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In a writers’ room, minding your “Ps” and “Qs” often means something other than the “pleases” and “thank yous” or “mind your manners” definitions we were raised on. For writers’ assistants, it literally means minding the “P”s and “Q”s and the other 24 letters of the alphabet we type 100 mph. And while we type, anticipating the carpal tunnel we will inevitably get, the writers write. However, I know that writers often do other things in writers’ rooms while writing (or not writing, as the case may be): play ping pong, scrabble, whiffle ball, and Wii, show pictures from their iPhones to each other, take pictures of each other, text, e-mail, knit, crochet… I even heard of one writer who used to iron her fellow staffers’ clothes. But lactating? This was a new one to me: The Lactating Writer.
There’s something about casually using a breast pump while pitching intricate murder plots that’s a little off-putting; especially when The Lactating Writer adds an affair twist to the story and talks about Character A having sex with Character C (Character B’s detective husband). Who can take The Lactating Writer seriously when she says Character B walks in just as Character C is about to come (just as we see drops of her breast milk falling onto the conference table, one by one)? I start to take notes on what she’s saying… “Character A seduces Character C just as another drop of milk falls onto the table. Writer T has to move his elbow, as to miss the impending drop, while Writer R pretends to lick it off the table. The Lactating Writer, however, is oblivious to all this, and just continues pumping and ranting about the characters having sex behind their spouses’ backs – literally. Character B walks in, home early from work… only to notice drops of milk all over the table.” Shit. I press backspace and delete most of what I just wrote; I hate when “real life” stuff gets into my notes. Oops. But back to the point at hand… urm, breast. When the writers told The Lactating Writer she could “pump” at work, I doubt they meant in the room. And, more importantly, why is no one stopping her? Don’t they realize I can’t eat my lunch now, in fear of breast milk splashing onto it (she is quite the squirter, as one milk drop landed in someone’s soup earlier -- across the table)? That, or my vomiting all over the keyboard after I do try to eat my sandwich while trying not to notice the breast pump in the room. So much for that vanilla milkshake I ordered today from Mel’s Diner… I won’t be ordering one of those again, not to mention I won’t be drinking milk anymore. Ever. If I wanted to learn how to use a breast pump, I’m sure there’s a show I could watch on the Discovery Channel. The Lactating Writer may as well just bring her baby to work, instead; after all, we’ve already seen her breasts, so she has nothing to hide. And I have never felt more sorry for the Writers’ PA, who has to clean up The Lactating Writer’s spills after she leaves for the day. (The least she could do is wipe them up herself, but as we’ve already seen, minding her “Ps” and “Qs” isn’t her strong suit.) If – no, when – I am a showrunner, I will not allow breast pumps into the room – unless the guy writers want to try to use them as bongs again (but that was another show, for another day). In the meantime, writers’ assistants, script coordinators, and writers with babies out there: please don’t just mind your “P”s and “Q”s, but also mind your “m-i-l-k.”
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