But with a baby you don't get schwag.

My hilarious friend and kinda famous online writer, Wendi Aarons, is coming to town to speak at BlogHer this weekend. I’m excited to see her speak and know she’ll blow the crowd away. If you’re going, make sure to check the community keynote and join me in shouting, “Amen Sistah!” at the top of your lungs when she’s finished. She’ll like that.

Wendi and I bonded years ago when we worked in Hollywood as assistants to some legitimately powerful film execs. She was a seasoned film school type, and I was a scattered rookie. She took me under her wing, and within no time I was schooled in critical skills like untraceably passing highly reliable yet snarky actor gossip, booking personal film screenings for my friends and charging it to the studio, and redirecting expensive agency schwag to my home address. It wasn’t all glamour, though. My boss was, well… she was brilliant, but… a handful. And as I was thinking about Wendi’s visit and remembering old times it occurred to me that being an assistant to a studio exec in la la land was actually very good early training for motherhood. For example:

• Much like my baby, my boss had little respect for my personal life. If on a Sunday evening she needed the answer to a simple question like, “Do you know if my car needs to be washed?” why shouldn’t she call?
• I worried about her diet. She needed to be fed on time. And was an extremely picky eater. No tomatoes. No no no! Tuna with EXTRAAAAA mayo. EEEEXTRA.
• I was proud of her when she succeeded. I recall her calling me from the car excited that she made it to an appointment across the city without needing to have me on the phone feeding her directions. I think I even clapped for her.
• I worried about my boss’ self-esteem constantly. If she wasn’t feeling confident and happy, it was tantrum city. This was especially hard to juggle because I couldn’t keep track of what was important to her. At times everything freaked her out. Audrey has the same problem. But she’s teething. And my boss was just, well, LIVING.
• I made her doctor’s appointments and kept track of what the doctor said at each visit. I think I was even overheard once reminding her to pee before a screening started.
• At some point, I memorized my boss’ social security number. I don’t even know Audrey’s yet. (Wow. That one even just shocked me as I typed it.)
• I often wondered by indulging her, am I spoiling her, or just soothing her so I can get some fucking relief?

So when Wendi sees me I fully expect her to say, “You haven’t changed a bit.” Not because I haven’t aged, but because when we last worked together, I wasn’t sleeping much either.

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Oscars

Growing up in LA, you couldn't help but know someone who was an actor/producer/writer/director/music editor "in the industry". Most of the time it seemed perfectly normal but now that I think about it, it did make for some remarkable childhood memories. Like when the Los Angeles Dodgers came to my friend Katherine's 10th birthday. Or when my schoolmate Michelle had a rollerskating party and Dorothy Hamill joined us.

As my mom reminded me back then, kids in Kansas don't generally get to say they showed off their freestyle moves to Dorothy Hamill. (Actually, what I really remember was how glad I was that I was wearing my jeans with a pink roller skate patch on my tush. I was super sure Dorothy was impressed.)

Inevitably I ended up dating the actor/producer/writer/director/music editors. I never got to a level where there were paparazzi pics of me with anyone (unless one shot in Teen Beat counts) but the experience was sort of surreal in any case. I mean, in Kansas, when the girls go out on dates do the guys say, "I'd order the tempura, but it's horrible for my skin and I've got an audition for a Crest commercial tomorrow."

I'm actually a second generation Los Angeleno so my mom and I have always had that in common. Did I ever tell you that Natasha Gregson Wagner could have been my stepsister? Anyway, it's a long story.

In any case, later in life I worked at Warner Bros. and got exposed to the more traditional Hollyweird stuff like learning the names and phone numbers of every agent in town by practicing with index cards, and remembering what execs were and weren't speaking to whom and why, and (of course) getting coffee for celebrities and getting screamed at when it wasn't non-fat-soy-with-whipped. So with all those fine skills, when I left the business what I was ultimately left with was... well, very little -- except an amazing talent for witty/snarky color-commentary during the Oscars and an impressive record of winning every Oscar pool I ever entered.

This is why it was so strange to be in my room at the Marriot in Boston tonight and turn on the TV and realize I completely forgot the Oscars were on. And I have no idea who's nominated. And I doubt I've even seen more than 3 of the movies.

Who'da thunk it?

You can't take LA completely out of the girl though. In only a few minutes, I'd ordered wine (yes mom, occasionally I drink alone and it's OK) and settled in for good night of solo snarking. I mean, did you see the look that Penelope Cruz gave Ellen after the insinuation that she was Mexican? ¡El horror!

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