So Many Allergies, So Little Time

I have allergies. Terrible allergies. I haven't written anything in a few days because I've basically been in pain, tired and Motrined out. My allergist says it's the Santa Anas. That I'm not alone. To be honest, my allergist's office is actually the only place I like to know that other people are suffering. Or at least feeling what I am. Otherwise I would just worry that I'm old, crazy and cranky. And that would be bad.

My sister had allergies before I did. Ever since she was growing up. We used to think she was lazy. Because she would spend the whole day in bed. But what else was she going to do on a farm when she was allergic to the whole outdoors? You would have thought we would have clued in. If not me, then at least the adults in the situation. But that would be a 'no'. And you would have thought when I was in my 20s and hit with similar symptoms that I'd have seen the correlation. Again, a 'no'. The good news? I wasn't the only one not catching on-- neither did my ear, nose and throat guy. Evil little man that he was. Okay, maybe not evil. Just mean. He told me I needed to get my head examined. (Incidentally, the head examining did happen. But for entirely different reasons. And that was later, much later. Which makes me wonder...why does no one tell you information that you need when you actually need it?).

So as it turned out, I'm also extremely allergic to the outdoors. I'm pretty much biosphere material (as previously mentioned somewhere back in this blog). And a biosphere is probably about as big as a studio apartment... so maybe I'm onto something. Not to mention, I did love that Boy in the Plastic Bubble movie which is arguably John Travolta's best work (much like I think Andy was the coolest Gibb). There are benefits to being in a biosphere, I think. One, being single as I am at my age, no one would ask me what was wrong with me. It would be obvious. Two, someone would bring me dinner or make me dinner because making my own food would ostensibly melt my bubble. Which means I would have company! Three, what bad jobs could you possibly do in a bubble?

You might think I'm making light of the situation. But I'm not. Really. It's just, let's be honest. The biosphere. It's not happening. It's but a mere pipe dream. So instead, I get shots every week. And pay for parking at Cedars Sinai. Along with stocking up on boxes and boxes of Claritin D, the 24 hour kind, which I take on a daily basis. And over the counter? Not so cheap. And still, with that, I'm pretty forgetful. Not to mention, I don't feel quite so motivated or capable of fixing my life when I feel bad and tired and cranky. Which in my situation, is not so good. Because I could use a little fixing.

There are times, have been times, that my shot has caused an allergic reaction. Which I must say made me happy only in that finally, physically, people saw that my allergies were real. It also meant lots of uncomfortable itching, scratching, and welts all over my body. There were also some hot flashes thrown in for good measure (as an exciting sneak preview of what's to come) and my throat closing up and me making a phone call to my doctor's office after which I was told to rush back NOW!, But I was kind of distracted by the elevator clearing out at the sight of me. The guy I was dating, convicted felon or not, seeing a not so lovely side of me.

In the end, it was all well and fine. Those kinds of things never freak me out as much as they should. A shot in one hip, a breathing tube down my throat, I'm fine. Because that's at least on some level, validation. It's the other stuff in life that gives me pause. An allergic reaction, there's that illusion you can fix it. There's a diagnosis. And a treatment.

If life were only that easy.

The Trouble With Faking It

Is I can't. I'm not talking the "it" you think I'm talking about. The "it" of Meg Ryan fame in "When Harry Met Sally." Not that I could do that either. Not that any of the men I've been with would notice. Okay, that's not fair. Maybe one would. And with him I didn't need to. Funny how that works, right? Anyway, getting back on track. I'm talking about pr. About the kind you get paid for and the kind you don't. I prefer doing the first kind. Which might explain my financial situation. Oh, to give everything away for free.

That is actually a goal of mine. To do pr for free. Because when I say I like something I'm sincere. I don't know how to be any other way. It's always been a thing with me. To tell people about stuff I like. People I like. People who are good at what they do and who are good people. Whether it be purses, facialists, doctors, designers, stores, shoes, writers, you name it. It's about the hook up. About helping people out. That's the part I like. Maybe it's because that part comes naturally to me. So why not share?

Let's be honest. It's not easy to find great people and great stuff and people who know their stuff-- to say nothing about people who genuinely believe in all of the aforementioned and sell it with enthusiasm. If it was, there would be no magazines or celebrity endorsements. Still, celebrities aren't real people and magazines are pitched by pr people who get paid to get placements. And oftentimes, we real people can't afford the kind of things made by people who can afford pr. And also oftentimes, we don't want the stuff that's made by people who can afford pr or designer goods. And then there are also other factors-- what good is it to learn about a facialist in New York if you live in Morrison, Illinois? Or the fact that advertisers might talk in advertising talk and not address real people's concerns aka your concerns and what you want? What's approachable about an ad? Don't you sometimes wonder if that salesperson really cares about you or his commission off of what you buy? Uh, huh. That's what I'm talking about. And that's why I like to share what I know with people I meet.

You need a good doctor? I have one. You need a haircolorist who rocks? I have one. The pair of pants I'm wearing? A therapist who understands health problems? Random information about random things? A person who knows x or y about a, b or c? Got it, got it, got it. Or at least I think I do.

That's just it. I might. And I might not. And I'm prepared to live with the consequences. After all, if every skincare line worked for every single person, there would be only one. If every jean fit every girl, there would be only one. I know they work for me and I can tell you why (lots and lots of of reasons why!). And I hope they work for you. But if not? At least I tried. I'll make a call, you can use my name. (Which oddly enough works for other people more than it works for me). I'm not worried about bad experiences because I don't help the kind of people who would give you one. I'll be honest with you about strengths and weaknesses. Because I believe what I'm saying. And the crazy thing is, nothing makes me happier than when nothing's in it for me.

Sure, when I worked in pr, I worked just as hard at promoting the stuff I didn't like or "get" for our clients as the stuff I did. But it never felt authentic. I never got excited about the results. And I felt like I was lying. Which I pretty much was. (This is why I would make a bad prostitute. The ONLY reason. Ha!) Because let's face it, people don't donate their time to causes they don't believe in. They just don't. If they're a celeb, they might show up at parties and get free loot and say they use something without getting paid for it, but they won't get their hands dirty. They won't spend days, weeks, years at a time speaking about the merits of something or saying how great it is, unless there's something in it for them. Like cash or product or exposure. I don't work that way. (I'm also not a celebrity, so it's not really an option. But you knew that already.)

One of my friends calls me a maven. Which sounds fancy, so I like it. She says I like to spread the word. And people listen. (Incidentally, the vedic astrologer also said that. Just in case you were wondering. But he didn't use the word maven. Then again, he's an Indian man who looks like Mr. Rogers-- if Mr. Rogers was Indian). The point is. She gets me. Finally, someone gets me! Okay, I've been "got" before. But never by someone who wasn't the same way. The good news: she created a product I believe in. The better news: I like it. I like her. So I want to help her. I want to spread the word (P.S. She also helped me...! P.P.S. I've known her since I was a Brownie. Yes, those little girls in brown uniforms. Now please see Boscia and buy, buy, buy. P.P.P.S. The sincerity part stands.) It's like the natural cycle of pr. If only it worked that way!

I saw alot of people come in to my old office (oh, how I love how that sounds... my old office!) and know they need pr and not know the first thing about it. They're a one man band, as I like to call it. A start-up designer or product developer who doesn't have the funds but know they're nothing if no one knows who they are. The problem is that oftentimes they don't even know who they are or who they're trying to reach. They do what they do. But they don't know who buys what they sell and how that defines their brand. So they listen to someone who is talking the talk and walking the walk. And lo and behold, they're signing on the dotted line. It's more money then they have. But still, they sign on. With no guarantees. Because there are none in pr. Your pr can send out press kits and product to every editor at every magazine under the sun, but there are no guarantees. Those press kits? They cost money. Product samples? Money. You should also have a website. Money. Line sheets or product brochures. Money. Product and displays for events and gift bags? Money and more money. Celebrity gifting so 1 out of 20 gifted celebrities can pretend they like your product and you can use their name to get into a magazine? Again, money. And again, no guarantees. To say nothing of sending samples and line sheets to tv shows and celebrity stylists. And don't forget those basics... like business cards and letterhead and keeping a roof over your head.

I know how the world works. And it works that way for a reason. And I know that everyone needs to make a living. And that certain things aren't practical. But wouldn't it be great if it was? Wouldn't it be great if everyone shared the wealth. Everyone spread the word and small companies got just as much exposure as big companies? And everyone was sincere about what they did and didn't like?

If You're Ghetto and You Know It, It's Time to Move

I think it's time to face facts. As much as I'm perfectly capable of sewing up moth holes in my coats and sweaters, as much as no one sees me when I'm wearing eyeglasses that have been taped together around the house, I don't like it so much. I'm also not all that fond of digging through my old clothes and things for items to sell so I can pay my rent or using chairs and other bits and pieces of furniture as free weights instead of joining a gym (Okay, that I haven't done. Yet). But this is the price I've been paying not just to have my career hit the skids, but also to live where I live. To live in Los Angeles, for one. And in my neighborhood for another. It's fairly obvious that I don't have the income for either. But LA is my home. My neighborhood is central to my friends and the things I like to see and do-- free as they are. And I'm single, so it's important to be close to my friends. But living in this apartment that I moved into when I wrote for a TV show, maybe not so much so. Even though it's considered a deal by today's rent standards, it's still more than I can afford. A whole lot more.

When I moved into this place, I cried. It was bigger than both the apartment and then ultimately, the townhouse I grew up in. Or close. (2500 square feet! Hardwood floors! High ceilings! French windows!) Even though it wasn't an actual house, it felt like one to me. I didn't need a front yard or a back yard. As long as I had appliances. Appliances that let me wash and dry clothes in the comfort of my own home. And I had a dining room! I could entertain! My friends didn't have to be buzzed in. I had a front door. And a back door where my cat could go in and out of her own free will. Best of all? There was a room I could use for an office. I'd have a place to write. I felt like I had arrived. (All that and tax deductible, to boot.)

So I decorated. Not in a cheesy way. (Being that I'm not cheesy.) I hired Husband-for-Hire to hang chandeliers I got on eBay and to change the towel racks in the bathroom. He also hung pictures. And Sears? They both delivered and hooked up my fridge and my washer and dryer. For free! For once, my rooms worked. Or at least they worked for me. They reflected my personality. And you could tell what they were. The office, well it felt like an office. And the bedroom was a bedroom and the living room... well, you get the idea. No longer was the breakfast nook functioning as an office. Or the living room functioning as a dining room because there was no place else to eat. And I didn't have to hang clothes to dry in the bathroom because I was out of quarters or the machine was broken. It was all so civilized. So right.

And then it wasn't. Because when my career started to suck, this place sucked away my savings. And so I had to make a choice. Move or get a roommate? Get a roommate or move? Fall in love and get married or... well, yeah. So the roommate thing happened. As much as I didn't want it to, it did. I wasn't a roommate girl... ever. I'd lived with crazy people in the past who had done all the typical crazy roommate things that made me crazy. (Sorority house anyone?) So I lived alone and vowed that the next crazy person I lived with would be my boyfriend or my husband or some version of that. But it didn't work out that way.

Sure my roommate was fun. He's a gay fashionista and we were friends before we were roommates. And in the grand scheme of things he did little to disturb the dynamics of the decor. (After all, all he owned was a mattress and clothes). But it wasn't the same. There was a person. In my space. And my office was in the dining room. Colors clashed. Furniture was everywhere. It wasn't a catastrophe. It wasn't horrible. But he wasn't my man and it wasn't where I wanted to be. Still, I held on. We entertained. We frolicked. We shared expenses. And we talked about our day at work. Then things started to go wrong. (Hmm, maybe he was a husband). At first, I was too distracted with other things going wrong in my life to worry about that one. And then it became much too difficult to ignore bounced checks and random people staying over and promises that he'd get me money so the bills would be paid on time. I wanted to kick him out, to salvage my pride, but where would he go? Where would I go? The rent wasn't going to pay itself. Moving is expensive. Losing a friend, more so. But then I did. I finally kicked him out. And the rent somehow magically appeared for the last two months.

First, I got a green envelope in the mail from the WGA (aka a residual check from the TV show. Green = money. Cute, huh?). It wasn't a lot, but it covered his half of the rent. And then, I left my job. The vacation days I never took took care of the next month. But now, it's almost December. And truthfully, that money from the last two months would have been better spent on other things. And then there's that little fact of Christmas. Sure, the rent may fall from the sky along with a bonus for the stuff I need and the presents I'd like to buy. And the 'Raise the Rent' garage sale I'm planning to have to optimistically raise my rent might do just that (although the last one I had brought me a mere $76, it was that ghetto). But I'm beginning to think, or rather know, it's time to move on. I have things I want to write about. A company to start. And if I'm working six days a week, worried about keeping this place, none of that will happen. My life will just continue on as the hamster wheel it's become over the last four years. Which no matter how big the habitrail is, is still very small. And never ending. So I'm seeing a studio and a storage space in my future.

I'm not going to lie. It breaks my heart. I know my cats will punish me for it. And with them, bankruptcy and rising rents, it may not be all that easy to find a place. Not to mention, come up with the first month's rent, last month's rent, and a security deposit, to pay men to move all this furniture, Husband-for-Hire to take down those chandeliers and hang up the ugly ceiling fans and towel racks that used to be here. But it's life. My life. And as much as I may not want to admit where I'm at, I don't really have much of a choice any longer. There's no natural disaster to blame it on, no one but me and my choices and my circumstances. So at the end of the day, I have to be honest with myself. Right now, I'm a little ghetto. And if I don't do something to change it, who will?

I Believe in Magic!

Okay, I'm sure I'm going to lose some of you here. I know I will. But I hope not. Because I have a confession to make. Yes, I actually have something to share that could alienate people more than dating an ex-convict, walking out of a job, and being a cheerleader...oh, and sorority girl. (For some reason, I forgot to mention that one...?) And those people would basically include 99.9% of the people I'm related to... so don't feel bad. It's this: I believe in Magic. Or Magick. The kind that Magick Lady does. Because she works.

It's funny to me, really. People will buy Ab Loungers or Ab Doo Hickeys without batting an eye. But give them something that sounds a little "out there" and suddenly they don't care if it works or not. Even if it doesn't take up space in their living room or garage. They're thrown off the scent. I have no idea what that's about. Logic? What is logic really? And does logic always work?

I'm not going to lie. I have a VERY open mind. Which being that I'm a white girl from Orange County should make people stand up and take notice. Are you? Noticing? Well, you should. 1. I work very hard for my money. As is evidenced by every post I've ever posted. 2. I've also been to a woman who said she talked to angels who kind of freaked me out. I've also been to an energy healer, a feng shui specialist, a vedic astrologer and transformational clairvoyant. I know, I know... If you're anything like my friend Steve, you're saying "good use of 100, 200, 250 bucks...whatever." But here's the thing. It is. And I know. Because it makes me feel better.

I've spent half my life looking for answers. And my questions were not so strange. They ran along the lines of how to fit in, how to find love, get my writing career on track, figure out what the heck a parent is supposed to do, figure out what the heck I'm supposed to do... There were more things. I'm sure. There are always more. And there are always more places to look for answers.

Sure I went to a therapist like most normal folk. And it was hard work that worked for awhile. But therapists-- well, they're not free either. And after awhile you're just buying the woman shoes and talking about hypotheticals. (Oh sorry, that was me!). And talking and talking. Did I mention the talking? Sometimes, you just get tired of talking. If you're like me, you want to do... something. And you want to see what you do brings change. Now, there's a concept.

That's the thing. I'm not a total masochist. I like results. I also like hope. And in today's world, the places you get it are few and far between. There's so much information out there. But not so much hope. So if someone can give it to you. SINCERELY give it to you (that's the test) and help you get where you want to go, then why not believe? Why not give it a shot? So after I read about Magick Lady, I went to Magick Lady. And things happened. Things in my life, they became unstuck. I became unstuck. I started to write. I came up with ideas. I got rid of things that weren't working for me. My friends? Well, they noticed. Now? Well, they're going to her and they're unstuck, too. So what's it all about? It's this: she helps shift your energy to a good place. To get what you want. And she helps you believe it can happen. She promotes change. (And reads tarot cards, which is very cool. Because that's about seeing your future.) I'm sure there will be naysayers who think we're all bonkers. I'm thinking my mother is probably one of them. (Seriously though, at this point, she just humors me). But everyone has different versions of their own reality. And different things that will make them feel better.

Some people read their horoscopes on a daily basis (I do! elle.com-- the best!). Some people take vitamins. Okay, that's medically proven to be good for you. Alot of women get manicures and pedicures weekly. Others get their hair blown dry straight at a salon a few times a week even though it costs a fortune because when they do, they feel good about themselves. And when they feel good about themselves, it makes them feel like they can conquer the world. You know what? More power to them. Whatever works. Whatever makes them happy and gets them where they want to go in life. The vedic astrologer? Sure, he saw things about my life-- my parents' lives,both my past and my future-- just by reading my natal chart. He also saw that from 2003 to 2005 my life would look like nothing I'd ever known, that I was a late bloomer and up until now (until this very moment... kidding) my life would be full of obstacles, suffering and delay. But he didn't tell me how to get through it or how to make it better. That's where Magick Lady comes in. And since I don't have the patience or time for weekly manicures and pedicures and my hair is already straight... why not?

It's Not as Glamorous as It Looks or Is That A Celebrity or Are You Just Ignoring Me?

If working in PR, watching TV, and basically existing on this planet has taught me anything, it's this: everyone wants to know what it's like to be a celebrity, know a celebrity, work with a celebrity, talk to a celebrity, or just see one. There's this crazy, endless fascination with them. Where do they eat? What do they eat? What do they wear? Where do they shop? Who are they dating? Are they nice? Short? Tall? Fat? Ugly? Do they actually talk to you? Do they actually talk to anyone? Hot spots become hotter when celebrities frequent them. It's like the golden seal of approval. If a pharmaceutical company wants to introduce a new drug, forget the FDA, get a celebrity to OD on it. They'd be golden.

One of my friends likes to pick his doctors by how many celebrities go to them. He figures a celebrity can see anyone, so if they pick that doctor, that doctor has to be the best. He might have a point there actually. I know my allergist is the best in the business. He's quoted everywhere. And once when I went there, I sat next to Sean Hayes. At my doctor doctor's office aka general practitioner who isn't so general, I've heard that Renee Zelwegger is a regular and so is director Ivan Reitman and a host of other A list people that I can't remember. Again, also the best. He got me better when no one else could. He also drained my bank account, but again, a small price to pay for your health, right? And to be within 100 feet of a celebrity... that has to be worth something. Even if said celebrity is behind closed doors and I'll never meet them.

My hair colorist? Well, he does Madonna's hair. I went to him first, but I do love to tell people that. I mean how ridiculous is it that me, with $82 in my bank account, $82 to my name, is going to the same hair colorist as Madonna? The thing is, as much as I can't afford it, I've actually had nightmares that Steven wouldn't see me anymore. Other hair colorists have turned my hair green and orange.... and acted like it was perfectly blonde and I was just being difficult. Then I saw a picture of me and three blondes and well, let's just say one of those things was not like the others. Thank God I found Steven. Six hours later, I was a better, blonder version of myself. He's the one thing in my life I don't have to worry about, I tell him. Amen to that. When I was working my retail job, Maria Bello asked me who did my hair. I hooked her up with Steven Tapp (see side link) and she sent me flowers. Now how great is that?

The thing is, you can't live in Los Angeles and not have seen, spoken to or slept with a celebrity. Okay, I exaggerate. Or maybe I've just done all three. And it's not only because I've worked in the entertainment industry. Sure Donald Sutherland bought me coffee when we were working on script changes during "Backdraft" (He offered it to me, had his driver pull over and ran into the coffee place himself and bought it. Not a p.a. in sight-- which I loved) But Dustin Hoffman also bought me a necklace when I was shopping at Fred Segal. And me to him? A perfect stranger. There I was, on break from Improv Traffic School, browsing the jewelry counter (being that I had no money and am not a jewelry girl, it seemed like a safe bet). Dustin (how queer does that sound? Like I know him or something) was shopping with his daughters and killing time while they changed. He noticed me notice him at the end of the counter and then pretend I didn't. He also told me to try the necklace I was looking at on-- which I did even though I didn't want to. Why? Because Dustin Hoffman told me to! Anyway, he commented that he liked it, but not the other ones I tried on after that and that I should buy it. I told him I didn't have the money and he said, every beautiful woman should have a beautiful necklace. And he proceeded to have the salesgirl put it on his tab, then he put it on me, introduced me to his two daughters, gave me a kiss on the cheek and told me to have a wonderful life. I will admit it made my day. And my grandmother's. But it's not like we ever spoke again. Or I started to have a wonderful life. And that didn't happen when I dated a celebrity either.

Well, dated might be an exaggeration. We had an ongoing "thing." And it wasn't even a good thing. And he wasn't even famous at the time, so I don't know if it counts. But he did become famous. Very famous. And starred on a very famous and popular TVshow. And suddenly girls all across America were talking about how cute and funny he was and how much they'd like to date him. And unless he had a personality transplant and learned a few moves in a few important places, I would think to myself, "Uh, no, you wouldn't." He hated it if someone laughed at something I said. He also liked to sleep with a lot of girls and en route, would drink everything in sight.

There's no doubt about it-- an even weirder thing? When someone who dumps you is famous. They're no longer a part of your life, you're no longer exchanging saliva, but still, you see them everywhere. And know everything happening in their lives. And suddenly, when you do physically see them again, they've become a "celebrity" in your eyes and you're a normal person, so you wonder to yourself if they even remember you and if you can talk to them. Forget about whether or not you should yell at them.

I've met celebrities at birthday parties and dinners and baby showers and weddings, I've worked with them, worked out next to them, helped them at stores, they're friends of friends, I've spent time hanging out with them and still it always feels strange to me when I run into them in the real world. I never know if I should acknowledge meeting them, knowing them, or playing spin the bottle with them. Because now we're out of context-- in the real world where people view them as this unreal thing, so it almost seems wrong to approach them (even without the yelling). It even feels stranger to me that it feels that way when it comes to actors I've worked with on movies or tv shows. I'll have spent a lot of time with these people, working late nights on the set or in the writer's room, taking trips, enduring notes sessions, you name it-- but after not having seen them for awhile and being painfully aware they're famous and I'm not, it seems wrong to assume association. It's like there's this thing that makes them out of bounds.

There are a few exceptions. I mean, I saw Ron Howard and his wife at Nordstrom's (in the shoe section). I walked up and talked to him without pause. And thankfully, he remembered me. And Tori Spelling? I reminded her of a dinner we spent together and a mutual friend. Both were gracious. But Dustin Hoffman? Do I really think I'd register with him? Probably not. Even though I sent him a thank you note for the necklace (which I truly doubt he ever got). I'm not an autograph hound (have NEVER asked for one), not starstruck (although I did see Adrien Brody & Zach Braff at Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf on Sunset Blvd and thought both were darling). I don't go to restaurants to see celebrities-- well, I don't go to restaurants period, but still... I think it, like many things is more the idea of-- like having money and paying your bills-- okay, maybe not. But maybe that's just it. Maybe that's why I'm fine in LA. I don't think it's all that glamorous. And still, I like it.

I Have Strangers in my In Box!

And I like it. Because some of them are nice. Very nice. That's one of my favorite things about blogger. You can have comments sent to your in box. How great is that? Of course, I discovered this awhile ago. But it never gets old. Not like the Nordstrom, Saks, and Neiman's ads (bankrupt, hello), the sales from every website under the sun or the messages from the WGA president (not working, hello). Because some of the comments are nice. Very nice. Did I mention that already?

See, I didn't grow up in the kind of family where people said "It will get better" or "You can do it." I grew up in a family where my dad told me I was fat and ugly the every other weekend visit that I saw him. And where my mother wanted me to go to junior college when I got into UCLA because she couldn't afford my tuition. So I got used to hearing the bad. Not that I always believed it. I mean, sure, I became anorexic to see if my dad would suddenly love me. But I'm very practical. When it didn't work, I started to eat. (Not that I didn't regress at times... still, it didn't work. Shocker.). And the not going to UCLA thing? Well, that's just silly. I mean, I had a 4.3 in high school. And had AP credits. It was right there on paper. And I'm practical. So I paid my way through. The ugly thing? Well. Hmmm. It doesn't matter how many times I look in the mirror. I still have no idea what I look like. Still, the truth is, I know it's not ugly. No matter how few men I date.

So this whole experience is foreign to me. This support. This crying in a good way. (Yes, if you've written me a supportive message, chances are I've cried). I've also cried lately from some of the great things my friends have said-- so I'm not discounting them. Not at all. But the sad thing is, it shouldn't be that difficult to recognize. That good makes you feel good and bad makes you feel bad. But sometimes that just happens. Sometimes it just works that way.

I haven't written on the blog in the last few days because I spent Thursday thru tonight with a woman who was training me for a freelance job. I flew to Oakland. And we drove to Fresno. Happily, I went to Fresno. (Hey, I haven't been anywhere in over a year and half. It felt like Paris to me). And during 5 hours round trip in a car, two single females can cover a lot of ground. And boy did we. Men and careers and families, oh my. And the crazy thing is, how people can be so different yet so the same. And how a stranger can make you see something in yourself and you can help them see something in themselves. And how easy it is when you're in one place in life to forget all the other places you've been. I mean, my family stuff-- I've covered that ground. I've conquered that mountain. And boy did I learn.

In my first blog entry, John left a comment (which incidentally gave me a near heart attack seeing it in my in box -- that it was from John-- the name of my ex), saying that I should be anonymous if my movie was similar to David Spade's. But the truth is, it was, but it wasn't. His: a washed up childhood star pays a family to give him a childhood so he can get a part in a movie. Mine: a single thirty year old woman whose life isn't working kidnaps the perfect family to be re-raised. Mine: Well, it was funny yet from the heart. His: ? I never saw it. But mine didn't sell. So there you go. Maybe it wasn't as funny as I thought. But I did learn from it. In fact, I had a crisis/nervous breakdown when I wrote it (again... another story for another day) because I didn't know what a good family was. Now at 37, I know. I also know that not having had one doesn't mean I won't. It also doesn't mean that I'm certain I'll fall in love with someone and they'll fall in love with me and I'll have a family. I just know that it's not impossible anymore. That I don't have some fatal flaw, some scarlet something or other that makes me not good enough for it.

Still, there's a lot to be said for good parenting, good friends, good comments and good luck. And the fact is, it does make it easier. A lot easier. And everyone should have it. Easier, that is. I've never been one of those people who felt better when people said to me, "Everyone's having a hard time right now." I mean, I don't want other people to have a hard time. I want everyone to be happy. Because really, what's the point of suffering when there's enough happiness to go around?

If You Knew What I Knew... You'd Be Me.

I keep forgetting how much I know. And know how to do. Really. I've done a lot of stuff in my day.

For instance, I can balance six plates on my right arm. Fan three in my right hand. And scare the shit out of a table full of people who expect it all to end up on their lap. I only dropped one plate in my entire four year table waiting career. It was a pot pie. Chicken. And it landed right side up. On the plate. Like it was meant to land there. Be eaten there. Since college, I've only flashed this super power occasionally, but the muscles in my forearm are still there. Now how is that possible that ab muscles from six years of tae bo... gone. But plate balancing forearm muscles are ready to take on the next challenge?

Also, I pass people on the right. This is a waiting table thing. You pass on the right. The left doesn't make sense. Yet, in LA, I've realized recently that it doesn't really matter. No one ever seems to want to move out of the way for anyone else. Ever. Right, left... who cares?

And a scooter? I know how to drive one. I couldn't afford a car in college. Couldn't afford car insurance. So there was me, in my black pants and white uniform coat with bow tie, tooling through Beverly Hills on my scooter. If I only knew then what I knew now... I probably would have never made it through those 3 years. Humiliation for a degree? Harumph.

Did I mention, I can roll a mean burrito? Well, maybe not anymore. I don't make burritos at home. But I used to be really good at it. A great use of my overachieverism, don't you think? Getting employee of the month at Taco Bell. But then again, I also got it at Claim Jumper. Twice, I think. This was in high school/college, by the way. And it's a restaurant, for those of you who don't know. They even have frozen food now. I had to wear a prairie skirt and white blouse with a sheriff's badge that read my name (when I was a hostess). Once I became a waitress I wore something else I don't remember. All I know is that I worked there double shifts 64 days straight the summer before I went to UCLA. I think I washed that uniform... not so much. I just sponged it down when I got off work at 1:30 in the morning and stuck it in the dryer to "fluff" it up before I had to be there for breakfast at 6:30. That's why I've never been to Hawaii. All my friends went after graduation from high school. I was busy fluffing. But again, I have forearm muscles that they'll never have.

And then, I just did a bunch of professional stuff that everyone else in the real world has done...

Like I worked in film development. I know how to read a script, write coverage on a script, make notes for a script, create lists of writers, directors, actors, and actresses that will never do the movie that a script wants to be. I also learned to roll calls, create a schedule, make copies, order lunch to be delivered, make copies, send a fax, and lie for people who don't want to deal with what they're supposed to deal with. I never did learn to bullshit, though... Hence, my next job.

I learned Final Draft -- on the fly. For those of you who are worried it's hard to pick up-- it's not. That was an easy lie. And how to format a television script...? Also easy. As was eating from craft service and learning to make a check mark next to a joke that works and scribble furiously to make it seem like I had good ideas that no one would ever know. Because I was only a writer's assistant. I spent alot of time making lists of things I wanted. Groceries I needed to buy. Things I couldn't afford. Because at the end of the day... I was a writer's assistant. I wasn't supposed to have any ideas... or money! Oh, and fending off unwanted advances... a joy of the job.

Then, a writer. I learned to make jokes. And feel bad about bad ones. How to feel bad period. I learned creative endurance. How to exist with money but no life. How to exist. And that you can't get a good house for under 2.5 million. I never did learn to feel comfortable when a p.a. gave me the wrong lunch or how to be a bitch so he felt bad enough to go get me a new one. But coffee runs were fun. Someone else running out to bring you coffee. I did like that. Show night, not so much. I wasn't tall enough, experienced enough or funny enough to elbow my way into that all important huddle where you beat the joke that tanked on the floor. I had no niche. No hook. It was worse than high school because it was high school.

Catering... nothing to be learned there. Unless you count that wearing a black and white uniform on Thanksgiving washing someone else's dishes isn't quality holiday time. Especially at 34 years old. Oh, who am I kidding? At any age. Families are there for a reason. Wine. Not as glamorous or as scary as everyone thinks it is. Applying eyeshadow just the right way...? I don't care. I really don't. The USC bookstore? Don't be a Bruin. There.

PR and retail? Those two might just be interesting. If not lucrative. Not at all lucrative. But they're also stories for another day... Because you're tired. And so am I.

Survival 101

I think I was cheerful yesterday. That folks, is known as denial. Not today.

Today was-- Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down... with a few, "you sucks" thrown in.

In short, it was Survival 101.

First, I got an allergy shot. I need those weekly. A money sucker, for sure. But according to my allergist, my ideal living condition is inside a biosphere. And yesterday, I spent the entire day in bed feeling miserable. Today, I just felt bad aka barely able to function. But I had to. It's Monday. The first day of the second week of the rest of my life.
When I signed in for my shot, I didn't tell them I didn't have health insurance any more. I just figured we'd cross that bridge when we came to it it, signed in, got the shot and winced when I left at the $1.60 I had to pay for parking. Did I mention there's only $176 left in my bank account?

Then, I went to one of those eBay stores to sell some of my things for money. Frye Boots I had to get for a $10/hour job. It took nearly a month to pay them off for a job that I only endured for three. I also took in a pair of Miu Mius and a pair of Seven Jeans that were never really me. They were purchased back in 2000 -- back in the day when money and I weren't enemies. The woman there...? Not so nice. And she made it all feel... not so promising. I left feeling bad about the things I bought. Bad about the gas I used to get there. Not so great about my choices. Yet, even with her downgrading my measly things, I realized they were worth more than I am at the moment.

Then, I got in my car. Checked my messages. A friend wants to take me to dinner on Wednesday night! A focus group cares about my opinion! (Even though I have to lie about my income and drive to Pasadena). For a moment, I think I'm bigger than what's in my bank account.

So... I make a few calls.

Birthday wishes to two friends.

Then, business calls.

To the agent in NYC who read my short stories and liked them.
To the leather purse designer who my old boss didn't "get" and whose bags I loved. And we discuss options and it seems like there's potential.

Until my friend calls and acts like a jerk for no reason...(is there ever one?). And I feel bad again. For needing positive reinforcement. And I Ieave him a message. And he apologizes.

And I set up an interview at a temp place. For back-up. And get a part-time job starting tomorrow.

And I hate that it's that simple. Yet, that difficult. To survive the day.
And I wish. For just one moment. That I knew a way to make it all okay.
But I don't.

What Looks Like Something New

Okay, I've been busy the last few days. Very, very busy. Being productive. Getting the word out I need work. Working on my business plan. And of all things, being happy. Okay, a little afraid at times. I'm not going to lie. But then every single person who I've told I quit my job is so happy for me, so glad that I did it, that they're ready to throw a parade in my honor. And these people know me. So, I may be poor, but not quite as crazy as I thought I was. This is a big step.

It's not like I have all the answers yet. Or even a few of them. I still don't know what's going to happen with my apartment seeing as how I have to pay rent every month. And then there's my bills. Little Will needs to be neutered and I'm on my last contact. Despite this, I feel optimistic. Suddenly, I want to see people and do things... free things, mind you. But things! With other people! (Although misery may love company, my miserable job made me want to be alone, need to be alone... just to recover). Maybe it's the positive reinforcement I've gotten from my friends, which is known to have a positive effect. They seem to think it's going to be okay. That I'm going to be okay. It's made me feel like I may actually have some power over my life.

I suddenly don't care that I have to eat cheap food. That all of my clothes are old. That I'm old. That the girl at Urban Outfitters asked me when I was due... (I guess she thought, a woman my age wearing an empire waist shirt..., a woman my age at Urban Outfitters, or maybe it's because I have that "no longer being abused by my boss glow"...hard to tell). Anyway, I think it was worse for her than it was for me when she realized I wasn't fat or pregnant. I mean, I didn't really care. Maybe it's because I wouldn't mind being pregnant-- and having someone in my life-- so if felt more like an affirmation of my potential than an insult. Still, she was mortified. So I left. It's not like I could buy anything anyway. Even if their stuff is on the inexpensive side. Honestly, money or not, I just like to look.

Clothes to me, are like art. They inspire me. They bring out my creativity. Maybe it's because when I was young we had no money, so my sister's hand me downs were well, handed down to me. So by the time they got to me, they were oh, so out of style. And if that wasn't bad enough, then being a few seasons behind during the Chemin de Fer, Jordache, Gloria Vanderbilt, Luv Its and Vans craze was. We used layaway. And even then, we always bought the seconds or the styles that were marked down aka the wrong ones to have. Which meant I got teased. Alot. In fifth grade it got so unbearable, I had to eat lunch in the classroom every single day with my teacher, Miss Smith. She was a young, petite woman who wore glasses and tight, colored jeans with high heels. God bless her.

Anyway, when you don't have a lot, you learn to do the best you can with what you've got. To forget about brands and labels that are out of your reach. And learn how to put together the things that are. It becomes kind of a creative challenge. Of course, I wasn't able to do this until my sister, (God bless her, too!) got a job at Taco Bell. Her turquoise jumpsuit saved my life. And so did the fact the school district made junior high only 2 years and high school 4 which put us in different schools at the same time-- and that my growth spurt and her growth stop were perfectly synchronized-- anyway, her new clothes and the fact she shared them was a good thing for me. It helped me fit in when it was important to fit in. It also gave me confidence. And it's amazing what a little confidence can do for a girl. And a lack of ridicule. (Which probably ties all of this back to the job in some way... ah, a lesson.)

It also made me want to have my own things and earn my own things. Which I do. Not currently. But now I at least see the possibility again. And that there's a big world out there. Full of creative people who are putting themselves out there. Putting their things out there. To inspire people like me. Boutiques are great like that. And so are (gasp!), teenagers. I also see that I can use the clothes I own in different ways. Sure, I'd love a new pair of boots... actually I do need a new pair of boots (mine are all worn out). But guess what? I can cut off my moth eaten & mended cashmere sweater and make it into a cropped sweater and feel like I have something new. (Did you know cashmere doesn't fray? You can actually cut it and it stays that way-- cool, huh?). So maybe that's it. Making something old new again. Fashion does it all the time. So does music. And movies. And I'm sure a few other things do, too. So maybe with a little creativity, so can I.

Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid

I should be. Right? I mean, I just used my last paycheck and my unused vacation day pay for rent. I only have $373 to my name. Period. That's it. Nothing more. And I have bills, cats and allergies (not allergies to cats-- that would make stupid). But Claritin D isn't cheap. Feeding my cats isn't cheap. And feeding me isn't either. But for some reason, I'm not scared. I mean, I even went to Whole Foods and made a salad. For $7.34! Maybe it's because I'm relieved. Or have post traumatic stress. Or maybe it's because even if I haven't taken care of myself in some ways-- like buying a house when I had the money in the bank or just saying no to bad guys (I mean he was an ex-convict, it's not like he was masquerading as Prince Charming), I did take care of myself when I walked out of my job.

Alot of people would argue otherwise. I mean, everyone knows you're not supposed to leave a job until you have a job. But when all your energy and time and self esteem are being sucked out of you at your current job, how are you supposed to get a new one? Osmosis? I suppose you could also argue that I should have waited until I had a nest egg. But at my salary, that would be um, never. And that idea of someone to fall back on? Well, technically, with my life plan intact, I would have been married, taking my second child to his play date and meeting with Universal about the movie I wrote or Simon & Schuster about the first draft of my novel. But again, um, no.

My mother wants me to move home. Sure, that would be the practical thing to do-- If you're in your 20s... okay, maybe in my situation, too. And being that I was born into that practical gene, and my mother has stood by me in these times of trouble, I went and met with a company that helps find work for personal assistants. After all, I didn't want her to have to worry. She's had a life filled with worry.

The first woman I met with wanted my entire job history and salary. Seriously. And details. So off I went. Telling all. And the more in depth I went, the more I started to feel nauseous. My salary would go up, my responsibilities would go up and I would get lost in relaying the memories like a high school quarterback who can't move past that winning touchdown and then...Down. Way down. To where I am now. At an all time low. So...

I got embarrassed. And a little nauseous again when she asked how much I wanted to make... as a minimum. I said I was making 40k and couldn't make ends meet. It needed to be at least 50k... with my skills and soul (I left the soul part out) 50k, at least. Although at 60k, I could function closer to my potential.... of 7 years ago. (I know I shouldn't live in the past. And I wasn't. Until that fateful meeting. Okay... well, sometimes!) Luckily, the woman said, "Well, 40k-- that's nothing. You've done that. A few times over." Okay, more nauseous. She wanted references then. Three references to talk about how great of an assistant I was. I wish their offices had been higher up, because I wanted to jump out the window. But with my luck, only injuries-- and I no longer have health insurance. So I hemmed and hawed and said that I would have to contact them first and let the references know I'd be having people call them. And then I thought, about actually calling the Executive Producer who gave me my first writing job and asking for a reference for an assistant job. And of calling my first boss who phoned me after I sent him my screenplay and how excited I was when he exclaimed, "she can write!". And then of calling my boss in this last job... and I knew I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Still, I smiled as the woman walked me over to her boss who took one look at my resume and said-- "Well, we don't get many jobs for people like you." I didn't know what that meant. "What's your ideal day?" she asked. I told her it required thinking. I would like to work for a creative person where I can contribute in some way intellectually to the process. "You want to use your brain?" she asked. "That's the idea," I said, "Although I am perfectly capable of doing all the mindless things they need, too." "What did you want to do when you were in college?" she asked. "Be a lawyer," I said. "Well, you're obviously smart," she said, "You should have gone to law school." But I didn't want to be a lawyer. "I hope we can help you," she said. "But I doubt it."

On that up note, I thanked her anyway. Thanked everybody. Got in my car. And I cried. What the hell was I doing there? I knew better than to apply for jobs like that. I've heard it before. Many times before. But there's the $373 part. Sure, I have a friend who has managed to squeak by for years. He always just makes it -- somehow. He'll get a writing assignment or a little green envelope (aka residual check from the WGA for past writing in four figure or five figure increments) from some random thing he wrote for some random company. But he had an agent still. And I didn't. And he was a writer. That's all he's ever been for quite awhile. And he's never told himself any different. He's never told anyone else anything different, either.

It's not that I expect to get paid to write tomorrow. I don't. I've been holding back a little. I have an idea for a company and some of my friends--- my very best friends believe in it and want to invest. And I'm so, so, so very happy. And no one, least of all me, has any doubts that it will succeed. But there's the surviving part in the interim. The fact that my mother called me tonight and made it perfectly clear she was angry at me for quitting my job because now she had to worry about me. And she also made it perfectly clear she was tired of my very bad financial situation (and it's been such a joy for me, I tell you). Because my sister, well she has a husband and someone else to worry about her. All of this, well it killed my happy mood. And I was happy when I got home. Why? Because today, I had two friends, one at Beige -- and another at Boscia (see both links on the side. Boscia is a retail site, so buy, buy, buy! And as for Beige-- go, go go!), offer to help, offer to let me work, to help me get by. And for a moment, I felt like it was okay to stop worrying. Because I've always worried. I've always been afraid. And I'm tired of it.

.

It Seemed Like An Ordinary Day

So I woke up one morning last week dreading going to work-- which I've usually done since I started working at the fashion and beauty pr firm where I worked. PR firm, you're thinking? I know, I know, I hadn't gotten to this job in the blog of it all. I didn't want to be a cliche who wrote about her bad job, got busted for it, and you know the rest. So, again, following the backwards path of my life, I am writing about my horrible job after I walked out on it. Which is something I've never done. Not once. In 37 years. Crazy, right? And I've taken my share of abuse, trust me-- I've also taken the guy down the street's share and at least 150 other people's. Did I mention I worked in Hollywood? AND in fast food? Or that we lived on food stamps for awhile when I was growing up? But that day, for some reason, my boss's super inflated ego and super bad treatment of me were finally just too much. Kind of like the wife who kills her husband when he says "hello" wrong-- even though in the grand scheme of things, it was really nothing.

The thing is. I should have done it sooner. Like one year and three months ago... well, not really. I mean I did learn things. But so did our interns. And every single one of them quit the "belittling environment" as one of them so eloquently put it in an email saying she was never coming back. I didn't say it so much as just kept driving after she told me to take a drive after telling me to take a walk and me-- well, picking up my things-- all my things, and saying, "I would love to." But that's after a year and 3 months of picking up her dog's shit (yes, an actual dog-- having been instant messaged on more than one occasion "smells like doody"-- meaning "Pick it up. Now"). Being belittled, picking up her lunch and not taking a lunch, feeding her dog his lunch which required a very careful cutting process of a bad smelling sausage like food, writing in explanation points because my writing was all wrong, doing errands without being reimbursed for gas, having no vacation, working overtime without getting paid for it, having her take credit for my work and covering for her while she suffered her latest heartbreak-- which I had no choice but to listen to and provide shrink services ALL day long while holding the office together while she went home under the guise of working from home only to spend the entire day IMing me the specifics of the break-up. Then the email exchange from him to her and her to him and so on and so on.

As I sit here, jobless, I think back to that joyful day when she canceled my dental and vision insurance during jury duty because it was "costing her more than it was saving her"... huh? I didn't have time to be annoyed about it because I was too busy being happy that I didn't have to go to work. One sure sign your job is a bad one? When you prefer doing jury duty downtown to being there. (Although it was a meth case and I learned some fascinating facts about why Claritin D is now behind the pharmacy counter at SavOn). No more will I have to front the money for client things from my own measly bank account and wait to be reimbursed. Did I mention what I was making? Well if not, it was 15% of what I used to make writing for TV-- but as she liked to remind me, "It's more than she ever planned to pay me. And it's better than retail"-- because apparently that year or two of my life defined me and my worth.

One minute I'd be getting client items worn on "The OC", coordinating stylist pulls and pitching magazines, the next-- well, I hate to keep bringing up shit-- but it was my job, apparently, to look after it. She constantly reminded me of my age by talking about how old she is (younger than me), and complaining about how fat she is (thinner than me with the help of a five day a week trainer). It was exhausting. But I did it. For a year and three months. Six of those months also working a second job in retail on the weekends to make ends "kind of" meet. It wasn't pretty. And after the experience, I'm a little less so, too. But I'm also done. Happy, shocked and... done.