Day 146: Awkward Professional Moment of the Week

So, I meet with the depression project people and the film dudes they have on board and finally after six weeks of total and utter vagueness, this project begins to take shape. It looks like I've been chosen as the writer...although no one has officially told me as such, which is a tad on the weird side but I'm rolling with it.

Regardless. We go through the structure of each 'course module' which is basically ten or so video segments. We chat through what the host will say and blah blah video stuff blah. And as we talk, I realize two things.

One is that spending all that time (as in THREE DAYS STRAIGHT) writing them a proposal was, in fact, pointless. Because what they actually want is drastically different than what they said they want which was, 'We don't know what we want.'

Moving on.

The other thing I glean is that not only am I the writer of this project, but I am the on-camera host, relating personal stories of my experience with depression and about my own spiritual practice.

In the timeless word of Keanu Reeves: whoa.

Turns out, I'm a three-for-one special on this gig. I have TV hosting experience, I'm a writer and I was once coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs. I knew my mental illness would pay off one day!

So this leaves my to-do-before-leaving-for-Paris list looking like this:
1. Bust out 8 video scripts with 10 segments each, including a total of 30 or 40 personal stories and anecdotes related to depression and spirituality. Because we all have a big pile of those lying around.
2. Get the scripts approved by a committee of researchers who took forever to maybe-possibly hire me and by a not-yet-formed focus group of teenagers
3. Expose myself (emotionally) in front of a camera for three very long shooting days
4. File three years of taxes
5. Pack

It's fine.

What's not so fine is that I left the meeting elated but with no idea how much I'm being paid. So, halfway out the door, I decide to go back in and clarify this important lil' detail. I poke my head around the corner to find my two clients whispering with each other.

One looks up at me. She's clearly mid-rant and is CRYING. She gives me a black look that says something like, "Well, isn't this fucking great."

I apologize profusely and begin to back away, only to be stopped in my tracks by the other client-lady who decides it's a good time for small talk. She tells me that she's only working part-time and blah blah something about her cell phone.

Meanwhile, Crying Client and I are standing there humiliated and wishing we were never born. I decide I'd rather work for free than stand there any longer, but the cell phone thing is still happening and WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME THIS and then finally, finally it's over and I shrink out the door.