I actually got Mr. Movie Star to agree to come over to my house (I don't feel like making the trek out to the coast, and quite frankly, it's about time the bastard came over my way).
Mr. Movie Star is one of those tragic folks who won't come east of LaCienega* unless it's 'on a call sheet', and I live in the dreaded 'points east', so this is huge.
Long Story Short:
After getting yelled at by my accountant for an hour or so about my 'spending patterns' (the man who owns the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf is a saint, and I'm putting his children through college), said accountant sent me home to go through my credit card statements in an effort to find more legit deductions and reflect upon the sins I've committed at Barney's.
In the midst of this, Mr. Movie Star called - asking if I wanted to come over tonight (the sex has gotten much better - he admitted to being 'nervous the first time with someone' and he does take direction well), so I told him he'd have to make the trek here as I was buried in paperwork.
I was really expecting him to refuse, but he said he'd come over, meaning that I still had to stop what I was doing, plus I had to clean the house so he wouldn't think I live in complete and utter squalor.
It's all good - he's going to bring dinner and some movies, and I've been promised some fun sympathy for getting yelled at by a satanic CPA and getting wrung out by the IRS - although I seriously doubt that Mr. Movie Star has even balanced his own checkbook in a long, long time.
*For my non Los Angeles readers, La Cienega Blvd is a major north/south street, and it's the unofficial dividing line between the glorious and beautiful "westside" (where the 'beautiful people' live) and the unwashed masses in Hollywood and 'points east'.