I'm Putting the Ex-Convict to Bed.

And it's hard. You go back. You remember. You go there. Because you have to. You're recreating a time. A place. An emotional space. For the sake of a story. The last story in a series of stories. About you. About him. About the two of you. And it sucks. And it doesn't suck. Because it was good before it was bad. And it was good to remember. After all, he was hot. Okay, and still hot. And he was amazing when he was vulnerable and insightful when he cared. And it was fun and not so fun. And you felt happy and used and left and not good enough. And all sorts of other things you needed to feel. And that's the way it is. You want to talk to him again. You can't talk to him again. Because right now, you're not you. You're writing as someone witnessing your life. So you're in the place you used to be. As a visitor. So you're nostalgic. And him? The ex-convict? He's moved on. And how.

Why? Because he wants to.

And he should.

It doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

It doesn't mean he didn't hurt you.

Still, I like writing about him. Whether it's apropros or not. He's interesting. Intoxicating. And devastating. I just wish writing about him didn't make it so real.

My Week. And Thoughts. In a Nutshell.

This week.

I submitted two stories and a rewrite to different websites and one literary publication.

I learned that March 9th is my last day of work. And I'm so excited but nervous, too. Because I want the next thing I do to be something I want to do. Something for me.

I got an incredibly nice email from my old boss who appreciated my notes on his script. (After I emailed his assistant because I was worried I may have offended him by writing so many notes.) But he told me he thought he taught me well. And I even got an xo in the bargain.

I wrote a profile for one of my best friends for match.com.

I signed up for match.com to make my friend happy. And unsigned up for match.com to make me happy.

I found out that March 9th will be my last day of work. And I'm happy and scared. And I'm hoping for a miracle.

A woman at Harper Collins in New York surprised me by being the biggest champion for my company without even knowing it. And moving things along when I can't even do that myself because of the hours I'm working. And then, when I showed her my vision, she told me she thought it would be a success. This woman? She's studying to get her MBA in public administration. I picture her office. I picture it as small. And of her deserving something big. I plan to send her flowers.

I wondered about the men that got away. The friends that got away. And why it is that some people get or go away. For no reason at all. When there's every reason to stay.

I was hurt by hearing that a friend talked about me behind my back. In a not very nice way. Actually it was pretty mean. It was pretty mocking. It was someone I helped alot, someone I supported and defended. And someone I needed. So it made me cry. And realize. Maybe I don't need this person after all. And maybe it's good I learned it so I can let this person go. And my friend who heard it? She stood up for me. I've never been one of those girls. That talked shit about the other girls. That gossiped and enjoyed it. And even if this was a man, a gay man. It hurt me that he did.

I cried because I don't know how long I can do this. How long I can wait for it to all happen for me. I've been waiting a long time.

I wondered, if I jumped, who would care?

And then I thought, if I jumped and lived. I would be a mess. And that's worse, not better.

My friends and I spent the night studying up on the history of the man who could make the company a success. A man with talent, intelligence, history, and age. I have to call him next week and I'm nervous. Because it means everything.


My checker at Trader Joe's asked me out. And said, "The older the better." And the odd thing is? It actually was a compliment. And it sure beat the time I had to put my food back because I couldn't afford to pay for it.

I had no time to write and I'm supposed to read in my writing in class this Sunday. And I'm tired of apologizing for too many hours I had to work and not enough things that I wrote. When I want to write. That's all I want to do. And just wanting it doesn't prove it or put words on the page.

My friend Kelly said, "You worked every night during high school? No wonder you didn't have a boyfriend." And it made me sad. Because I didn't want to work so much and I wanted a boyfriend and it's crazy that something that happened in high school can still make me sad. And I wonder if maybe I hadn't worked so much then and had a boyfriend then, I'd be in a different place right now. A better one. Or at least maybe it wouldn't make such a difference.

I dropped off my friend's birthday present at her store and saw how great her remodel looks. And it made me happy for her.

I thought how amazing the woman who saved my cat Little is. I love the little guy him all my heart and soul. He's cheerful and amusing and present and he hugs. A cat. Who hugs! What could be better?

I took a walk with my friend Romy in the rain. Then we came home and drank too much wine. And cried. Yes, this week had a lot of crying.

We watched Sasha Cohen skate like a rock star.

I read Lisa Glatt's short story in "Swivel". And it made me swivel.

I dreamt about my old cheerleading squad all cheering in a movie for my old TV show boss and spent the entire post dream wondering why they were cheering and I wasn't and trying to figure out the timeline and how that could be possible.

I got wonderful emails from three friends out of the blue. And a phone call, too. People who told me they missed me and cared and said other nice things. Things that mattered. I printed them out.

I thought about how amazing my mother is. That she's a survivor. And that being a survivor is sometimes the hardest thing to be.

I cried because it's been so many jobs I don't want to do. And there are so many things I do want to do. And I don't think I can do the jobs I don't want to do anymore. That scares me. Because there's only me.

I picked out a pair of shoes and a shirt and a necklace and a dress that I liked off of different websites. And I printed the pages out as if doing that would make them mine. And even though I do that all the time. I thought maybe this time a miracle might happen and I can have that dress, wear that dress on my 38th birthday. And I thought. That might even make it worth celebrating.

I saw that Tracey Ross charged $55 more for a pair of shoes than the designer did on their website. Not that I could afford either one. But it bothered me nontheless.

I read a story I wrote in my last workshop and was embarrassed to see just how far I'd fallen and just how far I've come.

I wondered if independent had to mean alone and just what it meant to men. Do they think that independent means she doesn't want to be taken care of, cares more about a career than a family, or is that just the way it works out sometimes?

And then I wondered why some men think that together makes it okay to cheat and why they're with women who they're apologizng for or complaining about and cheating on anyway.

My old roommate told me he saw the ex-convict and his baby and his girlfriend. And that he looked happy. And although I want him to be happy, I think my ex-roommate said it to hurt me. And it did.

Roaches and Silverfish and Moths, oh my!

Although it may seem like it, I haven't exactly been spending the last week or so picking out wedding china and casing out random corners to see who's lurking just around them. No, instead I've been busy moving my china and food and clothes and self in an effort to deal with my pest problems. And you know? The whole process has been a little bit more work than I thought it was going to be. First obstacle: getting my landlord to actually acknowledge things that crawl and fly fall into the category of things he should do something about. And two: getting to the point that I have to just do it myself. And three: actually finding someone to do it. The deal is this: I have one of those landlords who doesn't grasp the concept of being a landlord. (He was left this building by his father who owned it outright. So in his mind, it's just a huge cash cow. Eight units of cash). He also doesn't grasp why people live in apartments (besides having no money to buy a house). It's so someone else fixes the problems. And the goal? To have that someone (read: landlord) do it in a timely manner-- like before the apartment floods (which I've had happen), the roof caves in (which I've also had happen) or the termites eat everything grandma left you. My landlord? That concept eludes him. Totally.

I'm an easy tenant. I don't call for stupid things I can do myself. Or act like everything is a catastrophe. I have my life if I want to do that. Yet, I still got called a "pest" by the late middle-aged asian woman married to my late middle-aged asian landlord when I called to check into what was happening a week after I reported the roaches, and silverfish and moths, oh my! (The termites I didn't even know about. And this was like my fourth call in five years). Now those pests? They ate the crotch out of 2 pairs of pants--lovely, right? And created some random patterns on some cashmere sweaters I own. Now, this kind of thing is quite troubling to me since I can no longer afford to replace crotches or cashmere. And I'm not doing that ghetto boxer thing where they peek on through. It's just not right for a 37 year-old woman. Mrs. Asian Landlord does not care. She yelled at me. And then, she yelled over me when I told her not to yell. I didn't like it so much. So I called my landlord on his cell phone and told him I was troubled by the whole yelling thing. And you know what he said to me? "What can I do? She's my wife." Which in my mind, is a different blog entry for a different day.

In an effort to make peace, my landlord "kind of" dealt with it. He made one phone call and then I had to keep calling the pest control place-- starting to actually feel like a pest-- until I could schedule an appointment. Which-- when all was said and done-- I really didn't want to have to prepare for-- clothes all out of the closet that Steve built. Food and dishes all out of the cupboards Kelly and I just arranged. Cats locked out and us, too. For at least two hours. On a national holiday. Which we spent with the guy at 7-Eleven --(his favorite president: FDR) and the guy at MacEnthusiasts-- (his favorite president: Lincoln-- and yes, I asked-- them both. Personally, I'm kind of partial to Jefferson but that's probably because he wrote something of much more merit than I could ever write). Anyway, as if it was a sign from the pest gods, we saw a silverfish that morning when we were preparing for the exterminator's 8am visit and a little roach family. German roaches, apparently. And if they have a little bundle on the back? More are on the way. So kill it all. Did I mention the the pest situation was informative? Yes, I now know who eats what and why. And it's just as unpleasant as it sounds. Not to mention, I have my childhood experiences to draw on. Yes, we lived in a roach infested apartment when my parents got divorced. And when I say infested, I mean it. They didn't just have families, they created a little continent in our humble abode. In other words, we didn't need imaginary friends. The tile above the bathtub was their freeway. No food was left untouched. And under the refrigerator? Let's just say, I felt bad for our moving men and I bet they never crunched into one by accident when they were eating spaghetti. Hence, my desire to exterminate the situation rapidly.

The exterminator was a pretty cool guy who regaled us with some of his favorite stories from his days and nights spent in rodent control. Which is far more disgusting than roach control and reminds me in not such a happy way of that passage in "American Psycho". Yes, I actually met a person who has a far worse job than I've ever had (even though I do know many more of those exist...sigh). Not only does he have to kill rats, he also has to go retrieve the dead ones a few days after he sprays. (Although, on a positive note he does get to dispose of the things that make his work a living hell, but still, not so worth it.).

All these exterminating hijinks were surrounded by our electricity going out and me having to call my landlord's son to have a handyman come fix the fuses which are in a not so conspicuous area of our place. And while here, he took a seat and started to tell me his theories on alien life forms and Sylvia Browne and how he's read her books and Eckhart Tolle's "The Power of Now" and was on drugs but is now sober and is an actor and has residuals up the wazoo and has a calico cat and wife fourteen years his senior who's a grandma but "it's not a big deal" and how wants to do a one man show. I told him he should do a one man show. He clearly has stories to tell. And I'd like to hear them. Preferably when I'm not trying to write my own. (And no, I didn't say that. But I thought it. So maybe he could tell. I get confused on whether he thought he was an alien or just believed in them).

Anyway, all in all, a fun-filled weekend full of handymen. Which seems to be a recurring pattern lately. Hmmm... I did learn a ways back that my not so smart but oh so cute prom date ended up owning a pool business and selling it for a mint. Not that I'm looking for money in a man but I'm not looking for poverty, either. Not that I'm actually really even looking. And besides, I can't even swim. But a sign. I'll take a sign.

He's Just Around the Corner

On Valentine's Day, two psychics said to me***unsolicited*** two variations on the same message, "he's just around the corner." I've NEVER heard that one before. I've heard, "Think positive," "You're so lucky you're single," "It's not like a relationship makes your life perfect," and "It'll happen," plenty of times. But "just around the corner"? Never. Not even, "he's on the next block," or "he's lost and looking for directions." So that was a nice one to hear. Okay, more than nice. I was a little excited. (So you can just imagine what will happen the first time I hear "I love you" or am introduced as someone's girlfriend. That's right. The first time. For both. And next month? I'll be 38. That's why this concept is so foreign to me. I might just have a heart attack. Or at least take pictures. Pictures are always good).

Anyway, so Kelly said to me, "What if he's literally just around the corner?" But the only thing just around the corner from my apartment is a fabric store. And the guys inside all wear rugs. But I guess it couldn't hurt to lay out a welcome mat for "him". Leave an itinerary for our life together. After all, we are a bit behind in the grand scheme of things. Maybe I'll hang it up in the fabric store. Maybe he'll find it and use it to wallpaper his walls. Hmm. Do straight men wallpaper their walls?

So today, I went to an event for Laura out in Westlake. While we were searching for the place, she drove into a mini mall. And in the mini mall was a store called Just Around The Corner. Who names a store that? Is that crazy or what? "There's your sign," she said. And you know what? I'll take that.

I kind of think it is. Just around the corner. I have to say. I've been through a lot in the last... five years. And in the last year especially. So when my friend Diane asked me on Valentine's Day if I was ready, I said,"yes". And I meant it. And for the first time, it wasn't because I'm no spring chicken or I want someone to sleep with or am lonely or am 38 years-old and have never had a man tell me he loves me. It's because those things don't matter quite as much as they used to. Do I want to get married? Yes. Do I want kids? Yes. I want it all.

It was a good Valentine's Day. And maybe even the best. Ever. Because I didn't think about what it meant to be alone. Instead, I hung out at the Four Seasons with three amazing friends. We had fun. Just fun. There was no boy talk. No sadness. No agenda. (Although there were martinis). It was just real. Real good. Laughing and drinking and eating and being. Us. It was the kind of real good fun that makes you know that it might just all work out in the end. That when it does, you'll have a story to tell-- make that LOTS of stories. That you'll be ready for it when it happens and that being who you are-- might just be okay.

I'm not going to lie. I hate it when my married friends tell me I'm so lucky that I'm single. That being married isn't all it's cracked up to be. That I should just enjoy my freedom. Because you know what? They didn't have to get married. They had a choice- would they rather be single or get married, get married or be single. And guess what they chose? Because at the end of the day, being single gets old. (argh!) Taking care of you and only you? It gets excruciating. Getting ready to go out? Trying to look cute when you go out because you want to meet someone? Because you still ahven't met someone? Double argh. And kind of depressing.

At the end of the day, everyone's been single. That's a fact. But not everyone has been married. So those people that have been fortunate enough to connect? They should know they're fortunate. They had the power to walk in and they have the power to walk out. It's when you have no prospects and no sex that's a problem . Look, I don't have some crazy idea that my life will be fixed by someone, that they'll be perfect and that will be that. But I do expect it will be more interesting. More fulfilling. And more fun. Do I lilke to hope that someone else might just care about what's going on in my life as much as I do because they're a part of it? And want to be? Of course I do. Sometimes it keeps me up nights. But that's okay. Because two psychics have vriefied that this year is my year and some man might be man. And my thinking is, if not tomorrow, then maybe Saturday of next week or the following Tuestday. Whenever. All I need to know. All I need to believe is that it can happen And if I do, there's a good chance that 38 years later--true love? It might be just around the corner.

What I Learned from Cosmo

When a guy says, "The relationship is essentially over." It really means, "I'm in a relationship, but I still want to have sex with you." So apparently, there is more to be gleaned from that magazine than just how to please a man in bed. Who knew?

Happy Valentine's Day to you and yours.

Why I Kicked Him Out

A few people who read the blog asked me why I kicked out my old roommate. They said it wasn't clear. He and I, we were good friends. And still are. Although now we're on kind of a little bit of a hiatus as far as I'm concerned. I need a little distance. I need to get that friend vibe back. The hard part about getting it back is that living with my current roommate, living with Kelly shows me how different it is to live with someone who actually gives as much as they get. Someone who gives a shit. Is present. And cleans. Who takes initiative, is respectful, pays bills, pays rent on time. And cleans!

Usually, I'm not the kind of person to kick people out or end friendships, but I am the kind of person to let myself be taken advantage of or get stuck and feel stuck. (See series of bad jobs, see old blog entries for reference). Until I can't take it anymore. (This, by the way, is not why I had my most recent nervous breakdown. Which for me is really just losing it for a night. That kind of came out of nowhere. Happy one minute and then... randomly crying?! For an entire night! I know, people are insitutionalized for less. Which wouldn't be so bad if I had insurance, could live rent free, and have all day to write... But more on that later).

My old roommate? He has a good heart. He's fun. He knows everybody. And gets invited everywhere. Women, men, kids? They all love him. My mother? She loved him. So did my cats. He's loveable. End of story. Funny, a great dresser, a better drinker. He has great hair. And presence. He knows fashion. He reads Vogue. And watches "Sex and the City." The guy goes out every night. Luckily, in cabs. He's well traveled and well connected. Even though he doesn't use the connections. Because he's not the most future-oriented. That's why I worry about him. Or, the most responsible. He never has money. And it doesn't seem to faze him in the least. Or change his lifestyle. He's happy all the time. But not in an annoying way. And that's nice to be around. As a single women? You can almost always depend on him to be the guy who shows up when the other ones don't. He's a great date. And got along with anyone I ever dated. (I think they missed him more than me when all was said and done). He's a good listener when you catch him at home. That's why to have him let you down, have him take advantage of you feels like such a betrayal. But of course, I have to take responsiblity for that, too. I let it happen.

When he first moved in, I was still in denial about having to have a roommate. I had just gotten dumped by my agent and just come to the conclusion that my newfound career in odd jobs wasn't going to pay the rent. And him? The friend he was living with had just sold his house, so he had nowhere to go. He had no furniture. He had no dishes. No pots and pans. No towels. No stereo. No TV. No stuff. Me, I had stuff. (Of course, now it's old stuff. But nonetheless, it's stuff.) He also didn't have a car so he didn't need a garage. Which was good because parking around here is a bitch. Neither one of us spend a lot of time in the bathroom, so sharing wasn't a big deal. And as for random men sleeping over? It didn't seem to be happening for either of us (bummer, right?). We said it was just temporary and then it just seemed to work. So he stayed.

For awhile, we had a lot of fun together. We had dinner parties. We shared Thanksgiving and birthdays. He made me laugh. He even vacumed once or twice. The ex-convict? His friend. He didn't have a checking account so he would pay me the rent in 100 dollar bills. Until I convinced him to get a checking account so I didn't have to keep going into the bank looking like a prostitute-- and not a very well paid one. In the beginning, it didn't matter if he was a few days late with the rent, because I had enough money to cover it. Then it started to matter, because I didn't. And him? He got later and later with it. And me? I got more and more stressed. Around the apartment, he did less and less. And never kicked in for things like toilet paper or cleaning supplies. He would have people come stay for the weekend and they'd take over the apartment. He wouldn't be around. But I was. They brought dogs. That scared the shit out of my cat. They brought kids. And personal baggage. It wouldn't have been so bad if he had asked. Which he sometimes did. But not always. Then I went out of town and he used my cell phone without telling me. And made long distance calls on my land line because he didn't have one. He also used my car. And didn't fill it with gas when he was done. He'd come home at 3 in the morning and wake me up because he didn't take off his shoes and we have hardwood floors. There was the night he locked himself out and called me a bunch of times to let him in. Finally, I got up and checked my messages. When I opened the door, I found him passed out on the stairs outside the front door. After that, I couldn't get back to sleep. Sometimes, I'd say something. But other times, I was too exhausted to deal with it. I had other fish to fry. Getting my life back together was taking all of my energy. And it wasn't going so well.

The other stuff, sure it grated on my nerves. But the worst part was the financial thing. Especially after I filed bankruptcy. He knew I didn't have a cushion anymore. He knew when the rent was due. Still, he'd pay late. Bounce checks to me when did pay. Go out night after night during the week. And bounce checks. I was staying home every night, working every weekend, eating tortilla soup day after day to make sure my rent was paid. Yet he didn't seem to care. The clincher was when he told me he put the rent money in my bank and the next day I went to the bank to make a deposit and the money wasn't in there. The rent check was already sent. I called him from the bank, concerned. He said he had made the deposit. Cash. I asked him when. He said the day before, right before the bank closed. I asked if he got a receipt. On the other end of the phone, he shuffled through papers pretending to be looking for one. He said he couldn't find it. The phone cut out. The people at the bank were looking through my account, through their records. To see if they had extra cash. I was in a panic. They were trying to help. Until my old roommate called and said, "I never put the money in the bank." I was furious. I felt like such an asshole. I couldn't believe he lied to me. I couldn't believe I got a slew of overdraft charges. Yes, I made him pay me back. But it took awhile.

Clincher number two was when he went out of town-- to Chicago, and stayed out of town when the rent was due. He called on the 4th to say he was fedexing the check to arrive the next day-- on the 5th. So I came home to get the money (on my one day off the entire year-- which he knew) to make it to the bank before it closed. The rent check had already been sent. I waited and waited. No fedex man. It was 4 o'clock. So I called my roommate. Asked where it was, if he'd sent the check overnight to be left without signature. He said "yes" and that'd he'd call fedex to see what was going on. A few minutes later, he called me back and said it was en route. It never showed up. The rent check cleared. I had overdrafts in my account. And zero money for the weekend. I couldn't drive to my writing workshop because I didn't have money for gas. I couldn't do errands. I canceled dinner plans. On Saturday, the fedex guy left a slip. Late Sunday night, my roommate came home. On Monday morning, another slip was left outside the door. By the time I finally got the fedex, I saw that my roommate had sent it two day and not to be left without signature. Which made no sense because the check couldn't clear in time. Not to mention, he had lied to me again. When I went into his room the next morning and told him it wasn't okay that he was off having fun while I sat home all weekend unable to do anything because of him, he waved me off without a word. Really. With a flick of his wrist. No apology. Nothing. I was furious. So I told him that the rent had to be paid on time the next month or else he'd have to leave.

This is the thing: I wanted him to come through. He was my friend. I didn't want to have to kick him out. I don't like being the bad guy. Not to mention, kicking him out meant I'd probably have to move out, too. And he knew that. So that's why I don't think he took it too seriously. But. Not so satisfying to just threaten him. He didn't seem to care and it never seemed to change things. So I called him from the car and said he had to leave. I was shaking. I cried. Because he had been one of my closest friends. We'd been through a lot together. Yet, he saw what was going on in my life and how stressed it made me and he didn't care that he was making it worse. Do I think he did it on purpose? I don't know why he did it. I think he may have lost respect for me because I let him get away with all of that shit. Or maybe I lost respect for myself and he jumped on the bandwagon. I'm not really sure. I know it was a lesson. I know it needed to happen. And I'm sure we'll get past it. But it still makes me sad.

A Pause in Postings for My Nervous Breakdown

But I'll be back. I always come back.

The Thing About Pain

The thing about pain is it hurts. Maybe that's why I don't like it. Motrin, wine, anti-d's (anti-depressants, for those of you not in the know). They can only do so much. That's why sometimes it seems much more prudent to just shut off. To sleepwalk. And wait for a miracle to happen. I kind of think that's what I did for the last few years. Sleptwalk through my life. Because things weren't working. No matter how hard I tried. Pretty soon, existing seemed easier than hoping and asking and being disappointed. And helping other people became far easier than helping myself. If one of my friends had only one facet of her life that wasn't working? Easy. I can help fix that. And that's what I did.

I helped friends get jobs and boyfriends and errands done, get through lonely nights and heartache and buy clothes and houses and find direction and get press. It gave me a function. It gave me pause.

But there's a big problem with sleepwalking through your life. Eventually, you wake up.

On Sunday, I went to my writing workshop for the very first time since July. Or maybe it was since May or June... I don't really remember exactly. I just know that I stopped going because my life wasn't working and neither was my writing. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was my life. Maybe it was because I didn't have the money anymore (yes, even just $400). And I felt like I should be working. Maybe it was the ex-convict-- and I was in the middle of that, part deux, and it wasn't easy to focus. Because again, there was pain. And I needed to write about it. And one story later, it became some fucked up version of group therapy with one girl wondering too strongly what I was doing with him and why I had no self respect... and in short, it was a disaster. That's why non-fiction should ALWAYS be called fiction. I don't care how many books being non-fiction sells.

I used to love my writing workshops. They made me feel like a writer. They made me feel like I was heard and respected and inspired. And hopeful. That there was a path. I had a path. That I would be seen as a writer again. All the writers in the group are so talented. And Lisa makes everyone feel like they can get wherever it is they want to go. And that's a beautiful thing. Until someone in the group doesn't make you feel that way any longer. And that's a little less beautiful. That's why I left. I had no fight left in me. To defend my writing or my choices or my life. So I just left. And at the same time, I left what I cared about. I left writing.

Sure, I wrote emails. I wrote cover letters. And I started writing this blog. But I stopped believing. And that's why sitting there on Sunday... well, it was painful. It wasn't that I had a problem hearing truly inspired writing or that some writers had been accepted to colonies or were submitting collections to agents. It was that I had a problem realizing I wasn't doing anything to get me any closer to my goal. I was nowhere near being called a writer again. How can I call myself that if I'm not writing anything that can sell? The simple fact is, if I do want to be a writer, I need to wake up and do something about it. Otherwise, it's not going to get any better. I will be nothing more than a great cautionary tale.

I have two friends who want to help me. They want me to write. To take a month to write. To work less. And write. They want to loan me money. They believe in me. They hope for me. And I'm not going to lie-- that's its own kind of pain. I worry that I'll disappoint them. I worry that I'll take the loan and never be able to pay it back. I worry. That's the simple truth. I worry. I can't wait until I'm a success and I don't have to worry any more.

My heart hasn't hurt this much since it was broken. And it's hard to sleep through the night with that kind of pain. Passion isn't just for people. It's also for things. And the thing is, I don't have a husband, a house, a child or a lucrative career, but I do have writing. I have stories to tell. And I know how to write. And it's something I can do all on my own.

A Few Good Men

So the good day? What made it so good was simple really. It was the men. Good men.

I've learned that knowing them. Being around them. Well, it's a good thing. It almost makes a girl believe she can have one of her very own. I've decided to make it a habit. It puts me in a very good mood.

The first good man I ever knew was my grandfather. He was a farmer his whole life. Married to my grandmother his whole life. And he loved my mother and loved my sister and me, every moment of his life. His name? Loyal. He took his name to heart apparently. From him, I learned to pull weeds, hoe potatoes, pick raspberries, strawberries, blackberries, carrots, peas, radishes, apples. Shell corn. Take care of a garden. Water plants. Feed pigs and cows and I even got to water sheep and read the rain gauge (I wish I still had his rain gauge). On his farm, I got to ride a John Deere lawnmower around like I was all that. He built my sister and me a treehouse. He also built that barn in the picture. We used to watch him make hay. And all the local farmers would come over to help. He used to take my sister and me to the Whiteside County Fair. And to Peterson's Drugstore for ice cream sodas. We'd sit at the counter and he'd talk to everybody. Eating at the Icebox was a big deal. And the Yellow Brick House. We'd all dress up for that. He liked to take my sister and me to play at Waterworks Park. Afterwards, we'd put flowers on all the Hammer graves and pull the weeds so you could read the headstones. Sometimes, we'd go out to the lake where we'd feed ducks and ride around in these pedal boats.

He had terrible arthritis, but he never complained. His hands were stuck basically in a clawlike way. His fingernails, always dirty. My grandmother would scrub them with lemon to get the dirt out. He hated it. You could tell, although he never said a word. He went to church every Sunday. He said hello to every person he saw on the street. When he came to California I had to stop him. And tell him he had to lock the car doors. He was just that trusting. He was from a different time. He'd fix things in our apartment when he came to visit. He'd drink margaritas, if he drank. He liked to mix his food up on the plate into one goulash looking thing all colored by beets. He hated to match his clothes. And he never did. No matter how hard my grandmother tried. He drove my grandmother to the hairdresser and read the paper in the car while she got her hair permed and set. He always fell asleep reading the paper in his chair at night, in front of the TV, glasses falling half off of his nose. He liked Hollywood Squares. And the news. He never got to go to college, because he was expected to help run his parent's farm, but he was incredibly smart. And self taught.

My grandfather had the patience of a saint. He let my grandmother be a backseat driver. And all he ever said everytime she warned him about an oncoming train was, "I see it Hallie." He always wore hats. And looked good in them. He would stay up to see me every time I visited, no matter what the hour. He would always perk up the minute I arrived. And make me feel special. He drove my sister and me to the airport in Moline every visit and would stand in the window until our plane took off. And when our childhood pet, Reb, died-- our dog who had to be sent to his farm when my parents got divorced (see, it does happen!), he cried. My grandfather was every bit a man. And a good man. He had muscles up until the day that he died. He was 97. Still, he was taken too soon.

Yesterday, my good day reminded me of him. It reminded me of good men. It started when I had a wonderful lunch with my old boss. Other than our one meeting after he read my script 4 years ago (yes, the David Spade-like one about wanting a perfect family), we hadn't spoken since 1993 or 1994. Something like that. Still, he didn't hesitate to pick up the phone when I called. He didn't say "no" to lunch. He was so willing to just go with it. And take me on face value. And that's really all it was. Lunch. Catching up over lunch. And it was nice. He was the one who taught me to write. Really. Because he's a really talented writer. He's smart. But doesn't flaunt it. He gave me credit for everything I ever did for him. He never had me do personal shit. He never gave me shit. He was a happy man with no drama. Maybe that's because he has integrity, a company, a career, a wife and four boys. Or maybe it's because of him that he has those things. In any event, they all feed off of each other. Now he's teaching at USC film school and coaching soccer. And writing and producing. And taking lunch with the likes of me. When he listened to my story, he didn't judge. He just said my life made him sound so straight. I told him it made his life sound "good" and that's just different.

Kelly's dad? Well, he drove up yesterday and built a shelf in our laundry room. Created some Directv contraption since she misses her tivo (and I've never had it-- yay!). He also figured out how to make our second damn garage door opener finally work-- an effort that totally escaped both me and Kelly and my landlord's handyman. It took him 2 hours. He did even more stuff for Kelly. He's a good dad. I think he deserves a thank you note or two or three. A serial thanker, ah-- there's a new category for me.

When I was working on the sitcom, I remember buying a TV and having it stuck in my car for two weeks because I worked during delivery hours and I had no one to help me get it out and set it up. (The only male friend I had with muscles came over, cried back problems and hit on me... sigh). Finally, my garbage disposal broke and the plumbers took pity on me and carried it upstairs. I'll never forget that. I even wrote a short story about it. Magick Lady tells me I need to learn how to receive. That it's one of my problems. And to recieve, oftentimes, you need to ask. The thing is, I never really had men around in the past that I could ask. (If I asked my dad to help out with a school project he wouldn't -- he asked if I had money to buy the materials, because otherwise, the cost was included in the child support. Again... sigh). So I got used to just doing things myself. So did Romy. She has a whole tool set. (I'm working on mine. I'm short a drill... anyone?) Here's the thing. I like being self-sufficient. I'm not going to lie. But help? It's nice. It makes things easier. Men who come through for you? They make you feel better. And if I have to ask to get it and get turned down a few times in the bargain, that's okay. Because I realized that sometimes it's as nice to receive as it is to give.

Me and Romy

Thought I'd share. I had a very good day. She's a very good friend. And there you go. There's no real reason for the picture other than that. No link. Other than I figured out how to scan and put it up there even though figuring out the whole iPhoto thing is... argh!. Perhaps because I don't have a digital camera. But I do have a phone that takes pictures. Crazy world we live in, I tell you. A phone that takes pictures is easier and cheaper to come by. And it makes more sense. But. I want a digital camera. It's just... Santa didn't bring one. Bad Santa. If I had a digital camera I would do lots of fun things with it. I will fill you in on those things shortly. I promise. Tomorrow. When I will also write about my very good day. I'm sure the anticipation will keep you up. If not, it should. Oh, the pressure. Off I go.