cannot believe that the weather is cold and overcast?

There are so few things I can count on in this world, but people posting the same kind of Facebook status updates on a Monday morning never lets me down. Let's anonymously mock some of my favorites, shall we?

Girl from my high school: Heading to work right now... Man what a crazy weekend... Happy Birthday SB I love you girl... We rocked it this weekend xoxo

Translation: My life isn't sad! Sure I'm almost 28 and probably still live with my parents and have completed like 18 credits at my local community college, but I like my life this way because I can go out and PARTY with all my BEST FRIENDS weekend after weekend...oh crap I'm late for my shift at Kohl's.

Friend's little sister: driving home from sf.. adam lambert blew my mind into a mess of glitter and strobe lights.. that man is beyond amazing, works his vocals to DEATH and his makeup is on point...I'm jealous :)

Translation: I have terrible taste in everything and don't believe in capitalizing.

Childhood friend/repeat FB oversharer: Why cant the person I heart ever heart me back!!?? How does this happen to everyone else??!! grrrrr ♥

Translation: I have no filter, the emotional maturity of a 15 year old, and probably need therapy.

I know you're probably wondering who slipped Extra Bitch into my coffee this morning, and you're justified. My boss is just bringing the suck SO BAD now that she's back that it's beyond frustrating. She took three days off last week because she was sick, came in late today and just started undoing everything we did this summer, complaining about every decision we made and generally just being the worst. Officemate and I have already contemplating getting drunk to make the day bearable and it's 11:30AM. Oh, and it's Monday and the sun isn't out.

Full of Something

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

We have two interns in my office these days, and they are both absolutely delightful, shockingly professional, and female which means that now I can talk about dresses and make-up at work sometimes.  They aren't required to come in on Fridays, but they both usually do.  Today, however, one of them texted the other right before our morning meeting to say that she ate too much at breakfast, was in a food coma, and wouldn't be coming in.  Because her Friday attendance isn't mandatory, this was completely acceptable.  And wow am I jealous.  I would love to call in full some day.  Or call in over it.  Maybe I could just e-mail some morning and say that I'm too sleepy/disinterested/my dog is just too adorable to part with for the day.  I'd also enjoy calling in hung over or because my hair was just not cooperating or to say that I would rather be waiting in line at the DMV than volunteering my soul for slaughter by sitting mindlessly at my grubby (that part's my fault) desk all day.  Although I guess having to go to the DMV is a valid excuse.  I will save it for a day when my hair isn't cooperating.

Good Grief

From an unnamed university in the greater San Francisco Bay Area...

When I travel for work, I infinitely prefer to travel by myself. I'm an only child, and my theory is there are two kinds of only children: ones who love to be alone and ones who can't be alone. I definitely fall into the "love to be alone" category. I lived in a studio for a year in college and people would ask if I got lonely. "Au contraire," I would reply, "sometimes, when I'm out with other people, I fantasize about coming home to my empty apartment." I currently live alone and frequently have the same fantasies, even if I'm out having a great time with my friends.

When I lived abroad, I spent a lot of time alone, which was hard a lot of the time, but also great. I traveled by myself a good deal, and as such, really enjoy being able to walk around a new city alone, taking in the sites and sounds and stopping to check out a shop or museum without having to ask anyone if it sounds good to them.

This is just a lengthy preamble to me complaining about the student that my boss made me take with me on this trip. I didn't want to bring her. I didn't want to bring anyone, but I really didn't want to bring her. She was supposed to come with me on the this trip last year but was beyond wishy washy about committing to a flight time, also didn't want to have to pay up front for the hotel room (we reimburse), and at flaked basically at the last minute. I was over her, but my boss insisted we invite her again.

She was an hour late yesterday, slept through our dinner meet-up, and proceeded to ask me the following questions this morning at breakfast:

1. How does the Super Shuttle know what time to pick us up? (I said that when you book the shuttle, you're supposed to arrange a time to get picked up...she was shocked.)

2. Do we need to check in for our flight today or did we check in for both flights Wednesday?

3. (After I ordered a breakfast item called "The Twos") What is that? I saw it on the menu but didn't know what it was.

4. (After I told her to read the description on the menu which read "2 cakes, 2 eggs, 2 bacon or sausage.") What are cakes? How do you know if you'll get bacon or sausage? Do they surprise you?

Non-Post Post

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

I forgot to post yesterday!  But if I had remembered, it would have been about my grody boss sitting next to me at our staff meeting biting her dirty finger nails.  It would have been hilarious.

Moving on.  I have been sitting in a dark edit bay killing my eyes reading a magazine for the last four hours, certain that at any minute I would be finished "supervising" the editor whose shoulder I look over and whose skills far exceed mine.  I squinted through some great articles on such topics as Tom Cruise and senility, and imagined myself returning to my desk in the bright afternoon to write a great post about... Something.  How I accidentally burped in front of a lot of my coworkers?  How I am embroiled in a heated e-mail battle with some techie people on the other side of the builing whom I've never met?  Comic Con?  All I know is that is would have been amazing.  Or just OK.  Either way.  But I'm still in the bay.  And now dinner's here.  Which means it's almost time to not eat it because I have to go unstack 70 chairs in the studio or go to Starbuck's and return with 28 drinks for people.  So this is it.  I'm sorry, I love you, good night, friends.

Mini-soda

From an unnamed hotel room in the Twin Cities...

Yes, you read right. I'm in Minnesota. And if I wasn't already not wearing pants*, this place would have charmed them right off of me. It's green, it's clean, it's other things that rhyme with green. People are friendly and there are sculptures of Peanuts characters everywhere. It makes me feel right at home, as my hometown is also littered with Peanuts memorabilia. Apparently I just go wherever Charles Schulz goes.

The conference doesn't officially start until tomorrow, so I don't have much to report, work-wise, but I will tell you about my new love interest. He's 3, and his name is Aaron. I met him on the plane. He was sitting in front of me and stood up on his seat and turned around to say "how are you?" but he hasn't totally mastered enunciation yet, so it came out like "howyou?" but I knew what he was getting at. He then asked me for me name and proudly announced that "I Aaron."

At that point, his mom made him turn around and leave me to read my book, but the connection was just too strong. He kept sneaking a peek, and finally made his move when he offered me one of his cookies. I thanked him and went to grab it, he regaled me with a full course of "Happy Birthday," which his mom says is currently his favorite song. I've never felt so special.

The course of true love never did run smooth, though. He was also flirting with the lady in the seat next to me, a Minnesota native who complained that "these airplane seats just get smaller and smaller!" She decided to regale me with information about why Minnesota is superior to the Bay Area and attempted to monopolize Aaron's attention, but the battle and the war were won when he offered me the cookie and serenade. "They always go for the pretty young things!" she said with a laugh, but I knew she was crying on the inside.

Tragically, our romance was cut short as it turned out that Aaron's family was catching a connecting flight to Memphis, and I was deplaning in Minneapolis/St. Paul. I don't know if our paths will ever cross again, but I've got a cookie in my belly and a song in my heart for the rest of my life.

*I'm wearing a dress.