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?