If there were a kind of porn site where I just watched people who had time on their hands do all the things I wish I still had time to do, I would… well, I wouldn’t have time to watch it. These days I hear about people binge-watching entire seasons of a tv series over their weekends and I’m drooling, it sounds so luxurious. I get jealous every night when the baby has her bath, because sometimes there are bubbles, and I miss just deciding to take a long, hot bath and then taking one while reading an entire book. I used to have so much time! Time I wasted thinking I needed to be doing something with all that time! I never appreciated it and now it’s gone and you guys, I have regrets.
The other day I couldn’t find my library card. “It’s on Qwerty’s keys,” I said to Jason and Kristen. “Do you guys know where she keeps her keys?”
“Did you check her pink purse?” asked Jason.
“I did. No keys.”
Kristen said, “I know they aren’t in her owl purse. I found that earlier and all it has is her phone.”
This keys-having, phone-toting, two-purse-and-a-library-card owning child is seventeen-months old.
5. There’s this documentary about happiness but at one point there’s a segment on suicide in Japan and there’s a clip of all these Japanese mothers singing a song about their sons being gone and IT IS THE SADDEST THING IN THE WORLD.
5a. Technically, there are two things I can name that are sadder. Read more
My name is Robyn and I’m a young aspiring TV writer in L.A. who found your blog after it was linked from Jezebel. Your post “The Magical Vulva of Opportunity” really struck a chord with me because between parents encouraging me to “go back to school and became a professional naval-gazer in a safe environment like a college campus” and the snippets I hear every day about struggling, unhappy TV writers, I’m starting to wonder if I’m setting myself for a life of disappointment. This sentence in particular made my stomach drop:
“There have been shows I was almost on, shows I was on, shows I almost created, shows I wrote but nobody read. There have been proposals and pitches and meetings and punch-ups and “I don’t understand; they said you had the job, but now they just don’t have the budget for your level.” I’ve been singled out, recommended, read and “adored.” I’ve been pitched to, passed over, rescheduled and abandoned. I’ve learned a lot, and I’ve written even more. I’m a couple of credits away from being elevated higher than “mid-level female writer,” and I can’t wait to find out what new, terrible, miserable problems the next level brings.”
I know I’m 22 and still outside of that skyscraper looking up at its enormity, and I know it’s not your job to reassure some kid who graduated from college and moved to L.A. the next day with no tangible career prospects except a dream to write for television and maybe movies, but I want to know that you’re happy and that guy and his agent are just (albeit unconsciously) sexist jerks. I want to know that this is the only thing you’d ever want to do and could do. I want to convince myself that if you feel a richness in your life from this career, then my anxiety is for naught. I know it’s a lot to ask, haha.
I currently work in an entry-level job at a tech/marketing company, work on endless revisions to my sitcom spec and half-hour pilot and sometimes send out that Very Dramatic play I wrote last year to theater company’s reading committees. I presume you’ve been there and I’m curious what you would say to your past self knowing what you know now.
Thanks for being an inspiration to young women like me (neurotic as we are.)
Shot just before the season wrapped (before Eyesplosion ’09), Niya let me know she still had something to say about stay-at-home mothers. Watch me grow increasingly uncomfortable until I’m reduced to just stuttering. Also: secret babies, and other horrible nightmares.
(Watch it in High Quality. And there’s a little bit of cursing. Just warning those of you trying to watch this at work.)
This coffee shop has large, black structural poles throughout. There’s one just behind me, from floor to ceiling, between my booth and the counter. A man just walked past me, holding the hand of his tiny daughter, who was probably just under two years old.
“Stay off the pole, honey,” he said to her, pulling her toward the bathroom. Then, he added, “I just have one job as your daddy, and that’s to keep you off the pole.”
I don’t think I can accurately describe how much cat puke I just picked up.
It’s one in the morning. I’m currently staring at Taylor, watching him drink water, waiting to make sure he’s not about to go into some kind of seizure.
At my last job there were many new parents, the kind who often spent from three in the morning until six in the morning awake with their babies. There was absolutely no sympathy for a girl like me — the one who didn’t get home until midnight because she was rehearsing a comedy show, woke up because of cats puking at five and then wrote a few pages of her novel before we had to be on the set. My life is nothing but easy living, as far as they were concerned.
I’m thinking of those guys tonight because I’m bone tired, but I’m afraid if I fall asleep my cat will die and it will be all my fault because I knew he wasn’t feeling well.
We can’t seem to get his glucose regulated, to the point where the vet is currently “doing some research” to figure out what to do to keep us from having to give Taylor insulin three times a day. I’m not sure how the hell we’d be able to administer insulin shots three times a day unless I am somehow able to convince my animal-adverse co-worker into having an office cat. Read more
pamie.com is thrilled to be a part of Virtual Book Tour once again. This time it’s Jennifer Traig’s hilarious Devil in the Details : Scenes From an Obsessive Girlhood. She promises me that the copy of the book I received had a binding issue, and wasn’t intentionally off-center by one centimeter. The three borderline obsessive-compulsives who tried to fix the book before a recent Writers Guild screening of Closer do not believe her. In fact, our discussion of how her publishing company was genius to make a book about obsessive-compulsive disorder have a small, irritating, disorderly flaw garnered the attention of more than one audience member sitting near us. In fact-in fact, the book held the attention of more than one Guild member much longer than Julia Roberts could. Apparently writers like things to be orderly, and Jennifer’s book was calling to us, asking to be fixed, begging to be righted, to be held and taken care of. Read more