This is my 68th post!

I'm kind of excited about it. Since I was born in 1968. Let's be honest, I'll find meaning or excitement in a box of mac and cheese if you let me. Yes, it's true. Although I don't eat mac and cheese anymore. I did used to.

I also used to go to yoga. And today? I did again!!!! I can't tell you how happy it made me. You'd think I was getting married or something. I went to my favorite yoga studio (Maha Yoga) and one of my favorite teachers (Ish) and I kept up and was limber (how? I have no idea... not from yoga and not from sex, I'll tell you that much), and I was sweating the entire time. Me? I'm kind of a freak. I love to sweat. And it was wonderful to sweat again-- physically. Not mentally or emotionally or financially. And it's part of my plan. And that's wonderful, too. I like my plan.

I also like birthday wishes. I like late ones even better than on time ones sometimes. Well, that's not true. I like them both. Because it would suck to have them all be late. Then your birthday would kind of just be a huge bummer. That being said, I heard from a lot of people I didn't expect to and it meant alot to me. How they remembered. And to have blog readers wish me happy birthday? Well, that was cool, too. Very cool, in fact. I can't believe they haven't lost interest. I mean, they're kind of like Brian, what do they get from me?

I was thinking today that two years ago on my birthday I got the job working at the Beverly Hills boutique. And I was excited. I know, I know. I'm changing... I get it. And that's probably why the dinner party/birthday party with my girlfriends was a little off that year-- although there was one part I loved and that's when I asked everyone to write a wish for me on a piece of paper. Like a fortune of sorts. I didn't open them last year. Last year, I was busy going to MagickLady and learning that this year-- which has turned out to be true-- I would look back on my 37th year as a desert. And it was. And now, it's raining. I think that's a good omen.

So these are the wishes from my friends. I'll let you know when I start to cry.

There comes a time when change is good.

In the month of the libra, love will meet you halfway to the sea.

By this time next year, you will be awaiting the debut of your first novel as well as your first child-- is there a connection? xxxoo (CRIED).

Lots and lots of money. You're fucking rich.

You will find your soulmate. (CRIED)

May life bring you love, happiness and great sex! You deserve for your dreams to come true.

Pulitzer Prize is in your future. (CRIED).

You will find much happiness in the next two months.

You will have a prosperous year full of love and happiness.

An easy time, lots of money, creativity, fun. Enjoyment of life. Success!!!


You know, after reading them-- those wishes might just be worth getting old for. The weird thing? I put the wishes in an antique box one of my friends gave me. He left a card from the place he bought it inside because it described the history of it-- it's an antique. The store was this: Beth. That's my mom's name. So maybe that's an omen, too.

All meaning aside, I do like to know that people wish for me. Believe in me. Are still there. And I'm not boring the shit out of them. Writers don't like to be boring. Especially struggling ones. That doesn't bode well. My friends oftentimes email me instead of going the comment route, which I get. But a great bday present for me would be a few comments. Anonymous or otherwise. You can tell me I suck, I don't suck. I'm funny, I'm not. I have a bad dye job. The rug doesn't match the carpets, whatever. I'm getting into the whole receiving thing. And practice makes perfect.

Receiving is Hard.

I'm really not used to this. People believing in me despite my failures. I usually have to perform. At least skip rope or something to show I still can get something right. Although when I was four years old, I did trip when I was skipping rope because I was showing off in front of my teacher. Which was ridiculous. Like she cared if I had that skill? Anyway, I had to go to the emergency room. I had to get stitches. I still have the scar.

The lunch with my old boss was draining. I. Am. Drained. But. In a good way. Odd, that good can be as draining as bad. Right? Again, I'm crying. For God's sakes, enough with that.

Well, my old boss... he was present. Fully present and real during lunch. And we had a good conversation. About lots of different things. And I was honest with him about it all. The past five years. The Room. Which was hard. It's easier to write honest than to speak it. Although I didn't mention the blog. And I wonder if I'm just an asshole for that. And I don't know. Because what I wrote is what I felt when it happened. And it is what happened. It's the story. And then, like all stories (not movies, sadly)-- over the course of the story, I learned my lesson. So I think there's value in seeing that. For me and anyone else who cares.

Once we started talking, I realized just how much has happened since I worked for him. How much time has passed. How much I've been through. How far away I felt from having worked on the show as a writer. And how remarkable that all that being said and all this time later, he's there for me. And you know, I missed him. I really did.

Because he was good to me. And he gave me my first shot as a writer. We were friends even though he was my boss. Of course, I also felt sad because I don't fit into his world anymore. At least not in the same way. And that hurts to realize I don't have the particular skills for that. I'm not a hard joke girl. But that doesn't mean I can't fit in in a different way. And maybe that's part of the lesson. I don't have to be funny. I don't have to perform in that way.

So anyway, he said he believes in me. And I believe him. He said he'd be around. And I believe that, too. I love to believe. Sometimes, you just have to. He also said that he knows I never asked for help. And that I'd earned help and that since I never asked and worked so hard, it made him want to help me. That was refreshing. Just when I was learning to ask. It turns out, I don't have to. Which is a little confusing. But I'm happy to have help. Wherever it comes from. And for whatever the reason. I'm just happy.

Still, I need a nap. I need to take this in. I need to get used to it. The idea that things are getting better. Somehow, they're getting better. Who knew they could get better? Receiving may be hard. But I can take hard. I can take alot of things. As long as it gets better.

Happy Birthday to Me.

Yes, I do realize that writing Happy Birthday to Me makes me a huge dork. But it's not like I've exactly been hiding that aspect of my personality. I haven't really been hiding much of anything. In case there's anyone out there who has been reading long enough to have noticed this pattern.

I am happy today. Happy not to be going to a job I hate. To have my rent paid. To have gotten help from Julie and Kristine and have more help on the way. To be honest and flawed and still get help anyway. To make mistakes and get help. That's something I don't fully comprehend just yet. The whole thing is a bit heady to me. I'm much more comfortable giving than receiving. But now I don't have a choice. And I get that this was all supposed to have happened for some reason. That all these things that have happened to me-- the hard times-- were meant to.

Financial help has always been a hard thing for me to take or ask for. I knew my mother didn't have anything when I was growing up, so I didn't want to ask her for what wasn't there. I wanted to make her life easier. That's why I worked. I probably did derive some comfort from being able to take care of myself. And it probably became a crutch and this probably was my lesson. To learn how to receive.

Last year my birthday wish was that this year I'd be going out to dinner with someone I was in love with who loved me back. Someone who I didn't have to ask to take me out. Rather someone who wanted to. Someone who wouldn't expect me to pay my half of the bill whether it was my birthday or not. That didn't happen. My father never wanted to take care of me. And I'm enough of an asshole to recognize that and that every guy I was ever with who I would ask to take me to dinner wouldn't. Still, I stayed with them in some manner or another. Men who wouldn't give me what I wanted. Who didn't want to. And this was kind of a pattern-- Jobs and bosses. Roommates and friends. Because I didn't know how to walk away. Or maybe I was just scared to. Because something seemed to be better than nothing. That's what I believed. That if I walked away I'd have nothing.

Well, when I was hiking today, I realized having nothing made me get something. Finally. It made me get an opportunity to do what I want to do. To take a chance on me. It's not always just about hard work at whatever the price. And pain. It's also about faith. Me having faith in me and other people having faith in me, too. And it's also about risk. Because they're risking as much as I am. Actually, they're probably risking more. And that's a gift. A huge gift. To have people believe in you. To have people risk something they've worked hard to get. For me. And I appreciate it. Because they don't all have what they want either. They're trying to get there, too. But they're taking a risk to help me. They're risking what they want for themselves. And that's huge.

My ex-boss may have money. But I don't take his help for granted. He's flawed and successful and complicated. But he's also human and funny and infuriating and kind. And for some reason, he's coming through in a way that I never expected him to. And that's pretty cool. I have another friend who helped me in the past. At the wrong time for me to be helped and for him to help me. And I see that. I recognize it. My honesty and process is probably not easy for everyone to take. And definitely not for him. He's never even been to a funeral.

I think I'm about to get lucky. Not sex-wise. Although I wouldn't mind that frankly. It's been awhile. And it is my birthday. But. I think for now I'll realize that 38 may not look like I thought it would when I was eighteen, twenty-five, thirty-- but it looks better than 37. And that's saying alot.



Oh-- thanks to Kate for the funny man picture and the monkey a few days back. I was born in the year of the monkey. And the scrawl on the table? That was Kristine!

I love you all. Thanks for loving me back. Or liking me alot. Or even a little. That works. For now:)

The Garage Door Opener

I lived in my old apartment for seven years. It was a big one bedroom with hardwood floors, french windows and no air conditioning. For seven years I sucked it up during the summer months. Dripping sweat while I blowdried my hair in vain. Trying to sleep while a fan that sounded like a broken down helicopter blew hot air onto me so I wouldn't die of heat stroke during the night. Then I got the job writing for the show. I thought, finally. I had earned an air conditioner. And I can honestly say there was nothing like the moment the Sears man finished the installation, hit the remote and I felt that first blast of cold air. I had arrived. I had!

So why stop there? I thought. Sears has garage door openers and men that install those, too. I got home late every night-- anywhere from 8pm to 1 or 2 in the morning. I always dreaded getting out of the car in the dark and being that my garage was in the middle of the alley, I was always looking around for anyone who could be lurking there as I unlocked the door. In the day, I had to dodge the traffic from the car dealership off of the alley and put up with the angry honks of people who used the alley as a shortcut instead of commuting down La Brea. And when it rained? Well, that was a treat, too. My garage door opener? It spoiled me. It was amazing how much better one little contraption could make your life. And I had not one, but two little contraptions now.

So why stop there? I thought. Why not move entirely? To a bigger place. With an office. So I did. It was just down the street. It was perfect. There was only one problem. There was no garage door opener for the garage. And mine was brand new. I liked it. I didn't want to let it go. So I knocked on the door of my neighbor's apartment on moving day. My landlord told me he was getting the garage. I wanted to tell him I was taking the garage door opener out. That I needed it for my new place. After all, I bought it. It was mine. I'm sure he would do the same thing if he was in my position. My neighbor? He was a very nice man. We always said "hello" in the hall. I knew he would understand. But when he opened the door, something was different. He was missing a leg. My neighbor only had one leg! He had to have a prosthetic, I thought. Because I would have noticed that he was missing a leg before then. I didn't know what to do. What to say. How could I take the garage door opener away from a man without a leg? So when he looked at me expectantly, wondering what I wanted, I told him I was moving. And that I wanted to say goodbye.

Why Not Settle?

Themes. They're everywhere I don't want them to be. Maybe it means I'm at the end of a few of them. Or maybe it's my lesson. And I'm supposed to finally get it. I do know that they're upsetting. Which oddly enough, I like. Not that I'm being underestimated. No one likes that. Or confronted by them. But I do know that now I know enough to see that they're wrong and recognize how much they bother me. Yesterday at breakfast one of my best friends asked me not to cry. It wasn't a full blown cry and she wasn't embarrassed. She just didn't want me to be sad. But the way I see it. It's good. I have to get it out somehow. Not getting it out was what made me sick to the tune of $30,000. And pretending made me follow a few paths I didn't want to. And that's probably a good part of the reason I'm still here.

There's this great article in the March issue of Oprah Magazine called "Valley of the Dulls" about what happened to some people's drive when they took antidepressants. They lost their ability to feel. To be upset about their situations. To get excited about things. To create. To change their lives in a good way. And they realized that they were settling for existing. Most of the people had taken the antidepressants during a hard time --to help them get through something without going off the deep end. To survive. And that's what I did. It made me feel artificially happy. Artifically lifted after awhile. I needed to go on them in the beginning. I'm not going to lie. I was a basket case. Tearing up at breakfast was nothing. I was having very dark days. Dark. Let's just say my suggestion would not ever be to go into a psychiatrist's office and tell him why you need antidepressants. It's essentially setting up your failures and your mistakes and any pain from your childhood and bringing it to the forefront of your life. It's not saying, "this is why my life is good" It's saying, "This is why I'm a basketcase. Can you blame me? Now help me forget."

Well, the good thing that did come out of that was a mini-breakdown which included drinking a bottle of wine, calling my father for the first time in 15 years and saying what I wanted to say (not that I remember a damn thing) followed by a trip to New Orleans which my sister showed up on because of my breakdown and a lovely time was had by all. Really. It was one of the first times my sister and I were just honest and real about things. Things that happened when we were growing up and how we felt about them. She was away from her husband and kids and I was away from... well, my life, I guess. And I have a great memory of having seen New Orleans pre-Hurricane Katrina.

So back to the anti-ds, as I call them. I do know they got me through the dark days of my career fall out, bankruptcy, car getting totaled and bus riding. They let me go to baby showers and weddings and birthday parties when all this was happening and be happy for other people. But then, there came a moment in the publicity job when my boss was being horrible. More horrible than usual and I realized that I just saw yet another friend get engaged who I had comforted through a break-up. Another friend land a great job who I had commiserated with over drinks. And more drinks. And who I had helped on the way. And that I was still sitting in that chair. And things weren't getting any better. That's when I stopped taking the antidepressants. And that's when I started to feel. Sure I got dark there for awhile. Really dark. Again. But. It made me change things.

Look, I'm not blaming the antidepressants for where I'm at. Not at all. They didn't walk into my mouth of their own accord. In an odd way, I'm glad I took them. Because now I'm comfortable being honest. And messy. And crying. And being happy. I recognize happiness just as much as darkness. Not so bad. Anyway, I thought about this all because I got another call from my ex-boss last night. I didn't call him back. I'm not going to. I thought about something he said about the art gallery job, 'It's better than what you've been doing." It's the same thing that crazy publicity ex-boss said to me re: working for her after she demeaned me, "It's better than retail." Well who gives a shit? Just because I did them didn't mean I wanted to and it sure as hell doesn't mean that's all I'm good for. I remember when I was in high school and got into UCLA. My mom wanted me to go to a junior college since she couldn't afford to pay for my college and my dad was a non-issue. I couldn't believe she was serious. I got a 4.3 in high school and worked full time. What did she think I worked so hard for? So I told her not to worry. I'd pay for it myself. And I did. And it was hard and it sucked at times because I did do it the hard way. I worked full time. Hello, loans anyone? Yeah, now there's an idea. Hindsight. Right?

So back to settling. Why would anyone want anyone else to settle? Whether it's a job or a relationship or just how they live their lives? I want all my friends to be happy. I want them to marry people they're in love with not sperm providers who they have nothing in common with or wallets who they never see. I want them to be able to do things they love and they're good at. Sure, sometimes we have to suck it up and do things we don't want to. But that should be the exception. Not the rule. I just thank God I know that much is true.

OMG

Even though it shouldn't bother me. It did. The call from my old boss. I woke up at three in the morning. I couldn't just lie there in bed any longer. I couldn't read. I had to get up. I had to go walk around. Then go back to bed and cry. And that's what I did.

The good news is that the reaction of people who know me-- as a friend, as a writer and also just as a slightly messed up person trying to be a little less messy was this: Oh my God. Or OMG. They're much hipper than me. But they did get that it wasn't a good thing for my old boss to be doing or saying. Which was good. It makes it easier to be horrified. And to cry. Not that I've ever had a problem with either.

There were so many things I wanted to write about today. So many things I wanted to do. More than anything I wanted to shake off all the punches. And be strong. Last night, I was pissed. But I felt strong. It bothers me when I can't just be strong.

I always say that someone needs at least one thing working-- their career, money or love. If you're lucky, you get all three working at once. I've only had one at a time. Two, tops. Now I have none. I'm working towards getting all three. Really. But I see lately that along with my doting ex-boss, other people who used to believe in me are taking shots, too-- people who aren't relatives-- it's like they're all wondering what in the hell have I been doing and how did this happen to me? And why can't I get my shit together? Like I disappointed them more than myself and that they're the ones that have to worry about me from one day to the next-- where I am and where my life is going. When in truth, they have no idea just how bad it can feel. And how sometimes, I'd almost rather just give up.

I remember a few years back when this girl Karyn had a website to get donations to pay off her credit card debt. It was around $20,000 I think. And it made me annoyed and angry that she did it. Even more so that it worked. Then she got a book and a movie deal. And that pissed me off even more. The fact is. She was smart. And I was probably just jealous. That she had the courage or the humility to asked to be saved. And that all she had to do was ask. And then she was.

It's Hard to Pretend

So yesterday was Day 8. And I didn't sleep at all the night of Day 7 since my back was locked up. Which may have contributed to my panic attack. Yes. After I wrote about Brian and wrote an essay to submit for the LA Times magazine, West's "The Rules of Hollywood", I had a bonafide breakdown. I can't remember ever crying so much in my whole life. My friend said that she once cried so much that steam came out. I don't know about that. But it did start to rain here. And our bathroom flooded. Rain started pouring in out of the tiles on the walls. It was odd and kind of creepy. I just threw towels down on the bathroom floor and went on with my crying.

I think the crying was important. I think it's about moving past the fear. Because I am scared. And I'm not. Things are moving forward. I'm getting contracts and trademarks and people involved. I'm focused and when I am, things can happen. Which when they haven't been happening, can be a pretty scary thing. Just trusting that it will all be okay. And that finally, after all these years, something I put out there could work and happen and that the situation can change. That other people are trusting me and thinking I can do things. And are willing to help.

The essay I submitted for "The Rules of Hollywood" is called "It's Hard to Pretend Your Career is Working When You're Selling Your Former Agent a Tank Top." The editor replied that he'd get back to me by next week! So fingers crossed. I'm the only person in my writing workshop who hasn't had something published. And that's a goal of mine. There are some truly talented people in there so it's not like they're throwing shit against the wall to see what sticks. But my writing does tend to be a little less literary and more quirky. Or more, me. So it doesn't always have an audience in literary publications. But I'm researching the 173 publications and websites to find the one that might just like me. Of course, that requires reading each of them to see what they like and and also when they accept submissions. Some accept only between September and February or the months of April, July and January. Or for two weeks in some random month, but not on a holiday. It's all very bizarre. Anyway. Enough.

I have to go do my taxes. I'm thinking if I can efile, I must just be able to pay my rent.

If the Hat Fits.

Today is Steve's birthday. But I've already written about Steve. And it's Quentin's birthday. And I've already written about him. So today I'm going to write about another friend. We'll call him Brian. Because that's his name. I sat next to him on the show for two years. He was a paid writer much before me (with great credits) so where you sit has nothing to do with that. He was supportive much before he really needed to be. Back when my being single was the biggest problem in my life. Still, he understood that. And he sent me flowers when I wasn't getting them from anyone else (he's married, so it wasn't like that). And on the card, he said exactly what I wanted and needed to hear. That it would happen. Of course, he made me promise that I wouldn't tell anyone he was such a nice guy. But well, the people who are staffed on shows who would penalize him for that aren't reading this anyway, so I figure it's okay to let the cat out of the bag here.

Here's the thing about Brian. He gets nothing from me. Seriously. Absolutely nothing. No food, no flowers, no gifts, no hanky panky. He has a lovely wife who he loves. A gardener who mows his lawn (although I have offered on occasion-- I can ride a John Deere mower with the best of them and I even know how to weed). Yet, he's always been there to pick me up via email. And when I say always-- I'm talking 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005 and 2006. That's a lot of years. And even though he could have cut and pasted the exact same pep talk (given my situation hasn't improved all that dramatically), he never has. I was just reading an email he sent me on October 14, 2003 with the header, "You're going to be fine..." and seriously, the entire thing-- all three pages of it-- still applies except for maybe the part where he named a couple of people who would say they'd be proud of my "never-give-up spirit and mental toughness in pursuit of my goals." Because those couple of people didn't hang around like he did. (Although the actual couple did and I just had lunch with them. They're pretty amazing, too).

Brian has read my stories. He's read my blog-- to be honest, he's the one who suggested I start a blog. So you can either thank him or curse him for it, depending on how you feel about what I write and have to say. I thought about Brian when I was reading some comments that were left here. Comments where it seemed people didn't think I had been doing anything for the past 5 years except talking about what I was going to do. Here's the thing. I have been doing, I just haven't gotten results. So I finally just stopped talking about it.

It takes time to write. And money to live. And when working six days a week gives you neither, well you get depressed. I had no problem sucking it up for one year, two years, even three. But after that, the dark place just feels appropriate under the circumstances. Well, God bless Brian because he stuck around. He understood. And he actually believed in me even when I didn't. Read my stuff when no one else would. He never minimized what I felt and always gave me crazy, tremendous insight in his emails with a sense of humor to boot. And always made me cry. In a good way. I have absolutely no idea why he's my friend. None. He seriously deserves a medal. But until I can scrape together enough cash for one, I hope he'll accept a great big thank you on this blog.

There are People Cheering Outside My Window

And they weren't for me. It was for the Los Angeles Marathon. It was seriously right around the corner. That seems to be a theme lately. And I've got to say, it was pretty inspiring. And kind of fun. To hear happy, cheering people. It kind of made me feel like if I could hear that every day, I'd be in a wonderful mood. They were dancing, holding up signs, running alongside people they knew, people they didn't know. Sure, the marathon slowed down my efforts to get to my writing workshop-- by about an hour and half. But it was worth it. If those people can run for 26 miles, I figure I can sit in traffic for awhile.

Of course, my happy mood was made happier by the fact they liked my story. That always helps. And frankly, that helped alot. I needed to hear it-- cheering for what I was doing and did. To hear that it was effective and powerful and loaded with meaning. (Their words, not mine. Promise). I liked hearing, "Send it out!" and "It's so close" (people do have different opinions, by the way). And that they hated the characters and loved them. And then I thought when I was driving home, if it all works out, won't this all have been worth it? These five years? Well, let's be honest. One or two years, would have been better. And easier to handle gracefully. And there were a lot of times I could have done without. But hearing Laura say, "It's all perfect." Nearly made me cry. Because if there's a light. And I'm out of the tunnel somewhat soon, a little more tired and a little worse for the wear, it might still be okay.

Freedom aka A Look at My Week

MONDAY
Monday was my first day off. My first Monday in oh so long to do what I wanted to do. The first thing I did was move my car so I wouldn't get a ticket during street cleaning. Okay, not the most exciting start-- but then... I drove to Runyan Canyon and went on a hike. Which was wonderful. Although a bit cold. But still, wonderful. And then. I came home and got warm. Did I mention I was home? Once warm, I washed the bookcase Diane gave me on Sunday (Diane would be a fringe benefit aka a very good friend who came out of the very bad if not horrifying publicity job-- that's me finding the good in the bad, by the way-- although the word "horrifying" might have misled you). My office aka former dining room which has never been dined in well-- other than my birthday parties a few years back-- and a New Year's Eve party a few years back--- and my old roommate's dinner party a year or so back--- you get the idea-- a better office, it makes. But it needed an overhaul. I have too many books and not enough space. Many pretty pieces of furniture that have no function whatsoever. Unless you know how to use a victrola or a sewing machine that you have to pump with your foot. I don't even know how to use one that does it all for you.

Luckily, Kelly came home to help. And basically, would not let me stop until it was all done. And I was tired about half way through. But. No. So we moved every piece of furniture somewhere different. I filed a bunch of stories and writing and bills and correspondence. And are you bored? Because it kind of bores me. But I did it. And now? My office is a cozy, open and organized space all ready to be used to write all that I need to and want to write. And I'm kind of excited. And only a little anxious. Because I would rather be excited. That's a new emotion for me.

TUESDAY
I got an email from the licensing agent who I wanted to work with for my t-shirts (and Kelly's and Romy's and my mom's and sister's... because they're believers!). And he wants to work with me. He can work with me. And having a conversation with him was kind of like having a conversation with myself only with a lot more knowledge and a job and well, the ability to help make my idea come to fruition a little bit better than me. So basically the conversation with myself thing was kind of wrong except for the fact he liked what I was doing.

Oh, and I forgot about one of my best friends (I could never forget about her on purpose, Kristine). She wants to be involved. Integrally involved. I love that.

WEDNESDAY
Bad allergies. But I hiked. And wrote. And wrote and wrote. Which is good. Because on Sunday, I read! It's the last ex-convict piece. There are only three. If you don't count the last one which was just embarrassing and too revealing and was the reason I left class. And it was boring. And it's hard to make him boring. So clearly, there was something going on there. But there were two good paragraphs at least. Out of 18 pages. I probably shouldn't admit that, huh?

THURSDAY
I got bad financial news BUT then I remembered I have my t-shirts. And I started doing more research. And I bought a book on this man's work that is a huge part of the t-shirts (the one that did the work that I want to use and owns the rights). He's 82 years old. Last week I talked to him for an hour and a half. His first name is Paul and since that's my last name, it's always a bonding point. Anyway. Him? Adorable. Amazing. Interesting. And on board. He's only one piece of the puzzle, but a big piece. AND how weird is it that 5 minutes after I bought a book about his work from Amazon, he called me and asked for my address because he was sending the book to me? I told him to please send it anyway. I would love a signed copy. And he said okay!

Then Kelly and I had dinner with a great friend Diane Kelly (see blog entry: Happy Birthday Diane). And it was fun.

The only glitch is that Little was missing. And I couldn't sleep. Either could Kelly. We both were worried about him. And kept looking for him.

FRIDAY
Little was locked in the basement. But my landlord got him out. Thankfully. Crazy little. He was very hungry.
Just a wonderful day. An idea for a TV show and my screenplay. And I got feedback on the story pre-class and I kind of like it. Hope they do, too. Other than my mom getting mad at me for being poor, all was good. I mean, she told me when the post office was hiring, so she doesn't aim very high. The checker at Ralph's sold me three packs of Claritin D even though he's only supposed to sell me two. I promised him I wasn't going to make crystal meth. I had coupons. What addict uses coupons? Anyway, ran into an actress that took over my apartment the last time that I lived with roommates-- before the one I kicked out-- poor girl was carjacked the week after she moved in. But she ended up marrying Ben Stiller, so things worked out for her. Anyway, my friend wanted to work on her new pilot and I mentioned it and gave her my friend's number and now she's going to call her and put in a word. Yay. That was followed by a great impromptu dinner with a great friend about great ideas. And then we ran into another friend. And called another and all in all, a fun filled Friday.


COME SEE DAVID READ FROM HIS POETRY COLLECTION! See above! And buy it! He's very talented. He's my friend.

Okay, you can't see above. Because it won't load. Mercury's in retrograde. I'm bummed. Because it's cool. Argh. Okay. I will reload it later. When blogger is on better behavior. Harumph.
You can click the link in the meantime. Please. Do!
http://www.davidahernandez.com/reading/

Oh look, here it is! Mercury is being nicer!

Just Around The Corner

Happy Birthday to Kelly.

Day three of the birthday festivities. Although there are no festivities. What's wrong with us? If only we were celebrities. We would get cute clothes gifted to us, clubs catering to us and gift bags. We would leave the house for that. Because you've gotta love the gift bags. But you would have to get them to love them, I suppose. Which goes back to being celebrities. And I make too many mistakes to have photographers follow me. And I suck as an actress. Another thing to take under consideration. Although I could entertain the photographers, I suppose. I've never spent time with someone who has not been entertained.

So today. It's Kelly's bday. And I'm sick. Can barely move. My allergies and sinuses have incapacitated me. Which happens sometimes. And I hate it. I look bad. Feel bad. And hurt all over. No motrin. No amount of baths can help. Kelly understands because she's a celiac-- which means she's allergic to wheat. And that really sucks, too. The same thing happens to her. Well, kind of. Just with hives and stomach pains. Okay, so it's different. But we both suffer. She does the bath thing, too. So that's the same. Luckily she doesn't feel so bad allergy-wise today. But me? In short, I made for a not so cheerful roommate offering birthday cheer. I tried. But sick people are so rarely cheerful. Perhaps a toe touch would help. Get it? Cheerleader offering cheer? See, this is why sick people should just lie there and be sick.

Anyway, this will inevitably be one of those blog entries I rewrite. Because Kelly deserves a healthy blog. And I'm not. She also deserves a healthy year. A happy year. A stupendous year! Whatever year last year was... I can't remember... crow, dragon, firefly? Well, it didn't work for so many of us. She. Well, it was a lot worse for her than a lot of other people.

First was the robbery in her store, and a rape (at the same time) of one of her employees. The trial was just a few weeks ago and the guy got life for kidnapping, rape and burglary. Still. That kind of thing isn't the kind of thing you just get over with a few massages and a couple of nights out with the girls. It was a big deal. And still is. And it wasn't made easier by the fact that Kelly's partner in the business was nowhere to be found. I guess having a baby will do that to a girl. Well, some girls. But. Still. That's not okay. To do that to a girl who's your partner and is the one holding all the responsibility for a business and a situation. It's not fair. But what is fair? Really?

The thing about Kelly is that all that stuff that was going on was happening in tandem with things in her personal life. With her marriage. And still, she managed to be an amazing friend. So when people bow out for far lesser things, I say call them on their shit. Because you know what? If she can be there and support the people she loves, believe in the people she loves and still deal with her own problems? Then you know... not only is she a remarkable person, but the kind of person, the kind of friend worth aspiring to be. And alot of people don't. Aspire to be much to other people when things are hard in their own lives.

In case you haven't noticed, there is a common denominator in my life. As odd as I may seem, as trying as I may make my life, my friends haven't had it much easier. They're all truly amazing people who have experienced the ups and downs in life as much as I have. In all of its sadness and pain. Suicides, deaths, rapes, burgaries, divorce. There's no one skating here. And the amazing thing? No one is falling down, either.

Look, I know I look like a catastrophe oftentimes. And in some ways I am. But like Romy always says to me, if you saw me on the street, you'd never know it. So I guess, in other ways, I'm not. I don't give up. Ever. I never will. I do learn. Eventually. There's a ton of shit that's happened to me in my life that is not suitable for a blog that has made me this way. And the same goes for 99.9% of the democratic population and 100% of my friends. And I have to process it. To get through it. I would love to be -- as I call it-- "fit for human consumption"-- all the time. But there are lots of times I'm not. And how you're raised is alot of what makes you feel that way. And how you handle it is a big part of the rest of it. There was a lot of stuff I just didn't get. Basic stuff. And it breaks my heart. Because even I see the potential in me. Much like Kelly has.

Living with Kelly has taught me alot. She has a very solid family. And I see what a difference that's made with her. In how she reacts to things. In what she believes. But she hasn't skated, so she gets it. She's never shied away from anyone in pain. She's always been a sincere cheerleader. She's always believed. She's a rock. I know that by knowing her, I am blessed. Because she works it both ways. The bad and the good. She can process all. Handle all.

And for her birthday. For this next year? I wish Kelly no more pain. Just love. Love in the best sense of the word. Prosperity. And no more worry. Because as a good friend has said to both of us, "worry is negative prayer." Happy Birthday, Nutball!

Happy Birthday to Diane.

Today is Diane's birthday.

I met Diane in my writing workshop. Yes, I traveled all the way to Long Beach to meet a woman who lives two streets away. A very funny woman. Funny in the sense that she's been validated as funny. She used to go on the road as a comedian. But the thing is? She's one hot mama. And that's actually why she didn't want to do the road thing anymore. I think. (My memory fails me as I inch closer to 38). She was an actual mama. She has one daughter (over 20 years old). And a cat (under 20 years old). She's that rare breed of single chick who has a cat and a kid. Does that make her more legitimate in a man's eyes?

Well, if not. She twirls fire batons. Yes. Really. She's performed this feat on many occasions. How great is that? She dresses cute, acts cute, she is cute. And again, fire batons. If that doesn't bring a smile to your face, I don't know what does. She was actually going to twirl them at one of my birthday parties. The one that incidentally a group of firemen showed up at-- in uniform-- while working -- with the big red truck parked outside and everything. I heard one guy comment, "Well how are we supposed to compete with that?" Apparently, he should have read my blog. Fireman might equal sexy. But not always a catch. Anyway, Diane couldn't twirl her batons because it rained. Huge bummer. That would have been a birthday to remember.

Back to Diane. I never see enough of her. But my friend Kelly, whose birthday it is tomorrow does, because she owns a store. Which means she has a better sandbox than I do. That's okay. I'd rather have a guy come over and play in my sandbox anyway. Kidding, I love Diane. But, no. I really would rather have a guy come over and play in my sandbox more than her. So I take it back. The I'm kidding part. She would understand. She's single, too. Even though that's not very nice of me to write on her birthday. I'm just punishing her for being such a flake lately. Still, she's a loveable flake. And I'm sure I'll see her one of these days. Celebrate with her one of these days. And I'm sure it will be worth the wait.

In the meantime, here's to Diane and her crazy stories. And her fire batons. Long may they twirl.


PS I'm only writing something so short because I'm tired from training someone to take over for me so I can get on with my 38 days. Training people is hard. I don't like it so much. I'm a doer. A human doer... who is punchy and tired.

Happy Birthday to Romy

This month I have a ridiculous amount of friends with birthdays. How many? Fingers and toes. Today is the birthday of the second person this month and one of my very closest friends. Romy. She's one of the best. She has had not such a good birthday so far. In fact. A very bad one. She's working on a show that she doesn't want to work on (although it is a very good one) and the people working on it (aka actors and actresses) are being not so nice to her. People are weird about their hair. They get kind of snippy. They're lucky Romy's nice. You shouldn't be mean to someone who has scissors in their hand when they're in charge of your hair. You could end up with a mullet. Remember what a bad haircut did to the show Felicity? Anyway, mean people do not make for being excited on your special day. Or feeling oh so special. Particularly if you're feeling oh so not happy about said birthday to begin with. And she's not. Which makes me feel bad. And makes me wish even more that I could afford to send her flowers. Lots of flowers. Perhaps start a blog flower fund? I would also like to send a man. And a baby. And a house. And all the things she wants out of life. Because she deserves them. And she should have them. Whether the universe has delivered them or not. Damn universe. What's taking it so long?

See, that's the thing. The thing that makes it hard. The waiting. The wanting. And the not knowing. And I don't care what anyone says. Age does matter. I'm more than happy to celebrate-- and so is Romy-- but birthdays give you pause. If you're turning 42 and you're single and you don't want to be and you want to be a mother and you want to share your life. That's a painful thing. Particularly if you had a fiancee who passed away suddenly. Which Romy did. She'd rather be helping to blow out her kid's candles than her own. After all, all her younger friends are doing it. Why can't she? Because after awhile you kind of start losing hope. Getting tired of the whole thing. The journey. I know "they" say it's the reward but I don't think "they" were on eHarmony or match.com or planning their own birthday parties at the time. Look, it's not that any of us are naive enough to think marriage equals a perfect life. But it makes for a fuller one. With love, party planners, and companionship. And far more interesting problems than dating or not, having sex or not, being lonely or not and just taking care of yourself, feeding yourself every single day. Because come on, even TV shows get boring after a season. Try living one as the single girl for 20 years.

All of my friends are strong women. Unique. Independent. Caring. Attractive. Smart. Funny. Which makes me lucky to have them. And men unlucky because they don't. Because too many of them are alone. And I don't get it. Apparently, other people don't either-- because a common refrain we all hear is, "Why are you single? What's wrong with you?" Charming, right? And then we're all told success stories and given advice on dating sites and where to meet men. We're very often told what we "should do." And you know, it's not that we don't appreciate the thought, but more than likely, we've already explored the options. I mean, there are a group of us that are single. We do talk, you know. And the "should" thing? Well, frankly, we shouldn't have to worry about it anymore. If only life came with a guarantee.

Look, I would love to get THE ANSWER and so would Romy (for her birthday, perhaps?) and my fingers and toes full of friends. But we have yet to have that happen. Although we do listen. Because we feel like we have to. Kind of like that one date that you don't want to go on. You force yourself to do it. Because you think what if you don't? Maybe he's the one. And you wonder and you'll always wonder what if you blew it? That means more bad dates. More effort. And it's kind of a mind#^$U. It gets exhausting. Having to pick yourself up and get yourself ready. To believe. But still. We believe. We have to believe.

So for Romy. I say, happy birthday to her. I wish her the best. Only the best. The best year. The best man and the best of her hopes for her life to come true in the coming year and years ahead. Since I can't make it happen myself. (I can't even make it happen for myself). Since I can't do much more than blow out a candle and send my hopes for her out to the universe, my hope is that it's enough. For once. And that maybe some other people will wish, too. Even perfect strangers. And whether they know her or not, if enough of them wish hard enough and long enough, it might be just enough to make all of her wishes come true.

Rejection and Acceptance

I'm sending stories out. Lots of stories. And it's exciting and scary and fun and not so fun. I feel like I'm moving forward but I might not be and somehow I don't care because I think might just be kidding myself into believing I am and maybe that's half the battle. And maybe that's enough. Still. The truth of the matter is that for acceptance, you have to face rejection. And there's no way around it.

The last date I went on (it was like a month or so ago), I didn't want to go. I was being set up by my neighbors. A perfectly lovely couple who are polite and kind and had first one cat and then another that they both like and they asked me to watch them both a few times and they brought me presents from their trip as a thank you and so how could I say no? I mean, they're a couple who paints the walls of their apartment together. They seem to get it. So I went.

In this set-up? They were the go betweens. I had no communication whatsoever with the guy. I knew nothing about him. No MO on his looks, his job, his life. They told me where to be and when. And I went. Fool? Well, yes. And then again, no.

It wasn't before Laura (aka Magick Lady) said to me at work, "You have a date tonight and you don't want to go." Okay, true. And true. The woman's a clairvoyant. There's really no lying. Next, she said, "he's not the one. So don't worry. Just go and have fun."

Okay. Me? I don't do that go-and-have-fun-because-he's-not-the-one thing anymore. I've done that. For like 37 years. Okay, truthfully maybe twenty. My mom was a kook and pulled me from more than one date in my teens thinking I was going to end up pregnant and ruin my life so the whole "have fun" thing wasn't really an option. Me? I lost my virginity at 21. So yes, I had some catching up to do. And sadly, I never really did it. So ho. Hum. Back to the situation at hand.

The other thing for me? I'm going to be 38 years old in a few weeks. I'm no spring chicken. (Discounting that I was born in spring) So how much fun can I really have anymore? Without looking sad? I mean, I had fun in college. I had fun in my 20s. Lots. Lots of friends. Lots of parties. Lots of canoodling (making out, really. but canoodling sounds cuter).

I'm at the age where I don't want someone who's disposable in my life and... fun. I want someone in my life who is solid and fun. And likes me. Loves me, even. There's a concept. If I want to have fun, I have lots of fun friends. If I want a man who's going to leave, I have a rolodex of my past. If I want to move forward. Well, I don't know... I'm still working on that one.

Anyway, back to the date. The entire time I was getting ready? I cried. The reason being? I haven't been "out there" since the ex-convict and the fireman. And I didn't have to go so far with them. The ex-convict was in my living room when I met him. The fireman? Some dive bar with a jukebox and a generous bartender. In short, I haven't tried to look cute and be attractive to someone new since I was 32 years old. That's six years ago. And then? I was tae-boing, had cute clothes, a good job and the self-confidence to match. Anymore, I didn't know how to present myself to someone as attractive. Someone that someone else would want to be with. I didn't think about how I might not want to be with him. That was all secondary. Because that wasn't the point.

Anyway, I didn't. Want to be with him. He was nice. Don't get me wrong. And a perfect gentleman. Just not the gentleman for me. And I think there was no question about the evening. There was no leaning in or thinking there was another date in the works. So. No rejection, no acceptance. Which was and wasn't a wonderful thing.

I'm not going to lie. I want Mr. Just Around The Corner to show up with bells, whistles, flowers. And to save me the rejection I've felt from so many men in the past. I want him to save me from having to compete with other women. Younger women who are more apt to project that they're something special, something sassy, something rare. I don't feel so much that way any more. I feel a little tired. A little less cut. A little more lined and like I could use a lot more botox.

Last year my birthday wish was that I would be taken to dinner by a man that loved me. Because. That's never happened. Not on my birthday. Not ever. And my wish this year? That I can handle the rejection a little bit more. That there are men who will do it a little less and that maybe in the process, there just might be acceptance.

Do You See What I See?

So I'm lucky.

And I'm also me.

Which makes it hard sometimes to be both. But. The cool thing is to hear that people believe in me anyway. Friends. Wonderful friends. Oftentimes they believe more than me. That they will say things like this via email:

Did you watch the Oscars? What did you think? I always think of you when the writers go up and get their awards knowing one day that will be you. I wonder what gown you'll wear. ;)

It makes me want to believe in 38 days. And that someday soon I will see what they see. And so will everyone else.

No More Pity Party

Okay, enough with the pity party. I'm bored of myself. Bored of it. So today I decided to be thankful for the #^*$ I've had to go through for the last five years. I'm going to think about something good that came from every bad job. Every humiliating experience. Besides material. I have lots of material. I could write until I'm seventy at this rate. And that's another thing I'm going to do. I'm going to go for broke. Really. Broker than I am. For my 38th birthday I'm going to give myself a gift. And abide by it. I'm going to do nothing but focus on my t-shirts and write for 38 days. Which will probably mean tortilla soup. And cheap wine. And lots of nights in. But I'm in all the time anyway. There are bonuses to being in. I don't 'have to look cute. And as for not eating, I could stand to lose a few pounds. I was anorexic once, what's one more time? Men like skinny girls anyway, right? Maybe I'll find a guy in the bargain. One who wants to feed me for a change. I want to write a pilot. And a screenplay. I want to submit stories. I want to take care of myself. I want to make things happen. For me. So I'll sell some more things I own and take the help that was offered to me from some of my very good friends. And I'm going to be grateful that they believe in me. And that they want to see me succeed. And I'm going to cry if I have to because I'm scared. But I won't spends hours scouring job sites and sending cover letters and resumes because I'm scared. I won't beat myself up for my mistakes and for not buying a house when I could. Instead, I'll spend that time writing. And if I succeed, that will be wonderful and if I fail, I'll kind of be in the same place anyway, right? But at least I'll have given it a shot. And I won't hate going to work. Or hate my life. Or hate how I'm treated. And hate myself for allowing it all. So that's it. That's the plan. And even if my actual birthday isn't until March 29th, I say happy birthday to me.

Feeling Scared and Not So Groovy

I think my blog entries lately are becoming depressing. And I kind of want to delete some of them. Because who wants to be depressed about someone else's life? At least when I'm mocking my life, there remains some entertainment value. It's just I'm scared right now. Scared to get another bad job. And scared not to. Because I want to write and I want my t-shirt line to take off and I want the right guy to be just around the corner. And I want to believe it's all going to work out. But sometimes I wonder if it will. And I'm kind of a bad faker. In case you haven't noticed. Is anyone noticing?

Well, I thought I should acknowledge that I'm not delivering anything of value on the blog front. And I know it's kind of blah. So for that I'm sorry. And it will get better, I think. And thanks for still reading. Or skimming. Perhaps I'll post something slightly pornographic or perverse next time just to liven things up. I do have a picture of me blindfolded hitting a penis pinata with a baseball bat. Okay, maybe not. But I'll come up with something.