Polly-Who?

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.

Travels with Dad

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.

Prime Time

I was walking with some neighbors when the subject of another neighbor’s girlfriend came up. It was agreed that she was a pain in the ass and none of us really understood why. She was pretty and smart yet somehow her runaway insecurity drove her to posture, snub and be an all-around bitch. I didn’t get it.

Turns out one of the neighbors I was walking with had dated said bitch many years before.

“Like twenty years ago. You know, when she was smokin’ hot.”

I made a sound of protest. Was she somehow less than smokin’ now? The girl looked like a model to me, save her ugly personality. He must have interpreted my squawk as a note of jealousy because he then continued:

“Like you were, I’m sure. You used to be smokin’ hot too, right?”

Thankfully, we arrived at their house at that moment and said our goodbyes. Otherwise I might have strangled him.

I work hard to keep fit and improve myself. To me the bone structure of my face has become more elegant that when I was say thirteen and still padded with baby fat despite being lanky as a reed. I consider myself to be continually improving. “Used to be” isn’t part of my equation.

As I waved goodbye, I was torn between outraged and embarrassed. Here I am thinking I am in my prime. Am I actually past it? Have I become like the cougar bar owner in our neighborhood who is pushing fifty but still shops at Forever 21? I’m an advocate of graceful ageing. I just didn’t think I had to do it yet.

When I was thirteen, I was scouted by Elite modeling agency. Since then I’ve taken for granted that I got lucky in the genetics lottery when it comes to looks. I walk into venues and events with confidence. Sure, there are little starlet types here that are younger than me (and usually generically blonde), but they’ve got nothing on me. And besides, I’m far more interesting than they could possibly be at their tender ages. I have lived some. I have wisdom, wit, finesse…seasoning.

At thirteen I was more interested in school than pursuing a modeling career but I always assumed it would be something I could come back to. Besides, dad wasn’t up for driving me to modeling jobs so the rule was when I turned sixteen and could drive myself, I could go sign up with Elite. By the time I got my license, I was on a college track and thought I’d pick it back up later. No one told me most models’ careers peak between thirteen and eighteen.

Then life happened and I only got around to knocking on Modeling’s door again in my early thirties. I had just moved to LA from my mountain town and was still passing for mid-twenties. I had a friend take some shots of me and made the rounds of the LA agencies. In every case I was told I was too old. And too fat. At six feet and a size eight, the fat comment underscored just how warped the modeling world is. But too old?! One agency suggested I try their classics department. They were sure I’d be a great fit there. In case this is a new term for you “Classics” means old people. Like the attractive seniors advertising your Depends. Seriously? I feel a bit young to be hawking arthritis cream.

Needless to say, my lookist LA wake-up call was loud and clear. My chances at being the next Cindy Crawford were gone with the wind. But still, I didn’t think that instantly made me old hag material.

Cut to present day. I no longer pass for mid-twenties, thanks to the stress of clawing out a Hollywood existence…except to my teen students who aren’t sure how old I am but recently asked if I was in fact over twenty-five. Bless them!

And now my well-intentioned (but still possibly deserving of strangulation) neighbor informs me my days of regular person attractiveness are also behind me. Who died and made this fifty-something guy the beauty authority? As much as I would like to reject his judgment out of hand, it slowly dawns on me his perception is probably more in line with the rest of the world’s than mine is. How sad that the beauty that matures with women is so easily overlooked.

I guess now I can look forward to becoming invisible; a strange phenomenon my over-forty friends tell me about. Neat. Maybe when I’m sixty I’ll try again for those modeling agencies classics divisions. I’ll be the great invisible grand dame. At least no one will notice if I take all the cookies from craft services.

*UPDATE*

I was just showing high school photos to a thirty-something male friend.

“Wow, you were beautiful,” he declared, a little too surprised. Then he looked at me as though searching for traces of that leggy girl in the 80s pegged jeans.

There’s that “were” again. So there you are: to men the pinnacle of female beauty is sixteen years old. I guess it’s silly that I should be so surprised by this when our culture so wholeheartedly enforces unrealistic and youthful beauty standards. But I am surprised because I feel my girlfriends and I have only gotten better with age. My mom is more beautiful now in her sixties than she was in her forties. I thought everyone else could see it too.

The upside is that now our beauty becomes something for us to own. I don’t need to put on lipstick for anyone else. I can get dressed up for me and damn anyone else’s opinion. I’m kind of liking that freedom and centered selfness. Is this what they mean by ageing gracefully?

Wait To Worry

This is one of my aunt’s mantras. And it makes sense. When I think of how much time we spend – I spend – concocting upset only to have the thing I was stressing about turn out just fine, it’s silly. What inane creatures we must seem from the point of view of dogs or space aliens.

I know it’s partly a control issue. We like to imagine we are in control of a situation or caring about it by worrying when really all we’re doing is giving ourselves ulcers. Now as a writer, my version of many of these worries tends to run to the melodramatic. To put it mildly.

My father had surgery today. Never the kind of thing you want to take lightly. But by all accounts his was a fairly routine procedure and most likely we’d have nothing to worry about. His girlfriend was tasked with calling me when he came out of surgery to let me know everything was fine and then I would call other family members to report. The appointed hour of his surgery came and went and I hadn’t gotten a call. I tried to stay calm and positive. But I kept finding myself running down the “What if they’re not calling me because it’s bad?” track.

After several more silent hours passed, I was beside myself with worry. The sappiest dad/daughter hallmark cards were getting me choked up and I found myself saving his voice mails from that morning. After all, what if they were the last ones I ever got?

Finally I called Information in his county and got a hold of the hospital. The first lady I spoke with had no record of him as a patient. OK, that’s not worrying. The second, third and fourth bounced me from department to department. Finally I ended up talking to an orderly in an operating room.

“Oh yeah, we’re just cleaning up that room.” He informed me. From what? Massive blood loss on the Linoleum? He didn’t know the status of the patient.

I finally got a friendly nurse at yet another department front desk. I gave her my father’s name and she sweetly asked me to wait and then put me on hold for an eternity. As the canned Chuck Mangione trickled over the phone, my imagination ran away.

Why is this taking so long? Clearly it’s because the records were not there. Or they were there…but she doesn’t want to be the one to tell me. She’s trying to find a doctor or someone else to break the horrible news that my father has passed away. Oh my god. How am I going to deal with everything if he’s gone? His business dealings, his investments I won’t know how to handle, his crazy dog I’ll have to take. Did I remember to save that voice mail from this morning? Did I tell him I love him before he went in? How could I face life without my dad? I am not ready to be an adult!

Tears were running down my face as the hold music blared. I scolded myself: Get a hold of yourself, woman. You don’t even know what’s going on and some poor nurse could pick back up and you’ll be a blubbering mess. It’s hard to explain to a stranger that you are crying over an imagined possible scenario.

At last a nurse came back to the line. “He was released hours ago. He should be home. Everything’s fine.” Resolving to smack my dad’s inane girlfriend for letting me stew in my own worry for hours, I thanked the nurse and blew my nose.

The next day, when the drugs had worn off, dad called me and everything was indeed fine. I felt funny telling him how upset I’d been. It’s kind of odd talking to someone about the effect their death will have on you.

Of course it’s hard not to worry about someone in surgery and I’m sure there are plenty of morals in there about making the time you have with people count. The important thing is now my dad knows I save his voice mails and worry about him. For me, I’ll try to contain the worst-case-scenario musings to the page.

Adult Listening

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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