car alarm.

So, the other day I was driving down the street thinking to myself, “I don’t normally drive on this street at this hour.” This causes me to do that thing where I think about quantum physics and parallel universes, how right now in theory there’s a me driving down Hillhurst, but there’s still a me back in the office, while yet another me never got out of bed in the morning, and one of the me’s is probably having the best day.

The Me in my current universe stopped being the one having the best day about three seconds later, when I got a ticket.

I’ve told about eight people that I’ve gotten a ticket. Friends, co-workers, my boyfriend. Some who have known me for a couple of weeks, some who have known me for about a decade. Upon hearing me say, “I got a ticket,” every single one of those jerks immediately asked, “Was it for texting?”

All smug and self-satisfied like that. Talking to me like I’m a baby. “Aw. Was it for texting?”

No, it wasn’t for texting! For your information. That was my last ticket. And that wasn’t even for texting, either, because the kind police officer gave me a warning, and instead wrote me a ticket for not having my drivers license address match my current home address. [Side note: Californians, if you haven’t done that, do it online immediately. The crap I went through to get that fix-it ticket dismissed ended up costing me more time, money and materials than if I’d gotten the fine for texting. It SUCKS.] Continue reading

Day Four. Updates.

Let me see if I can paint the past week for you really quickly.

OCTOBER 29. Monday. We get to work knowing it’ll probably be our last week of work. We are frantically writing what will be our final script. Pencils down is coming soon. We are hoping against hope that a strike will be avoided. Everybody’s tense. Our show airs tonight, the third episode, and if it does as well as it has been going, we’re looking like we’ll get a full-season order. Everything you dream of as a working writer might just happen… just in time to walk out of the offices.

I debate for hours, literally hours, about finally going to a meeting to sign up as our official strike captain. I ask other people on staff if they’ll do it, or if they’re interested. Most people say to me that since I am sympathetic to every person’s situation in the room, and because I’m the most passionate about both striking and working, they’d rather I was the one in charge. Besides, I’m the one who’s had all of the information. And I’ve done this before. For years now. I walked the line with Top Model (I would love to post a link but my archives are terribly broken. Can someone help me fix Moveable Type? AB’s very busy with her strike duties!). I helped with the early organization for Comedy Central, which led to several shows going Guild.

[I just heard a group of high schoolers marching outside on their way home from school, shouting, “Strike! Strike! Right, left, right! Strike! Strike! Right, left, right!” Thanks for the solidarity, my friends.] Continue reading

Dear Dad,

I can’t believe it’s been five years and three days since you died. Five years. So much has happened that you’ve missed, much of it things you told me you knew you were going to miss. You were like an oracle in that hospital bed, pointing at the television, telling me my name was going to be on that screen with “written by” in front of it, and that you wished you were going to be there to hold a book with my name on the cover. It makes me wish you’d told more about the future lives of all of us instead of that tangent about the girl you took to prom, the one with the bacne.

It’s always painful when the big moments happen and you aren’t here. But those, in some ways, are much easier to get through. Mom, Bosie and I will call each other, or the moment is big enough that there’s a friend around or many friends around, or it’s happy enough that the joy quickly fills up the ache. It’s the little moments that get to me. It’s hard to get through the moments when you are the only person who would have been able to understand. Continue reading

two ladies from the past



So, this is the worst day ever.

I’m sorry.

Cell phone broken. Internet broken. Husband out of town. No food. No wine. You’ve got a dead dog. Worst day ever.

Yeah, it’s not the best. And I think I’m getting a cold.

I have no way of communicating with anyone in the outside world, other than this phone right here.

It’s like you’re a woman from the past.

I wish I were a woman from the past. I might as well be.

Yeah, well. There are probably a lot of good things about us not being ladies in the past.

Huh. Such as.

Like, we’d both be on these phones with long cords and we’d be up to our elbows in meatloaf fixings.
Continue reading

late-night guests

Well, someone had fun in Los Angeles. I told AB she was really getting to see what my life is like out here, from the boring parts — extremely long shuttle rides from the airport, sitting in coffee shops for long hours, getting phone call updates from me while I’m out at pitch meetings, driving forever while feeling incredibly slung-over — to the exciting — book readings, shopping, celebrity spotting at amoeba records, drinks with a view of downtown. And lots and lots of coffee. We never got to see any water, and she didn’t get a tan, but I think she understands now why I love it here.

The house, post-AB, is quiet in a way I don’t like. Well, except for the other night, when… well, I’ll reprint the email I sent to AB and Allison, as it’s still a little traumatic. I apologize for the lowercase, which is how people email when they love each other. Continue reading


Yesterday I made a list of people I needed to call to schedule appointments. At the top of the list: allergist. Mom called yesterday morning and said, “Have you seen the wheat doctor yet? I really want you to be able to eat bread again.” I think the next time I come to town, she’d like to be able to serve “normal food” again. It’s very difficult to eat like a proper Polish girl without pierogies. Also, I don’t like life as much without pierogies. Continue reading

Guns N’ Roses: G N R Lies

Song: “Patience

I have blown my voice out a number of times singing this song at the top of my lungs. It was in a sketch we did for about a year, where I was pleading through song to stop a break-up in the front seat of a car. It was the only sketch I wrote that my troupe did for a length of time.

Continue reading

carma (cliche entry heading #327)

Q: What happens when I purchase plane tickets the week after I lose my job?

A: My car immediately breaks down.

Yes, you’re understanding that correctly. We have exactly one car in the house again, and it’s a rental because our other car has been stolen. Happy holidays!

really? really?

I was all set to write the cute little entry called “cancelled/not cancelled,” which was about my pro and con lists for what might happen with the rest of my year and into April, based off of what ABC wants to do with Hot Properties. It involved visiting friends, reading books, getting an oil change, finally seeing the dentist and renewing my membership at the local gym so I can start swimming again. It also involved being very happy to have no time for anything other than work, because I’m finding the work to be something I might be good at, so I really don’t want it to end. Mostly I don’t want to get cancelled because I’d miss the people I work with an awful lot.

But whatever. Fuck it. I don’t really want to write that entry today.

Because stee’s car has been stolen.

We’ve spent the day driving around as if we’d be able to find it, as stee loves this car in a Timmy and Lassie way, so he let himself be led where the car was calling him. The car ultimately called him to a Chop Shop on San Fernando Road. We didn’t go in because the wreckage was a little too disturbing, but stee’s got a feeling he’s not going to see his 88 Honda Civic anytime soon.

I’ll let stee take it from here. It’s his car to mourn; I’m just pissed on his behalf.