Last night was the wrap party for the show I worked on earlier this year, Wildboyz. It was at the Knitting Factory, and they had several bands—including Turbonegro (who rocked). More importantly (in general and for the purposes of this entry), there was an open bar. And I took a taxi there. And a flask, because I didn’t know there would be an open bar. I guess the rest pretty much writes itself.

I woke up completely drunk, late, and aching. My right arm is bruised from the elbow to the shoulder. My left arm is covered in scratches. Amanda, who went with me and stayed night, was rushing around getting ready for work. I called my boss and told him, “I’m so sorry, I’m later than I planned on being, you won’t believe how crazy it was. I’m covered in bruises! Jeez, I’m so sorry. God, I’m glad you gave me my performance review yesterday! Ha, ha, ha.”

Did I mention I was drunk when I woke up? And I don’t remember anything beyond midnight, so I can’t actually tell you how much I drank (beyond the two screwdrivers, five beers, and half-flask of vodka).

Into work I go, completely out of it, glassy-eyed, barely comprehending the words coming out of people’s mouths. One of my supervisors greeted me by calling out, “Hey, Drunkard!” when I got in, at noon (an hour and a half later than I told my boss I’d be).

The minute I signed on to messenger, I got IMs from Donny and Barry, friends who were at the party last night. They both wanted to know whether I was okay, and were amazed I’d gone in to work. I know this must mean bad things. I press them for details and learn that I was essentially poured into a cab by them after we all got kicked out of the bar at two. And after I fell. Three times. That explains the bruises. The way Amanda put it, very diplomatically, “you seemed to be holding court at the bar sitting on a bar stool surrounded by your work buddies and then it was time to go and you couldn’t stand up very well.”

Oh my god. Mortification set in. Although people usually forget this kind of behavior right away, I imagine that they remember it forever, and are doting constantly on the memory of my tits falling out of my shirt as I lay sprawled on the Walk of Fame outside the Knitting Factory, waiting to be poured into a cab. Then I remembered the kind of people that were there, and that they have ALL done way worse, and seen way worse, than any of the shit I did. It’s not as if I stapled my nuts to my leg, or passed out in a puddle of my own urine in a hotel hallway.

Although Amanda did fill me in on some of what happened after we left, and now I understand how people end up in those positions. Apparently, we couldn’t figure out how to get back into my building. It IS a pretty big building, and there ARE about four entrances. Once we did find the right one, I couldn’t remember my apartment number. There are four floors, and every door in every hallway on each of them looks exactly the same. I just kept trying the next closest door with my key. Amanda said, “I finally sat you down and was like, ‘Helena. We can’t keep just trying to break into every apartment in the whole building. YOU HAVE TO remember your apartment number.’ And you focused and finally peeped, ‘137.’” I can not imagine the racket we made going through the halls, at 2:30am on a weeknight, with me intermittently falling.

I spent the day at work making trips to the bathroom about every twenty minutes to throw up whatever small amount of fluid I’d ingested since the last time I threw up. I kept telling myself to make it just a half hour more, and then I could go home early. I did this until it was 6 o’clock. After I got home from work, I had to trade my date for a nap. At 10, I woke up ravenous. One Cheeseburger later, I’m feeling tired but decent, aside from the numerous aches and pains that keep surfacing. Hopefully a hot bath will cure some of those.

All I have to say is that I am partied out for a while. If anyone reading this was there, please accept my apologies for the behavior you witnessed. And know that I don’t usually fall that much.

You can now view photos of the volunteer work we did last week. Check out the development of my fabulous mural!!! See how it’s MY mural…I did make the sponges, and paint most of it, and direct our volunteers…so I guess I don’t feel that bad calling it mine. It turned out pretty okay, if I do say so myself! I’m in the mural pics in a white hat, and group photos, wearing a blue bandana. ‘Cos I’m a gangsta!

Okay. Here’s what happened yesterday, late in the afternoon.

Behind the reception desk at The Network, I’m playing Bejeweled. Up come Scott Baio (makes me wish there were an html command to draw a little heart around text) and Thomas Calabro (who you may remember as Dr. Michael Mancini from Melrose Place). Unlikely pair? I think so. They kindly sign in. They’re early.

I say to Dr. Mancini, “It’s amazing; I look at you and I still feel the hate.”

“The hate from what?” Scott asks.

“From Melrose Place,” I say, “You were just so convincing.”

Michael does not look impressed. He does not look unimpressed either. He looks like he has a touch of malaise. I panic, thinking that I may have found the Captain Kirk to his Shatner. Maybe he despises Melrose Place, Billy, Amanda, and especially Michael…maybe he’d like to forget he ever did the thing at all. After all, he has appeared in a number of quality television films, including Stolen Innocence and Hard Knox. I quickly backpedal and make a lame attempt at joking with him.

“Of course, I don’t really hate you. I mean, I’ll still validate your parking.”

“Well, thanks so much.” Can’t even work up a convincing sarcastic tone. Scott asks me for a cigarette, and I’ve left mine at home.

“Don’t worry,” I say, “I’ll get one.” I IM the new receptionist, who is upstairs temping for another deparment the last half of the day. I know she’s a smoker. Get down here, Charles in Charge wants a cigarette. She doesn’t respond. I am going to have to find one myself. I leave the desk unattended and embark on a mission to get Scott his nic fix.

I find one of the girls in IT who smokes. “Scott Baio wants a cigarette,” I blurt out. She holds up a box of Nicorette. I hustle to News and ask another gal. She quit last week. Why in the hell did everyone choose to quit smoking right when Chachi would finally grace me with his presence and allow me this one golden opportunity to satiate his desires? Someone overhears my plight and points in me in the direction of the corner office, where I finally am able to bum a Parliament off some dude.

Gingerly holding the cigarette (I don’t want to sully his lips with any of the cooties from the doors I’ve been opening during my mission), I make it back out to the lobby.

“Wow!” His eyes open wide. “You actually found one for me!”

“Of course I did! Anything for you.”

I totally just said that. To Scott Baio. The gal upstairs comes out of the elevator lobby, cigarette in hand. She sees I’ve just handed him one.

“Found one already? I guess I’ll just have to smoke this one myself!”

She proceeds to join the two guests outside for a puff while I look longingly at him through the glass pane walls. *sigh*

A third person joins the party once they are inside, and they head up to the meeting shortly after.

After their meeting, only the third member stops at the desk for validation. Scott and Thomas stroll through the lobby towards the front door…but Scott turns just at the desk and says, “Hey, thanks again!”

I melt into a little puddle of goo.

“Don’t they need their parking validated?” I ask the third man (who apparently has no freaking name, at least not to me). “Do they have a driver?”

This makes #3 laugh out loud. “They’re not that famous,” he tells me sardonically.

This comment, I take personally. With all the fervor of an adolescent girl wishing desperately that she was Sarah Powell, I insist, “He’ll always be famous to me!”

Did I mention I’m wearing pigtails? And a little artificial buttercup barette? Well, I was. And I meant every word of it. I want Charles in Charge…of me.

Are you serious? As a heart attack.

This is excellent. Ok, so before we begin you need to know about this show they produce here, where they find people who are completely fixated on a particular subject, hobby, or person. They interview these fanatics and then put together a show based around that theme. Fun concept. Scary people.

So I’m at the front desk, and this man walks up, he appears to be in his late fifties. He has long, curly gray hair. He is wearing a purple, velvet tophat. And a purple, sequin-covered blazer. And a purple feather boa. Also, his fingernails are longer than a woman’s, and painted in silver glitter nailpolish. He is with a hot, young Asian girl who doesn’t say a word during their entire visit. He asks for a fellow working on the above-mentioned show. Trying to maintain my composure, I call back.

“What’s your first name sir?”

“Paul.”

“Hi, Jim, this is Helena at the front desk. Paul is here for you.”

He is fidgeting with his boa.

“Ok, Paul. They’ll be out for you shortly.” The pair stay close to the desk, looking uncomfortable. I would be too. The few people in the lobby are staring pretty intently at them. I’m a little more discreet. But I’m wondering, what the hell is Paul obsessed with? What is his fanaticism? What could it be? The color purple? Shiny stuff? Textiles?

He goes upstairs for his interview, and comes back down about forty minutes later. Jim asks me to validate his parking.

“No problem! Can I have your ticket?”

Paul reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a business card. Then a subway club card. Then a whole pack of cards, that I can’t really distinguish. He puts all his cards, and stubs, and miscellaneous pocket garbage on the counter.

“Do you think maybe you left it in the car?”

He reaches into his other pocket and pulls out some playing cards, with Hello Kitty riding down a rainbow on the back. He places those down on the edge of the counter, and his elbow catches them, sending them sailing down to the floor. The girl puts down three fluorescent orange nerf balls that she has been holding and stoops over to pick up the fallen cards, as does Jim.

“Because if it’s in the car, I can just give you the stickers.”

Paul is still looking. He pulls out a scarf, and a little purple feather comes out with it, then drifts slowly in front of me and down onto the keyboard. On my reception console now are the contents of his business card pocket, his playing card pocket, three foam balls, a scarf, and a feather. I’m totally hypnotized by Paul’s long, glittering talons, and hardly notice when he triumphantly exclaims, “A-ha!” He holds the ticket out to me, and I validate it while he and the girl put his various loot back into his pockets.

Jim looks at me and says, “Ok, if we’re all set here…” while he slinks away. The pair get set and go.

And ten seconds later they’re back.

Paul smiles, “We forgot something!”

I call back the assistant. “Hey, Jim, this is Helena–”

“Oh no, we found it!”

“–nevermind.”

The other receptionist comes back from lunch a few moments later. He saw the two come in, but missed the whole parking ticket search, so I fill him in.

“Oh yeah,” he tells me, “I just saw that guy drive out in a purple Lincoln Continental.”

[I'll let that settle in]

I love this job. So much. Since I began here, nearly all the objects of my early adolescent fantasies have been before me, in the flesh. Corey Feldman, Deborah Gibson, Jordan Knight (no link for him, he was just here for an interview for the Talking Head Retrospective Show), and now…now, Corey Haim is about to arrive. We have been warned. We have been told, That boy is crazy. We are to direct him, since he will almost certainly not know where he is going. Can it really be? It’s almost too wonderful to believe. I can imagine my dream, my ultimate dream, coming true.

Helena: Would you like more wine?
Coreys (In Unison): Yes, please.
H: I really admire your work together, you know.
CIU: Thank you, Helena. We enjoy your poems. Especially those ones you wrote about us when you were twelve. We have kept them close to our hearts all these years. We’re so honored to finally meet the girl, the woman, who so eloquently pledged her undying love to us. We also liked the scratch and sniff stickers you included.
H: Oh, it was nothing.
CIU: Don’t be so humble. You are extremely talented! And beautiful. And, in fact, we must admit that…we’ve been admiring you from afar for some time now.
H: Really?
CIU: Really. Helena, we know this is sudden, and extremely unorthodox…but, would you consider becoming…Mrs. Haim-Feldman?
H: I’m not sure there’s even a state where that’s legal–
CIU: We don’t care. We want you. We need you. Come away with us this very night, and be our woman always.
H: Well…aren’t you married, Corey Feldman?
CIU: All others will be forsaken.
H: Since you put it that way…

And we live happily ever after.

This entry is a twofer! You get an insipid phone call, and an insipid receptionist moment all in one! But, you know, I like to show both sides of the coin. I’m not always the smart one, hard as it might be to believe!

Ok. So this guy comes in. And he says who he’s here to see. And he’s acting pretty important so I don’t make him sign in or tell me his full name. He comes up to the front desk, and he smells great, like a forest, all earthy. But in a nice way, not a stink patchouli way. So I compliment him, as I am wont to do to people at the front desk. I say, “You smell lovely! Like Cedar and Pine.” He is very flattered, and thanks me. I call his host, and then he uses the house phone while he waits.

When he comes back to have his parking validated after his meeting, I ask him his name for the spreadsheet. I think I hear George Vanmufrma. No, that’s not right. Can you repeat that last name? Vanperferbl. Ok, I’ll just make something up. I’m not asking a third time. And who were you here to see? Yes, I’ll need their name. He digs through his bag until he can come up with a piece of paper and a name (Note: It continues to boggle my mind, as to how someone can come and spend two hours with an executive here, and still not know their name when they leave). I give him the ticket with the little pink stickers, and he’s on his way.

As soon as he’s gone, the security guard and the other receptionist ask me, Don’t you know who that was?

No.

Mario Van Peebles!

Really? Shit. I told him he smelled like a tree.

Later that same day…

Some of the fellas might be disappointed that I didn’t pose as a development executive and get this gal’s phone number.

Dumb Rich Blonde: Hi, I have a quick question.

Condescending Receptionist: Ok.

DRB: I look like, I mean I’m like totally identical, to Anna Cournicova. People walk up to me on the street and say, “Hi Anna!” I mean, that’s how much I look like her.

CR: Ok.

DRB: And my best friend Tami and I are just nutcases and we have a lot of money and just want to have a good time. And we just like to party, and everywhere we go there are always paparazzi following us, and filming us, and I was wondering if that is something your network might be interested in.

CR: If you’re trying to pitch an idea for a show, you need to call the pitchline.

DRB: Ok, can I call you back?

CR: Fine, just ask for the pitchline when you call back.

DRB: The what?

CR: The pitchline.

DRB: What’s that?

CR: It’s the phone number I’m trying to give you, where you can pitch the idea for your show.

DRB: Oh, there’s no one I can talk to right now?

CR: No, that’s what the pitchline is for.

DRB: Because, we’re reeeally really hot, and really rich, and I just think—

CR: Well, that’s great, but you’re telling the wrong person. I’m the receptionist. You need someone in development.

DRB: Well, ok, I guess I’ll call back later.

CR: Ok, thanks.

Well, it’s been a while! Yesterday I was invited to our Human Resources Offsite Meeting (I feel so special, yay!). The “meeting” took place at the W in Westwood. I put meeting in quotation marks because we mostly ate delicious snacks, drank delicious punch, and did trust building excercises. I love this, of course, because I get to talk about myself. Hahaha. Actually, I’ve become much less of a ham over the years, and am actually made quite shy and anxious by social situations with lots of people I don’t really know well. I was disappointed in myself for not sharing more personal items than I did, I sort of stayed with what felt safe. It was a good experience, it felt really nice to be considered part of the team. Although I am technically a part of HR, it is easy to feel disconnected since my little post at the front desk is so far away from them.

Anyway! Let me get to the highlight! We had a delicious lunch out by the pool, and one of the fellows from upstairs (who happens to be totally in love with Janet Jackson–knows all her music video choreography, and has her barely clothed form as his screensaver) immediately recognized, at a table across from us, none other than Jermaine Jackson. He totally is totally still sporting this do, and was wearing paint-splatter jeans. I spent an hour trying to find a link for paint-splatter jeans, with a pic, but no luck. Apparently, there is just no way in hell anyone will even post a photograph of them. Yet, Jermaine proudly struts around the W in his pair. Gotta love it.

Ok. I don’t know where to start!

Ok. Hahaha! Ok. So I’m at work today (you know, manning the desk and phone at The Cable Music Television Network) when, about an hour after lunch, I start to feel not-so-hot. Downright sick, even. It must have been that tuna salad I was so proud of myself for making (first time). I let my stomach turn for a while until it is clear I am about to have an emergency.

At this point, let me pause to have a moment with you all. We’re going to talk about pooping. Now, everyone does it. And everyone sometimes has problems with it. Don’t act like you’ve never had diarrhea, you big fat liar. You’ve totally had it. And you’ve probably had it away from home, with no privacy, and you had no choice in the matter. Admit it. Oh, and before I get any smart alecky comments on the matter, I’d like to assure you that this poo business is not a trend likely to continue on the page. You may also notice a striking parallel to my story, Willie’s Narrow Escape. That’s no coincidence. It’s God punishing me for writing such filthy garbage. So are we good? No wussie baby liars going to act like they don’t know what I’m talking about? Great. Back to the story, then.

So I walk into the bathroom and all the stall doors are open. Score! If I work quickly, I can be in and out in no time. Grab the seat cover, take my mark, and sweet relief is mine. For a moment. Because the very worst thing possible happens–the door opens.

Crap!

I courtesy flush right away, but I know it’s too late. The place is befouled, and I’m responsible. I can’t make a move until this woman leaves. My new enemy strolls into the handicap stall. She fusses with the paper protector like it’s freaking origami, and finally sits down to tinkle. Once she’s done, she sits there. And sits there. Listen lady, I was here first, don’t TRY to have the stall standoff with me! I pay careful attention, hoping to hear some sign that she is wrapping it up. Finally, the roll is spinning, she is zipping, and the stall door opens again. Almost there. Now just wash your hands. That’s right. What are you, a brain surgeon? Enough already! I’ve got work to do here! She dries her hands very, very thoroughly (with ten thousand paper towels pulled tediously from the dispenser), and then puts the mounds of paper in the wastebasket. Then, I can’t see her, but I know where she is standing–in front of the full-length mirror. Now, she knows the other person in the bathroom is in dire straits. Everyone knows what it means to see the impatient feet in that quiet stall. It means GET OUT! And yet she continues to torment me, primping and preening in the mirror, ever-so-close to the door. I want to shout, “You look gorgeous, now get on with it!” But I refrain. She might recognize my voice, and tell everyone about that nasty little receptionist who stank up the bathroom. And my life would be OVER! After what feels like an eternity, the vain, inconsiderate twit finally leaves. It’s all mine again.

A few minutes later, I stealthily exit the bathroom and return to the front desk. I take my seat and replace my telephone earpiece. Immediately, the other receptionist turns to me and says, “You know who was in that bathroom with you, don’t you?”

“No,” I answer, as my curiosity and terror both multiply at a dizzying rate.

“Sharon Stone.”

[a long pause]

“…Shut Up!”

“Yup, she went in right after you did. Here she is on the sign-in sheet.” And there she was, S. Stone, hastily scrawled three-quarters of the way down the page. Sharon Stone: the muse, the murderess, the vixen…the woman in the handicap stall.

I consider submitting the whole scene to US for their Celebrities are Just Like Us! bit (“They pee just like us! They primp just like us! They struggle with the protective toilet seat cover just like us!”), but realize that termination would be swift and harsh. Not to mention that everyone in the world (or at least everyone reading US) would know all about my, ahem, personal problem.

So I came home and decided to write about it on my blog instead! Even though I know some of you will be alternately shocked, disgusted, or turned-on, I knew that this experience was for sharing, and not selfishly keeping all pent up for myself. Only a select few people can say, “I was in the same room as Sharon Stone, and we were both naked from the waist down.”

And proudly I declare, I am one of those people.

Ok. I don’t know where to start!

Ok. Hahaha! Ok. So I’m at work today (you know, manning the desk and phone at The Cable Music Television Network) when, about an hour after lunch, I start to feel not-so-hot. Downright sick, even. It must have been that tuna salad I was so proud of myself for making (first time). I let my stomach turn for a while until it is clear I am about to have an emergency.

At this point, let me pause to have a moment with you all. We’re going to talk about pooping. Now, everyone does it. And everyone sometimes has problems with it. Don’t act like you’ve never had diarrhea, you big fat liar. You’ve totally had it. And you’ve probably had it away from home, with no privacy, and you had no choice in the matter. Admit it. Oh, and before I get any smart alecky comments on the matter, I’d like to assure you that this poo business is not a trend likely to continue on the page. You may also notice a striking parallel to my story, Willie’s Narrow Escape. That’s no coincidence. It’s God punishing me for writing such filthy garbage. So are we good? No wussie baby liars going to act like they don’t know what I’m talking about? Great. Back to the story, then.

So I walk into the bathroom and all the stall doors are open. Score! If I work quickly, I can be in and out in no time. Grab the seat cover, take my mark, and sweet relief is mine. For a moment. Because the very worst thing possible happens–the door opens.

Crap!

I courtesy flush right away, but I know it’s too late. The place is befouled, and I’m responsible. I can’t make a move until this woman leaves. My new enemy strolls into the handicap stall. She fusses with the paper protector like it’s freaking origami, and finally sits down to tinkle. Once she’s done, she sits there. And sits there. Listen lady, I was here first, don’t TRY to have the stall standoff with me! I pay careful attention, hoping to hear some sign that she is wrapping it up. Finally, the roll is spinning, she is zipping, and the stall door opens again. Almost there. Now just wash your hands. That’s right. What are you, a brain surgeon? Enough already! I’ve got work to do here! She dries her hands very, very thoroughly (with ten thousand paper towels pulled tediously from the dispenser), and then puts the mounds of paper in the wastebasket. Then, I can’t see her, but I know where she is standing–in front of the full-length mirror. Now, she knows the other person in the bathroom is in dire straits. Everyone knows what it means to see the impatient feet in that quiet stall. It means GET OUT! And yet she continues to torment me, primping and preening in the mirror, ever-so-close to the door. I want to shout, “You look gorgeous, now get on with it!” But I refrain. She might recognize my voice, and tell everyone about that nasty little receptionist who stank up the bathroom. And my life would be OVER! After what feels like an eternity, the vain, inconsiderate twit finally leaves. It’s all mine again.

A few minutes later, I stealthily exit the bathroom and return to the front desk. I take my seat and replace my telephone earpiece. Immediately, the other receptionist turns to me and says, “You know who was in that bathroom with you, don’t you?”

“No,” I answer, as my curiosity and terror both multiply at a dizzying rate.

“Sharon Stone.”

[a long pause]

“…Shut Up!”

“Yup, she went in right after you did. Here she is on the sign-in sheet.” And there she was, S. Stone, hastily scrawled three-quarters of the way down the page. Sharon Stone: the muse, the murderess, the vixen…the woman in the handicap stall.

I consider submitting the whole scene to US for their Celebrities are Just Like Us! bit (“They pee just like us! They primp just like us! They struggle with the protective toilet seat cover just like us!”), but realize that termination would be swift and harsh. Not to mention that everyone in the world (or at least everyone reading US) would know all about my, ahem, personal problem.

So I came home and decided to write about it on my blog instead! Even though I know some of you will be alternately shocked, disgusted, or turned-on, I knew that this experience was for sharing, and not selfishly keeping all pent up for myself. Only a select few people can say, “I was in the same room as Sharon Stone, and we were both naked from the waist down.”

And proudly I declare, I am one of those people.

This is my day: I direct numerous actors who have no idea who they are supposed to see, field calls about the impending Movie Awards (which are making me want to kill myself), and snarkily gossip with the P.A. about Christoper Lowell’s prima donna attitude when he came in to interview.

Then, there was this phone call…
John: Hi, is Danny Rooney there?
Helena: I don’t have anyone by that name in my directory
J: Well, who took his place?
H: I don’t know who Danny Rooney is, so I don’t know who took his place.
J: He was in charge of acquisitions.
H: So, New Programming? I have our Series Pitchline in New York.
J: Is that the 212-846 number?
H: Yes.
J: That’s a recording. I don’t want a recording, I want to talk to a person!
H: I’m sorry, but without a name, I can’t direct you.
J: Do you have a David?
H: Yes, I have numerous Davids.
J: Alright, I want you to transfer me to the first one on the list.
H: I can’t do that, sir, I need a last name.
J: David…Smith.
H: I’m not going to be able to assist you.

And then Simon Rex is here. I have mixed feelings (mostly guilt, about finding an icky porn person attractive in the least). Then I realize that half the time there is a cute boy signing in, I look right down to his ring finger. And that, half of THAT time, he’s actually wearing a ring on it! Help! I’m getting old! *sigh*

OMFG! OMFG! OMFG!

It’s Corey Feldman! With my hands over my nose and mouth like he was John Freaking Lennon, I tell him, “Mouth, I love you.” Yes, those are my actual words. He modestly thanks me. Then, because that isn’t bad enough, I say, “I think I might cry!” He gallantly consoles me, “Don’t cry!” I manage to get him upstairs without ripping my panties off and throwing them at him.

OMFG.

I am so spent.

And then there is Isaac Hayes strolling through the lobby, sounding all rad. It’s just too wonderful.

Side Note: I didn’t see the Buk movie, but I did see Mean Girls instead. I could have used a pinch more Heathers, and a smidge less Clueless. But it was bright and funny, and well worth the watch. Although I think it would not have been a major disappointment to wait for video.