Well, at last a ray of hope. Got a call from Grant Wilfley to go shoot something called I Don't Know How She Does It out at some airport in White Plains, NY tomorrow...and it's all indoors! Yahoo!
And nobody called me about inspecting my pristine, SMOKE-FREE apartment. This may be because I ran into one of the board members in the lobby and laid out my tale of woe with these fruitcakes upstairs to him, and he promised to look into it for me...I did not, of course, because I'M not nuts, refer to them as "fruitcakes" while I was talking to him. And since nobody called me or said word one to me, I presume that they are now running around trying to make sense out of this latest loopy request from upstairs. Fine. I hope they enjoy themselves.
I, on the other hand, am going to be making a lovely movie (with Pierce Brosnan, whom I know damn well I'll never lay eyes on) and earning money. And smoking outdoors. Ah, well.
Love, Wendy
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