Do you remember the day your imagination stopped?

I do.

I loved playing with Playmobil toys. The whole collection of them lived in an oversized Playskool Dollhouse and I could spend hours creating dramatic plot lines for them to act out. Three extended families and their friends lived together under one, disproportionate to their size, roof, the teens skateboarded on the stairs, the nanny— Carmen— did most of everything, but especially operated as caregiver to the babies, the evil uncle (he was the only one that came with a mustache painted on his face) lived in the attic, and the orphan girl slept outside with the bunnies.

My mother subjected me to Days of Our Lives at a tender age.

And then one day I just couldn’t create the dialogue in my head. I was also 14 which is probably a little on the old side to still be playing with your dollhouse. But, nevertheless, my imagination ended.

So today, when I discovered Axe Cop, I was reminded how much I miss my imagination. Axe Cop is the collaborative effort between a five year old and his twenty-nine year old brother. The young storyteller narrates the adventures of Axe Cop and his brother creates the comic interpretation. And it’s amazing.

It’s also made me very envious. And, I’ll just say it, I wish I could still see the world that way. Avocado soldiers and all.

For the time being: my job is mostly processing ticket requests, giving tours of the lot, and wrangling audiences for our live tapings.

I read all your hopeful, handwritten messages for Jay, I know more about Days of Our Lives now than when I watched it after school with Sandra (Sandra has been obsessed since her college days), and I am a cruel tyrant when it comes to cell phone use within the studio. Seriously. Ernie at Universal Security actually complimented me on it.

But today. Today I screwed up.

As I was assigned to work “TO” from 9-1, I showed up in skinny pants and TOMS, ate my yogurt, checked my email, and then I was informed of our monstrous tour group. Over sixty students from Beijing were eager to see our studios! and because of fire codes I would be giving a tour to twenty-one of them.

Well, I borrowed a uniform. No problem. Talked animatedly about Hollywood’s little secret. The masculine door. And turned it over to the translator every other little factoid. Turns out there is no Chinese equivalent for masculine door.

And then I screwed up. My group and I had to wait while the first group of students finished up in the Foley room. So. I made idle chatter with the group. Learned about the program the students participated in, what they thought of LA, how old they were, and, in fact, it was even one girl’s 16th birthday!

I was really digging for topics when I dragged up, “Lone boy! Why are there so many girls in this program? and so few boys!”

The group of girls giggled as the boy’s eyes teared up, and the birthday girl informed me, “She’s not a boy.”

I had a real Charlie Brown moment following my flub. I had just referred to the boyish young girl as a boy. In front of her peers. At work. When I’m supposed to be the best face forward for NBC.

I would hate NBC Pages forever if I were that young man.

And then I just had to say everything I could, “justajoke! igetcalledABOYallthetime! goshthatwassuchabadJOKE. I MEAN lookatmyhair! ohgod. terribleamericanjoke. HA!”

I quickly shuffled the group through the sound effects speech and the chroma-key room. I thanked them all profusely. Chanted one more time, “ThankyouSorry,” and hung my head in shame.