Little Will is Bored of Me.

So. I'm still in mourning. Upset about Highland. Missing her. Missing our routine. Feeling oh so sad that I wasn't there for her. And now, that she's not with me. Little Will, on the other hand? He's moved on. And not just from her, but from me.
Sure, he comes in to be fed (I tried to block his way to the outdoors, to keep him inside, but he pushed the litterbox to get out-- how is a mystery-- apparently all boys, cats included, can do anything or get out of anything if they want it bad enough). He also lays on top of me at night. But then he's gone again-- into the great unknown. I tried playing with different balls, ribbons, string, pieces of paper and various other objects to entertain him. But he lost interest after awhile and out he went. Ostensibly to visit some other female cat. Or just play in the courtyard.

I was going to wait to get him a friend, but I think if I want to keep his interest. To keep him at home, he needs a new girl in the house. One like Highland, who he can play with, chase, roll around with and sleep with. He needs a replacement part.



Yesterday, I was talking to a girl I know (she's definitely more girl than woman) about how men can move on so easily. (Yes, even cats, apparently). About how they find replacements for women practically overnight. It's as if the former woman never existed. Some book I read at some point said something to the effect of that it's how men are able to function. And that we women perceive it all wrong-- we operate and look at it on an emotional level -- as a personal affront-- as if the first woman didn't matter. When really, it has nothing to do with that. But with filling a void. And functioning.

So I guess, whether I'm ready or not, I need to be for Little. I want him to be happy. Who cares if he's in denial? He's a cat.

Step Up. Even If Your Heart Hurts.

Yesterday was painful. Last night was worse. Sleeping with Little Will when Highland was nowhere to be found. He slept in her spot, tail down on the end of my bed. It broke my heart. And when he woke up around midnight? He was all over me. He's never done that in the middle of the night. He draped himself on me, curled himself on me. Didn't let go of me. Even when I cried. He was beside me. And in the morning? Our ritual would be: Highland meow. Little Will bound in. We all head to the bathroom and I turn on the faucet for Highland and Little Will gets in her way and plays while she watches and then drinks around him. When I turned on the faucet today? He didn't jump up. He slinked away. I fed him. He acted disinterested. He used to eat his food and hers.



I'm trying to tell myself that it all happened for a reason. That Highland was there for the last 6 years of my life. The not so great ones. That she absorbed what happened and took it with her. That she's my angel. And she's in a better place. But angel or not, I'd rather have her here. So would Little. And so would Kelly.

I'm thankful though, so thankful for my friends who have been so amazing and supportive. Who knew her. And cared enough to call or email or whatever. And I'm even more thankful for the woman who stayed with Highland and comforted her when she was dying. I talked to this woman-- Bridgette-- twice yesterday. And talk about an angel. She saw the car behind her hit Highland, she went around the corner, came back and took Highland out of the street. She set her down in the bushes, petted her and talked to her through the pain. She called me. She called her friend who is studying to be a vet to find out what she could do and if Highland was suffering. Can you believe that? I'll give up dinner for a night or two. I'm sending her flowers. Because it makes all the difference to know Highland was taken care of. To know how it was for her. And that she felt loved. This woman astounds me. It comforts me to know there are people out there like that. She said that her mother always said that when she got to heaven, she'd have one hell of a greeting committee-- filled with friends and felines. Amen, to that.

Today I went to a Step Up (women's network) luncheon. It was quite fancy -- they honored Geena Davis, the head of CBS and a few other luminaries. There were 700 people at the Beverly Hilton supporting the efforts of this organization. It was pretty remarkable. Oddly and wonderfully enough, I was invited by one of our clients from when I worked in PR. She's an incredibly lovely woman with a great line of products: Pure Hapa. I hadn't seen her in over a year and she said she missed me and wanted to see me. Of course, I would have preferred to be oh-so-on when I saw her or at the very minimum oh-so-me. But yesterday and today, that just wasn't the case. Still, I did feel inspired. I did come home and write. And I cried And I felt really happy to know that someone thought of me enough to invite me to an event, as her guest, when I no longer served a function, but could only be a friend.

Highland Was Hit by a Car

Last night my cat Highland was hit by a car. The person who hit her didn't stop, but another woman did. She picked Highland up out of the street and carried her to the bushes. She said Highland was bleeding from her mouth and she couldn't walk. She called and left a message on my voicemail, but I wasn't home. It was 11:45pm. I'm always home. But last night Romy and I were drinking wine at her place and I didn't want to drive. So I spent the night at her house. I never do that. It breaks my heart. Poor Highland. A car hitting her is what brought her to me and it's also what took her away from me. It doesn't make sense that she'd be out in the street since she was scared of cars. I don't know what she was doing.

This picture is of her on my shoes. She loved shoes. I guess she liked the smell of feet. I always thought it was weird. But what can you do? She loved catnip and shoes. I'm going to miss how she drank water out of the bathroom faucet. And woke me up every morning by meowing. I'll never forgot what a fighter she was. How I brought her into the writer's room when I wrote for the show in a diaper since she couldn't move because her pelvis needed to heal so she could walk again. She was so scared of people for so long and would run and hide from them. Then I let her go out and it changed her whole personality. It made her happy. And not scared of people anymore. She loved to play in the bushes and jump around. Once she brought a bird into my bed and killed it on top of me. Not pleasant. I scolded her but I know that it was a gift. Then she killed another one and brought it inside to me. That time I didn't scold her. I was afraid she'd keep doing it. I put a bell on her so the birds could hear her coming. Until I got Little Will because when he heard the bell, he'd chase her. It drove her crazy.

This morning, I ran out to the bushes as soon as I heard the message. I thought maybe she'd still be alive. But she wasn't. I went and got a box and brought her body into the house before I took her to get cremated. Little Will was crying, trying to get to her. I had shut her in the bathroom. We let him see her, so he'd know that she was gone. And not coming back. He's going to be devastated without his playmate. They cleaned each other all the time. They chased each other and slept together. Little Will ate her food so I always had to feed her separately. This morning when I fed him I put some aside for her. It's still sitting up there. It's surreal. I'm going to miss her. So. Much.

What You Should NOT Do on a Friday Night

Okay, this is a shock. I didn't have a date. But I did have a phone call. A phone call from a market research woman who wanted me to go to a focus group. Every year around this time there's this place called ASI that screens TV pilots. So you basically sit in a screening room with a bunch of other random people without dates or families or money, watch the TV show, hold a little apparatus in your hand and indicate when you'd turn the channel (which happens alot) or when you like something (which doesn't happen a lot). At the end of the show, you fill out a questionnaire indicating what you liked and didn't like about show, the characters, the storyline, blah blah blah. And me? Well, I always have a lot of thoughts about these things. Which is a bonus. Because people with too many thoughts scare them. They send us home and we don't have to take part in the discussion group. Which is a bigger bonus. One which means my hourly rate increases. I get seventy dollars cash for an hour and half of my time. And I know what not to watch when the Fall season starts. Not to mention, what not to feel bad about not getting paid to write for. If only.

So, yes. The long and short of it is that I sold my Friday night for $70. And the worst part about it is that I never even got paid the $70. No, for what should have been a 25 minute drive, I spent an hour in traffic. I arrived late. Two minutes late. The lot was full. I was sent to another lot. I walked into ASI ten minutes late. I was told that ten minutes was too late for them. I was apoplectic. I wanted to see if something could be done. Anything. Well, something could be done, apparently. Apparently, I could be scolded by a very mean woman close to my age wearing too much make-up for someone our age who thought that I should be able to get somewhere on time by now (aka this age-- our age)-- after all, if all those other people could do it, then why couldn't I? (Traffic? Had that occurred to her?) Well, I didn't like that so much. Was not quite my usual perky, thankful self and was basically told never to come back again. As if that was on my agenda for next Friday night. Oh, who am I kidding, maybe for $80 bucks it would have been. But it is no longer an option and oh how happy I'll be when ASI is screening my TV pilot and I get to repeat those "never come back" words to the very mean woman close to my age. And I'm sure you're holding your breath, too.

So the drive home took me an hour and forty-five minutes. It seems I did a nearly 3 hour round trip for nothing. I could have gone to San Diego to visit a friend. Or basically anywhere I was welcome. Still, I did manage to pollute the environment and use up a quarter a tank of far too expensive gasoline. And remember back to some of my bad jobs to help the screenplay along. And remember even farther back to when I actually did do focus groups somewhat regularly and thought they were kind of cool -- a novelty. Can you imagine? Although, in all fairness, some were cool and I am ever so thankful to my friend Kate for turning me on to craigslist and focus groups. Focus groups bought me groceries when my jobs didn't and made me thankful for other things. Which I'm sure will occur to me after a glass of wine... or two. Actually, tonight might require a martini. I do shake a good martini when I actually bother to shake.

Anyway, in my focus group days, I did a car study where I had to pretend I had children (although my kid's name and sex kept changing throughout the course of the study as a result of my competitive nature... Lana's kid Michael needed trunk room for his sports equipment and suddenly my girl was a son who needed both the backseat and the trunk for his equipment AND awards). I made collages for an Ikea study (I do like my arts and crafts). And offered up my news habits. There were other things. I always have other things. But now I'm tired. My sciatica is hurting and I've decided I'd rather have an imaginary date than an imaginary son because of the whole cart and horse thing and so basically, this is the end of the post.

Disneyland Kicked My Ass

Not for the obvious reasons. My niece and nephew? They couldn't be more adorable. They were perfeectly behaved, perfectly well mannered and perfectly perfect. And that's not just because they kept wanting to go on the rides with me. I mean, come on, they see my sister every day.

So why did Disneyland kick my ass? It was the families. All those families. 65,000 people comprising families. There were parents of every age, from every geographic region, race, and religion. And they all had families. Not such a fabulous place for a single 38 year-old woman who wants a family to be. Yet, I hid it. Of course. Like a 7 year-old and 3 year-old could relate or I would ever want them to. I hope they never can. The day was about them. And it was fun to have it be about them. To see the world through a kid's eyes.

I kept telling myself (in my head. Again, of course) that it wasn't supposed to happen for me before now. That it will happen. That we all have different journeys. But it doesn't mean I don't wonder why. And if my journey will ever take me to Disneyland with my own kids. To the happiest place on earth. (Although my nephew did say a few times he'd rather be at the beach. God bless him). I mean, those people all managed to have families. There are some times you can't help but wonder what exactly you did wrong.

I called one of my friends on my way home from The OC. And she's been matching lately (as in match.com). She's my age. And men keep emailing her things like, "Are you sure you want kids?" and "Are you sure you want to get married" (or some version of that). And she is. She wants those things. But you know, it's hard to hold onto the dream as you get older and people keep asking you that. As alot of the men your age are now divorced, have been there and done that and don't want it again. Or, have never wanted it at all. Or better yet, want it, but with someone that they babysat as a teenager. I've had friends who have families say it doesn't make your life perfect. But you know, it makes your life fuller. More interesting. And at the end of the day, let us decide for ourselves. We want the chance. We want the experience, too. Why shouldn't we have the experience?

It's also harder to hold onto the dream as you get older and not get sad about it. None of us thought we'd be single at this age. We thought we'd be married by 30 and have kids. We didn't want to be old mothers or old wives. A woman looks a lot different walking down the aisle at 40 than she does at 27, or 28, or 29... Can you imagine "Father of the Bride" if the bride was 40? Actually, that's kind of a funny movie idea. Don't anybody steal it. I can only write one movie at a time. And I'm already writing one. Yes, I'm writing. So that part's good. This year, I hope to send out a Christmas card with pictures of everything I've written sitting on Santa's lap.

And now. About my "Signs That a Man Doesn't Want to Be With You" entry. Which was absolutely meant to be fun. Because I'm kind of getting my sense of humor back. Or something that resembles one. And the rule is that tragedy plus time equals comedy. So there you go. Are all those "signs" true-- in that they actually happened? Absolutely. Not all of them happened to me. Thank God. But a woman who chooses to be with men like that is not necessarily, as John put it, a woman who doesn't want to be with a man. It's sometimes a woman who doesn't know any better. It's sometimes more complex than that-- or simple really-- it's about the man who raised her and what she believes love is and until she either heals, gets lucky and finds a different kind of guy, gets a different outcome or learns otherwise, she keeps repeating those patterns. It's sometimes also just low self esteem. And sometimes, it's that those signs come as a total surprise. Don't kid yourself, alot of men are good at saying exactly what women want to hear to get what they want for the moment or a week or a month... or three years. Unfortunately, some of us believe those things and end up finding out the hard way. And that's just one of the many reasons a woman is at Disneyland and still single at 38 years-old.

Signs a Man Does Not Want to Be With You

1. His friend hits on you. Presses you up against a wall. And starts mauling you. He. Does. Nothing.

2. You ask him to take you to dinner. He doesn't.

3. You're pregnant. He tells you: Well at least you only have one problem, I have three. (Those three include you, his mother who is bugging him to visit her and the job he hates).

4. He doesn't call you. Ever.

5. He's married.

6. He tells you stories about his girlfriend.

7. He wants advice on how to deal with his girlfriend.

8. You didn't know he had a girlfiriend.

9. He doesn't make plans with you for the weekend.

10. He doesn't make plans with you ever.

11. He puts a towel down on the bed before you have sex.

12. He pulls the condom off when you're having sex.

13. You never have sex.

14. The only time you see him is when you have sex.

15. He wants you to initiate sex. And dress up to look like someone else.

16. He showers immediately after sex. Then leaves.

17. He talks on the phone with someone else when he's with you.

18. He never talks on the phone with you at all.

19. He'd rather have his dog in his bed than you.

20. He kisses his dog more than you.

21. He cooks you dinner; but it's red meat and you're a vegetarian.

22. The first thing he ever buys you is cake. You don't eat cake.

23. He doesn't buy you anything. A drink, food, nothing.

24. He calls you up to find out what's going on that night. But he doesn't want to go with you.

25. He wants you to get a boob job. You're not the boob job kind of a girl.

26. He asks when you're free. Then he sets you up.

27. He opens the door for you. Then lets it close in your face.

Welcome to My Issues aka Am I Done Yet?

I am every therapist's dream. Literally. Every single issue I have can easily be traced back to my mother and father. I was like some super sponge of a kid soaking up all of the good and bad aspects of both of them. I didn't pick and choose. I'm an overachiever. Why have just one issue from one parent? What good is that? No, I want them all. That way, I have something to do for the rest of my life: fix myself. And what a joy that's been. Let me tell you. Oh, that's right. I have been telling you.

The thing is, my parents were totally opposite yet in some ways, exactly the same. So I've basically become a schizophrenic version of the two of them-- which has made for an interesting time-- and personality. At least, I'm interesting. Or at least I hope I am. See? There I go again. My dad had the ego. My mother had none. My dad was a perfectionist. He liked things immaculate and clean. My mother? Let's just say tortilla chips, bread crumbs and coffee grounds have been known to stay on the kitchen floor for longer than a day although less than a week. My dad loved being treated like a king. He loved being fancy. My mother is simpler. She doesn't really care about that so much. Living high, being catered to-- it never really mattered to her. My dad liked modern furniture and houses. My mom, antiques. So how did those two crazy kids ever fall in love and get married? Forget get married. How did they ever procreate? Better yet: why did they? Neither one of them wanted to be parents. Ah, if only they had had a crystal ball.

Neither of my parents were travelers. They didn't put a premium on seeing the world. Both, though-- were hardworking. And they were geographically desirable. To each other. They both have selective memory. And are fighters. In every sense of the word. Although my mom takes things personally. My dad never did. He knew how to make it personal, though. He was good at that. Both were obsessed with money. Not having enough for my mom. Having it, spending it, and holding onto it for himself for my dad. My dad wasn't generous. My mom? I think she would be if she could be. And she has been at times. My mother is loyal. To a fault. My dad? Apparently he was to his other kids. So there you go. What do I really know after all?

My parents were married for 13 years. It never made sense to me. How that could have happened. How could they hate each for 13 years? Sure, it explains a lack of baby pictures for me-- the marriage was over at that point. But still. Where did the love go? Luckily it helped when I talked to my dad about it. And my mom, too. When I asked about love, they remembered it. It helped to hear them both remember it. And their mistakes. What went wrong. It's just, my sister and me? We never saw love. My dad said that his parents never told him that they loved him. I could see that.

I've never seen my sister and her husband kiss-- other than on their wedding day. They don't hold hands. They don't show love. It breaks my heart. My sister? She's happy. Me? I want to show love. I want it shown back. Otherwise, what's the point? Is there a point? You can have a roommate if you don't care about that. Although there is the procreating part... Well, what to do, what to do? I think love is meant to be felt and shown. I think empathy is good. Feeling is better. I know hurt is part of it. Pain. It's all about risk, isn't it? I know alot of things I've done are wrong. I also know that I've conquered a few issues in my day. Which makes me sound gladiator-like. Which is kind of fun. If only.

My mother and my sister both pat me when they hug. I think I've mentioned that before. I don't want to be patted. I'm not a dog. Perhaps that's my issue with picking up after them. Did I mention that my father completely forgot that he had a dog when he got married to my stepmother? Fritz. He was a miniature schnauzer. How do you forget a dog?

Anyway, I don't want to punish my father. Or my mother. They both have reasons for the way they are. They were children when they got married. And they were children when they had their own. It doesn't mean I've had a hey day fixing myself. It doesn't mean that it doesn't make me sad to think of of what didn't have to happen and what did. I always said I'd find someone once I fixed myself. I never thought it would take me 38 years. Still. I think I'm closer to done than I used to be. Although, no one's ever done, I guess. Maybe the difference is in just knowing if it matters and knowing who it matters to.

Can You Handle The Truth?

Friday night, after my epiphany, I called my father. I haven't seen him in 20 years. I've only talked to him 3 times, maybe 4. And none of the conversations we had were good conversations. He was angry. Blamed my mother. Blamed my sister. Blamed me. For the fact we had no relationship. For everything that went wrong. And every time after I hung up, I never felt any better. Except about knowing that he hadn't changed one bit. And that he didn't see anything my sister and I went through. That he thought it was our fault. All our fault. And I couldn't make him take responsibility for his actions. No matter how hard I tried. And in those conversations, I had tried.

Apparently, this epiphany was a bigger one than say the one where Kelly looked at a picture of him and said, "My God, you look just like him." And then at that moment, I realized that he hated himself and that's why he was so cruel to me. He saw himself when he looked at me. Even though he contemptuously called me "my mother's daughter," he saw himself when he looked at me. If only it was that simple. It's never that simple.

The "Unexpected Legacy of Divorce" (an amazing book on divorce... really. Oprah-approved and endorsed) states that alot of times men abandon the first children from a divorce and go on to create a new family because they don't want to be reminded of the failures from their past. When I read that, it made sense. My father was a perfectionist. He expected perfection from himself and everyone else. But I didn't realize how right that was until I saw him. Yes, I saw him. He came to me. For the first time in my whole life that I can remember, he came to me. It was a pretty big deal.

For some reason, I wasn't nervous. I wasn't scared. I wasn't angry. I just knew it had to happen. That finally, it was time for it to happen. He's seventy years-old now, has had two heart surgeries in two years, owns two declawed cats (which I take issue with-- the declawing part), lives in a one bedroom apartment by himself, is a lawyer who now works at Enterprise Rent-A-Car as a driver and has nothing to his name aka is barely scraping by after making $60,000 a month some months. All those things made it time.

A man changes a lot in 20 years. This man more than I would have thought. Emotionally. Physically. Gone was the power suit and brown-haired corporate lawyer that appeared at my high school graduation -- that being the last time I saw him -- instead a gray-haired, Levi's wearing working man limped up my front walk. I was taken aback. Said, "Oh, hi." I didn't know what else to say. He wanted to go somewhere. I wanted to stay at home. I needed to feel safe. I remembered the angry scenes of my childhood and let's be honest, these days, I'm kind of a crier. It was Saturday. Who wants to be a 38 year-old woman crying about her childhood while sitting next to a woman of the same age with children of her very own? Not to mention her husband and the kid's father?

I'm glad that's the way it went down because we got nowhere fast. He kept blaming my sister and I for not trying harder. I said we were children-- they got divorced when I was four, my sister six and a half. How hard could kids try to have a relationship when their father wasn't trying back? He said it was my mother. I said we had no money to live. He said we did. I told him I didn't imagine the food stamps. He said I had to be wrong. I said that when a kid gets made fun of for their clothes, they remember that. They don't make it up. No one wants to make up pain. He said he gave my mom more than enough money. I told him that maybe he didn't know what enough money was. Because it's not like my mom was hoarding it. It's not like she said to herself, "No, I'm sorry. I'd rather the kids learned to suffer. I'll never buy things for them. I'd rather they eat spaghetti every night. And have reduced price meals at school. It will teach them to be thrifty." The sarcasm was lost on him. Pretty much everything was. I couldn't make him see. No matter what I said he fought me. After awhile, I wondered why he even came. After an hour and a half, I wanted him to leave. And he wanted to go. I gave him directions to the freeway. Then he saw a chair in my office area. And he asked if it came from my mom's place. I said yes. And he said that he had reupholstered it. That's when he sat down.

That's when something happened. Because I found a way in. I found a way to find out who he was. And what made him that way. I asked him what his childhood was like. I mean, once I had that conversation with my mother, I learned shit that I never knew. Shit that made sense to me about the kind of mother she was. No one taught her how to be a parent. No one taught her how to grieve.

Then, I found a way to describe what it felt like to be us-- my sister and me. Having two parents who hated each other. Who didn't communicate. Who were so busy fighting they didn't pay attention to their children. Our childhood was all about their pain. Their anger. Their yelling and screaming. And their money. What they had and what they didn't have. What one did and what one did to the other. And somehow, my sister and me? We got left behind. My father told me it was ridiculous. He told me he saw us every other weekend. I said, yes. But when we did, we didn't communicate. We did what he wanted to do. We went to stores and bought him things. Electronics. Clothes. Furniture. We rearranged his closets. Did his taxes. Watched sports. Fun stuff like that for children. I mean, the man didn't even know I liked to read.

I told him what it felt like for us after he met my stepmother (yes, I'm the asshole who introduced them aka caused this scenario to pass). To be going to a house when we lived in an apartment. Seeing two kids who had everything when we didn't. I mean, we were his kids, too. All of us. Were his kids. It didn't make sense to my sister and me. Why we were the have nots and they were the haves. And no one bothered to explain it. My sister and I thought something was wrong with us. Why did my half-brother have a better bedroom at three years-old than I did at thirteen? Why was my stepmother getting jewelry and furs and did she own two cars? And my mother? She owned one dress. Apparently, my dad's household had five cars total. When his other kids were babies. He and my stepmother had two each and one for the nanny. My sister and I bought our cars ourselves. And they were nothing to write home about.

I didn't understand why he would want us to suffer. Why any man would want his children to suffer. He said we should have told him we were suffering. I said we were kids. He said we were smart kids. He forgot a lot. How old we were when things happened. He caught himself a few times. Then admitted the thing about not paying attention to his money. Saying that he was making $60,000 a month and he let my stepmother handle things. Spend money to get things. I just looked at him and said, "And I worked 40 hours a week during college?" He told me then that he wishes he would have known that I went to UCLA. I could have gone for free he said since he was a veteran. That? It was painful. Isn't it a dad's job to know these things? To ask where their kids want to go to college? To be involved? To try? I was at a loss.

That's when he revealed the clincher-- that when he divorced my stepmother, he gave her the house. The half she was legally required to give him-- well, he ripped up the check she gave him-- $190,000 plus because he said he wanted to make sure his kids were taken care of. I almost choked. "What about us?" I asked. "We were your kids, too. And you wanted the money from our mother for the house we all hadand you didn't even think about us." My mother didn't even have a job. He didn't know what to say. He also said it didn't occur to him that after we were 18 years old we would need his help. He didn't think about college. That's when child support was over. And he was so happy to have it over. He was tired of giving my mother money, he said.

Sure there were a few light times in the conversation. Times we reminisced like nothing had ever happened. Do you still have this? Remember when you did that? He was surprised I remembered so much about him. And there were the times I told him about my mother and my sister and what they were like and why they did what they did and behaved in the way they did-- I interpreted their pain. He said he never saw it like that. He was quiet. My father was never a quiet man. It seemed to me he thought life for us was one big, "I hate dad" party. He didn't know it was a "How much can we all suffer and hurt" extravanza enhanced by our hormones each and every month. I think it made him feel a little better to hear that.

I thanked God for those years of therapy. How it helped me to explain things. Show my father how to see things in a way he'd never seen them before. And you know? He did see. It shocked me to actually see him see. The father of my childhood was not the kind of man to ever see. I also thanked God for Kelly. Because she was there. Witnessing it. Listening to it. And occasionally, taking part in the conversation. In a way that only helped me be heard. She couldn't believe how alike we were. How much alike we looked and it made her cry. As Harlequin as it sounds, it moved me to see her cry.

Yesterday was hard. I was exhausted, but didn't cry all that much. Today was a different story. I woke up in the middle of the night last night remembering all the things I didn't say. About me having no baby pictures and the other kids each having their own professionally taken photograph wall. It made me feel like I didn't matter. I also realized something maybe more important-- that this story-- our story unfolded just as it was supposed to. That no one had the capacity to make it happen any differently. And that ultimately, what my father and I discussed, was enough territory to cover for one day. He showed up at 2:30. He left at 9:00. He took Kelly and I out to dinner. My father never took me and one of my friends out to dinner the whole time I was growing up.

It was surprising to know how much effort he'd put into learning about me over the past few years. He watched the shows I had written-- gave me credit where no credit was due. And created an imaginary daughter for himself. I wondered why it took him that long to learn about me. Especially when I think about that when I child, that's all I ever wanted. But. Still. He tried to talk about his other kids. He tried to tell me how they were and what they were up to. I told him I didn't care. Which may be harsh, but it's the truth. I cared about us. That's what the day was about. Us. I'm not sure when I'll see him again. I will, of course, see him again. It won't be that long before I do. We opened the door and it's time to walk through it. I'm also not sure what to call him. At eighteen years old, believe it or not, he was "Daddy". Since being out of my life, he's been "my dad" or "my father". When I called him, I asked for him by his first and last name. That one will be tough. Kelly said she wouldn't be surprised if he walked me down the aisle. I'm not there yet. At the aisle or in that emotional space where he's concerned. But at least now I can truthfully say, the healing has begun.

Learning to Need a Man aka What's Wrong With Me.

This morning, I cried in yoga. I haven't done that since my agent dumped me. That was five years ago. This cry. Was a good cry. (Although, I could tell it made my fellow yoga-ites just as uncomfortable as a bad cry). Me? I didn't care. I was ecstatic. Because I got it. I finally got it. What all this has been about. What I learned. What I didn't know how to do. And how there was no other way for me to learn it. I had to hit rock bottom before I could learn how to need a man. And that needing one was okay. Because one would be there. And in some cases, even more than one. That's a beautiful thing. Shocking and beautiful. Shit, I'm crying again.

A month or so ago, I was having a breakdown and I called Steve. Kelly was sitting there on the couch. But I called Steve. I was tired of talking about what was wrong to one of my girlfriends. I always talked about things with the girls. I wanted a man, needed a man to hold me while I cried. I didn't want to figure it out. I just wanted to be held. That's never happened to me before. Kelly said that she used to go to her dad for that kind of comfort when she was growing up. I could never do that. My dad was usually the reason I was crying. And that's how I learned not to need a man. I couldn't. Because he wasn't there when I needed him for what I needed him for.

Sure, there was the financial stuff as well. Feeling like I had to take care of myself. And not really having a choice. I couldn't depend on anyone else. So I didn't. That's what both my mom and dad taught me. So I worked my ass off. I didn't want to have need someone. Now my sister and me? She worked-- but not now she doesn't. We're totally opposite. She blamed my mother for my dad leaving us. So she never felt let down by men. She never took it on. (Of course, my dad never said the shit to her that he said to me which made it easier, but still...). She moved on because she never took it on. She didn't think there was something wrong with her. That she had to juggle, tap dance, make a million and look like a supermodel just to get a man to love her. Maybe that's why she's married has children and has never worked for $10 an hour over the age of 16.

Me? I'm 38 years-old. I've slept with guys I'm dating, woken up early in the morning and gotten ready just so they wouldn't see what was wrong with me. I dated one guy who had a bad eye-- and I always on slept on that side of the bed. Just in case. I thought it couldn't hurt. I was always waiting for men to leave. Or tell me what's wrong with me. And they did. Time after time after time. Confession (as if the rest of it isn't one): I'm 38 years-old and have never been introduced as someone's girlfriend. I've also never had a man tell me he loves me. And you've got to admit, that's a pretty weird thing for a 38 year-old woman unless she's never left the house. I'm sure alot of it is my fault. Actually, I know it is. And as messed up as it is, I'm actually happy about it. Because I get it now.

Sure it's still painful. I just read on IMDB that one of my good friends pre-career meltdown, a good friend I cried with over being lonely at 33 years-old is now stepping down from her job as the head of comedy at a network to be a mom. Five years ago we were both crying and now she's married and just had a baby. My agent? Same thing. Sure, she was my agent, but we had a friendship based on being single and not wanting to be.

I remember one time the ex-convict told me that I was "a career girl", so I should just "work hard, make money and get my rocks off." I remember thinking what a horrible thing that was to say. As if that's all I wanted out of life. What had I done to make him think that's all I wanted? Actually, that's the better question. Not that he wanted me to need him and not that he would have been there for me. But maybe if I had let him know a little earlier that there's more to me than that. That I needed, too--maybe he would have never said that at least. Not that he would have stayed. But still. How is it possible to be so close to someone and have them never know what you need? Does this make sense? Sorry, but I'm a little excited about this epiphany so I'm kind of on a roll here.

See, a few of the men-- like Brian? He knew what I wanted and what I needed. And he gave it to me when I was down. Friendship. Support. Kindness. Encouragement. Steve? He built shit. I've never had a man build shit for me. And he held me. I even fell asleep on him while he held me. (Although I did worry in the morning that he thought I was crazy and called him to make sure he didn't think so. Which he might have. But still... there was fear. I'm trying to let go of the fear). So my old boss helping me? That was another man who gave me what I needed when I needed it and understood me when I told him what I felt. All of these men have seen me broken, flawed and pretty much know everything that's wrong with me-- well, almost everything. And still, they gave me what I needed. And seeing this, knowing this... Well, I've never been so happy in my entire life.

Mary and Peter.

So this is Mary and Peter. On their wedding day. It was gorgeous. The wedding is the wedding I would want. And am telling myself I will have. Mary and I went to high school together. But she was a rebel and we didn't really hang out then. She had to leave school to take care of her uncle who was dying of AIDS. She and I are both estranged from our dads. Women bond over these things.

After I stopped being a development exec, I knew I needed to write. Wanted to write. And so I moved to New York. Where else does anyone write?... Seriously, that is? I knew two girls. One from college. She was busy. And one from "Blown Away"-- she was an accountant turned dominatrix. Yeah, that made for an interesting reveal. And you know, Easter brunch has never really ever been the same since I held a ball clamp in my hands and tried to figure out how to work it.

That night. In New York. Night 1 in New York, I met the guy I dated through my entire experience living there. He threw an ashtray on the floor to get my attention. I was charmed. Guys have done less. And over time... he did. Less and less and less. But still. It was fun. And surprising and I ran into Mary. And we had a great friendship. We were broke in NYC. Had all the odds against us. We were from LA. We were the enemy. And we didn't care. We went out every night. I worked every day. I loved it.

On my birthday. It snowed. I got lots of calls from my LA friends. They loved the fact that it snowed as much as I did. I even ruined a pair of boots. I didn't care.

Jim (ashtray guy) broke my heart (theme... yes?) but strange coincidences kept happening with us that made us both know we may as well see it out-- and we did-- through 3 years of me in LA and him in NY-- and him and me both with other people in between. Chemistry is chemistry. To make it simple. His best friend moved here for awhile and we were inseparable. Friends, but inseparable. I think I miss him more than Jim.

Needless to say, Mary and I had a blast. When I moved back. We still had a blast. She was always so generous. Always there to share her happiness and good fortune. And to play. That girl liked to play.

And with Peter? She had happiness and good fortune. And then some. He was the guy every girl wants to marry. Truly. There's no other way to put it. He was a girl's guy and a guy's guy. Gorgeous. Generous. Intelligent. Multi-faceted. Funny. Successful. Real. And in love with Mary. All the better. Actually, the best. That was the best wedding I've ever been to. There was no sit down dinner. Instead, there was a black tie cocktail party that rocked. I met great people. I danced. And loved every minute of it. The single girl who didn't have a date. And I loved every minute of it. That's the kind of wedding to have.

Mary threw me my 30th birthday party. In New York. Alva. A cool place. I got dumped that night. It didn't even matter. She made it not matter. I'll never forget leaving Chad's place in SoHo in a see through black slip dress and heels the next morning. Freshly dumped on a bright Sunday morning -- I found myself a Foot Locker and bought some Jack Purcell's to hoof it back to Mary's . If I was a fancier girl, it might have been a fashion statement. But I've always been just me.

Peter died in the World Trade Center. That rocked my world. Of course, it's nothing compared to what happened to Mary. But. Still. Going to that memorial was one of the hardest things I've ever experienced. And I felt the loss. Truly. I still feel the loss. My friends should have love. Forever. We all should have love.

To find love. True love. It's hard in this world. I've never had it. I've loved. I haven't been loved back. My friend found it. By someone pretty amazing. Pretty surreal. And then only a short year later... it was gone. How is that possible?

His memorial was a terrible experience. For oh so many reasons. It was so bad. So bad, I didn't even realize I had food poisoning until I got to La Guardia, got sick, ran into a guy I went on a date with (yes, post-sick and pre-boarding who I had to engage in trivial convo with) and had to call a friend from the air to take me to the hospital. I was wheeled off the airplane in a wheelchair. Waved goodbye to the former date and had my first experience with a new doctor being one where medical instruments were placed in areas I'd rather they weren't. It seemed I had a rare case of food poisoning and as a result, I was hospitalized for two days.

I had just started to date a guy before I left. One of my friends told me not to tell him about the food poisoning. As if that made me flawed. I clearly don't get men because I didn't see why me in the hospital with food poisoning would be a reason to dump me. Expecting me to dress up in different get ups when we had sex? Yes. That was a reason. And I did dump him. And I never dressed up. It wasn't like he was getting all fancy. Why was it my job and my job alone?

My relationship with Mary has never been the same since Peter died. It breaks my heart. I think about her often. I don't know if she can handle having people in her life who knew him and knew him so well. Still, I don't take that back. He was a guy worth knowing. He was a gentleman, a guy and a friend. He was something to aspire to. For women, for men.

I love this picture. I love the belief.

Me.

The whole reason I'm doing this at all is because Brian said I should have a picture up. One that's permanent so people can see me. Come on, do people really want to see me? Well, John said it helped with the whole rooting for me thing. So, there you go. See, I listen to Johns and Brians. I'm increasing the name range. I couldn't decide of the two semi-decent ones I had which one to use. But I figured it's about the writing anyway, right? I hope.

I have hardly any pictures of me lately. These are the best I could do for now. I'm not in love with either of them. The one on the right is of me at a wedding. The angelic one is me being silly before we went out. Yes, we have photo shoots every time we go out, being it's so rare we're seen in public. We need to memorialize the occasions. I'm kidding. About the photo shoots at least.

I'm not jumping for joy about the whole watch and ring in the picture. But what can you do? I'm not sure when they were taken-- in the last year-- or years-- more than one but less than three? Since I don't own a watch any more. But Kelly said they look like me now. So. I'm not sure if it matters. It's not like you're all looking to date me. Still. I was going to get a haircut tonight. And Romy and I were going to take pictures. Of her for match and me for this. I would rather pull out my eyelashes than put these on match. And pull out my eyelids than go on match. But I digress. The picture-taking-haircutting-party got canceled because I wrote all day and got tired. Very tired. I gotta tell you, it was a wonderful reason for being tired. I feel like I'm in some crazy time warp. Yoga and writing. It was the perfect day five years ago and the perfect day today. Still, I just wasn't up for posing. And trying to seem somewhat cute or whatever I'm supposed to be on a blog. Young probably. But that ship has already sailed.

Kelly says the picture is too small -- the angelic one. But I think the smaller the better. Who wants to look at my pores? In any event, be kind. If you have opinions on me and my pores and my lines and my less than stellar make-up choices, be kind.

Everywhere I Look, There Are John's.

I can't figure it out. Why that name is following me around. Does that ever happen to you? One day, there are none. And then suddenly, you're surrounded by... John's?

At different times there have been Michael's and Robert's. Never George's or Dan's. There were a few Chris's, Jim's, Bill's, Eric's, David's and Matt's-- Okay. There were a lot of Matt's there for awhile... a few too many... and some even became a little-slash-a lot famous after they dumped me-slash-left me-slash I-left-them-- Oh come on. You know he left me. But it was okay. If I was funny, he had to be funnier. His name was Matthew. He was funnier.

Now, I'm surrounded by John's. Some version of a John is everywhere I look. And these John's? They're not going away. Or maybe I just don't let them. Because I like them there. And I try to get them to stay. What do I have to do to get them to stay?

Sure. They may not all be John. They're sometimes Jon or Jonathan. No Johnny's. That's not really my thing. Whether they call themselves that or not, I never do. I don't do "Johnny." I pretend that part of John's personality doesn't exist. Because I don't do Johnny any more than I do Stevie. And I know them both. Johnny is the kind of guy who gets away with stuff.

John is almost always the first name. Sometimes the middle. Not ever the last. Lately, it seems I'm either always liking a John or loving a John. Or a John becomes my friend. Or is a mentor. Or perhaps might be a total stranger who just appears out of nowhere. A John is never my enemy. Even when he hurts me. Or I hurt him. Have I ever hurt a John? Doubt it. I've definitely never hurt a Johnny. I don't think anyone could ever hurt a Johnny.

I get the Johns to read my writing. Or root for me. I try, at least. I get intrigued by John. I look for connections and meaning in the consistency of the name. A John here and a Jonathan there means...? Nothing whatsoever probably. Still... why are there so many John's? I think it's fate. Okay, it's probably not. Still, I have fun believing that's the case. It's always fun. To look for a John in my in-box. To flirt with a John or a Jonathan. Or even just have a dialogue with a John on the street. To say things I'm not supposed to to a Jonathan from my past. Like I'm on a playground or in a chat room or something. And at the end of the day, I like to say the name, John, to myself like it means something will happen with a John. Even if it never does.

My dad's middle name is John. That shouldn't be a good omen, though. In fact quite the opposite. These John's? They're nothing like him. They're nothing like each other, in fact. Each John is always different. Different looks. Different personalities. Different geography. Different roles and different ambitions. I like that. How two men with the same name name be so completely opposite. So diametrically opposed. One who breaks the law, one who upkeeps it. One who wears a suit and one who doesn't. As if a personality was really that easy to sum up-- as if there was a universal difference between a John and a Jonathan that we all could follow: "When speaking to a John use only verbs. Wear red." Even though in my experience, it feels like there is some kind of rule. But there can't be. Can there?

Oops, I think I scared one of the John's away. I wonder what name will be next? How about Patrick? I always liked the name Patrick.

You're Beautiful. Do you Have Kids?

Last night, we celebrated my birthday. And some random guy in the bar came over to our table and asked me that. What happened to "You're beautiful. Can I buy you a drink?" or "You're beautiful. Are you single?" or "You're beautiful. Want to come home and have sex with me?" When did I jump straight to the kid? Sure, I would like to have kids. But I kind of want that in between step to happen first. I mean, I want a man. I want a bachelorette party and a wedding shower and then a baby shower. I want a party or two beforehand. I want to have those silly sandwiches without crust and play guessing games. Well, maybe not those. But I gotta admit, the loot would be nice. To get a few cool pots and pans to cook my non-existent husband dinner in. And a car seat and bassinet for the non-existent kid. Even though I have no idea what a bassinet is for. Oh, Kelly just told me it's what my non-existent baby will sleep in. Good to know.

Well, the random guy also said, "You should change your name to Beautiful." Could you imagine? "Hi, I'm Beautiful." Yeah, that's setting yourself up for a lot of uncomfortable moments. So anyway, back to the kid thing. I'm getting asked that alot lately. I'm not sure if that's such a good sign. Like I'm giving off the mom vibe... in bars. Unless Desperate Housewives has created such a phenomenon that moms are now a hot commodity and I could actually be a commodity. That wouldn't be so bad. But I'm still single. I am! And I wanted to stay out late last night and play. That doesn't sound like any mom you know, does it? Well, not one that the police aren't after for neglect. I'm kidding, I'm sure moms who stay out late have babysitters or good, understanding husbands.

Okay. I have to go hike. I'm off to Runyon. I have to make myself fit enough to chase after my non-existent kids.