Marbles

My grandmother talks to bushes. Let me say that again. My grandmother talks to bushes. What do you say to someone who talks to bushes? “Hey there grandma, would you mind not talking to that bush? Someone might take it the wrong way.” I’ll just say nothing. “So Shorty,” I say to my grandmother whom we call Shorty, “Whatcha doin?”

“Having a conversation,” she says as though I've interrupted a matter of great importance. She then turns back to the bush, “You’ll have to excuse her; that must be her Father’s influence. That certainly doesn’t come from the Fetterman side of the family.”

“Just walk away,” I told myself. “Just turn around and go inside.” Wait... no, this might be good... stick around and see what she tells the bush. The latter, more mischievous voice wins and I take a seat by Shorty on the front stoop.

“Well I know she doesn’t look a thing like Mindy but I swear that’s her daughter.” Shorty then nodded in agreement as if the bush was sharing an interesting tidbit of information. She continued, “Yes, but she’ll grow into them. Of course, I've always had beautiful legs. That must be her Father also.” Well, I’m game for schizophrenic episodes but not when I’m the butt of the joke.

Back inside Mom is in the kitchen cleaning up from lunch and Aunt Phyllis is in the living room drinking her Miller Genuine Draft out of a glass... like all Fetterman women do. “You want a beer?” Phyllis says with a devilish grin.

“No she doesn’t!” Mom shouts from the kitchen.

“What what?” Shorty hobbled into the house and sat upon the gold velvet couch she purchased in 1965.

“Phyllis is trying to give Maggie a beer.,” Mom reported with a dismissing huff.

“Then give the kid a beer. What are you now 20?” I would have expected this question had I not been in town to visit for my 18th birthday. I thought she might stop calling me “kid.” Apparently old habits die hard. She took my water glass and dumped its contents onto the plant behind her. I should mention it was a fake plant. She haphazardly splashed beer from her glass into my cup and set it back down just as Mom came in from the kitchen. “You need this more than I do,” Shorty said, motioning to Mom. I laughed and sipped the beer. Score. When I was younger, the more beer Shorty drank, the older I got, and by four in the afternoon, I was smoking cigarettes and watching the stories.

“The pot roast should be done in about 3 hours, so dinner at -” But Shorty cut off Mom before she could finish.

“Wait, I’m getting a message,” she said pressing her hand to her ear and cocking her head to the side, “Dr. Barber says Mindy needs to call Willy right away.” She then placed her hands neatly on her crossed legs.

“Right, dinner will be at 6.” Mom nervously said. Willy is my grandmother’s old maid, and lifelong friend. But she hadn’t come by the house since Shorty had lost her marbles. We all made a mental note of the message and moved on. Time passed quickly with Shorty asking the same questions repeatedly. Time flies when you never change the subject. The Fetterman women were soon drunk and melee ensued. They can be quite shitty to each other sometimes, but all in good fun. Shorty makes fun of Phyllis for buying her “shit-colored towels” for Christmas one year. Mom makes fun of Shorty for throwing burnt rolls from the kitchen at the Thanksgiving guests when they chuckled at the rock hard bread.

“Ah, shit!” Mom shouts from the kitchen. In an instant, we are all in the kitchen to see what all the fuss is about. “The pot roast is burnt. Who put the oven on 450°?” Mom looked inquisitively at everyone in the room.

“Well I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t under cook your pot roast.” Shorty retorted and headed back into the living room. I wasn’t going anywhere; I was hungry and looking at burnt dinner. I poked my head around Mom’s shoulder to get a closer look at the pot roast.

“Smells good,” I said sticking my finger in for a taste.

“Ah!” Mom snapped slapping my hand away. “Three butts in a one butt kitchen! Out! Out!” She shuffled Phyllis and I back into the living room, where Shorty sat dazed, sipping her MGD. When she was young she had great legs and even now she crosses her legs to accentuate her best asset. Still got it. Mom continued her repair of the roast. “Maggie!” She called from the kitchen, “come in here and do these mashed potatoes while I fix the roast.”

“Don’t you listen to her honey you don’t have to do a thing,” Shorty assured me. I really, really love being her favorite. But I was hungry and didn’t mind taking one for the team. I enthusiastically mashed the potatoes while Mom pathetically basted the roast.

“Uh, Phyllis Lee, I mean Lady Bell, I mean Spookie, shit… Mindy! Get me a beer if you don’t mind.” Without a word I retrieved Shorty’s beer and poured being careful to tip the glass to reduce foam. “Thank you sugar,” She smiled.

“Ah ha!” Mom had a eureka experience in the kitchen. Again, there were four butts in the small galley kitchen crowded around the poor burnt roast that had become the object of our fixation. Mom cracked an MGD and dumped it over the singed roast. “Au-jus!” She declared. The beer foamed and fizzled around the burnt lump of meat.

Soon we were dining on Mom’s salvaged entrée. It wasn’t all that bad and I was happy to have the extra beer. Shorty didn’t care for it, saying, “We think it’s too dry.” I wanted to say “We who?” But again, what’s the point?

Mom asked Phyllis how her youngest daughter, Paige, was doing with her new husband and baby. “Fine, fine. Jackson said his first word the other day, ‘shit’.” We all burst into laughter; he’s one of us all right.

“Smartest thing that girl ever did.” I didn’t mind so much that Shorty called me kid. When she called Paige “that girl” it always sounded…well…shitty. Phyllis glared at Shorty. “Well Phyllis Lee, bless her heart she’s dumb as a post.” Whenever Shorty said “bless her heart,” you knew she was setting them up for an insult. Easiest way to be rude is too sugarcoat it a little. That was the southern belle in her. Like the leg crossing thing. I wouldn’t know, I was raised on the east coast with Mom.

We all knew that Shorty wouldn’t be able to live long in this house by herself; that sooner or later the Alzheimer’s would make living alone impossible. We were all just enjoying this time together; care free.

I spent the rest of the evening watching Mom pointlessly struggle to explain to Shorty and Phyllis where we had lived in Dallas a few years prior. “So you drive through North Carolina, down through Georgia and then over or what?” Shorty asked.

“No, no. Not down then over, over then down.” Mom became frustrated trying to explain with simple words. Naturally, she decided a visual aid would be more helpful. She picked an astray up off the coffee table, emptied it into the trashcan and slammed it against the wall. “Kentucky!” she exclaimed. She kept it in place with her elbow and extended her other hand to the coffee table to retrieve a magazine. “Texas!” She looked around the room for another prop. “Maggie, come hold Texas and Kentucky while I go get Tennessee and Oklahoma.” As I grasped the two states, Mom came from the den looking pleased. She thrust Tennessee (a coaster) and Oregon (a plate) against the wall. Phyllis had to hold Tennessee and Oregon so Mom could trace a finger path from Kentucky to Texas. This elaborate display was meant to explain the trip, but it was impossible to decipher the route as Mom had to climb across the mangled bodies of her state holders. It was a freakish game of twister... with props. We all laughed and began dropping states.

A few moments later after Shorty had forgotten, we began the process of retelling the story. This would continue for the rest of the evening.

[writer's note: This story was first committed to paper for a submission to this Literary Magazine and an assignment for a Creative Writing Class. Instructions included that we should always write while considering our purpose in the telling of the story. What did we want to get out of it? Well I suppose I have only one purpose. All Fetterman women are crazy but Shorty is the only one diagnosed as such. The only thing I want to do is tell the story so that I will always have this memory. And perhaps to spare my children from having to tell it to me over and over... and over again someday when I lose my marbles.]

EPILOGUE

I began telling this story to anyone who would listen, seemed interested or happened to bring up a topic that reminded me of it. Many of you know that this is the process that inevitably leads to a new blog posting. That is where the similarities between this story and other self-deprecating, life experience, true stories turned blog posts end.

For years now I have contemplated crafting a book of short stories a la David Sedaris featuring all of my blog posts, as well as several as-yet unpublished stories. However, I find that what draws us, as readers, to compilations of short stories is not in their individual appeal or worth; it is in the overall theme and underlying idea that unfolds through the telling of brief moments in time. Everything that I am as a writer, a person and a woman comes from the amazing women I've only briefly introduced you to today. And until today at 2 o'clock in the afternoon this story had been trapped in antiquated floppy disk hell in a junk drawer at my Mother's house. “I can't finish the novel I've been working on for 6 years,” I've always said when asked about my writing, “because I can't find this one story. The story. The story that started it all. That story is my beginning, my middle and my end.”

Over the years I've attempted to recreate it but have never been successful. My writing process is infamous to those unfortunate enough to come into contact with me on a “writing day.” I've written in excess of 20 versions of this story. Each one judged inadequate and deleted immediately upon completion. The first few years I convinced myself that my harsh self-criticism came from a feeling of insecurity based upon the overwhelmingly positive reception that the original received mixed with feelings of inadequacy at how easily the words had previously arrived into my head.

Now I realize that while that answer may have explained my dormant phase from the time this was submitted (2003) until 2007, the remaining years of inactivity on this piece have an entirely different cause. Evelyn “Shorty” Fetterman died on February 5^th, 2007. While it is always difficult finding humor in death, that only contributes to what I believe to be the larger reason for my mental block (in regards to finishing the book). No story has a happy ending. While there may be a happy conclusion to the end of a story, all stories end in death. Everyone dies. It has taken me 2 years to realize that I haven't been able to recreate this story, or even get a good start on that damned book, because my intense admiration and love for Shorty rendered me unable to emotionally commit to a story conveying her as a main inspiration in my life when I still had not reconciled her death. I now know that I will never get over her death, but it has become more important that I share her charm, wisdom, humor and …. shitty one-liners with at least my friends... and at best the world.

I have chosen to submit this story nearly untouched (save a few comma removals and typos that I am shocked made it past the dreaded "Professor's red pen"). I only hope that the emotion generated upon finding it, reading it and subsequently writing this Epilogue have unlocked some hidden door inside me behind which all ability to finally embark on the telling of this full story lay hidden.

[writer's note: My mother, Mindy Fetterman, wrote a piece for USA Today titled “The Burden of Caring for Elderly Parents” which was later republished on ABC News.com and several other nationwide news sources and relevant community forums. I find the most heartening line to be its final: “Evelyn Fetterman died in February at age 84. She had been living in an assisted living or a nursing home for 10 years. Her daughters are sad and tired. They miss their Mom the way she used to be. They're relieved that it's all over. And for that, they feel terrible.”]

Merry Christmas, Jack Cameron

Maggie, age 8.

A Letter to Santa Claus :

Dear Santa Claus,
I have been as good as I can be.

I would like for you to hang this picture in your house.

Don’t be mad if I do bad.

<----- I’m Santa’s BRID.

From Maggie Cameron
p.s. writ back [editor's note: this typo is intentional]
[address redacted]

<----- I am Maggie’s cat Bpersy. [editor's note: this typo is also intentional. the cat's name was Percy.]

<----- And this is me, Maggie Cameron.

Dear Maggie,

I just received a letter from Santa and he said he had a letter from you with a picture of a big bird. He wanted to know if this is what you looked like. I wrote back and said that you were a bird alright but looked like a nice little girl and not a “big bird.”
He wasn’t sure, but thought he might by-pass Louisville this year because of his heavy workload. I imagine this would be okay if it’s okay with you. I think his real problem is that his reindeer are getting lazy and don’t cover as many cities as they should. Maybe old Santa himself is drinking too much cranberry sauce.
However I will be looking forward to your visit. This time I plan to beat you at “Old Maid” blindfolded.

Love,

Grandfather

A Harmless Prank

When I was 8 years old I still believed in Santa Claus. However, at this old age, the art of retrieving presents from this unknown benefactor became a battle of wits, a game of strategy, the ultimate chess game. I had a “when the ref isn’t looking” approach to my youthful mischief and would often find myself checking around for any watchful eyes before engaging in shenanigans.

In the days leading up to Christmas Eve, I became a complete nightmare to endure. I shouted at my Grandmother concerning the dwindling milk supply. I shooed my cousins from the kitchen as I attempted to get double chip cookies "just right." I tenderly peeled carrots for the reindeer.

Morning finally arrived and I threw off my covers and hit the ground running in my red footie pajamas.
I halted to a dead stop upon entering the living room.

A small, single square of red felt was wedged into the closed fireplace screen.

I filled the house with a glass-shattering shriek.

It took every member of my family to talk me out of my room. Convinced that Santa Claus had been maimed on our property and would therefore not be returning any subsequent years, I had begun shouting denouncements of my family to anyone that would listen.

My Grandfather Jack Cameron, being unable to ascend the stairs personally, had eventually called to me from the lower landing. “Maggie! Stop that racket and get down here!”

Tears and tantrums had little affect on Grandfather. I wiped the moisture from my eyes, straightened myself up and calmly opened my door.

“Yes, Grandfather?” I said, in the most innocent voice I could muster.

“Will you stop shouting and get back down here. I put the damn felt in the fireplace.” He said in a huff. “Damn kids, can’t joke a joke, Why I….” I heard him muttering as he wandered back into the living room in search of his trusty armchair.

why is everything comically large in my non-sexual dreams?

The fact that I awake to find myself living in a cookie cutter house in a plain suburban neighborhood would normally have been alarming, were it not for the humongous steamrollers steadily making their way down the street leaving destruction and devastation in their wake. It is important to note that these steamrollers were not humongous by normal standards; they were of an amusingly obscene size. I would liken their size in comparison to the houses as that of a foot to an ant. In any case, these ridiculously large steamrollers are steadily crushing whole blocks as they quickly approach my very own house.
As if a wealth of knowledge has suddenly been downloaded into my brain, I recall the recent threats the Chinese have made to “destroy the United States” unless certain outlandish terms are met. Apparently, the Chinese have been building more than faux purses and tiny cell phones, as these gargantuan machines prove.
By some stroke of unknown genius, our house is immediately lifted by an enormous crane. My view of the lifting of the house and the crane itself is from a near cartoonish standpoint, looking directly at the earth from space with the crane perched ludicrously on top of the globe.
The crane itself appears to be nearly ¼ the size of the earth.
Were this the only unrealistic element thus far, it probably would have struck me as odd. It did not.
Moving on…The abnormally large crane lifts my house straight off the face of the earth, swings it ‘round and plops it down onto the lunar surface.
At this point I should also mention that not only do ratios of proportional size cease to exist, but also all known laws of nature regarding probability and physics are of little concern.Once safely positioned on the moon, the inhabitants of the house rejoice. This consists of me, my stepmother, and two unknown male persons that I can only assume are close acquaintances.
However, the celebration is cut short when a steamroller is seen making it’s way across the horizon approaching the house.
Panic ensues.
My stepmother fetches what appears to be a Ziploc bag half filled with blackened cheerios. She explains that it is poison, and we must all eat it…or be flattened alive by the Asian invasion.
As we prepare to swallow the “poison” the steamrollers lurch to a sudden halt. Before anyone can say “beat a hasty retreat in fear of the white devil,” the steamrollers are gone.
We rejoice.
This celebration also does not last long.
My stepmother explains that we now face certain suffocation. Apparently the astrophysics associated with humans being on the moon sans space suits is suddenly a relevant issue.
I chew my discolored breakfast cerealesque “poison” tablets.
As I choke on my last breath….I wake up.

The Trials and Tribulations of Mr. Fancy Pants

Once upon a time I lived in Fairfax. I lived in a tiny house with 3 other girls and their various animals. The only animal of consequence in regard to this particular story is one Mr. Fancy Pants.
Mr. Fancy Pants was a cat of overwhelming personality, and we became fast friends. Despite my severe allergy to cats, I often drunkenly snuggled him and insisted he sleep in the nook my body created when I slept in the fetal position.
Mr. Fancy Pants was an outdoor cat, and as I was often the only one home at odd hours of the night, I usually let him into the house. He was also quite the curious little monster. He would regularly find himself stuck on the roof, lacking the ability to get himself down. On many occasions I would build a rudimentary ladder of chairs and coolers to retrieve his silly ass.
I soon grew tired of this.
I began to scold Mr. Fancy Pants quite loudly when I would exit my domicile to hear him meowing from atop the roof.
On one particular afternoon after class, I comfortably positioned myself in my bed and surround myself with all of my favorite things.
Huge glass of water. Check.
Bong. Check.
Pot. Check.
Cigarettes. Check.
Ashtray. Check.
Cell phone. Check.
Remote. Check.
Lighter. Che----SHIT
I threw my bedspread off in disgust, slipped on my house shoes and made for the door. DAMMIT. So close to total bliss and now THIS. A venture into the cold after being so tightly tucked in bed.
I swung open the front door and stepped onto our front stoop.
“MEOOOOOOOW.”
I turned in every direction, searching for the source.
Again I heard, “MEOOOOOOOW.”
I stepped into the yard, and there he was. Mr. Fancy Pants standing on the edge of the roof staring at me as if I had the answers to all that ails the world.
He let out one more loud “MEOOOOOOOW.”
I had finally had enough.
“FUCK YOU FANCY PANTS!” I yelled as I stomped off to my car to retrieve the aforementioned lighter.
After acquiring said lighter I turned to return to my house when I saw him.
There he was, sitting on his porch bench, glaring at me. My 65-year-old neighbor.
Then it occurred to me, “Fuck you Fancy Pants” it’s not something one usually hears.
Shit.Oh well. Like THAT’S the strangest thing I’ve ever done. Please.

Becky

It occurs to me that I never posted this here, although it's very popular on facebook...

by popular demand...here it is.
but first: a brief disclaimer: This is one of the stupidest stories EVER told, seriously. If you don't think I'm funny, or don't get my humor, don't read anymore. It will only serve to enfuriate you further.

When I was younger I swam on the River Road Country Club, in which my grandparents and parents are members. At 12 years old, I had taken the past few years off from swimming to attend summer camp. This was my triumphant return. Only...no one remembered me...at all. My first day back, a young blonde girl came bounding up to me and introduced herself. Over the whistles of the coaches and the splashes made from bodies hitting the water I shouted "Maggie!" "Becky?" she said back. Before I could correct her she grabbed my arm and led me to the edge of the pool and faced me to a gaggle of giggling girls half heartedly doing their water excercises. "Everybody!! This is BECKY! She's awesome!"
Well, whoever this Becky person is, she got quite the introduction. I hadn't the heart to let her down in front of this impressive crowd, and thought it best to clear up the misunderstanding later. Later, however, never came. The legend of Awesome Becky grew to proportions beyond my control. After victorious mario brothers matches in the game room, successful relay races, and the demonstration of the ability eat 4 saltine crackers in a minute, Becky had become quite popular. She moved from public displays of ridiculous talent to all out mischief. The flags marking holes on the golf course were shuffled to the confusement of the senior members. Quarters were super glued to the game room floor. Cans of soda in the snack shack were shaken within a modicum of bursting. To the dismay of the on duty lifeguards, there was ample running in the pool area. Becky was on fire.
My then 65 year old Grandmother, whom also served as one of the elders of the country club, came to me one day after practice. "Whoever this Becky girl is, you stay away from her. I'll not have Cameron women associating with that lot."
Uh-oh. The day of reckoning was coming. I managed to eek through to the last day of swim practice. Always watching my back, keeping a steady eye fixated on the parking lot waiting area, engaging in shenanigans under the most controlled of circumstances. I was going to make it! As I strutted to my grandmothers car, confident in my anonymity, I looked over my shoulder to give one last ever-so-cool wave to my new cohorts when...
"BECKY!! See you next year!!"
The blonde had foiled my attempts at a hasty escape.As I shut the door to Gram Cameron's minivan she paused before pulling away. "Becky?" She gave me a look of utter disapproval, which immediately wiped from her face to reveal what can only be described as a smirk. "Well....figures."

Nothing more was said of Becky, and I never swam at River Road Country Club again.

the end.

My Love Affair With Dove Soap...

It's that time again....another classic Maggie story that helped shape who I am, while also identifying me as that nerd alert.

By popular demand, as usual, I submit: My Love Affair with Dove Soap:

I've always had an intense fascination with smells. I know that is a strange way to begin ANY story, but nonetheless I feel it is an important character quirk that you must comprehend before we go any further. I have the most difficult nose there is. It's not that my nose is unable to smell, quite the opposite actually. Instead, my problem arises whenever the nose becomes obstructed, which is just about all day every day. I was struck with this horrible affliction at an early age. "But Maggie," you say, "surely the marvel of modern medicine could you provide you some assistance?" True. Developments in this important field have brought us not only Nyquil and Benadryl (legal crack) but have also inspired Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman (who's greatest accomplishment was as a hilarious joke in Talladega Nights). However, at my young age the standard method of treatment for allergies was either a shot (no thank you) -- or -- a giant yellow horse pill the size of my pinky finger taken in conjunction with a nasal spray. The pills I could handle. Thanks to years training my throat to swallow those ginormous things....well....nevermind on that. Anyways, my problem arises with the nasal spray. It smelled of fish and tasted of cheetos. Not pleasant. I refuse to touch the stuff, let alone shove it up my nose. Therefore, I pretty much can't smell anything, ever.

Here's where the soap comes in. I CAN smell soap. Not only CAN I smell it, I LOVE to smell it. To me, Dove Soap is the greatest smelling thing on the planet. Yes, moreso than Clinique Happy mixed with weed (my signature scent).

When I was younger I would spend countless wrinkle-inducing hours in the bathtub literally sniffing soap. (Ok, if you didn't think I was weird before, this is right around when you go WTF?). At a certain point of eath of my baths I would convince myself that if soap SMELLED this good, surely it TASTED good as well. I would slowly lift the bar of soap to my mouth, stick my tongue out and swipe the soap as fast as I could. Then I would cringe into scrunch face for which there was no cure, howling all the while as the disgust that befell my mouth.

BUT, like clockwork, the very next day I would find myself staring at the soap, grasped tightly between both hands in front of my face. Convinced that THIS time it would be good. THIS time it would be different. As I pressed the soap to my tongue, there was the brief moment where the wonderful smell masked the horrible disgustingness and for a split second I would think "AHA!" Which was immediately followed by "EWWW" as I would turn the faucet on and frantically splash soap into my bubbly mouth.

Here's where it gets weird, as if it hadn't already... This bathtub scenario repeated itself for years. From ages 6 to about 12. Finally, at age 12, I sat myself down for a nice long talk about this "soap thing." Right then and there I decided to go all in, balls to the wall. If soap was EVER going to taste good, now was the time.

So I did it. I took a BIG BITE out of a bar of Dove Soap. It sat on my tongue for all of 10 seconds before I spit it into the tub and immediately began washing my mouth out. I was unsuccessful in that attempt.

Needless to say EVERY TIME I drank ANYTHING for the next week there were bubbles in my mouth. I've never tried again to taste soup, but its a constant daily struggle not to.

Big thanks to Deb who bought me an economy size pack of Dove Soap for Christmas, which I immediately sniffed right then and there, to her horror. While the sight of boxes of soap on my desk, and the sweet smell during my morning showers are a constant reminder of what could be, I now know the difference between "smells good" and "tastes good".

For those of you that ever eaten anywhere with me before, YES....this is why I smell my food....but that story is for another day.

I am an asshole.

A few reasons an ass like me could never work in politics...

I was always a strange child. At 10 years old I locked myself in my father’s basement for the latter part of the summer watching news coverage leading up to and during the 1992 political conventions. My father would burst through the lock door expecting to find a mischievous child watching MTV, eating raw cookie dough, or picking my nose. Instead he found me glued to the old television dancing to the Clinton Campaign theme song, Fleetwood Mac’s “Don’t Stop.” He would shake his head and close the door.
Years later, I would work for a Democratic Junior Senator. He’s an ethical and balanced man who graduated from West Point, served in the military, then continued his education at the Kennedy School of Government. If there were no televisions, this man would be president. I absolutely loved working for him, and took my few responsibilities very seriously. Eventually, my attention to detail, enthusiasm and writing skills afforded me additional opportunities that I relished. I, being the neurotic mess I have ever been, in turn found ways to make a mockery of each of them. Hold onto your britches, here come more classic Maggie stories….

My Debut on CSpan

During my first year interning, my first major “assignment” (aka bitch duty) was to attend the Congressional Tobacco Hearings, take notes, and prepare memos on developments. This was incredibly boring. I would, however, be remiss if I didn’t also note how profound, and fulfilling it was to at least be present. But, seriously, boring. After two weeks of proceedings I had begun to believe in a total lack of new information, each session being merely a re-hashing of previous testimony and a chronology of events already entered into record. As I awaited the smoking gun that would cause the sort of dramatic courtroom gasps normally reserved for Perry Mason episodes, I occupied my mind with thoughts of the day’s lunch and which CD I would listen to on my drive home. (Yes, that really is the contents of my inactive brain – food and music) I usually spent a good portion of the hearings entirely blacked out. They began, members thanked each other, prepared and watered down testimony was read, a gavel was banged and then I would leave. On one day in particular I returned to my cubicle to a ringing phone. It was my mother. “God dammit Maggie Cameron! The entire world just saw you sleeping on national television!” Yes, ladies and gentleman, my grand debut…

What NOT To Do When You Meet Your Hero

My second year interning I had begun taking on duties of greater importance and prestige. Well, for an intern at least. I had staked my claim in the press department and had begun refusing to enter phone answering and mail opening shifts with the other interns. Varsity bitches. In the press office I worked with strong women who cursed, threw things, hung up on people and threw coffee at television sets. They were also phenomenal writers, and the best at what they do. One of them had a lisp, and she was my favorite. On one day in particular, the Senator called me in his office and asked for a favor. [if you make an intern joke here, I will slap you*] He asked that I deliver a document to an office inside a private residence on the other side of town. Looking forward to milking an hour out of the office, I agreed. I slowly found my way to a grand brownstone in Northwest DC. I entered the lower level door the Senator had distinguished as the office door. Inside were the workings of a normal bustling command center. 3 desks filled the small room and stacks of paper were carelessly arranged in corners. The staff couldn’t have been much older than I, and they all bustled around with great haste and frazzled looks on their faces. One of them stopped in front of me and panted “Yes?” I bumbled something mostly incoherent about my document and its sender, and the young man shuffled me to a shut door in the back of the room. Before I could speak, he ran back to his rounds about the room, papers flying. I opened the door and stepped partially in. I hear a loud voice from behind the desk chair in an unmistakable Louisiana accent. Holy shit, the Ragin Cajun. He spun around in his chair and looked me up and down in two seconds. “Well get on in here now and give me what you got, now I’m on a call and don’t all day for you be lingerin around in my doorway.” I muttered something of total and complete uselessness equivalent to Baby “I carried a watermelon” Houseman. I shuffled forward, dropped the document and then did the worst thing imaginable. Just stood there. And stared at him. The bad kind of stare. The wide-eyed, mouth open, stare where a monotone noise involuntarily escapes your mouth. He shooed me out with one wave of his hand and I backed out, bumped into the door, turned, and then shut it behind me with the back resting against it. A young girl stopped in front of me, “Intense, I know,” and went right back to her paper shuffling.

Who is Maggie London?

Yeah so here's a little background on my neurotic hot mess of a boss *****. This woman is FRAZZLED. ALL. THE. TIME. She is a woman living on the edge. Thank god for pot, or I'd be right out there with her.

So she goes out of town for a week to Dublin and I'm PUMPED cause that means I get to clean my desk and complete the millions of projects she's given me.

So one day I needed to get an email to ***** while she was out of town, but her blackberry was down. Why? I dunno, she probably turned it off on accident or something stupid. In any case, I decide just to call her voicemail and leave her a message. Swear to god, this is the message:

"Hi, I'm out of the office until Friday. Until then please contact my assistant Maggie London with any questions. Thank you."

1 - She never says her name
2 - Who the hell is Maggie London?
3 - There is no contact information for Maggie London, how the hell are people supposed to contact her?

The next question would be, "So did people call your office looking for Maggie London?"
I have no idea, but I'll tell you that they didn't make it through to me. Why? CAUSE I'M NOT FUCKING MAGGIE LONDON!
oh man.
I love my job.

Sundance Stories Part III

Every morning I wake up to a cup of double strong. There is some issue in the kitchen about a turkey burger. The conversation goes like this:

Clayton: I didn't eat the turkey burger.
Margaret: I know you didn't. The turkey burger is still there, the box is just open. Like someone wanted a turkey burger and then changed their minds…
Maggie: Oh shit. I think I tried to eat the turkey burger last night.
Margaret: Well, what happened? Why didn't you eat the turkey burger?
Maggie: I got confused. And what the hell is a turkey burger? Can we quit calling it that?
Clayton: Why? What's wrong with turkey burger?
Maggie: It sounds weird.
Margaret: So what happened?
Clayton: Why's it sound weird?
Maggie: I dunno, turkey's are funny. Turkey burger sounds funny. It does not sound…appetizing…at all.
Margaret: What happened to the damn turkey burger?!
Maggie: I was confused.
Margaret: What's so confusing about a turkey burger?
Maggie: Gross.
Clayton: I still don't understand why you can't call it a turkey burger. You can't laugh at your food?Maggie: The instructions were all complicated. And yeah, I laugh at my food, but only when its DOING something funny…like flying across the lunchroom.
Margaret: Complicated?
Maggie: Yeah the directions were nuts. Hold on, listen to this: (I then pull out the turkey burger) "Open box. Remove turkey burger. Open turkey burger bag. Remove sauce packet. Place turkey burger still in openbag back in open box. Add water to sauce packet and microwave on medium power for 50 seconds. Place turkey burger in open bag in open box into the microwave. Microwave on high power for 4 minutes. Remove box from microwave. Remove turkey burger from bag. Place sauce packet onto turkey burger. Place turkey burger back in bag. Place bag back in box. Place box back in microwave and heat for 1 minute. Let stand in microwave for…" Oh fuck it. Do you see what I'm saying? This shit is ridiculous. So I said fuck the turkey burger and I ate the cheesy enchiladas instead.
Margaret: Oh honey, that one was a Lean Cuisine meal.
Maggie: Awww shit.

Sundance Stories Part II

My first night in town I had dinner with Lisa and Margaret. We discussed things of my generation: politicks, music, emo and, of course, myspace. Lisa then asked me to help her run the podcast project, a joint venture between Stella Artois and Park City Television. I was excited because doing Internet fun things like this is right up my alley. Let me be clear, at no point was me being on camera discussed as an option. I woke up the day after the screech incident at 7:30 and came downstairs to get some coffee. It is worth mentioning that Margaret (remember, she is the awesome lady I'm staying with) only makes coffee that is extra strong. So strong in fact that Lisa has been known to water her down. One cup of Margaret's coffee has me bouncing off the walls off 4 hours of sleep. Clayton and I drop the ladies off at various places and head to the tent. Clayton drops me, and heads off on a swag hunt…he cracked me up with this endless pursuit of freebies. At the tent I do a couple things, there was always lots to do, and wait for the sprint camera crew to arrive as they were doing interviews at the tent during the late morning and early afternoon. While standing outside smoking a cigarette and talking to Dingo the door guy (no Jaime, he didn't eat my baby) I see a very familiar face on the sidewalk. I can't place him so I walk back inside. Clayton returns from an unsuccessful attempt to break into the Fred Segal lounge. Classic.
Shortly after, the PCTV marketing boss Stacey and her assistant Emily show up at the tent. We discuss plans for each of the podcast and set up a time for the camera crew to be there, 4pm. The ladies leave and we go back to setting up. I eat by grazing…basically. I continually steal bites from the backroom where the hors d'oeuvres are being made.
Blah, blah, blah until the crew shows up. We head to the streets to celebri-stalk for people to be in our podcasts, but we're also looking for cool people. We get two cute snowboarders from Hawaii, the "U-pick" superhero from Nickelodeon, and Schuyler Fisk (of Snow Day, Orange County and The Baby Sitters Club), plus some other people on the street. Then I see the guy from the tent again. Clayton erupts in hysterics. "Get him! It's Donkey Lips!" I run across the busy Main Street and up to Donkey Lips and his friends. "Excuse me, do you want to be in our podcast?" After I explain to him who I am and what we're doing, he agrees. We go back across the street and he shoots the podcast. It's basically an elaboration on the Sundance mantra for this year "Focus on Film." Do I feel like a hypocrite preaching no swag, while at the same time accepting it? NO. But that's because I don't make millions of dollars a year and whore myself out for free IPOD's. Besides, I gave away all the free stuff. After we're done shooting Clayton and I start talking to Mike, his real name, and his buddies. We invite them to the Stella Artois patio to drink and offer to put them on the list for the next day, they accept. We head back to the tent. Unfortunately, being 19, Clayton can't come in the tent with me. I drink two beers and eat hors d'oeuvres. The regular portion of the tent closes at 7. Clayton, Lisa, Margaret and I stick around while Simon Townshend performs to a packed tent. He's Pete Townshend's brother and now tours with The Who. His son, Ben (who is a super hottie) performs with him. They do an amazing job and the music is really good. After the show, Julie (Simon's publicist, whom Clayton had struck a conversation with earlier) gets us in to see Simon and we thank him and take pictures with him. People stay and drink another hour or so. I meet Chris Mulkey (look him up on http://www.imdb.com/, he's been in everything) who is there promoting the documentary Nanking. He gives me his card, which is pretty cool looking, and we take a picture. The conversation goes like this:

Chris: So now I live in Louisiana and play my music.
Me: You should make a myspace page.
Chris: Oh yeah? I've heard about that. I have a friend whose page has all kinds of stuff on it.
Me: Yeah, mine is like that too. I have a slideshow and a background.
Chris: When you email me the picture, you should email me the name of your Webmaster.
Me: Um, I'M my Webmaster.
Chris: Well then you should set it up for me.
Me: Yeah ok

Man myspace is funny. Emily calls and says that the footage from the entire podcast is blurry and unusable. She promises to get man on the street shots of people saying focus on film and get it to us for the podcast. As I'm walking out Julie stops me. She thanks me for my enthusiasm and tells me to keep an eye out for Simon stuff. I tell her to make him a myspace page. We talk about it for a while. Ok, so yeah, I'm pretty much always pushing myspace on people that don't have it. So what? It's a great way to get things done. Besides, the more non-perverts or skanky 14 year olds there are, the more legitimate myspace becomes. She gives me her card and tells me to call her when I come to LA. I thank her and say good-bye. At this point, I'm thinking "Yeah right I'll ever come to LA."
Clayton and I go back to the house, drink and eat.

I know this one is a little short, but this was a relatively short day.

Sundance Stories Part 1

Sundance my first FULL day:Ok, as most of you know I was at Sundance Film Festival this past week working for Stella Artois. I got this amazing gig b/c Mindy (aka the coolest mom ever) is good friends with Margaret Nathan, who runs PR for Stella and is based out of Park City, UT (where the festival is held). I had a lot of responsibilities, most of them fun, some of them tedious. It wasn't all fun and games; I did a lot of running around and got little to no sleep. But I also had the most ridiculous time ever. So outrageous in fact, that the days and nights blur together, so retelling the story is going to be slightly difficult. But I'll try.
My first day there I arrived from the airport and then I basically ran around and met everyone I would be working with over the next week. There were tent guys, audio guys, bouncers, assistants, executives, everyone. Late this night my little buddy Clayton arrived from Canada. He is the son of Lisa, who works with Margaret, so he and I were in this thing together. I went to bed around 1 and woke up the next day at 7:30. I spent all day running around and doing things for the first podcast that we shot.
This is the time of the infamous "Screech Incident". Basically, it went like this: I'm standing out front of the patio smoking a cig. Dustin Diamond is walking by and Clayton goes "Oh my god, say something to him." So I shout "Hey Dustin! I'll buy a shirt to save your house." Burn. He stops and comes over to us...with his camera crew. Turns out he is filming his attempt to "out-swag" Gary Coleman. He hit us up for some Stella stuff, so we gave him just about everything we could find. We gave him glassware, bottle openers, a fleece, and... a Stella Artois red carpet. We then laid the red carpet out, linked arms and walked the red carpet while people in the tent clapped. I made an ass out of myself on his "documentary". Then the cameras shut off and he lingered around the patio talking to me for WAAAAY to long. Finally I said I had to go. I needed a drink.
The drinking started at 4 when the Stella Artois Patio opened. Now, the patio was a thing of wonder. It was a larger L-shaped structure that was erected on the patio of the "Sundance House" in the Kimball Arts Center. It was heated, decorated, had 2 bars and 3 flat screen TVs. There was a back area that had curtains and one of the TVs (plus couches, tables, etc) that we often used for interviews, etc. I drank about 3 beers there and then Clayton and I went back to the house to change our clothes. This was our first night out on the town, so we didn't really have the lay of the land yet. We went to the "New Frontier Lounge". New Frontier is the new pet project of Robert Redford. Its purpose is to restore the "indie vibe" back to Sundance. It features new, experimental art that is often technology based. This is where I met Xxaviar, the Frenchman. If you've heard this story, don't ruin it for the other kids. This guy Xxaviar was crazy. I'm standing in front of the hors d'oeuvre table and stuffing my face (you'll come to realize I do relatively little eating so I take all the food I can get). The exchange goes something like this: (the weird spelling is his weird accent)
Xxaviar: I see you like the skrimp.
Me: I'm sorry, what?
Xxaviar: Skrimp, the skrimp. I cannot eat 'zis. I am, how you say, allergzick to meat, it happen two days ago, tragjic. I prefer 'ze carrot.
Me: Word.
Xxaviar: I am Xxaviar. And you? (He does not wait for me to answer; he simply lifts my Sundance pass as close to his face as possible.) Ah Maggie. (He has that French “g” if you know what I mean, it makes my name sound like phlegm clearing)
Me: Xaviar? X-A-V-I-A-R?
Xxaviar: No. Two X’s. (I think he is joking but his face is dead serious).
Me: Why two x’s?
Xxaviar: An old girlfriend gave to me, I like.
Me: Yeah ok.
Xxaviar: You drink? You have bracelet?
Me: Yep, got my three-drink bracelet.
Xxaviar: No, no, you have my bracelet, I have two.
Me: Thanks man.
Xxaviar: You smoke? We smoke. (He then takes both of our drinks, puts them in his pockets and we walk out front to smoke a cigarette.) I am Mobi Opera.
Me: Say that one more time.
Xxaviar: Mobi Opera. I come with Mobi Opera.
Me: Oh, you're a New Frontier artist?
Xxaviar: I say I am Mobi Opera. (At this point he's shouting as if voice volume is the reason I can't understand him. I decide to let this go.)
Me: And what is Mobi Opera? (He then rambles for 20 minutes explaining it, later I found out from someone else that Mobi Opera is a technology and reality based love story where ordinary people tell their love stories through technology.... yeah ok, so we'll move on...at this point a tall, also French, bald man in - I swear to god- a floor length fur coat, and it looked like a women's coat. The bald man hugs Xxaviar and almost kisses him on the mouth, he then gives me the Euro-double kiss)
Xxaviar: (incoherent Franglish)
Baldy: (incoherent Franglish)
Xxaviar: This is Roxy Lady. (I then realize he is talking about me...yeah ok)
Baldy: Oooo Roxy Lady. (I get the Euro double kiss again and fur coat baldy waltzes inside).
Xxaviar: We cheers! (He removes our drinks from his pocket as Park City Police drive by...close call) Look into my eyes as we cheers roxy lady, I want to see your green eyes.
Me: My eyes are blue.
Xxaviar: No? Those are green.
Me: Um, yeah ok.
Xxaviar: Is cold, inside? (We walk back inside) Let us to the carrots. (Yeah, seriously, he means, lets go back to the carrots...nut job)
I finally shake the weird French guy like an hour later. Clayton and I talk to some of the artists including one guy who had this "memory camera" hooked up to a flat screen. Then there are cameras all over the lounge and the images are put together onto the flat screen...awesome. Whatever it is stores the images for 8 years...nuts. And I look like an asshole in mine. Then Clayton and I talk to a wire image photog named Randall, he's awesome. He gives us some names we can drop to get in places.
Clayton and I then leave and decide we're going to the Airborne party at Sideways bar. We get to the bouncer and people are being turned away left and right, then I drop this little jewel...
Bouncer: Name.
Me: We're with Randall Michelson.
Bouncer: Who's that?
Me: The wire image photographer.
Bouncer: He already left.
Me: No he didn't.
Bouncer: We already have a wire image guy inside.
Me: yeah, but you don't have Randall. He asked us to come and check out the lighting in the venue so he knows which lens to bring.
Bouncer: Wow, I haven't heard that before so it must be true.
Score. We go inside and immediately chat it up with the bar stuff, they're out of alcohol, but the bartender is going to serve us from his personal bottle of whiskey. Gross, but at this point I got a good buzz going, and I ain't picky. I sit down at the bar and start smoking. I almost burn the guy next to me, I apologize, he turns around...its Jake Busey. We take shots of shitty whiskey and pictures and he's awesome. I make Clayton try on the "Airborne Germ Costume" and laugh hysterically. We walk out front to leave. I light a cig. I make it 2 blocks before I need to sit down (cig + altitude + big hill = fuck no). We sit on a park bench and start to laugh at... whatever. Guess who walks up to us, jumps on us and bear hugs us...SCREECH. It takes me 20 more min to shake screech. Then Clayton and I go home, eat food and pass out.