Chapter Ten.

     Merry Christmas, you guys! My gift to you this year is the same as it was last year: a super-embarrassing - yet - totally - true story from my life. This one also happens to be the next chapter in my memoir, Making Sh*t Up: An Improvised Life, and is one of many reasons why I should stay the hell away from Hollywood, and famous people.

     Wherever you are, and whatever kind of shit you're up to, I hope this finds you healthy, and - dare I say it - hopeful, at the close of the year. Thank you for continuing to come back to this space, and encouraging my bad behavior. You're the best.

Chapter Ten

Smelling Angela Lansbury

  

      I smelled Angela Lansbury once. Like, I didn’t just walk up to her, stick my nose on her neck, and take a big ol’ drag. We both happened to be in Pasadena, California, at the Television Critics’ Association’s annual gathering. This is when the networks and the press get together in some really posh place (it was the Ritz Carlton, and, yes, I was Gomer Freaking Pyle for a week), and the networks announce their fall television lineups, and what are the new shows, and who got cancelled, etc. They trot out their stars so the press can fall all over themselves with the possibility of running into Courtney Cox in the hallway, or having a conversation with Dick Wolf about cutting-edge crime drama while figuring out how to take notes AND eat the complimentary shrimp cocktail.

     I was there representing not only my show (Wishbone), but also PBS. And, yeah, that’s as sexy as it sounds. Don’t get me wrong; I love PBS. With a passion. Public television introduced me to the wider world, which most significantly took the form of British humor and science fiction. Monty Python’s Flying Circus, The Benny Hill Show, and The Goodies made me laugh, and Doctor Who made me believe in the possibility of other life forms. And also killer fucking robots that still occasionally haunt my dreams (up yours, Daleks!). Not to mention Sesame Street, The Electric Company, and Zoom. So I am, and always will be, down with PBS. But in the greater scheme of the TCA meeting, where you were bumping into celebrity boobies every two minutes, we were like the ugly smart girl that nobody wanted to dance with, but you had to, anyway. Not only was PBS announcing that Wishbone was returning for another season, but we also had won the TCA award for Family Programming, which I guess essentially meant that parents could watch our show with their kid and not want to gag or intentionally ram their head into the corner of the coffee table to get out of having to watch a “kid’s” show.

Betty Buckley (WISHBONE producer) and self. She's beautiful; I'm drunk.

     The evening of the awards banquet, I also learned that Angela Lansbury was receiving some kind of lifetime achievement award, probably because they had started producing Murder, She Wrote around the end of the Civil War, and it was still on the air. Whatever the reason, I found myself backstage, standing right next to Angela Lansbury. And here is something you need to know about me: I am a straight sucker for an English accent. Especially if the English accent issues from the mouth of a pretty lady, and even though Angela Lansbury is old enough to be my grandmother, she was still very pretty. Another thing you need to know about me: I have the uncanny ability to take an awkward situation and make it even more awkward. So we’re standing backstage, and she turns to me, gives and me a dazzling smile, and asks, “Are you with that wonderful show with the little dog who teaches children about classic literature?” And right at the second I was about to answer, I caught a whiff of her perfume. And – I realize this is a strong word to use about a woman who is old enough to be my grandmother, but it’s the only word there is to use – it was intoxicating.

     It was just the right amount of flowery, and citrus, and springtime, and British, and proper (but slightly saucy), and I just kind of got lost for a second. And as I looked at her, I suddenly remembered she had asked me a question – and I had no god damn idea what it was. And I wasn’t about to go, “I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?” because she asked it a second and a half ago and she was standing right in front of me. And I couldn’t explain that I was literally so into how she smelled that her question, the one she asked three feet from my face, had just suddenly fallen out of my brain, because my brain was busy trying to catalog that wonderful scent. Her scent. And then my brain screamed at me to say something, for God’s sake, because you do not leave Angela Lansbury hanging. Make some shit up!

     And so what I said was, “You smell divine.” But when I heard it come out of my mouth, it sounded like I was channeling Hannibal Lecter. It was the creepiest fucking thing I could possibly have said. I might as well have followed up with, “And I would like to eat your liver, with some fava beans, and a nice Chianti.” I desperately turned to my inner voice of self-preservation, to help me find some way to salvage the situation, but he merely threw up his hands and said, “You’re on your own, asshole.” Fortunately at that second a stagehand came to whisk Ms. Lansbury off to receive her award.

     Later that evening, I had an altogether different kind of olfactory experience. After the awards ceremony, the TCA held a big reception in the grand ballroom of the Ritz Carlton. I would have happily spent the evening there, because it was open bar all night, but I was too afraid I’d run into Angela Lansbury again. I decided to call it a night and go back to my room. I had just gotten on the elevator and pushed the button for my floor, when a very well known comedian and actor got on at the last second. He nodded, pushed his floor button, and as soon as the doors closed he hotboxed the elevator car. Or, to put it another way, he farted. Loudly. Violently. In an enclosed, small space. And I don’t mean a “one-cheek-sneak” kind of fart. He let one rip that sounded like his ass was deliberately trying to tear itself apart. The back of his pants started to melt, and I seriously considered pushing the fire alarm. But I was trying to be cool, because this dude was a celebrity, and I didn’t want him to think that I was shocked that famous people not only have flatulence, but evidently have world-destroying, soul-eating flatulence. As the edges of my vision started to blur, he looked back at me, and looked forward again, then said over his shoulder, “I guess I can’t blame that one on the dog, huh?”

     Awesome.

     Next Week, Chapter Eleven: Doing My Best, God and Country, Law of the Pack, and Stupid Fucking Crafts

     Make a contribution to the book Making Sh*t Up: An Improvised Life by clicking HERE.