The Thinker's Guide to L.A.LALAND

By Sanders Smith

Maya Sanders is an Ivy League educated biochemist with an affinity for designer shoes and reproducible data. She is young, talented...and at a major crossroads in her life! After yet another failed experiment, she takes a sabbatical from school and moves to L.A. to pursue her secret passion...script writing. Armed with her trusty DVD copy of The Hills, Maya navigates the fabulously treacherous terrain of Hollywood’s film industry as only a thoughtful academic could, while trying not to lose herself in the process.

A Thinker’s Guide to L.A.laland is a quick-witted novel that seamlessly blends the worlds of pop culture and academia, transforming the quirky girl next door into a well heeled “it” girl in the blink of a mink-lashed eye.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sanders Smith
• Release date: Aug 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370609277

Sanders Smith

Sanders Smith is an author, analytical chemist, hot wife, and mommy to an adorable toddler and two dueling cats. She lives, laughs, and sweats in Atlanta, GA.

Book preview

Foreword

It is with great trepidation, and a lot of excitement, that I am birthing this baby into the world. I should point out that this novel is largely fiction, though the names of some of my loved ones are mentioned herein. This is done by way of a literary shoutout, so to speak, because these people make me immensely happy… and also put up with my endless foolishness. I love you all and thank you for your kind words of encouragement. Having said this, let’s crack the (virtual) spine and twerk it out!

Table of Contents

Prologue

Antihistamine

Emergency Credit Card

Query Letter

Dream Interpretation Book

Hot Pink Mini Dress

Glam Squad

UV Lamp

Jumbo Margarita

Forgiving Bathing Suit

Jeweled Thong

Small Leather Clutch

Microphone

Hand Sanitizer

Magic Brownies

Getaway Car

Peace Offering

Oversized Sunglasses

Rubber Ducky

Gold Body Glitter

Foreman Grill

Zoom Lens

Flotation Device

Floral Body Spray

The Last Word

About the Author

Prologue

I sit in front of my computer staring at my screensaver, counting the number of sunflowers in the field. Having already wasted another five minutes of my life gazing into nothingness, I decide to do something productive. I shall educate myself. That’s right; I’ll read the news.

I type the first few letters of my favorite website and allow the autofill function to complete the address. Moments later, a beautiful woman with plump lips and glossy hair returns my gaze. No, I’m not visiting an adult website, but a blog written by a popular gossip columnist dedicated to the comings and goings of young Hollywood. Each entry is the same: celebrity X was caught canoodling with actor Y at hot spot Z. The accompanying pictures illustrate clandestine meetings, fabulous lunch dates, and hot nights on the town.

And don’t even get me started on the clothes. From Marc Jacobs to Chanel to Gucci, the it girls are always paparazzi ready and effortlessly chic in skin tight jeans and killer heels. They are fabulous! Dim (as in witted), but fabulous.

I, Maya Sanders, on the other hand, am not dim. I am, in fact, quite brilliant (or so my research advisor and I would like to believe). I am a graduate student at Cornell University and will, hopefully, get my PhD in Biochemistry before I turn 30 or go completely gray, whichever comes first. While today’s starlets spend their days being young, rich, and infamous, I spend my days in a basement laboratory being young-ish, broke, and famous only in my mind. To their sunny days and glittery nights, I exist in a frozen tundra, bleak and gray.

Hey Jen, do you think that if I get knocked up right now and move to L.A., that my bastard baby and North West will grow up to be best friends?

I am reading the online edition of US Weekly and talking on the phone to my roommate, Jen. I met her two years ago when I caught her singing Christina Aguilera in her lab, using a pipette as a microphone. I figured that I was the Mariah to her Christina and that the two of us should join forces and revolutionize the dull world of the science. She must have felt similarly because we have been inseparable since.

So you’re saying that your goal in life is to get knocked up, drop out of grad school, and dedicate your life to whoring out your child to achieve fame and fortune? How very Kardashian of you. Jen laughs.

Even though Jen says that she is reading the latest edition of Science Magazine, I know that she really has some gossip blog minimized on her laptop screen. We are two peas in a pod.

Sounds about right I respond flatly.

More problems with your rat study? she asks.

Jen has grown quite accustomed to listening to my ever-present, ever-changing escape-from-research-hell stories. These gems are created at least once weekly and keep us entertained as we work unrewardingly to obtain higher degrees in physical sciences. We are studying cancer models; she is working on inhibiting tumor progression and I am working myself towards a nervous breakdown. One more failed experiment and I am on my way to the nearest psych ward. By this point, the idea of spending my days eating Jello and watching mindless TV doesn’t sound half bad.

As a graduate student, I am not supposed to enjoy TV. God forbid. The serious graduate student would consider this a crime worse than contamination. This, combined with the fact that I enjoy fashionable clothing and sparkly heels, lands me at the tippy-top of the undesirables list in terms of scientific integrity. Apparently, there is some unspoken rule that data cannot be trusted if it is contributed by anyone who wears pink. Or blingy sunglasses. Or designer handbags. Basically, I’m only allowed to wear slacks, polos, and sensible flats which is never going to happen. Yet, I love science. I like my project and I enjoy the idea that my research can improve the quality of someone’s life. However, I just don’t see why my lipgloss can’t be poppin’ while doing so. Nevertheless, I continue to work hard, hoping that my data will speak louder than any poorly dressed naysayer…which brings me to my latest experiment.

I fill Jen in about the specifics of today’s mouse experiment. Though I have been avoiding this protocol for a while, I am finally going to have a stab at it. Literally. To say that I am not looking forward to this experiment is putting it mildly. In fact, I would rather have a colonoscopy than perform this experiment which is ironic since both would be a major pain in my ass.

This experiment has been looming over me for just about a year. I have tried several alternatives to no avail. The culprit is usually some asshole bacteria - E. Coli, to be exact - that decides it doesn’t want to express my protein, thereby, leaving me in the lurch with no other option than to isolate the protein from its natural source, namely a stinky, greasy rodent. Welcome to my life.

The upshot, though, is that if all goes well, I will have the data necessary to begin writing my final paper as a graduate student. I will be able to defend my thesis and spend the remainder of my days as I please (read: not here).

There are several places that I’d rather be. At the moment, I’d take anywhere warm. Take Los Angeles, for example. I have had a fascination with L.A., specifically Hollywood, for years now. It seems like such an ideal place, full of hopes and possibilities. At least that’s how it looks on reality TV anyway. I’ve never actually been to Hollywood but I imagine that I’d love it! I’d spend my days writing the next ground breaking script while sitting in the outdoor seating section of some chic eatery as I type frantically on my laptop. I’d occasionally stop to laugh, flip my hair (of course), and silently congratulate myself for my creativity and outspoken wit. In these daydreams, there is a confused paparazzo feverishly snapping pictures of me just in case I’m a celebrity.

An imagination this active takes years to cultivate and luckily I’ve had the free time. I grew up an only child and spent many hours entertaining myself. I remember spending my Saturday afternoons playing with Barbie and Ken, writing elaborate scripts with intricate twists and details. I was a very thorough child; each scenario had a different set (Barbie townhouse? Or the mansion?) and an accompanying wardrobe change. I spent hours putting together the perfect outfit for Barbie, complete with high heels and sunglasses. She would act out perfectly scripted dramas with Ken, her best accessory. They would meet, become a couple, fight, and subsequently break up, only to get back together again and ride off into the sunset, typically on the back of my unsuspecting kitten. As I got older, my imagination and love of creating stories took the back burner to academics, band camp, and cheerleading. When asked by fellow scientists, I always leave the cheerleading part out.

It wasn’t until graduate school that I began to write again. Shortly after getting my master’s, I began writing my first research publication. After spending hour after hour staring at the blinking cursor, I concluded that my block could be alleviated by writing the first thing that came to mind. And so began my infamous script. Instead of writing about the importance of protein X to the existence of all mankind, I wrote about the adventures of a maniacal chimera named Kia who is equally as charitable as she is murderous. What began as a small paragraph became a full script, taking on a life of its own. No one has actually read said script; however, they are constantly reminded of it when I am overwhelmed with life as a grad student.

Today just happens to be one of those days. Luckily for Jen, she hung up before being forced to endure yet another mention of my famed script.

Having exhausted all of my usual means of procrastination, I begin The Experiment. I gently place the three humanely-anesthetized mice on my bench. As I do so, my hands tremble with nervous energy. While I understand that the point of this study will ultimately provide insight into many human diseases, the animal-lover in me does not see eye-to-eye with the inner scientist. I am nothing if not a walking contradiction.

I begin my ritual of cleaning utensils, selecting flasks and naming the specimen. Today’s experiment requires that I dissect three black, female mice. As customary, I name the group of mice after a popular singing group; today’s will be named after Destiny’s Child. I christen the mice and begin labeling the vesicles into which I will place the respective organs. After labeling (Beyonce’s liver, Kelly’s skeletal muscle, Michelle’s brain), I pop a peppermint in my mouth to quell the nausea and pick up my scalpel.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Though ridiculous and probably blasphemous on some level, I bless the singing trio and make the first incision.

Give me a break… says a familiar yet irritating voice.

Oh, hello Patricia, I roll my eyes as my hand shakily makes the first cut through Beyonce’s thick fur coat. I have been doing these experiments for over a year and am quite adept at dissecting mice, yet, the lovely Patricia (and I say lovely very loosely) has a way of making me feel like an absolute idiot.

I see that you are praying for your mice again she remarks.

I ignore her and place the carefully dissected liver in cold buffer. One down, two more to go. I will the next two dissections to go as planned and without problems, so that I won’t have to ask for Pat’s assistance. During my first dissection, I nearly fainted because one of the mice had a post-mortem twitch and I thought that the animal was still alive. I immediately screamed and jumped backwards into a precariously placed tool box, sending various screwdrivers and wrenches clanging to the ground. Needless to say, this debacle caused quite a commotion that resulted in my advisor, Dr. Lee, suggesting that the ever-helpful Patricia assist me by looking over my shoulder during the next few dissections. Pat has reminded me of this incident at least twice a week despite the fact that it happened over a year ago.

You know, you really should put the organs on ice as soon as you dissect them. And, I’ve also noticed that your incision technique hasn’t improved; please hold the scalpel at a 45 degree angle. I’m pretty sure that I’ve told you all of this before. Pat scoffs and eyes me from afar.

I take a deep breath. I have them in ice-cold buffer. That should be okay until I flash freeze them after I’m finished I answer flatly. I close my eyes and try to picture her lying dorsally on my bench. Oh what pleasure I would take in removing her internal organs and examining them for abnormalities.

She snorts. And exactly how long does it normally take you to do a simple dissection? An hour? Two? Trust me, I think you’ll be needing the ice.

I ignore her and continue with my experiment.

Suit yourself Pat says. She rolls her dull brown eyes and takes a seat at her barren lab bench to begin her daily task of arranging utensils in order of size. I don’t think that there are enough synonyms for bleak and beige to describe how utterly boring and miserable her life must be.

I don’t know why I feel the need to explain myself to Pat. She is not my boss and has no say in when I graduate. She is just a research assistant - a great one - but an assistant none the less. Pat has worked in our lab for the past 10 years and her work has helped the lab reach its current level of prestige. But, she is an utter cow. There isn’t a single day that passes that she doesn’t belittle my efforts or criticize my work. In fact, I wholeheartedly believe that Pat wants me to have a nervous breakdown. I imagine that this would make her world sunny and meaningful, knowing that she has single-handedly tempted poor Maya into a life of straight jackets and insane asylums. It would be a story that she could repeat to her grandchildren at family gatherings, hoping that one day they too will become first-rate assholes.

As I continue my experiment, I can’t help but notice that Pat is staring at me. She is not a lesbian so I know that this could only mean one thing; she wants to start in on me. Again.

Can I help you? I ask sarcastically.

As if you could ever be able to help me? she snorts.

Pat does an awful lot of snorting. Pigs could take a lesson from this one. From now on, I will refer to her only as Porcine Pat. Patty Piggy. Pat the Porker. P.P. for short. The latter is the most suiting, really, seeing as that’s what her hair smells like.

What is it with you? I snap. Why are you so mean to me? As far as I know, I’ve done nothing to you.

And you don’t really do anything in lab either. You spend a lot time spinning wheels but, as of yet, I haven’t seen any real results.

By this point, I am borderline hysterical and beg myself not to cry. Though, I’m a smart ass at times, I cannot handle criticism and am very non-confrontational.

Look, I’m doing my best and I know that you’ve been here since dinosaurs roamed the earth but it’s not fair for you to judge me.

It’s not a matter of judging you, Maya. It’s a matter of fact. You have no idea what you are doing. Let’s face it. You’re an idiot.

I stand there for what feels like hours trying to take in what has just been said to me. I’ve gotten into heated conversations with Pat before, but she has never been so disrespectful and condescending. There are but a few words that I can think of to use as a response and all of them have four letters…

You bitch… - Except for that one; there are five letters to be exact- …Who the hell do you think you are?!

Instead of a biting retort, Patricia just stares at me and smiles smugly.

I continue ranting for a few moments until I sense the presence of someone else in the room. I glance over my shoulder to see that my advisor, Dr. Lee, has entered the lab at an inopportune moment and is now standing directly behind me with a not-so-pleasant look on his face. He is irate and his face is turning a shade of crimson that I did not think possible for an Asian man.

Maya, you owe Patricia an apology right this instant! This is not the time or place for such behavior and I certainly don’t expect this display from my students.

I have never seen him this angry, not even the time when I accidentally crashed all of the computers on the network by downloading iTunes.

I stand there for a moment with my mouth agape, wishing that I could find the words to diplomatically explain what has occurred. I’d like to tell Dr. Lee that I have been provoked endlessly by Pat’s snide looks and cutting observations. That she’s just called me an idiot. That I am frustrated with working tirelessly on a dead end project. But all I can manage to say is I’m sorry, Pat.

I look sheepishly at the ground as tears fall from my eyes.

Let’s try to act more maturely, shall we? Dr. Lee turns on his heels and returns to his office.

I turn to look at Pat and suddenly want to scream or, better yet punch her, but, instead I turn and run out of the building.

As I reach my car my mind is brimming with questions. Is she right? Am I an idiot? Do I deserve to be here? Do I even want to be here? At the moment, I can’t come up with a logical answer to any of these questions and only want to go home, as quickly as possible, knowing that there is a full pint of ice cream and tequila awaiting my arrival.

I wipe my eyes and try to focus on the road. While driving, a familiar scenario resurfaces. I imagine deliberately careening off of the road and crashing into a ditch. After a few moments, I climb out of the car, unscathed but rattled, and call the ambulance. There has been an accident, I say shakily to the EMS. As the events unfold, I am placed on academic leave and return home to Virginia to recover from the accident.

I have contemplated this scenario on many occasions, varying the details slightly each time. In one event, I break a leg, but quickly decide to nix that idea as it would be no fun to go home for a forced vacation with a broken leg. In others, the car is totaled and I am pulled from the wreckage by a handsome fire fighter. In today’s version, I swerve off of the road and, ultimately, crash through a fence to avoid hitting a squirrel, making me a heroine of all things small and furry, thereby atoning for the slaughter of countless lab mice. Granted, I never intend to inflict any actual harm on myself, just impose a good reason to leave school on a brief hiatus.

While re-creating my current reverie, I somehow bypass my apartment and end up in the parking lot of Target, my safe haven. As I enter the store, I am greeted by the soothing sounds of beeping registers and smooth jazz. I push the red cart through the aisles and feel my pulse return to normal. In passing the electronics department, a familiar theme song catches my attention. I turn to find myself staring at the smiling faces of cast of The Hills advertising the latest DVD release.

The final season is now available on Blu-ray says a seemingly pre-pubescent sales associate.

I politely thank her and maneuver the cart through the aisle to pick up the sleek package. The cover art depicts the scenic Hollywood sign and a sea of shiny, toothy grins.

As I stand there deliberating whether to purchase the complete set, a familiar, yet life altering idea, comes to mind.

A calming sense of resolve washes over me and, suddenly, I know what I must do. I look down at the DVD in my hand. It is a sign.

I reach into my cell phone to call my therapist, i.e. Jen.

I’m moving to L.A. I say as soon as she answers the phone.

She stifles a yawn. Maya! Are we on this again… didn’t we talk about this already? What happened this time?

She must be growing tired of this routine.

This time I mean it, I say. Using the technique that I learned in a public speaking class, I speak calmly and in low, deliberate tones to show her the gravity of my announcement. I pause after my statement for added effect.

In contrast, Jen does not use low, deliberate tones. She is, in fact, screaming. You can’t just leave school! YOU ONLY HAVE A YEAR LEFT!!!

Having spoken my desires into the universe and cemented them by telling another being, I hang up on a frantic Jen and begin to develop my plan. I reach into my handbag and grab my pink leather planner. I turn to the first blank page and begin my list.

Top 10 Things to Do: Destination L.A. La Land.

1. Buy plane ticket.

2. Make hotel reservations. Preferably at an extended stay hotel, not a skanky crack den.

3. Secure a ride to the airport. Jen should have mellowed slightly by tomorrow morning.

4. Call Dr. Lee

Scratch that. I begin item four anew.

4. Make up an excuse to tell Dr. Lee.

5. Call Dr. Lee

6. Buy a map of L.A.

7. Print multiple copies of screenplay

8. Take a few healthy swigs of hard liquor.

9. Tell Mommy.

10. Pack.

Chapter One

Antihistamine

The next morning at 5:30am, I am waiting at the departure gate of Syracuse International and scratching feverishly. In addition to having completed all but 1 item on my list (item 10 to be exact), I have also had at least 3 panic attacks. As I now have no more food in my stomach to dispose of, my body has turned on itself and produced a million tiny red hives. I pull out a newly purchased bottle of Benadryl and take a healthy swig directly from the bottle.

The lady across the aisle from me pulls her child closer to her side. I look at them and smile politely. She quickly averts her eyes and moves to another aisle of seats. She either thinks that I am contagious or a drug addict, possibly both. Seeing as I am a jittery, raccoon eyed mess due to a lack of sleep and an excess of caffeine, I’d venture to say the latter is true. She will most likely have a Just-Say-No-to-Drugs talk with her son shortly after departure. I briefly toy with the idea of dropping to the floor and rolling around in desperation just to see her reaction, however, quickly discard that idea as not to shame my mother. At the mere thought of my mother, another million hives break out.

I haven’t yet told my mother about my latest excursion. I love her dearly and feel guilty that I haven’t included her in such a monumental event in my life, but I am terrified of her response. You see, my mother is a typical Southern belle and in following does not take well to surprises. When surprised, what at first appears to be a loving, caramel-colored women of petite stature suddenly becomes a raging, fire throwing, T-rex in heels and Lancome mascara. The last time that I surprised her and told her that I was no longer a virgin, she recruited all of my family and our pastor to call and warn me of the dangers of STDs and an eternity in hell. I couldn’t tell whether she was more concerned about my afterlife or the unsightly sores that NEVER heal. At the time, I was 22, had been with my then boyfriend since high school, and frequently wore turtlenecks despite the blazing Virginia heat to hide my hickeys. Even Stevie Wonder wouldn’t have been surprised by my announcement. I digress.

I have decided that I will update my mom on my status once I am in California in the safety of my hotel room, preferably standing under a support beam to protect myself from the massive earthquake that will surely come to pass once her fury is released. To outsiders it would appear that I am exaggerating. Surely, this diminutive woman couldn’t be as murderous and frightening as I make her out to be. She wears pearls and pastel twin sets, for God’s sake. To these people, I suggest taking a gander at an episode or two of Snapped or Women Behind Bars. My mother has brought down grown men with a single look for smaller offenses so I hate to see what could be done to me when she’s presented with a valid reason for going off.

I take out my planner and begin making a list of how I will broach the conversation. One must always be prepared when setting forth in battle.

1) Hi Mommy. How are you? Boy, the weather’s great. What’s that you say? That you heard that it’s snowing in Ithaca? Yes it is, but I’m enjoying the sun in L.A. Cornell decided to have an early Spring Break.

2) Hi Mommy. Sorry I’ve missed you. I have some awesome news to tell you. I’ve suddenly moved to L.A and will be working to have my screenplay produced.

For this option, I will wait until she is at work and can’t answer the home phone.

3) "Hi Mommy. I’ve decided to take a short hiatus from Cornell and have moved to L.A. Yes. I have indeed taken leave of my senses and decided it best to enter the Betty Ford clinic as they have the longest standing history of curing addictions and mental infirmities, they did cure Eleanor Roosevelt after all.

I cannot come up with any further conversation openers and decide to leave this until I am good and drunk from the liqueur miniatures in my purse. I purchased them from the duty-free shop in the airport as to not limit my quantity to two. The thought briefly occurs to me that perhaps the concerned mother is correct and that I am, indeed, an addict. Since last night, I have consumed at least 4 extra strength Motrin (to cure my Pat induced headache), a full bottle of wine, courtesy of Jen and in celebration of my award-winning script, 2 café Americanos with a double shot of expresso, 1 small bottle of Benadryl, and will no doubt consume the three aforementioned Smirnoff minis before takeoff. I will concern myself with the physical integrity of my liver once I am in L.A.

Now boarding all first class passengers aboard American Airlines Flight 327 with connections to Seattle, Los Angeles, Portland, and El Paso. Boarding at Gate K.

The mother and her son begin gathering their items and make their way to the gate. She grabs her son’s hand and glares in my direction. I laugh to myself knowing that she has already composed the segue into her anti-drug tirade. Son, she will begin did you see that lady in the airport? The itchy one? Well, she is what you call a drug addict. She takes bad drugs so that she can forget her life’s troubles. She’s probably from a broken home or the projects. She is a bad lady and you don’t want to end up like her, do you? You’ll have to steer clear of drugs, alcohol, and fast women. She probably is riddled with diseases, the poor dear. She will click her tongue and her son will nod obediently.

Despite her misplaced judgment, I smile to myself, knowing that if they are traveling first class, I will be in the safety of business class and won’t have to endure her son’s staring through the duration of the flight. I dread traveling in the company of small children. Last year, while returning to Ithaca from Christmas vacation, a small blonde child with piercing blue eyes stared at me the entire trip. Instead of thinking that the child was endearingly cute and making googley faces at him, I became panicked, picturing the boy stalking his prey in the maze-like corn fields below a la Children of the Corn. By the time the flight ended, there were puddles of sweat soaking my sweater in spite of the -10 degree weather.

Despite my current level of anxiety, the entire process of taking an academic leave went surprisingly well. Yesterday, when I returned home from Target, I calmly picked up the phone and called my student advisor in the graduate school. I told him that I was stressed beyond belief and, under the recommendation of my therapist, wanted to take a short leave to go home to Virginia for some much needed relaxation. Just as I opened my mouth to begin my why-I-can’t-just-take-the-proffered-Valium excuse, I was advised that the paperwork was being processed and that a discreet email would be sent to Dr. Lee in the morning. Apparently, due to the high stress levels of Ivy League universities, there is minimal red tape in applying for academic leave where mental health is concerned. With this one phone call, I was able to cross two items off of my preparation list. This freed up more time to do the really important things, like planning outfits and drinking. I would advise, however, that if done simultaneously, the end result could be pure comedy. This probably explains why I am, currently, sitting in the airport wearing a puffy coat, long johns, and snow boots with a black silk cocktail dress. I’m like the retarded fashion version of a mullet; party on the inside, Nanook of the North outside.

Twenty minutes later, I have boarded the flight and am preparing myself for takeoff. Despite the fact that the flight to DC is a short 1 and ½ hours, I put my hair up in a scrunchie and pull on my pink satin Isotoner slippers. Thankfully, I do not have a seatmate so I am able to stretch out a bit and relax for the duration of the flight. As I look out of the window, I watch the snow-covered mountains transition into flat brown plains and again into low lying shorelines. Sometime later, I am abruptly awakened by a loud grinding sound and the violent jerking of the plane. I immediately put my head between my knees and scream.

Ohmigod. Ohmigod. Ohmigod. I begin to panic. I knew that this transition was too good to be true. Here I am, trying to obtain my dreams and now my time is being cut short because I was too sleepy to pay attention to the flight attendants during the damn safety demonstration. I don’t remember how to release the oxygen from the mask thingy or how to use my seat as a life preserver! There is absolutely nothing to help me; I am about to die and have neither degree nor Oscar winning screenplay in hand to comfort me at the Pearly Gates. My mind begins to race and scenes of the past few days fly by in a blur. Certain that the end is nigh, I scream hysterically until I hear the pilot announce the number of our arrival gate at Dulles airport.

Sheepishly, I sit upright and avoid all eye contact with the other passengers who are most certainly glaring daggers at the back of my head. It suddenly occurs to me that I must have fallen into quite a deep slumber, no doubt Benadryl induced.

As soon as we reach the gate, I gather my carry-on items and quickly de-board the plane. This is done, in part to make my connecting flight, but mostly to avoid any air marshals that may or may not have been summoned to arrest me, a.k.a. the hysterical, black girl dressed like Courtney Love on crack (oxymoron).

As I reach my connecting gate, my cell phone rings. I answer and am greeted with Jen’s anxious voice. She wants to know if I’ve made my connection, making her the proud recipient of a small sum of money, $35 bucks to be exact. Apparently, she and a few of her lab mates decided it would be amusing to bet on my flight itinerary. You see, whenever departing from upstate New York, nine times out of ten, a connecting flight is necessary. I should also point out that because it snows 8 months of the year, flights to and from this special region are almost always delayed and/or cancelled, leaving the passenger stranded in, say Pittsburgh, for a day. This has happened to me on every single occasion that I have traveled in the three and a half years that I’ve been in Ithaca. Because I’m just that lucky. In fact, for today’s trip, I’ve put a few of my friends on alert just in case I need a place to crash for the night.

In light of this, Jen is notably shocked to learn that my travel plans are going…as planned. Judging from the loud groan in the background, it’s safe to assume that others are not as pleased. I tell Jen to enjoy her newly acquired wealth and hang up knowing that despite the odds, Jen always bets in my favor. As a very wise woman once said, that’s what friends are for.

Mere minutes later, I take my assigned seat and await my second departure of the day. I absently shuffle through the latest US Weekly, mentally running through the list of things to complete once I’ve arrived.

By the look of things, the first item on my list should be to inquire about the location of the nearest gym. If I am to use the passengers on the plane as a proxy of the type of people that I will live amongst in L.A., then I will obviously need to drop half of my body weight in order to fit in. At 135 lbs (5’3, size 6), I have a good thirty pound advantage on the majority of the passengers on the plane, aside from the muscle-bound MMA fighter seated at the emergency exit whose latest victim is, apparently, a very sad piece of gum.

Since I have no idea how to kick off a career in Hollywood, my second action item is to do some research. I have decided that I will use Google and my handy DVD of The Hills as my guide. You know, because Wikipedia and MTV are never wrong. At the very least, they can provide the name of all the trendy eateries and lounges in L.A; Koi, Nobu, and the Ivy are already in my sights. I am convinced that if I visit these locales at least twice weekly, I will increase my chances of meeting and schmoozing with influential players in the industry.

This leads me to my next immediate task, deciding how to get my script into the hands of said players. I have to approach this situation with a certain degree of finesse as to not appear overly zealous, novice, and desperate, though I am, in fact, all of the above. Ideally, I’d like to come off as an up and coming writer from the East Coast who is making waves in the Indie film scene. Of course, this is a gross exaggeration, aside from the fact that I am actually from the East Coast. I also know