They're Calling Me on My Shit

If you put it out there, they will comment. Strangers and friends. But best of all, readers. Usually the intense questions come to my email. Because they're personal. And that's thoughtful. But this is a blog for God's sakes and I put it out there, so they can't be the only ones who have wondered these things. Questioned my thought process. Luckily, I have the answers. Not all of them pretty.

The first good question: Why did I open the door to The Fireman? Well, as I see it, whether it be him or another man, it's pretty much this: Sometimes I open the door because I'm curious. Sometimes I open the door because I'm hopeful. Other times, it's because I just don't know any better. But it's always because I want answers. Why would he show up after all this time? Why isn't he embarrassed? Why does he think I'll open the door? Why me? And of course, the simple truth is... I never get any of the answers I want. But I always do realize that I was a fool. And perhaps that gets me a little closer to where I should be. Self respect? Self esteem? I'm working on it. And maybe I think opening the door will help me close the door once and for all. And that by closing it, it will get me closer to a man who actually sees me for me. And likes me for that. Flaws and all.

Here's the thing (which should be painfully obvious by now): I don't understand men. At all. My father left us when I was four. Soon after, he had a new, improved family who did us one better. And that was that. A wonderful legacy of a man I couldn't depend on to give me answers about what men do. Men who don't have mean streaks, that is. Sure, there were the bad things he said to me when I was young. (Not to beat a dead horse), but he told me I was fat and ugly and no man would ever want to be with me. Well, he never said that stuff to my sister. And no wonder why she's the one who got married, right? And she even burned down our kitchen cooking french fries when she was a teenager, so it wasn't like she was programmed to be anyone's model wife.

Then, I won homecoming. When I was anorexic. That was the only time my dad ever showed up to one of my events. And I won alot of stuff when I was growing up. I was an overachiever. That's where I got all of my validation, the outside world. That's why this whole outside world being cruel to me is kind of not working for me. Much like my dad taking credit for me as an anorexic homecoming winner was kind of an eye-opener. I knew there was something wrong with that. Why didn't he?

Most of my life, I was scared that if men got too close, they'd see all the things that were wrong with me. (Insecurities compliments of my dad and me and whoever else seems appropriately blameable... but it still all comes down to me, right? I mean, there are kids who have it much worse. And didn't spend $10k + on a therapist). Nonetheless, this wonderful self esteem package has been a joy to shed. That's why this public display of honesty is funny albeit horrifying to my family who would never read my blog. And it's been illuminating for my friends who would. And for me, it's been me. For better and for worse. And it's been important for that reason. Because I spent twenty-something odd years pretending everything was okay. And it wasn't. And that's why I'm here: I'm a late bloomer.

One of my best friends since I was growing up lost both of her parents in a car accident when she was 13 years-old. She's an amazing person. She taught me how to be a friend. She taught me a lot of things. We went to elementary school, junior high school, and high school together. We were Brownies, varsity cheerleaders and on homecoming court together. Yet, it took us until our twenties to talk about pain-- because I hid shit. And she handled her shit better. I was in awe. Always shocked by how she had the self esteem and courage I could never find. So I asked her about. How was it possible that she lost her parents at such a young age and she was able to be so strong. Able to move past things. And she said something that was pretty powerful. "Even though my parents weren't here very long, they taught me I could be anything I wanted to be and that I was special." Amen for them. And, amen for her.

In another email-to-me comment, another one of my best friends since high school wondered what the ex-convict meant when he wrote his comment. I can't speak for him, but he always said that he thought I'd be successful one day (just what every woman wants to hear from a man she's sleeping with who she won't be seeing anymore). That he wanted to know how I was. But I couldn't talk to him anymore. That's why I gave him the address for blog. Did I really think he'd read it? No. But later, he told me he did... only when we got into an argument and he told me he was done reading it. Then, I kind of forgot. And that's why I was so surprised. Do I like that he's reading? Sure. It means that even though I didn't matter in the way I wanted to matter to him, I did matter. And that's a beautiful thing.

The last time I talked to my father was about five months ago. He heard about my bankruptcy and the downward turn of my career/life from his ex-wife, my ex-stepmother-- a woman who has had so much plastic surgery she looks like a cat (and kids with my dad who are far worse off than me, by the way who were doing who knows what during all the plastic surgeries)-- she had found out about my fabulous life circumstances from my sister (who is clearly rooting for me...um, yeah... no, she was never a cheerleader). When my father called me-- the second conversation I've had with him since I was 18 years old-- that's 2 in 19 years-- well, shock of all shocks, he was mocking me. He was cruel. He clearly wanted to see me fail. And he was delighted that I was. (I don't use that term loosely -- "delighted", that is). My friend who lost her parents said that she would have hung up on him. And why didn't I? I don't know. Maybe it's the same reason that I answer the door.

When I open the door-- whether it be for my father, whether it be for a man I want to be with or a man I was with for whatever reason-- it's usually because for once, I want to believe that the answer will be different. Whether I know it will be or not. It's because for once, I want to believe that I'll see what I want to see. That I'll hear what I want to hear. And no matter what my past, no matter what my age, I don't ever want to lose the hope that someday I will.

The Ex-Con Made Me Cry

Again. He's done that alot. Since I've known him. Not when we first met. Or when we had our "thing" going on. Then, he mostly made me laugh. He was interesting, amusing, and kind. Yes, kind. That was the thing that was so confusing about him. Oh, who am I kidding? There were many things that were confusing about him. He was this crazy juxtaposition of bad, good, sexy and sweet. I got sucked in. And then, he broke my heart.

So I wrote essays about what happened between us. The first one, funny. (Which he read). The next one, heartbreaking. (Which he didn't). Those adjectives were the feedback from my writing workshop. They loved them. More than anything I've ever written. And in their comments, they called me on the stuff that happened between us-- and expected me to address it. They raised questions that I had never even thought of...like, "Did you love him?" That's the thing about non-fiction that really sucks, you have to be honest. That was one messed up Sunday, I tell you. There's nothing quite like realizing you loved someone and they never loved you back. Not to mention, that you yourself never even acknowledged it. It felt so high school. So embarrassing. I mean, I'm 37 years-old, for God's sakes. Just because I grew up in The OC, didn't mean I wanted to be starring in it. We all know I suck as an actress.

To have "the ex-con" leave a comment on my blog was surprising. And it made me cry. It was nice... and surprising. Damn guy was always surprising me. Maybe that's why I had no idea what to do with him as much as I feel like he had no idea what to do with me. Other than the obvious. After things ended the second time (yes, there was a second time-- yet, not nearly as "right" as the first-- he was a different guy, it was a different situation and he liked a different girl)--so I didn't want him rooting for me. I just wanted him to go away. I needed him to go away. Because I liked him too much or loved him too much... whatever...still, and he didn't like me back (high school again...? maybe). But he was there. And when everything else in your life isn't going how you want it to, and you want-- no NEED something to look forward to, it's amazing what you'll settle for... even not mattering to someone else that matters to you. But I began to realize that being with him wasn't helping me move on with my life-- move forward--- and it was my own damn fault (so much cussing today, sorry:). So I tried to behave in a way that would make him go away. Or maybe I just allowed myself to behave in that way. Still, it was probably not a high point. Not really in character. Not really me. But I needed to do it at the time. I thought-- how can you get over someone if they never go away?

So this is the deal with the ex-con. I made mistakes, too. I need to take responsibility for that. And I'm sorry. He only deserves half of them. (Well, maybe three-fifths...) But at the end of the day, he's not a bad guy. No matter what the correctional system leads us all to believe. Or what I sometimes do in my blog. The fact is, he was there at a time I needed him. He listened. He talked. And he held me. (And vice-versa. I am a giver, after all). And let's be honest. Although he did do some duplicitous things (which he might or might not know/acknowledge he did), you can't fault a guy for not loving you. Hey, my father didn't. And I'm his kid.

This Is A Nielsen Box Without a Family & No, It's Not a Box

I feel bad. See, before I got the phone call from my old boss, before the proposition, I came up with what I thought was a funny idea. I knew it was his birthday in a week. And that he cared about Nielsen families. I also knew that for people who have never seen a Nielsen box, it's actually somewhat interesting to see what one looks like. Granted, it wasn't like I actually needed to get ^$&#* a birthday present. I mean for one, the man has everything. Need doesn't really enter into it. Then again, do people actually buy gifts for multi-millionaires? Maybe he needs to feel that people are thinking of him as more than a rich person. All that considered, I decided to wrap up the Nielsen box, write out a nice little card and send it to him as a birthday gift.

I just got it back-- certified mail. It came back to me in an oversized white box. The brown wrapping I sent it in was still in the box, like it had never even been opened. It had clearly been sent back by a PA. (The show was written as the return address). So I felt bad. And felt something that I recognized as a little slap in the face. Which made me feel even worse. I mean, if anyone should be slapping, it should be me, right? So I thought some not very nice things about my old boss. Then yesterday, I opened the white box, ready to take out the Nielsen box, pack it up and send it on its way to the Nielsen folk who could in turn send it to a family who would use and appreciate it and the power it has. That's when I found a note. It said, "You know I love you, but I can't even have one of these in my possession. But I've never seen one before, so that was cool. See you soon. Love, #%@&$."

That made me feel bad. Because this is the thing. He's not a bad guy. Really. In fact, he's a nice guy. And he's been quite nice to me in the past. I just wish he would have been honest with me about things. Like not ever wanting to hire me. Instead of telling me I what I wanted to hear. And making calls to help get me a writing job. (Clearly no one believed the good things he said. Because if they were true, then why wasn't he buying the cow?) How many times when you want to set up a single friend of the opposite sex when you're single, too does the person you want to set your friend up with say, "if they're so great, then why aren't you dating them?" Uh-huh. No matter how glowingly you recommend somoene, they can never quite get past that question.

I know honesty is hard. And I feel bad about being as honest as I am in some of my stories where other people are concerned. That's why I would never name names. Hey, I didn't even want to use my own name in case some people could figure out who the people I was writing about were-- that whole guilt by association thing. (Maybe James Frey could have gone that route?). But I don't know if anyone's really reading me any more anyway-- at least not anyone who doesn't already know me-- so I just coughed up my name. Friends would use it in comments and deleting the few comments I got to "preserve my identity" seemed ridiculous. Not to mention, lonesome. Who doesn't like comments? I mean, they're like my own personal Nielsen box. No comments means writing is boring or bad. More comments could mean something might be good or deplorable or sympathetic or something else that I haven't even thought of yet. I read them all. And I pay attention to them. Okay, I may not be give out nifty little prizes. At least, not now. But who knows? Maybe someday.

Being Poor Can be Good

Okay, this is not my recommendation for anyone's life. That you set out to be poor. Or underacheive. Or whatever it takes or doesn't take to get to the poor place. But I do have to admit, the poor thing has had its moments. Usually when I was younger and it was more romantic. But still.

Like, for instance, when I was in college. Sophomore year at UCLA. I took an internship in New York over the summer. I saved my money all year. I wanted to go to New York more than anything. And I applied-- offered free services-- and got an internship at a TV company out there (I know, but I wanted to be in New York!). And UCLA, they found me a roommate and a place to stay and I got credit. And my sorority, well it provided a friend in the guise of a Kappa from Cornell who was passing through the House when I was studying and she was taking pictures and I told her I was coming out to New York and...I was set.

Then I got to New York and met my roommate-- a spoiled handful, let me tell you. And our place? A not so respectable place that was kind of a retirement community or something-- it had to have been-- because there were a bunch of old people in the lobby in front of fans all the time. The elevator? It never worked. The stove? There wasn't one. And the internship? I was working with two guys who talked about sex...graphically... all day while we worked. And them? They were getting paid. And me? They thought it was funny I wasn't. They were from money. Their dads both worked in TV. But New York! I was in New York! And the moment I arrived at said UCLA endorsed retirement community? Well, I had tons of messages from Julie, the Cornell Kappa.

Flash forward to a week or so into our stay. Lee Ann and I (my roommate) were cut from completely different cloth-- actually, I was kind of cardboard and she was kind of silk or something akin to that. With a flowery print. Yet, we were there together. So we went out. To Outback. To this cool upper westside (hot at the time) NYC bar that played INXS at full volume. Had bad boy bartenders and was fun. Julie provided the destination and we went. Lee Ann? She hooked up with a stockbroker who worked at Sherson Lehman. It was the 80s. He got lots of champagne and made lots of restaurant reservations and sipped lots of cocktails and... had two places! I learned this while Lee Ann fixed her face the next morning. He and I bonded. And he offered up place #2 for me. He had paid his way through school. So he knew what it was like. He didn't want money from me. He didn't want anything. He just wanted to help. And I knew he meant it. I wasn't scared. Didn't question his motives. I went with it. I just made sure Lee Ann could come, too. He wasn't really happy about that part (beer goggles much?). But he agreed. And just a week later, he was moving us into his place.

So there I was, living for free. At a total stranger's place. A total stranger who said he never stayed at the second place. And then suddenly he was. Because he thought I was fun, my friends were fun. And it was a pretty great summer. I had friends coming over from internships in Georgetown and staying with us. I had friends from LA coming over and staying with us. And I could actually breathe financially. Instead of paying for rent, I got to pay for fun. So I didn't have to be bothered that the nimrods I worked for had funny money to burn. I had met a cool stranger.

Anyway, that was my Sophomore summer. I'll never forget it. Rob DeFranco. It was the first time I had sushi. Or lived with a man... even platonically (my dad moved out at 4). The first time I knew a random act of kindness could change my life. And it did. Julie from Cornell became one of my best friends. So did one of her friends. And years later, another. And New York became a city I loved. A city I always went back to and felt understood in. I dated men from there. I celebrated birthdays there. So why LA? Well, I have so much history here. So many friends that are so amazing. And that is a world. The world I may or may not belong in, but it's mine.

And now, my friend Diane is on a plane to NYC. I'm SO jealous. I haven't been since right after the World Trade Center. Since a friend's memorial. She's going to stay with a guy we met randomly in the Four Season's bar in Beverly Hills during the holidays. And you know what? I thinks it's basically the coolest thing ever. We had a great time with him. In a few short hours. He's pretty funny and astute and was game to hang out with us. And he's a financial guy. Who knew? If nothing else, I consider myself an excellent judge of character (forgiving The Fireman and the ex-convict). I have a feeling this guy with two first names is now a part of our lives aka he doesn't know what he got himself into. But we're pretty fun. So not so bad. (By the way, Diane's not poor so the only real link is cool financial guy from New York met in a bar offering a place to stay out of the sheer goodness of his heart)

I don't know whatever happened to Rob DeFranco. I tried to find out. But I may never know. And the funny thing is, he changed my life. This random guy. Who never wanted anything from me but a good bloody mary and steamed rice. Go figure. I would love to tell him thank you. To take him out to dinner, go give him a hug. I would also love for everyone I know to have a random act of kindness from a total stranger happen right when they need it. Granted, not everyone is open to situations like mine. But it's amazing what you'll do when you need help. It's amazing who you'll trust. And just how great it can turn out when you do. And really, that's when being poor can be good. When it opens your world.

When a Booty Call is Bad or Let Me Burn

I had a dream last night that my apartment was burning down and the only person who showed up on the firetruck to save me was The Fireman. There he was, net below my bedroom window, telling me to jump. Saying he'd catch me. And you know what I said? "Let me burn." I'd be damned if I'd give him that satisfaction. To say nothing of the fact both options were pretty bleak.

That was pretty much how I felt last night when he showed up for Unexpected Visit #2. I had just gotten off work. It was day 6 of working and I'd been talking all day. Training and selling women on skincare. Talking about their skin or their make-up makes a lot of women feel vulnerable. Which makes them want to talk about their other vulnerabilities. One minute you're talking about LA water affecting your skin differently than New York water and the next, about the LA guy who the New York girl moved out here for and how he said her face wasn't pretty, rather "funky"--like it was a good thing and then proceeded to dig himself into a deeper hole by saying it was only because she wasn't wearing any make-up. After talking this girl off her ledge of being a twenty-something woman living with a man who doesn't understand that telling her she has a "funky" face isn't going to make her feel good (and after training the others), I was all talked out. I wanted to read. And rest. Alone. Yes, on a Saturday night.

So there I was. Reading. Alone. Having a glass of wine. Alone. Perfectly content. Not lonely at all. Until.. there was a knock on the door. I thought it was my neighbor. So I opened the door. No, I didn't ask "Who is it?" I mean, who comes to the door nowadays unannounced? Even Jehovah's Witnesses seem to have given that up. Well, apparently The Firemen didn't get the news bulletin. Then again, he doesn't read. He was on duty. His radio was going off evey other minute with a different call. Still, he was all over me. Not in the least bit dissuaded by my pushing him off or the guy on Rescue with him waiting in the truck downstairs. He tried unbuckling his pants. Taking off his shoes. He tried telling me it would be exciting to be with him when he could get a call at any minute and have to go. I tried asking him where his girlfriend was. Why he wasn't working on making it work with her. Why he was at my place. He said it was complicated. Isn't it always? "How old is she?" I asked. Not particularly sure why it mattered. For some reason, I pictured her young and dramatic, I guess. He said she was old. I asked him how old. "Old," he repeated. "How old?" "37." I just looked at him, giving him a moment to catch on. He continued to look at me in all his cluelessness. Finally, I said, "I'm 37. So apparently I'm old, too." "But you don't look it," he said. Uh-huh. Well, if guys like him keep showing up, I'm guessing I might look it very soon.

Look, it's not like I'm a total prude and think booty calls are a bad thing. In fact, sometimes they can be quite a good thing. It's just not when you want something else entirely. Something that means something. Look, I know I was the one who had a fling with him in the first place (pre-girlfriend, by the way). And I'm also the one who let him in the door the last time he showed up. And like Steve said (which I didn't believe) that since I let The Fireman in the door, since I let him stay overnight-- no matter how drunk he was (drunk enough to have crashed his car before he came over last time-- which I forgot somehow in Fireman Visit Part 1), and no matter that nothing had happened, I had still opened the door-- for The Fireman to think he was going to get something from me-- if not that night, then another. That's the problem with "no," I guess. It means such different things to different people. And more accurately, different things to The Fireman and me. That's why it took me forever to get him to leave.

One of my girlfriends said, "Could you imagine what he would have done if your boyfriend had answered the door?" Another friend thought it wouldn't have fazed him. I think truthfully, The Fireman thought the boyfriend thing was pretty unlikely to happen so it probably didn't even occur to him. Which made me sad. Because I'm right there with him. I mean, my friends are the ones who brought up the scenario. It never occurred to me, either. Which is bad. Especially since it's something I want. I think that may be why the minute The Fireman left the building, I was hit by this incredible sadness. Not because I really wanted him to stay or I wanted to sleep with him or anything like that. It was more about me wanting there to be a guy who read, a guy who called, a guy knew how old I was answering the door, acting like The Fireman was insane to just show up and think I'd want to be with him.

Putting it Out There

I've been making calls. Lots and lots of calls. To people I used to know. And who used to know me back. People I don't know. And want to. The common denominator for all of them? They have power. And the common denominator in my calling them? I don't. And me? I don't want power. But maybe don't want to be so powerless. Rather I'd like a chance-- to help me, to help someone I know, to see the light at the end of the tunnel. I'm not picky. Any of those will do. And you know? Even a call back when I'm not home. A call they drop out of obligation. That can get me through a day. I'm easy to please, shoot me.

I remember way back when... back when I was in my 20s. Yes, I can remember that far back. Back when I worked for a group of producers. They were on their way up. Had produced two hits. But still, that was considered not quite there. But they were trying oh so diligently to get there. And in their efforts to get A-list actors and actresses attached to their movies, they would call powerful agents 24-7. And those powerful agents? They would drop calls. When they thought my bosses weren't there. And my bosses? Well, they would be there. Because they were at the office 24-7. And they would pick up. The assistant to the powerful agent? Well he or she would make some excuse about how their boss was driving in traffic and yeah, you get the rest. So basically, what I'm discovering is just how many people are driving in traffic where I'm concerned. There are alot of them out there. It's not easy to call them. I think I probably took a shot or drank an entire glass of wine at least once or twice before I dialed a few of them. If not, I wanted to. It's crazy how after spending four or five years of your life with people you can so easily become an unreturned phone call and the thought of calling them can send you into a complete panic. Let's be clear-- these are not men you want to date. Men you slept with or want to sleep with. They're former colleagues... what's that about? That's what makes it so hard. I'm not going to lie. But then, there are also the people who shock the $&#^ out of you. The ones who make you realize that you were there for a reason-- working with those people or for those people for a reason. You didn't waste your time. Be it two days or five years. And maybe if that's the case, it could also mean that because you didn't see that then, perhaps there's also something bigger that's going to happen for you now. And you just can't see it. As if.

I just got off the phone with my first boss out of college. That's a long ways back. A. Long. Ways. Back. I worked for him/his company for three and a half years. He cut me loose when he thought I was overqualified for the position aka didn't feel all that excited about getting lunch for him and the people he was meeting with who also happened to be the writer and director I was giving notes to. I thought it took away some of my authority. I'm not going to lie. One minute, she's taking your order, the next she's telling you what to do to your screenplay? Yeah. Like that's going to work. Needless to say, it didn't. The writers and directors wouldn't listen. And me? Well, why bother working your ass off to learn things if you're doing exactly what you did when you were paying your way through college? My bosses? They didn't see it at first. I did. Because I was the one that the other people were ignoring. He/The company gave me a bonus/money to live on while I looked for a new job. $12,000. In the 80s. Huge, right? Of course, the timing was lousy. I'd been in Boston for three months making a movie, had been out of contact with every single person I knew to contact, it was November, my sister was getting married and I had just died my hair black. (Long story. I felt like I didn't live up to being a blonde or else by being a blonde, I was selling something I didn't have or clearly, if people were treating me like I was invisible, I thought I should go with it... so anyway, a not so bright decision on my part and my sister has the wedding pictures to prove it. Which are ALL OVER my mother's house. Sigh). Anyway, back to the money. Yes, that was an amazing thing to do. For them to do. Did I see that then? Truthfully, I was too freaked out about having to find a job to roll around in all of that greenery.

In a rather fitting moment, do you know what was playing in on the radio when I pulled into my garage, check in purse? "Don't Cry Out Loud". I just sat in the garage while the light went off and... cried first quietly...and then out loud. It was such a movie moment. One of those ridiculously serendipitous moments that if you actually did see it in a movie, you'd think-- that never happens. Anyway, my old boss? He has always been a mensch. No lie. And him taking my phone call after some 12ish years? Well, it just goes to prove that there are good people out there. He was so nice on the phone, I wanted to cry. Hearing his voice? I wanted to cry. So anyway, We talked. Caught up. His barely walking toddler is now driving his car. His other one is in college. I asked him to have lunch. To pick his brain. He's a producer and a writer who has never had to do anything but. The fact that he's still writing and is a nice guy...? That's huge. He's also English. Great accent. I still remember what he likes to eat. (And basically every boss I've ever had...Scary, right? Him? Pad thai.) He's one of the only men I've ever worked for that hasn't hit on me. He has a family. He has a sense of self. And that makes him a success in my eyes. And the fact that he'll call me back AND have lunch with me? Only that much more.

Water is for Customers Only

A ways back, pre-bankruptcy-- which makes it not far enough a ways back for me, I worked for a designer who has a boutique. And she posted this sign on her refrigerator. It was meant for me (just in case you didn't get that one) being that I was her sole employee. She paid me $10 an hour. The cost of water apparently was too rich for her blood. Still, she expected me to wear her clothes. Which meant buy her clothes ($185 per skirt -- even with my 40% discount). But here's the clincher-- she only wanted me to buy the pieces she wanted me to buy (because customers wouldn't...?). Not the ones I wanted. And might actually wear again. She also wanted me to dress in a specific style-- hers. She 's very bohemian. I'm not so much so. My make-up doesn't go with her stuff. My personality doesn't go with her stuff. But the biggest problem of all? None of my shoes went with her stuff, either. So she suggested VERY STRONGLY that I buy clogs and boots. And I did. Why? I have no clue. I just sold the boots through that ISoldit on eBay store for a whopping $86.00, $57.05 after they took their commission. The clogs? I can't give them away. And I've tried.

That was one of those jobs that I like to forget about. And pretty much had. Some strange water conversation made me think of it last night. And then thinking of that job, I remembered another one that was right on par-- working the Barney's warehouse sale at the Santa Monica Airport. I know, I know. It's exhausting enough going to the sale. What was I thinking by trying to work it? I guess, I thought, Barney's. Barney's is cool. I like Barney's. But Barney's doesn't like temps. And that's what I was. I was hired by some fly by night temp company. They had an instructional video they showed us before starting work. We had to wear tight clothing-- to deter us from stealing. We couldn't bring in purses or bags. We had to pee in port-a-potties and the only food within miles was from the snack bar which is the only place we could really go during our abbreviated breaks. $3.75 for trail mix and $1.50 for water. That meant my rate of pay was 6 and half bottles of water an hour. Then, to make matters worse, I got in trouble for constantly losing my nametag. They even threatened to charge me for it. When I just shrugged in defeat, they said they were kidding. But I didn't think they were.

I ran into an ex-boyfriend when I was working there... at the Barney's sale. And I also ran into the daughter of the crazy lady who ruined my apartment when we swapped and almost got me evicted for having dogs in there. Which I didn't know about. Her daughter? Well, she's an actress. Was on "Party of Five" during the time they lived in my place (remember that show?). And slept with her mother in my bed while she was there. And took the mattress with her when they left. And oddly enough, she was also dating my old ex-roommate who is also an actor. Her crazy mother took out a restraining order on him after her daughter and he broke up. And him? Well, he liked to tell me how he had sex in my garage. From that point forward, I didn't let anyone park in my garage. Needless to say, when I saw the crazy lady's daughter, I prayed that she didn't recognize me. It was bad enough to be wrapping her multitude of purchases. Particularly when I wanted to strangle her. Oh, those were the days. When I thought my situation would be temporary. When I thought during a casting session for my movie or TV show, she would walk in and I could turn her down. Let's be honest, if she was good, me being me? I would hire her. That's probably half my problem.

I realized last night that it's been five years since I worked on the show. Since I got water for free. Got fed for free. We used to have good meals on that show. Ordered from good restaurants. Realizing this, the five year part, I started to cry. Where did the time go? What have I been doing since then? How did this happen? I feel like I've been eating Doritos every single meal for five years, then woke up fat, wondering why. In other words, I had something to do with this. But still, I wonder why. I'm sure there's some grand plan for me. I'm sure. There has to be, doesn't there?

For Every Problem, There's a Solution.

This is Steve. Cute solution, right? And he reads. And writes. Is quite talented, actually. Funny. Acerbic. Smart. Big muscles. And tools, to boot. We're friends. I know, I know. All my friends ask: why don't you date him? Well, here's a shocker folks, the guy you date, has to want to date you back. Me? I'm an expert at doing it the other way around. My New Year's resolution? To actually be with men who want to be with me. That's a lovely concept. Ones who make promises they keep. And I think with this New Year, I could even tolerate flowers or a flower... a sprig? every so often from someone I'm with. The only guy I've ever been involved with who's brought me flowers is my ex, Paul. He showed up with them on the first date. I was at a loss. And when he pulled over at the side of the road after our first date to tell me that he was thinking of me (this was before cell phones, mind you... which also shows just how long ago my flower/adoration situation was-- not to mention the bigger effort he had to put in to use his blinker and get to the side of the road), I thought there was something wrong with him. I wasn't used to such things. Paul? Well, once we broke up, I went into therapy. Because quite simply, he was a good guy and I had no idea what to do with him. Now? Paul just told me he got engaged. I'm incredibly happy for him. He's a great guy. She's very lucky. Whoever she is. No, I'm not pining. I'm just telling it like it is. We had our time in the sun or moon or whatever the lighting happened to be at the time. And I learned from it. And am thankful for it. Oh, he's also in a Lexus commercial right now. Thought I should plug him. Yes, he's an actor. And the commercial? It's national. Which is good for him. Again, a talented guy. His time is coming... I know it. Truly. He's worked alot. Now he just needs the real job. We all know what that's like.

Okay, so back to Steve. The first guy ever to use his tools for my benefit. Not in that way, although I meant it to sound that way. Such the kidder, I am. The other ones used their tools for their benefit and I picked up the scraps. My fault. I know. Am I sharing, too much? Anyway, my closet situation was a disaster. I had clothes on the floor. I had nowhere to hang things. And you all know how much I make. It's not like I'm talking an unrealistic amount of clothes. Still, my shit was everywhere and I was frustrated. Not to mention, I was a bit too excited to get it all done, went to the lumber store and bought stuff all prepared to fix it myself but apparently, Home Ec did me wrong. I should have taken woodshop. I didn't consider that hangers need room to hang, no matter how perfect the pole fits. Hmm, kind of a metaphor for life. You think? So after a good cry, I had no idea what to do. I was ready to just nail a hunk of wood in an obscure place, attach the pole, and go from there. But Steve wouldn't have it. Because he had a better idea. And one aesthetically pleasing. Very exciting. He fixed my closet and Kelly's closet and didn't want a thing from us. Amen.

Now Steve? He's a nice guy. Sure, he looks like a hot, bad boy. Sure, he needs to cut his hair (I tell him this all the time-- well, not all the time. Once and then I let it go. He likes it. What can you do?). But he follows through. He's there. The ex-convict? Well, when he was living with me, he promised closet help. Among other things. And so did the fireman. There have been other promises from other guys, too. And the cool thing about Steve is this: he's always been there and he's always kept his word. He was there when I got dumped. Got dumped badly. Had a crazy woman I swapped apartments with so I could go live in New York ruin my place, change the locks and break my furniture. And then had Steve playing bodyguard alongside the police-- ready to kick some crazy lady ass. As it turns out, she was gone and left my place a disaster and left me with a bill I couldn't afford to pay (which is a wild story for another day). And Steve? He hugged me when I cried. We met when I helped him with his script. He sold it. And he's been a writer ever since. He bought me couches as a thank you. I still have them.

So all of this. Him. My friends who have been there. I think of how lucky that makes me on a daily basis. Even though I have pity parties every now and then-- which I freely share. I don't take anyone for granted. I'm very aware of how unusual it is for a person in my place to have such great people surrounding them. When the shit hits the fan. Which in my life is a constant. Sorry, but true. They're there. They don't go away. So here's a shout out to all the solutions to my problems. All the people who make the problems seem smaller. This may be corny, but if I wait for a book to come out, some of you might be staring at the ground. Ha! Kidding.

So thank you...

Romy, Kelly, Diane, Stephanie, Carla, Caren, Kristine, Kate, Steve, Brian, Mom, Michael, Julie, Diane, Kelly (no I'm not drunk, I just know a lot of people with the same name!), Quentin, Tina, Laura, Paul, Cheryl, Lisa, David, Sarah, Wileen, Louisa, Janice, Robert, Rodney, Linda & Mike, and Cacey. You're the ones left standing. The better half of what's left.

And to the friends who I miss and who I'm not close to any longer-- for whatever reason, I appreciate you, too...! You've made a difference. Really.

And if I left anyone out, I suck.

And FYI, this is not a suicide note. I'm just feeling thankful. A nice closet and a day off will do that to a girl. And those flowers Paul gave me? Well, they did matter.

They Just Keep Crawling Out...

Right before Christmas I did a stupid thing. I answered a phone call from an unknown caller. Me, with my own number blocked. Why have I blocked my number? I don't know....? In case stalking seemed like a better paying part time job than my current, oh-so-lucrative occupations? Anyway, the call was from a crazy Match.com guy. Who I never dated. Never met. And didn't want to. And he found me. Found my number somehow. A year after I quit Match. And I was only on it for like two months. What's that about? So anyway, he proceeded to play that "guess who this is?" game. Which clearly was an ineffective ploy to get my interest. And really just served to annoy me. He acted hurt I didn't remember him. Which I FINALLY did-- but only as a kook who wouldn't stop emailing me and found my number... and then scared me. And if you've read my history, you know I don't scare easily. So anyway, he creeped me out by all the aforementioned and also by trying to tell me how successful he was and how he had minions working for him over the holidays and how fun that was for him since he was going to Europe. And, um yeah. I'm sure you can guess just how impressed I was by that information. Anyway, I managed to kind of feign my way out of that one. My friends said I should have just told him adios. But I'm a nice girl. Damn it all. And then. Really. Who wants to piss off a guy with minions who might own baseball bats?

Then match.com guy number two emailed me a Christmas greeting. And him? Truly, a nice guy. Who should really be with someone more normal than me. It was actually nice to hear from him. Because... he's nice! He's even read the blog. And was complementary when I spoke to him on the phone. He said he liked my perspective on the world. Which is again... nice. He's going to make an excellent father. I know it. He's very talented. And stable and normal and nice. And well, you know me. So that's why we're friends. Or can be friends. Which is again... nice.

But as for the fireman? I have no regrets. Even though everyone I told about the incident and who read about the incident thought I should have either kicked him out or had sex with him-- NOT just had him spend the night platonically. For them, there should be no in between. But what can I say? I mean, really. I'm a work in progress. And still, just hopeful enough to think that whether or not I can make him a nice guy, maybe I can make a difference... Somehow. Yet somehow, I think I'm better off donating my time to charity. It would definitely be less intrusive.

Anyway, all of this has left me quite exhausted. Because two wrongs don't make a right. (I'm not referring to match.com guy number two--because he could be a friend which is right, not wong). I'm kind of referring to my life. And what's wrong in it. Do you think that pairs of twos still count as wrongs? Just thinking. Anyway, I'm really ready for a right. A right man, a right job, a right situation, just getting something right. Anything.

What to do, What to do?

****Oddly enough, this blog entry is being interrupted by a random visit from The Fireman***

Okay, he just showed up. It's 12am. And he wants sex. I haven't seen him in six months. Or more. Because he has a girlfriend. Who he apparently just got in a fight with. This is also apparently an ongoing thing with him since he left a random note on my door about a month ago saying hi and telling me to call him at the station. And now? Well, he's been drinking so I tell him he can stay over mainly because I'm tired and don't have the energy to throw him out and also because I've been watching "Rescue Me" and love it and also because he shouldn't drive. He works at the station down the street and has to be at work at 5:30 in the morning. I warn him that nothing is going to happen. I wear sweats to bed. With socks. Attractive, right? A mood killer you'd think. He, of course, doesn't see it that way. He gets completely naked. I don't let him kiss me. He tries. And tries again. All the while complaining to me about his "psycho" girlfriend. And his situation. Which has been going on awhile now according to him. This popping up thing/getting naked thing is making me begin to see why.

The mother of his child won't let him see his kid (a boy-- who breastfed for like 2 1/2 years. Creepy, I'm sorry. I don't care what anyone says). Anyway, (I think I've mentioned this before) he's already sold his boat, his second car and his motorcycle to pay legal fees. And now he lives with his apparently "psycho" girlfriend because he has to rent out his house-- also for legal fees--and can't leave her because if he does the court will think he's not stable. This is alot of information. Which is much easier to tolerate when you're having sex with someone. And you know, I like sex as much as the next person. But not from someone like him. Not for someone who I found out was using me as a back-up. Nice, right? He flat out says he's cheated on every girlfriend he's ever had like this is a ringing endorsement or something. The scary thing is, he shares this information. The scarier thing? I used to feel sorry for him. To want to help him. Even though he was one of those guys who thought we were dating when we were just having sex. I told him a date involves setting a time, picking up the person you're dating and doing something outside of the bedroom. But he didn't get it. The ex-convict didn't get it either. They're eerily enough kind of the same guy-- no matter how differently society labels them-- they're both always trying to get away with shit. And for awhile they did. With me. I was the common denominator. But not anymore. Yes, I get that. I finally get that.

Hmm. It appears maybe I'm not all that slow after all.