There Are Children in My Living Room and They're Not Mine

I have cards. Lots of cards. Christmas cards of kids. Of friends with kids. Of friends once removed with kids. Friends who forgot to remove me from their mailing lists since we haven't talked for five years... since they had kids. Or seen each other for longer than that. Sure, there are some times when I find the kid cards both an unexpected and lovely diversion. "Oh, you have a child now. And not just one, but two! That's exciting." But what about a job, a car, a house, a husband, tivo, ambition, or a boat? I mean, I'm single. I would have lots more fun with a boat. Not that your kid isn't perfectly adorable. A wonderful addition to any family. Particularly yours. And I'm happy for you, really. Not just that you're alive. But that you have other things going on... you do, don't you? After all, you were my friend before you even had a kid. And we did things. Talked. Now there's a thought.

I joke with another single friend. Say that next year, my card will be me lying on the ground, a chalk outline of a husband and two kids next to me. My Mazeltov, as it were. Bad humor, sure. But at least it's humor. As hard as this is to say. As hard as it might be for my friends with children to hear...as happy as I am for you, as much as I'm excited about your small people, this is the deal: I'm friends with you. Or at least I was. I want to know what's going on with YOU. I want you to jot down in twenty seconds or less, "hello. crazy year. who knew? pmsing constantly, working too much, drinking too little, let's get together. let's talk." Or some version of that. Actually, any acknowledgement of prior connection is important. Connection is important. So important. You have connections. And to have them is a very lucky thing. To remember you have them, even more so. For all involved.

This Christmas sucked. I'm not going to lie. I haven't written on my blog because who wants to be a cranky, bitchy blogger? It even makes me annoyed with myself. It's not that I'm jealous. It's more that I'm sad. That I can't play Santa. That I have to work over the holidays and still have no money, that I have to spend Christmas talking to my sister and her husband about their $50,000 kitchen remodel (ostentatious), Hawaiian vacation and the fact my brother in law didn't buy my sister a Christmas present because he got her that kitchen and brought her and their children to an island. Still, she's pissed. And I have to admit that even with me not being able to pay my bills or buy gifts, I do think that my brother-in-law is being selfish re: the gifts and I'm stupid enough to try to tell him that those things (kitchen and gifts) aren't connected. That gestures and caring and sensitivity don't have a dollar amount and that he's teaching his children how to treat their mother and that he needs to see that. I repeat it for effect: A gift and a kitchen. Two different things. Even if $50,000 is involved. And he shrugs. And I feel bad for my sister and I'm not sure why because she's not working odd jobs to pay the bills because her bills are paid. And after all, she married him. And that's a choice, not a circumstance. Then my nephew gets up from Christmas dinner-- my six year old nephew-- the dinner that my seventy year-old mother spent all day preparing by herself-- to play Gameboy (no "excuse me" in sight) and my sister says that it's okay because it's his second Christmas. And that matters to my mother and me... why?

If you've read before, you know I had two Christmases growing up, too. So did my sister. Being broken home kids, that's the way it worked. But that wasn't fun for a variety of reasons. My nephew? This is not the problem. There is no yelling, screaming or inadequacy in sight. It's simply multiple celebrations. With different sides of the family. And multiple gifts. So where's the problem? Well, me? Being me, I always have to ask. Or if not ask, demonstrate. So I got up from the table, like he did. I said, if he gets to be a brat. If he gets to be selfish, then so do I. And if it's so hard for him to sit there and endure the family celebration, then what about me? Because this year? Well, it's been shit. He's only six. He has potential. Not to mention, he gets to rollerblade around in a ridiculous-looking $50,000 kitchen. Me? I get to work for $14 an hour for people who own one. Well, not really. Still, this is where my mistakes not just hit me over the head, they pummel me and with any luck, knock me unconscious. And when I wake, I realize, I've been a sap. A stupid sap focused on survival instead of my potential. And I don't want 2006 to be that way.

My Drawers are Clean!

Seriously. The cleanest they've been in years. No one else was ever looking at them, so they got a little messy. But now, there are ziploc baggies holding my soy sauce packets. I have drawer liners, and special drawers for special things. It's all very exciting. And I had nothing to do with it. Well, not those particular drawers. But I'm working on others. Now I just have certain standards to uphold. Something bigger to aspire to.

Not to say the rest of the place looks as pretty as the drawers. You know how the ex-roommate didn't have anything but a mattress and clothes? Well I had a whole closet full of things in his room. It went untouched for years. Five years. And let's just say that since I moved into my place in the middle of production and usually in the middle of the night (it was only down the street so this was the 1am visual: me in slippers and sweats pulling suitcases, carrying boxes and lamps and dumping all of the aforementioned into the closet or wherever else felt appropriate... never to be seen again... until now). And that closet? It was like my job search, job history, and writing graveyard with some coats and photo albums thrown in for good measure. All very sobering. Apparently I've written 5 screenplays, 2 rough drafts of books, fifteen plus short stories, one bar mitzvah script, four personal essays, one tv spec and five episodes of the show I wrote for... which means lots of notes, scripts and boxes-- both filing boxes and big oversized ones which have no business holding so many papers. That means memories and sorting. Both of which take time to process. Especially since I don't remember half of them. Nor the bad hairdos... try being a cheerleader in Orange County in the 80s.

So the dining room-- which is now back to being the office-- looks like it should have police tape around it. And my bedroom looks well... like that, but worse. Because boys have less stuff. And boys who treat the place they live in like a flophouse? Much less. And said boy who lived here? Well, he usually used my stuff and pretended like he didn't. So that took up no room whatsoever. But once you bring another person who likes to come home and cook dinner and take baths... who likes to have a home and a presence in it? Well, that person is bound to have things. Not to say she's even in the same ballpark as me. Because she's had a significant other that she shared things with and he came equipped with stuff. Me? I created a single world--- perhaps assuming that's the way it would always be. Or just thinking that if I was going to buy five blenders for five friends off their registry, why not buy my own? (Actually, I never bought blenders, but you get the idea).
But I also realize that it's important to be able to give up a little of yourself and your things to make way for someone else.

I remember when I was dating this guy who owned a house in the hills. It was very craftsman. He was very craftsman and very set in his crafstman ways. All I thought whenever I went to his house was-- where would I fit in? I couldn't be 100% craftsman. I'm too eclectic. And he did want his world to remain his, exactly as it was. I could take it or leave it. And well, you know what happened, because I'm now living with a girl. Here's the thing, thought, when it comes to my furniture and all of my stuff, I don't mind sharing. Or moving things around. It's actually kind of liberating not to hold on too tight to the way you want things to be. Sure I want my home to be my sanctuary-- especially since the world isn't always one-- but the mentality of never letting go or getting rid of things is a poor mentality based on the expectation you won't ever have things again. (Seriously ask people who don't want to get rid of stuff and usually they grew up without money). So I'm embracing my newly cleaned drawers and sorting away. Because I've discovered in the last week that it's much more fun to share with someone who's actually sharing back. And if that someone is a great friend who has been there through good and bad, roots for your success and likes to cry at all the same things you do when you watch movies? I say, all the better.

Christmas. You Don't Miss it Until It's Gone.

I didn't grow up in a traditional family. Other than the fact we weren't steeped in tradition, my parents got divorced when I was four. So our holidays were never this fun, exciting thing we looked forward to (at least I didn't). They weren't about family trips or baking cookies together or three, four, five generations gathering and trimming the tree-- each with their own unique ornament like the Hortons on "Days of Our Lives". (Don't know who they are? Suffice to say, a soap opera family I wanted at Christmas). Our Christmases were filled with the anxiety of buying presents for people we didn't like (evil stepmother, not-so-nice father) who never liked what we bought them anyway, followed by the parental hand off. So if Christmas Eve became Christmas with my mom and my sister, we rushed through opening our presents at home so we could be done before my dad came over to pick us up. All so we could get up and have Christmas with him and his new family. Even though we weren't the kids on the Christmas cards he sent out. And our presents were rationed in relation to his "new kids" (as my sister and I referred to them... and still do-- like they were the newest model, state of the art, bright and shiniest kids he could pick out) because he "sent my mom money" (aka child support). Then the next year, the situation would be reversed. My sister and I would awkwardly open presents on Christmas Eve with my dad and his new family. Only the presents for us and given by us. Because their real Christmas would be on Christmas. Ours was the dress rehearsal or the consolation Christmas, as it were. Which my stepmother clearly resented. Which took a lot of fun out of it. Yet, it was always a relief to wake up at home the next morning. On Christmas. With just the three of us. My mom, my sister and me. Because no matter what was under the tree or not under the tree, we didn't have to fake it anymore. And Christmas was over.

Not to say my mother didn't create a festive atmosphere through the holidays and on the holiday-- whether our Christmas was celebrated on the actual day or not. She did. The woman loves crafts fairs. So it would be a genetic impossibility for her not to decorate. And that she did. She spent months preparing. It was a big deal. Our place had Santas that sang, reindeers, angels, snowmen, bells, whistles, you name it. Everything in the name of cheer. No to mention, she spent the entire day cooking on whatever day was our Christmas that year (the day before, the day after, we mixed it up). That's why when I was in college and told I had to wait tables at the deli I worked at on Christmas, it didn't even faze me. Not even on Christmas Day when one elderly Jewish lady demanded, "what are you doing here on your holiday?" as if that made me unworthy of serving her matzo ball soup. My mother and sister and me, we were used to moving the celebration around. As long as we got around to it. That's all that mattered. Those fifteen minutes of present opening and forty five minutes of meal (give or take fifteen minutes) were the culmination of weeks (or in my mother's case, months) of preparation.

For me, I realized, Christmas has really always been about the time that leads up to it. Not the actual holiday. My mother didn't just buy us things any old time. Because she couldn't. She saved up for Christmas. And me? I love buying presents. Wrapping presents. For people I care about. I think it's fun to pick things out for people, thank people (and I have a lot of people to thank) and share what I have with people. Given the choice, I'd rather give than receive. So I think that's why this year I feel not so Christmas-like. When there's nothing saved and you can't buy presents for people you like, I've discovered, it's even more depressing than buying presents for people you don't. (Can you imagine, I even miss buying those pesky Secret Santa gifts). I've been racking my brain trying to think of something to give this year. Something to wrap. Since I have a low hourly rate, I was thinking I could give errands or favors or some crazy thing like that... maybe even stories? But that feels not very exciting for the gift getter and kind of pathetic... Just as pathetic as hearing from people, "No one expects you to give them anything. You don't have any money." That's not the point. It's not what they expect. It's what I want to do. For them. My sister says she'll wrap presents she bought for my niece and nephew and say they're from me. But where's the fun in that? For one, I want to wrap them. Not to mention, the presents aren't from me. And even if they don't know that, I do. Maybe that's why this year, I'm looking even less forward to Christmas than I did when I was growing up. Because even with all the angst surrounding it. We still had it. Somehow. And in some way. Which may have been it's own crazy kind of tradition after all, because I do miss it now that it's gone.

Stuff. It's Everywhere You Don't Want it To Be.

This weekend was all about the garage sale and making room in my place for my friend to move in. End result: I can't seem to think in complete sentences. So I thought I'd create a list of things I learned in the process:

1. I have lots and lots of paper. Filed. In boxes. To give the impression of orderliness. Hmm. Not so much so.
2. I have lots of crew paraphernalia that serves me no purpose whatsoever: a gumball machine, a swiss army watch, a CD walkman, a blanket, a crew jacket, a directors chair, and a leather gym bag. And that's just from the TV show. And I'm sure there's more stuff I have yet to unearth. Why no purpose you may ask? Because the show name and logo are everywhere on them. Which makes them useless. Except maybe for collectors. But they don't care so much about my old show. I checked on eBay.
3. Men are handy at times like moving. I really should get one.
4. Cats are not handy at times like moving.
5. I have always wanted to be a writer. As evidenced by my January 1, 1981 diary entry at the ripe old age of 13:

Dear Snoopy,
Today Sharon, Daddy, Tracy and I spent the day together. We watched the parade and Tracy and Daddy watched the games. I feel like writing and I want to write but I just seem to be putting together a bunch of blobs of nothing. I want so much to get a book published that has my name on it. I am s-o-o-o-o impatient!

6. I've always had garage sales. In February of 1981 my mother sold our coffee table for $20. Big money back then. And you know, big money now. So apparently the more things change, the more they stay the same.
7. People will haggle you down to $2 for a $100+ object/piece of clothing that you never needed or wore but really had to have.
8. You will wonder what you were thinking when you bought all these objects/pieces of clothing. Because now? All you want to do is get rid of them.
9. Thousands of dollars in garage sale terms translates to about $161.
10. That $161 will still make you very happy.
11. It's not healthy to dream about having a cleaning lady. Not when you're a single woman. Not when there are so many other things to dream about. Like more closet space.
12. A brother would be good. I'd settle for a brother.
13. Everybody keeps old magazines. They come out every single month. And have, for years. Lots of them. That makes for a lot of magazines.
14. Moving could be interesting if it wasn't so exhausting. And time consuming. And things weren't so heavy. The diary almost made up for it. And the Girl Scout badges. Which I plan to wear. Somehow.
15. Wrapping boxes? More fun than packing boxes. It is Christmas, after all.
16. You can stuff a lot of boxes into a walk-in closet.
17. You really should look at what's inside the boxes before you stuff them in the closet.
18. I have no idea how the desk is going to get from the second bedroom to the dining room without male assistance.
19. When you're young, you're embarrassed to go out of the house if you have a pimple. When you're moving, you'll go out of the house looking like a bag lady.
20. I'm really excited to have my friend move in. And that? Well, it makes it all worth it.

I Made $161 in my Garage Sale...

And I'm very tired. More tomorrow.
Hopefully more that's more articulate than yesterday.
Oy, vey.

I Can Stay, I Can Stay!

No, I did not win the lottery. Or get proposed to. And all my relatives? Still alive and well... kicking and screaming.... thankfully not at me. So what pray tell has saved me from living in a Chinook? I'll bet you saw this one coming... a friend! One of my closest friends is moving in with me. I'm so happy to have her. So thankful to have her. And get this, she says that I saved her....?! But we all know the truth, don't we? (It's like at the end of "Pretty Woman" when Julia Roberts says, "she saved him right back?" No one bought it for a minute. First of all, the looping was bad. Secondly, she was a prostitute). Anyway, my friend... she's always been there for me. And as Hallmark as it might sound, I've always tried to be there for her... That is, of course, when I'm not at one of my three jobs. I'm suddenly a very busy girl. Who knew? So many jobs...(3) So little time...(0). Which would seem to be obvious, but still... I forget that whole chicken with its head cut off thing. Which in a perfect world would make me a rich chicken, but in a perfect world, I'm sure all chickens would keep their heads, too. Although it does give me material. Lots and lots of material. Hopefully to entertain you with. If not that, then maybe this...

This week? An odd one. For one, I learned I've suddenly taken to getting up and approaching random people in restaurants after a drink or so...? Which may not be so bad if they weren't famous. I've been on location with them, gone on cruises with them and NOW I want to talk to them? I really do need to get it together. Anyway, it was Neil Patrick Harris. One of my best friends did his hair on Doogie Howser and had always said good things about him and well, I felt it was important I tell him that. As he was eating with 7 other people. Don't get me wrong, I didn't gush. I didn't ask for an autograph. I merely gushed on Romy's behalf. I said that she had said nice things about him. And I was her friend. And he said to have her call him and other things that now escape me. But I forgot to get his phone number or other pertinent information apparently. And that wasn't all. There was also Ole Henricksen. Of facial fame. He has a skincare line and a spa and my facialist works for him and I felt compelled to tell him the wonderful things she said about him. He was lovely. Told me he needed PR. So if there's anyone out there...? I have no idea why I'm sharing the love in this bizarre way. Maybe it's because people are sharing the love with me. And I like it.

Sunday night at said dinner, I was taken out by one of my best friends from high school and her new man and his good friend. The four of us had fun. Drank good wine. The kind of wine that makes you not want to brush your teeth ever again or deign to buy a bottle from the grocery store. He brought it with him in this leather thing that holds bottles of wine-- I'm sure you've seen them in gift catalogs and always wished you had someone to buy them for because they seemed sophisticated and like if you had one you'd magically have a country house, or at least take a picnic... or maybe that's just me. Anyway, my friend's new man (new to me, since I'd never met him) was incredibly tall, had a radio voice and was incredibly generous. And funny. Funny is rare. But generous, more so. Throughout the course of drinking our way through the leather thing, he shared wine with the restaurant owner and us, and the waiter and us, and it made me happy because I realized my friend had found a guy who gives. A guy who doesn't keep score. Not to mention, he cares about her and enjoys life. The last time I'd been in that situation (without my crazy celebrity approaching thing) was with my friend Mary's husband, Peter, who died in the World Trade Center. And that guy, he was a keeper.

There's something that happens when you see one of your friends with someone like that. It makes you believe. And happy, too. But believe in what's possible. That's the same thing that's happened to me in other areas of my life lately. Like working for MagickLady (one of the three jobs). She has a book coming out, has clients that are so thankful for her help and the best part-- she's so thankful for them... and me!! Yes, lil' ol' me. Who knew that could happen? Now I look forward to work. I don't even mind being called an assistant. With her, I don't even think about it. I could never do what she does. And she's such a good person that I realized today, maybe it's who you're assisting that matters. I also realized when the fedex man showed up at MagickLady's-- the same fedex man who delivered to my old job and remembered my name and said he asked about me and wanted to know where I was and how I was-- that sometimes we all matter more to other people than we think. His name is Maxwell, by the way, very cool. And buff. We're talking weightlifter buff.

I also started working with my friend Diane who is a great designer, equally great friend, has amazing taste, likes scotch and has a rocking house that she both bought and decorated. (Now if she's not a force to be reckoned with, then who is?). This all makes me happy. And my neighbors? They're setting me up! And all I did was watch their cats. Now I have a date next week. At a restaurant. Like a real person. And he doesn't even know me... Uh, oh. But in all fairness, they're the same neighbors that have seen me take out the trash in my slippers with a mud mask on.

The mud mask? You'd need one too if you worked doubles. I haven't done that since high school. Yesterday I went From Magick Lady to Boscia... and in the end, I came home exhausted and not so happy about how my 37 year-old face looked after seeing aging and sun spots in this crazy skin scanner device... but then I saw the nicest email ever from a perfect stranger and a talented one at that. She's a photographer. And now she's going to go to my colorist, Steven Tapp. And I called to tell him and he's excited. And my other friend Diane (different Diane than the designer). Apparently my hook-up with the costume supervisor on Tori Spelling's new show, Notorious, worked out. And the jewelry line she's working with (Charles Winston) is going to get featured on the show and Tori is wearing the pieces out in public and getting photographed and it all bodes well for Diane. And apparently Paris Hilton found Boscia. I learned this on a fluke and called Caren so she could capitalize on it (sadly, people do care what Paris Hilton puts on her face and body)... and I'm thinking maybe I can make things happen. For me and for other people. So I don't care so much that my blog on this particular day is a little all over the place (well, kind of actually...! I hate bad writing. Particularly by me). And that my place has stuff all over the place. And who cares if anyone buys what I have to sell at my ghetto garage sale? Because I'm finally beginning to see that whatever happens, I'm where I'm supposed to be. And the best part of all? Well, it's that I'll be with a friend. And that I can stay.

He Doesn't Even Miss His Balls or It's Hard to Be Happy, Homeless & Hormonal

So this weekend. Not so good. Just try looking for an affordable place to live when you can't realistically afford to eat. I drove hours past places called perfectly lovely things like "Royal Apartments" or "Casa Grande" when they were really quite small and no king would be caught dead there. All in all, quite depressing. So much for being poor and happy. So I have no leads, have not given notice or paid my rent. And have no idea where I'm going to end up or what to do. This is quite irresponsible of me. The not knowing. I normally know or concede defeat. But I always make sure the message is sent. Or if not that, at least the money. But this time is different. Because this is the last vestige of all that I've worked so hard to get. And I have to admit, I'm having a hard time letting go.

My friends don't want me to move. Some of them. The others think I should. Or at the very least couch surf. At 37. Me and two cats. And a U-Haul? Who wouldn't love to have that parked in front of their house? Maybe I could paint it fun colors like that guy-- Dennis Something or Other-- who drives his crazy looking cars all over LA. And maybe if I did, my friends would have me committed. I might be onto something. A free place to live!

So the only thing I accomplished this entire weekend besides wanting to work two jobs that never happened which equaled money that never happened which I really needed, was to get Little Will fixed. He was getting a little too frisky for anyone's good and it was time to fix that Little guy before my other cat did. She's a fighter when it matters. And I have enough to worry about without cat casualties. So I woke up early after getting no sleep because Little was quite upset he couldn't eat after 8pm and wanted me to know and suffer just as much as he did. And I did. From basically 3am on. It seems he doesn't care about any of the other suffering I've done. As one of the comments from an anonymous person so eloquently put it, "he's a cat."

So I dropped off Little on Saturday am then searched high and low for places to live. To no avail. Had a hormonal pity party of a day and communed with other friends feeling the same way without the hormonal advantage, then I picked up Little Will who was happy as a clam, hungry as could be and not even missing those little balls he used to have. So why was I upset? Because I was hormonal and close to homelessness? Well, at least I still had my girl parts! (Even though no one is appreciating them, they do still exist). Or at least they did last time I checked.

This is when it hits me that I haven't gone on a date since January. Been taken out to dinner since then. And the sad part? I fell asleep at that dinner. Sure it was a late one and it was on a couch at Cafe des Artistes and I didn't mean to, wasn't even drunk and have no explanation (or desire to go back to Cafe des Artistes now for that matter-- which incidentally is also the place I threw my 32nd birthday party for 20+ people much of which I paid for when I could afford to-- which is also a shame, because years later, birthdays are potluck on the patio). The poor guy - a match.com match-- tried to wake me up for upwards of an hour. In the end, I came to, horrified to learn that he'd spent the entire evening nursing a drink and dodging suspicious glances as he watched over me. Somehow, he ended up forgiving me for my sleepiness and sending me flowers...? The ONLY flowers I've ever gotten from a guy romantically. And I fell asleep on him. And they say women are confusing? Still, not a match.

The next guy from match just showed up at my place. Seriously. He drove all the way from Manhattan Beach. In all honesty, I should never have given him my address. But I didn't know he was angry. Or the kind of guy who wore shorts when he went out with a girl. But he was. And how. The shorts-- not so good. The anger was worse. Not that he didn't have a reason. In the small world of it all, it turned out that his old girlfriend used to be the personal assistant to my old boss on the show I wrote for. And apparently, also his sex toy for hire. Angry Shorts Guy was engaged to her. Until he found out that she had $92,000 in the bank and it was because she had been getting paid $1,500 every time she had sex with my old boss (why $1,500 you ask? Good question. I, however, have no answer). But $92,000 makes that a lot of sex. The crazy thing was, I wanted to be shocked. And I wasn't. I knew those guys. The star of our show? He had two anatomically correct sex dolls that he had his personal assistant dress in lingerie from Frederick's of Hollywood. According to him, he never did anything with them because you had to put them in the bathtub to get them warm and it wasn't worth the trouble. Yet, one time when he had a party at his house we saw that one of the dolls had a broken neck. Something tells me that didn't happen to Fun and Lovin' Barbie just from being propped up in a director's chair watching cartoons. Still, when Angry Shorts Guy got angry at me for not liking him, it wasn't as much fun as I'd imagined. And I didn't really want to end up like Fun and Lovin' Barbie.

I only had two other matches to speak of-- Very Young Guy who turned out to be Creepy Short Guy, and Shirtless Wonder. And I never even met Shirtless Wonder. There are limits to the cheese. Even for me. A writer only needs so much material. Still, that material should be worn. There was also a brief foray with the icons, as I like to call them. The fireman who didn't know what "iconic" or "incapacitate" meant. Or a dinner reservation. Or fidelity, for that matter. And the ex-convict.

Clearly, I need to get out more. Maybe the U-Haul isn't such a bad idea after all.

A Happy Poor Person, Who Knew?

So today, I did an infomercial. I was a testimonial. The funny thing is, I LOVE the stuff. The crazy thing? I couldn't talk. Saying my name and age was the hardest part. What's that about? The director had me do it at least 4 or 5 times. And when I was talking about the products which again, I love -- I forgot so many things. The moral of the story? I suck as an actress. Even one who's not acting. This picture is of me taken by Fernando on his cell phone (who incidentally makes a prettier woman when he wants to be than I do). And now you know... it's me. (Assuming, of course, that you care). Don't I look like I belong in Texas? I'm kidding. I'm sure not all women in Texas wear so much make-up. Not that the make-up wasn't lovely, it was. We had a perfectly lovely make-up artist who is good at what she does. But truth be told, I don't normally look so polished, so round. Okay, maybe round. I have a round face. What's a girl to do?

Anyway, the set was full of cool people. And they'd all read the blog. Which made me incredibly happy. (For reasons that I can't explain other than, I'm a writer at heart and like to be read. And I like the comments I get and they make me laugh and cry and okay... I'm a sap). Now, back to Bosica-- Caren (Conrad-- a name, a name!)- Miss Boscia herself is the kind of person who attracts good people. Shares good people (so does her sister, Carla by the way -- who's one of my fave friends and a former fellow Brownie and cheerleader). She also gets people to read blogs. So it was a crazy love fest with deep conversations and lifelong relationships and wine. And food. Well, the wine part was later. I would have loved wine during the infomercial and for the first time realized why so many actors and actresses have drug problems, but again, back to our regular programming.

Later that night we all went out to a restaurant in Hollywood and sat next to David Spade, Rob Schneider, and Adam Sandler. For some reason that escapes me, which might be due to wine consumption, I told David Spade he killed my writing career. And he was actually cool about it. But then he has money in his bank account. And I'm taller than him and have better hair. Plus, I was nice, not bitchy and had been drinking wine... (Although, he might see it differently). And Rob Schneider? He was doing some crazy incognito thing with a hood and such. Not sure what that was about. But I had worked as a writer's assistant for him for a day on Deuce Bigelow. It was right when I knew I had gotten promoted to being a writer on the show I worked on, but hadn't started yet and needed money (a theme, a theme). That day I typed for something like 14 hours straight for a bunch of funny men. Afterwards, Rob sent me a bottle of wine thanking me. Pretty menschy, right? And then I mentioned to Adam Sandler the name of a girl I worked with in retail who is best friends with his wife and I had a crazy little small world thing with a bunch of famous funny people who I'm sure I'll never see again.

All that said, I'll be honest. This happy poor person thing is not so bad. I remember back when I first went into therapy. My therapist told me that just because you were poor didn't mean you had to be unhappy and that some poor people were actually happy and I just stared at her. Stupefied. I had no idea what do with that information. I thought it was a ploy from her to get more shoes (I had to have bought her at least 10 pairs. And we're talking nice shoes. We're talking Beverly Hills). For me, growing up poor was bad. It was all about wanting what we couldn't have. Anytime we ate out, it was compliments of a coupon. And even then, we could order an entree, but not a drink. (Maybe that's why most of my dinners now are drinks...?) But truthfully, this was new information... This poor but happy thing. But now, I see, it's true. All these years later, it's true.

My dad-- he had money. My mom paid his way through law school which didn't make the whole him having money thing and us not very easy to take. He also tried to run her over when he left us which might have also contributed to the feeling. Luckily he had bad aim. But later, he had a big house and a new wife and two new kids for his efforts. With walls of pictures. One for both kids (those two kids). And an illegal spanish nanny who had a car that he bought for her. (Perhaps my mother should have been the one aiming for him? I'm just saying). My first car? A '78 Toyota Corolla station wagon that I bought against my will. It had white out on the scratches both inside and out because the elderly couple who I bought it from thought it was a truly effective way of covering them up. After awhile, it became part of its charm.

And maybe that's just it. My dad? He could have done something about our poor thing. But he didn't. Now, he's all alone. Me, not so much so. I have friends who are helping me (there's Caren and Kelly at Beige and MagickLady and Diane and Romy and Caren and Carla... and Robert who calls and calls back!!) People I'm working for on the fly who I believe in and are so good to me and kind to me that I don't know what I've done to get so lucky. And even though I've got some scratches and make-up is my own version of white out and I have no place to live and spent a fortune on therapy to deal with the poor unhappy thing which I could really use right now, it's also not so bad to know that it was money well spent. Because it turns out my therapist was right. Shoes and all. You actually can be a happy poor person. Who knew?