SCENE: Backstage Saturday Night Live studio. Tina Fey's dresssing room.

Lovely Tina is curled on a chaise lounge writing in her small, leather-bound notebook. Damien Rice plays in the backgound. There's a knock at the door.

TINA: Yah?

The door opens and I step in, closing the door behind me.

TINA: (looking up over her glasses) Can I help you?

ME: Hi, uh, (looking around) this is soo nice. Love that Isamu Noguchi lamp! Is that a photo of you and Jon Stewart? That is so cool. Where was it taken?

TINA: Excuse me. Please don't touch my things. I don't know who you are and I'd like you to leave. Now.

ME: Oh sure, sure. Sorry. (putting my hands behind my back). Listen I just came by because I think it's time you had a handmaiden and I'd really like to take that on for you.

TINA: A handmaiden? Honey, you're kind of past the maiden stage, don't you think?

ME: Well, sure, sure. But remember Juliet's nurse? She was an older type.

TINA: I don't need a nurse.

ME: No, no-- of course not. But I think Juliet's nurse was kind of a handmaiden, sort of. You know, helping her with things. Helping her get dressed.

TINA: Okay, look (taking off her glasses). I don't know who you are. And I guess maybe you're a fan which is very nice, thank you, but I'd like you to leave. You're creeping me out.

ME: But you deserve a handmaiden. Someone to worship and adore you and bring you Belgian chocolates.

TINA: I prefer Swiss chocolate.

ME: Of course, of course. Swiss.

TINA: I don't know--

ME: Oh please. Please let me be your handmaiden.

TINA: Have you ever been a handmaiden before?

ME: Uh, well sort of-- I asked Sofia--

TINA: Coppola?!

ME: Yeah-- and she

TINA: I love her.

ME: Yeah me, too.

TINA: You were Sofia Coppola's handmaiden?

ME: Well, not exactly. I asked her and she--

(Knock at the door)

MAN'S VOICE (O.S).: Tee-- you've got 3 minutes!

TINA: Shit. I'm not even dressed.

Me: Here. Let me help.

TINA: Hand me that little black leather skirt. And grab me a tank-- that Anne Fontaine one there, there-- over on the chair.

ME: (handing over the clothes) When you became the first female head writer in SNL history I wrote a poem. I put it on the altar I built for you. Do you want me to read you the poem?

TINA: No. No thanks. Can you hand me those shoes-- the Blahniks.

ME: (handing Tina the shoes) What small feet you have! You must drive the Japanese men wild.

TINA: (Admires foot as she puts on shoes) They are nice, aren't they?

ME: Exquisite! I was thinking, for your birthday--

TINA: My birthday?!

ME: Yes. May 18-- it's coming up fast and I was thinking for the cake we could top it with a marzipan replica of your feet.

TINA: Hmm-- no one's ever offered to put my feet on a cake before. what kind of shoes would you put on them?

ME: No shoes! This would be naked, pure adulation of those perfect tootsies.

TINA: It would have to be a coconut cake. I only like coconut cake.

ME: Yes, yes-- I know. With hot caramel sauce on the side.

TINA: You know, you're REALLY creeping me out. I'm having a "Something About Eve" moment here.

ME: No, no-- that's totally different. I don't want to be you. I just wish I were you. I mean, you are living my total dream only I was too fucked up and misguided as a teenager to ever get my adult life together. You just knew who you were and had confidence and focus and I just want to be around you because you are a goddess. And your film "Mean Girls" just made me so happy. Of course it isn't the greatest film in the world, but it captured some big truths that no one explores enough. If we had one film about mean girls for every 10 fucking action flicks that begin with a man whose wife and child are brutally murdered (including Kill Bill since it's the same thing only this time the wife herself comes back to wreak vengenance) the world would be a better place.

There's a knock at the door. The door opens, Lorne Michaels stands in the doorway.

LORNE: Let's go my darling liebling.

TINA: All set my prince--- how do I look?

ME: (sighing) Smart, funny, and exceedingly stylish.

Tina and Lorne exit. The handmaiden picks up the leatherbound journal and carries it over to the chaise lounge. She reclines back onto the Rachel Ashwell upholstered piece and wraps the pink pashmina around her shoulders.

ME: (opening the book) She won't mind if I take just a eensy, weensy, teensy peek . . ..

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