I Like You Just the Way I Am (29 page)

By Monday, I’d worked myself up so much that I’d started my period two weeks early and a zit I’d almost dried out on my forehead now had a second zit growing out of it. My aesthetician called it a carbuncle. The word alone made me want squeeze the shit out of something, but I refrained and just prayed that Stan’s office was dimly lit.

I got to Santa Monica an hour early and parked my car at a thirty-minute meter directly outside. I knew I’d get a ticket, but the thought of driving around the block searching for something better was far too overwhelming.

I walked into a gorgeous, two-story glass building and gave my name to a bitchy, impeccably dressed gay guy whose approval I could already feel myself craving. People always claim that women dress up for other women, but the truth is, women dress up for impeccably dressed gay guys. And this gay guy was
killing it
in a Thom Browne wool-twill mélange two-piece with grosgrain trim throughout and Lanvin brogues.

“I’m Fabian. Have a seat, I’ll let Mr. Wylan know you’re here,” he said, staring directly at the two zits humping on my face.

Before I had time to apply more concealer to my carbuncle, and imagining Fabian scolding me for not owning a Burberry trench, Stan Wylan appeared.

“Hi, Jenny. Come on back.”

He was taller than I imagined, with salt and pepper hair and a laid-back, California-kid attitude. Even though he seemed like a charming teddy bear, I knew he had a reputation of being a hard-hitting businessman and even a bit of a bully when things weren’t going his way. When we got to his office, he asked me about myself, told me he loved my script, then called in his two development execs, Cosmo and Rico. I tried to relax and prepared myself to agree with anything anyone said.

Cosmo looked ten but was probably closer to thirty. He seemed studious and slightly Aspergers-y. Rico was Latin and loud, and instead of giving me his notes, he found it easier to act them out. I tried to interject lots of head nods, eyebrow squints, and courtesy laughs whenever I could find an opening.

The four of us sat in Stan’s pristine, all-white, rich guy office and talked shop for over an hour. Cosmo and I squeezed together on a chenille love seat while Stan and Rico rocked back and forth in matching midcentury Eames bucket chairs. I was intimidated, but felt my performance thus far was golden.

At one point, Cosmo’s pen fell from his pocket and landed on Stan’s virgin cushions.

“Cosmo, your pen! It just fell out! Don’t let that thing bleed all over my couch,” Stan cautioned angrily. For a split second, I saw the side of him I never wanted to get on.

Cosmo grabbed the pen, secured the cap, and stuffed it back into his slacks. Besides fearing that Wylan might one day turn on me and eat my face off in an angry rage, I was having the time of my life. For the last decade, the Stan Wylans of the world didn’t even know I existed. If they did, it was only as Jason Biggs’s wife, who showed up on set and ate all the ZonePerfect bars. Now I was sitting there as Jenny the Writer. I was being asked for my opinion and acknowledged for my own voice. I felt like I’d stepped into somebody else’s life, and I never wanted it to end. Certain I’d lived up to their expectations and grinning from ear-to-ear, I was ready to finally go.

Cosmo and Rico left the room, first giving Stan and me a moment to finish up. Stan continued talking as I gathered my belongings and tried to remain hilarious, competent, and less of a hot mess than the heroine I’d written in my movie.

Then I saw something that made my face go white. I’d say as white as Stan’s couch, except it wasn’t so white anymore. It was red. Vagina-blood red. Somewhere between Stan telling me he liked my script and me never wanting to give back whoever’s life I’d stolen, my period had leaked its way past my super-plus absorbency tampon, through my jeans, and into the fibers of Stan’s upholstery. I started to choke on my own breath.

The whole time Stan was worrying about Cosmo’s pen going ballistic and ruining his immaculate sofa, I was sitting right next to him,
hemorrhaging all over his goddamn sofa
. As hard as I was trying to be everything they wanted (even though I told myself I wasn’t going to do that), the real me was seeping out all over the furniture.

I assessed the situation and deduced that I had only three options: Blame Cosmo the savant, jump out the window (more blood), or confess. I paused to work out the logistics of Cosmo being on the rag when Stan asked if I was okay. Impulsively, I threw my purse over the pancake-sized pool of blood and charged him.

“Stan, listen to me,” I said, holding him by both arms against a picture frame collection of him and Adam Sandler doing body shots off each other in Maui.

“I … I really don’t know how to tell you this and I’m super mortified, but I bled on your couch,” I flinched, half-expecting his fist to reach out and deck me in the face.

Stan looked confused and started scanning me for violent wounds. I decided I had no choice but to throw decorum out the window and be completely blunt.

“I got my period all over your couch,” I said, settling any doubt in his mind that the crazy main character I’d written into my movie was indeed the real me.

“Umm. Well … Don’t worry about it,” he said, craning his head to see the stain.

Stan wanted me to go, but there was absolutely no way I was going to leave the premises with what looked like a minor miscarriage in his office.

“No, Stan, that’s not how this is going to work. I’m staying. You’re leaving,” I whispered now, calmly revealing the real me.

“What? Where am I going?”

“Anywhere,” I said sternly, now pushing him out of the room.

“My assistant Fabian will help you,” he offered, acquiescing.

Stan called out to Cosmo and Rico in the adjacent room. “Come on, guys, we’re going to lunch.”

“Bon appétit!” I waved.

I hovered over the Rorschach test I was about to give Fabian, my could-have-been new gay bestie, and tried to see if the fabric on the couch was by chance a removable slipcover. It wasn’t.

“Why are you still here?” Fabian said with one part curiosity, one part “I work for fucking Stan Wylan” arrogance.

“You’re not gonna be happy.” I laughed nervously. “I … Do you have soap, water, sponges…?”

“You spilled your coffee?”

“Not exactly…”

“Then what?” Fabian hated me and was about to hate me more.

“Well, actually … I’m bleeding.”

“From where?” he asked, still not getting it.

“Umm. My pussy.” I cut to the chase, scared we weren’t moving fast enough.

Fabian looked at the couch, threw up a little in his mouth, then made a beeline for the kitchen. He returned seconds later with a bottle of hand sanitizer.

“I’m not gonna touch you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I said harshly. I was now over being friends with Fabian, because he was obviously not the type of gay guy who understood women.

“Aren’t you a little old to not be in control of your own period?”

I contemplated smearing menstrual blood all over Fabian’s smug little face
Last of the Mohicans
–style, but decided against it, since I did still secretly want him to like me.

After I scrubbed the shit out of the crime scene like a coke-addled Lady Macbeth, Fabian flipped the cushions upside down and returned the cleaning supplies to the kitchen. Looking like I’d just gotten off a shift at the Hormel slaughterhouse, I went to the bathroom to hose myself off. Once the door shut behind me, I lunged into a stall and yanked the saturated tampon out of my body, dropping it into the toilet. My relief lasted only as long as it took me to read the small sign positioned eye level on the back of the stall door:

UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD YOU EVER THROW TAMPONS IN THIS TOILET. WE WILL FIND YOU AND HOLD YOU RESPONSIBLE FOR THE MASSIVE PLUMBING DAMAGE DONE AS A RESULT OF YOUR CALLOUS INDISCRETION, YOU CUNT BITCH.

I couldn’t flush my tampon
. Stan had an all-male office. If I did, it was going to be so obvious whose period ruined Christmas. Left with no choice, I held my breath, pulled up my left sleeve, and reached into the bowl to fish out my now waterlogged blood baby. Half-drenched in my own urine and the entire production company’s DNA, I dropped the ’pon in the trash and fled the scene.

As I walked toward the exit, I could feel the soaking wet sides of my jeans rubbing against my skin. Instantly, I was transported back to my days in theater camp, where I’d laughed at Carly Millhouse when she peed her pants before curtain call. I made a mental note to Facebook-stalk Carly when I got home and write something nice like “Beautiful” on one of her profile pics.

“Everything okay?” Fabian’s head was buried in his computer, totally not giving a shit.

“Yes, fine. Thanks again,” I said, pretending I wasn’t talking to a man who knew the exact color of my menstrual blood.

Just as I got in the car, Leanne called to ask how things went.

“I felt like they had a lot of great ideas, I got my period on the couch, I think most of the changes will be easy to make, I’m gonna reoutline, and let’s see … I guess that’s it!”

The line was dead for a minute, followed by violent coughing. Finally, she responded. “So overall you feel good about it?”

“Umm. Yeah,” I said, wondering if she’d heard me correctly.

With the money I’d saved by miraculously not getting a ticket at the thirty-minute meter, even though my car was parked there for two hours over the allotted time, I called Wally’s Wines and ordered Stan a basket of pinot noirs. When asked what I wanted the card to say, I paused, really taking in for the first time all that had transpired.

“Just write, ‘I got you red to match your couch. XOX, Jenny.’”

*   *   *

Two days later, Stan
called, and everything seemed fine. I quickly realized that getting my period on Stan was the best thing that could have happened. After bleeding on someone, there is no point in pretending to be anyone other than yourself. Menstruating really freed me up creatively and allowed me to accept whatever curveballs came my way. I reclaimed my confidence and felt at peace. I ended up working with Stan on the script, with the majority of our meetings over the phone. When I did finally set foot in the office again, everybody including Fabian acted like
it
never happened. When it was time, Fabian gave me the go-ahead to walk back to Stan’s office.

Stan was finishing up a phone call when I entered.

“Sit down,” he said, motioning toward the crime scene.

I looked over, and covering the white love seat was a giant beach towel. Unsure whether he was joking or serious, I sat on the towel, figuring it was better to be safe than be bloody. Stan hung up, then pulled out his iPhone to take a picture of me.

“You don’t care if I put this on my Facebook, do you?”

“Of course not,” I lied, wondering if he was by chance friends with Carly Millhouse.

“Your story is now my go-to icebreaker whenever I have meetings in here. It’s a huge hit. Everybody wants to know who you are and what you look like. I’m going to frame this picture and put it right next to the couch as a discussion piece.”

“Wait, you tell them the story while they are sitting on the bloodstain?” I asked, shocked.

“It’s pretty much gone. I had it steam cleaned.”

*   *   *

Acting is a total
pain in the ass, but writing can be downright disgusting. I did, however, achieve my lifelong goal of making a lasting impression on a big shot producer—at least until he gets a new couch.

Like most scripts, mine probably won’t ever see the light of day, but it doesn’t matter. As a writer, an “almost” is considered a win. And I am sort of the “baby Judi Dench” of almosts.

If after reading this you are still adamant about pursuing a career in Hollywood, my advice can be summed up in the “secret” I took with me onstage every night as Maria in
The Sound of Music
. “When the Lord closes a door, somewhere he opens a window.” Do yourself a favor and jump.

Acknowledgments

Thankfully, most of the
people I offended in this book don’t read. To those that do, thank you so much for being a part of my life and for coloring the journey so vividly.

Here is a short list of people who deserve a little extra ass-kissing:

Yaniv Soha, my editor, who held my hand through this entire process and only made me cut a few rape jokes. On our first phone call, I said, “You get that I don’t know how to write a book, right?” Thank you for teaching me how. I know your parents still don’t understand what you do in NYC, but I would just like them to know:

Liz Brown, who I bamboozled into combing through these stories when she probably should have been writing a funnier book of her own. You make everything better. Groundlings can suck my dick for dropping you one step before company. I can’t wait for you to make more money than all of those fucks!

St. Martin’s publishers Jen Enderlin (one of my earliest and biggest fans!) and Sally Richardson. The team that so capably supported the promotion of this book: Dori Weintraub, Stephanie Hargadon, Erin Cox, and Angie Giammarino; John Murphy in publicity, for your early enthusiasm. Cover designer, Jimmy Iacobelli.