99 Reasons Not to Be an Idiot

When I first got here I was broke. To work out, I did the only thing I could afford: running barefoot on the beach. To feed myself, I shopped at the 99 cent store. I always felt a sense of shame slinking in there with all the other financial losers and nearly homeless. I longed for the days I'd have an income and be able to shop at Trader Joe's or, dare to dream, Wild Oats.

After several excruciating months temping around town, I finally got my big studio job and my income. And never set foot in the 99 cent store again. When someone knocked the store I'd smile and agree but then find myself saying, "yeah, but they get crazy good things like these fancy Danish jams."

My moneyed friends would look at me like I'd just farted, "they're probably expired."

They weren't.

Now, following the Hollywood dream in earnest, my big studio job is a thing of the past and the starving artist life front and center. Finances are back to the category of "Scraping By." I've clung to my Trader Joe's shopping trips as long as I can. Yesterday, tail between my legs, I slunk back to the 99 cent store for my groceries.

Once again I found my favorite Danish jams, those pirouhuette cookies I love and I know don't cost only a dollar at Wild Oats, the same carrots I get at Joe's, and milk with two weeks till expiration. In the cleaning aisle, I found a scrubber I've been searching for, for at least six months, and the green cleaner I love. All for a dollar per item.

People here love to be able to spend money on things. Hence the funky horse print shirts at Kitson for hundreds. To me that doesn't say "Look how rich I am." It says "Look what a sucker I am." I got a funky owl print shirt at a bargain store for $20 and it looks just as cute.

It dawned on me that my drive to be able to shop a "better" store was part of that same impulse I scorned in clothes shopping. So now I fully embrace the wonder that is the 99 cent store. I realize how idiotic and ego-driven was my scorn of it. I'm noticing that a lot lately: when someone offers you an easy, smart solution you should take it. Otherwise it's akin to saying "No no, thanks for your offer of a luggage cart, I prefer to lift my three suitcases myself." Why would you do that?

My name is Heidi and I am proud 99 cent store shopper. I don't aspire to Wild Oats anymore.... But I wouldn't mind a nice Prada wardrobe. Because, you know, people can tell it's Prada.

Casey and the Unicorn

We were snuggled together in a quiet corner. It was a stolen moment. One of those times that you’ll know you look back on and remember as one of those relationship turning points in your life.

“Do you love me?” I asked.

He looked at me for a long moment. His brown eyes boring into my green ones that I think were blue at the time.

“If you love me.”

He was the love of my life. And it was my first taste of conditional love. We were in second grade in the choo-choo train on the play ground.

Casey was an asthmatic and had lots of brown freckles. I recall that he tasted vaguely salty as I had once licked his arm and decided that’s what freckles tasted like. Salt.

Turns out, twenty five years later not much has changed in finding a viable relationship in Hollywood. I don’t go around licking boys’ arms. Or any parts of them for that matter. But they seem pretty salty here as a rule. And no one is willing to risk his heart until he knows it’s safe. Some not even then.

Meanwhile, my innate Pollyanna leads me to risk my heart continually. I’m a leap-before-I-look kind of girl and I always have been. The problem is that the ability to see the special, overlooked qualities in a sickly seven year old doesn’t really have the same cache when applied to a famous director or an upwardly mobile digital artist. The key, it seems, is in holding out for the guy who realizes that same specialness in me is something worth his while. Worth the risk.

Guys are spoiled and lazy here. They seem to think that because a majority of the population is botoxed and siliconed that they are somehow entitled to that Barbie perfection in every girl. On top of that, guys who wouldn’t get a second thought in Minnesota are head turners here even with their beer guts because they have industry power.

I could get pissed but really it’s just a stronger filter. The guys who will see through all that fluff and choose a strong woman who will cause them to become better men: those are the guys that are worth my time. Those are the guys that will make me a better woman. The whole point is growing together, isn’t it?

“I’m going to have to be a better man to be with you, aren’t I?” sighed the artist formerly known as Mr. Wonderful.

Yes, I told him, You will. Lucky you. Turns out he wasn’t up for the personal growth and the loss of that guy is both of ours. Instead, he’s back out there, looking for the easy fix. Looking for a tolerant woman who won't mind with his “quirks” (read: emotional baggage and unresolved issues.) While I’m stinging over the fact that he’s back out there so quickly as though we meant nothing, bless him, I hope he finds Her. Meanwhile, I’ll be over here cocooning for a while. Break my heart once, shame on you. Break it twice…clearly I have some growing of my own to do.

I think of Casey from time to time. How funny we must have looked to the yard duty; two seven-year olds holding hands and grinning. I wonder where he is now. Probably married. Hopefully happy. I like to imagine he’s found someone who he can grow with, someone with whom the love is not conditional. That, it seems, is the holy grail of relationships. The mythic creature. The unicorn that I have to believe I’ll find. Someday. Perhaps hiding in a choo choo train. Where does one find unicorns these days?

Adult Listening

When I was a kid, I used to wait in line for hours for tickets to my favorite bands. When the doors opened, I made sure to be in that first crush of fans running for a spot against the stage where I could dance all night, get sweat on by my idols and get my ribs crushed every time the mosh pit surged.

We used to laugh at the adults we’d see at these shows. Sneering in wonder about what awful corporate job they had to get up for in the morning. In the great tradition of teen self absorption, we believed we’d never be like them.

This summer, a friend got us tickets for Gnarls Barkley.

“On the floor? You mean we’ll have to stand? The whole time?”

I am officially getting older – despite that, I’m fighting growing up tooth and nail. Going to see as much music as I can.

I’d been looking forward to the Death Cab For Cutie show for weeks. The set started nice and mellow as expected and the crowd settled into the seats at the lovely Greek Theatre. I marveled as I had for the last few years on how young the crowd was. How do these kids find out about the good stuff? And can they go away?

About halfway through the first set the flirtation going on in front of me between two little hipsters burst into dancing. The guy popped up and started rocking out. To a mellow quiet sit-down song. He beckoned to the girl who, intent on wooing this new potential catch, jumped up and started wiggling incoherently. We grown ups mumbled and grumbled.

I looked around the whole amphitheatre. Not one other person was on their feet. Everyone was enjoying the happy mellowness of Death Cab but these stupid kids. And me, who now wanted to kill them for ruining my show.

The girl looked around at the sour faces of the two rows worth of people whose view they were blocking and flipped us off. “You're all so old!” she screeched. I nearly had to wrap her Hello Kitty backpack around her neck. But I oh-so-adultly sat in silence, leaning in opposite sway to catch glimpses of the stage.

At this point the guy realized he was kind of being a jerk. He turned and gestured to the rest of us old sitters. “Get up! Come on, you guys! Why is no one dancing?”

“Because it’s not that kind of show!” I blurted before I could stop myself. And the floodgates were open. “We paid a lot of money for these tickets. We’ve had long days at work and we really want to sit, relax and enjoy the show. But we can’t thanks to you.”

The girl looked like she was going to climb over the seats at me which I would have actually welcomed because then it would have been self defense and who doesn’t want to pummel a petulant over-indulged teenager?

The boy, who’d obviously been raised by decent people, looked like he was wondering if his would-be date was a good choice after all. She continued to sneer and hurl insults at us while shaking her booty ever more aggressively.

“Please can I punch her? Please?” It was agreed that wouldn’t be a good choice. So my seat neighbors and I sat and seethed. Finally it dawned on me. I am the adult here. I should maybe act like it.

Reasoning with twinkie girl was obviously out of the question so at the next song lull I leaned forward to the guy and said as calmly as I could “Hey I totally get that you are trying to enjoy your favorite band the way that makes you happy and that’s cool. But we’d like to enjoy them our way too and our backs hurt or I’d totally be up there dancing with you. Do you think we could compromise?”

He smiled at me and nodded. We shook on it and for the rest of the concert they traded off sitting for every other song. I felt better and the people around me patted me on the back. The children had been dealt with.

The funny thing is ever since the show, I’ve been unable to listen to Death Cab. I flip to the next song every time a track comes on the iPod shuffle. What the heck? I love this band. It finally hit me, the sound of the songs I love take me right back to that moment of supreme frustration watching that bitchy little girl dance with irreverence like I used to.

Well bless her and send her on her way. I have to plant myself firmly in the realm of being grown up now. She’ll realize soon enough what a pain in the ass she was. And if I ever see her on the street…I’ll tell her to meet me behind the lockers after sixth period so I can kick her ass.

Saturday Ends an Era

For eighteen years I’ve driven according to my own rules. I’ve always felt the vehicle is an extension of my physical self. Kind of like Knight Rider, I’ve always thought of my self as above the law. Those silly traffic rules apply to lesser drivers; those less skilled or saddled with less responsive vehicles. The rules do not apply to an uber-driver like myself. Sometimes I even resent gravity. Universal law for whom exactly?

Driving a red sports car with a lead foot for eighteen years and, thanks to fate or magic, sliding by numerous cops will make anyone think they are in fact charmed. I’ve honed my cop-dar and am quick on the brakes and downshift when I see one - sometimes just when I feel one near.

So imagine my surprise when one popped up on the shoulder and shot out behind me before I could haul the reins in to mortal driver speeds. As the lights flashed in my rearview I willed myself to remain calm. What crazy story could I tell to get out of this? Racing to dad in the hospital? Bad juju. Avoiding a crazy driver I saw brandishing a gun? Hmmm, miiiight not buy it. Crying and begging? Not really up for a whole day of being emotionally drained. Admit to my broken speedometer? Probably not too smart. Offer a blowjob? Can’t even go there.

Officer Kwan came to my window and I froze, smiled and handed over my license and registration. “Clocked you at 85,” he smiled back.

“Is that all?” I thought. It didn’t dawn on me to argue my perfect driving record or simply ask please not to give me a ticket. It just occurred to me to smile like an idiot. After all, I figured karmically I’d earned it. He probably took my calm grin for indifference to the whole thing. Really it was shock.

As I drove onward safely tucked in behind a sluggy semi, it dawned on me that it had in fact happened. The unthinkable. That which I thought I was above. I had gotten a speeding ticket. Me. The girl with the God-given right for ground flight. As I exited the freeway I felt a rock in my stomach.

It was still there the next day when I noticed for the first time in recorded history, I actually avoided driving. If it had happened once, that meant it could happen again. This means I am not in fact charmed and above the law. The rock settled in. This means I am just a driver like everyone else on the road. That is the worst news I’ve had in a long time. If there is one thing the dudette cannot abide, it’s being average.

Is this what it feels like for the rest of you mortals on the roads? This super sucks.

The Last Time Around

I was shot down over the Pacific.

When I hit the blue water it was over in an instant. I knew it would be and it somehow seemed right. Like it was supposed to end that way. I don’t remember who I left behind but I know I was where I wanted to be. Not for some political agenda but for my own journey. I loved to fly.

Sometimes it comes to me now. In flashes. But not visuals. More like sensory flashes. Driving down Sunset early in the morning when the curves draw me in and the cylinders are clicking. How I can almost see around the corners. I’ve always driven with blind, animal instinct. Like flying. It’s where I’m most at ease. In the machine. Most in control and also most zened out and let go.

I was in an air museum last month. There to see a Da Vinci exhibit but drawn as always to the World War Two planes. Admiring a P51D Mustang. Always been my favorite. Always felt like I have an inherent right to climb up into that cockpit – though I never have. A bright-eyed docent struck up a conversation with me. He was 82. “Flyboy” said his blue cap. His clear, aqua eyes bored into me past this body. He sought me out in between helping tourists. We wandered among Da Vinci’s machines talking about flying for the short winter afternoon. I was completely at ease with him. Like I’d missed him. I knew him.

It began to make sense. My affinity for these beautiful machines – a harmony of engineering and design. My fearless, intuitive driving. The calm knowledge that I won’t be going out that way because I already have. I am curious to know if I can find the life of that young boy, the friend of the aqua-eyed docent. I want to know who I was.

I was shot down over the Pacific. It was a sunny day. Morning. I was perfectly at ease. It fit, like the closing of a chapter. I am still in my Mustang at the bottom of the ocean. Home for coral and flying fish.

Wake Up and Smell me!

OK friends, I don't normally post things that I get as email forwards. However, in light of recent events in my blog-public personal life, I think this is worth a read. This comes from a new friend I meet on New Year's Eve.

Know when you meet a person and you just can see that there is a friend there? That was my initial impression of this girl. Imagine my surprise when, late in the evening, she was less than pleased with me. I was trying to get contact info from a possible investor in my film and as a fresh ex of this investor type, she was peeved. I was purely about business as, a) that's my focus, and b) he's so not my type. I found out later he'd told her I was interested in more than business just to hurt her, hence the upset. The shmuck. Suffice it to say, we are now both starting off 2007 with open hearts. When I told her about Mr. Wonderful, she sent me this:

A young woman went to her mother and told her about her life and how things were so hard for her. She did not know how she was going to make it and wanted to give up. She was tired of fighting and struggling. It seemed as one problem was solved, a new one arose.

Her mother took her to the kitchen. She filled three pots with water and placed each on a high fire. Soon the pots came to boil. In the first she placed carrots, in the second she placed eggs, and in the last she placed ground coffee beans. She let them sit and boil; without saying a word.

In about twenty minutes she turned off the burners. She fished the carrots out and placed them in a bowl. She pulled the eggs out and placed them in a bowl.

Then she ladled the coffee out and placed it in a bowl. Turning to her daughter, she asked, "Tell me what you see."

"Carrots, eggs, and coffee," she replied.

Her mother brought her closer and asked her to feel the carrots. She did and noted that they were soft. The mother then asked the daughter to take an egg and break it. After pulling off the shell, she observed the hard boiled egg.

Finally, the mother asked the daughter to sip the coffee. The daughter smiled as she tasted its rich aroma. The daughter then asked, "What does it mean, mother?"

Her mother explained that each of these objects had faced the same adversity: boiling water. Each reacted differently. The carrot went in strong, hard, and unrelenting. However, after being subjected to the boiling water, it softened and became weak. The egg had been fragile. Its thin outer shell had protected its liquid interior, but after sitting through the boiling water, its inside became hardened. The ground coffee beans were unique, however. After they were in the boiling water, they had changed the water.

"Which are you?" she asked her daughter. "When adversity knocks on your door, how do you respond? Are you a carrot, an egg or a coffee bean?

Think of this: Which am I? Am I the carrot that seems strong, but with pain and adversity do I wilt and become soft and lose my strength?

Am I the egg that starts with a malleable heart, but changes with the heat? Did I have a fluid spirit, but after a death, a breakup, a financial hardship or some other trial, have I become hardened and stiff? Does my shell look the same, but on the inside am I bitter and tough with a stiff spirit and hardened heart?

Or am I like the coffee bean? The bean actually changes the hot water, the very circumstance that brings the pain. When the water gets hot, it releases the fragrance and flavor. If you are like the bean, when things are at their worst, you get better and change the situation around you. When the hour is the darkest and trials are their greatest, do you elevate yourself to another level? How do you handle adversity? Are you a carrot, an egg or a coffee bean?

May you have enough happiness to make you sweet, enough trials to make you strong, enough sorrow to keep you human and enough hope to make you happy.

So there you have it, friends. I am the bean. Koo koo ka ju!

8 Months

It’s like ripping off a Band-aid. It’s better if you do it quick.

I was leaning over the kitchen sink pressing my palms to the cool, stabilizing metal while Mr. Wonderful slept in the bedroom. Over the last four of our eight-month relationship we had been slowly devolving into a stale, cold state of suspended animation. It’d been months since we danced in the kitchen or sang Radiohead in the car. A long time since he’d smiled at me with pure contentment in his eyes.

Sure there’s no emotional intimacy but it’s nice to not sleep alone.

I’d promised myself a relationship with a man who was crazy about me and up for building a partnership - family, kids, home - all that. Mr. Wonderful had been slowly pulling back into himself. For a while I’d reached out but when my hands weren’t taken, I’d retreated too. I carefully avoided reaching for him or pushing conversations that would ask too much of him.

But maybe it’ll get better. He’s such a great guy.

I splashed water on my face. In the cold, pre-dawn hours I had placed a hand on his back and he’d flinched in his sleep, pulled away. No, there was no getting better in the immediate forecast. I had to honor my promise to myself. Now in the mid-morning sun, I walked back from the kitchen and crawled back into bed. He smiled distantly. I know it was hurting him to know he was hurting me. I started The Talk.

Wait! Maybe if we went ahead on that weekend in Solvang. Maybe if we…

So now it’s done. I woke up in a relationship and went to bed out of one. The empty shelf in my closet makes my stomach knot. Should I not have asked if he wanted his things now? Then I’d have a shirt of his to snuggle and smell. And prolong the agony. I just broke up with a great guy. I push the panic back down. Yeah, a great guy who isn’t up for what I want. At least not right now. I remind myself. It’s like a Band-aid. Better if it’s quick.

Dog At Venice and Hauser

I saw a quick, furry flash from the corner of my eye. Though I was cruising down Venice boulevard in fourth gear, I turned to see the dog scuttle under a parked car. Right behind him a shirtless man slammed into the car wielding the dog’s doubled-over leash like a whip. I jerked my wheels toward the curb but I didn’t pull over. I was barely going to be on time to Sarah’s as it was.

As I pulled up to the next stop light, my stomach knotted. Could I really just drive away knowing a man was beating his dog in broad daylight? I decided Sarah would understand and I swung around the block. Back on Venice, I found the dog alone, panting and looking back to the man who sat in frustration about a half block away. I parked and went to the dog.

A friendly red chow/retriever mix, he wiggled happily under my touch as I checked for blood and asked him if he was OK. The man, still brandishing the leash, was walking towards us. In my mind I had a whole litany of angry speeches. Though he was clearly a weight-lifter, I had a good six inches on him and figured, worst case, I could take him.

He got within spitting distance and I stood up. Before I could get a word out he smiled and calmly asked if I wanted the dog.

“Is he yours?”

“Yes. You want him?”

“I saw you hit him.”

“He chase cat. You want him?”

This was unexpected. I knew if I was really going to make a difference in the situation, I should take the dog. And do what? My apartment was already crowded with a dog twice this size and a huge cat. But I could feel a larger self asking me: alright girl, just how much responsibility are you willing to take here?

“Take him to a shelter.” I suggested.

“No, they just kill him.”

“There are plenty of no-kill shelters in LA.” Although I couldn’t think of the name of a single one as the adrenaline made my hands shake.

The man shrugged. “I kill him myself.”

“Please, just take him to a no-kill shelter if you don’t want him.”

“You want him?”

The dog grinned up at the man who had never looked me in the eye. I could feel the plates of time grinding in one of those crossroads moments. Do I take this dog and figure out how to get him a better home or do I walk away? The dog thumped his tail and sat next to his master.

As I drove away, the man attached the leash to the dog and they walked around the corner.

I hope I read him right. He didn’t seem like a dog desperate to get out of his situation and I’ve seen them. I hope the man heard me and will do the humane thing but I know the chances are slim. I hope I made a small difference for good beyond a stranger getting pissed about a meddling gringa and taking it out on a little red dog.

When I recounted the episode later to my dad, he said I’d been crazy to get out of the car. I could have been hurt. True. But I think it would have hurt a lot worse to just keep driving.