A Tinseltown Chronicle for the Naive and Hopeful

Polly-Who?

2011-12-20T09:47:00.000-08:00

It’s been a long time. I would love to say it was because I was busy being fabulous or shepherding a burgeoning career along. Anyone who has been with me from the start will know I had a fairly Pollyanna outlook on life and my career potential as a writer. My tagline: ‘for the naive and hopeful’ pretty much says it all. As the years passed by I’ve lived a sort of Hollywood-adjacent life. After a while, I didn’t have a very Pollyanna outlook anymore.

I recently spoke with an eternally optimistic friend about life in general. He shared how great life was going for him and I was genuinely relieved. It felt so nice to hear about good stuff happening for a good person. When I replied with my laundry list of life he said “Jesus, how do you get out of bed in the morning?” It finally dawned on me: it’s not just me being whiny. I’ve had a shit-pile of a year and since that's what is, that’s what I’m going to write. I promise not to be morose or self-pitying (as much as I can). I will look for the humor and snark whereever I can. I’ll look for the lesson and the growth.

I’m going to start with the hard stuff: my mother is entering hospice care in a few weeks. My family is braced for that end and dealing with the emotional roller coaster as it comes. How does one go about saying goodbye to the person who gave you life? My father is aging and it’s not easy to watch. He forgets our wonderful, long conversations and chastises me for never calling. He is in a world of pain of his own making I cannot seem to reach or help him out of.

My husband and I live in a dark, noisy condo with a crazy shut-in for a next door neighbor who verbally assaulted and threatened me for the fact that my husband and I apparently spend our free time standing outside her door meowing to try to make her dog bark. Really? (Yes, I see the comedy potential there and I DID get to make my first police report so that was exciting.)

That same neighbor led the charge against us this year when we got a new puppy who had severe separation anxiety. In the end, we were forced to return to the shelter a beautiful dog who could have been a great family member given enough time and training. His loss ripped open the scab that was still fresh from losing my beloved Simon last year.

I do rewarding, important non-profit work that doesn’t pay much. It occupies my scant waking hours. I do the job of at least two people and am never able to get ahead of my to-do list or do the outreach I need to do in order for our organization to thrive. I spent a good chunk of time this year dealing with a vengeful idiot who was more interested in being right (though she was wrong) than in taking responsibility for herself. She, more than anyone this year, made me lose faith in humanity.

Underscoring everything is the fact that I’ve been sick for the better part of two years with what has generically been dismissed as Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. I’ve been poked and prodded by every specialist imaginable. I’ve been told I have cancer several times only to have the tests show nothing of the sort. (An “I’m sorry about the C word” would have been nice, Docs.) Most days I cannot function for more than four or five-hour chunks in between which I have to sleep. If I don’t, my body shuts down as in seriously: I crashed my car one day because I pushed too hard past shut-down.

I pretend that I am fine most of the time and people get irritated that I cannot be productive like I used to. They have no idea that it’s a struggle to be awake and that I can’t remember what I promised to do for them last week unless I wrote it down. Aside from the deep circles under my eyes, I don’t look sick so it’s hard when I find myself in the awkward position of convincing someone I am and not just making excuses for having neglected that to-do item. It has brought home to me the Philo of Alexandria quote that a friend signs her emails with: Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle.

Then there’s my life’s mission. To write. I don’t write anymore. Except for two weeks in the summer when we go on vacation, my life is absorbed by these duties, dramas and disappointments. I came here to write and I don’t. That, more than anything, breaks my heart.

When I did write something, it was stolen from me and produced without crediting me. Someone I’d known it was a mistake to trust had lied to me and I hadn’t seen it coming.

When I look at it all in a pile like this, it seems to be a year soaked in tears and heavy sighs. To put it succinctly, I can’t do another year like this.

So I am pulling myself out. My blog header used to say something about believing in the dream and the day I couldn’t say that anymore would be the day I’d pack up and leave. By all accounts I should have left by now. But I am choosing to stay. I don’t know why, really, except maybe force of habit. Maybe there is a tiny speck of me that does still believe.

I am working with a new doctor now who finally has me on a road to recovery. My mother’s hospice is twenty minutes from me so I will get to spend many more hours exploring the mystery of life with her. I have a beautiful new niece who reminds me of life’s joy every time I see her. I have some wonderful new friends of wisdom and integrity and am slowly culling the crazies out of my life. I have some wonderful old friends who’ve stood by me. I see my daily work rewarded in the smiles of my students who find their power and live better lives because of me. Despite my best efforts, I find myself married to a lovely man who adores me and makes my days warm and safe. Together we run a screenwriting intensive in Tuscany in the summers and being in Italy yearly feeds my soul.

And I’m writing again. I have a wonderful new creative partner and there are interesting things brewing for us. I’m thrilled to have the energy and will to sit and write this right now. I may be a little rusty. But I am making a commitment to be back in the blogosphere for 2012 – this month marks the seventh anniversary of this blog. It’s going to be a strange, heart-breaking, wonderful ride. I hope you will take it with me.

Nico and the Gaping Hole

2011-02-28T09:15:00.000-08:00

Even as I love to deride Twilight and the anti-feminist, pro-chastity bent of it, I have to admit that I have read the entire series, gobbling it up like so much junk food. I get the appeal of being loved for having done absolutely nothing to be worthy of it – of finding that amazing Other who will just get you and love you for you. But that universal teenage girl desire is for another blog post.

The thing about it that I had the hardest time with was how helpless and lost Bella was without her Edward. How completely incapable she was of simply making her peace with it, valuing herself and moving on. Who among us hasn’t had their heart ripped out by someone for whom they were head over heels? Sure, you cry your eyes out for a while but then you have to get that he’s not coming back, pick yourself up, put away the Ben & Jerry’s and move on. The gaping hole Bella describes in her chest due to Edward’s absence doesn’t strike me as devoted and romantic but pathetic and self-absorbed. Her complete lack of a sense of worth or purpose – that need to define herself as valuable only in conjunction to him completely pissed me off as a feminist and someone who abhors co-dependence.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized how much the teen-angst-wired author had tapped into something. How much that hole hurts the first time you feel it and the work it takes to learn to close it.

After long and tortured high school years, I finally acquired my first boyfriend in college. His name was Nico. He was half Italian, half Vietnamese and in the real world far too short for me. But by god he was mine. I poured every Disney princess fantasy into our relationship. Like the velveteen rabbit, I finally felt real. I was worthy of existing because someone else finally saw my value and wanted it for himself. And so I prostrated myself before him. Cleaning his kitchen without being asked, spending hours making thoughtful gifts and mix-tapes (back when one made mix-tapes to prove one’s love), putting my schedule aside so that it worked with his. In disgusted retrospect, I completely lost myself in him.

To his credit, having a worshipper rather than a partner didn’t work for Nico and he dumped me. I completely broke apart. I couldn’t eat; I couldn’t smile or keep from crying for any length of time. I only listlessly dragged myself to classes because some part of me remembered why I was at college. I sat spacing out on campus benches oblivious to the beautiful spring days around me – even resentful of them. How dare they be so lovely when my whole world had collapsed into nothing? I was too young to realize that a relationship was not about giving yourself up.

One day as I was moping on a bench, Ayesha, the girlfriend of Nico’s roommate happened by. “Hey! How are you?”

I looked at her incredulously. How was I? I’d been crying for weeks. How could she even ask that?

She noticed my dour face. “Why are you so bummed out?”

“Nico!” I blurted, astounded at how thick she was. Didn’t she realize she was not looking at a fellow girl, but a gutted husk of a human? Didn’t she see the open chest wound I was harboring? The gaping hole that sapped my very life force?

“Really? You’re still hung up on him?”

Still? My life would never be the same. “Come with me,” she smiled and took my hand. She walked me into the library and while she made photocopies for a report, she told me all about the Nico I never saw. She told me he’d roll his eyes and deride me every time I left the room. That he and her boyfriend, made fun of all my homemade gifts and mix-tapes. That they’d purposely made bigger and bigger messes in the kitchen just to see how far they could push me. Her litany of denigration went on and on.

That did it. The thing in me that had broken fused together in a hot fire. Somehow hearing how much he’d disrespected me let me find the respect I’d lost for myself. I hugged Ayesha and walked back out into the warm spring sun feeling the kind breeze on my legs, the soft sway of my skirt, content with the proud blaze back in my eyes. I had poured myself into making his world a better place and he had ridiculed me. And why wouldn’t he? I had sold myself out in order to earn his love. I was embarrassed to see the desperate, simpering creature I’d become. I was furious with myself for being so spineless and with him for having been so cruel. I’d never been loved before; I didn’t know how it worked. At least now with what Ayesha had told me, I was pretty sure it didn’t work that way.

So when I dismiss Bella’s ridiculous crumble into worthlessness, I sheepishly remember my own. At first it saddened me to realize I could not hold myself above such foolish, self-loathing behavior but then that’s part of the series’ brilliance. Who among us has not known a weak moment? Because just like what I had with Nico was not real love, the impulses under Bella’s feelings for Edward are not love either, but obsession, and that desperate teen-age hope that we’ll find our value out there in his eyes.

We all have to go through that experience of learning how to close that gaping hole with our own hands. I learned how to have a therapeutic pity party, let all the pain out and move on. I learned that self-respect is about the sexiest quality one can have. I hope all the readers who idolize Bella will too.

Anonymous

2011-02-19T14:59:00.000-08:00

This is a town full of those who wish to lose their anonymity. So when I say that being anonymous alternately pisses me off, frustrates me or even hurts, I’m not likely to get a lot of argument. Or notice for that matter. I wish this whole town knew me as a writer and celebrated me, of course, but that’s not even the kind of loss of anonymity I’m talking about.

At six feet tall, and a rather leonine personality, I’ve always thought of myself as someone who stands out in a crowd – someone you’re going to remember. Not necessarily just if we’ve been in the same room although my ego would like to assume even then, but if we’ve meet, talked, clicked over something or other I find it rather improbable that I’d be forgotten. Sure we’re not going to be remembered by every soul we meet just as we won’t remember every hand we shake. But being forgotten by those with whom you feel connected hurts.

I was at a meeting today and a woman I’ve meet several times, a woman I’ve complimented on her way with words and even been advised by, came up to where I was talking with a friend. The friend squealed a hello to her and turned to me “This is Heidi, do you guys know each other?” I smiled as the woman looked me over, her face blank. “No,” she stated, “nice to meet you.”

My ‘yes’ died in my throat. I shook her hand, wondering if I should correct her, remind her, and finally settled on a minorly defiant “nice to see you again.” I excused myself and walked away. Had my previous heartfelt compliments meant so little to her? Did she not see me as part of the community with which she met every week? Worst of all, was I really that forgettable?

In an instant I was back in high school. Or more accurately, a year after high school. I was home for my first college spring break. I made the usual pilgrimage back to my high school to visit my friends still there. I’d always seen past graduates return for triumphant visits, marveled at how mature and worldly they seemed, and been envious of the grand welcomes the teachers gave them, eager to hear what they were making of themselves out in the big world. I returned smiling and ready to be so lauded.

I walked onto campus, struck by how distant this world seemed from me now. How innocent and simple. Oh how grand I fancied myself after one year in another town. I went straight for the classroom of my favorite teacher. For four years she’d been a mentor and mother figure to me. She’d inspired me and helped set me on my university path. I couldn’t wait to see her light up, get a welcoming hug and regale her with tales of my freshman year.

“Michelle!” I called, striding into the room ready with any number of inside jokes.

She turned to me, a blank look on her face. Certainly nothing I would describe as lit up. “Hi?” she waited.

“It’s me! I’m. Visiting.” I faltered. This was not going according to celebratory plan.

“I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

I stood there for what seemed like an eternity. Her phone rang. “It’s Heidi,” I murmured as she turned to answer it. I wandered out of the room. Had I made so little of an impression in four years? Did she really not care about me? Was I so forgettable?

In college, I’d bonded with my Italian teacher. Having traveled all over Europe, I had chosen my true love and it was Italy. I came into her class ready to learn. I picked up her accent, mannerisms and regional curse words. She became part of my Italian personality. Later, when I returned from my Junior Year Abroad in Italy, I couldn’t wait to visit her, share stories of my year, compare with her stories of growing up there. I marched into her classroom with an ebullient “Ciao, Bella!”

She swiveled to study me. “Do I know you?”

The air went out of me. Even as I haltingly explained that I’d been her student and I’d just returned from her homeland, she stared at me with a bland ‘if you say so’ look.

“The teacher always means more to the students than the students mean to the teacher,” my husband, a former Italian teacher, comforts me as I recall that disappointment.

Now as a teacher myself, I understand how hard it is to remember names. With each class, I must work to recall a slew of new names and faces. I usually retain the names for a little while after the class – several years for the students who stand out. I always retain the faces though. I know who I’ve taught. And I know the students I feel a stronger connection with. Sometimes they are the ones who reach out to me during class. Sometimes they are the ones in whom I see a reflection of my young self. I’m sad when they go on about their lives and for them I’m just another teacher they don’t have any longer. So I would argue that in some cases the students mean just as much to the teacher. I was sure I’d been just such a student.

As the woman from this morning’s meeting brought me back to those other disappointing moments of presumed connection it hit me just how much a sense of being known by one’s smaller community counts for more than the larger anonymity of show biz. A bit of a ‘duh’ moment, I’ll grant you. But it underscored for me that the woman’s feeling of connection or lack thereof was a key component to my own. How often had I gone out of my way to be there for Michelle in high school or chat with my Italian teacher in college? Aside from just taking in their lessons, how much had I acknowledged them for the contributions they were making to my life in the moment? Mattering to someone is what we all crave; being valued by those whom we value. Next week I’ll make a point of greeting that same woman so that she knows someone, no matter how inconsequential to her larger world, someone remembers her. For whatever it’s worth, she’s not anonymous.

In Case Of Fire

2011-02-05T08:37:00.000-08:00

We’ve all asked ourselves that question: the house is on fire, you have one minute, what would you grab? I think we all have similar answers: photos, computers, pets, heirlooms… In my mind I had it plotted out too. Grab the laptops, the cats, my jewelry box, as many photo albums as I can carry and go.

We heard the screaming around 8:30 one night after dinner. It was my next-door neighbor who is generally silent. There was something to her voice that made me prick up my ears – an edge of panic. We muted the TV and that’s when the fire alarms went off. Not just a little beeping smoke detector but whole building siren.

“I smell smoke,” my husband said as he yanked open our door.

Our next-door neighbor had been screaming for her dog who she couldn’t find for all the smoke in her condo. “It’s the unit below me,” she blurted having finally gotten her dog. “Not again!”

“We can stop it!” shouted the guy across the hall matching her panic. There had been a fire in this building shortly before we moved in. It had destroyed several units and its terror was still fresh in our neighbors’ memories.

My husband and I looked at each other. Was this the real deal? Are we evacuating or just going down to handle the situation?

The guy across the hall slammed his elbow into the emergency glass over the hallway fire extinguisher. “Come on!” he shouted to my husband who grabbed our fire extinguisher and followed. I ran back into our kitchen for another. I put on shoes and a sweater, grabbed my phone and keys and followed after the guys. I was sure we’d be right back up after we’d put the fire out.

I reached the first floor and found the hallway thick with smoke. My husband and the guy across the hall pounded the door. “Is anyone in there?” shouted the guy. My next-door neighbor informed us that a woman and her dog lived there. We had no idea if they were home. The guys made a few kicks at the door. My husband realized that his flip flops were a poor choice. As the smoke thickened it was clear: this was a fire out of our league. We joined the flow of neighbors trooping outside.

Neighbors who’d never met stood together on the sidewalk watching the smoke billow the curtains of the imperiled unit. The president of our HOA finished her 911 call. And we waited. It was still just that one unit. Surely we’d be back in soon. Surely we didn’t need to really panic and go back in for the cats, laptops and jewelry. Surely.

“In the last fire,” the president mused, “we evacuated and were barred entry for two weeks while they made sure the structure was sound.”

Two weeks? Neither of us had wallets, my husband didn’t have his phone or decent shoes. How would we pay for a hotel or food? How would our cats survive for that long? Our next-door neighbor took that as her cue to walk to the hotel around the corner and settle in before we all had to head there. We still didn’t know if anyone was inside the unit and where were the fire trucks? We lived less than a mile from the fire house.

The guy from across the hall couldn’t stand it anymore, “we’ve got to get in there, come on!” He and my husband took their extinguishers and ran back in. They’re not foolishly running into a burning building, I told myself, just a perfectly fine building with one small fire in progress. I stood rooted to the spot.

The fire trucks came. To our revved brains it seemed that they puttered around, slowly assessing the situation and getting the hoses out. My husband and the guy emerged. The guy’s elbow streamed blood from where he’d broken the emergency glass. The firemen yelled at them and barred entry for anyone else. The guys, however, had somehow managed to kick the door in and empty both extinguishers into the fire.

“It didn’t seem to do any good,” my husband murmured. “All we could see was flames. They’re in the kitchen right by the door. We couldn’t tell if anyone was still in there but I doubt it.” I hoped he was right.

Our next-door neighbor returned from her hotel to check on the situation. “Why aren’t the hoses flowing yet?” she wailed. “My place is next!” And ours right behind, I thought.

The firemen set up yellow caution tape and we had to move down the sidewalk. The hoses finally started flowing as the unit’s resident came home. She was a wide-eyed girl in her mid twenties that I’d never seen before. She was horror-struck. She’d just left not half an hour before to run an errand.

“Stove was on,” a bustling fireman barked as he passed.

“I never cook! I didn’t turn it on!” the girl wailed. Confused and now in tears. “My puppy is in there!”

The girl sat down and I watched her. What was that like: to have your life going one way one minute and come home to chaos the next? I wanted to talk to her, comfort her, but had no idea what to say.

A short time later, a firewoman emerged from the building with a wrapped bundle. Thank God they found the dog, I thought. I wanted to see this reunion. The firewoman started to approach the girl but, seeing her in conversation with a policeman she stopped. My heart dropped into my stomach. It was dead. It had to be dead or she wouldn’t have delayed. The policeman wandered off and the firewoman went to the girl. I couldn’t tear myself away. I had wanted to see the joyous reunion, the relief at getting a treasured friend back. I wanted to see the utter despair, the pain even more. Not in a macabre way, not that I at all wished for her suffering. I just wanted to see the humanness of it. To see from the outside what I had so recently felt myself.

The firewoman presented the bundle and the girl shook her head and cried with renewed despair. She rocked the bundle back and forth and wailed into the night. I waited until the first shock had time to sink in and I went to her. I sat next to her and rubbed her back. I told her I was so sorry, that I had lost my dog too a few months back and knew just what she was feeling.

“You do? She was just a puppy. I only got her two weeks ago,” the girl sniffed. “It was my birthday yesterday.”

‘I’m so sorry’ seemed like an inadequate phrase so I just sat with her and rubbed her back with each crying jag.

After a while the fire was out. Thankfully the building was pronounced sound with only the girl’s unit a charred ruin. My husband said he was going in to check on our place and the cats.

“I’m staying with her”

A dog-loving neighbor joined us and called animal control to dispose of the puppy body.

“The fire marshall can walk you through now,” a policeman informed her. “It’ll be your only chance to see about any valuables or stuff before we cordon off the unit.”

“What do I do with her?” the girl gestured to her inert bundle.

“Just put it down, no one will touch it. It will be fine here”

“I’m not just leaving her on the sidewalk!” the girl spat. She brandished the dead dog at the cop like a threat, like a debt he owed her. “Will you hold her?”

“I gotta file a report,” the cop muttered and turned to use his cruiser’s roof as a desk. The girl stared in wide-eyed pain. “The fire marshall’s waiting for you.”

“I’ll hold her,” I held my hands up to the girl.

“Really?”

“I’d be honored” She delicately placed the wrapped bundle in my hands and I held the dead dog in my lap. Her grey head lolled out of the wrap. I briefly wondered how the firewoman had found such a clean white cloth for the dog and I petted the soft head, tucking it better into the bundle.

The crowd dispersed, filtering back into the building and to evenings interrupted. I sat alone in the chill January air with a dead dog on my lap. I told her she’d be missed, that we were all so sorry, that we tried to get to her. I asked her to say hi to my Simon. And then I started crying for the first time in the whole incident.

After a while animal control showed up. I asked the dog-loving neighbor who’d come out to check on me to get the girl. I couldn’t just hand the dead puppy over without her having her goodbye. The girl came stumbling out, numbly dragging a small carry-on behind her. I gave her the puppy and she petted her ears and head, told her how much she loved her and how sorry she was for her short life.

She looked at the mercifully patient animal control officer. “I can’t,” she squeaked. The dog-loving neighbor stepped in and handed the bundle over to the officer while I hugged the sobbing girl.

Her parents arrived to pick her up. I wanted to give her my number in case she needed anything. I watched dumbly as she walked away. I drifted back inside and found my husband on the couch comforting our freaked out cats. We looked at each other confused, relieved, guilty. We had just abandoned everything we said we’d grab in case of fire. We’d left with no money or supplies for survival. We felt we’d failed our fire test.

We heard later that despite their initial scolding from the firemen, my husband and the guy’s actions with their extinguishers probably helped stop the fire from spreading more. I never saw the girl again. Our building smells like smoke and the ground floor is missing its carpet but otherwise it’s as though nothing ever happened.

Center of Attention (or Chicago)

2010-11-22T16:29:00.000-08:00

I recently lost an old friend. I don’t mean he died. I mean he chose to end our friendship.

I would be visiting his town on business and wanted to catch up with him as it had been nearly eight years since we’d seen each other. During that time we’d kept a friendly but loose connection. He’d married, as had I, and the fact that we’d once dated never seemed to be a barrier to friendship.

While ours hadn’t been a very long relationship, he’d helped me through a pivotal point in my adult life and when we split it was with the understanding that we respected and cared deeply for each other and always would. It just wasn’t a love match. There had been lots of post-mortem talking and responsibility-taking and the air between us was well cleared for a healthy friendship. Or so I thought.

As my trip approached, he became vague about when and where he could meet up. I got to town and discovered my work schedule was more demanding than I thought. I also discovered I had no transport and asked if he could come to me. When the times I offered didn’t seem to gel with his schedule, he seemed to shrug it off: oh well, maybe next decade.

I was sad. It felt like seeing me didn’t matter to him enough to go out of his way. I regularly went out of my way to catch up with friends visiting from out of town, rearranging work or home schedules, so it hadn’t seemed like that outrageous of a request to me. That’s what friends do, isn’t it?

I stewed for a minute and decided I needed to tell him how hurt and disappointed I was. I realize this could come as a shock or challenge to some guys, but not this one. He is a great communicator, well-trained in feelings, personal responsibility and the like. Of all people, surely he’d hear the friendship behind my message. Instead, he snapped. He accused me of not respecting his time or family, confusingly of ‘playing the same shit games’ I allegedly played when we were together. He sneered that since I was all about being an independent woman I didn’t need to play helpless; I could figure out how to work around his schedule and come to him. And finally he spat that he was sick of me needing to be the center of his attention. He then unfriended me online and cut off all communication. It was a complete blindside from an evolved guy who’s great at communicating about feelings – from a friend. I was shocked.

It felt like I’d been punched in the stomach and my first thought as I fought my shaking hands was “it’s not safe to communicate upset feelings.” That’s a horrid, bottled-up, WASPy place to be. Did he really think of our relationship in the horrible terms he spewed at me? That by asking him to take time to catch up during my visit I was playing “the same old shit game?” What shit game? I wondered. Why had he never talked to me about this during all our post-relationship time as friends? Had he been holding on to these resentments all these years while I thought we were all clear? This probably saddened me most, knowing that there were still issues from our time together that he still carried with him and to which I was oblivious.

He could have a grain of truth with the independent thing: I am strong and in control at home, true, but when I travel I tend to revert to wanting my hand held if someone I know is around to help. Does being independent mean you can never ask for help?

It was his final comment about the need to be center of attention that resonated with me most. Since we talked maybe once a year, he clearly couldn’t have been referring to the ongoing nature of our friendship. While I hadn’t expected to be center of his attention here – maybe off to the side while I met his wife and kid, sure, part of his attention but not center - it had made me think that that was where he felt said ‘shit games’ were.

I’m aware of a preference for the spotlight. I mean I’m a Leo so there’s that and then obviously I believe my thoughts and beliefs deserve some modicum of attention or I wouldn’t bother writing this blog. It also wasn’t the first time a need to be center of attention came up in the context of relationships. I had been left by a college boyfriend after the same accusation. The same boyfriend had previously run to my dorm room daily and was annoyed when I had to shift my attention from him to go to class or to my shift at the radio station.

More recently, I had dumped a boyfriend for cheating on me – not as soon as I should have either. But what had hurt most, I reflected, was that I had lost my spot as center of his attention. He’d been ultra-devoted when we’d started dating yet after a few months it seemed I was sharing his attention with several prospects. I couldn’t live with that or forgive it.

I had in fact started dating this now-former friend in question after being particularly neglected by a self-absorbed boyfriend. In a period of unsure direction in his life, he had been devoted to me. In the end we saw that we came from worlds that were too different and had life goals too divergent to make a go of it but it had been a restorative relationship for me while we were in it. I had felt like the center of his attention. Now it seemed he regretted that.

As the shaking and pain subsided, I realized it wasn’t me. To actually end a friendship over a travel mix-up and an honest, open communication of feelings was a tad rash; especially for a fairly evolved adult with above-average communication skills. There had to be more to it.

I checked myself with friends and family – was I out of line? I got the same response from several parties: first, that one does go out of one’s way when a friend visits from out of town, and second, that there was something deeper that was triggering his anger, and it was most likely issues with his wife with whom he’d had issues over the years. Since she was one female it would have been more costly to lash out at, I got the shit-storm dumped on me. Disappointing to be sure but oddly comforting.

Upon first read of the vitriolic message I’d panicked that this need of mine was a bad thing, a character flaw. But then I thought again. I do expect to be center of attention to the man I am in a relationship with. I unapologetically think that’s how it should be. I’d hope said man also focuses on a satisfying career, old and new friends, and other interests, but as far as women go, yes, I have no problem admitting I need to be center of that realm of his attention.

When my husband and I first started dating, he went back and read my entire blog, cover to cover as it were. I was touched and honored. Here was a guy who was making me his focus, trying to learn all he could about me and understand the ways in which we might fit together, where my weaknesses were, when I would need my hand held. In turn, I made him the center of my attention.

But that’s serious partnership. I certainly did not have that same level of expectation regarding meeting up with my now-former friend in his town. I just wanted the attention it takes to catch up with someone over a beer and would have gladly given him the same in return. I’m sorry to have lost a friend over a long-ago frustration with me that could have been worked out in conversation. I know at the end of the day it wasn’t about me but whatever else he has going on with his family. Perhaps one day he’ll see that and reopen the lines of friendship.

I responded to his spew-mail saying that if this really was it, I wanted to end by thanking him for who he’d been for my life, pointing out some key contributions he’d made to who I am, and wishing him well. I felt relief that I’d walked away with positivity mixed with sadness knowing I may never see or hear from him again. I don’t agree with his choice but I can’t control it. And that, I think, is the hardest lesson of all.

Grief

2010-11-02T17:11:00.000-07:00

The house is so quiet. Erie. A hole of blank space that matches the one in my heart. No one else would see it but I can’t stop staring. It’s the first day without my dog.

We were together nearly eleven years. Last night, after his paws curled under and he couldn’t stand even with help, I made the decision we’d been putting off; the one I didn’t want to have the authority to make – such a power over another’s life or death - the one I’d vaguely hoped we could schedule as if it would be easier if it were a to-do item on a given day. His suddenly all-too-evident pain forced my hand.

The cancer had finally usurped too much of his lungs. His pink tongue was a drab grey and his nose burned hot and cracked as he panted for breath, watching me with desperate eyes that begged me to exercise my authority. I sat with him splayed on the floor where neither of us could move him and waited for my husband to get home. He refused treats as I held him and petted him. Good dog ‘til the end, however, he held his bowels even as he lost control of his limbs.

We took him to the 24-hour vet where they hoisted him onto the exam table with an old towel under him. I held his head as the vet administered the injections. Slowly, he leaned over. He seemed relieved. He shut his eyes. I put my forehead against his trying to cram as many I-love-yous into the moments left. He took a shallow breath in and that was it. No breath out. No sigh. Just gone. He looked like he was sleeping. He looked like he wasn’t in pain anymore and it struck me how long it’s been since he looked like that. How long had I made him hold on for? How selfish had I been?

I held onto his ears until they were cool. It’d been months since the fever made them burn. They felt good cool. Soft and silky and cool. I wished I could somehow have a piece of his fur as a keepsake like a lucky rabbit foot. But that would be macabre. His beautiful soft fur that I will never pet again. I held onto him for far too long. We stood to go and the vet asked me if I needed more time. I said no; he was already gone.

We walked into the hallway, my husband keeping me up on my feet like he had with the dog. It was nearly nine and the two women who’d been waiting in the lobby when we carried him in were still there. Their voices carried around the corner to where we walked.

“That beautiful big dog that just came in here?”

“Yeah”

“Oh no, that’s so sad. Ohhhh.”

I collapsed into my husband’s chest in sobs. We crossed into the lobby. I gurgled a teary thank you to the night nurse and stumbled outside. It was a night bright with frost and wind. Clear. The moon stared back at me and I hyperventilated. He had to be just up there now. Just past the roofs, heading for the stars. Or maybe spiraling in confusion. I stared wildly at the black sky. “Where are you? I love you. Go. You’re done with pain now.” I didn’t dare say “how do I do my life without you?” in case it made him reluctant to leave.

My home is empty today. The strangest part is the shift in the minute calculations of my everyday. I wake up and as my brain comes into focus it jumps to “I have to get the dog outside” but I don’t and I slow my scurry from the sheets to a slow stumble. I swing my feet to the floor careful not to – there’s no dog to step on. I feed the cats, passing the nearly empty bag of dog food that still sits there. I shower and realize I don’t know what to wear because I haven’t been outside yet on the dog walk so I have no clue about the temperature. I get my breakfast ready and finish the milk. I turn to dump the dregs in a bowl that’s not there anymore. I rinse the container and chuck it in recycling. Unfurling my yoga mat to stretch, I don’t know where to put it. I always put it close to where he was laying so we could talk while I stretched. I finally settle by the table

I grab my purse to go. I’m twenty minutes early – one less body to care for in the morning, the routine doesn’t take so long, doesn’t take as long as it’s taken for a decade. How strange to recalibrate. One last glance at the curiously still house and I shut the solitude behind me.

In the car I pick stray fur from my sweater and wonder for how much longer I will find it there. In the car upholstery. In the rugs. In my coats. In my suitcase. In hidden nooks of the house. In the very fiber of my being.

“Hi, furballs!” I call out as I come home later. I’m bruised by the silence. The house feels empty. I don’t have to rush the dog out for his afternoon walk. I don’t have a reason to pass through the lobby so I leave the mail another day. A song catches my ear from the radio I’ve left on, still, to keep the dog company. I start to sing along changing all the words to be about him. There is no smile back at me or earnest face, head cocked as if trying so very hard to decipher my meaning. I feel foolish. I stop singing.

I sit at my desk to work, can’t find my pen. “Simon, what did you do with my pen?” slips out before I realize we can’t play the no-opposable-thumbs routine anymore. After a while I reach out my foot for his paw. Of course it’s not there to hold paws with me.

The afternoon passes and I think it might be nice out but I have no reason just to go out just for me.

Evening comes and there is no clackety clack of nails following me into the bedroom. No ears to pet and wish goodnight, no furry body to step over into the bed and promise to never leave. And through the night I stir awake listening for the sounds of need. There are none, no insistent paw steps that mean “I need to go out” no deep sigh saying “did you forget to pet me again?” I eventually drift into sleep and wake later into the silence of the grey morning that comes after and always will now.

The Furthest Step

2010-10-26T15:34:00.000-07:00

When I was five, my mother remarried. Through this union I got a step-brother and a half-sister. We were told right off the bat that we were a family unit; that the steps and halves didn’t matter. We were so lucky to have siblings and that was all that counted. My new father became not my step-dad but also dad, or dad 2. The two of them worked to ensure equality among us all and I always accepted us as equal kids in the family standing. I assumed the extended family had adopted the same understanding and I grew up happy to have my larger family. It was nice having seconds of everyone. In my adolescence, I liked some of them better than some of my blood versions of the same. They were kind, funny and easy to be with. I considered myself lucky indeed.

As for my siblings, our unconditional acceptance of each other created confusion for others over the years. We would only admit to the sibling qualifiers if pressed:

“I was just visiting my dad.”

“I thought your sister said your dad passed away.”

“Well, yes and no, that was her dad. I still have mine.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Technically she’s my half-sister.”

We’d gloss over the explanations as if they were an ugly secret. “That stuff doesn’t matter to us,” we’d firmly state. “I mean, he’s my brother and that’s it. The step part doesn’t change anything.” It was as though we feared others expecting us to be somehow less devoted to each other if they knew we weren’t ‘real’ siblings, whatever that means.

Over the years there were some tensions with various family members who believed in the value of bloodlines. But as far as I knew those were long assuaged. We’ve been family for so long at this point, who remembers such petty distinctions?

By an accident of timing and venue availability, my sister and I both got married this summer. We chose very different wedding styles so on many levels there is no comparison. My sister’s wedding was an apple and mine an orange. Given that we’re siblings, however, and given there were only months between, it’s impossible not to take certain measurements. Theirs was held near much of their families making the guest list about five times the size of our remote destination celebration. Not for nothing but that also means five times the gifts which is petty and silly of me, I know, but when you’re trying to create a nice kitchen and your sister opens the appliance you most wanted from your registry it’s hard not to feel a little twinge.

The gift that knocked me sideways was nothing so extravagant. It was from a family member – one who was step to me but not her, not that I’d ever thought of them as anything but blood. As my sister opened various things from them, I didn’t really notice that the volume was far more than what I’d been given. It wasn’t until she pulled the tissue paper off a family heirloom that I felt a punch to my stomach. I’d been given no heirloom. Then the second punch: I wasn’t their blood and somehow that suddenly mattered. I quietly identified the period of the lovely piece for my sister who doesn’t share my interest in antiques and walked outside to breathe.

After all these years, really my whole life, of thinking we were all equal in the eyes of the family, it all suddenly seemed like a farce and I was the only one who hadn’t been in on the joke. I felt like at this adult age I’d only just realized there is no Santa Claus – and that everyone else had known since childhood. Embarrassment piled on the hurt. What a naive, dumb, accepting kid I’d been. The hurt I felt didn’t hit a just-married adult but a very vulnerable little kid part of me. I’d bought the family line I’d been brought up with: that we were all equally loved and accepted as far as family mattered. That was incredibly comforting to a kid who’d always felt like an outcast. As the last piece of tissue wrap fluttered to the floor, I was that kid again, on the outside looking in.

Then I wondered how far back did it go? Did the woman whose heirloom it was think of me as her own, like my sister, or merely as a child who happened to be in her orbit due to my parents’ marriage? Would she have wanted me to have something of hers or was that side of the family just carrying out what would have been her wishes? For most of my adolescence, I adored her as my favorite. She had a bright personality and she accepted me for who I was, tween warts and all. Or so I thought. This posthumous rejection flayed open a numbing gash. I cried for most of the plane ride home.

I want to be clear that I am not ungrateful for the gifts I received. They were generous and thoughtful all around. And I also want to be clear that I don’t begrudge my sister any of it. I would not want to take anything away from her in order to have it for myself. In many ways she’s had a much harder life that I have. She got dealt some rough cards. I can freely say that she deserves beautiful things more than I do and I am glad family and friends shared with her and made her feel special.

Of course it’s not about the stuff. It’s about the sentiments and beliefs that guided its giving. I know the family didn’t do it to hurt me and have no idea that I might have been hurt by the difference in their gifts. I’m sure they are completely justified in their actions: “she’s our blood” they’d likely shrug. I may be family, but not family family. I understand that to most people, most families, the actions of my step-family members are completely normal, acceptable and even expected. But I thought we were different from most families.

I grew up believing that family was who and what you said it was. I think that’s a nice idea and a good thing to aspire to. People may claim to accept and love without reservation but for most people – even some of the best people, in some small place in their hearts, the rules of who and how much still matter.

A Thank-You Note

2010-10-12T16:46:00.000-07:00

A big part of any wedding is sitting down to write all the thank-you notes after. We've dutifully done ours. But as something was missing in our ceremony, something is missing in the soul of the thanking. It's hidden in the previously stated hurts and resentments that I chose to focus on.

There are many who deserve to be acknowledged for their actions over the last year and know that we are eternally grateful for the things they did, large and small, and the love they offered.

In no particular order, Thank You:

Dad for footing the bill and for giving me away
Giancarlo for footing the other bills, for running all over Tuscany and running up your long-distance bill
Ash and Matt for wrangling and Matt for being the default best
Joel for the wine labels, honey labels and programs
Joel and HBH for coming to LA in the midst of crap-storm 2010
HBH for shoe shopping
Frannie for the quilt help
Bella, Lucie, Dani, Caitlin for helping with the ribbon and tulle on the table and vases
Christine for making sure the table cloths and flowers were right
Mom for the flowers and for sharing your heirlooms
Kristi for the amazing bouquet
Cathy for loads of calm support and hands of help
Sophie for driving, a dress attempt, band-aids, voice of reason and indispensable help
Marco for not losing the rings
Elisa for helping me laugh it off
Barbara for the dress make-over and days at flea markets and tea
Lisa for listening to everything
Bob and Sharon for hosting
Brian and Richard for the posh shower
Ash for planning it
Ellen for the cake
Sarah for flying me out and nursing me back to sanity
Everyone who shared their photos with us
Miche for the villa
Fernando for the ice
Tina and Serena for the Tiramisu and helping hands
Marta for the best wedding meal ever
Angie, Annie, Felicity for their support in our BSG - The Conscious Bride was essential reading
Lindsay/Jennifer for taking care of the furballs
Danielle for the walk
Don and Sue for coming so far and being easygoing always
Lorenzo for finding the photographers
Arnaldo and Marco for the most amazing honeymoon hosting ever
All the generous gifts large and small
Franz for driving at the worst time
Everyone who danced
Everyone for not spilling on my (grandmother's) dress
My new cousins who accept me
Eli and Mirco for the legal footwork
Camilla for help on the ground
Federico for wine recon and bottling
Carlo for saying “si” in spite of me – foolish man

What an embarrassment of riches. It’s clear my tone has changed in the last year. I see I am not doing enough to stand in gratitude and that may be a big part of why things have felt darker in my eyes. This is me looking toward the light. The day feels a little brighter.

After I Do

2010-10-10T11:59:00.000-07:00

My new husband and I sat on the bed in the master bedroom of the ancient villa. We’d been married for about nine hours. The guests had gone save those who were staying in the villa with us. The frenzy of the day finally drifted off and we could breathe the fresh Tuscan night air.

More than anything I felt relief; relief that the event was over and that the day had gone, more or less, according to plan, relief that I had gotten here. I was not out there alone and searching for The One anymore. I had found One and we were legally and emotionally bound. We’d survived the drama and could now focus on building our lives together.

I petted the ivory satin of my grandmother’s 1940 dress that a talented friend had made over for the occasion. I looked out of the windows set in the thick stone walls of my favorite place on earth. I smiled at the presents we’d just opened and cataloged for thank-you notes. My husband hugged me and we sighed in agreement: we should have eloped.

In many ways I got my fairy tale wedding: a select group of friends and family in Italy, incredible food prepared by a local chef friend, a relaxed party that lasted all afternoon and into the evening. That morning, I’d walked down the cobble-stoned main street of my favorite Tuscan hill town escorted by family and my girlfriends. Tourists out for their morning cappuccinos Ooooed and snapped pictures of me. Some had clapped or shouted congratulations. It was surreal.

We’d climbed the steps of the stately stone palazzo on the main piazza where I’d seen countless other brides ascend in my years of visiting this place. We stepped into the city council room where weddings have been preformed since 1435. A town official in a sharp black suit and Italian flag sash presided over the ceremony that was all in Italian much to the consternation of my mono-glot family. In the end we signed the certificate and stepped out into the sun a married couple.

Our first act as marrieds was to head to the gelateria next door for a celebratory gelato despite the fact it was only noon. We strolled the town with our friends and photographers for some unique wedding shots. Then we trundled back to the villa for a country buffet at the villa’s forty-foot, pergola-shaded picnic table in the back yard. Eventually there was cake (heavenly tiramisu made by the villa’s motherly caretaker) and dancing as the party faded into the dark of a rural summer night filled with fireflies. All the elements had been what I wanted from the wedding favors of local honey to my bouquet picked from the villa’s grounds. I’m proud that by and large we truly managed to avoid the American wedding industrial complex and do an out-of-the-box event.

And yet. At the end of it all our prevailing feeling was that of disappointment. The year of planning was fraught with such dramas and other stressors we could have done without – both financial and emotional.

As women we are told that in being a bride we are queen for a day. As much as I tried to downplay that, there was still a latent expectation to be catered to and adulated. Playing the wedding/bride card didn’t get me anything. Every flight we had, at the car rental, every hotel or restaurant I made sure to mention that we were traveling to our wedding. Yes dammit, I expected some special treatment, upgrades, squeals of sisterly delight from the gate agents, something. In general I got blank ‘so what’ stares. One bitter, single flight attendant seemed to actually treat us worse. So much for queen for a day.

We know our choices upset many friends and family. Some perceived our destination wedding as a financial boast or a chance to exclude them. It was actually cheaper for us to do what we did than to plan a standard ballroom wedding here.

Still we knew we were asking a lot financially for folks to make the trip. We decided doing a unique celebration in a place we loved was worth the risk. As we’d planned the event, I’d pictured certain friends there with us, sharing in our joy. One by one the NO RSVPs came in. Many cherished friends and family couldn’t make the trip. Some had understandable financial reasons. Some didn’t care to travel or couldn’t get off work. In many cases they were friends whose weddings we’d gone out of our ways to be part of because we knew how much it would mean to them. We found ourselves struggling to hold on to our understanding as the wedding approached. At the end of the day the reasons didn’t seem to matter. All that will be remembered is that they weren’t there.

In an effort to entice friends and family to make the expenditure, we’d planned a week’s worth of activities for our guests so we could share our favorite place with them. “Make our wedding your vacation this year, it’s worth your while,” we crooned. The problem with that was that we got a bunch of lovely guests and family who expected a vacation. And with us as the knowledgeable ones, the ones who spoke the language and knew the area, they needed our help. Instead of us getting pampered and assisted in the final prep days, we ran around taking care of them and still needing to manage last-minute derailments and obstacles such as ice.

Though well-acquainted with the fact that ice is not a standard beverage feature as it is here, it hadn’t dawned on us that large quantities of ice were not readily available. The husband of the villa’s caretaker finally volunteered to take time out of his fields, cart a giant wine cask he had in his tiny, ancient truck to another hill town an hour away the morning of the wedding so we could have ice for the white wine and water to chill in. As something Italians just don’t do, it meant a lot to us that he would take his precious work day, break with community norms and do this heavy, tedious job for us crazy Americans.

It’s actions like that that make me feel like a cad in whinging at all. I had some amazing friends who stepped up and helped me with both last-minute details and keeping my sanity. They were willing to sacrifice their vacation recreation for my well-being and I can honestly say I wouldn’t have gotten through the week without them. But they were the exception.

Most of our families were either too sick to help or more interested in sight-seeing than in helping us with the preparations or bonding with their soon-to-be in-laws. We both grew angry and resentful as we herded our friends through their fun activity days. “I’m not having fun,” my husband-to-be growled. “This is my favorite place, I wanted to share it with them and I thought it would be fun. I’m not having fun.” I agreed with him. We were drained and stressed while many people found our planned activities too demanding or not interesting enough. Instead of “we’re here for you” the vibe seemed to be “we came all this way and paid all this money for you, now entertain us.” Not one person offered to buy our lunch or even a coffee on our group outings. We hadn’t really expected it, but when we noticed it never happened we were hurt.

No one at the villa ever broke through their jet-lag to join me on what I’d envisioned as family morning walks filled with laughter and wedding advice. I walked alone along my favorite country paths as the sun took the night’s chill away.

Having now felt the incredible mix of tiny disappointments and drama, pressure to be lovely and kind, plan everything perfectly, not to mention the emotional journey of the larger picture: giving up our single identities once and for all and actually getting married, I have every sympathy for the creature known as bridezilla. I never thought I would be that girl but one’s nerves gets pulled so tightly by so many forces going in different directions I don’t really see how it’s possible not to have at least one meltdown. I’m happy to say I only had one. It involved screaming at my father-in-law to-be at the rehearsal dinner which was nearly two hours late, had many of us including myself getting lost en route, and friends with kids begging off before dessert exhausted by the long day. I’m not proud of my meltdown, and I’m not saying it’s justified. But I defy a modern bride to get through without one. Thankfully my father-in-law was understanding. Despite his wounded pride that night, he waved away my apology on the palazzo steps the next morning with a hug and cheek kiss.

As what we thought would be our festive pre-week with our friends and family came to a drained and drama-filled end, all we could think was “this was a huge mistake, we should have eloped.” Too late to turn back now, we went to sleep way too late on the wedding eve.

All in all, the day itself went smoothly. All the things that went “wrong” were comical and somehow involved dessert. One friend waved a gelateria’s card in my face as we reached the bottom of the palazzo steps, post-ceremony. She insisted she knew where we had to go for gelato because they had her one favorite flavor – never mind that I may have put some thought into planning where we’ll go and for chrissake, I’m the bride, we’re going where I want to go. We led the wedding guests to our gelateria of choice, which was the same one our friend had wanted, thank goodness, and she boldly strode right in front of me up to the counter to order her scoop. I stopped, an incredulous “really?” dying in my throat. I looked back at my girlfriends in line behind the groom and I. “Really?” one grinned at me, her eyes twinkling. We laughed at the line-cutting friend still completely oblivious to her faux pas.

After the delicious lunch, we made our way to the dance floor and picked up the mike to thank our guests for making our dream of an Italian wedding come true. We we’re going to have the first dance and then cut the cake and here was the mike if anyone wanted to offer a toast. We looked over to see my father-in-law with a heaping plate of cake he was thoroughly enjoying.

“Dad! We haven’t cut the cake yet!” my husband moaned.

“What? It was out,” his dad reasoned. We laughed and helped ourselves too.

We laughed less when the evening wore down and no one toasted us. Not one person stepped up to the mike as I had imagined and said kind words about us, wished us well, told funny, heartwarming or embarrassing stories. No one. Had the language barrier intimidated people (half our guests were Italian and half American)? Was there nothing anyone wanted to say to honor us? We were deeply stung.

We sat on our bed that night, relieved it was over. Awash with contentment and love mixed with disappointment and hurt. I was sad that I’d never had the family bonding moments I’d so hoped would be part of this gathering. I’d wished for heart-to-hearts, advice, stories, quiet moments shared in this lovely setting. I had wanted to feel closer to everyone. I didn’t think those were unreasonable or selfish expectations. But it hadn’t turned out that way. Instead we were thrilled that with the dawn we could kick them all out of our beloved villa and hit the road for a few days on our own mini-moon.

It was the final coup de grace when our wedding photos finally arrived from the photographer. They were all vaguely blueish and cold-looking. None of the fizzy joy or radiant beauty I’d hope to have captured from the day. There were a few nice ones but I felt like so many photos showing connection and love were just missing. I guess that’s fitting and truthful in the end.

As the summer wore on, we took part in several other weddings. Often I saw examples of the selfless toiling of friends and family, shared sweet bonding opportunities, and pampered bride moments. I tried not to compare these to the absence of my own such moments but bitterness grew. In one instance I was the one who took off from work, traveled and did the toiling. I couldn’t help wondering “where was mine?”

I felt that in spite of all the lovely things my wedding was, there were many emotional things it wasn’t – things I hadn’t realized I’d expected from it. My husband and I compared notes and he felt the same way. We talked over our resentment and tried to let it go. We resolved that no matter what, we’d never do that again. One big lesson I took from it all: no one truly gives a crap about your wedding but you. I don’t say that to downplay the efforts of friends or family who stepped up during the year or took care of things at the event. We did see much generosity and love and for that we are grateful. In retrospect I just wish we could have channeled that generosity and love into something different; an event with less built-in expectation.

The funny thing is, several of the summer brides I’ve spoken to this year feel the same way. It was much ado about nothing and left them feeling empty and exhausted from hundreds of little dramas. So why do we as couples continue to subject ourselves to this costly, emotional, draining ritual?

As autumn approached, my husband and I realized something important was missing about the day. With the secular nature of our ceremony, there had never been an opportunity to exchange vows. Aside from agreeing to uphold the legal obligations of an Italian marriage, we hadn’t promised each other anything. We agreed that was an empty spot that needed filling. So we are writing our vows now. We are planning a short get-away where we can be by ourselves to exchange them and feel our commitment to each other become true for us. It will finally be like we ran away and eloped. I can’t think of a better way to connect.

What's in a Tagline?

2010-09-30T16:27:00.000-07:00

After a recent post, I clicked on my blog to check the spacing and I mused for a moment on my tagline: A Tinseltown Chronicle for the Naïve and Hopeful. I started this blog over five years ago and I genuinely was that girl. Fresh from my small mountain town, a fancy job in a big studio, writing training at a prestigious university, I believed with all my Pollyanna heart that I would have a meteoric rise as sought-after writer in this town, that I’d meet and marry a rich and famous Prince Charming and all would be well with the universe. I’d been told my whole life that I was special. I believed that my life would enjoy such rarified trajectories because I deserved it – I was destined for it.

I began blogging as a witty aside to my days. My goal was to produce a stable of comedy essays that would be curated into a book ala David Sedaris. Not that I claimed to have Sedaris level talent. But I still thought a publisher or three would sit up and take notice.

I’ve noticed of late – like over the last year or more – the comedy has abated. More of my essays seem to focus on something that infuriated me, hurt me or left me indignant or incredulous. If you came here for the comedy, sorry to disappoint. But, as I'm finding, so like life.

What happed to that funny girl who believed that “any day success can come it this town”? I actually said that during my first year here to a neighbor as I was out walking. I heard them laughing at me as I walked away.

The studio job evaporated in a corporate take-over. I went on to produce an independent film but its distribution has been an uphill battle, not the break-out hit/calling-card project as hoped. I’ve sort of slid sideways out of the film business and find myself running a non-profit that helps women. It’s a vital and worthy cause and it should make me feel fulfilled. Instead it just reminds me every day that there was no meteoric rise to film power. From the film sidelines, I watch my compatriots go on without me.

As for Prince Charming, the famous one broke my heart as it had never been broken before and I made an abject fool of myself pining for him and trying to win him back. My heart got kicked around by a few others to whom I gave it too easily hoping they might stop that pain. I finally met and married a wonderful man who doesn’t have any such show biz meteors up his sleeve. We are safe together and on the same page.

All in all my life is quite pleasant. It has settled down to be normal and average. Normal and average. Two words that always made me cringe.

As a kid, even understanding I was special, I thought I’d be great at normal. I was raised by my father with a kind of anachronistic set of 50’s ‘be true to your school,’ sock-hop values. I assumed I’d be a cheerleader, date a football player and wear a letterman jacket while driving my Studebaker with a raccoon tail flying from the antenna. I got to high school and was shocked to realize school spirit was super-uncool, the cheerleaders were the skanks of school and the football players were idiots. I was unequipped for navigation in such waters so I sank to the bottom in my own bubble of “off-beat, unique, eccentric, eclectic.” I cultivated that bubble through college where I was a DJ. The more fringe you were the better. The sooner you declared that a band had sold out, were over-exposed and moved on from them, the more insider you were. My whole adult life has been: “if everyone else if going right, I’m going left.”

And now to be faced with normalcy and average-ness. No wonder I’m filled with upset and angst that flows into my writing. The film career fizzled, the book deal never knocked. The famous I thought I’d hob nob with flow past my window without seeing me.

I moved here because I realized I was living a small life in my little town. I didn’t want to wake up one morning ten years later with nothing to show and wonder what would have happened if I’d only gone out to LA and reached for the brass ring. Well it may not quite be ten years later but I reached. At least I’ve answered that question for myself. I caught at a bigger, more glitzy, more important life. I didn’t get it.

So it seems my tagline should be changed. I happen to live in Hollywood but really have nothing to do with Tinseltown, the mythic construct that functions around and without me. While I still have moments of Pollyanna trust, I am no longer the naïve ingénue that believes success is just around the corner ‘cause doggone it, I’m special.’ I have finally become that most average of Hollywood states: jaded. And as for hopeful. That strikes me as a saddest part. I have lost my hope in success - in my talent bringing a film/writing career to life. In the absence of hope, resignation fills the void and I see I have become bitter. I am sorry to see that flow into my writing and on to these pages but it’s what is true for me.

“An LA chronicle for the jaded and bitter” doesn’t have that great a ring to it. But I finally fit in with all the other bitter writers grumbling in cafes. I have become a true Hollywood girl… Which may ironically mean that success really is right around the corner. While I don’t hold my breath, I suppose it’s time for me to take a step back and reassess what success looks like for me. It’s time to start finding it in the small victories, in the little bubbles that make up my days. I’ll leave the tagline as is for now, just in case.

Awkward

2010-09-26T10:41:00.000-07:00

I went to the Arclight this week, the only cinema in LA as far as I’m concerned in my …is it snobbishness or curmudgeonly-ness? OK I do love the vintage movie houses like the Vista et. al. l but I digress. I went to the Arclight and while waiting for my friend in the lobby, I saw what can best be described as a former acquaintance walk in. He hadn’t changed much in the six years since I’d last seen him. Still tall and mostly bald, still somewhat sheepish, with an awkward walk. I could see by the emblazoned sweatshirt he wore that he was working on one of the new cable shows this year. I turned to see if he’d see me and wondered how to greet him.

We met when I was at film school and he was a featured speaker as a writer who had a successful film out. It was actually he and his brother – his hunky, fit, charming brother. After their lecture I plowed down the stairs of the lecture hall in my forthright, still-unjaded way and marched right up to them. I figured it would be smart to make a connection with a working writer and it would be an added bonus if I could date a cute one.

Sadly, the cute one was mobbed so I ended up connecting with the awkward one who was eager to have someone be interested in him. He was very sweet and we agreed to meet up the next week. Excellent, I thought, I have my first connection in Hollywood! It would have been fabulous if it had been romantic too but I was contented to have a new friend. Besides, maybe there was a way I could get to his brother…

So we had drinks that week. He creeped me out when he did an awkward lean-in at the end of the evening. I avoided the smooch and tried to make it as gently clear as I could that this was not like that. It seemed fine. We hung out a few times with other family friends, and in other social settings but the brother was never around. Maybe Awkward wasn’t so bad. He was smart and funny. He was kind and a little eccentric. His looks left me cold as did his lack of charisma but maybe I’d be OK with that if I looked a little deeper.

At this point it became clear that their writing team was as imbalanced as their looks. The cute brother had been hired on a show and assigned a feature script. Awkward continued to have his pitches turned down and lived off old family money. It also became clear that he thought this was more than just a friendly writer mentoring situation. The details are fuzzy now as it’s been so long but I seem to recall he tried to kiss me again and my firm no sent him scurrying. It seemed there was no friendship possible on his end without romantic attachments and on my end there was none possible with.

I knew I’d hurt him even though I thought I’d been clear on that first “date”. Well at least clear-ish. Maybe a part of me knew he was only continuing to talk to me because I was young and cute and looked up to him. Maybe I knew he hoped this would go somewhere romantic. Who are we kidding, I was only talking to him for mentorship and business connections. I hadn’t even written my first script yet! I suppose it was a case of mutual using and we both walked away unsatisfied.

After my last exit following that awkward kiss attempt, I never heard from him again. His humiliation over the rejection apparently precluded any possible continued friendship. I was sad to lose my one connection in a town where it’s all who you know and I knew nobody. But it was a good lesson learned: I’m not up to the challenge of toying with men’s hearts to get what I want. I just can’t fake it.

When he walked into the Arclight, I was the only other person standing in the lobby so it’s not possible that he didn’t see me. However, six years is a long time. My hair is different, my clothes are different. Maybe he didn’t recognize me. I thought for a second about going over to him, catching up, seeing how he was. But then I stopped. If he’d been so hurt, he may not have relished being faced with me. I decided to leave well enough alone. He did his awkward walk toward his theatre. I watched him go and hoped his new series gets picked up.

The Old Dog on the Stairs

2010-09-19T10:42:00.000-07:00

“You’re crying at a dogfood commercial?”

“But look,” I gestured to the TV as I sniffled into a tissue.

You probably remember the one. It started with a kid at the top of the stairs hollering “Come on, Casey” to a red Irish Setter puppy who frolicked up the stairs. Then it moved to a teen calling “here, Casey,” to a healthy, adult Irish Setter who romped dutifully up to his owner. It finished with a post-college guy encouraging “atta-boy, Casey,” to an elderly, graying Irish Setter who struggled up the stairs.

I burst into tears every time it got to old Casey: He’s trying so hard to please his human. They’ve had such a beautiful, long friendship. Casey doesn’t have much time left. How can you not cry?

I would look at my robust, healthy Simon and be happy he hadn’t seemed to age a bit in all our years together. Always as eager for a hike as me, and just as willing to be happy with quiet time, for a decade this former pound puppy has been my perfect match. People have always stopped me on our walks and told me what a beautiful dog he is. I thank them as Simon smiles and nuzzles them for a pet. He knows.

Simon’s into his fifteenth year now. Old for a big dog. I believe it’s our active lifestyle and his not being a purebred got him this far, as well as the love of course. That and every time there’s been an injury or a sickness, I’ve always looked into his expressive brown eyes and said “you’re not allowed to leave.” He lays his head on my knee and somehow heals himself.

A few months back I noticed him panting all the time. He started to lose weight, drinking lots of water and not being able to hold it. I knew what it meant but I didn’t want to face it. With my limited salary I knew operations or chemo wouldn’t be an option. How effective could they be anyway at his age? I didn’t want to hear the words.

I took him in when he seemed to be in pain. Lymphoma, they said. They gave us antibiotics for infection, pain killers, and steroids to keep his lungs working. I went home and cried for days. So now Simon and me - a few weeks, a month, more? They couldn’t tell me how much time we have. I can only keep him comfortable and wait and watch.

The vet had chuckled, “Not a trace of arthritis or anything. Otherwise a totally healthy dog.” I want to scream that it’s not fair for his body to be in such good shape and still get taken down. It’s not used up yet. If the cancer just weren’t there…

Suddenly I have the old dogfood commercial Casey – the dog that makes me cry with his unsinkable will to please despite his infirmity. His ready smile breaks my heart.

After a few weeks on his steroids Simon started acting like a jerk. Begging incessantly, stealing the cats’ food, raiding the garbage – a doggie sin he’d never committed. I brought him back to the vet. He was down from his healthy 85 to 60 pounds, his spine and hind quarters skeletal. Quite simply he was starving to death. The cancer was stealing all his nutrients and he wasn’t getting any. We switched him to puppy food for greater nutrients and upped his feedings to three times a day. His walks to four. He stabilized and calmed down. Still smiling his happy dog smile. “But won’t that feed the cancer more, too?” my husband worries. I suppose it will but what can I do?

So we play our waiting game, enjoying whatever we have left. I tell him I love him a million times a day. I force his pointed steroid pills into bread slices that he eagerly gulps. I listen to his soft panting every night. I feel guilty that it irritates me and keeps me awake but I know it will be so much worse when it’s not there anymore.

Long gone are our wandering hikes in the hills. My once-strong dog shuffles behind me to the end of our driveway and back, his rear paws making a soft ‘shush-shush-shush’ as he fails to lift them. Sometimes, even moving slowly he stumbles. I modify my gait remembering not to rush and we amble along.

“What a beautiful dog,” people still croon on our short trips outside. I look at his emaciated rear and the visible curve of his ribcage. If you only knew, I think. Of course he’s still beautiful even as his eyes look sunken and his face fur grays. He wags his tail and nuzzles them for a pet.

Inside he struggles to get to his feet, his failing muscles fighting the slip of the wood floor. He can’t really hear anymore and I startle him if I come up behind him. I have to touch him or make vibrations to get his attention. And he smiles. Still that full-face, adoring-eye smile he’s always had for me, despite the pain, despite the fear he must feel at not knowing what’s going on. “The way that dog looks at you,” my mom always croons. It’s what unconditional love looks like.

He’s given me a decade of being the best dog ever. He’s always been there to comfort my tears or share my joys. I can’t imagine my adult life without him. I always thought he’d be around to help us raise kids.

He smiles, puts his head on my knee and nudges me with a nose that’s always hot and dry now. I give him whatever treats he wants. I stop myself from uttering my knee-jerk “you’re not allowed to leave.” It’s selfish of me and not fair to him. I tell him he’s allowed to leave if that’s what he needs. I bump my forehead onto his and tell him I’ll be OK but he has to tell me when it hurts too much; when it’s time. I pray I’ll have the strength to listen to him. Because otherwise I’ll hold onto him forever.

Simon vs. The Purse Dogs

2010-09-14T08:41:00.000-07:00

*** I wrote this post five years ago and it never made it online***

I needed a dog. When you own a mountain home with a big fenced yard, you live at the base of a network of hiking trails and are a single girl, it’s a natural progression. I combed the humane society website every day for months looking for reasons to spend my lunch hour at the pound. I was very clear what I wanted: a medium-sized, short hair female with intelligent eyes. To non-dog people it may sound odd, but you really can tell how smart a dog is by looking in her eyes.

One day, I came across a photo of a bright eyed dog with a huge grin all over his giant, furry face. I kept clicking back to it until finally my coworker pulled out her keys and said, “Get in the car.” The next day the paperwork was handled and I was leading an 85 pound, shaggy, male Shepard/Collie mix out to my tiny hatchback.

“How am I going to get you in there?” I asked him as I contemplated just how much lifting 85 pounds would kill my back. He cocked his head, looked from me to the car, jumped in the open hatch, sat down and looked at me again as if to say “like this?” I knew we were going to get along just fine.

Back at the start, I discovered why Simon had been turned in to the pound. He had an issue with bolting. On several terrifying occasions, he slipped past me as I opened the door and ran toward the highway near our mountain home. He usually chose to do this when I was barefooted or carrying armfuls of groceries. So I’d drop eggs and milk and fly after him, ripping my feet to shreds, convinced I was about to prove myself the worst dog owner ever as he got flattened by three semis and an ice cream truck. On the third or fourth chase, I realized he wasn’t actually running from me. He’d keep looking back over his shoulder, grinning, to make sure I was still playing along. He just wanted to play, to have my attention, to be listened to. How like a human.

Five years later, I have learned to listen to him and he to me and we usually walk through the Hollywood hills without a leash. We are companions, not master and beast. Listening to the second major Simon in my life has taught me I don’t need to force my will on a situation.

I’m not proud to say there have been times when I considered selling out on him for certain human males in my life who didn’t like dogs or found my having to go home to walk one inconvenient. Simon has been very patient with me, waiting for me to realize these men are not worth my time.

When I decided to move to LA, suddenly having a giant, trail-loving mountain dog was less of an obvious pet choice. Everything here seems to be small enough for a purse, or lunch depending on your perspective. On observation, it seems many of these “dog” owners are more in it for the accessory cache’ than the companionship. The conventional wisdom is that you can tell a lot about the owner from the dog. Maybe it’s the mountain girl in me but Chihuahua with rhinestone collar and crocheted sweater does not say good things. At least it doesn’t say down-to-earth person of substance, intellect and world consciousness. Maybe it’s just me.

Simon avoids purse dogs as they tend to have Napoleon complexes and lunge at him snapping and biting. This allows me to avoid their owners who tend to be blonde and covered in brand names. Sometimes with matching rhinestones and crochet.

Sure, sometimes it would be nice if Simon were more portable and welcome at Hollywood shops and eateries. But only so he could see for himself. Sometimes I don’t think he believes me when I tell him about what I see in this town.

Having a big dog in an apartment town has certainly been extra work. If I were just getting a dog now, I might make a more convenient choice. But when has convenience been interesting? When have you grown from taking the path of least resistance?

A Toast

2010-09-02T15:03:00.000-07:00

For my little sister on her wedding day:

'A' has many roles in our family: The ray of sunshine, the glue, the leftover crap.

I was not too pleased when you came along. When it became clear mom was not going to return you to sender as I had requested, I agreed to tolerate you. The truth of it is that I was jealous. You were the one who was happy despite anything. You were loving, creative, funny, generous, and saw the good in everyone and I desperately wanted to be like you.

As we’ve grown, you’ve taught me about courage, diplomacy, how to step outside my own perspective, and how to organize a mean closet. I am so glad mom wasn’t able to return you.

Wanting nothing for Christmas but Bride magazines at 5 years old, you planned your wedding so many times who can say if this looks anything like what you had in your minds’ eye. The most important ingredient, however, is here: a man who adores you and loves you and promises his life to you. With his kindness, warmth and playful spirit, 'M' is the best gift I could have wished for you.

Likewise, M, you are getting an extraordinary soul. She lights up any room she’s in. She makes everyone feel valued and honored for who they are. She’s always looking within herself, checking her perspective against that of others’ and putting herself in their shoes to be sure she understands both sides. She would give a stranger the shirt off her back. Gentle and kind, and tough as the cliffs of Moher, anyone lucky enough to find themselves in her heart knows that her friendship is a treasured gift. She will weather any storm with you and be there to make sure you have a warm, dry place to sleep even if it means giving you her pillow. As you know, M, your challenge is to push her to put herself first. This way you will have a wife who is fulfilled and enriched and able to fulfill and enrich your life with her love. Welcome to the family.

A, thank you for always being there for me and listening to me. Thank you for making me laugh and comforting me when I cry. Thank you for being my cheerleader and my partner in crime. Thank you for having the courage to stand up to me and for pushing me to be my best self. If I am any good at all, it’s because for you I needed to try to be the person you think I am; the big sister worthy of your love and respect. Thank you for being my best friend. I can’t imagine being on this road without you. I’m so proud of you, so happy for you, so honored to have you as my sister.

To A and M: May you both always find in each other a shoulder to lean on in tough times, an ear to listen to both your troubles and your dreams, a hand to help through your day to day, a smile to share your joy and laughter, and arms to welcome your heart home for the rest of your lives.

Justifiable Ignorance?

2010-04-26T16:27:00.000-07:00

When FX announced their new series, Justified, I was excited. Put Timothy Olyphant in a cowboy hat and I’m there. After watching the season so far it ain’t no Deadwood but it is mildly entertaining in a run-of-the-mill kind of TV way. I was disappointed then in the writing in a recent episode.

A girl was stuck in the desert with a good guy and a bad guy. The bad guy started leering at the girl; backing her into a metaphorical corner. The good guy, already wounded, picked up a big rock and killed him, then sat in shock over the horrible thing he’d just done.

The girl comforted him that he’d done the right thing. “He was going to rape me!” She reminded him. Just like it was a foregone conclusion - as if she had no say in the matter, there was nothing she could have done to defend herself. I was on my feet screaming at the TV.

Was this episode written by a man who was going for the tired old “hero saves the helpless girl” crap? Or worse: Was the episode merely reflecting that perceived societal truth that there is nothing women can do to defend themselves against rape? Given that my whole life is about training women to do just that, my heart broke. I’m sure it seemed like an innocuous moment to many viewers and even those on the show. But that’s just it, this stuff is not innocuous. It’s how that kind of mindset infects both men and women by seeping in under the radar.

This is a good time for me to state that I never blame a rape survivor. Given that no girl wants to be raped, I’m very clear that all of us do what we know to do if faced with such a dire situation. The problem is that too many women don’t know that they do in fact have options - that it’s not a foregone conclusion, that there is something they can do with their own powerful bodies. TV scenarios like this just reinforce that potentially deadly ignorance.

I always worry about how the media may negatively influence my students. I caution them on watching too many popular procedural shows where the girl gets backed into the corner by the bad guy, she screams, flails her hands, cut to: she’s on the slab in the morgue and the clever cops go on to solve the case. Our brains record this information and if, God forbid, we are ever faced with a similar situation – backed into a corner, say, our brains search for what to do. If all we’ve seen are women screaming and flailing, our brains will likely settle on that as the only solution they’re familiar with. We’ll scream, flail…, and you know how the story ends. “Entertainment” scenarios in which women are consistently portrayed as helpless can be harmful to your health.

If you are involved in entertainment, be responsible for showing what real women are like: fierce, feminine, and able to defend themselves. It’s up to you to shift this perception by both men and women. It’s up to you to seed empowerment in the minds of women and girl viewers. Imagine a TV world where it was a given that a girl would simply kick the ass of someone who assaulted her. That’s MY reality. I’d like to see it reflected in my entertainment!

What examples of disempowering TV do you notice in a week’s time? I ask my girls to report on this weekly and sadly they always come in with plenty of examples. I’d love to hear what you notice. Here's hoping that Justified ups its game and shows women as the powerful creatures they are.

The Bunny Trap

2010-04-06T12:21:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was in my favorite nail salon when a lovely woman in her sixties asked me why I didn’t have my fingernails done. Relishing the chance to talk about the full-force self-defense fighting I teach for a living (teaching eye-strike to forty-five girls a day does not bode well for manicures!) I told her about IMPACT and my students. Without missing a beat the woman said “I’m so glad you teach that. I was raped.”

She went on to tell me about her youth as a Playboy Bunny back in the ring-a-ding Rat Pack days and the famous musician who asked her out. Indifferent, she went on a date with him and her gut instinct was confirmed: the guy was snoozeville. When he told her he needed to stop by his place for a jacket she was leary. She prudently stayed by the door until he casually asked for her opinion of his redecorated bedroom. When she hesitantly peered through the doorway he tackled her into the bedroom and raped her. When she finally got away and into a cab outside, she was crying and covered with bruises. The cabby wanted to know who he needed to beat up for her but she restrained him and begged him just to drive away. He looked at the apartment, sighed and said “Oh yeah, I know who lives there.”

The former Bunny said that the next week the musician came into the Bunny Club again and asked her when they were going out again. Astonished, she blurted “Are you nuts? You heard me yelling ‘No, no, please, no.’ Why would I go out with you again? You’re lucky I don’t call the cops.” To which the musician cavalierly replied “You were fine, that’s what all the girls say.” Though the Bunny as smiling as she calmly told her story, I was chilled. This famous man had essentially admitted to being a serial rapist.

He told her he’d just keep showing up until she relented and went out with her again. She asked to see his Bunny Club card and when he smugly handed it over, she broke it so he wouldn’t be allowed back in the club. After he left, several other Bunnies who’d been watching the exchange related their similar experiences with the man. Yup, serial rapist.

And besides the outrage I feel when I hear about any rape, this story carried with it a sense of disbelief. Don’t hot musicians have women throwing themselves at them? Of all men a guy like that feels he has to resort to rape for sex? It just underscores the fact that rape is not about sex, it’s about power.

For years this beautiful, sparkling woman carried a sense of disempowerment over letting him get away with her assault and rape and a sense of and guilt about never reporting him and not knowing how many other girls he went on to inflict himself on. So a few years back when he was in the news again for assaulting a girlfriend, she called the prosecuting attorney and told her story at long last to someone who could do something positive with it.

I gave her my card and told her I would love to have her in a class. I hope she calls me. I’m so proud of her for finally coming forward. I am so honored she chose to tell me her story – a complete stranger who happens to teach girls they are worth defending. I am so sorry she had to carry that with her all these years. I am so angry that this man and I’m sure many like him got away with it and get away with it every day.

What a difference it would make if all of Hugh Hefner’s Bunnies took our Basics course and could defend themselves from those men who assume that just because they’re Playmates, they’re easy or theirs for the taking. How about it Hef? Anybody got a line to him? Let’s empower your Bunnies and all women who work in sexualized media.

Our Oscar

2010-03-23T20:31:00.000-07:00

I just got back from the gym where I heard an interesting post-Oscars conversation between two men. One was railing about Avatar having lost out to The Hurt Locker for best picture. “Did it make too much money,” he sniveled, “so they couldn’t give it the Oscar too?” His friend agreed, “Avatar was a great film. It lept technology so far forward things will never be the same.”

I was with them up till this point. I loved Avatar. I thought it was a wonderful adventure and a thrilling first step into the world of movies to come. I thoroughly enjoyed myself for the two plus hours it played. I whole-heartedly agree that it deserved to win all the effects and technical awards it won. But – and here is where my gym friends and I differ – while I loved the story and the environmental theme, it is a story we’ve seen before. It didn’t break new ground in that area in terms of emotional themes and character arc. As with Titanic, even though you know how it’s going to end, you still stick around because it’s a great ride to get there. As with Titanic, you have James Cameron dialog which is often heavy-handed at worst, on-the-nose at best. (Sidebar: why do successful film makers stop thinking they might have areas of weakness when they turn into film powerhouses? It’s akin to thinking that just because you own a Porche you are suddenly a great driver. No! Now you can just drive like an idiot even faster.) My point is, while wonderfully fun, entertaining and visually stunning, Avatar, due to writing issues, is not best picture and the Academy, it would seem, agrees with me.

Here is where my gym friends started to rile me. The sniveler continued “And the Hurt Locker, I mean just because it’s a war movie directed by a woman…” and here was where I couldn’t hear him anymore for the angry blood rushing in my ears. I took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on my workout. Whereas before I was considering inserting myself into their conversation, now I could not do so without inserting my wrath into their faces.

We’ve been waiting a long time for a win in the Best Director category. Eighty two years to be exact. Scores of talented women make wonderful pictures against the odds every year and repeatedly we are ignored by the Academy. Infuriating? Yes. Discrimination? Maybe. We’ve earned that award time and again and I am so proud of Kathryn Bigelow for finally winning it. The moment they said her name I jumped off the couch in exhilaration and shouted “the girls won!” to my startled cat. There is no question that director’s gender aside, the Hurt Locker is a taught, intense thriller with an amazing character journey, and deep, thoughtful dialog. That is the point of Best Picture. At long last, this was our Oscar.

But listening to these two whine about the film’s win, asserting it was just some political crap for the fact she’s a woman I was chilled. Oh no, I thought. Was this how it was out there in the world? Were there people (and by people I mean men) who thought Kathryn hadn’t deserved to win? That it was a politically motivated hand-out? Then a second thought froze me. Were there people (men) who devalued her win as a woman just the way there were whites who devalued Hallie Berry’s Best Actress win? Oh no.

I have long been one of those de-valuers. I hated Monster’s Ball. I hated Hallie Berry’s performance. I thought it was a self-conscious, shock value movie that acted like it was much deeper than it was by playing to cheap, overblown emotions. These overblown emotions, I felt, were chiefly overacted by Ms. Berry. People talked about her courage. I feel it takes more courage to hold those emotions in and underplay them. Those are the far more interesting, intelligent performances and the ones I am interested in seeing and in seeing rewarded. (See Monique’s amazing performance and well-deserved win for Precious) I too would have thrilled for the beautiful Ms. Berry and the black community if she’d turned in a deep and deserving performance. Berry’s win that the black community cheered, lots of whites including myself felt was undeserved, unearned and only given to Ms. Berry as a political, PC move. What was worse was her gloating, “it’s about time” attitude in her acceptance speech. (Kathryn and Monique’s acceptance speeches were classy and humble.) It would be too easy to write it off as a simple race issue. I cite Denzel Washington’s Oscar win that same year that no one de-valued, black or white. Then again, it was for a nuanced, well-played performance so who would dispute it? If we’re looking through the race lens, his was the true achievement of the year; earning the nod by turning in solid, good work. Yet I dismiss Berry’s Oscar nod as an Academy PC misstep. And now with the tables turning it deeply saddens me to know that there are those out there who would dismiss Bigelow’s win by the same rubric.

But again I have to look at my own judgments. Would I have reacted to Berry’s win the same way if she’d been a white actress? Probably. I’ve never been a fan of over-hyped emotions in performance. Truthfully I doubt I would have even remembered it this many years later if she’d been white as white people undeserve Oscars regularly. I remember and chafe at it for the historic significance that was conferred upon it. I would cheer a best actress win by a black actress that was riveting and real just as I cheer those won by white actresses for performances of high caliber. (Sidebar: though I adore Sandra Bullock, I agree with her – she didn’t really earn it, she just wore them down.)

Would I have been as excited by The Hurt Locker’s win if it had been directed by a man? Hmmmm. I would always have liked that it was a smaller indie winning against a media behemoth. The underdog appeals to me. To be honest, I probably wouldn’t have seen it if it were directed by a man. I’m not interested in war movies in general. But I wanted to see how a woman would handle such traditionally male ground. The answer: like a human.

I admit, though I loved The Hurt Locker, it wasn’t my favorite of 2009 (An Education, anyone?) and I was rooting for Bigelow to win out of sisterhood. And here we risk falling into the same politically dismiss-able category as women who rooted for Hillary to win just because of her gender. So starved for our chance at the reins are we that there is a mindset of “any woman in charge will be better than another man.” And yes, I wanted Hillary to win.

I didn’t just want Kathryn to win because she’s a woman (doubt it? See my thoughts on Diablo Cody’s screenplay win). At the end of the day, every oppressed group wants to see one of their own winning gold, sitting at the top desk or leading the best team. I can understand the rallying for Hallie because it is the same pride by association I feel for Kathryn. I take her win personally and knocks against that win personally too.

The dividing line for Oscar should not be race or gender. It should be deserving versus undeserving. And the pro and con reactions beyond that are emotionally-driven ones based in our pre-judging, generalizing, reductive selves both on the positive and negative sides of the argument. As a woman, I find it exciting that a woman finally won after eighty-two times not winning. But it’s important because a deserving woman and her work won. If she had been undeserving is would have been a meaningless win – not a true victory for women. It will probably always rile me to hear men who have a negative, gender-biased reaction to her win. Hopefully they’ll take a look at the film (or another look) and realize that a great director won a well-earned Oscar. And that great just happens to be a woman. Get used to it, boys.

Pride and Prejudice

2010-03-14T10:57:00.000-07:00

I stepped in it today. I offended and insulted a friend - a new friend whom I like and respect and have been enjoying getting to know. I was trying to make a joke. Sort of. But really I was trying to get away with knocking a certain religion I’ve always enjoyed railing against. In most rooms a conversation about ‘those wackos’ is sure to illicit laughter and agreement.

My friend was looking over an apartment rental contract and was struck by the fact that it asked for a potential tenant’s religion. “That’s weird. Isn’t that weird?” She turned to me.

“Yeah. And I think it’s illegal. Discrimination,” I answered. “Still I can see from their point of view. If I had a place to rent I would want to make sure I wasn’t renting to…” For a moment I paused, reaching for a fill-in-the-blank of a comic, commonly-held dislike. I scrolled through possible punch lines and finally settled on my old stand-by. The word hung there just out of my mouth like a toxic bubble.

Her smile faded. “I am one, Heidi,” she said as she turned back to her desk.

For a moment I thought – I hoped – she was joking. I knew in my heart she wasn’t. I managed to stop myself from blurting “but you can’t be; you’re smart…” I scanned her desk for their symbols: nothing. Was she really? Oh dear. What had I just done?

It’s an interesting comic compulsion to know when you’re in a ‘safe room’ and can make fun of one group or another without getting in trouble. We all do it. Just as we all generalize and rely on stereotypes to shorthand us through the day. Yes, they can be inaccurate and cruel but on the other hand, stereotypes often exist for a reason. Don’t they?

I gingerly stood up and went to my next meeting and she went to hers. As I walked down the hall I ran through next steps. I could play it off as a joke. I could apologize. I could explain my point of view. I could even try to convert her; explain all the ways in which it had been proven that her religion was absurd and hurtful. I could never talk to her again because hadn’t I vowed never to have any of them in my life?

‘That’s it then,’ I thought as I mentally prepared myself to let go of the friendship. ‘We just won’t be friends anymore.’ It would be awkward as we share an office some days but it would just have to be. I trudged the last few steps to my meeting with a heavy heart. I was going to miss her.

I couldn’t focus on the meeting. I kept thinking about how deeply I had hurt my friend. Because she was a friend, not just a stereotype or punch line. I was mortified. I felt for a moment like I was living a scene from “Crash” where one is faced with the prejudices they thought were OK to have. And I was an ass. Then the bigger picture opened up to me. What if she’d been a member of another religion? Granted I’m not a fan of organized religion in general but as I mentally replaced her religion with others as the punch line in my joke, I cringed. Bashing someone’s religion was something mean people did. I was a prejudiced, judgmental ass.

I slunk back to the office after my meeting resolved to apologize. There was no way I could play it off like a joke or pretend it hadn’t happened. I was going to have to face the fact that I had insulted my friend’s belief system. I felt raw and exposed.

She walked in and I didn’t wait. I apologized whole-heartedly for having been a jerk. She smiled and said she understood. She often got negative reactions to her religion. “That’s why I don’t go waving a flag about it. It’s just what works for me.”

And then I saw I’d been given an opportunity. “There are a ton of prejudices and beliefs about it out there. I’d like to know the truth.” I went on to explain how, over the course of my life, I’d had close relationships or friendships with people of just about every major religion on the planet but I’d never met anyone from hers and I wanted to understand. I genuinely meant it and she knew it. She told me how she’d come to make her choice and said she’d love to talk to me more about her religion, not in a proselytizing way but an informational one. We made a coffee date.

I can’t say I’ll come out the other end of our conversation praising her religion but I am looking forward to the chance to shed my own prejudice. Even deeper, I am looking forward to getting another human’s point of view on a subject dear to her heart. If I can understand, then it follows that I will respect and honor even if I don’t agree.

So my friend surprisingly of a religion I’ve always ridiculed will allow me to become a better person. In giving up that punch-line, I will also get to work harder for my comedy and therefore grow as a wit. I am humbled by her generosity and thankful for her friendship. God knows who else she’s saving me from offending.

The Ex Factor

2010-03-11T20:05:00.000-08:00

My first engagement did not end well. Which is to say that it did and then it didn’t.

We’d both been afraid to admit we were growing apart but when we went to visit my family for Christmas the built up misery came crashing down on me and I knew I couldn’t get back on the plane to go home with him. What followed was a grey area of ‘are we or aren’t we’ during which we discussed ways we could keep the us alive; make that next step, maybe try Los Angeles, he came out and interviewed in my mountain town even. One week after a tearful profession of his love for me I agreed to give New York another try. The next day he admitted he cheated on me, in my bed. Her name was Erica. Needless to say I never went back to New York and after some quietly subdued negotiations he packed up our shoebox of an apartment and shipped me my stuff.

We kept in touch, always civil. Even friendly at times. I think we were a bit lost without each other. We’d been each other’s first real loves. We’d met on a cruise and been instantly smitten. As we were both vacationing with our families, the various parents and siblings met and it was like six months of dating condensed into a week. He flew out to visit me in California a month later. Two months after that I visited him in New York. We looked at apartments and I moved out that Spring.

We had originally planned to marry a year to the day that we met. We started looking at wedding cruises, I found a dress, picked out invitations, a caterer. But even though we pressed on, he never gave me a ring. I started to feel false about the whole thing as every woman I mentioned my wedding plans to inevitably looked at my finger and then I had to explain. It wasn’t really a money thing although he claimed it was. His sister in law had given us a diamond and his best friend was the scion of a diamond district jeweler. A ring would not have been difficult. I lost it when I discovered charges on his credit card to a strip club the day after the last money excuse. He’d left the statement open on my book and in a way I think he wanted me to find it. To see what was real for him.Still by the end, he’d been my best friend for three years and it hurt to just let go of that. I sat in the snow outside my mother’s house and cried my eyes out.

At the time I never thought it would be so long before I found my next Mr. Right.
As time passed we kept up a friendly contact. Loosely at least. He eventually started dating someone and moved to LA with her. When I decided to move to LA for the movie business he was supportive. Said he couldn’t wait for me to meet his girl, that I’d really like her. As several of my best friends were next girlfriends of exes I had no doubt I would. He even offered me help in finding a job when I landed. I was happy to have at least one trusted face in the sea of unkept promises that is LA.

But then I did land. He didn’t return my emails. Then he didn’t return my calls. I left an angry message with his assistant that his ex-fiance wanted to speak with him. I wasn’t just some acquaintance fluff to be brushed aside. I had been engaged to this man. Did not that confer a certain status of intimacy with him? Of entitlement to connection?

And then it dawned on me. It must have been her. She must have been uncomfortable with the idea of a friendly ex being back in his life. I got it and I felt for her. I wished I could tell her I was no threat but he’d have to do that. I wrote him a heartfelt letter saying I was sorry for not having gotten the clue earlier and understanding her point of view but hoping she’d understand. I really did need his help after all. I was running out of savings and still had no job on the horizon.

It was his response that was the truest moment of our break-up. Two years later. He was clearly upset with me and I don’t know if it was because I’d seen the uncomfortable truth of the matter or if he was frustrated with her attitude toward me and was taking it out on me, or if, like so many in Tinseltown, he was only paying me lip-service about being friends and helping me get a toehold here. Either way his tone was terse and cold. He informed me that I was wrong about his beloved and had no right to comment on the matter. He told me he had other priorities in life now and I was not one of them. I sat back from the keyboard stunned and hurt. We were broken up now for real and true.

I never responded to his email and have never spoken to him since.

Now a decade since our breakup and my snowy cry I have returned to the state of engagement. And now the shoe is on the other foot. My fiancé has an ex who is out here and lonely and looking for help getting her toehold. I should be inclined to be generous but I find I’m not. Not that I have any fear of him going back to her or her turning his head. Trust me when I say it is not possible. But I find her desperation repugnant. Like a fly circling our calm spring day. She is a nuisance I don’t want to deal with and he’s happy to use my irritation as his buttress for his No.

I’ll never know what really went on between my ex and his next regarding my presence in LA. But at least now I understand the state he was in when I came beseeching. Despite the love he once had for me and the promises once made, a new love simply doesn’t leave room. You can only create one life at a time and by rights it’s the one you’re creating together.

I’ve been so angry at him for so many years. I’ve laughed at my cousin when she says she’s seen him at work things and he’s asked after me. He hates me, clearly, I counter. If he’d cared he could have lifted a finger. Since the day of his last email I’ve held a big ‘screw you too’ in the space in my heart where his love once lived. Now I see I was off base. For him it was never hate. It was just the view from a different state.

A Fairy Tale

2010-02-23T18:29:00.000-08:00

Once there was a kingdom which wasn’t a kingdom at all but a queendom as it was ruled by a wise and temperate queen and a bold and capricious princess. This queen, though a favorite of her subjects and rivals alike, had slowly seen her grand realm dwindle. The princess, as was the custom, was away training in another kingdom. Slowly alliances broke down, farmers moved to greener pastures, more and more was in the queen’s hands to manage. After a time, feeling quite alone, the queen grew weary of all the work of running things and had lapsed into a great sleep. Many more of the nobles left the court. The queendom sank slowly into an inert state of decay.

When the princess returned and saw the state of things she blustered into action. She woke the queen who groggily told her to leave her be. But the princess would have none of it. “This place you built matters,” she told the queen. “It is unique in the world and we cannot simply let it die.” Thus she roused the queen.

For a whole season they toiled. They spoke with all the nobles and commoners alike that they could reach and tried to win back their support. They toiled in the fallow castle fields. They helped farmers with their flocks. They scrubbed the castle stones and made much-needed repairs. Some days it seemed that all they could do was keep the castle from falling down around their ears. At the end of it they did not seem like royalty at all. They sat on the old throne dais with their hair tied up and sleeves rolled to the elbows exposing hands that were hardened and cracked from the work. They were tired. The princess understood what had sent the queen into her sleep.

One day the princess was out conversing with a new baroness with whom she was hoping to start rebuilding the court. They sat by a babbling brook enmeshed in their plans when there came a dashing young man on a strong steed. He dismounted, saluted the ladies and asked what brought them to such a fine place on such a lovely spring day. They told him a little about their plans and of what a fine queendom this realm had been. He drew closer, enthralled by their tales and at last he gasped. “This is precisely the kind of realm I have been looking to serve. I am a knight and have many talents in the tasks you speak of. My trusty steed and I are pledged to your service."

As any young women would be when pledged service by a handsome knight, the princess and the baroness were surprised and delighted. The princess dashed back to the castle to tell the queen the good news. They would no longer be alone in their labors. There was a knight who had come to their rescue. The queen, who was wiser, questioned the princess. “How do you know this knight can do what he says? Words are meaningless. It’s deeds we need.” The princess couldn’t answer her. She simply hoped they could trust the knight who seemed so good and trustworthy. The queen, who was tired, at last agreed.

An agreement was reached that the knight would be gifted a portion of the riches he promised to bring to the queendom and thus would he make his living, perhaps even become a landed noble. He swaggered about the throne room boasting of how quickly the royal coffers would swell and that very soon this queendom would surpass even its own former glory. However he would need a few things to make this happen: the true sword of the queendom – that which the greatest defender of the realm was meant to carry - and the royal shield which proclaimed his status as a knight of the queen. Warily, the queen handed these over and said “use them in good health and do us good service, sir knight.”

Thus it was that the ladies began handing tasks over to the knight. They still toiled with the commoners and around the castle but they trusted the building of profitable alliances to the knight. And for a time all was well. The knight charmed all he met and it seemed more people were coming back to court and the wheels of government, though rusty, were beginning to turn again.

Then one day the princess discovered something strange. She was out helping a commoner with a problem ewe when she saw the knight hand the reins of his fine steed over to a stocky, well-appointed man who gestured angrily at the knight and led the horse away.

“What’s that?” She asked the commoner while the ewe struggled between them.

“Ah,” the woman replied, “that horse ain’t his. Fine animal like that? Scamp like him? He rents it on occasion from that fancy breeder. I hear tell the breeder won’t rent to him anymore as he feels he shouldn’t have to pay. Told the breeder he should be honored to have his horse ridden by a member of court. Can you imagine the arrogance? Like the fool calling himself king.” The princess cursed herself for not recognizing the breeder right off and swore even deeper for having bought the knight’s ruse.

Later, she observed unnoticed as the knight persuaded a noble back to the court. “I have toiled long and hard to write this charter so that you nobles would find happiness and peace in the queen’s court once again.” The princess watched as the knight handed the man a lofty document on fine vellum written in a flowing hand - her hand. It was a charter that she herself had written the season before but abandoned in her exhaustion. The princess withdrew and tiptoed away incredulous. How much of her own work was the knight passing off as his promised efforts?

The next day when the knight was out “riding his mighty steed,” or so he’d claimed the princess stole into his chamber. He’d been given one of the finest rooms overlooking the mountains that edged the realm. It was far greater than a knight had any right to occupy but the queen and the princess had been a little charmed and, truth be told, desperate for his proffered help. Now the princess wrinkled her nose in disgust at that desperation that had drove them to trust him. In his chamber she found more of her own work which infuriated her.

She dashed to the treasury he’d promised to fill with his great skill. There she discovered that heavy lock box he’d more than once boasted was growing fat with his efforts for the queendom lay empty. The princess picked it up and shook it to be sure. Not so much as a farthing rattled inside. “He’s no knight at all but a knave and a scoundrel!” she cried.

The princess raced to the queen with her discovery. “I told you we were wrong to put our trust in him,” the queen admonished her. “But you were so charmed.” It was true and the princess bowed her head in shame. She had brought this on the queendom. Finally the queen admitted “I was a little charmed too. But mostly tired.”

And so the princess fumed and watched for a chance to rid the queendom of the false knight. Aside from not really owning a horse, and not keeping his word he hadn’t committed a crime per se. At least not one she could prove. She tried to tell several of the new court nobles that work the knight had passed off as his own was really hers but she soon realized that only made her look peevish and jealous.

The princess was determined to right her wrong and flush him from court like the excrement he was. But the queen sighed. “I don’t see how. The people trust him. I believe we’re stuck with him until he chooses to go.”

Shortly after that, at a gathering of the new royal council the knight stood and pointed at the queen and the princess. “They promised payment for my services but they’ve not kept their word. Instead they’ve filled their own purses from my labors and I starve amidst these rich halls.” The council gasped and shook their heads.

“But you’ve done nothing you promised! You’ve brought us no wealth!” The princess rose to her feet and would have throttled the knight there and then but the queen restrained her. Unlike many kingdoms in the land, the queen would not brook killing in her queendom though it would have been a merited punishment in this case. The council looked around them. The castle was rougher than it once had been but it bits of wealth and progress were beginning to show. Certainly that was down to the knight’s efforts was it not?

Now the queen and princess were worse off than they’d been before the knight had come into their lives. His promises went unkept, his work undone so the ladies still had all those tasks to complete. And now they also had the mistrust of the council and the new court they hoped to build. The queen agreed with the princess. The knight was in need of a flush. But how?

It was clear to the queen and the princess that telling the truth about him would only turn people against them. So instead they thrust him into the eminence of the restored court. And they sat back. Slowly the nobles came to them. At first one, then steadily more. Each one expressed concern at the knight’s trustworthiness. The queen and princess would smile and nod in agreement.

At last when the queen and the princess knew that the tide of the court had turned in their favor, they put on a grand gala. It was proclaimed to be in the knight’s honor and they duly gave him pride of place at the table. “Dear sir knight,” cooed the queen, “you’re so strong and this is such a friendly affair, surely you don’t have need of your sword here.”

“Right you are, milady,” he smiled and handed the royal sword back to her.

“Dear sir knight,” the princess smiled, “there are many new young men in the queendom who would be knights at court like you. If you were to proceed to another more elevated, more free position they would not be too shy to step forward and you would be the nobler for it.”

The knight bowed deeply and handed her his royal shield of knighthood. “Milady, I shall be ennobled thus.”

The gala proceeded apace and there was much merrymaking. Having stashed the sword and shield behind their thrones, the queen and princess called upon the knight to speak of his grand accomplishments so that they might be duly celebrated and a funny thing happened. He spoke first of a new alliance he had forged with a neighboring king. As he did, a stout noble blustered forward and said she had been speaking with the king in question and it had been her efforts that brought the alliance. Flustered, the knight continued. Each deed he claimed to have done a noble would step forward and challenge him until at last it was plain to all that he had not been the author even one of his promised or boasted achievements.

At last the princess stood and held a loft the strong-box. She opened it and tipped it over for all to see. No great clash of coin dropped but a lone moth flew out. “And this,” she proclaimed “is how much he enriched us.”

“You have proven to us precisely how trustworthy and grand you are,” the queen intoned, “and we shall ennoble you accordingly. Thus we proclaim you king…of your own vanity and set you free from this court to go claim your birthright.”

The knight flushed first red then purple as the nobles clapped. The angry knight stepped toward the great sword and the princess rose to meet him with a growl. He then turned like the coward he was and fled the castle as the laughter and cheering of the queendom echoed behind him.

“And now my good people, we must heartily apologize to you for having inflicted such a scoundrel upon you and our fine queendom,” the princess said. The queen nodded. “We have learned a most important lesson. First we promise never to trust out of need and let that need blind us to a person’s true nature. And second, we never again will send a knave to do a queen’s work.” The nobles cheered. “It will be a hard season ahead of us,” the queen promised, “but together we will make this the most glorious queendom the land has known.” And with that the gala continued with much joy.

The next morning the princess looked out of a certain fine room at a bright dawn with the sun just peeking its rosy fingers over the mountains. There were fields below ready for plowing and sheep in the meadows ready for shearing. It was the best view she’d ever seen from the castle.

As the years passed and the queendom once again flourished, stories would occasionally filter back to the castle about a charlatan claiming to be a knight who attempted to charm peasants out of their profits. The queen and the princess were never sure it was him. But one day when a tale came to them about just such a man who’d ended up a jester in the court of a foppish eastern king they smiled. They knew the knight had at last found his true place in the royal order of things.

The Guest List

2010-02-20T09:00:00.000-08:00

**Disclaimer: if you are a NO reading this, it's not my intention to upset you but I need to vent**

What if you threw a wedding and no one came?

A wise, recently-married friend told me “your wedding guests will surprise you.” She related how friends she counted on in her daily life and was sure would make the trip to her wedding surprised and disappointed her by blowing it off. Likewise, acquaintances she wasn’t too bothered about went out of their way to get there. “Either way, you’ll be surprised.”

I took her experience to heart. My invites are out and as they trickle back in I’m duly surprised. When we planned a destination wedding, we knew turnout would be low and we were OK with that. We figured the ones who really counted would find a way to make it. Plus we compiled a weeks’ worth of entertainment and activities so those who make the trip will be able to make a unique vacation out of it. We figured the beauty of the place would be a good enticement to those on the fence. With the falling Euro and the travel discounts we’d wrangled, the enticement seemed complete.

But it’s not that simple. It’s still a crappy economy. People are stuck with their circumstances. People have their reasons to be sure. But their response is simply NO.

What bothers me is that their responses are just that: reasons and circumstances. I get the money reason but really? When I lived in New York I made twenty thousand dollars a year. Not enough to live on especially by that city’s standards. Yet when a good friend got married I somehow managed to not only buy the bridesmaid dress and fly to California for the wedding but also to fly to France for the second wedding (she married a Parisian) and shoot and compile a beautiful wedding album for them. So when it comes right down to it, I don’t buy the money reason. I know from what I made happen that where there’s a will there’s a way. So then that means it’s a choice. I’m hurt that people I thought would be there for me are choosing not to come.

I’m hurt that the very first response I got back was literally the day after I’d sent them out and was a NO. It stung all the more as it was from a family member. Clearly they hadn’t bothered to visit the beautiful and informative website my fiancé spent ages building. Clearly they didn’t mull it over or see if they could make it work for their budget. I wish they’d at least done me the courtesy of holding on to the RSVP card for a few days to make it seem like it merited their consideration.

The NOs have become such a foregone-conclusion part of the day I’m no longer thrilled when I see the little cream envelopes in the mailbox. I sit them in a stack and open them when I’m feeling lighthearted and iron-stomached. In order to protect myself from the daily smack in the face, I have to be done hoping that anyone will say yes.

So what if I threw a wedding and no one came? Well, at this point nothing would surprise me. I’m the queen of throwing parties no one comes to, so really should my wedding be so different? I had hoped that my wedding would matter to friends and family as much as it does to me but clearly that’s not human nature. People’s circumstances matter to them. And being hurt over that is absurd and unfair to them. I get it. The resentment I feel seems self-indulgent and childish.

But it all still hurts.

The wedding’s destination is where much of my fiance’s family live so his side of the aisle is covered. “You just want to be a wedding fairy tale princess,” he chides me as I mope.

“Yes,” I glibly reply. But that’s not really true. I’d be happy with a casual pot-luck. In truth the whole thing will be quite rustic and simple. No tiaras here. I just want it to matter to people that matter to me that this huge thing is happening in my life. If the turn-out at such milestones is any indication of what you’ve accomplished and who you’ve been for people in life, let’s hope I get a bigger crowd at my funeral.

The Lone Bride

2010-02-11T16:19:00.000-08:00

I didn’t imagine it would look like this. I think I had pictured a “Sex and the City” style gaggle of my best girls thrilled for me and swirling ‘round me to help me celebrate and prepare. Instead I’m on my own. My Maid of Honor lives in another state, as does my mother, and the good friends for whom I’ve been a bridesmaid.

“Hey will you shop for wedding underwear with me?” seems like an odd question to put to other LA friends and work colleagues.

So I’m on my own. Researching for hours online so I know what to say to the sales woman about the materials and features I need that won’t show edges beneath my unforgiving dress. Trying to guess what shoe style will be harmonious with the dress and wearable all day. Sussing out what length veil is right or a veil at all. I have to rely on my own judgment and I know I have horrible judgment. Each decision, each choice of fabric, of color, of design rests with me with no thumbs up or down from trusted advisors. It feels a little like being on a tight rope all alone.

I have to admit I’m a little resentful. I don’t directly blame those who live far away and “would be there if they could.” But I still find myself vaguely angry that I’m left on my own. Where is my gaggle? Where is my fanfare? As little girls we dream of our weddings. We stage Barbie nuptials, pick out dresses and cakes and honeymoons. As we grow we see Hollywood weddings on TV, scripted perfection in movies. And then we keep growing up. I’ve always very much wanted to find a partner for my life but as a chronically single girl for most of my twenties…and thirties, I had to get used to the idea that it wasn’t the end of the world if Mr. Right didn’t come along.

But then he did. I tried to keep my hopes low as we went about planning and imagining. I know that the biggest engine of disappointment is having expectations in the first place. I’ve been totally blasé about many wedding details: “Heidi will want to carry fabulous roses,” Heidi is happy to pick lavender from the garden that morning. “Heidi will want the napkins to match, these mishmash ones won’t do,” Heidi doesn’t care about the linens. “Heidi will like nice stemware for the toast,” Heidi is fine with you getting your bubbly in a Nutella jar and you just might. I’ve been able to let go of so many things I always pictured in my fairytale wedding as a young girl.

In truth so much of it doesn’t matter now that I’ve found him. I just didn’t think I’d be on my own for the girly parts. And I guess in the true way of the next stage for me, I’m not. I have him. And he’s just the kind of guy I can drag shoe shopping.

Tesla Girls

2009-10-07T08:54:00.000-07:00

It is a well-documented fact that I am a car girl. My first love was the General Lee and my second was KITT. I will turn off my stereo if I hear an especially powerful car approaching so I can better savor the engine growl – music to my ears! Oddly, I can identify many cars at night from the shape of their headlights. It’s not a skill I worked on; I just can, kind of like Neo knowing Kung Fu.

I am a rabid fan of BBC’s Top Gear and have made my fiancée promise that our next UK visit will include a taping so I can swoon as Richard, Jeremy, James and the Stig test super-cars right before my eyes. Poor man. My honey’s not cut from the same cloth as me. His family favored sensible, reliable cars. His father likes to say that his car “is for hauling my ass around, not my ego.” I beg to differ.

I have always dreamt of a Leno-style showroom of all my favorite ego-tastic expressions of car love. Yes, I get the utilitarian argument. But the car is more than that. It is the highest expression of design and engineering. It’s the marriage of art and science and as such should push the boundaries of both.

As a Petrol Head, I have always assumed my true love would come with a ridiculous amount of torque and horsepower. Prius be damned, give me internal combustion or give me death! And then a funny thing happened.

“I brought my Tesla!” My friend announced one sunny morning. “I thought you might like to drive it.”

Are you nuts? Does it have wheels? Of course I want to drive it. The Tesla Roadster is essentially the world’s first electric super-car. I was skeptical but intrigued.

It looked a lot like the Lotus Elise with which I was familiar due to an ill-fated blind date (he’d had one, he let me drive). This Tesla Roadster was more car-like and less go-cart-like than the Lotus even though they do share styling. But like the Lotus, looking down at the Tesla’s seats gave you the illusion you were looking at something lower than the pavement outside. It’s a tiny, tiny, low car.

Like the super-cars I dream of, the Tesla has sexy styling and nearly no storage but I was impressed by the long, if narrow trunk space. “It’s exactly golf-bag sized,” my friend informed me, “so you get that they know their target market.”

My friend handed me the keys. We got in and I was surprised the visibility was so much better than the Lotus. I didn’t have that same “I can go fast but I can’t see shit” out-of-control feeling. I went to shift and was startled, “oh, it’s automatic.”

“There’re no gears because there’s no transmission.” Well duh, that makes sense! This whole electric car thing was going to challenge my long-held notions of engine love.

With the proud claim of 0-60 in 3.7 seconds, the Tesla is no slouch when it comes to power. It was also the fastest car I’d driven to date. Despite its hard, racer suspension, the Tesla drove like buttered silk. I was twitterpated.

The best surprise was yet to come. My friend warned me that when you let up on the accelerator, the car automatically brakes itself. Part of the electric engine feedback apparently. The brake lights even come on. For someone who can’t stand automatics because they take away my down-shift slow-down option, this was a whole new world. No matter how fast I gunned this quiet monster, it slowed to a stop in the tiniest of spaces. The worst part (the only bad part if we’re honest) of going really, really fast is having to stop really, really fast. This car had that handled. I felt like I had the world in the palm of my hand.

My friend directed me to the freeway, “the only place you’ll really be able to run it,” she grinned. “As soon as we’re on the on ramp, gun it.” As if I needed encouragement. We hit the ramp and I dropped my foot to the floor. I was slammed back into the seat, amazed and drooling but my friend still shouted “Go! Go! Go! Go!” as we zipped past cars and motorcycles. I couldn’t believe the speed and yet feeling of total control and safety. I was wowed. “Too bad you didn’t go faster,” my friend sighed “then you’d really see.” See what? I gasped. Faster and I’d see into parallel universes?

My friend is an unlikely super-car owner. She freely admits to not being a Petrol Head like me and only took her race driving course in order to better understand this machine. Turns out my friend, a rocket scientist – for real - is a special combination of scientist and activist. She and her husband bought the Tesla, not because they’d always hungered for a sexy sports car, but because it was the right thing to do and they could do it.

“People have these ideas about electric cars that they’re slow, unresponsive or unsexy. This car blows all that away” she explained. “It proves you can have what you love about your gas cars but in a way that has to be the future of all cars in order for this planet to continue. My husband and I felt if we could help fund this wave of electric car engineering, that opens up Tesla to develop their next wave of cars targeted and priced for the more average car consumer. We had to do our part to make that happen.”

I was amazed at their spirit and vision. But still, this is a $100,000 car. I wouldn’t let anyone drive it if it were mine.

“We want as many people to get the experience you just got,” she smiled. “The more people that get that electric cars can be this amazing, the better.”

Blown away by her conscientious and magnanimous spirit. I handed her back the keys, reluctantly of course. I had found my new love. I would definitely be ready for the Model S Tesla plans to release in 2012 (0-60 in 5.6 seconds!). But even more, I had a new goal for my dream showroom. You can keep your Ascaris and Zondas and Maclarens. Simply give me the Tesla Roadster Sport. Cherry red, please.

“But why do you need that?” My fiancée moans.

Because I do. Cars bring me joy like nothing else in the world. And I feel my scaled back showroom dream is pretty modest if not realistic. Just one super-car is all I need. And maybe my ’68 Camaro. And just one little DB9. And the Bugatti Vayron would be pretty amazing. And I have always wanted a Cobra.

OK so you can take the gas engine out of the car but you can’t take the gas engine car out of my heart. But those can be my weekend cars. I’ll stick to the amazing Tesla the rest of the week. How’s that for sensible?

Leaving Home For Home

2009-09-25T16:50:00.000-07:00

At long last I am giving up my bachelorette nest in the hills. This is the sunny, quiet refuge I’ve called home for nearly six years. Leaving isn’t easy.

I knew I needed to be in my neighborhood the first time I had coffee there. I was living down by the beach and feeling alienated by the transient, shallow, vapid culture near the sand. If I went to coffee I got glares from the Paris Hilton clones and the only conversation to be heard was centered on the latest jeans brand or MAC lip-gloss color to buy. I also turned out to be the only English speaker on my block which didn’t exactly foster a sense of belonging to my community.

One day after work I stopped for coffee with a friend in the hills. As nursed my latte I heard a conversation on one side of me about art history and on the other side about politics. My people! I thought. Here you are! I asked the barista what the neighborhood was called and plugged that into my Westside Rentals search that night.

I walked into my apartment and knew it was mine. It was the top apartment in a little Italian-style 1920s triplex. It had pale yellow walls, windows on three sides and a teeny balcony with French doors off the bedroom. I walked straight up to the landlady who was showing people around and told her it was my apartment and what did she need from me to make it official? I think she knew I would love it and care for it the way she wanted. She shooed the rest of the lookers out and handed me a rental application.

Over the years I have developed deep ties with the community and they’ve been there for me in ways I thought people didn’t bother with anymore. We’ve laughed together over the riddles of life, cried together over personal pains and shared many a glass of wine simply enjoying the quiet companionship of a starry evening. It feels like family.

When the fiancée and I started talking about moving in I panicked. Wasn’t there some way he could sell his spacious two bedroom condo and move into my one bedroom rental? Didn’t that make sense in some parallel universe? I think because I’ve lived far from my own family for so many years I was especially reluctant to give up this created one. What if I lose them and then we’re just adrift in this new neighborhood not knowing anyone. Not belonging.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” my fiancée sighs, “you create community wherever you go. It’s not the place, it’s you.” He’s sort of right. I have already befriended many people in his neighborhood – our neighborhood, in our building and at our local Trader Joe’s. I’ve already found my hiking routes and invited neighbors in for cocktails.

In fact if I look at it another way, I can be glad to go. Yes, I had some of the best chosen family ever in that neighborhood, but I’ve also let some of the worst people come into my life there (listen to your first intuition, girls!). The evil sub-letter, the stalker ex, the bad business decision; I can breathe a sigh of relief to know they won’t be walking distance from my life anymore.

Besides leaving my hills ‘hood family, I worried leaving my single girl pad meant I’d be losing some part of me that made me fabulous as a single girl, some part that made me me.

As I organized my vintage typewriters and fountain pens onto a shelf next to my antique bottles filled with dirt from my favorite hiking trails, I saw the other side of the coin. As I close the single-girl chapter of my life, I get to discover my married-girl self and take that next step into a partnership and a life that I’ve been hoping and wishing for since I first fell for John Schneider. It’s the promise of that step that finally loosens my fingers’ grip on the old keys and lets them slip back into my landlady’s palm.

It’s been a year of tough transitions and it’s time to say goodbye to my nest. It feels like leaving an old friend. Thank you for keeping me safe and happy for so long. I’ll miss you.

The Ring's the Thing

2009-09-14T07:17:00.000-07:00

For most of my adult life I longed for a significant relationship with an amazing boyfriend that would eventually lead to engagement and then marriage. But most importantly, and let’s be honest, girls, I longed for engagement with that all-important accessory: the diamond ring. That ring which legitimizes your membership in the “I am loved” club. That ring which tells all those would-be suitors “sorry boys, you waited too long to realize I was fabulous.” That ring which signals to all the singletons that you have finally left their sorry ranks and are on your way to becoming a smug married.

I’ve been engaged once before and oddly the ring was sort of the undoing of it. He’d proposed on one of our early dates and we’d moved in together quickly. I should add that ‘moving in’ involved me quitting my job in San Francisco, packing up my life and moving to New York. Ah the folly of youth. The thing was, we thought of ourselves as engaged, we were even picking out caterers and venues, but he’d somehow never gotten around to giving me a ring.

I let it go for a while but after a year I started to get cranky about it. When I mentioned my fiancée, women’s eyes would inevitably dart to my left hand and I got tired of explaining. I unengaged us and insisted we refer to each other as boyfriend/girlfriend until he got off his ass and officially bejeweled my finger.

He pled money concerns but I didn’t buy it. His sister-in-law had given us a diamond from an old ring of hers and his best friend was the son of a diamond district family. He could have gotten a ring together if he’d really wanted to. It would only have been at most a few hundred for a wholesale setting. One day he inadvertently (I assume) left his credit card bill unfolded on my desk and I noticed a charge for several hundred dollars at a local strip club. Suffice it to say, that was the beginning of the end. I had to face the fact that he just wasn’t that into me or he would have made more committal use of that g-string tip money.

I left that coast and that chapter of my life with a broken heart and an unsated hunger for a diamond ring. Luckily, in the ensuing years, I got my grandmother’s depression-era engagement ring that had a round diamond and all the silver filigree an antique-fixated girl could want. I was happy. So it seems New York and I didn’t work out for myriad reasons. Maybe I didn’t really want to be married to him after all. I had just wanted the damn ring.

So now, older and wiser, I faced engagement with a more pragmatic, less ring-centric outlook. Let’s see if this guy loves me for me and wants to spend his life with said me - how’s that for a litmus test? When the ring conversation came up, I told him I didn’t want a diamond, I already had one. Maybe something low-key with our birthstones. And as I was newly into gold, maybe not silver.

Let it be said that I have never been a generic Tiffany’s platinum solitaire girl. I was once given one of those Tiffany’s ID bracelets that every trendy cheerleader wears and insisted on exchanging it for something I’d never seen on anyone. I have a beautiful necklace now that I wear proudly as its giver intended and have, to date, never seen anyone else with it.

My point is I’ve always been that girl who, if everyone else is wearing black, will show up in pink polka-dots just ‘cause. My fiancée wisely knows this. When it came time to pop the question, he did and then as he nervously held out a closed ring box begged me to remember I’d said no diamonds.

“Of course, honey,” I murmured.

“No seriously, when your friends look at it funny you have to tell them you said no diamonds.”

“Okaaaaaaaaaaaay…” Now I was nervous.

I am now very proud to report that look at it funny they do. I opened that little ring box to see a crazy whopper of a ring. Over one hundred years old and once owned by a daughter of one of Milan’s ruling families, it features an emerald flanked by two pink rubies in a massive gold setting that can only be described as two barrel vaults edged with filigree. It came from my fiancée’s mother who was obliquely related to said ruling family. It’s got everything that’s right for me: family history, antiquity, gold, color, and has unique out the ying yang. I can’t believe I get the honor of wearing it both for the fact that it was my fiancée’s mother’s and for the fact that it represents the actual real commitment a wonderful man is making to me.

My favorite sport is now watching the reaction when I mention my fiancée. As before, the eyes flick to my left hand. They usually go wide. Then there is either a gasp and squeal of recognition of the ring’s outright fabulousness, or a delayed “Ooooooh,” as the viewer scrambles to fabricate an appreciative comment. It takes people off guard and I love that. I also love that it’s definitely not for everyone’s liking. There will be no knock-off at Tiffany’s!

Turns out I was never missing a diamond ring. I was missing the guy who understood what I wanted was the life that goes with the ring - and wanted it with me.

Whose Wedding Is It Anyway?

2009-07-27T18:07:00.000-07:00

When he finally popped the question I was thrilled. Finally, I would be a woman with a Partner. I would be forever saved from the disappointing, draining dating trenches and the treacherous eHarmonies and Match.coms of my past. I would be creating a life and family with someone who loved me.

After a few days of engagement euphoria, it hit me: we have a lot of planning to do. The first question after “can I see the ring?” is “have you set a date?” followed by “where are you going to do it?” I could see a wave of stress beginning to crest on the horizon. I set to work getting foundations of a plan in place. I copied my best friend’s wedding binder, recreated Martha Stewart’s planning spreadsheets and started researching details.

Thank goodness we are no longer in the age of a wedding being the place for a father to pay back his business partners and clients and for a mother to show off to her bridge group and country club set. Thank goodness we won’t be bound by traditions that don’t speak to us and are free to create an event that resonates with our tastes and interests. For the most part, the fiancée and I are flexible. There are not a lot of details we care about. Flowers? Whatever. Food? As long as it’s yummy. Attendants? Wear whatever you want. We both agree spending obscene amounts of money on one day is silly when that money could better be used in setting up a life together.

There is one detail, however, that we both agree we’re not willing to budge on. Italy. We were fixed up in the first place because of our mutual love of Italy and fluency in Italian. Italy got us through a rough patch, joined in our romance and was the backdrop of the proposal itself. Italy is important to our relationship. We feel it represents us and we want it to be part of our big day. Plus with who we know over there we are confident we can pull off a wedding far more economically that would could here. It’s a win-win and everyone will be thrilled with a fun destination wedding, right? Besides, our mantra all along has been “this is our wedding, it doesn’t have to make everyone happy, just us.”

As we start to share our ideas with family it turns out everyone is less than thrilled. With the recession it seems no one can afford to go and now if we chose to go anyway it will look like we did so deliberately to exclude them. Some parentals aren’t thrilled by being fish out of water in a place where they don’t speak the language. Other parentals whom we thought would favor the plan also think it’s silly and would put too many people out. “A wedding isn’t about you” they inform us, “it’s about the people who love you.”

It is? I thought that was the one day in my (our) life that was unequivocally about me (us) and what I (we) want. Am I so mistaken? Maybe. I remember another family member’s wedding we’d all been looking forward to for years and our promised various roles in it. When the day came, our relative and his bride made different, far-away plans that excluded us and broke my sister’s heart. I don’t want broken hearts. I don’t want to exclude. But I want Italy.

My fiancée and I agree we’d rather have no wedding than something generic, expensive and tasteless here like so many weddings we’ve been to. So then. We’re either in for a battle of wills, family drama and politics gone wild or major compromises that will make us unhappy. Because I care so little about so many other parts, I am confident I won’t be a bridezilla. I’ll go with the flow of the day. However, I may just turn into a fianzilla before all is said and done. So whose wedding is it anyway? I thought I knew.

Art Sale

2009-06-04T07:28:00.000-07:00

So the movie premieres tomorrow. My first as producer. I came here six long years ago like everyone else that comes here with Tinseltown dreams. Now in a scant few hours, I’ll see the first film with my name in the credits on the big screen. It’s a thrill, yes. But I find something else nags at me - has me hesitate about embracing complete glee and giddy success. It’s natural to be nervous at unveiling your art for the world but considering I didn’t write or direct it, it’s not like the artistic risk is mine so much. So why the reluctant heart?

I must have been six or seven. It was a lovely summer day and I loved to color. I left my pre-drawn coloring books behind and created thirty-odd original pieces on mom’s work stationery. They encompassed all the key subjects for a girl of my generation: flowers, unicorns, sail boats, family, and of course, the General Lee, both side and top views.

Very pleased with my output, I trotted across the street and scarfed white quartz rocks from the neighbors. I then colored a rock to match each masterpiece so that each had, in effect, a matching paperweight.

I’d always been praised for my creative ability so I thought I’d best share it. I laid the pictures all over my front lawn and pinned each in place with its lovely accompanying rock. I then scurried around my neighborhood (back when you’d let a six or seven-year old run around a neighborhood alone) and put up signs proudly emblazoned “ART SALE” followed by our address.

Then I sat on the lawn and waited for the art-thirsty public. I would help all their homes become cheerier places.

It was a weekday and there wasn’t that much foot traffic in our residential neighborhood but after a while a few neighbors happened by. They each duly selected a picture and paid their ten cents – I believed in an egalitarian pricing system. That was it for a while.

Finally a car whirred around the corner. The husband driving pulled over and stayed in the car. The saggy wife launched herself onto our yard.

“Excellent,” I thought, “I love enthusiastic customers.”

The woman’s face took in the proud display on the grass and quickly shifted from eagerness to confusion, confusion to disappointment and from there to rage. She turned her coal-lump eyes and jabbed a stubby finger at me.

“How dare you?” She seethed. I thought it was a trick question.

Before I could respond, she spat “this isn’t art. How dare you mislead people like that? You’re wasting their time with this crap! You horrible little brat.”

My jaw dropped as she turned on her heel and marched back to her car. I was pretty sure it wasn’t OK to speak to someone the way she’d spoken to me but there was no one around to tell her so.

“It is too art,” I finally squeaked as she slammed the car door and admonished the husband to speed away presumably to real art.

I stood there shocked for several long moments before I understood what I was really supposed to do. Quickly as I could, I sped through the neighborhood tearing down my shameful signs. I bundled them up with my stupid pictures and threw them, rocks and all, under our front bushes. Then I hid in my room. Sharing art was not safe.

Now I wish the adult me could be back there standing next to those same bushes to deliver a hard smack across that windbag’s slavering jowls. Who speaks to a child like that? I’m incredulous as I recall her all these years later, comical in her absurd agitation.

Now I am no longer the heart-on-sleeve child (or am I, also?). I am the woman with a right to creation, a freedom of expression, a passion for sharing my point of view. I’m sure there’ll be windbags. There always are. But this time I won’t hide our creation under a bush.

I imagine Windbag’s shock as she watches our intense opening sequence, her discomfort through the squeamish parts, her outrage at the surprise ending. As she storms out of the theatre I yell “It is too art, you foul beast, because I say it is.”

Then as she screams at her husband to gun it away from the curb, I launch several bright quartz rocks colored with flowers and unicorns at her back window. Several decades too late but it still feels good. Oops, that General Lee one may have left a dent.

My Big Break

2009-04-06T09:53:00.000-07:00

As a feminist and advocate for human rights, I am generally against the objectification of women. When the call came in my first reaction was offence.

I’d forgotten I’d registered with Central Casting a few years back during one of those “my secret dream is to be a movie star” phases. With my work, I don’t have time to call in for available jobs I might be an ideal extra for. Nor could I take the time off work to go be on set anyway.

Then Angie from Central Casting called and asked if I could please make a meet and greet with a certain director. My blood boiled at his name, the Rat Bastard. He was one of those big time Hollywood schmucks whose name is synonymous with objectifying women both in his cadre of films and in his personal exploits which often enough grace Defamer and TMZ.

“You’re his first choice and he wants to meet you tomorrow,” Angie informed me. “He specifically needs really tall women.” Here she hesitated as if ashamed to speak the words: “The part is Amazon Prostitute.” Silence.

I mumbled unintelligible comments while I wrestled with my disgust, indignation, …and possible shot at stardom. “I’ll be there,” I told Angie.

The irony of this being my possible screen debut was not lost on me. That night I tore my closet apart. I needed something whorish but that I felt comfortable enough in that I’d stand and walk with confidence. I settled on my pushiest push-up bra, four-inch heels rendering me WMBA tall, and a low-cut wrap dress which, at last wearing, I’d been accused of throwing my boobs at a boy. That boy is now my boyfriend so I felt the dress worked. I tried everything on and saw the epitome of sexy, warrior goddess chick in my reflection. I’d win this part , get in with people who got things made in this town, and start to change the system from the top down. Yes!

The next day, cleavage and eyeliner in full force, I sashayed across the studio lot with an odd confidence. Men stared, women shot disapproving glares. “This isn’t really ME,” I wanted to confide to them. But at the same time, I enjoyed what felt like amazing power. I walked on, about to expose way more of myself than is strictly proper to a man I vilified for doing the same thing. I was about to seek his approval of merely my body and nothing more.

I was ushered into the casting room with the other four candidates where I babbled random facts about myself hoping to stand out from my Amazon sisters. The “my body and nothing more” part stuck in my craw. I needed him to know I am amazing in ways other than my décolletage and my thirty-six inch inseam. I felt awkward and silly. Not at all the proud, sex-queen that had stared back at me from the mirror earlier. I grinned at the Rat Bastard on his perch on a generous couch and was relieved I didn’t have to meet him in this room alone. We were ushered back out and told we’d be contacted later.

I changed into flip-flops, pulled by neckline higher and shuffled back to my car. I had been his first choice after all. I was sure he’d call.

He didn’t. I didn’t get the part of Amazon Prostitute and I was sad. I was amazed by the absurdity of it all. That he’d call me of all people for such a part. That I’d genuinely want to play it. And that me of all people wouldn’t get it. I’ll never really know why he didn’t choose me but I’m pretty sure I may have talked myself out of the job. I guess feminism and objectification don’t mix. Or maybe eye-candy and brains. At least not if you’re a Rat Bastard.

Enamored of an Ass

2009-03-17T18:50:00.000-07:00

As a young writer, I identified most with Shakespeare’s romantic characters. Viola, Rosalind, Helena; the girls with pluck and moxie who had great adventures and won the handsome protagonist too. They fit with my world view of how my life would go. As I get older, I find instead, I resonate most often with Titania. Not just because she’s queen of the faeries. Of course any title helps. But because, after a too-long night lavishing her royal attention on the donkey-head-transformed Bottom the Weaver, the spell is broken and she comes to her senses, puzzled as to why on earth she would sink so low. Out of sorts, she murmurs to Oberon, her king, that “I dreamt I was enamored of an ass.”

I am not the best judge of character as last summer’s subletter debacle can attest along with countless questionable choices of boyfriends. With my Pollyanna heart in full force, I take people at face value too often buying into their knight-in-shining-armor acts until I wake up one day, rather embarrassed and a tad horrified wondering why the truth wasn’t so obvious before.

The funny artist who turned out to be a broken child, the suave producer who turned out to be a selfish and cruel lay-about, the regal cook who turned out to be an uptight asshole… Oh ‘Tania, I feel you.

It’s not just in love either. It’s friendships too. Early in film school, I became fast friends with a girl who was always up for life’s adventures. We soon agreed to carpool to campus. It actually took me months before I realized she had never once offered to drive and I was the one going twenty miles out of my way for her on a weekly basis with nary an offer of gas money. But desperate for a good girlfriend in my new Tinseltown life, I clung to her.

We excitedly planned a girls’ night out and when we walked into the bar of her choice, I recoiled. It was filled with frat boys and plastic piñatas. Not the classy, low-key wine bar I had in mind. “Isn’t this great?” she gushed. Wake up call! A mutual friend later told me that this girl had once imposed on friend to drive to another state to bail her out of jail. On the way home they made a highway fast-food pit stop and she hadn’t even offered to buy the girl’s Big Mac.

My lack of people radar extends to my business life as well. I once bought so completely into a new friend’s business consultant act I set my best friend up with her for a consultation. My friend had taken precious time off her day job to have a half-hour lunch with this woman and get key guidance for the business she was launching. Instead of being the grand business match up I had imagined, the woman kept my friend tangled up for a two hour “meeting” that was garbled by email, and text interruptions and other clients needing “just a minute of her time.” The woman was actually rude enough to field several phone calls while my friend sat there, watching the minutes tick by and imagining her boss’ face getting redder by the minute as she wondered how to explain her quadruple-time lunch absence to him. To top it off, the woman later emailed expecting payment for her pearls of wisdom which had never been part of the discussion. I was mortified that I put my friend in this position and that I had been foolish enough to think highly of the woman’s business skill in the first place.

It doesn’t stop there. I once brought another new friend into my business. Dazzled by his professional talents as well as his smile, I bought his act hook line and sinker. We all did. Well, most of us did. Several of the other guys at work grumbled about all the flash and dazzle but I put off their comments. I actually thought “I can’t be wrong again, surely.” Of course I can, and don’t call me Shirley.

I watched waitresses melt for him when we had our business meetings out and I felt twinges of jealousy as he returned their smiles. I didn’t have a personal interest in him, not in that way, but I still wanted to be the girl he was focused on. What can I say, I’m a Leo, I need the spotlight. I listened to him tell me things that in any dating scenario would have been huge red flags: past bad break ups, low opinions of women in various parts of his life, a tendency to use people. It’s OK, I thought, I’m not a girl in his life in that way. Whew.

One day, some part of his pedestal slipped. I saw his self-admitted user tendencies as draining and selfish rather than starving artist bohemian, his righteousness as insecurity rather than maturity, his unresponsiveness as flakey rather than mysterious. At a certain moment I watched him with a date and thought “thank god that’s not me.” At least he was good at his job.

Despite this relief, I found myself as angry with him as I have been with any ex, former friend or evil subletter. For weeks I stewed in my anger until my boyfriend, ever the wise one, pointed out that I was angry because I was embarrassed. I was embarrassed that I defended him to people who had seen more clearly than I, embarrassed that I had been fished in yet again by someone unworthy of my heart and my esteem. Donkey heads!

Unfolding from there, I finally saw clearly why I hadn’t been able to let go of other angers. It wasn’t that I hadn’t forgiven the exes for their assorted transgressions and cruelties. It was that I hadn’t forgiven myself for having chosen them in the first place.

That realization made waking up next to my real life Oberon all the sweeter. The irony is that for all these months as I reminded myself of these past judgment failures, I subjected him to a vetting of presidential proportions. Sure, he seemed like a fabulous boyfriend but I’m probably wrong again. Better poke and prod as much as I can to be sure.

He bore it all with grace and patience; far more than I deserved. The one person I have been the most suspicious of is the one person who didn’t merit my doubts. Figures I would turn the Spanish Inquisition on the wrong guy. I’m just lucky that he stuck around through it, waited till I washed the last of those faerie dust dreams away and laughed with me at the sight of all those donkey-headed former lovers, flushed friends and current folk.

Could it be? Could Pollyanna at long last be tempered by some real clarity and on-target intuition? Dare to dream.

Charity on the Sly

2009-03-10T16:18:00.000-07:00

Anyone who knows me knows I am huge fan of KCRW. I’m a huge fan of public radio in general and look to KCRW as the taste maker for music. I need KCRW in my day. As far as I’m concerned there is no other radio worth listening to in LA. It’s either KCRW or my iPod.

I got my start in music snobbery early. I was perfectly willing to come to blows over musical taste and once pulled over and kicked a friend out of my car for slagging one of my favorite bands. For me, musical taste is not a matter of opinion, it’s a question of right and wrong.

I honed this attitude in college radio where I worked with several of KCRW’s current players and where I developed my CD collection. Back then I’d try to explain to the frat boys that if they listened to us, they could hear the next Chili Peppers or Cure or Nirvana before they became huge. They’d be on the cutting edge. They’d have none of it. Being on the edge was too much work for them. They just wanted to have their tastes formed neatly for them by KROQ. Here I proudly state I never dated a sheep-brain frat boy.

Luckily, my man shares my tastes for the most part or we’d have ended in tears long ago. He takes it one further. When flipping across the dial, if we catch a glimpse of generic pop pablum (read: every other corporate station now that Indie 103.1 is dead), he’ll quip “Ah yes, music for people who don’t like music.” His tartness on this topic steals my heart. But he’s got a great point. Because if you really thought about what you were hearing on corporate stations, if you delved into the artistry, you’d find none. If you really listen, you couldn’t possibly be satisfied by corporate crap. It’s music for people who don’t really listen but just need something to fill their ears. Like aural junk food.

Anyway, I love my indie music and my NPR. So every six months when KCRW conducts their on-air fund drive I always sign up for as many shifts as I can fit into my overtaxed schedule. Until the day I can afford an angel membership, I feel it’s the best way I can give back. Plus you meet the coolest people. Plus it gives me a teeny nostalgia flashback of my college radio days. So much joy.

The thing is because of my overtaxed schedule, because I have so many people depending on me to run our company, I don’t feel I can tell anyone that’s what I’m doing with my day. I’m not alone.

This time around I struck up a conversation with the project manager at the phone across from mine. She furtively slipped off a cell phone call. “That was my work. As far as they know, I’m at the doctor.” Like me she was over-scheduled, trying to be great at three jobs at once, occasionally sleep and have a social life. Like me, she felt that if the people that depend on her knew she was helping instead of working they’d be pissed.

What is that? We should be proud of our charity. Heck, our work should be proud of our philanthropic spirit, not to mention our good taste in radio. Yet somehow, we both felt like kids that might get caught playing hooky. What does that say about the priorities of giving in our culture?

“Must be nice,” quips a co-worker when I slip up and mention my first shift. He heads back to his to-do list while I am left stinging from the implication that I’m not working as hard as he is. Though I am his boss, I feel the need to justify my choices, to prove that the company is not at risk if I also live my life.

In our modern life, balance seems like indulgence. If you have time to balance your life, you are not working hard enough. This feels like not seeing the forest for the trees.

Last year I wrote about the wonder of discovering the weekend again. I vowed not to work on weekends. As predicted, I have back-slid somewhat on this. That constant need to prove I’m working hard enough is a demanding master. But my co-worker is right, albeit unintentionally: taking time to do what I need for me must be nice indeed.

So, you know what, working world? I took time from my work week to help out a cause I believe in.

As I say that I feel the panic rising; “say you still got more work done than they did,” it chirps. I’m tempted but no.

That’s the lesson. I may have in fact gotten less done than you did. And I’m OK with that because I did something that helps define my life. I am reaching for balance and doing something that I believe is an important contribution for the greater good.

I may not be able to give everyone good music taste, but I can do my part to ensure good music is accessible for those of us who know it when we hear it. And even for those sheep-brains should they ever choose to change their dials. I may be years from my beloved college radio but I’m still fighting the good fight. And keeping that spirit alive helps me do a better, fulfilled job running my company. Everybody wins.

p.s. your favorite band sucks.

Diablo Cody Frosts My Mitten

2009-02-27T09:28:00.000-08:00

Last year, the Oscars were a bitter pill for me. I railed against the nomination and win of Diablo Cody and “Juno” for best screenplay. They say we writers are vicious bunch of haters when it comes to our fellow writers’ success. And, well, it’s true. But sometimes it’s also merited.

I had many issues with the film from a feminist perspective as well as the overall, gag-me cuteness factor. She was lauded for the quirkiness of her characters while I felt she shorthanded quirkiness with an unusual phone and other props. Isn’t real character more than props?

“Oooooh, look how funky her kids talk! How natural. She captured the 16 year old,” people said. Um, no, that’s a 35 year old putting the quirk and construction of 35 year old speak into the mouth of a 16 year old. I was a damn funky 16 year old and I didn’t speak like that. I speak like that now.

Even more annoying was her hipper-than-thou musical references. That’s my gig. I wrote a screenplay four years ago featuring a character who wore a “your favorite band sucks” t-shirt and bring my years of bona-fide college radio DJ experience to everything I write.

People were amazed that Diablo “discovered” the Moldy Peaches. “New indie rock darlings” the heralds blasted. Thank the gods Diablo, our hipness prophet, delivered them unto us. I hated the Peaches eight years ago when I saw them play a little club in Denver. They sucked then and they still suck.

My ire spun out of control.

“But she’s a woman. And she won,” my producing partner gently reminded me. It’s a well-worn fact that as women in the industry we are fighting an uphill battle with a miniscule percentage of films directed or written by women, let alone nominated. She had a point. I felt a pang of guilt about not supporting our sister.

Then I got it. My script with the “your favorite band sucks” t-shirt. The random game my friends and I used to play defining our quirkiness by who could come up with the best non-sequitor. Breaking the best indie bands. The thrill of writing the little script that could… I was pissed because Diablo Cody stole my shtick. And she won a freakin’ Oscar for it. So now, what were the odds my quirky girl script could win anything? Or even be made?

All my issues with the Juno script aside, I was really insanely jealous. Which I guess is a form of flattery – if somewhat twisted. I finally saw Diablo with kindness and solidarity.

This year I missed her up there on the stage bereft of female nominees, not to mention wins. I don’t dig her style per se but I hope she’s up there again next year along with every other woman making upward progress in Hollywood.

If begrudging another’s success initiated me into real writer-hood, all that remains is the other part of the initiation: actually having one of my scripts sold and made.

Hello, Hollywood? It’s ready. It’s quirky. Call me. Love you. Mean it.

The Note Writer

2009-02-12T18:08:00.000-08:00

I am that neighbor.

I have stuck my head out the window at 3am and shouted for quiet. Those darn kids. I have left notes in their mailboxes when they woke up the whole street for weeks on end. I have left notes on cars sticking into my driveway or otherwise inconsiderately parked.

I have considered leaving notes for people with selfish signs:

“Don’t even think of parking here” – It’s a public street. You don’t have the right to restrict parking.

“If caught disposing of trash in this bin, you will be prosecuted” – If you spend your energy on something as trivial as guarding your trash cans you must have a sad life.

“Yes on Prop 8” – You are a hateful bigot…but then we’ve already been over that one.

I have also considered leaving notes for other concerning behaviors: The whole street can hear you when you scream at your elderly mother. We wonder if we should report elder abuse.

Sometimes I just feel the need to blow off the steam of my occasional outrage at the state of the Universe. Notes are fairly harmless. Plus every thwarted screenwriter needs as many outlets as she can get.

The thing is I also am the neighbor everyone likes, the one you can count on, the one you invite over for tea and cookies. I don’t know if they’d be so quick with the Toll House if they knew I was the righteous note bitch. I like to keep my righteous note soap-boxing anonymous. I feel my noted opinions are indubitably correct but I still don’t want anyone to know it’s me – just in case they’re not.

I was having tea and cookies last night at a neighbor’s when a friend of theirs popped in for a cuppa. He said he was parked in the alley with his hazards on. I suggested he park in my driveway and he chuckled. Then our hosts chuckled.

“What?” I asked.

“Tell her,” one prompted.

“Well,” hedged the guest, “it’s just kind of funny that you would offer since you once left that note on my car.”

I froze, horrified. How did they know? “What note?”

“I guess I didn’t realize four cars can fit across the street and I had sort of parked in the middle of the space so only three –“

“It said ‘please be a considerate neighbor,’” interrupted our host, “’four cars park here.’” She giggled. The guest giggled. Everyone giggled but me.

I actually remembered coming home expecting to park in front of my house but being thwarted by a rogue car who, very rudely in my estimation, took up more than his share of curb so that I couldn’t. I was pissed. Indignant. I wrote a note and smacked it on the windshield. If there was one thing I couldn’t stand it was people who were oblivious to how their actions affected others. I remembered writing that note; being that righteous bitch.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I waffled. “I didn’t leave a note.”

My hosts chuckled on. It was clearly no big deal. But I was on a roll.

“Why do you think it was me?”

“You said you left notes.”

“Yeah, for the loud kids. They woke us all up for a month, remember? But… never just on a car.” I dug deeper.

“Oh. Huh.” The chuckling was dying out now.

“I’m actually kind of offended that you would think it was me.” Dang this was a big shovel.

“Oh don’t be offended. It was just funny.”

The evening went on from there and we moved on but I kept thinking about it. I wasn’t actually offended, of course. I just hadn’t known what else to say. It probably would have been much better for me to admit to the note and laugh along with them since it was clearly no biggie to them. But something stopped me. I didn’t want them to think I was an awful note-leaver.

I had always kept my notes anonymous because I was afraid, not of being wrong, but of being thought of as the bitchy busy-body with nothing better to do but leave notes on cars, passing judgment on others’ actions from on high. I didn’t think anyone would invite a note writer over for tea and cookies. Not being part of their neighbor family was what I was afraid of.

Yet they had laughed. They didn’t care if I was a quirky, occasionally indignant note writer. They knew and had accepted me for me anyway. Even then, I was afraid to trust them with my silly truth.

As I walked home, warm with tea. I though how silly I had been to lie. It’s not like the secret identity I was protecting was like Superman or anything. I was just the Note Writer. I will set the record straight over tea tonight. I finally get it. Friends accept you, opinions and all, and don’t cast judgment even if one’s opinion delivery method is a tad ridiculous. I’ll have to write them a thank you note.

Travels with Dad

2008-12-27T18:18:00.000-08:00

One of the things I am most fortunate to have in my life is a father who believes that travel is the best education. After my parents divorce I began by traveling out to visit him. I felt very worldly and grown-up on the plane by myself at five. The flight attendant would hand me a plastic wings pin which I would wear proudly on my cardigan. That was in the days where loved ones could still meet you at the gate and when we landed she’d walk me out to my dad expectantly standing in the boarding area.

Over the years, dad and I have been all over the world together; Europe several times, Africa. It’s our tradition to spend Thanksgiving in Mexico. As a teen, I’d swear after each trip that I’d never travel with him again. He’d do such mortifying things as point sights out to me on tours or talk too loud in museums. But of course there’d always be another trip.

As I’ve become an adult, the mortification has taken on a new flavor. Anyone who looks at us for more than five minutes can see the resemblance between us. I have my dad’s nose, his lanky, athletic frame, the overall shape of his face. Yet as my laugh lines have increased, it’s no longer obvious that we are parent/child. More often than not, people assume we’re a couple. I see the knowing looks when I emphasize to the hotel clerk we need a room with two beds.

I don’t know why I give such a crap about what strangers think but I do and this assumption offends me to no end. God, no! I want to shout. I’m not the kind of woman that would be some old guy’s trophy wife! There’s a thirty-five year difference between us, get your mind out of the gutter. Are you blind? Can’t you see we look alike?!

To combat these tawdry assumptions, I very maturely make a point of slipping into any conversation that might arise that we are in fact father/daughter. If there’s no conversation, I’ll loudly call him ‘dad’ for those casual listeners on the pool deck, or tour bus or whatever.

This year’s trip to Mexico was no different. We met another vacationing family with a hen-pecked husband and brittle wife. After talking with them for more than half an hour, I went to change for dinner. The disapproving wife leaned over to my father and asked, “come on, is that really your daughter?” When dad reported this to me over dinner I was doubly offended. Not only was she assuming me to be “one of those women” but even after our familial conversation, she was basically calling me a liar.

I have to wonder why it is so unfathomable to people that a father and daughter would travel together. We saw a mother/daughter pair at our hotel around our same ages and I’m pretty sure no one assumed they were a May/December lesbian couple. Is it only with the full compliment of family members that such travel becomes acceptable? If my dad had a wife would it be OK? If I had a husband? Kids? Whatever the case, it’s certain we remain an oddity…and people’s minds are in the gutter.

It drives me nuts but maybe it’s not the worst thing. Over the course of our week in Mexico, we became friendly with our waiter, Jesus, at our hotel restaurant. One night, apparently feeling he was on more personal terms with us, Jesus asked “so are you two honeymooners?” Et tu, Jesus? I was mortified yet again. We were standing at the hotel restaurant entrance and I could feel the room lean closer to hear the sordid details of the silver fox and his young missy. Here, I thought, is my opportunity to set everyone straight. Years of pent-up witty quips massed at my fingertips.

“No, this is my dad!” I blurted.

Now poor Jesus was mortified. He apologized repeatedly for having offended us while my dad assured him it was fine. The ears in the restaurant shifted away and dad and I went for our evening walk.

Somewhere in the course of the night, Jesus decided that if I was traveling with my father, I must therefore be single and available. The next day at breakfast, he greeted us enthusiastically and I figured at last I could relax in the comfort of knowing our fellow hotel dwellers at last knew the truth.

Then Jesus told us the story of his night. He had returned to the hotel around two in the morning but security wouldn’t let him in. He had been determined to give me a red rose and apparently had made quite a scene including trying to scale a wall to get past security. He didn’t notice our creeping unease as he recounted his ardent love.

“Please, Senor,” he put his suit to my dad. “I must be allowed to give this rose to your daughter or I will die. May I have your permission? What is your room number?”

Dad fudged, asked for the check. “We’ll see you in a bit.”

“OK,” Jesus mooned after me. “Be careful, baby.” He said in a tone dripping with possessiveness and drama.

Dad and I hightailed it out of the restaurant. That was the last meal we ate at the hotel.

So maybe being assumed to be the trophy wife isn’t such a bad thing even if it turns my feminist stomach. Perhaps cheap misconceptions are worth not being courted by an off-balance stalker. Either way, travels with dad continue to be one of the more unusual adventures of my life. And, as dad has always believed, travel is an amazing education – in the oddities human behavior more than anything.

Employment

2008-12-06T13:27:00.000-08:00

Human behavior is endlessly fascinating. And with our connected internet world, everyone can instantly know all about your behavior. The interesting thing is how few people think to employ their editing eye to their internet-exposed behavior when seeking employment.

My boyfriend recently conducted a search for a new assistant. He has a really cool job so he received a deluge of resumes. He culled those he found interesting and then set about narrowing it down to those he’d actually interview. To do this he didn’t check references or anything so analog. He turned to our friends, the online networking sites.

He found each candidate’s profile easily on one networking site or another. He then employed a simple rubric. If the candidate had any pictures posted of stupid behavior, their resume went in the trash pile. He was especially bummed about the Harvard grad with the amazing resume whose profile featured several red-plastic-party-cup shots and one draped-over-a-keg shot. Not that this stuff isn’t all well and good. Who among us hasn’t had a certain amount of familiarity with the red party cup? But if you are applying for a job, aren’t you smart enough to realize that your potential employers may see the stuff you so cavalierly post about yourself? Apparently even a Harvard degree doesn’t mean you’re a brainiac.

Somewhat worse are those who don’t edit their behavior while on the job. I recently was contacted by a former film crew member seeking an online job reference. I was taken off guard. The crew member in question was the only one of the entire crew who had acted unprofessionally and caused trouble both on set and off. I spent more than a few hours cleaning up drama and emotional messes they’d caused. I’d personally vowed never to work with such a pain in the ass again and here they were, asking me for a reference. I was astonished. Did they forget all the trouble they’d caused? Did they actually think they’d done a good job? Or worse, were they so obliviously self-absorbed they didn’t even get that they’d caused trouble? Astounding!

I managed to wiggle out of having to give a reference since I’m such a bad liar and wouldn’t have been able to give the glowing report the crew member was clearly expecting. But it left me wondering how many of us are oblivious to the impact, good and bad, that we have on others in our workplaces.

With more of us than ever seeking employment, it’s important to put your best foot forward, whether that means presenting yourself professionally online or in person or performing a good job to earn a good reference. Do a good job, get a good job, and then we can all break out the red plastic party cups. But please, no pictures.

Angel (Who Isn't)

2008-12-02T13:32:00.000-08:00

The angry dog snarled and barked again, whipping itself into a frenzy. It lunged forward on its leash gnashing its teeth at me. Instinctively I took another step to the side. The owner, to my surprise, wasn’t scolding the dog or making much of an attempt to discipline it in anyway. I wished I could have. I wasn’t afraid of the frothy incisors, just annoyed. The dog in question was a six pound Shi Tsu.

Angel is a dog who lives in my building and she or he, I haven’t investigated, is anything but. Every morning I have the distinct pleasure of running into Angel and her useless owner who always ignores my “good morning,” the height of rudeness in my book. If I didn’t find the woman and her dog so repellant, it would be funny that every morning, the dog snarls like it will explode if she doesn’t let it off the leash to attack us while she ignores me and coos “quiet now, Angel, be a good dog.” It’s my suspicion that Angel doesn’t speak English.

I refer to Angel and dogs of his/her ilk as a little shit. Angel is what my dad would refer to as a punt dog. You know, the kind of dog with no redeeming qualities that you’d like to drop kick. Now calm down. I am huge animal rights advocate and don’t ever condone violence against any creature. But if it could be harmless violence like in the cartoons, Angel would be a good candidate for a Wyle E. Coyote anvil. And Angel is not alone.

Walking last night, two small poodle mixes snarled and snapped at Simon and I as we passed. The owner had to yell above the yaps: “Sorry about the noise.”

“That’s OK,” I replied. “I’m just glad I don’t have to live with it.”

I’ve never been a fan of little dogs. Aside from stand-out exceptions like everyone’s favorite scene-stealer Hero, they just seemed like of useless to me. I mean if you want a pet that size, get a cat. I have one and he’s fabulous.

No, it’s big dogs for me. Simon, my 85-pound beauty and I stroll by the little dogs. Simon would never dream of snarling or snapping like they do. He calmly smiles and wags his tail hoping for a new friend. But even he has learned. When we pass a little dog, he shies behind me. Sure enough the little shit will come at us like a snarling fur tornado - or a very puntable angry mop - while the nonplussed owner apologetically, or sometimes indifferently, yanks the little creature off its feet pulling it away from us and then usually admonishes it to be nice. As if.

Out for a walk last week we were charged by a deranged Yorkie and my boyfriend had a great point: If my Simon behaved the way those little dogs do, I’d be forced to have him put down. People would be terrified and outraged that I had such a poorly behaved and seemingly dangerous creature in public. The more I thought about it, the truer and more unjust it seemed. If a big dog comes snarling and snapping at a person there is a hue and cry to destroy the dangerous animal. The owners are vilified for having such a poorly disciplined dog.

Why then do we excuse or even condone such abominable behavior from small dogs? Why are they allowed to be assholes? Just because they probably can’t rip you to shreds like a Rottweiler could? So what? It’s freaking rude, unacceptable behavior. If a child came up to me in public and screamed at me, I’d say poor parenting. I think it’s no different with dogs. I would never tolerate having such a poorly behaved, walking napoleon complex share my home. Who are these people that do?

There will always be bad parents in the kid world and the dog world. Until there is some kind of magical doggie good citizenship council, it’s up to us, the thinking pet owners, to institute a change. Don’t hang out with small dog people unless they have proven that their small dog is really cool, like my cousin’s Chihuahua/terrier, Tucker, who actually looks like a cartoon. Or our good buddy Bono the pug.

If you must have a small dog, recognize that the snarling fur tornado greeting is unacceptable behavior and train it to behave like a decent citizen. And if you don’t, may a cartoon anvil meet you soon. And your little dog too

Buono Come Il Pane

2008-11-24T08:53:00.000-08:00

It’s always been one of my favorite Italian phrases. Good like bread. You use it to express when someone or something is solid, kind, wholesome – just good. Because what could be better than simple, nourishing, foundation-for-so-much-yummy-food bread? Turns out: lots of things.

Of late, I’m that girl at the restaurant who turns down the basket of dinner rolls, who asks for her eggs without the side of toast, who skips the pasta in favor of salad. Not because it’s Hollywood and I’m supposed to be a size two. Not because I’m following some higher path to spiritual health that doesn’t include the abuse of innocent wheat. Because after a long, redonculous medical journey, I’ve found out that bread is what makes me feel like crap.

For the last few years I’ve been constantly run down. Not just need-a-nap run down but bags-under-my-eyes, brain-dead by 3pm, narcoleptic by 9pm, running-on-fumes-all-the-time run down. I assumed that was just part of life in LA. All this Tinseltown glamour is draining, right?

Along with this, I started to notice various other problems. I was puffy and bloated in spite of hours of Pilates. Despite many applications of my fabulous Tom’s deodorant (family history of breast cancer = no more aluminum deodorants), I smelled. After Proactive, mud masks, facials, and all kinds of dermatologist-recommended extremes like never sleeping on the same pillowcase twice and never drying my face with the same towel twice, my skin was a constant zit field.

More seriously (yes, it gets more serious than zits in Hollywood), I started having weird pains. Crazy headaches have always been a norm for me but now I was also waking up in the middle of the night every few months with excruciating pain in my abdomen. The best way to describe it is it felt like something was ripping apart.

Now I come from a family of suck-it-up survivors. Once my dad nearly severed his thumb with an axe but did he go to the hospital? Nah, a few Band-aids and it’s fine. So naturally I didn’t seek any professional help for any of this. My boyfriend who comes from a crazy family of go-to-the-doctor-if-something-is-wrong people finally badgered me into going.

I started with an amazing homeopathic herbalist and then went through months of gastro-intestinal docs and OB/GYNs and all manner of poking, prodding, imaging and testing. The good news is I feel much better. The bad news is I have to say goodbye to lots of things to feel that way. Turns out I am gluten-intolerant. I haven’t yet had the blood test for Celiac but I know for sure bread is out.

The homeopath had me do an elimination diet and start on an herb regimen. Within two weeks of no flour products my energy was way up and my belly flattened. My skin cleared up and I haven’t had a zit since. Just to test it, I had a dinner roll and within ten minutes felt like someone had clubbed me over the head. So seriously, no flour.

She also had me off caffeine. I didn’t realize how addicted I was. Only a latte with breakfast, Officer. I went through two weeks of headaches and withdrawals and suddenly a new day dawned. I felt clear-headed, slept better and felt calmer. And suddenly, my natural deodorant works all day. I accidentally drank some caffeinated tea the other day and stank instantly. Wow, guess the body is not having caffeine for real.

What’s really amazing to me is how profound an effect these foods have on the body and how we mostly ignore the cause and effect. One of my best girlfriends reported similar miraculous changes in her life years ago when she went off white flour and sugars and I didn’t register it. I just thought: that’s great for her, I’m so happy I don’t have to give those foods up. Or looked at from this side: I’m so happy I get to keep trashing my body because it hasn’t given me a definitive break-down yet. We all know caffeine isn’t good for us but most people I talk to can’t imagine living without it. Likewise, most people have some degree of wheat or gluten intolerance but we continue to consume mass quantities of flour-based foods.

Turns out when the body is overtaxed with stuff it can’t process (wheat, in my case) or too much acids (coffee, tomatoes, mushrooms (!) all diet staples for me) it dumps into two places: the skin and the reproductive organs. The skin was obvious for me. The ovaries, not so much. Although it’s not definitively detectable without surgery, it’s pretty likely I have endometriosis, charmingly nicknamed the ‘working woman’s disease.’ It’s not clear if my two conditions are causally related but it was explained to me that the something-ripping sensations I woke up with were just that; ovarian cysts that were bursting.

So my break-down is here and now is the winter of my discontent as I say goodbye to breads and sweet-rolls and cake and waffles and pasta and cookies and crackers and cereal and flour tortillas and soy sauce (inexplicably contains wheat!) and breaded stuff and on and on and on.

The good news is having to automatically pass by the Krispy Kreme box at work means automatic weight loss. I can still have corn tortillas and Rice Krispies and stuff like that. And there are more and more gluten-free resources and products. My neighbor makes a gluten-free carrot cake that’s the best I’ve ever tasted. I found rice pasta that’s pretty close to the real thing. Great pancake mix that doesn’t leave that flap-jack brick in your tummy. Tasty gingerbread cookies at Whole Foods. I have a whole new world of baking to explore. Just how do you blend rice flour, tapioca flour and guar gum to approximate cookie dough?

More importantly, I have more energy, my late night pains are gone (for now), my headaches have been absent, my face is presentable, and my overall health feels much better. I miss some of those favorite foods but I have to hope improving my chance of someday having kids is worth it.

The moral for me is two fold: sometimes it’s OK to ask for professional help (my dad did eventually require surgery on his thumb since he let the tendons heal wrong), and buono come il pane – good like bread - isn’t.

The Kennedy Effect

2008-11-18T06:45:00.000-08:00

On a cerebral level, I’ve always understood the appeal President Kennedy had. I like the whole mythical Camelot thing. I get the celebrity of it, the glamour. I dig Jackie’s fabulous style. I am touched by the pictures of a little JFK jr. saluting his daddy’s coffin. But I’ve never really felt what having a milestone of a president like that was like for those who were there. I’d internally roll my eyes when ever someone got off on a reverence rant. He was just a man, after all.

Never in my memory was there a politician I personally cared for. I would have been sad if something happened to Clinton whom I’d always found good and likeable (in spite of). But I wouldn’t have felt a personal sense of loss. Caring for a politician like you would about a personal friend or family member? That just seemed hysterical to me.

I was walking my dog the day after the election, meandering and thinking out loud as I sometimes do. My heart swelled with hope and excitement. For the first time in a very long time I was proud of my country, proud to be an American. My friends from overseas gushed their support in a series of emails and I felt we were all part of something special. Almost as if we could feel Obama’s promised change in the air.

I thought of all the good things that will come in the next eight (yes, eight) years; social policy change, women’s reproductive rights, gay rights, foreign relations, war ends, financial improvement, health care reform – these are my hopes. I thought of the other good to come, blind spots that I cannot anticipate. I jigged in place and sang to my dog.

And then I got it. If Obama were suddenly taken from us and all that hope and shimmer and sun finally rising from the long, dark night were vanished, I understood on a visceral level the sense of personal loss I would feel. It choked me up for a moment. The crushing disappointment and sadness. I finally understood the impulse to go stand in line to salute a coffin for a man I’d never met. I felt a new understanding of the people who talk of Kennedy in reverent tones.

I sympathize with my relatives in Ireland who still have a portrait of Kennedy in the kitchen. I finally understand that their pride in a new hope was not an empty symbol but a real, tangible heart-swell.

I walked my dog home with a new pride in my heart and a sense of personally caring for a man I’ve never met. Yes, he’s just a man and he’ll make mistakes. But for the first time in my lifetime I feel like we have a real chance to make this country as wonderful as it deserves to be.

There are portraits of Obama going up in kitchens all over the world.

All I Wanna Do Is Rock

2008-11-12T08:17:00.000-08:00

“I’m a foot without a sock without you.”

I wake up with the lyric running through my head. It makes me laugh. That’s something. I’m having a crappy month and not laughing much.

I sit down at my computer. It’s around 6:30 in the morning and I need to kill some time until it’s light enough out to hike. The first thing I see is the headline in my newsfeed: Nic Harcourt to leave KCRW.

Nic has been part of my musical life for years now. He’s an amazing taste maker responsible for breaking countless of my favorite bands. He’s part of my day and I will miss him. Now I think how much I would like to tell him that I’ll miss him and thank him for the difference he’s made for me. Without a personal connection to him enabling me to do so, I shut my laptop and go to school.

I get to my class and as my students are setting up it pops back in my head; “I’m a foot without a sock without you,” I sing. My girls laugh at me. They didn’t know the song. I often have to educate them in more ways than one. The band Travis, I explain, is an amazingly talented group of Scots. They make lovely, lush tunes and have been one of my favorites ever since I saw them blow Oasis off the stage in 2001 when I’d never heard of them. That’s why the song is in my head; they’re playing tonight and I can’t go because ironically I’m managing a music event at the British Consulate.

Aside from all the shows I've seen, I have a personal history with the band. I’d been on staff at KCRW’s last A Sounds Eclectic Evening and had had the good fortune to be assigned to take care of Travis. I'd gleefully snuck them cakes from the VIP kitchen and typed up their set list for them. I ended up hanging out with them after the show and was impressed by how down to earth they were – how tickled and grateful they seem by the fact they get to be rock stars. I’d struck up a friendship with the band’s manager and we kept in touch. A few months later, they were due at Coachella and the manager couldn’t lay hands on a tour bus. I helped them out through my assistant mafia and then got to hang out with the band again out there in the desert. To my delight they’d all remembered me: the cakes girl.

The music event at the Consulate is in full swing when my boyfriend introduces me to a friend of Travis’ agent. He’s headed over to the Travis show and has a plus one. I look around, am I really basically done with my party duties? I bolt out the door before anyone can change their minds. I feel like Cinderella rushing to the ball.

We walk into the small, packed Troubador and despite the fact that the set is already well underway, we end up with a prime spot in the VIP section. The boys rip into an old song. “I’m a foot without a sock without you,” Fran growls. I can’t help but laugh. Did my subconscious already know about this when I woke up?

The set is wonderful and energetic as always. I look to my right and realize I’m standing in arms’ length from Nic Harcourt. Fran gives him a shout-out for all the great work he’s done for good music, the crowd cheers and chants “Nic! Nic! Nic!” Later, I touch Nic’s shoulder and tell him I’ll miss him and thank him. He smiles. I think he’s genuinely touched by all the sentiment for him.

The show ends and my new friend asks if I want to go say hi to the band. Hmmm, let me think about that… A short while later, we’re in the green room and I’m thrilled. If they don’t actually remember me, the band does a great job of faking it. I reach to shake hands and Dougie says “we’re past that by now!” and grabs me for a hug. He tells me all about his new eight-month old and I tell him about my friend’s two-week old. Fran hugs me and we chat about the possibility of the boys playing Coachella again this year. I wish them luck as we leave and tell them I’ll see them in the desert this spring.

It’s after 1 in the morning as I crawl back into bed. I struggle to calm my thoughts enough to sleep, thankful for the good fortune of my day. Sometimes a song about a sock is all it takes to restore my faith in life and the Universe.

"If this was any other day,

I'd turn and walk the other way,

but today

I'll stay

OK"

Yes We Did

2008-11-05T07:21:00.000-08:00

I woke up to an email of congratulations from a dear friend in Ireland. The hope that rides with Obama's presidency (!) stretches across the globe. Our first glimmer of hope that we may have a place at the table of the new world order - that we may in fact not be the pack of raving idiots the last eight years often made us appear to be to the eyes of the world.

I find it very telling that at the McCain party, when he mentioned Obama there were boos and jeers from the hateful, infantile audience. Meanwhile, at the Obama party, when he mentioned McCain there was respectful applause. Here's to the party of classy, educated grown-ups being in the White House. Bring on the arugula.

I know we have an uphill battle. We have angry white supremacists (hello idiots, he's half white) and bible beaters that will be doing everything to bring Obama down. I have a family member who quoted that Obama was a Palestinian Muslim. Who knows what other ridiculousness the hater propaganda machine will churn out over the next four years.

I'm so relieved I don't have to move to Canada to escape a looming Palin. I don't like cold weather.

It's my sincere hope that the new White House puppy be a mutt from the pound.

Happy new America Wednesday, everyone.

Campaign Management

2008-10-29T07:56:00.000-07:00

My eyes pop open at 5:30. Sure, I always wake up early but today I am on a mission that needs to be carried out in the cover of darkness.

Last night, I’d run into a fellow dog-walking neighbor. She was a lady I’d always liked. Part of the old Hollywood guard. She’d met her husband on the summer stock circuit back when she was a sassy redhead driving a new convertible ’57 Bel Air. Now her hair was still a flame red but in sparse chemical patches, covering the white.

We walked our dogs together through the hills in the fading golden LA twilight and chit-chatted about nothing in particular. Then we rounded a corner and saw it.

“Goodness,” she exclaimed, “A ‘Yes on 8’ sign. I haven’t seen one of those in this neighborhood.”

I too was stunned. Proposition 8 is our local initiative to take rights away from gays. Hollywood being legendarily liberal, you don’t see much right wing signage around to be sure.

As a talented friend points out in her ‘No on 8’ promo spots, 8 is the first proposition since prohibition that seeks to take rights away from people. I am naturally against it. Then I think of my gay friends and family – many of whom are married to each other – and can’t imagine a world without their unions being allowed. My uncle and his husband serve as the best example we have in our family of a healthy partnership and lasting love. They’ve been together longer than any of the hetero couples in our family. And their care and regard for each other is clear in their communication and they way they work through life’s issues together.

My father-in-law to-be, an old-school European gentleman, growled that gays shouldn’t be allowed to marry and adopt because the kids will get made fun of and that will be hard on them. I shot back with a litany of my own childhood teasings including my height, the way I sat in my chair and being ostracized for wearing the wrong brand of jeans. Kids will find something to pick on no matter who your parents are. What a gift to be raised by two loving parents rather than an abusive home or even a struggling single parent household.

Local right wingers and many shipped in from Utah tried to scare voters with ‘Yes on 8’ campaigns that stated ‘gay marriage will be taught in schools and your kids will be corrupted.’ What? Since when is marriage taught in schools at all? And how is expanding kids’ minds about the differences of the world corrupting? This bigoted lie was quickly shot down but I was sure there was a base of haters that was still clinging to it.

My friend’s promo spots end with the tag line: “Don’t be a douche, vote no on 8” and I could help but agree. Who, but a complete douche could vote yes on 8? It doesn’t hurt you or take away from you in any way. All it does it hurt others.

Beyond douche – straight up bigot was more like it. As my dog-walking friend and I took in the ‘Yes on 8’ sign, BIGOT was the only word flashing through my mind.

“I’m just surprised to see that sign here,” she murmured.

“I know,” I agreed, “what complete bigots!”

“What? Oh no, that’s not bigoted.” Now I was double-shocked and then I remembered the Bush/Cheney sticker on her Volvo as she continued: “I’m voting yes on 8.”

“Buy WHY?” I couldn’t help myself.

“I believe in the sanctity of marriage,” she punctuated the sentence with a raise of her patrician nose.

At this point I figured I’d better reign in the argument or we’d cease to be friends all together. “Let’s agree to disagree on this.” I offered. You have your sanctity, I thought. How does someone else having theirs hurt you in any way? Two people who love each other and want to make a life together should be allowed to marry. Period. End of subject. I bit my tongue. I figured it’s kind of like that pro-choice argument: if you are against abortion, don’t have one. Leave others to make what choice works for them. Why do people feel the need to legislate the lives of others?

We finished our walk with awkward, inane small talk and said goodbye at the corner. My solace was that my neighbor’s point of view would, with any luck, die out with her generation.

But I couldn’t leave it at that. It was blatantly offensive and bigoted to have that sign out. To me, it was akin to posting a KKK sign in your front yard. I had to do something.

The clock clicks to 5:31. In the cover of darkness, I scoot out of bed. I should be more tired but I’m adrenalized. I dress quickly in all black and sit at my desk where I make a sign with black and red markers.

“HATEFUL BIGOTS” it reads. I consider it for a moment. I worry about getting caught. Maybe the ‘HATEFUL’ is too much. Was this kind of statement free speech or vandalism? Could I be arrested? I cut the ‘HATEFUL’ off the paper, leaving just ‘BIGOTS’.

I’m worrying more now about possible repercussions. I cover my fingertips in tape so I won’t leave prints and cover the front of my page with packing tape. This way I’ll be able to smack it on the front of the ‘Yes on 8’ sign and they won’t be able to pull it off without ruining the sign. They’ll have to take the offensive sign down.

I grab my dog and off we go. It will be light soon and we have to hurry. My dog is surprised as I drag him past his favorite potty spots. My pulse pounds as I near the corner where the bigot house sits. I can still back out of this, I think. I can just throw the sign away - leave them with their hater mind set, no risk to me. No, I decide, I have to do this.

I round the corner. In the darkness, I can barely make out the backs of their cars and the plants in the front yard. Wasn’t the sign on the left? I can’t see anything. I hurry closer, straining my eyes.

Nothing. The sign is gone.

I pause for a moment looking all over. Nope, not moved to the other side. I consider taping my ‘BIGOTS’ sign to their trash can but decide that’s not exactly fair. A motion detector light flashes on and I walk on, crumpling my sign.

Maybe someone else beat me to the punch and they had to take it down. Maybe the realized how hateful their point of view was and changed their minds. Maybe. I can have hope, can’t I? I thank the universe for protecting me from whatever would have gone wrong had I carried out my plan. And I leave those haters to that same universe for reprimand.

My dog and I trot home through the rosy dawn and I look to election day when I will vote for hope. I have to trust that that statement will be powerful enough.

On the Eve of Election

2008-10-21T12:05:00.000-07:00

This came to me today from a dear friend:

I was in Spain a few years ago when the same sex marriage law was passed

there. It really surprised me that such a conservative, Catholic country can

get such a law passed. You know how it happened? Simple. While the country is

very conservative, they are also very family oriented. Each family has or know

someone who is gay or lesbian ... and believe that they, too, should be given

equal rights to marry the person they love. It's amazing how it happened.

As such, I have come up with a simple plan to block Proposition 8 -- JUST ASK 5

( http://www.justask5.org/ ).

For the next two weeks- YOU NEED TO TELL AT LEAST 5 PEOPLE how important

this ballot is to you, and how it can impact our lives. Ask your family, your friends,

and your co workers ... tell them what NO ON PROP 8 means to you.

Because this affects you. And if they love you, they should know that supporting this

initiative is important to you!

If Proposition 8 wins, discrimination against gay people will be written into our State

Constitution for the very first time. We can't let that happen.

This measure is VERY IMPORTANT TO US ... but would the girl next to our office know

if we don't tell them? Will your 70 year old mother in Hemet know what Prop 8 is?

Does your staff know how getting out there and voting NO ON PROP 8 mean to

our constitutional rights? All it takes is to ask --- call them, email them, and lets' do

whatever we can!

You have two weeks- JUST ASK 5! http://www.justask5.org/

Be My Friend

2008-09-25T11:54:00.000-07:00

I like to think that with my blog I pretty much have free reign to speak my mind on people and events in my present and my past. I’ve felt particularly cavalier about condemning the cruel wenches of childhood. After all, that was a lifetime ago. They’re never going to read this.

Then a funny thing started happening: my past starting friending me.

Ah, the joys of online networking sites. One day I was startled to see a friend-add from a guy I went to high school with. I wouldn’t have said we were BFF but there was also no hostility there so, tickled by the novelty of connecting with someone from those dark years, I accepted him as an online friend.

Over the last months I’ve had several friend-adds from other high school people. It’s funny, at the time I know some of them would never have called themselves my friends and now here they are. Do they remember what it was like? Am I the only one not grown up enough to let go of the bitterness?

You have to understand I am the furthest thing from a rah-rah ‘wasn’t high school great?’ girl. In fact I always said you couldn’t pay me enough to have to go to a reunion. Those four years were a living nightmare with exclusionary cliques and shallow bitches, why would I ever want to relive them? “How shallow?” You ask? There was a girl in my AP English class that wrote an ode to how her favorite barrette completed her Gucci outfit.

One friend of mine did in fact go to our reunion and he confirmed that it was just as we thought it would be. Planned by the same clique who had fancied themselves queens of the school, it was all about them. He said of the 1000+ pictures the hired photographer took, he found himself in one.

Anyway, in my new fabulous life, I have considered myself fairly insulated from that time and those people. I thought I could freely write about the bitches and the injustices with abandon – without fear of the actual bitch reading it. Now it’s suddenly a real possibility.

I had been about to write a post about a girl I’ll call Holier-than-thou Harriet. Harriet and I rowed together and also staffed the peer counseling center together. Once at a crew team party, she’d offered me a party cup of keg beer. Terrified to actually let down my parents I told her I didn’t drink.

“Oh good for you,” she sneered, raised her chin and wobbled away.

A few days later in the peer counseling center, we’d been discussing breakfast, health and recycling. Even back then, Harriet was extremely proud of her earth-conscious life. She’d been singing the praises of her mother’s bulk-bought, home-made, stone-ground oatmeal when I said I ate the kind from the Quaker packets. She shook her head tragically like she was scolding an ignorant five-year old.

“Those paper packets are such a waste. You’re really doing a horrible thing to the earth by eating that way,” then came the familiar chin raise. I wish I’d called her a holier-than-thou hag then but instead I just got quiet – my favorite high school defense mechanism.

These memories of Harriet had sprung to mind the other day and I sat down to write about how ridiculous the whole experience of knowing her was. And suddenly there she was on another friend’s friend list, heavier (thank God) but still looking imperious and fake-friendly. Maybe I shouldn’t write about those memories. I thought about censoring myself, trying to play nice and be innocuous so they’d like me. Just like I used to.

But…ooops! I just went ahead and wrote them, didn’t I? Screw it. I’m saying what I want with the small effort of changing the names of the guilty. I only wish I’d been so willing to stand up for myself and speak my mind in High School.

The other weird thing about online networks and past friends and loves is the profile pic. Will someone please explain to me why people who’ve reproduced feel the need to include their offspring in their profile pic? It’s YOUR profile, I want to see a picture of YOU. Besides, I have that singleton grip of panic seeing former friends happily married with children. Will that ever be me? I am a firm believer that living well is the best revenge but if some of these old frenemies look like they’re living better than me, well, that’s a life failure on such a grand scale I’m not willing to consider it. Did I mention that I may be the only one here not mature enough to let go of old bitterness?

I did find my high school crush online. I’m happy to say he looks…meh.

And then there was my best friend. I’ll call him Sam. Sam was one of those guys everyone loved no matter what clique they were part of. My family loved him. Everyone thought we would end up together. It was very “When Harry Met Sally.” In fact our song – yes, we had a song – was “It Had To Be You.” Flavorless Phyllis had beat me to the punch and asked him to prom (I went stag) but she was conveniently absent when they played that song so we got to dance to it. I loved Sam with my whole heart but I was always afraid of ruining the friendship by taking it to that next level.

And there he was too on another friend’s list with – my lungs tightened – a baby. The baby looks just like him, mop of curly hair and all. I stared for a long time and wondered how I had ever lost my friend. It wasn’t like I could be sad about him having married someone else. I didn’t really think we’d end up together like Harry and Sally. But there was something that tugged at me to know that this person who had meant so much to me had gone on and had a whole life I knew nothing about. Some friend I am.

So in the end I’ve decided that the sudden proximity of my blog and my past is not a reason for censorship. The days of going quiet are behind me. Maybe in the coming weeks I’ll be able to explore some High School folks pages through eyes looking at humans rather than enemies. Perhaps I’ll be able to see that they were hurting and confused back then too and that I never really knew them at all. Maybe I’ll be able to finally assuage some of the old bitterness and grow up. Maybe. But for now, I’m having fun gloating over who got fat and bald.

***

If you need a soundtrack for finding friends online, I highly recommend “Be My Friend” by the fab Scots, The Hedrons.