The Golden Globes are out to get me

While its just a kinda lame awards show to most people, I now most passionately HATE the Golden Globes and suspect that they are out to get me. Ordeal number 1: the ticket. Getting this was a nightmare. It involved many many calls to a poor fellow named Fernando, who explained that he could not release a ticket because someone at the table didn't say they were bringing a guest and therefore it messed up the whole seating arrangement and they might have to drop someone from the table. This goes on for all of Saturday and Sunday morning. Finally late in the day on Sunday I get a call saying the ticket is ready and can they pls messenger it to me as it is very late and the messengers are about to go out. Now, I have been saying for a week that I need to pick up the ticket myself as I do not trust messengers and want to make sure its correct. But its late sunday and am tired from all the stress that I agree to have it messengered to my apt and the girl swears up and down that it will get to me by ten. I make her promise that to write my phone number all over the envelope and that they will be instructed to call me when they get here as I will be up and waiting. I wait and wait and nothing. Christina and I watch endless episodes of South Park waiting for the phone or doorbell to ring. By 11:30, i begin to get suspicious that they are in fact not going to deliver it tonight and curse myself for not having demanded to go pick it up all the way across town at Paramount myself. In one last desperate hope, I sit outside in the cold (yes, its cold in LA, it was 41 degrees yesterday) and chain smoke 4 cigarettes (will quit again soon when less stressed) until my fingers are finally so freezing that I can't take it and admit to myself that that lexus driving up the street probably isn't the messenger on his way to me. After a restless night of little sleep I wake up bright and early trying to distract myself until its a reasonable hour to call Fernando (my bff by now). As I am making a cup of tea, the doorbell rings. Hooray! the messenger is finally here! He was very nice but could offer no explanation as to why no one called me last night despite my number being all over the envelope and told me that "it wasn't safe to leave" so they didn't deliver it. I check the envelope to make sure that no one has absconded with the precious ticket.

I call the boss to inform him of the joyous news that I would be over shortly to drop it off. He is naturally v pleased to hear that this finally got settled despite all the drama his client had caused. Nevermind that its barely 9am on his 24th wedding anniversary, perfectly natural to have your assistant come by, right? Then, as I am getting ready to make the trip up to Brentwood, my phone rings. The boss, naturally, as who else would be calling me so early on a holiday morning. My peers all being asleep after a long night of drinking (or fretting over tickets, etc.). He wants me to please call the British agent who is in town to let her know all the viewing party details. Uh, ok, I say (in head cringing at the thought of what even a short call will cost to her stupid UK cell phone). Not a problem. Except when I call my friend Fernando he only has her on the post party, not the viewing party. "But but but," I sputter, "this is what I called you about on Thursday, you said it was all set. I got approval!!" He begrudingly agrees to call someone else to see if I am in fact in the right and her name is supposed to be on this list.

I make my way to Brentwood, nervously trying to figure out what the fuck to do if this doesn't work out since I already told the boss that it was taken care of. As I near the house, Brit-bitch calls me. I explain that I "left a message" and that I should hear back shortly but that everyone was very crazy today and I would call her soon. (there goes 20 dollars). At the house, he is still in his pjs (not a new sight sadly), and invites me in. We then proceed to share how we've each been dealing with drama all weekend and neither of us has had any time to relax on our supposed long weekend. He apparently was up until 1am negotiating a deal for our dear long out of work actress amazingly. While we are commiserating, of course my phone rings. Its Maria assistant to one of the most insane directors in town (example, he has a dead stuffed cat in his office). "He's still confirmed for the meeting but can we change the location to Toscana?" "Can we change the location to Toscana?" I loudly repeat for the boss' benefit. "No, no, no" he loudly mouths at me. I fly into action explaining about the fragile nature of actor's schedules and how they can be thrown off by even such a small change, eventually getting her to agree to keep the meeting as is. As I am driving away, I notice in my rearview mirror that there is still a small amount of dried blood visible on my nose from the bloody nose I had this morning. Great, I look like a hollywood cliche assistant who does coke. Just super.

At home, i need more distraction (besides the chocolate croissant I picked up while getting more health bars for the office). To this end, i attempt to watch the Demetri Martin comedy special that we've tivo'ed. Let us pause for a moment to marvel over how insanely funny and smart he is. Looooove him, and would say should sign him if he wasn't already a client of the company. Example of how funny: classification of clowns, % of types of people who drive hummers and other such humorous charts. Think he is brilliant. Like the next Steve carrell or Will Ferrell only calmer. Really, trust me on this one.

Finally I get a call back from Fernando who confesses that he hadn't been told and that I was right and S is in fact on the list for the viewing party and could I come right now to Paramount to pick up the tickets and parking pass for her? Well, its a holiday and she needs the tickets now and I certainly now, more than ever don't trust messengers so of course I go. Delighted that this whole ordeal is almsot finally over, I just need to get from Westwood (ie west of the golden globes) to Paramount and somehow make it past where the road is closed off. Hideous. As I creep along in traffic my breaks are making a hideous schreeching noise. Not good, I mentally note. I call Erin to tell her the good news of having sucessfully gotten everyone the tickets that they needed and she informs me she successfully bought a client a birthday day gift on time. we are interrupted by a call from a restricted number. I switch over. "Hey its Melissa, I left a message for Jen but haven't heard back from her so I thought I would call you" Of course Jen would decide to just not call back a client's assistant. God forbid she do any work on the weekend. Bitch. Melissa then explains that she needs to get 4 people in the company party tonight and can I help her? UGH. I explain that I am driving and cannot in fact help her at this very second and to please try Jen again.

Finally make it to the lot and after a small amount of confusion of which door to enter, I make it to marketing and pick up S's tickets. As I am walking out the door I notice its just for the post party and need ot go back and get the other tickets. Finally, armed with all the tickets I could ever need, I head out up to Hollywood and give good old S yet another call. "Well, can't we get a courrier to drop it off? I wouldn't want you to go to any trouble" she tells me innocently. Um, well, I did just have to go pick them up and arranging a messenger would be a lot more trouble than its worth at this point. I inform her that I will just drop them off at her hotel and let her know that I got her both kinds of parking passes in case she arrives in a town car or other kind of car. Next up, I call Jen to check on her ability to get a client and 3 guests onto our party list. She sighs in a big way when she answers and when I ask whats wrong she informs me "Well, I'm just trying to figure out this party thing." As if she has had to do anything else this weekend. I tell her who to call and then to call me back. Two minutes later she calls me to say its all set. If only everything I have been dealing with was that easy.

I arrive at the hotel breaks still shrieking and park in a very illegal spot but am pleased to note my fav actor driving off. Not in a "oh I just saw one of my favorite actors in the world" sort of way but more of a "oh, he seems to be leaving on time for the next meeting I set him with mr. crazypantsdirector" sort of way. I leave the tickets in the capable hands of the concierge who gives me a snooty glance. Back in my car, the engine doesn't turn over. Horrified, I turn the key again. It starts to turn and fails. My stomach sinks. I am parked illegally on a hill outside a posh hollywood hotel. I call my boss to let him know the happy outcome of the tickets and the horror that my car won't start. He concludes that it must be the battery and asks if I have AAA. He also reverts to calling me sweetiepie which he does when he knows I am stressed out and working way too hard (its sweetie when he is annoyed and sweetiepie when he happy with...was called sweetiepie several times this weekend). Eventually while on the phone with him the engine turns over and I reassure him that I will head straight to a garage to get it dealt with.

I cautiously drive back down the hill cringing at the noise my car is making. and then it dawns on me. on top of everything else, I cannot go to the garage I normally go to because its right next to the damn Beverly Hilton and the stupid street is closed for the goddamn golden globes. Sniffling now out of self-pity, I drive like a granny back down little santa monica blvd until i find a place close enough to walk home from. I drop the car off and head home to take nap. The repair guy eventually calls me to let me know that both my battery is dead and I need new breakpads and this will cost me close to $400. Still, i don't need a new car so am actually kinda pleased with the outcome. I'm just not sure I can stomach watching the awards show that tried to ruin my life.