What's in a Tagline?

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.

Simon vs. The Purse Dogs

*** 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?

The Ex Factor

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.

My Big Break

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.

Employment

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.

La Dolce Far' Niente

I am a blessed woman. I come from a family that values travel as the best education. One of my favorite bragging points about myself is that I’ve been to every country in Western Europe and about half of Eastern. But anyone who knows me, knows I have one true love: Italy. I knew there was something special between us when I came home from my first multi-country hop, walked into my high school English classroom and burst into sentimental tears at the sight of a Florentine Duomo poster.

Once again I am even more blessed. I got to spend July with my beloved. And my boyfriend too (an Italian, of course). We celebrated our year anniversary with a UCLA writing intensive. As always I never want to come home from that magical country and upon yet another tearful return, my BF asked me: what is it about Italy exactly that has such a hold on me? Not that he’d argue with my opinion but he’s pretty content here.

I could say the food, the people, the language, the history and all of the above are true love motivations for me. My BF argues it’s possible to get all that here: there are some (a teeny handful) of good Italian restaurants here. I have lots of Italian friends here. I can speak Italian with them or with the BF whenever I want. I have my kitchen geared for Espresso, not drip. But there is still a missing intangible that I love. The sum of Italian life is greater than the parts. The best I can come up with is: I love Italy for how I feel when I’m there.

To put it in context, it helps to understand that I was stressed out of my mind before our trip. Broken out worse than ever, trying to get distribution for one film, find financing for another, attach my favorite BSG star to a third, prep pitch materials for CAA for a fourth, AND struggle to turn a floundering company into a non-profit, AND work enough hours at that and several other freelance gigs to make a month’s income in ten days so as to pay my rent before leaving. I was pretty much stretched to the breaking point. But then, that’s nothing unusual for life in LA.

And then there’s Italy. Even there for a writing intensive and working from 8am to 8pm there was such joy. I stopped worrying about just when something got done and noticed it always got done just fine. I took pride in arranging breakfast and cleaning the kitchen after our troop of nine writers. Even the simple act of stringing up laundry to dry in the sun was enjoyable. It’s not just the air in Italy that makes me enjoy life there, it’s the breathing room. Nothing is done in fretta.

And then the weekend came and no matter how much work loomed before us, we hung up our weary laptops and went out and enjoyed. And didn’t feel guilty about it. This is a particularly American concept. Guilt about pleasure. Feeling that we have to earn happiness instead of just being entitled to it and blessed with it by nature. The Italians think we’re crazy for this, and they’re right. I took time to enjoy my life in Italy and I still came home with a great new script. (Hey CAA, dysfunctional family road movie?)

And that’s my missing intangible. I no longer believe in killing myself to get ahead. I renounce my devotion to the church of “the one who gets the most done wins.” I have discovered something truly remarkable in Italy: The weekend. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. I hadn’t seen one in real life in years, not all at once. And now I get them once a week. It’s amazing. You should try it.

I absolutely, categorically refuse to work on the weekends. I even hung up on a Red Cross Blood Drive guy: “Buddy, I’m happy to talk to you about giving my blood on Monday but today is Sunday.”

Since I’ve always been the uber-productive efficiency queen, my new ‘I get time for me’ policy is unsettling for those who always counted on me to get the job done no matter what. But that’s OK. No one ever died from waiting till Monday for a return email. OK, maybe in a medical emergency but I’m not a doctor and you can’t email me your pancreas. Nope, I am strictly enforcing my lowered productivity.

The funny thing is, my face has cleared up for the first time in years, I’m still getting stuff done on time, and I have more energy. I am actually enjoying life in LA again. Not pining for Italy quite as much as usual. In real world terms, I still get the work of two or three normal humans done in a week but for me that’s a big lazy shift from four or five.

There really is something sweet in the doing of nothing. And in allowing myself to see that as necessary rather than indulgent. Really, it’s acceptance that I’m in fact not a machine and an honoring of my humanity. Italy was trying to give that to me all along with the Baci and gelato and Illy Caffe and sunshine on medieval cobblestones and fireflies in the deepest Umbrian night and the good friends who bring half the town to welcome your visit and the slow mail and ridiculous bureaucracy and la bella figura and the roadside chapels and the little Italian cook who thinks you’re crazy for loving her homemade truffle lasagna like it was filet mignon and caviar at a five star restaurant because that’s what it is…Italy was gifting me this and I finally accepted. While I’ve always had Italy in my heart, I finally really got some of it in my life. Grazie, amore mio. It only took me twenty years to get it.

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?

Hollywood Casual

In a strange turn of events last night I attended two very different parties. Both invited stated the dress was 'Hollywood Casual' and I was curious to see how this would be interpreted.

The first party, an AIDS research benefit, was full of art and salad. First kismet of the night: neighbors of mine showed up in a new Rolls Royce. People were self-consciously attractive in that LA "are you noticing me?" way. It was entertaining in the same way many things I go to here are. Pleasant and sparkly in a plastic way.

Then I ended up at the annual stunt awards after party. Second kismet of the night: the party was on the studio lot where I used to work and showing my friend around my old stomping ground, I found my old golf cart. It's been repurposed to a new department but still bears the Union Jack I put on its green plastic flank.

The thing about the stunt party was the meat. There were no salads here, but lots of carving stations and meat dishes available. There was a mechanical bull to ride and other games of strength. No art. But copious amounts of meat to eat.

And meat to look at. I say this from the bottom of my cougar heart. The stunt men and women of LA. And this is the thing that struck me most about the entire evening. I have been to many parties with "the beautiful people" here. The starlet parties. The model-laden events. But never have I been at a party with more good looking people. And unconsciously so. These people were just here to have a good time and they were all fit and adventurous. And hot. I danced my ass off as did everyone else. Not because it looked good but because it was fun. There was actually a dance circle at one point with people taking turns showing off their moves and challenging each other to more flips and fancy kicks. I heard Zoolander in my head say "they're dance fighting." When was the last time you were at a party like that?

So that's my special Hollywood insider tip of the day: for the really beautiful LA people go to the Stunt Awards.

Cracks in the Facade

I am the first to admit I can come off as a Pollyanna. Especially with my consistently blithe outlook on life in LA and a Hollywood career. I've had my share of off days but I've never really lost hope. Brazen and sure of my talent I marched into the Tinseltown battle. Lately though, things seem to have hit a turning point in several ways.

Last week while home, I visited a friend whose been battling various cancers for nearly a decade. There's no one taking care of him. That's not sitting well with me. As I contemplate the possibility of moving home to care for him, I'm forced to assess what I'd be giving up. The answer was a sad "not much."

This summer I will hit my five-year mark. I have created a great network of people and have done some great writing. I have work ready to sell. Heck, I've even produced a feature... which needs distribution.

For the most part though, I still mostly grocery shop at the 99cent store and am barely able to claw out an existence here. I'm getting tired. In the grand scheme, no one who could really pay me for the work I've done, or hire me to do more of it, knows about me. I am at a loss as to how to change that.

And five years already. When does non-success become pathetic? Ten years? Twenty? Or was it at three?

I can finally turn around and look at myself as I was when I moved here so full of audacious hope. I see what they saw - those cynical veterans of the Hollywood trenches. I know why they laughed.

I feel like I've fought the good fight to reach this point. What happens next will determine if it becomes a might-have-been story or a snatched-from-the-jaws-of-defeat story. Either an angel connector will reach out a helping hand or there will be a sign from the Universe to pack it in and go home. Tonight, all I really know is I'm tired of fighting.

The Man With the Cans

As anyone in LA can tell you, there is a thriving sub-economy driven by the homeless and illegal immigrants. We have one such guy in my neighborhood. He and his shopping cart are a fixture on my street. He patrols the neighborhood and picks over our recycling bins thereby scraping himself a living. Over the years, we've developed a...well not a friendship but an acknowledging connection. We always say hello. He asks about my dog who gambols over to be petted. He tells me it's a beautiful day and he's doing well.

The neighborhood likes the cart man. Many people leave their bottles and cans out bagged separately for him so he doesn't have to dig in our deep bins. He has a calm, kind energy about him.

Then last week on a long dog walk I saw him - the interloper; a new kid with missing front teeth and a battered pick-up. The kind of truck held together by twine and duct tape. He was scooting quickly from house to house, leaving the truck idling while he dumpster dove. I didn't like it.

Now I am not really up on how things work in the world of recycling scavengers. I'm not sure about the rights and rules of territory protocol. But something about this new kid and his truck rubbed me the wrong way.

This morning, I saw his truck blocking my driveway as he rattled around in the bin across the street. I went out for a dog walk and saw him speed around the corner. Up our hill trudged our regular shopping cart guy. He nearly turned down our street but his shoulders sagged as he saw the kid and his truck and he went straight instead. I walked up to him.

"Who's the new kid?" I asked as he petted my dog.

He shook his head and said he didn't know but that he was ruining things for him. I looked at him, an old man, pushing his heavy cart up the hill.

"But that's not right. This is your street. You're our friend." I was hoping he'd tell me about some kind of scavenger protocol that was about to handle the kid. I was aware of how bourgeosie my concern was.

"Yes. There's nothing I can do though. No respect from the kids. Maybe the people here can tell him."

He left if hanging there. A dignified plea for help. I was, as it happens, the people here.

I continued on my dog walk and before long I ran into the kid, jumping from his idling truck again. Just then the man with the cart trudged into view at the bottom of the hill. My territorial nature kicked in, this time including the cart man in my territory.

"Hey. Who are you?"

The kid was startled. "I'm getting the bottles," he finally smiled.

"No. This is his street. It's been his street for years. You have to respect that." I pointed at the cart man looking into a picked-over bin down the hill.

"Well no, it's mine. I'm just over here..."

"No, it's not yours. This is his street. You have a truck, it's easier for you to find another street. He's our friend here. You go."

He hesitated, still grinning his toothless grin at me, the crazy Gringa. Was I serious or just a pain in the ass?

"Go. Now." I teach self defense for a living and when I want to command intimidation with my words, I can. He went.

I kept walking up the hill and saw he had not stopped again. Turning back down the hill, my dog and I ran into the old cart man again. He was passing an untouched bin.

"Wait! He didn't stop here," I told him. He looked at me in confusion.

"I told him it was your street and you are our friend. I told him to go."

He finally smiled a soft smile. "Thank you."

I wished him a good day and went home. I have no idea if I wrongly interfered in a scavenger turf war or if I actually helped. For all I know the kid has six babies at home and the cart man is single. But I felt like someone had to stand up for the 'hood - for this man who I had called friend. I don't even know his name. But as heard his cart rattle by again outside, it felt like it had been the right thing to do. Middle-class Pollyanna and all.

Shiny Objects

I got a parking ticket today. And I had to go to the doctor for my apparent strep.

But the Universe balances it out for me.

You know it takes very little to make girls happy. It's a fact we like shiny things.

I got home from the doctor to discover one of the most beautiful sights as far as my little vehicular heart is concerned: my all time favorite shiny objects.

Ten Deloreans. In a row. Driving up and down my street.

License plates - of course - like McFLY, OUTA TME, TM MCHN...pitter patter goes my heart.

And then...

I got to sit in one. Aaaaaand my day is made.

Thank you, car gods!

Can you pay this parking ticket too?

Crossing the Line

I’ve never been a big fan of unions. It could be because I was brought up by a capitalist who believes that unions are sucking the competitive edge out of America. It could be because of my early exposure to Ayn Rand and my resultant belief in meritocracy. It could be because when I worked for a major corporation creating a Times Square theme restaurant, I was appalled to see a 40-year old 7^th grade drop-out earn $40 an hour for pushing the construction elevator button up or down while I, a college grad, made $15 an hour running the office. The elevator operator was in the Union. I was a mere temp.

Whatever the genesis of my dislike, I am surprised to find myself now a huge union supporter. At least of one particular union. Though I am not yet a member of the Writers Guild of America, I hope to be. I imagine WGA membership is what separates the real writers from the wannabees in this town. I long for that validation that my membership will bring. Not only will that make me part of the club, it will mean I have sold a script. It will mean I have made money off my art.

As I drive around town during the strike, I honk in solidarity when I pass picketing writers. I am one of you, I long to shout. I get smiles and waves in return. I feel like I am part of something bigger – fighting the good fight against the greedy corporations. OK so I wouldn’t be Sally Field in “Norma Rae,” but I’d be one of the beleaguered farm workers cheering her on.

“Come by for lunch today!” my friend enthused. A great idea, as the friend in question is one of my best and we always have a good time talking over the ups and downs of our lives. The only problem: she works on a major studio lot – the same one where I used to work.

Up until this point, I’d always managed to schedule meetings and lunches with studio friends off the lot but the logistics of this day made it impossible. I didn’t like the idea of having to cross the picket line of my fellow writers but it’s not like it was for work. That made it OK, right?

I drove up to the main studio gates and waited for the light. The picketers slowed at my approach. No one cleared the way even as the light turned green. I inched across the sidewalk, conscious that I was now blocking the road and cars going straight were getting pissed. My fellow writers did not hurry their progress from my bumper. One guy adopted a slow, shuffle-step and paused to glare at me with each shuffle. It was every bit the uncomfortable, traitorous experience I had feared it would be.

“No, you guys!” I wanted to shout, “I’m one of you! I’m not working here. Just meeting a friend for lunch.” I willed the message out of my eyes at Shuffle Dude. On he glared. I think he even slowed down.

“We’re not even buying food from the studio, we brought from outside!” I eye-pleaded.

Nothing.

After about a year, the angry guy shuffled aside enough for me to pass to the security gate where I was warmly greeted by old friends. Even though my visit to the lot was completely un-work or money related, even though my presence on the lot would in no way impact the studio's business, I still felt like a horrible traitor.

These strikers saw me every day as I drove to one of my ends-meet part time jobs. I always honked. They would know my car. They would probably think I was selling them out; a scab. How would I repair this rift between myself and the members of my aspired-to union?

As my friend and I ate it began to rain. I was too queasy from the whole line crossing experience and could only nibble at my sandwich. By the time I left her office, it was raining in earnest. I got in my car and drove toward the gates. I prepared myself for the wall of anger and misunderstanding to hit me.

Maybe, I thought, the thing to do would be to park across the street and come back and explain everything to them. I could picture their rain splattered faces laughing as I got to the “We even got the sandwiches from off the lot” line. They would become new friends and we’d commiserate over the studios’ greed. I’d be brought back into the fold.

Confident in my plan, I idled my car up to security. It was late and wet. The picketers were gone.

Where Have All The Cojones Gone?

“He needs to be a badass, like Steve McQueen.”

A writer friend and I were talking about his new script. He’s written a fabulous throwback to the great action suspense films of the 70s and we were brainstorming on who could play the lead.

“Tim Olyphant!” I chirped, relishing my Deadwood hero.

“Right vibe but too old.”

He was right. Not that Tim’s old but part in question calls for a twentysomething. So who in the world of Hollywood fits that bill these days? Who would play young Steve McQueen? We pondered this for a while longer and came up dry. We could not think of one manly actor in this whole town.

Now, as a lifelong poet-loving anglo-phile, I dig the whole emo thing as much as the next girl but the universal androgeny of the modern male is getting disturbing. I kind of want my eyeliner back.

Sharing tales of missing masculinity with girlfriends, I hear the same stories echoed back at me. It seems a girl can’t get a manly man in this town. It’s absolutely insane. We spent our teens and twenties being good girls, worrying about our overall partner counts and making sure (ill-considered one night stands aside) to only sleep with men who meant something – who really loved us. Now in our thirties, we’re less deluded, more well-rounded, fascinating babes and we can’t get laid to save our lives. Guys, it seems, have turned frigid.

My girlfriends in relationships talk about how, more often than not, it’s their man who’s not in the mood. I myself spent many teary moments in my last relationship crying myself to sleep as I wondered what was wrong with me.

My singleton friends share tales of meeting guys who seem interested – with whom they’d be totally willing – and the guys never follow up. “I can’t even get a decent one night stand if I wanted to,” a friend wailed recounting a night of dancing at a club and being flirted with all night by a young buck only to watch him leave laughing with his guy friends. So I ask for the frustrated females everywhere: what is wrong with the modern male?

Are guys really so afraid of rejection that they don’t try anymore? Have they actually lost their libidos? Are they all secretly gay? We really want to know.

I’m not saying I’m craving a return to the James Bond misogyny where a guy just took a girl even if she said no. And I’m not suggesting we just want sex for sex’s sake. We still want love and partnership and all the rest of it. But right here and now let’s dispel the myth that girls are the ones who could take it or leave it. I didn’t make it through the repression of my twenties just to hit puritanical thirties.

And apparently, we’re also dispelling the myth that guys want it and are on all the time. Much like realizing unicorns aren’t real, and if you’re a good person good things will come to you, this is one myth that really sucks to let go of.

Silence Is The New No

I’ve had a lot going on, what with making a feature film and all. I’ve asked a lot of people for a lot of help. Asking for help is something that does not come easy to me. I’m one of those “No, no, I’ll carry it all myself” people. I loathe admitting to need help – like it’s a sign of fatal weakness.

A few years back a dear friend offered me dinner when he knew I was strapped for cash. In my self-sufficiency, though hungry, I turned him down. Another friend pulled me aside and imparted a great wisdom: giving people the opportunity to contribute to us is a gift. After all, we all want to make a difference with people we care about. Nut-shelled: ask for help when you need it – you could actually be making someone’s day. A tough lesson for the loner but one that I’ve been working on learning.

When everything with the movie became a blur of last-minute harried craziness due to our accelerated pre-production schedule, I started asking for help. Everything from “Do you know an actor for this role?” to “Can you help me set up food?” to “Do you have a deer skull I can borrow?” Even fun stuff like “Wanna come be an extra for a scene?”

As it turns out my oldest friend in the world did have a deer skull but that's another blog post. And many friends, new and old, stepped up and helped in capacities great and small. But the thing that amazes me is how many didn’t.

I do not want to appear ungrateful. I know my dream of filmmaking is not everyone’s dream. And I know everyone is busy with their own dreams. The thing that surprises me is not the NOs - those would have been understandable -but the complete lack of response. Is it an LA thing?

Here in Lala Land, I have been guilty of it myself. A friend invites you to something, you don’t feel like going, you don’t feel like coming up with a reason why so you just stay silent until the next day when you thank them anyway. It’s like “If I don’t respond, I don’t have to be accountable.” Granted sometimes you really don’t get the invite until the next day, but seriously. [Sidebar FYI - when you view an Evite the organizer can see you've viewed it ... and that you (rudely?) haven't responded]

Is it that hard to be a grown up and take responsibility for ourselves and just say no? Are we all that afraid of risking a friend’s upset or of seeming like a lame friend? I for one, would have appreciated the honest communications. On this end, the silence feels like much more of an eff you.

And just when I get righteous I realize I forgot to send a condolence card to my cousin who just told me she lost her grandfather. How's that silence feel? Dang it. Once again, I don’t have the answer. But having seen the thing from both sides, I will check myself on my own easy-way-out silences. I wouldn’t want you to think I was just ignoring you because I don’t want to say no.

Heidi's Rules for Successful Driving

1. Always let people in. You know, when it doesn't piss you off. You will probably need someone to return the favor in about five minutes.



2. If you are pulled over with a broken spedometer, do not answer "Do you know how fast you were going?" with "Actually, no, Officer."



3. Unless it's really hot or really cold, drive with the windows down. This allows the people next to you to share your music which is inevitably better than theirs. You are sharing and educating.



4. Keep your car washed and waxed. It goes faster without the wind resistance dirt causes.



5. If you should pull a jackrabbit start turning left off the line as the light turns yellow and then over-rev and showboat around a slow SUV and THEN realize the car behind you is a cop, immediately downshift (brakelights are an admission of guilt) and pull into the next mini-mall like you calmly yet urgently need an item from whatever store is in front of you. Park and wait for the cop to go away. It also helps to imagine you are bland and wearing beige and not a speedster at all. It may even help to imagine you car is beige. Unless your car is beige in which case I doubt any of this applies to you.

The Lesson

Nothing’s ever convenient in a life that’s packed wall to wall with obligations and goals. When a cog in this ridiculous machine comes loose something out of the usual schedule, say a family visit, becomes even less convenient.

I’d been doing my best to keep up on all my various writing projects, care for my animals, keep my house clean and handle the tasks of my side job that (barely) pays the bills. In general I do all this with the motto of do no harm. I try to do good deeds, help when I can and stay in integrity in all my communications. Imagine my surprise when a communication hit the fan.

As my sister arrived for a rare visit, I found myself embroiled in a crazy misunderstanding between industry friends that was being blown completely out of proportion. I am not used to people thinking ill of me. It makes me very uncomfortable. When I’ve done nothing wrong and people think ill, it’s really hard for me to accept.

As I took my sis around town I fielded phone call after phone call from various supporters and detractors. I floundered to come up with spin control and any kind of positive communication plan. As my sister and I walked on the beach, my stomach was in knots wondering how I would positively resolve the issues at hand and restore friendships where now there was upset.

My sister left later that day and I waved her off as I jumped on yet another phone call. I was so busy trying to manage people’s misinformed bad opinions of me, I hadn’t even taken her to frozen yogurt like I’d promised.

A friend called me later that night. She listened patiently as I told her the ins and outs of the crazy communication breakdown.

“People in Hollywood are nuts,” she wisely barked. “They always will be. You need to grow a thick skin and not give a crap what they think about you. You just focus on your good work and screw the rest. If they don’t like you, screw them.”

I had never considered the possibility of just letting go. Clearly these people were not any BFFs of mine if they would jump to the conclusions they jumped to, never checking in with me; if they would hold onto the drama of what was truly a non-issue to effectively end our friendship. The whole ridiculous incident felt like High School again and the letting go of the craziness was like fast forwarding the years back to the present. A relief.

All along I kept asking myself: what am I supposed to be learning from this? The thick skin was certainly part of it. Letting go of other people’s opinions, too. I thought about the crazy anti-fan mail some of my famous friends deal with. Certainly, there was value in that. But that still wasn’t quite it.

Before she left, my sister, out of the blue, gave me a necklace. A silver Celtic knot style pendant with the words “warrior spirit” stamped on the back. As I drove away from dropping her off and saying goodbye, I rubbed the pendant. And then I got the lesson. I had had one of the most important people in my life with me for 24 precious hours and instead of enjoying her, I had been worried about some crazy bullshit that I probably won’t even remember in ten years. Worried isn’t even accurate. I had let it completely absorb me. And my sister was leaving.

In the end, all the stuff resolved itself. Not in the way I would have thought. But as it does, it resolved in the way it needed to. More importantly, I got the lesson: don’t let the crazy bullshit take you away from the stuff that counts.

A Page From Nancy's Book

Need your couch moved? Have a new living room that needs painting? A ride to the airport? I’m that friend. I’m the one that you know you can count on if you need something. I have to be. It’s what makes me valuable as a friend, right? Besides, I always feel too guilty to say no to the “Help me move and I’ll buy beer and pizza” emails. I know what it feels like to need help at those times. Yet I’m never surprised when friends say no to me.

“You give too much,” a wise friend mused last week. “Where do you think that comes from?”

Without skipping a beat I deadpanned “Middle school.” I was that kid that sat alone at the corner lunch table and got shit on by everyone. Hence I was willing to do anything to have someone be my friend. It’s taken me a long time to learn that people are your friends based on who you are with them, not if you’ll carry their couch. At least the ones that count.

I was sitting in the living room of a fabulous and wise couple I know, asking Mr. Wise for advice. A girlfriend of mine had just asked to borrow a sizable chunk of my DVD collection. When I got her message I felt a pit sink in my stomach. For me, it wasn’t a question of if I’d fork over the movies. I felt like I had to. I had a resource and she needed it. The question was how much of my own mind would I speak in the process?

The thing was I had never let this particular friend know how upset I’d been after she’d done me the favor of pet sitting for me over the holidays. I had arrived home to find my pets alive. And that was about it. Nor was that much even immediately apparent. The cat was gone as she’d left a window open. It took me several hours to find him hiding in some neighborhood bushes and hungry from three days outside. My dog meanwhile, mused over a Tupperware of chicken bones she’d inexplicably left on the floor. If my dog had gotten into the Tupperware, he’d have been dead. In my preserve-the-friendship mode, I chalked these things off to the fact she was not a pet owner and wouldn’t have known. The rest of my house though there was really no chalking off.

My favorite wooden spoon was missing along with my dish scrubber. My favorite pearl-handled knife had a huge black melted scorch down the handle and a chip in the blade. My prized Africa photo album that’d I’d specially left out for her to enjoy had greasy food stains on the wooden cover. Other photo albums of mine had photos slipped out or crushed in the bindings. Several DVDs were missing including still-wrapped ones that I had for sale on my Amazon seller account. I’d had to apologize to buyers and refund their money when I noticed their purchases were in fact not present.

All this, and the fact that she’d never acknowledged the earrings of mine that I gave her as a thank you, was stewing in the back of my brain. As I ran through this litany of negligence and carelessness, Mr. Wise stared at me. “You’re clearly not loaning her anything else, right?”

It was like a bolt of lightening. “You mean I don’t have to?” It had never occurred to me to just say no. For me keeping a friend always meant a yes and I just had to deal with how good or bad I felt about it. With this friend, I intended to loan her the DVDs. My only question was: do I tell her how much her ‘pet sitting’ upset me or not?

I am amazingly capable of talking myself into the fact that I’m really the jerk in a given scenario. After all, how lame was I to be attached to material things like a knife? The pets were alive in the end and the rest is bygones, right? I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. And frankly when I thought about really airing my feelings, I was afraid I’d turn in to a screaming monster. Sitting on the rage was clearly the healthy choice. At least I still had a friend that way.

“Yeah, great friend.” My advisor scoffed. “Wouldn’t want her out of your life.” I took his point but at the same time, this girlfriend is someone whose company and world view I really enjoy. But Mr. Wise wasn’t going to let me off that easy. “You’re not being a friend by not sharing how you really feel. You’re short-changing her.”

I went home and thought about everything I wanted to say to her. I took it out of accusing tones and kept it all to how I felt. Then I called her and told her I would not be loaning her any DVDs and I felt free. If she chooses not to be my friend anymore. That’s OK.

So what I’m learning is that it’s OK to say no. Nancy was right back in the day. There may be a few bumps along the way but I like who I get to be when I say no to something that makes me feel used. And the friends that stay will be the ones who value that. And yes, I’ll still help you paint your kitchen.

Sharing, American Style

In general, I consider myself a person of generous spirit. I’ll help you move, help you paint your kitchen, let you borrow stuff and all that. General generosity. Except when it comes to food.

Not all food. I love to cook for friends. Host a party, that sort of thing. But my friends know better than to ask for a bite of my dessert because, as I have explained, you never know when a world shortage of cheesecake will hit.

An Israeli woman I sometimes work with recently invited herself to rummage through my purse and pull out the bag of almonds I carry in case of blood sugar crashes. She stood there, popping them in her mouth and asking me if they were smoked or dry roasted as I stared at her in disbelief.

“You didn’t even ask me if you could have some,” was the most civil response I could manage.

She made a big deal about handing me the bag back and then lectured me about how much she shares her food and that my selfishness was such an American thing. I snatched the almonds back and hid my purse. Then I pondered her point.

When I’ve been abroad, I’ve been shared with by people from many countries on an almost universally consistent basis. I’ve had passing conversations with people on trains who, upon discovering I had no hotel booked, insisted I stay with them. And there was never a concern this would be an awkward or unsafe choice. It’s just the way it’s done. Some of my best travel experiences have included meeting these locals’ families and sharing basic humanity with them over homemade gnocchi.

Sadly, that sort of hospitality is something I’ve never experienced on these shores. Nor would it ever occur to me to invite a fellow plane or bus traveler in for the night. We just don’t do that here. Maybe she had a point. Americans aren’t so into sharing. Or maybe it’s just me.

I flashed on a memory from second grade. I, in my Girl Scout preparedness, had brought a tasty cookie to class only to be faced by that age-old refrain: did you bring enough for the whole class? I had glared at the teacher in my seven-year-old indignation and responded with what I felt was great logic: “If they wanted cookies they should have thought of that at home and brought their own.” I could not grasp why what I saw as everyone else’s stupidity should result in any loss of cookie for me.

Needless to say, that did not go over well and I spent the afternoon, as I often did, in my itchy wool uniform in the Principal’s office.

So while I like to lament that America just isn’t as generous as some other countries, perhaps, as they say, regime change starts at home. I am blessed with plenty of generosity from many different sources so it’s not like my imagined cheesecake shortage is a viable scenario. You do always seem to get what you need in the end.

So next time I see my Israeli friend I won’t worry so much about running out of almonds and offer her some if I’ve got them. I won’t, however, be thrilled though if she rummages through my purse again. That’s just un-American.

From Where He Sits

In general I’m a nice guy. Thankfully busy with work again, I keep to myself mostly but now and then I try to get out with friends. No real time for romance or inclination to get involved in something that messy again having survived a long-overdue divorce. I don’t ever want to have the words “My wife” in my vocabulary again. Things are good as they are. Good enough.

My neighbor, the social butterfly, invited me to dinner. There was a girl there. Cute. Funny enough. Turns out she lives down the street. We both had a lot to drink and long night of talking and music. Really, that was all, I swear. I liked her. Nice girl. And she seemed pretty into me. As much as I don’t need it, I’ll admit it feels nice to have a girl look at you like that.

Over the next few months we hung out a lot. Always just talking. We walk the neighborhood. Sometimes hit the café up the street for breakfast. She’s fun. Makes me feel younger. I even met some friends of hers. A couple. The husband’s my age; the wife is the girl’s age. Not that I’m thinking that way at all but it was interesting to see that it could work. You know, in a non-clichéd way. Anyway, I liked the couple. The husband and I had a great conversation about music. I don’t meet very many people with a musical background and knowledge like that – like me. It was a good night.

A few weeks ago now, the girl invited me to dinner with her and that couple at a French place we’d all talked about. As it got to be the day of the dinner I realized I was too swamped with work. And maybe thinking about how much time I do or don’t want to spend out at fancy dinners with this girl. But mostly just swamped with work. I emailed her about noon to cancel and went about my day.

This is where it gets weird. Later that night I got a voice mail from the girl saying she was ready – this was five-ish when I would have been picking her up. But like I said, I was busy and figured she had my email. The next day I see her walking and her face is all funny. Hard. She says she didn’t get my email and was waiting for me, all done up. Well it’s not like I didn’t try to give her as much notice as I could. Doesn’t everyone have a Blackberry these days?

I asked if she and the couple went to the French place anyway, without me. And she says no, but practically spits the word at me. What the heck? Is a guy not allowed to change plans?

So this all just reminds me why I don’t want these complications in my life. Especially with some emotional young girl. Even if she is pretty and fun to talk to. She’s emailed and called a few times, trying for our walks and so forth. I either don’t respond or tell her I’m busy. I’m hoping she’ll get the message and let it go. I just don’t need the drama, you know?

And what he doesn’t know…

My friends and I had planned for dinner at the French place for months. Saving up as it’s not the kind of place any of us can actually afford but this is important. It’s business. I’d promised them he’d be there and we’d been working on a plan. Between us, we’d been so inspired by this man’s musical career that we had a documentary project ready to pitch him. Everything about the project was inspiring and relevant. We couldn’t wait to get to that dinner and pitch him. In addition to being fun and potentially lucrative for us all, it would be flattering for him and that was important to me as I had genuinely come to care for this new friend of mine.

But instead my friends and I had sat dressed up, made up, prepped and ready for him. As the appointed dinner hour came and went and my voice mail went unanswered I worried something was wrong. When my internet came back online later that night I got my answer from the email he’d sent at noon. Yeah, I was upset. I wouldn’t tolerate being treated that carelessly by someone I was dating. But wait, it wasn’t like we were dating. Even for just a friend not to call to confirm that I got the cancellation… I was annoyed.

What was just a simple dinner plan to him was an important, exciting opportunity for us. What he read on my face that next day wasn’t a woman scorned or a hurt date as I’m sure it must have looked. It was the guilt I had in disappointing my friends and my helplessness in not being able to communicate with him. It was the frustration of one more idea for a film project slipping away. And I couldn’t tell him in that moment: But wait, I’ve got a pitch for you! That would have gone over well - right out of left field.

Though I had resolved to keep my relationship with him as friendship and hopefully professional, now it was all mixed up and seemingly ruined on all fronts. And that’s that. He ignores my emails now and even looks away when he drives past me.

My dad recently imparted a great wisdom to me: approach every relationship as though it may be a long-term friendship and professional connection. Don’t come at it from the “would he be a good date?” perspective. If something develops later, great but the fact is usually it won’t and you’ll have lost that potential friend or business connection.

So I’ve learned – or should I say relearned - my lesson, the old saw: don’t shit where you eat. No more mixing business with pleasure. Definitely no more mixing neighbors with flirting. Sounds like a good idea in general would be: don’t mix dating with life.

Starving Artist

Since my fancy movie studio job ended and I've been out here in the self-employed trenches making my dreams come true, I've always thought of myself as a Creative suffering for my art; the true-life representation of the starving artist.

I shop, when I have money, at the 99 Cent store in true starving artist fashion. I almost never buy new clothes or other indulgences. Those things will come with a script sale, I tell myself.

Of late however, it feels like the Universe is trying to amend starving artist to include pathetic and downtrodden as well. It seems like every little task that should take five minutes has six things go wrong and ends up taking all day. Roadblocks are everywhere. I mean I know the old saying goes "into each life a little rain must fall." I know we all have our good things and bad but the bad is just starting to feel ridiculously unbalanced.

So I wonder what the Universe in its infinite widsom is trying to tell me? Slow down? I'm not supposed to be a writer? I shouldn't assume any new light bulb will work for more than one hour?

In a fit of indulgence I decided just now to walk to the store near me. True, it's more expensive than the 99 Cent store but it saves me gas and a walk is always good. I put my last-remaining twenty in my pocket and resolved to only spend ten on the indulgence of a bag of salad and some veggies.

Once in the store, I was seduced by the cheese aisle. I haven't bought myself cheese in months because I don't see it as a staple but a luxury and I'm trying to keep the budget as close to the bone as I can these days. Still, I stood over the cheeses and finally internally OKd the purchase of a $2.79 block of no-brand Monterrey Jack. This is the life!

I got to the check-out only to discover that my precious twenty had somehow escaped my pocket. There will be no generic Jack in my life today. I apologized to the check-out girl and ran the half mile back to my house looking on the street, asking startled pedestrians if they'd found a twenty, hoping they'd be honest enough to 'fess up if they had. No luck. The Spearhead song "Hole in the Bucket" rattled through my head followed by Superchunk's "Punch Me Harder." Thanks, Universe. If I make a nice paper cut, would you like to squirt some lemon juice in it?

So I return to my little apartment. Sans cheese, sans veggies. Sans dignity. And instead of eating a lunch salad right now like I'd planned, I'm sitting here writing about it, wondering what I'm meant to learn from all these recent roadblocks. At least I'm writing about it. Maybe that's what I'm supposed to be doing. I have been a bit distracted by a job which brutally underpays me - we're talking Dickensian salary. But still, ya could have gotten the point across in a slightly less "no soup for you" way, Universe.

The Starving Artist forges ahead. Or should I say forages?