No Points For Sainthood

Darin, a few days ago, in response to my binge on stale Halloween candy:

Next time, just tell me, and I'll go out and get you some good candy to binge on.

Now, if that isn't love, I don't know what is.

Actually, I haven't felt quite as compulsive as I did before the thesis was due. Which is not to say I've been a saint. But I'm not rearranging my entire day around when I can go get a bag of malted milk balls...the way that I was. Embarrassing, but true.

Today I even managed to drink two cups of coffee at my favorite coffee place without helping myself to one of their tasty cookies. And despite finding a cache of Droste Pastilles in the cupboard last night, I had only 5, instead of the entire package. I put the box back. We have to celebrate the little victories in life--and, preferably, celebrate them without chocolate.

I asked my notify list to vote on which of two dresses they liked better: Dress 1 or Dress 2. The vote was pretty close, but turns out that most people--including my sister, whose opinion really counted--liked the one that I liked better, Dress 1.

I took both dresses back to Neiman-Marcus yesterday, returned Dress 2, and got Dress 1 fitted. I argued with the seamstress about when I could pick up Dress 1 from her--she kept saying, "Friday morning, Friday morning," and I kept saying, "That's not good enough." I finally wrung Thursday afternoon out of her.

Which means I am leaving our Final Thesis Class (sound effects--Diane crying) at or before 4. Not that it should go that long this week: all we have to do is drink my champagne and pitch our next projects to Len, who will undoubtedly respond with "But what's the story?" to anything we say.

Carolann has apparently kissed off USC altogether now: she isn't going to show up for class for this final week (including the final Thesis class, in which we pitch our next projects), and she isn't going to show up for graduation--she's too busy working on her big movie deal.

She didn't tell me this, she told Linda all this in an e-mail the day after the party. Linda thought the e-mail was spin control, because Carolann had drunkenly let the cat out of the bag that while her name was going on the script, her husband Chris would actually be the one writing it. One of the things mentioned in the e-mail was that when Carolann and Chris got home from Linda's party, there was a message from the producers that the script was a done deal, and they signed the contract the next day.

Linda doesn't believe it: more damage control.

The most amazing part of the e-mail was how Carolann professed how much she adores Linda and she really wants to keep in touch. One of my comments was, "Don't take this wrong, but why is she kissing up to you like this?" The two of them hadn't exactly been buddy-buddy while in school, which is what prompted my comment. Linda's response was, "I have no idea."

Linda had a mean-spirited idea that I wholeheartedly contributed to: she mentioned in her e-mail reply that everything is looking so wonderful for all of us: after all, Disney called Diane and wants her script. Which wasn't exactly true, of course--Rob G.'s contact at Disney wants the script, which is still good but not the same as a studio breathing down your neck. But still, it sounded pretty damn good.

We put a bet on as to whether Carolann would then drop me a line, wanting to make sure that we'd keep in touch. Linda bet she would; I bet she wouldn't. So far, I'm winning the bet.

(But just wait until I get mentioned in the trades--that's a bet I'm willing to put money on.)

I've come to the realization that I'm Carolann's worst nightmare, though why this is just dawning on me, I don't know.

• I work fast--Carolann likes to emphasize her slow, jeweler's-precision work methods

• I write commercial--Carolann, after all, is the Artiste seeking truth, and

• I've recently lost 30 pounds--she's a former actress who's put on weight since coming to USC.

And then there's the subject of praise. On Friday evening, at Linda's party, Jackie had told me, "Oh, Rob mentioned that your script is quite good." I thanked her and said that I was happy with it, yes.

Later on, when I was talking to Jackie and Carolann, the topic of Rob G., the Rewrite Prof, came up. All three of us are in his section. We all acknowledged that Rob G. has a problem with gossip--he tells way too much. Carolann laughed and said, "I feel like telling him, You can't say this, you're the teacher."

I knew that he had said a few words to me about Aaron's script, but not much about either Jackie's or Carolann's scripts.

So I've wondered if he had said anything to Carolann about mine. Which, if he told her that he liked mine, would really burn her, because he doesn't like hers very much (an impression I've picked up solely from what he's said to her in class).

Okay, enough about Carolann. What she did is kind of pathetic. I agree with the one reader who said that this is more about insecurity and a need to have a reason for why she fails--she's too much of an artist who won't compromise her ideals--than anything about me. So I'll stop.

Lies, Damn Lies, and Statistics

Yesterday: 6 miles, the longest I've ever done without expecting a "Bay to Breakers" t-shirt at the other end. It took me 62 minutes, which I found gratifying. Sunday is going to be my Long Run day--each week, I'll add a mile. I want to build my weekly mileage (slowly) to 30 or 35 miles a week. I hit the personal best of 20 miles last week, so I'm getting there. If I add 2 miles a week, I should be able to get to 30 without damaging anything.

Today: 3.5 miles, and I didn't hurt half as much as I thought I might after yesterday's run.