So, then they gave out the Emmy for Sitcom Writing and, well, yada, yada, yada. . .

Editor’s note: Former “Seinfeld” writer Peter Mehlman was an Emmy nominee in the writing for a comedy series category. In a word, actually, in two words, he lost. As part of his therapy he has recounted the experience in excruciating detail. We at Calendar are happy to participate in Mehlman’s recovery by publishing his account.

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The curious thing about not winning an Emmy is that you get better gifts than the standard fruit baskets you get for winning. It reminds me of when I was in college and my aunt sent me $10 for my birthday. Two months later when I got mononucleosis, she sent me $50.

Anyhow, I don’t want to create any false impressions: I’m deeply sickened about losing. So much so, I’ve envisioned my friends saying at my memorial service: “He was never the same after losing that Emmy.”

The source of all this wasted emotion began March 5 when “Seinfeld” finished shooting episode No. 0819: “The Yada, Yada.” It was our 145th episode, but when director Andy Ackerman said, “It’s a wrap,” a wave of young love euphoria warmed the set, a euphoria we felt after such episodes as “The Contest” (“master of my domain”) or “The Outing” (“ . . . not that there’s anything wrong with it”).

I co-wrote the “The Yada, Yada” with Jill Franklyn, a friend who’s not on staff but writes beautifully oversexed screenplays. I turned to her and said, “Get out your Emmy dress.”

Zipping forward to April 30, after months of anticipation, “Ellen” came out of the closet as a lesbian during a one-hour show called “The Puppy Episode.” I missed it because I was reading a book (no, really), but Jill said, “If we get nominated for an Emmy, ‘The Puppy Episode’ will be our main competition.”

I say: “No, ‘The Puppy Episode’ is an hour. We’re in the half-hour comedy category.”

Jill: “You think so?”

Me: “Sure. An hour comedy is a completely different form of writing.”

Jill: “Are you sure?”

July 24, 1997: Apparently not.

The hourlong “Puppy Episode” is nominated for an Emmy in the half-hour comedy category, along with three Larry Sanders episodes and “The Yada, Yada.”

I’m more relieved than anything. None of my scripts has ever been nominated before. Not “The Sponge” (“spongeworthy”), not “The Implant” (“double dipping”), not “The Hamptons” (“shrinkage”), not “The Smelly Car”. . . . (The rest of my resume is available upon request.)

Anyhow, I really wanted this nomination, and now I have it.

Unfortunately, I already know I’m going to lose.

“The Puppy Episode” had the kind of emotional moments Emmy voters like to reward. A week ago, I overheard a woman at my health club say she cried during “The Puppy Episode.” Well, if you make people cry, you can win an Emmy for . . . comedy writing. But at “Seinfeld,” poignancy is forbidden. And really, if you think about it, 95% of the world is on the verge of tears anyway, so it’s no big trick to push them over.

Still, I try to convince myself I can win. After all, the phrase “yada, yada” is sweeping the nation. President Clinton uses it in a speech. Katie Couric says it on “The Today Show.” Then “yada, yada” is added to the new Webster’s Dictionary.

But I’m going to lose.

So I whine about “The Puppy Episode” being an hour (only to learn there isn’t a separate category for longer episodes), about how lesbianism isn’t exactly big news (“It’s 1997!”). However, I’m assured by an actress friend that “The Puppy Episode” meant a lot to her lesbian friends.

So I start thinking how the eight weeks between now and the awards will be a great time in my life. You see, I know I’ll lose, but there’s a ray of hope that I’m wrong. And, the thing is, you can live pretty well on a ray of hope.

July 25: I stop off at the “Seinfeld” office. Jeff Shaeffer, one of the writer-producers, tells me I’m going to win the Emmy. Now I have no chance. I love Jeff Shaeffer, but his powers of prediction are so off he can barely see into the past.

Aug. 5: The writer’s arm of the television academy hosts a party honoring the writing nominees. Since I know I won’t be honored on Emmy night, I’ll take anything I can get. “Politically Incorrect” nominee Arianna Huffington tells me I’m going to win the Emmy. We become friends.

Aug. 10: I come up with the first line of my acceptance speech: “You know, I didn’t want to just win this Emmy. I wanted to win by a lot.”

Aug. 23: I happen to know this is the day the Emmy voting takes place. I wear the exact same clothing as I did the day I was nominated. Unfortunately, on Emmy day, I have to wear black tie. Five years ago, when “Seinfeld” was racking up nominations left and right, I went haywire and bought an Armani tux. After a spate of Emmy Awards, Golden Globe Awards, People’s Choice Awards, Writers Guild Awards, this ceremony will bring down the price of my tux to just under $400 per wearing.

Sept. 1: I should mention that I’m no longer with “Seinfeld.” After six years, I joined DreamWorks to create my own sitcom.

My new office is on the same lot in Studio City, and I bump into Jerry and tell him, “I really want to win. It’s not enough just to be nominated.”

“Of course not,” he says, “it’s a slap in the face.”

Line two of my acceptance speech: “I’d like to thank Jerry Seinfeld, the most down-to-earth owner of 14 Porsches I’ve ever met.”

I realize, once you come up with a few lines of an acceptance speech, you want to win more than you’ve ever wanted anything in this whole wide world.

Sept. 2: I chat with Julia Louis-Dreyfuss at the “Seinfeld” craft services table. I tell her how much I want to win and she says, “Of course. If you didn’t, you’d be an idiot.”

Julia won last year and is nominated again. I ask her if she cares much this time around.

No, she says, not really.

Not caring. That’s the place where I want be. In fact, that’s where I usually am. But not now. I care. I care way too much.

Sept. 12: At a Writers Guild party honoring the Emmy nominees, I bump into a friend named Dava Savel, one of the writers of “The Puppy Episode.” We chat amicably, wish each other luck and mingle with others.

An elderly woman sees my name tag, touches my hand and says, “You’re going to win.”

I take her at her word and start feeling like, maybe. . . .

I go to the bar to get Jill a drink and there’s Dava talking to Richard Frank, president of the television academy. Mr Emmy. As I reach them, I hear Mr. Emmy say to Dava, “You’re going to win.”

Dava sees me and, embarrassed, says to him, “Don’t say that. Peter’s one of the other nominees!”

We chat amicably and I take Jill her drink. I don’t tell her what I just heard but my mind races: Does Mr. Emmy know something? And if so, would he really tell Dava ahead of time?

My guess is no to both questions, but I investigate anyway, sidling up to Mr. Emmy and asking, “So, out of curiosity, how many people on Earth right now know the Emmy results?”

Only too happy to respond, he says there are just a few and they all work for the accounting firm tabulating the votes. He then describes the security process in such exquisite detail, I realize he was just predicting that “The Puppy Episode” would win . . . not unlike how I was predicting “The Puppy Episode” would win.

I’m relieved. Now, I can maintain my false hope for another two days.

Sept. 13: I play golf with an Emmy voter in my category. He says, “I voted for you but I have to say, there was a lot of ‘Ellen’ sentiment in that room.”

Sept. 14: There’s not much to say about the actual Emmy night.

My limo driver went 15 miles in the wrong direction before making a U-turn toward the Pasadena Civic Auditorium, where I realized I forgot my Emmy tickets but, without even showing ID, got a replacement set for Row T where I sat down next to my date, Jill and her date, and Martha Stewart, who read a book and ate a plum as “The Yada, Yada” lost early in the evening to “Ellen” in front of a worldwide TV audience of 600 million people, leaving me slumped in my seat for the next 2 1/2 hours, looking like a commercial for strychnine.

Today: It’s amazing how you can have such low expectations and still be so disappointed. I guess it has something to do with how a moment that should be so suspenseful can turn out so predictable.

Or, maybe in a quiet way, I’m just very in touch with my own superficiality and wanted for one night, to live out loud.