Sunday in L.A. with Angela

It’s Jane Austen’s fault that I forgot to turn my clock ahead.

Yes, even after many thoughtful reminders from my parents who’ve made it their life’s work to keep me apprised of time re-setting, rental availability in apartments near theirs, and “Dancing with the Stars” updates,  I fell asleep without advancing the hands of my friendly, faithful, Target-purchased Home Furnishings alarm clock. In my defense, I had just watched “Pride and Prejudice” and was completely drunk on romantic escapism and thoughts of Mr. Darcy in his thigh-skimming riding breeches.

As a result of the Spring Ahead, Fall Back (Into Bed)- ritual, I missed aerobics, wasting the motivational mojo I was saving up from Friday when I saw the Olivia Newton-John “Let’s Get Physical” video at Hamburger Mary’s.  There I was, at a tall table on the patio, eating my veggie burger, enjoying the view of Santa Monica Blvd., thinking, I really don’t want to get physical.

The idea of a sit-up is not nearly as appealing to me as a good long sit-down.  I prefer a “Let’s Get Cerebral” approach to life.  I like to read, write, watch TV, go to the movies, stare at art, all of which can be done without ever disturbing the comfortable lifestyle of my sweat glands which retired after the final game of 8th-grade Kickball.  Now I have days when the most exercise I get is brushing my teeth or taking off my bra without first removing my shirt.

OK, I changed the clocks on the microwave, the stove, and the nightstand.  I’m a fan of more day and less night. No matter how many years come between me and my childhood, hot weather and primetime sunlight remind me of being out of school for the summer; the carefree days when bike-riding screeched to a happy halt the moment we heard the chimes of the ice-cream truck as it lumbered through neighborhood streets.  I think of  family trips to Asbury Park, where we’d eat at Howard Johnson, glide high above the boardwalk on the Sky Ride, and surrender to the joys of Skeeball and sand-castle building. And, there was shore-related snackage like Cotton Candy, Salt-Water Taffy,  frozen custard on a cone, and whatever else we could talk my parents into spending too much money on.

It’s a beautiful day here and I do have to move my body to go to the supermarket. And, I’m sure I’ll treat myself to lunch at the outdoor food court where I’ll mentally plot out my week. Of course, I will end up exercising,  if only because I’m meeting up with old friends when I visit New Jersey next month.  One of them is my high school crush whom I haven’t seen since graduation and I’d like to be able to sit down without worrying about my midsection spilling out over my favorite jeans. (Although that mess can be hidden with a strategically-placed dinner napkin. Just remember not to take it with you when you leave.  Covert attempts to cover a bountiful belly are not worth a restaurant supply-theft rap sheet.)

I’m off to the store.  Enjoy your Sun-is-out-longer-day!

Angela Goes to Hollywood

So, let me backtrack and explain how a Jersey girl with big hair and a penchant for diner French Fries smothered in gravy ended up in L.A. at more than one raw-food dinner party where I was so desperate for something cooked that I snuck into the bathroom with a tiny pile of vegetables I’d never even heard of and held it under the blowdryer for 5 minutes.

Ever since I perfected the Wonder Woman spin while watching Linda Carter lasso the bad guys and deflect bullets with her bling, I knew I wanted to create characters and build stories around their lives. I also knew to do that in a visual medium, I should live where showbusiness lived: Los Angeles.

When the timing seemed right, I sold my house and headed west. I rented an apartment near a newsstand and a Coffee Bean and moved in with my 2 cats (1, if my landlord is reading this). I didn’t know anyone here.  All I had was some savings and an earnest desire to become a screenwriter. I had no idea how to make that happen. But, I figured geographic desirability was a plus in case a Busy and Important Industry Person heard about my extensive background in television and film writing watching and wanted to meet with me post-haste.

When I arrived, I broke a sweat praying for some type of lucrative, non-specific, show biz deal involving a bidding war and a hometown parade whenever I deplaned at Newark Airport for a visit with the folks.  When, surprisingly, that didn’t happen within the first two weeks, I decided to seek employment.  A steady “just waiting for my big break” income would keep ink in my printer, allow me to take lots of writing classes, and give me hope that I’d be able to trade in my windshield-wiper, horn, and radio volume control – challenged vehicle for a ride that wouldn’t traumatize me with car shame whenever I valet parked in Beverly Hills.

The first stop in my quest for a paycheck was a swanky, celebrity – frequented eatery/drinkery. I hadn’t waited tables in more than 15 years, but I knew it was a critical chapter in the Hollywood success story.

For over an hour, I explained to ascending restaurant managers how my reporting skills, honed in Florida covering fireworks accidents and family gunplay injuries during holiday barbeques, would translate to the food service industry. After all , what is a server but an interviewer anyway? Instead of knocking on doors asking which Baby Daddy showed up drunk and set fire to his restraining order with a Bottle Rocket and pack of Camels, I’d be delicately questioning customers about their choice of side dish.  And, those off-the-cuff  live shots could come in handy if there was ever a catering crisis, i.e., “Ma’am, there’s breaking news from the kitchen. We’ve just run out of scallops.”

The restaurant uniform consisted of a shin-to-chin, stiff, shapeless, beige-on-beige ensemble that they could have saved money on by cutting head and hand holes out of a refrigerator box.  And, I’d have to wear flat shoes and minimal make-up!

Through mascara-ed false eyelashes and enough eyeliner to reproduce a Jackson Pollack exhibit, I self-consciously surveyed my leopard print peep-toe pumps and shiny, off-the-shoulder sweater that I reverently chose as homage to the Patron Saint of New Jersey Mall (“Mawl” in Jersey-speak) Fashion: Carmela Soprano.

I was further informed that many movie-star clients didn’t want to be bothered and that communication between the glitterati and the bitterati was not on the menu. Apparently, a certain blockbuster action hero would sit solemnly at the bar and not glance at the help. (Who could blame him? His corneas could survive two hours of explosions, but looking at those uniforms could cause serious ocular trauma.)

When the interview concluded, I was directed to the employee exit where I carefully navigated the chipped floor tile leading to a dank, decrepit staircase that hadn’t seen a workman’s trowel since 1949. I tentatively teetered up the slanty, moldy steps convinced that I would emerge, not onto the pristine sidewalk of Burton Way, but at the final resting place of the vampire Nosferatu.

Clutching my Confirmation Rosary Beads and a Vitamin Shoppe garlic tablet dug up from the bottom of my purse, I rethought my romantic notion of serving drinks to saturnine celebs by night and slaving over a hot lap top by day. Longing for a well-lit lobby that wasn’t off limits to the great unwashed and a job that didn’t mind lip gloss shiny enough for its reflection to guide in the Space Shuttle, I hoped that something else was in store for me.

Was it ever!

 

The Husband Project

The catalyst for my move to L.A. is “Angela Hires a Husband”, a social experiment in which I placed a Help Wanted ad for the ideal temporary husband.  Hollywood expressed interest in the idea, and though nothing has come of it yet, I’d always wanted to live and write in L.A., anyway. 

Here’s how “AHAH” happened: Hurricane season was approaching and the year before, I had dated a skittish guy whom I knew would never help me hang shutters for fear it would mean we were engaged. The threat of natural disaster was only one factor in my decision to pay a man to pay attention. My car was leaking oil, the garage was filled with old furniture and boxes, the house required some maintenance, etc. Also, I was active on the charity circuit, which meant attending events and functions where I would spend a lot of time defending my single status. I decided it would be fun to have a man on my arm to introduce as my “hired husband” as conversation kindling and as a buffer from well-meaning, but ultimately off-the-mark fix-ups offers. A few examples:

• I was once introduced to a man who looked – and drove – like Mr. Magoo. I spent the entire dinner trying to figure out how to acquire a helmet and roll bar before the ride home.
• Another matchmaking effort involved a guy who spoke earnestly about being in love with the woman who set us up. I’m pretty sure she did it to get him off her trail and onto mine. I call this a “diversion date”.
• In one particularly uncomfortable scenario, I went on a double date with a married couple. The woman who invited me simply wanted a night out with her husband and her lover, aka: the guy she set me up with.

By the way, I didn’t do so well on my own, either. I met a man who asked if he could massage my calves as soon as we got into the car. Another guy picked me up for a date with a toothpick tucked behind his ear. So, yes, I was done auditioning men for the role of soul mate over cocktails, cappuccino, or bookstore scones. (My definition of dating: An awkward attempt to bond with a stranger in the hope that he will someday be my ride to the airport.) And, as is an inevitable part of the human experience, I’d had my heart broken. It was time to go on “guy-iatus”. I closed down my heart and opened up my wallet. By making it a financial, rather than “romancial” arrangement, I wasn’t self-conscious about getting my practical needs met. The ad drew interest from around the world, and lots of support from women who understood my position. The media got on board and helped me get the word out. Often, I was asked why I didn’t just hire a handyman. It’s because for what I needed in my life at the time, the word “husband” was the most applicable. My friends and I had so much fun interviewing great guys. (Men are chosen by selection committee anyway. I just formalized the process.) To see the Marital Obstacle Course that helped us determine Mr. Right-for-the-job, check out the You Tube video.[video]5u-9K29j0KQ[/video]http://youtube.com/watch?v=5u-9K29j0KQ

angelagetsemail@yahoo.com

It’s a Blog!

Hi everyone!

Join me as I welcome my very own blog into the world! It’s been gestating for a long time, so I was ready to give word-birth.

There’s lots to shed light on, such as why I decided to place a Help Wanted ad for the ideal temporary husband, how the experience expedited my move to L.A., and my resulting unexpected life as a red carpet correspondent. (All the celebrities I’ve met have been really nice to me, and yes, the women are extremely slender. More on that in another post, along with my own transition from the Dunkin’ Donuts cruller diet to Boil-in-bag brown rice and steamed vegetables. The only thing that makes it bearable is that I allow myself a Sunday morning Chocolate Chip muffin love-fest. Just me, the Times, and a big round piece of cake disguised as breakfast food.)

First, “Angela Hires a Husband”:There are many layers and many reasons behind AHAH. But first and foremost, I placed a Help Wanted ad for the ideal temporary husband because I needed help. Hurricane season was approaching and the year before, I had dated a skittish guy whom I knew would never help me hang shutters for fear it would mean we were engaged. The threat of natural disaster was only one factor in my decision to pay a man to pay attention. My car was leaking oil, the garage was filled with old furniture and boxes, the house required some maintenance, etc. Also, I was active on the charity circuit, which meant attending events and functions where I would spend a lot of time defending my single status. I decided it would be fun to have a man on my arm to introduce as my “hired husband” as conversation kindling and as a buffer from well-meaning, but ultimately off-the-mark fix-ups offers. A few examples:

• I was once introduced to a man who looked – and drove – like Mr. Magoo. I spent the entire dinner trying to figure out how to acquire a helmet and roll bar before the ride home.
• Another matchmaking effort involved a guy who spoke earnestly about being in love with the woman who set us up. I’m pretty sure she did it to get him off her trail and onto mine. I call this a “diversion date”.
• In one particularly uncomfortable scenario, I went on a double date with a married couple. The woman who invited me simply wanted a night out with her husband and her lover, aka: the guy she set me up with.

By the way, I didn’t do so well on my own, either. I met a man who asked if he could massage my calves as soon as we got into the car. Another guy picked me up for a date with a toothpick tucked behind his ear. So, yes, I was done auditioning men for the role of soul mate over cocktails, cappuccino, or bookstore scones. (My definition of dating: An awkward attempt to bond with a stranger in the hope that he will someday be my ride to the airport.) And, as is an inevitable part of the human experience, I’d had my heart broken. It was time to go on “guy-iatus”. I closed down my heart and opened up my wallet. By making it a financial, rather than “romancial” arrangement, I wasn’t self-conscious about getting my practical needs met. The ad drew interest from around the world, and lots of support from women who understood my position. The media got on board and helped me get the word out. Often, I was asked why I didn’t just hire a handyman. It’s because for what I needed in my life at the time, the word “husband” was the most applicable. My friends and I had so much fun interviewing great guys. (Men are chosen by selection committee anyway. I just formalized the process.) To see the Marital Obstacle Course that helped us determine Mr. Right-for-the-job, check out the You Tube video.[video]5u-9K29j0KQ[/video]http://youtube.com/watch?v=5u-9K29j0KQ

After the “Angela Hires a Husband” experience, my life changed drastically. Stay tuned.

Cloverfield: A Random Review for my own Amusement

Before I cover a premiere, I occasionally get invited to a screening which is very cool because this gives me:

• Somewhere to go for two hours on a week night other than sitting at home, watching reality TV dance shows, and trying to do a split

• A break from a rigorous day of screenwriting (sometimes known as perusing the gossip sites and checking the number of views on my You Tube page)

•  Bragging rights to friends who have grown-up jobs with paid vacations, vehicles with functional window controls, and chairs in their apartments not made from piled shoe boxes and padded bras.

Anyway, there I am, sitting in the theater, watching the latest JJ Abrams creation, Cloverfield. I know, you’re thinking, now that’s a weird match. Angela and a movie NOT based on a book that was written by/inspired by/re-imagined-as-if-were- possibly- conceived-by Jane Austen? But, hey, this is Hollywood where odd pairings are de rigueur. And, every once-in-a-while I expand my artistic horizons by experiencing genres other than “romantic comedy” or “shirtless Mark Wahlberg”.

During the film, I kept waiting for an actual clover field to show up, or at least some metaphoric reference to the title. But, that’s not what happened. There was not a single trifoliolate leaved little plant (Thank you, dictionary.com.). But there was a massive, angry creature that terrorized Manhattan and 5 young residents who document the attack on a personal camcorder. That’s the film’s premise. I later found out that Cloverfield was the secret name given to the project. It was never intended to be the title – but it stuck. My verdict? Cloverfield is really good. I liked it. But, there are some things you should know. If you’re OK with amusement park rides and don’t have an eating disorder which requires ipecac, (It’s 84 – minutes of hand-held camera work, complete with jostling, running, and jumping.), this is an entertaining personal-documentary style approach to fun-scary storytelling. I feel cooler and hipper for having watched it. True that! Note to anyone over the age of 27: IT’S VERY LOUD! I suggest you swing by Walgreen’s afterwards and pick up a hearing aid device or one of those old fashioned ear-horns. It takes a few hours before you stop yelling at people (or longer if you’re just really mean). And that, friends, concludes my unofficial movie review; a very enthusiastic two heels up!