Awkwardly Social

I hate when things are left hanging in the air.

When someone says something, and then another person says another thing. And then it’s like you’re fighting. But you aren’t. Are maybe you are.

And everything goes quiet.

You just want to know what you said wrong because it felt like you were being careful when you were talking. But you know yourself and you know that you have a tendency to say things. The wrong things. Even though you meant them, you wonder if maybe you shouldn’t have said them. For real. Out loud.

And you don’t know if you’re in a fight. But it feels like one. Because it’s how your parents used to fight. A bitter exchange. Then nothing. And eventually it would blow over. But things would be tense for a while. You wished there was screaming. You wished there was name calling. It was always snip, snap, shhhhh.

And you would wonder if you just listened to Laura Branigan long enough or went outside during the thunderstorm (even though your neighbors dog got killed that way) if it would be loud enough to cover up the quiet. But it isn’t.

Your sister goes deeper into her room with all the books. She doesn’t seem to notice. Or if she does, she doesn’t want to talk about it.

You aren’t technically alone. But it feels like you haven’t spoken to anyone since the beginning of time. And then your name gets called. Someone wants you to do the dishes. And you don’t know how to protest but still not say a word. So you break something. On accident.

You close the refrigerator door too loudly.

You say, “Good night.” And it feels like you’re saying, “Good bye.”

And then, it’s quiet again.

My thesis film, “Something Old, Something British,” got into the Long Island International Film Festival. I had been pretty disappointed up to this point. Getting rejection letter after rejection letter from film festivals across the country tends to make you feel bad about yourself and your film.

I plan on attending the film festival and feel a little selfish about that. I have been pushing back my trip to Seattle over the last month because of money concerns and scheduling issues with work, etc. So now I am planning on dropping everything for a few days to go to a damned film festival. The guilt is killing me. If there is one thing I’ve learned in my life it’s that family is more important than anything. More important than your career, more important than money, and definitely more important than a film festival. So I have a ticket. To go to the film festival. I wonder how karma will repay me for this.

My film plays on July 16th, at the late screening, 11:45PM, which, I know, is not the most convenient time for people, but I’m really excited to be in the festival so I hope some of the New York contingent can make it. If not, I totally understand.

If you have any questions e-mail me at the address to the right.

4AM

knock, knock.

4:15AM

{ahem} Hey, Madam President? KNOCK!

4:30AM

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Me: I’m up! Jeez.

Uterus: Yeah, well, we’ve got a lot of work to do down here, so -

Me: Isn’t 4:30AM a little early to do construction?

Uterus: It’s never too early, Madam President. We work around the clock, so you know, we can get the job done in 5 to 6 days. You don’t want us banging around down here longer than that do you?

Me: Wait, is this really my uterus? You’re sounding very teamster, this morning.

Uterus: Yeah. We got Union around on the first couple of days, that’s why you get all the cramping.

Me: Fuck. No wonder. Keep it down until 7, ok?

Uterus: You got it lady.

The Louie likes music. I like strong drinks and almost puking in public restrooms. It’s time for a concert recap!

There is a band called Spoon. They played at the Avalon last night. The Avalon is below the Spider Club. I think the Spider Club is “hip.” Whatever. Fucking Hollywood.

So the band. Eh. It was fine. They have some good songs. They don’t do much on stage. I wasn’t given anything by seeing them live that I couldn’t get from hearing their song in a crowded room over the stereo.

Louie had a couple of friends that I hadn’t met yet. They are girls. I was nervous to meet them because I am scared of girls. Girls can be mean. These girls were not. I liked them immediately. Scotch and soda girls. Vodka cranberry girls. They are the kind of girls that go to the bathroom together. Let’s go to Bar Marmont girls.

Before the concert I had a conversation with Waller about Louie and his Hollywood hangouts. How I was not really into them, and was kind of glad that he got to go to them with his friends and I didn’t have to tag along and try to fit in. I’m more of a Drawing Room booth girl than a stand in line for hours around skinny pretty people who make me feel like I’m not popular or pretty enough or you know… just make me feel insecure.

So last night the vodka talked for me. And to Bar Marmont we went. Frankly, I didn’t know what the fuss was about on first glance, it’s pretty much like every bar in Hollywood. Then, because I was denied a dirty dog from the street vendor, I ordered the cheeseburger. The cheeseburger is my new best friend. It is my new lover. I might just fantasize about the cheeseburger when I… nevermind. It is the best fucking cheeseburger you will ever eat. I’m not kidding. And then I almost puked it up in the bathroom. But I didn’t! I didn’t puke because I wanted to remember the cheeseburger only on the way down, not the way back up. Also, I didn’t want to see that I actually didn’t really chew the cheeseburger. I just sort of inhaled it. Which, if I hadn’t been fucking drunk, would maybe not have inhaled in front of skinny pretty people, but whatev.

There was a bit of a debacle when I got home and couldn’t find my water. It was on the back of the toilet, I suspect Allie might have put it there. She’s a back of the toilet drink putter. I was walking around in my underwear muttering about water. Wishing I had some. Then I found a rejected water half under my bed. It’s a good thing I never throw anything away!

So that was my Hollywood night. A meh concert and a delicious cheeseburger. I can totally get behind a delicious cheeseburger, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. The Hollywood hangover is doing fine now. I could use a nap, but I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

Allie and I went to see The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants this weekend. And as we’re watching the trailers (and bawling) I turned to Allie and said, “I think I might be a 14 year old girl, I want to see all these movies!” Then I turned back to the screen, and that’s when it hit me.

I am not a 14 year old girl, I AM HER MOTHER! I am in “the mom of a 14 year old girl” demographic.

Allie said this later, “Well, it is possible that at your age you could have a 14 year old daughter.” Which…. (It is technically possible, but it would have been an immaculate conception) I don’t think I liked the thought of. But also freaked me out in a weird way. If I ever have kids, I’m going to be an old mom. Not a young cool mom. Back when I thought I wanted 8 kids (I don’t know…) I thought I would be a young hip mom that had all the answers and that my kids’ friends would want to hang out with. Now, I’ll be the weird old mom who the kids steal alcohol from because I’m stone drunk passed out and 85 years old, laying on the couch with damned Jay Leno playing in the back ground. I HATE JAY LENO! I can’t be old if I hate Jay Leno, right?

I do yell at the cars to slow down on our street. And I worry about the girls who wear too much makeup and the boys who blast their stereos too loud (their hearing! it’s going to be shot!) Also, I Tivo’d something on ABC Family last night. What else… Hmmm… oh yeah, I look forward to living in a retirement community because of the planned activities and the golf carts. It’s official. I’m old. Uncool. And quite possibly sometime in the future, going to say, “Oh that Jay Leno, he’s a card.”

Kill me now.

Friday night. I get pushed out of the car in heavy traffic to put our name on the list. I survive. Name goes on list. I stand outside with the vibratey thingy trying to find one of the twenty lighters in my purse and come out with, in this order, a tampon, a lip gloss, another lip gloss, the tampon again, and finally lighter number 3. A crazy lady in cute corduroy pants decides I’m her new best friend.

Crazy Lady: Here. Smell this.

She holds out a tiny bottle with a clear liquid in it. I smell it. It smells fine. Perfumey. I wasn’t crazy about it.

Me: Oh. That’s nice.

She then holds out her index finger and says, “Try it.” So like the jack-ass I am, I kind of bend down and try to smell her finger, which, I know, makes me a retard. She giggles a little and says, “No, put it on your wrist.” “Oh,” I think, “phew.” I put it on my wrist. And then realize, now I smell like a crazy person. A nice smelling crazy person, but a crazy person none-the-less.

We didn’t stay at that restaurant. Thank God. But I did stink up the car on the way to the next restaurant. Hey, it’s their damned fault for leaving me alone with the crazy people. Crazies sense other crazies. It’s our gift. And our curse.

I think I just realized what my dad is talking about when talks about how shitty the American press is. (Yes, I know that’s a dumb sentence, but… I don’t know, fix it in your head.) He claims it has to do with the liberal bias, but I think it’s something more.

I was just reading some front page news on AOL about the charm of Saddam fucking Hussein. He loooooves Doritos, that guy, can’t get enough of them. Likes women to be not too dumb, not too smart, not too pretty, not too ugly. Oh hahahaha. So funny. And, I’ll admit it, I got a little chuckle about it. I am one of the stupid fucking Americans that allowed themselves to get a little chuckle over the man who we started a war about. (Ok, it’s another bad sentence, sue me.) It’s right out of a bad US Weekly page, Murderous Dictators - They’re just like us.

Then I surfed over to Miss Doxie’s page. I usually pop over there to catch her latest drunken moment or escapades in new home ownership, etc. And read her most recent post.

Did you read it? I demand you do so. I’ll wait here.

So you did? You read it?

Now you tell me… what the fuck are we doing over there, exactly? Why are we letting all of this just slide by us like so many digested Doritos out of Saddam Hussein’s ass? Just when I think I’ve had enough tequila to kill the brain cells that remember I don’t like this war, or this country’s current foreign policy, I realize that it might just take all the tequila in the world. And who has time for that? Especially with all the Vanilla flavored vodka I have to drink.

As I was driving to work this morning I had one of my patented, “What the fuck am I doing here?” moments. I thought about just driving away. Getting out of Los Angeles. For good. Life is so short, why am I wasting it here, in traffic? But my car kept going.

Then later today, sitting at my computer I had an “I’m going to Vegas moment.” And I think I need it. I talked myself out of it pretty quickly, driving to Vegas on a Friday night has its issues. As does trying to find a cheap room. And trying to drive home on a Sunday afternoon… not recommended.

So I’m still here. In need of a vacation. Or a life coach.

I am mentioned in the thank you/acknowledgement section of this book.

I hate this movie.

I won a bed on this gameshow in 2000.

I have never been to this place but I know my way around this place better than my home town.

I played Katrin in a high school production of this play.

My dream job when I was in elementary school was this profession. I still kind of want to do it for a living.

If I could live anywhere in the world, I’d choose here at least for part of the year.

I want to go here because of this and maybe because of this.

I have attended these institutions at one point or another.

My favorite reality show on television is Project Greenlight. This past season, John Gulager was chosen to direct a horror script, FEAST, despite his horrible meeting with execs. He was almost fired several times, but the fact remained that he was the most talented (albeit the worst communicator) of the bunch.

Yesterday, I was sitting in my car talking on the phone in Silver Lake and saw Gulager. For those of you who watched the show, you know that he drove a crappy car and smoked a lot. He now has a new car and was not smoking. He was wearing his Feast jacket and waiting for his hair to be cut in a tiny barbershop next to KFC.

Waller insisted I scream out GULAGER! but I refused. Now I wish I had done it, so I could ask him how the reshoots are coming and what the Feast release schedule is going to be. Eh. Oh well. I’ll just read about it on the internet like the other five fans of the show.