the job

While waiting for the shuttle bus (forever, forever, but sipping pink Pierre Jouet helps) at AWFF on the Universal backlot this smooth talking guy with smooth dyed black hair was telling me he had to leave the party early to go to a movie premier of "the biggest budget porno-film ever made." Something about pirates and gigantically breasted women and lots of booty. That wasn't my favorite moment of the event, but it was pretty good.

Free stuff isn't really free--like passes to the party. I was poolside, sipping wine, lounging and my cell rang: Sacha, will you go by Mozza and pick up onions and bring them here early? I had plans to shower and primp, etc but instead I drove around with a bag of onions. Luckily my pool-frock  was cute and I had a pair of heels in the backseat of the car to dress it up. Traffic was really bad (Yo Yo Ma at the Hollywood Bowl, brutal bumper to bumper over the hill) so I was able to do some lipstick and eyeliner touch up while driving down Highland Ave.

The next morning, when I finally got home and was napping, still wearing the same dress, my mother was tri-ath-a-lon-ing. A vision of contrasts.

OMG three parties three nights in a row and Valerie said I looked remarkably fresh Sunday night. Glowing, even. And when I saw Morgan whom I hadn't seen in like ten years she said, You look exactly the same. She also had some witty remarks about "loosey" cigarettes and "butthole lips" because American Spirits don't have any additives and you have to suck too hard. That was Sunday.

On Friday I went to a bar with four digits but bailed before last call and luckily got a ride home from a married guy with a one year-old and angry wife waiting for him at home who had to leave, pronto or else. The hill to the house intimidated him. Or I did. Or both. But as I got out of the car (brand new fancy thing thanks to a recently signed screenplay deal) and wobbled to the door in my high shoes, I shouted back--See, it's hard for me too.

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