Random Occurances & Traffic Reports

I’m not sure if it was because I was mildly hung-over this morning or if my extremely acute sense of smell was to blame, but when we were doing our production meeting at the Hollywood venue for this Saturday’s Emmy party, I was a nano-second away from tossing my cookies for the entire 110 minutes we were there. I am here to tell you folks, The Cabana Club (the old Sunset Room) is the foulest smelling, most hideously tacky place in which I’ve ever stepped foot. Do yourselves a favor and NEVER GO THERE.

Thereafter, I drove up to the valley to show apartments all day. None of my appointments showed up and just as many of them didn’t even call to cancel. Stupid inconsiderate fucks. Basically a wasted day. Although I did show some apartments to two walk-ins which I only took because my boss was there staring me down. They’re not even looking to move until JANUARY!! Are you kidding me?!

On my way to the valley, I almost died. Yup, you heard me. I almost perished on the 101N at Woodman and no this is not one of those times when I’m merely exaggerating. Some poor Mexican lost the ladder he obviously fastened very securely to the top of his pick-up truck. It was lying in the middle of five lanes of traffic going 80 miles an hour. We all slammed on our brakes without knowing why except for not wanting to rear-end the person in front of us.

You could tell it had been run-over and run-into a few times because it was one hell of a banged up ladder. I could have died, I tell you. I could have been impaled by the ladder had it flown up and penetrated my windshield and punctured my skull. I could have slammed into the Toyota SUV in front of me had I been drunk or on the phone or both. I am lucky I pay attention.

And I bet you any money that some plastic surgery obsessed housewife in Sherman Oaks is pretty pissed off right now because the short Mexican she hired to paint her living room couldn’t reach higher than four feet from the ground (five feet at most if the poor schmuck was allowed to borrow one of her precious chairs to stand on, removing his shoes first of course.) So she has Prada Green walls that go up to her overly enhanced boobs and the rest of the distance to the ceiling is still covered by Sunflower Yellow. Oh the horror!! She better go get her nose redone to make herself feel better.

I live in an apartment building with 40 units in Los Feliz on the border of Hollywood, Little Armenia and Thai Town.  This puts me in quite a multi-cultural area, to say the least.  In my building I’d guess there are only 6 units of Armenians but in true European (albeit Eastern European) style, they have at least 3 generations living in each apartment which measures no more than 1,000 square feet.  Therefore, they spend a lot of their time in the common areas.  Their kids run amuck in the courtyard, driveway and pool.  The old men set up a tent under which they sit all day and play backgammon and drink delicious-smelling Armenian coffee.  The ladies stand on their balconies drinking Armenian coffee and gossiping from 6am until midnight, off and on.

So you can pretty much guarantee that it’s never quiet in my building and in the rare moments of silence, you’ll find me smiling like the Cheshire Cat at my computer in the dining room, or lounging on my couch with a book, or lying on my bed deep in thought seemingly staring at the wall.

The other day, I was in the bathroom probably picking at my face or something, and I could hear the kids outside in the driveway.  I hear them in the afternoons a lot - playing basketball, learning to swear, calling each other cheaters, etc. 

This time, instead of being annoyed at their noise pollution, I actually laughed out loud.  This one 10 year old who is working particularly hard at becoming the next Armenian Thug Gangsta in his basketball jersey and shorts was singing to himself in a tuff voice, "Automatic supersonic hypnotic funky fresh work my body so melodic…"

I about died!  Missy Elliott and Ciara???  He might as well been singing Mariah Carey in falsetto.

Those who know me understand how much I love putting on a good surprise.  For Brad’s 30th, for example, I got 50 of our friends to gather at The Mirabelle on the Sunset Strip on his actual birthday.  When he walked in, they all yelled "Surprise!" and even filmed the moment to share with his family back in Pennsylvania.  Not only that but I conspired with his sister, whom I’d never met at the time, to get her out here for his party.  He had no idea what was going on and boy was he shocked.

Now I don’t tend to try to shock/scare/surprise him around the house, but only because the thought doesn’t even enter my mind.  Somehow, I tend to accomplish this anyways. 

Last weekend, Brad went to bed early (as usual) and I tried to go to bed at the same time.  I lay awake next to him for almost an hour before I decided that his sweating and snoring all over me was too much to bear while conscious.  So I got back up and finished reading my book in the kitchen.  When I was done, I figured I’d pee really quickly before going back to bed. 

So I’m sitting on the toilet and I hear Brad get out of bed and come towards the bathroom.  Now, it’s pitch black and I know he can’t see me.  So instead of waiting for him to whip it out and pee on me, I make my presence known by saying, "Hey Brad.  I’m in here."  You’d have thought I dumped a box of worms on him.  He jumped five feet in the air, straight up and immediately started complaining, "You almost gave me a heart attack!  Stop doing that to me!"

Yesterday, I was supposed to go lease some apartments in the valley but as I had been working the Creative Arts Emmy’s at the Shrine the night before, I didn’t get to bed until about 4am.  So I woke up around 11am and was super groggy.  I just wasn’t feeling having to get dressed and going to work all the way up in the valley, so I called my partner in crime up there to make sure he could handle it all on his own.  Piece of cake.  So I get on-line, because we all know I’m internet obsessed, and I’m sitting there checking my email at my dining room table in the buff.

Don’t sit there and judge me people!  I know you all walk around your house naked too! 

All of a sudden, my piece-of-shit cell phone starts ringing.  It’s Brad calling from his cell phone.  He’s just parked his car outside my apartment and is on his way up to check his email.  I tell him, "I’m here - just checking my email."  He thinks I’m at work.  He doesn’t understand that ‘here’ means home. 

I can hear him talking from outside my window and just assume that he knows what I’m talking about - that I’m right on the other side of the window.  I turn off my phone and am now just answering his questions through the window.  He’s oblivious to this.  He still thinks he’s hearing me through his earpiece.  When he opens the front door, he jumps and clutches at his heart.  "Jesus Christ!  Baby!  Give a guy a heart attack why don’t you?! Why do you have to keep doing this to me?!"

I’m sorry, but it’s a sad, sad day when the sight of your naked body in your own freaking living room scares the living shit out of your boyfriend.

Damn.

I’m interested in vocabulary and etymology and subscribe to an on-line “Word Of The Day.” Rhinorrhea was the day’s word a little while back. When I saw it in the subject header of the email, I laughed in true Beavis and Butthead style. “Uh, huuuh huuuh huuuh. Rhinorrhea. Huuuuh huuuh huuuh.”

Naturally, what does rhinorrhea sound like it means? Rhinoceros diarrhea. I know that’s gross, but come on! That’s exactly where my mind went!

I pictured pools and pools of liquid rhino excrement with little children running for their lives, screaming at the top of their lungs.

Here’s what it actually means…

rhinorrhea (ry-nuh-REE-uh) noun

A runny nose.

[From Neo-Latin, from Greek rhino- (nose), -rrhea (flow).]

So, as promised, here’s the “embarrassing?” spaghetti party story.

One night, many many moons ago when I was still polite enough to bring something with me to Brad’s when I went over, I brought a 12-pack of La Batt’s Blue beer. Ah, La Batt’s - brings me right back to my college days.

I showed up and Brad was asleep. It was barely sunset, I’m sure - he being the old man that he is. I put the 12-pack in the fridge and marched over to his bed and climbed in. My attempts at being frisky were denied, as usual. But no harm, no foul. He was asleep, after all.

So I went into his kitchen and popped open one of those bad-boys. Fourteen beers later… don’t ask me how I got a baker’s dozen out of the twelve pack… I decided I was hungry and I hadn’t even smoked any of The Pot. The only edible morsel in his cupboard was spaghetti. So I decided to make some. I rationed off half the bag/box or whatever it was. In order to fit the pasta into his miniscule inefficient pot, I had to break the spaghetti into half by snapping it in half. Psssssssssiewwwwwwwwsh. Imagine the sound of the grand finale of fireworks on the Fourth Of July. That was the same sound of my spaghetti snapping.

So I cooked up a yummy pot of pasta and ate it with salt and maybe some butter if I was lucky enough to find any in Brad’s bachelor pad. Then, in my drunken state, I decided I needed still more sustenance. So I cooked up the rest of the spaghetti. Again I had to snap it in half. Psssssssssiewwwwwwwwsh. (Again, the sound of the grand finale of fireworks on the Fourth Of July.)

I shoved all the second round of pasta down my pie-hole. I worked on a few New York Times crossword puzzles and eventually showered (in my unfruitful hopes to get laid) and went to bed.

The next morning, Brad awoke at the crack of dawn as usual. He got up, dressed and went and got a Starbucks and the morning paper. When he got home, he went to the kitchen to sit and enjoy the paper. Only, he couldn’t sit (or stand for that matter) anywhere without coming across a piece of uncooked spaghetti. Apparently, the spaghetti snapping party the night before had gotten out of hand and had spread to every corner of his apartment (which is only about 200 square feet, by the way - so I am not entirely to blame.) I must have done some sort of rain dance with the spaghetti as my offering to the gods or something because there were bits of spaghetti in the strangest nooks and crannies. Brad opened up his dictionary and found spaghetti shards.

So there I am, asleep and oblivious and Brad’s trying to figure out how a spaghetti factory exploded in his shoebox apartment while he was sleeping. He decides to blame it on me but can’t imagine how his girlfriend spread the spaghetti distruction so far and wide. What was even more confusing was why.

So, from then on, Brad likes to ridicule me every time I get even remotely tipsy in the wake of his passing out at sundown (which is every night - his falling asleep - not my drunkenness.) This is what’s known as my “spaghetti party.”

It’s documented all over the history of the world that men and women speak different languages, are interested in different things and have different ways of doing things.

Last night, Brad and I were chatting on the phone. He was waiting for his friend, Jesse, to call back so when his call-waiting beeped, I let him go. I did a few things around the house, ate some dinner, etc. About an hour and a half later, I called Brad and he didn’t answer, which meant he was still on the other line. So I waited another 30-45 minutes and tried again. This time, Brad picked up and said, “Hey, I’m sorry baby. I’m still on the other line.”

So I said, “That’s okay, keep talking. I’ll just come over.”

“You’re coming over?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

Pause.

Then he said, “Okay, well… I’ve got iced-tea, water, whisky and a half a bottle of wine.”

Now, what this man meant to say, in woman-speak, was, “I only have this this and this at the house so if you want something other than this this and this, you’d better go pick it up on your way.” A woman would also add to that, “And honey, since you’re stopping, can you also pick up this this and this for me while you’re at out?!”

We said our goodbyes and I got in my car and went over. As soon as I walked through his front door, I heard him in his kitchen telling Jesse on the phone that I was there and that he should go, so I yelled out, “No baby, don’t worry about it. Keep talking!”

But he got off the phone anyway. I don’t know if he didn’t hear me tell him to not mind me or if he was just done talking. The next thing he did was walk over to me and give me lots and lots and lots of funny, lovey-dovey kisses.

“Wow,” I thought, “unusually affectionate.”

Then he started talking. Was he drunk, or did he somehow manage to have a stroke in the last 2 minutes?! He sounded like, “Heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy behbeh. Haz m’behbeh? I l’you.”

I led him back into his kitchen and got myself some iced-tea. We sat there and chatted for awhile. Then I decided I wanted some wine. As he had obviously had enough, I took his wine away from him and helped myself to his glass. A little later, he remembered that there was wine in this world and in his very kitchen nonetheless and tried to take a sip of (now) my wine. I grabbed the glass as he tried to snatch it away and we started to play tug of war for it. Then, realizing that in his drunken stupor he would not outdo me in our tug of war, he tried to get his lips to the glass for a sip as we were wrestling. I have never seen a human stretch his lips that far away from his face before. Monkeys and horses? Yes. But not a human, much less the human with whom I plan to spend the rest of my life. And I won’t even begin to describe the giraff-like way his out-stretched lips were pulling his neck and unusually large head.

The lip stretching had me in stitches. I remarked that I was somewhat surprised to find him so drunk at eight o’clock in the evening. He responded slurringly, “Baby, what did you expect? I told you I only had a half of bottle of wine!”

Now, often after working an event, there will be several open bottles of wine and Brad will take one home. Therefore, it’s not so unusual that he only has half a bottle of wine. I naturally assumed that this was one of those times. But no. What he actually meant was that he had drunk everything EXCEPT a half a bottle of wine. Lord.

When I pointed this out, he slurred defensively, “I was on the phone for a few hours with Jesse and you know… Baby! I forgot to eat dinner!”

After he realized he wasn’t getting any more of MY wine, he exclaimed in true snotty snooty British Butler style, “Fine! I’m going to take off all my clothes and go to bed! Good luck getting laid tonight.” He took off his clothes, brushed his teeth and got under the covers. He tried to pull me down with him. I lay there with him for a minute but reminded him that it was nine o’clock and unlike him, I am not an old man (he’s in his 30s but has the sleep schedule of an 80 year old.) I was not ready to go to bed. He said, “Fine! Have a spaghetti party all by yourself!”

I know you’re probably assuming that’s just drunk talk. But actually, he’s not talking out of his ass - for once. One night, many moons ago, I had a spaghetti party. If you’re interested in reading about it, check out tomorrow’s blog.

After he promptly passed out, I sat in the kitchen and worked on the crossword puzzle, attempted a sudoku and read my book while finishing my glass of wine (half glass, I’d like to point out, since that was all that he left me.) Then I showered and went to bed.

At six o’clock the next morning, having nine hours of sleep, Brad woke right up and felt the urge to wake me up to tell me that he was awake. “Good morning baby. I love you. I’m going to get up now.” Then he proceded to tell me exactly what he was going to do all day in minute-by-minute breakdown, what I like to call ‘thinking out loud.’ I looooooooooove when he does this. I especially love it when it’s the crack of dawn and I’M FUCKING ASLEEP!

He keeps going on and on until I finally cut in and say, “Brad! Stop fucking talking to me!” I mean COME ON!! We all know I am not a morning person and as I went to bed HOURS after he did (as usual) I am not ready to wake up so LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE! I mean come on people! He knows me better than anyone and he knows I’m useless in the mornings. If I didn’t have a job to go to SEVEN DAYS A WEEK, I’d sleep practically all day. Sleeping is my favorite hobby for Christ’s sake. This is no secret. Even when I go to bed early, I still sleep until about five minutes before I have to leave the house to go wherever.

At 9:30am on the nose, I woke up all alone without Brad’s prodding and without an alarm. At first Brad was mystified at how I accomplished this feat. But it was no conundrum, really. One of his neighbors was cracked out and beating the wall of his apartment with an iron crowbar because it apparently talked smack and the crackhead decided to teach the wall a lesson. The noise woke me up and I got up and went to work at the Lindley Apartments. I had to drive like a bat out of hell to make it to Encino in order to sign a lease for someone at 10am and they were AN HOUR LATE. Fucking people, I swear. I should start an etiquette school.

The quarter-annual sample sale thrown by Billion Dollar Babes started today. I met my friend, Michelle, at the Hollywood Palladium to scope out the best deals. When I was driving around looking for parking at the worst time possible in LA (4-7pm they tow on major streets because they open up the far right lane for rush hour traffic) I got lucky enough to spot a LADOT Traffic Officer.

You’re probably wondering why I’d consider it lucky to spot a meter maid. Well, for starters, he was parked in the spot in front of the Porsche he was ticketing. I figured as soon as he was done writing the ticket, I could get his spot. Sweet!

Secondly, I saw this as an opportunity to get the 4.1.1. on parking regulations.

As I sat patiently in my car behind the Porsche with my engine running and my turn signal on, the meter maid guy noticed my presence. He came over to me and asked if he could help me. I said, “No, sir. I just thought I’d take your parking spot when you were done.” He told me it’d be a minute.

After a few minutes of him calling in the ticket he’d just written to his headquarters, he came back up to me and said, “You know what Ma’am? If you take that spot just over there, you can park for free.”

“Why? Is the meter broken?”

“Yes,” he said, and I swear to God that he winked at me. I was starting to wonder if this big, old black man was getting fresh with me. But then I remembered back to the days where somehow I acquired a winking habit and once I started winking, I couldn’t stop.

I would be in line at Starbucks and when I’d throw my change into the tip jar after paying, the cashier would thank me and I’d wink. I’d be at work and someone would say hello to me while passing me in the hall and I’d wink at them. I’d be at the gynecologist and he’d ask if I’ve been experiencing any irregularities and I’d wink at him. You get the picture.

When I’d parked and locked my car in my newly-found toll-free spot behind the Palladium, I went back over to the meter maid guy and quizzed him on his LA parking regulations knowledge.

“When you see a loading zone with a white or yellow curb, is it okay to park there after a certain hour? When are you allowed to double park? How far do you have to park from a fire hydrant?”

I’ll have to admit that I learned a lot about parking today and I am here to pass this wealth of information along to all of you…

1. It is never legal to double park, ever. It doesn’t matter what time of day it is, what street you are on, if you have your flashers on, if you own a gun or how fancy your car is. It is always a traffic violation and if you are caught, you will be cited. If you are caught and you are still in your car, you will be asked to move. If you refuse, you will be cited.

2. You must park at least 15 feet away from a fire hydrant. Not all curbs at fire hydrants are painted red, so you cannot let that be your guide. If you are caught by a meter maid, you will be cited. If you are caught by the LAFD, they will break your windows and fill up your car with water.

3. You cannot park any further than 18 inches from the curb. (I already knew this but wanted to verify the distance.)

4. You are not allowed to park at a white curb loading zone at any time. If caught, you will be cited.

5. Yellow loading zones are loading zones purchased by businesses next to the aforementioned parking space. Therefore, since the LADOT is paid to paint and maintain those curbs, they are theoretically patrolled more frequently than other areas. The parking spots alongside a yellow curb are loading zones only during the operating hours of the particular business which purchased it, or between the hours of 7am and 6pm. Outside of those hours, it is permissible to park there.

You’re welcome.

Tomorrow is Jacob’s birthday. He and his best friend are going up to Big Sur for the weekend to relax so we won’t be working tomorrow. Jacob announced this to the front desk crew at The Casting Studios yesterday in a wink-wink fashion.

“Hey guys! It’s my birthday Friday but we won’t be working since I’m going out of town. So if you were planning on getting me a cake… I’ll be here tomorrow!”

So this morning, before our callback started, I spoke with the front desk to find out how we should plan this soon-to-be ordeal. Since our clients would be here all day and we’d undoubtedly be busy, we needed to figure out when we could squeeze in the birthday formalities. At that moment, we basically had 10 minutes free in which we could have brought out cake and sing Happy Birthday. It turns out they hadn’t even bought the cake yet. So there went that idea.

Realizing they hadn’t bought the cake, I asked if they’d get an ice-cream cake. Jacob loves ice-cream cake (as do I) and they sell it at the Ralph’s next door. In addition to it being easy because of the proximity of where it can be purchased, it’s not as expensive as Jacob’s other favorite cake option - Sweet Lady Jane.

Around 3pm, there was a lapse in our session where we had another 10 minutes to spare. So I called the front desk to see if they were able to do the cake presentation ordeal then.

“Sure. We’ll let you know when to bring Jacob back.”

By the time we were ready to start up again, I still hadn’t heard back from the front desk. As soon as Jacob went back into session, like literally when the door shut behind him, the front desk called me.

“Kathleen, we’re ready. Bring Jacob up front.”

Stymied in our attempts, I’m guessing the cake-lighting crew had to blow out the candles and put the cake away. But our next opportunity was not too much later in the day. All of a sudden, Liz Paulson (another casting director & friend with whom we work) came bounding over.

“I’m here to bring Jacob to the front for his cake.”

“Liz, I was going to bring him over. It’s no big deal.”

“Yeah, but how are you going to do it? It’s supposed to be a surprise. Do you have a good excuse?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“What is it?”

“What’s yours?” I’ll tell you , sometimes I’m so quick on my feet that I impress myself.

“I’m going to tell him I’m in the middle of a nervous breakdown and that he needs to come into my office so I can talk to him.”

“Liz. He’s in the middle of callbacks. His main clients are behind that door with him right now. There’s no way he’s going to go with you.”

“I’m going to tell him it’s only for 2 minutes.”

“No way, Liz. He’s never going to go with you.”

She shrugged her shoulders and went back to her session. Shortly thereafter, Jacob came out of the room again. I called the front desk to see if they were ready. They said they’d call me as soon as they lit the candles. After I got their confirmation call, I grabbed Jacob by the shoulders and said, “Jacob, come on. Let’s go. It’s time.”

I know it’s sort of anti-climatic but it’s not like it was going to be a surprise in the first place. I didn’t ruin anything. He’d been talking about it all day. He’d told the front desk the day before to get him a cake. And he was suspicious of everything going on around him all day for no reason.

Our friend Josh stopped by after lunch (pre-cake ordeal) just to say hi. He didn’t know anything about aforementioned cake ordeal and was just coming by to get some free lunch. (Josh is a human garbage disposal, vacuum cleaner style. That boy can eat more than anyone. In fact, if he’s not eating, those who know him are inclined to ask if something is wrong with him. It’s amazing how he manages to stay so fit and trim.) Jacob immediately assumed that Josh was there for the whole cake ordeal and didn’t believe our many protestations.

Normally when anyone at The Casting Studios has a birthday, someone gathers all the casting directors, assistants, camera operators and TCS staff members and gets them to congregate at the front desk. Then another person goes to get the birthday kid and leads him or her to the front desk under some sort of carefully planned ruse.

For example, one may say, “Listen, Roman is up at the front desk and he has a huge bulge in his pants on his left side. He was wondering if you could come take a look at it and tell him if you think it’s a hernia.”

So you see why everyone is so horrified that I didn’t make up some elaborate lie. That’s half the fun of it for them. Most of them are past, current, future or wishes-they-were actors, so they loooooooooove the DRAMA. But my mindset goes to the immediate situation at hand. - We’re busy. We have to deal with this whole birthday-inconvenience cake-ordeal. This is how to get it done most efficiently.

Okay, fine! I ruined everything!

When Jacob and I made it over to the front desk at the cake ordeal appointed time, it was like a ghost town. No one was there. So I just kept on walking back as if I were headed into our office so no one would see us just standing there like lost hitch-hikers, confused and alone. I didn’t want everyone else to feel bad that they hadn’t met cake-lighting deadline, or whatever. But Jacob didn’t follow my lead. He just stood there.

Finally, someone brought out a cake and started singing. That singing brought out more people from their offices and from down the hall so by the time he blew out the candles, the crowd wasn’t as thin.

Normally there are a few people photographing the event from different angles. I looked around and saw NO ONE WITH A CAMERA. So I grabbed one from the front desk and rolled up my sleeves and did the dirty work myself. Unfortunately, it was a polaroid camera so I can’t exactly post the photos here. I will do my best to get someone to scan them and send them to me.

So, the whole cake ordeal turned out to be pretty pathetic.

Yes, IT WAS ALL MY FAULT. I already admitted it. I’M FREEKING SORRY, OKAY?!

I’m going to go with the excuse that since my birthday falls just before Christmas, I’ve never gotten cake at school or work and don’t really know what it’s like and therefore I can’t be expected to know how to pull it off for someone else.

There, are you happy now?!

But, hey, I asked for ice-cream cake and we got regular cake. Clearly that was not my doing.

So there’s this one actor, let’s call him Mr. Poopwood, who I just cannot stand. Every cell in my body goes on strike when he comes on. I refuse to smile. I refuse to be nice. I am barely even able to be civil.

Now it’s hard to even remember why and when this hatred began. But as far as I recall, he was late for an audition once. It was the end of a particularly hectic day and he was one of the last people on the schedule. So we were waiting around for him to show up so we could wrap tape and get the hell out of there and go home. After 20 or 30 minutes, I called his agent to find out if he was coming. His agent, whom I adore, said she would place a few calls to find out his status.

A few minutes later, he showed up. The first words out of his mouth were, “Why’d you call my agent?!”

“Because you were more than 20 minutes late, Mr. Poopwood.”

“No I wasn’t.”

“Uh… yes you were.”

“No I wasn’t. You should be more careful. Looks like I busted you. You are so busted for not doing what you’re supposed to. Watch out or I’ll make you lose your job.”

Uh, whatever you piece-of-shit actor. As if!

It’s bad enough when someone is late but when you show up late and deny the fact, and then accost me with rudeness instead of apologizing even if you think you’re being funny?! Fuck you.

So, ever since then (it was about a year ago) I cringe whenever he’s scheduled for an audition and I whine at Jacob for giving him an appointment.

My hatred for Mr. Poopwood is so great and well-known that in the mornings of the day he’s scheduled, I merely have to say with a groan, “Guess who’s coming in today?” to Bob the Badman Badway (a camera operator) for him to promptly respond with a laugh, “Mr. Poopwood?”

This morning, Jacob printed out tomorrow’s schedule and guess who was on it?! My favorite. Grrreat. So I bitch and moan and try to convince Jacob of all the reasons why Mr. Poopwood should be banned to no avail.

“But Jacob, he should be blacklisted! Come on!”

Nope.

And then, sweet retribution. Karma is on my side. This afternoon, the agency or production company decided to change the specs and told us to cancel any appointments we’d scheduled for people no longer fitting the new specs.

I was somewhat annoyed thinking I’d now have to cancel a zillion people and make a bajillion phone calls, but nope. There was just one person no longer fitting the specs. POOPWOOD! HA! Take that you stupid ass.

Someone is watching over me today. I must’ve done something right.

Thank you.