Who Moved the Cheese?

I had a disturbing phone call with one of my girlfriends today. Her stalker is back. My friend is in heavy nesting phase, prepping for her upcoming surgery. She's been home more than usual but was out all day last Tuesday. When she returned to her home, she got the creeping sensation that someone (and she knew exactly who that someone is) had been in her apartment while she was out. She chalked it up to stress and silliness until last night when she was preparing dinner and was unable to find the enormous bag of cheese she'd just purchased the week before in the refrigerator. She was sure she hadn't already eaten it. She would have remembered eating two pounds of shredded cheddar. She searched the entire apartment hoping that she'd left a bag of groceries in her trunk or hadn't fully unpacked all her tote bag. No dice. Someone had been in her apartment and had helped himself to a snack.

She called the police today to report the incident. She was nervous before the lone police officer arrived to take her statement. She's complained before about her stalker and had the cops not believe her. We went over the timeline of events together to make sure that she hadn't forgotten any details and to make sure that she didn't sound like an insane person. Yes, she's preparing for a surgery. No, she's not on any medications that might explain her nervousness over missing groceries. Yes the cheese is inconsequential, but this is the straw the camel's back. Yes, I've confronted him. No, he hasn't left me alone as requested. Yes, I want you to talk to him. No, I never had sex with him.

I've been stalked twice in my life. My first stalker was the teenage son of a family friend. He followed me around from age 10 to age 15. The fact that he was a pedophile in training didn't seem to register with anyone. My second stalker was a fellow college student. He spent five years following me around, calling me 40 times a day and generally making me feel unsafe.

The worst thing about being stalked is that you can never, ever relax. Walking, anywhere, alone could have serious consequences. Any wrong number or hang up becomes fodder for worry. The second worst thing about being stalked is the reaction you get from the people who are closest to you. A fair percentage of friends will give you their opinion that you brought whatever fresh hell onto yourself. Even if that fresh hell began with you letting a classmate cut in line at the movies and that's what started his five year long fantasy that you were in a relationship with him. And, there's always those people who just think you're crazy. Those three flat tires you got over the course of one month is just a coincidence. Anyone could have left that gift wrapped porno mag on your doorstep. Stop being so dramatic.

The sucky thing about my friend's situation is that there's nothing that she or the cops can do until her stalker physically assaults her. He can break into her house as much as he wants as long as he doesn't take non-edible evidence that can be traced. He can tell her that "He watched her sleep and she never woke up" or that "He can get any key made because he's a building manager so it doesn't matter that she changes her lock" and the cops can't do anything about it. And there's nothing I can do but treat her like she's totally sane and believe her completely. Even if it's a story involving missing cheese.

I'll believe her and listen to her for as long as it takes for her stalker to go away. And I know from experience that could take years.

So Help Me

I wouldn't call myself a particularly self-aware person. I admit: I am deeply shallow. One of the reasons why I decided to do this experiment in niceness for one calendar year is to see if I can do a better job of being a human being.

So lately, I've been reading a lot of self-help books. Which sounds...um, wow, SO pathetic and sad.

I'm currently reading David Allen's best-selling book GETTING THINGS DONE: THE ART OF STRESS-FREE PRODUCTIVITY.

Which I checked out from the library.

And is now two days overdue.

Jam-Tastic!

Today I got my Psychic Friend a job helping me out today at my friend's store as a shopgirl. I had to pick her up at our usual spot--a cuban coffee shop on Sunset Boulevard, and drive her to the store. A native New Yorker, she still doesn't know how to drive, even though she's lived in Los Angeles since 1973. She bought me coffee and a croissant, even though I insisted that wasn't necessary, as a thank you for the work and the ride.

While yesterday was insanely busy, today the store was dead. My friend, the store owner, let us go after two and a half hours and gave us $25 for our trouble. Not quite the $100 either of us were expecting. I felt terrible that I'd gotten my Psychic Friend out of bed early on a Saturday morning for such lousy cash. She, on the other hand, was thrilled that she'd gotten paid period.

We stopped back at Dinky Manor to pick more figs off the nasty rash tree in my yard. She's already processed the first delivery of figs and had some jars to give to me in trade for the free fruit.

On the drive back to her home I took her to lunch. I still felt terrible about not coming through with a full day's work for her AND she bought me breakfast.

Back at her house she loaded me down with FIFTEEN jars. She gave me five jars of fig preserve and ten different varieties of chutney, relish, jam, and sauce in exchange for the fresh figs.

I feel like I'm totally getting the better end of the deal, but she is more than happy to be my canning factory if I supply the jars, lids, and can source the free fruit. Canning and feeding her friends are two of her favorite things to do, and nothing would make her happier than a steady supply of fresh, free, homegrown fruit. She thinks that I'm getting the short end of the stick with this arrangement.

This is turning out to be one of the better deals I've made in my lifetime.

So, once I get my act together (which will hopefully happen by the end of October since that's Mr. Foxypant's purge-a-thon stay-cation month) I'm going to scope out the neighborhood for fruit options. I've already grokked a couple homes that have fallen fruit all over their yards. I'm going to approach them with the, "I will give you a couple jars of jam in exchange for access to your fruit which is falling off the tree," scenario and see how that goes.

I'd like my future gift closet to be more pantry and less stuff, because there's something really primal and basic about the pleasure I get from sharing food. It just feels right.

My Fig Tree is a Fica

Fica means fig in Italian. It's also an Italian slang term for women who look and act like Paris Hilton. Fig leaves have been used for centuries by prudish church types to cover the goodie-bits of famous statues. Connect the linguistic dots...

Today I picked five pounds of figs off the tree in my backyard. Not only is fig juice harder to get off your skin than beach tar, it appears that I'm allergic to the sticky goo as well. I have an itchy rash all over my arms. So maybe there's another reason why fica has a second meaning...

I drove the figs over to my Psychic Friend who will turn the purple fruits into her Blue Ribbon-winning Caravan Fig Spread. I don't waste my apparently very expensive and fancy variety of figs by letting them rot on the ground, and my friend gets free food.

She informs me of something I already know--that she's giving a canning lesson to Ellen, a fellow compactor...in exchange for a donation.

A donation? My friends are really too nice, which is why not many of them are rich. My Psychic Friend has problems charging money for teaching what she considers, "A life skill."

"Do you think $40 is fair?" I ask her. "Because that's what I'm going to tell people it costs to come over and assist your canning efforts. You can give them a free jar in return for their work if you feel guilty about opening your home to total strangers for $40."

So far, including myself, I've got 10 people signed up for her next "class." Canning is the new knitting.

But she insists on comping me the $40 class fee in exchange for more figs.

Was I complaining about figs? Figs are awesome.


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August 30, 2008

Today I mailed my old eyeglasses to the Lions Club who will forward my very wacky prescription on to my eyeball twin somewhere in the Third World.

And by old I mean my glasses from college that I stopped wearing in the last century.

I hope there's not a time limit on random acts of kindness. I've only been thinking about donating those glasses since 1999.


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August 31, 2008

I took the huge shipping crate containing my new bike (Yay! My bike) to the Bike Oven, my local bike co-operative, today for expert advice on reassembling it. I discovered two things:

1. A lot of guys who are into biking and neighborhood co-ops are really cute. I must file this information away to dispense to all my single girlfriends.

2. Bike fetishists (even the cute ones) are just like every other kind of geek--90% male and obsessed with gadgets and dragons. "Oooooh....is that a Brooks saddle?" "Can I look at your disc brake assembly?" "That Shimano gear hub must have set you back a pretty penny. Can I touch it?"

It took me and Mr. Foxypants four hours of constant question and answering with all the guys working away on their own custom bikes to get my bike together. And, wow, is she adorable! I took her for a test ride around the block before biking home. Even the homeless guys on the corner whistled and shouted, "Hey! Cute bike!" Who care about having 8 gears and a hub-powered headlight when you've got the swankiest bike in the neighborhood? Yes. I'm shallow. At any rate, Harv, the resident guru at the Bike Oven was only going to charge me for three hours (they ask for a donation of $5 an hour for rent and community outreach) but I paid him for the full four hours and as my nice act of the day gave him a utility knife I'd brought from home to add to the community toolbox since they didn't have one on hand.

I'd really like to get my life together so I can learn how to be a bike mechanic and volunteer at the Bike Oven. Being a bike activist in Los Angeles is something to strive for...and not just because I'd be the lone girl in a sea of cute boys.


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September 1, 2008

The production designer for one of my films emailed me out of the blue today. He just realized, two years after the fact, that he'd never received a DVD copy of the film which was part of his contract. He appealed to me for help in getting one from the studio. Since that film was a particularly miserable experience, made miserable by a power-hungry, yet talentless executive with not-so-secret director yearnings, he was hesitant to call the studio for his rightful DVD copy, as he was sure his call would be forwarded to the executive who never, ever failed to be totally abusive toward him. Naturally, since this is Hollywood where casual cruelty is a fact of life, this executive, whose middle name is Crotch, still has a job even though her lack of professionalism is legendary.

Did I call her? No. She is someone I don't mind badmouthing to anyone who asks, but I just didn't feel like being in a rotten mood today--which is the mood I'd be in if I called her because she is that ding dang unpleasant.

Instead I offered the production designer my personal copy, and instantly felt pangs of regret...or maybe OCD craziness. That DVD is physical proof of my work. It's evidence that I actually do work as a film producer, and not just pretend that I have that job description which seems to be a fib that's reached epidemic levels in Los Angeles County.

I hadn't actually seen the film since the premiere. The DVD was still in its original shrink wrap. Why was I bummed that I'd offered my copy to the production designer who actually will use it to update his reel and his website? It's a movie, not a sculpture. It's not like any of my films are so obscure that I can't walk into my neighborhood video store and rent a copy any time I want to watch them...which has happened exactly never in 20 years.

I fretted over my decision to give away my personal copy of my movie all the way to the post office.

But now, looking at the half inch gap on my office bookcase where that DVD used to sit, I'm elated. I did something nice for someone on my crew who worked really hard for me under thankless conditions. More importantly, this experience has opened my brain to the following thought:

I am a dinosaur. I'm the last generation of producers whose work will be seen mainly in movie theaters and not on the web, or a cell phone or an ipod. For me, the theater is the movie going experience. Watching a movie, in even the scrungiest theater, with a bunch of strangers who want to laugh and cry along with me in the dark will never get old. It's one of my very favorite things to do.

I don't know if I'd have had this recognition of what makes me happy about my job without the nutty preamble as to whether or not I should be stingy with a DVD.

Can You Dig It?

A woman named Ellen from The Compact emailed me off-list today. She wanted my expert advice on how to compost. Which, funnily enough, is something that comes up pretty often with me. I guess I'm just really out about all the thrilling details of my life which include knitting, composting and training the cats how to act like dogs.

At any rate, I called her back right away. "OhmyGodI'msoexcitedIcandomyrandomactofkindnessrightnowandgetitoverwith," is what ran through my head as the phone rang.

It takes so little to get me excited these days.

Well, during the course of our scintillating conversation about the controlled rot of kitchen and garden waste, the topic of canning classes came up.

As it turns out, my psychic friend is also an state fair award-winning fruit preservationist. Or jamster. Or whatever you call someone who is an expert at making homemade jellies and pickles.

I hooked them up. Ellen is going over to my psychic friend's house for a "jam session" (cue the yacht rock) next week.

Stick With Your Day Job

I spent the day writing notes on a script written by a friend who used to be an executive. The company he worked for folded and he's spending his out-of-work time interviewing for jobs with fifty other applicants and writing a screenplay "that he's been thinking about since college."

He asked me to read his rough draft and give him suggestions.

I hope he finds a new job.

His script is terrible.

It's always shocking how bad scripts written by executives can be. Did all their knowledge about three act structure, and pacing and character development just fly out the window at the Starbucks they now call their home office?

But then look at all the horrible movies that get made. Maybe these studio executives turned writers never had any story sense to begin with?

I'm trying to be as constructive as I can with my criticism.

All seven pages of it.

I really want my friend to improve his script and sell it so he doesn't have to take a horrible executive job, just because there's no other work. I want to help him buy a little more time to find a really great job that he loves.

But there's no good ending for this favor.

Because what it boils down to is that I'm going to have to tell him that his script sucks. In the nicest, most positive way of course. And I have a feeling that my friend has no clue how truly bad he is at writing the screenplay he's been thinking about since college, which he called an "erotic cop thriller in the vein of SEA OF LOVE."

There are many problems with his script. For starters, anytime anyone pitches me anything using the words "erotic thriller" I immediate imagine what that person would look like naked. Don't ask me why my mind goes there. It just does, okay? Maybe I'm just a prude. Or maybe having to read screen description about a hard boiled female detective "cresting" in the back seat of her Crown Vic while having sex with the lead suspect really is embarrassing. Perhaps the biggest problem with pitching a script as an erotic thriller is that what he thinks is sexy is apparently very different from what I think is sexy.

Maybe my friend will be so mad about my notes that he won't ask me to read subsequent drafts.


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August 20, 2009

Mr. Foxypants just announced that he will be taking the entire month of October off from work...

wait for it....

to go through the garage and all his earthy possessions and downsize!

And I didn't even have to be a nagging shrew to get him to this decision.

Since we moved into Dinky Manor in April I have been furiously purging stuff. I'd already gotten rid of 75% of my belongings before the move, but it's apparent now that we are in the house, that I am going to need to get rid of another 15% of my stuff in order to make everything fit into my one tiny, badly laid out closet and armoire.

Mr. Foxypants had a really short escrow on his old house and pretty much did not have the luxurious lead time to purge before moving like I did. He had the movers pack Every. Single. Thing. in his house. The partially used soap bar in the bathroom. Packed. 2200 record albums. Packed. 100 board games. Packed. More candles than any man (or human for that matter) should own. Packed.

The garage was so full by the time my stuff came over that I couldn't fit a needle in there, never mind a filing cabinet. There are boxes of precious things, and by precious things I mean crap, still to be unpacked in every room and no place to store the stuff inside.

I have said nothing about the 4 boxes marked "Star Trek toys" stacked in the office. Nor the 8 boxes of tiki mugs taking up space in the laundry room. I just keep chucking my own stuff and talking about how awesome getting down to 10% will be.

So he's finally gotten to the breaking point on his own and realized that he cannot fit all of his belongings into this house, even if we build bookcases in every room (which was his originally nutbar plan).

Sometimes leading by example totally works!

I'm so proud of being the nice girlfriend these last couple of months. Niceness took longer than a tantrum to get my message across, but I didn't have to have cross words with my packratastic boyfriend.

However, I'm having a really hard time not doing my evil, scheming laugh in front of him. I'm so thrilled.

Mwah hahahahaha!

Be Prepared To Be Nice

August 11, 2008

I'm bummed out to discover that my recycle-mania wasn't as fully successful as I'd given myself credit for. There were half empty bottles left all over the set yesterday which I didn't know about. The location manager was kind of furious with the level of trash left on the set. There was a half full bag of plastic bottles he'd collected the night before unceremoniously plunked where I could see it on the IRON MAN set where I'd set up craft services yesterday. Sigh.

I tell the production assistants to help me round up bottles and to put recycling bags next to every trash bin. It's my contribution to the planet to help stop the disgusting waste that happens on every set where even aluminum cans are thrown away. But since I plan on bringing the bottles and cans to the recycling center for cash, I can't call my recycling demands on set my nice act of the day since I'll be receiving compensation. Even though I'm driving sticky bags of used Gatorade bottles in the backseat of my car and will receive very little money in for my troubles, I still feel like I'm cheating by not being "nice with no strings attached" by accepting even small change.

I also wonder if my guilt is rational, or just me being obsessive compulsive.

After wrapping the show for the day I drive over to K.'s house to bake and frost the rest of the prop cakes for the prop master's T.V. show. I'm in her garage, putting the first of the cakes into her spare fridge, when I notice the huge bins of recycling taking over an entire parking space.

"What's up with the mountain of plastic bottles in your garage?" I ask her. As it turns out her son is collecting recyclables to raise money for his boy scout troup.

Recycling bottles for cash isn't a random act of kindness...unless you donate that income to a worthy cause, like a group of ten year old boys saving up to buy whittling supplies.