What I Like

This picture is of my friend, David Galan's hand. And arm. He makes purses. We were out and about the other night and he saw a woman carrying his purse. She said she's never gotten so many compliments on a purse. Which was cool. She asked him to sign it. Which was cooler yet. So I took a picture. I love it when those kind of things happen. In fact, I would love it even if I wasn't having the most expensive cocktail of my life-- $18! For sangria!! Actually, despite the most expensive cocktail. It was all because my friend Quentin was wearing shorts so we got turned away from the bar we wanted to go to so we ended up at the Four Seasons. (His friend manages the bar there. And. Quite honestly? Black men can wear shorts there. It's like a rapper's paradise). Quentin doesn't rap. But he does drink. Usually we have the hook up-- knowing the bar manager and all. There was no hook up that night. But Quentin treated me since the sangria was his idea. It was good. But come on. I could have 3 bottles of wine and a happy week of pain free living for the price of one glass of white sangria. Who cares if it came with one of those fancy little mint sprigs?

The allergies aren't so good this week. But it was a good week nonetheless. I saw a lot of friends. I had a few epiphanies. And got a few unexpected emails. I like that. It was one of those weeks-- actually, it's been one of those months-- that reminds me of the things that I like. So I thought I'd share.


I like...
friends who can relate to what you're going through and who have gotten through it or are trying to
communication
impromptu get togethers
sharing a history with people in your life
people who are funny
serendipity
hope
feeling articulate
great stories
a new dress and a place to wear it
presents
forgiveness
a nice dinner and being able to afford it
hearing "I love you"
talented writers
new words
thank you notes
feeling like I've learned something
insightful books... and articles... and essays
things that make you feel... in a good way
hearing that I matter to other people
being aware
sitting at bars and talking to random people
making new friends
good wine
stimulating conversation
hearing from an old friend
travel to places I've never been before
crazy adventures
yoga
hiking
the idea that my man is just around the corner
working with my sister
spending time with my niece and nephew
dinner parties
being out in the world and appreciating it
taking walks
unexpected compliments
seeing things in a different way
having things just work out
people who are generous without trying
men who are smart and sexy and don't seem to know it
play
security
a kiss that never ends
flowers
my animals when they're playing or sleeping or just being
education
my friend's successes & the chance to celebrate them
writing and having the head space and time in which to do it
having other people appreciate what I write
New York
being allergy-free
a good cup of coffee
a clean place
having someone clean my place
making a difference in someone's life
being held
jack 93.1
funny ads
mail
photos with my friends & family
having health insurance
being missed
the Sunday Times

Cheetos and Floods

So much to write about, so little time. After being traumatized by Mission Viejo aka South Orange County types on Sunday while giving mini facials (which I'd rather receive than give and I'm reminded of this every single time I'm greeted by snooty unappreciative people), I trekked back to LA where I hit a traffic jam. The source of the traffic jam? A beautiful black woman who was out in the middle of traffic throwing cheetos at the cars. Yes, I swear. She was mid-30s, I'm guessing-- and dressed cute-- in a black flouncy skirt and white tank top. I guess if you're going to stop traffic, you should look cute enough to do it. The cheetos thing was a bonus. Which led me to believe she was drunk and crazy, not mean and crazy. I mean, she could have been throwing something like rocks or tennis balls but no, cheetos. Crunchy, orange, preservative-laden cheetos. It was pretty much pointless and as such, pretty much entertained everyone who was stuck waiting for her to get out of the road. I'm guessing they were entertained since people in LA are usually so impatient that they don't wait for anything. And honk at everything in the way. This time, no one honked. They just waited for her to get her cheetos on and then tried to drive around her while dodging said cheetos. I would have stayed and watched to see what happened next if I hadn't been so tired. Hopefully she wasn't hit. That would be bad and make the cheeto story kind of tragic. In other words, a buzz kill. (Not that I was buzzed when I was driving. I'm using it as a figure of speech).

And then there was yesterday. Sick all day with allergies. Really sick. Not moving sick. Accomplishing nothing sick. But I did let my friend Steve come over and do all of his laundry here. Which was kind of like accomplishing something-- only once removed. What I should have really accomplished, though is writing and figuring out what was making my refrigerator leak. But it didn't seem bad, I couldn't move and I figured it could wait a day. And my landlord's sister was so nice about the drip coming down into her apartment below, that it didn't seem urgent. And then she said that smart people have allergies. Which was a nice little compliment in my weakened condition. So I didn't want to appear too capable. Well, maybe that would have been a good idea. The flood began at approximately 7:15am.

That's when I saw the deluge of water. Moved the fridge. And a broken tube went flying all over spraying water in its wake. Everywhere. This was followed by me turning off the water to the sink which didn't help. And trying to find out where to turn off the water that I actually needed to turn off. Which I couldn't do. Many phone calls to many people who own this building, manage this building and make money from this building later, and after saturating every towel in the apartment and Kelly's brilliant idea of using the spin cycle to try and rotate the towels while emptying the constantly filling bucket and failing to patch the pipe -- Manuel the plumber arrived. And the day was saved. As well as the hardwood floors, my office area and sanity.

Well anyway, the cheetos, I do not believe were a sign. The water I do. It means change. Good change. A release of emotions. Well, it also means some other stuff like the repressing of strong emotions which are sensual in nature. That's not a leap either. Hmmm, maybe I need to actually MOVE to Vegas. Not a lot of repressing going on there. Or just prey upon 26 year-old men from Portland, Oregon.

Stereo or No Stereo, I Still Have My Groove

So. My stereo is broken. Kind of a bummer. But I don't care. Many things in the abode could use some fixing. But I don't care. Clearly. This is a good sign. I have much to do. Much I want to do. Namely, plan my New York trip. See Kate. And other folk. I feel like I want to be out in the world. And New York does something for me. So do good friends. Good people.

On the way home from Beige, I saw a guy buying flowers tonight for the woman or man in his life (this is LA, after all). And I felt happy just seeing it. It made me oddly hopeful. I watch Skunk and Little Will play together like they're in love. And feel oddly hopeful. Like it's a gift. Their chemistry. And I feel like someone might just surprise me. Like there could be a date and flowers and a play date in my future. Maybe dinner. A nice dinner. At a restaurant. Not a mini-mall. (Yes, I have been taken out to dinner in a mini-mall. And by a musician in a famous band, no less. Well, that was less. I wanted more. Like table service).

I'm worried less about where I'm at. And feel like it just might be okay. I got a very kind email from an editor responding to one of my submissions. And although the piece wasn't right, he kept the door open. I like open doors.

I was thinking today about Ken the super sweet Las Vegas bartender who today was taking his 21 year-old daughter to a luau at Caesar's. Who told me he wanted to go to Italy, France and Hawaii for vacation some day-- in no particular order. He said I "was the woman." He kept quoting me to me. (Which was a treat for a writer who isn't writing-- just talking.) He told me that he's never seen anyone connect with people quite like I did the first night I was there. "Five hours," he said, shaking his head, "You spent five hours with people you just met." And I just smiled, thought-- he works in Vegas, shouldn't he see that alot? I mean, I do that alot. Just less lately. All my friends have that capacity. For conversation and play. And meeting perfect strangers. Today I went on a hike with Romy and had lunch with her and Kristine. Today was the first time they've ever met. And it was like they've known each other forever... with a little bit of catch up. I completely love that about my friends. They all get along with each other without effort or drama. And they can be together without me and not need to talk about me to have something in common.

I've done Paris with Romy and New York with Kristine. We all travel well together. We just go with the flow. And meet strangers. And have a good time. I'm having quite the happy fest. Did I mention the 26 year-olds? Well, let me just mention them again. Compliments are a wonderful thing. And that whole traveling and vacationing thing? Well, I'm thinking that's the wave of my future. I don't have much else to say tonight. I'm sure I will tomorrow. Like you were worried. Here's a concept: a moratorium on worrying. Did I mention I used to dance on bars? Well, I didn't when I was in Vegas, but it suddenly seems like a very fun thing to do.

Home Sweet Home

Vegas. I'm missing it. How could I be missing it? Was it the excitement? The people? The fact a 38 year old woman can be doted on by two incredibly beautiful 26 year-old men? I don't know what it was. But it worked. The whole week. Just worked. It reminded me of who I am. In a place that is diametrically opposed to who I am... or maybe not. Maybe that's the thing I'm supposed to realize. That I don't know who I am. Or maybe too much... and therefore, too much of me is a bad thing. But I met cool women and men and bartenders and Sephora workers and... well, the me thing didn't seem to stand in the way.

Now I'm getting my writing back on. Watching Sweet Home Alabama. And loving the first few lines.
Girl: What would you want to marry me for anyway?
Boy: So I could kiss you anytime I want.

That's the line I'm looking to hear. I don't care if the kid who said it in the movie was 10 years old. The line was written by someone. And I'm a writer. So that's the line I'm writing for myself.

How Jody Got Her Groove Back

Vegas, baby. Vegas.

Las Vegas - Part II

So Vegas or no Vegas, when you're in a boring mall, you're bored. Today, I was in a boring mall. There was no one to train. No one to sell to. And the only people to talk to other than the salespeople who were complaining about corporate and that their hours had been cut due to the slowdown in sales were these two drunk guys who were smoking cigars and buying cream for one of the guys' wives who just got a boob job and a magnifying mirror for the other guy's wife. But that was it. The highlight. Me, the fish out of water getting along with the boob job's husband. He did say I was too pretty to be single. But then he'd been drinking.

My allergies have kicked in and I'm tired. But I can't go out and frolic because I have to go train people tomorrow at 830. Which means I have to be there at 815. Which means I have to go get them coffee and sugary substances sometime before then so they'll pay attention to me. Luckily, I'm an early riser. The bummer is, I kind of did want to see a show, but Donna Summer isn't here until tomorrow night. So is someone else I want to see who now escapes me. That's what happens when my alergies kick in. I can't think. Oh, the Blue Man Group. I think that was the only joke I ever got in the entire time I worked on the show I worked on. Well, maybe not really. But it sure felt like it.

Okay, I'm going to try and write and pack so I can check out tomorrow am before I go off to feed sugar to people so I can get some sugar. Maybe I'll try and pet a flamingo.

I See Flamingos, Pink Flamingos

And I'm not even intoxicated. Imagine that. Me not being intoxicated. And seeing pink flamingos. Yes, I am self aware. And hyperly aware. I guess Vegas is doing me good. It must be the oxygen. Or the strangers. I like strangers. The stranger the better. Well, kind of. The people I hung out with last night weren't strange. But they were fun. I stayed out very late on a school night with male conventioneers and a TGIFridays bartender from Manhattan named Meghan. I had a blast. I haven't had a blast in awhile. And it was a relatively inexpensive blast at that. (Better yet!) And all because I wanted a glass of wine while I read my Boscia paperwork.

I haven't been to Vegas in something like 6 years. I know, I know. But I haven't really been anywhere. I'm not a gambler and I hate playing Vanna White-- which to me, means just standing by -- being a spectator while other people gamble. I like conversation. And people watching. Six years ago there wasn't this much to do here--at least not that I remember. That time I stayed at the Hard Rock. There weren't any pink flamingos there. But there was Ben Affleck, my friend Kristine, a guy I used to date who I just ran into (much like I ran into him in NYC when I moved there-- weird, huh?), and all the people from the show. There was drama, too. But that wasn't why I haven't come back. One of the girls I invited was a basket case about some guy she was dating who she kept calling and fighting with and when got off the phone she'd yammer on about as if she was heartbroken only to turn around and scam on another guy the first opportunity she got. That wasn't all. While scamming, she left us to take in her hyperly active and far too young acting guy friend who wouldn't stop talking. While we were trying to sleep. It definitely was an experience... and one I doubt Kristine will ever forget. Although I'm guessing she's tried. And tried. And tried. Much like I keep trying to forget the pink dress I wore the one time I came to Vegas before that -- when I was canoodling with the now famous actor. That's when I learned he saw prostitutes. And had a thing for gambling. Well, the gambling I kind of knew about. The prostitute thing was a little more of a surprise. Of the not so good variety. So in the end, the pink dress probably didn't matter. Or else it just might have helped me dodge a bullet.

Anyway, I had no idea I'd be having this much fun while I'm working. In a place like this, it's kind of perfect for me to have a task during the day since I'm not pool girl any more than I'm gambling girl. In the morning, I get to walk to said task and look at things en route. And then I get to walk home and look at more things-- things I've never seen, some clothes, some alcoholics, some scary outfits, some people wearing no clothes, some other people drinking and eating so they're spilling out of their clothes yet still shopping for more clothes anyway at far too expensive stores. It's quite entertaining. Because even if there are chain restaurants and chain stores here, in Vegas, they just have a different feel. Amen for that.

Which brings me to Sephora. Here they have not just one, but two. Which in this rarefied environment feels odd yet apropos. Smoking and drinking and flying are not exactly stellar for the complexion. Which in turn, makes me feel useful. Here, I get to fix other people instead of fixing myself. Ah, there's a switch. Maybe this is a vacation after all. I'm oddly peaceful in this crazy environment. I'm tired, but peaceful. My feet hurt. Still, peaceful. So no outing this pm even though I did kind of make plans with Meghan and the conventioneers. But I have to save myself for Nordstrom. For facials and such. So I'm going to take a bath in a bathtub that people from all over have stepped in and try not to think about it. Unless of course, I think that I'm lucky that I get to be somewhere else and work. That I'm not even paying for it. But am actually getting paid for it. That I'm finally out of the house. And I'm having fun. And that I have something to look forward to -- not only can I pay my rent after having had fun, but I also get to visit Kate next month in New York because of it. Maybe I'll bring her a flamingo.

Skunk.

Okay. She didn't drink all those chemicals. I did. But I thought it was a damn cute picture. And while it's not really a post, I love her and thought I'd share. Dirty floor and all.

My Face is a Bowl

This is what I saw today while watching myself do the testimonial. One, my face is a bowl. Since I'm trying to be positive-- I'm positive my face is a bowl. Two, I'm so uncomfortable in front of the camera I do this weird thing where I talk out of the side of my mouth. Neither things are particularly attractive. To say nothing of the weird eyeshadow they put on me and this gloss stuff on my hair that makes me look even more like bowl-like. Okay, maybe John was right. Maybe I don't love myself. Harumph. I hate it when he's right.

Today, besides the bowl thing, I also learned getting into Habitat for Humanity is a difficult thing. Who knew that it's hard to volunteer your time to build things? Okay, they build things in cool places, but still. So why the sudden Habitat thing? It's because I thought: I need to give. Maybe it will thin my face down. No, that's not why. I thought, I need to give, maybe it will take the focus away from me for awhile. And make me feel like I've done something good for someone else and something substantial. I'm going to keep trying. I need a reality check. And I've never been one to lay on a beach anyway. Well, if you don't count high school. That's all I did the summer of my freshman year in high school. I got super black for a white girl. We used baby oil back in those days. Getting black was an accomplishment. Oh, to have life be that simple. Anyway, that's also how I became a blonde. Well, with a little help from Sun-In. Is that stuff still around? If so, your hair will go orange first, then get to blonde. The orange thing isn't so great, but it worked with my cheerleading uniform--- which was navy, orange and white. Nothing like having hair with school spirit.

So now that the pain has subsided from my body-- 1 Claritin D, 2 Mucinex D and 2 Motrin later, I'm in a much better space. I think that body pain definitely influences emotional pain. I'm sure there are studies. That being said, to further remind myself that my pain is nothing in the grand scheme of pain, I spoke to one of my friends yesterday, Scott. He has ALS. One minute we were having cocktails at The Avalon Hotel in Beverly Hills watching his muscles twitch-- this weird traveling twitch up his arm-- with me telling him it didn't look so normal and he should have it checked out-- being that I am a professional sick person-- and the next, he was in a wheelchair. It breaks my heart. He is an amazing, amazing person. Super talented. Incredibly optimistic. And giving. He directed a movie he wrote while he was in his wheelchair. It's getting really good reviews. They just have to find a distributor. He's been to a few festivals already, but it's hard for him to travel to them. He said it's hard to sell an independent film nowadays unless you get into Sundance. I hope it gets released. The Weitz Brothers ("About a Boy") produced it. And Patrick Fugit ("Almost Famous") stars in it.

So being a rock star himself, Scott has a rock star for a wife. Neither of them are actual rock star, but she's an amazing woman too-- who has completely dedicated herself to Scott They completely love each other. (This picture above is of me and Scott at their wedding-- the summer I went to 6 weddings and revisited my tan and tacky nailpolish). They both have a sense of humor about life. Which is astounding. And they also have perspective. If that's possible. They feel lucky to have each other. Ann and I were talking about how one of her friends said that if her husband got ALS, she didn't think she could stand by him. Yet, she's getting fertility treatments so she can get pregnant. If that doesn't give you pause, what does? Here's a picture of Ann and Scott at a birthday party... keep in mind, this was all about 5 years ago.


Scott still works. He writes every day with the help of one of those computer programs that recognizes your voice. He said he's bald now. Has a belly with a tube in it. He can't walk any more or pick up a fork. Things that I know we all take for granted. That's another reason why kids are so great. They're happy when they can just go to the bathroom by themselves, get dressed by themselves, read, and write, you get it. Which is a kinder, gentler reminder that we should all be grateful for the little things in life. All of which are far more important than my face being a bowl.

I Have No Idea.

Today I saw Magick Lady. You know what's better than a therapist? A transformational clairvoyant. And you know why? They see what you don't want to talk about. Or admit to. You can try and fib all you want. But they see the truth. And they call you on it. Which is good. But not always fun. I go see her when I'm going to the dark side. Or already there. When I'm starting to give up. Or having a pity party. And feel stuck in some mindset and can't click off. Aka am acting like a crazy person. Because the deal is this. I do want to get where I want to go. It's not like I'm torturing myself on purpose. I just like to see results. Everyone wants to be on the winning team. To play a sport that they like. And to have teammates that they like. I actually worked out this whole sports analogy thing about life and being where you want and not being where you want-- the winning team vs the losing team. And how even winning teams have to work hard and I know that. And how you have to work just as hard to lose sometimes. And I thought about all sorts of cool metaphors using trophies and bowls and stuff. I thought it might make my life more relatable. How I'm feeling more relatable. But then Laura asked me a good question today, "Why do you want everyone to understand you?" And to be honest, I have no idea. I just do. I'm trying to let go of that. I think it's maybe because when I was growing up I worked so hard to pretend I was something I wasn't and it turned out that no one knew who I really was. So maybe I think people should know who I am -- who it is that they like or don't like. And that's where the honesty thing comes in. But phooey to all that. It's clearly not working. I've gone too far in the opposite direction, I guess. It's annoying to realize that your own energy, your own self can be standing in your way. It's made me quite tired. So off I go.

Oh, but I do like myself. I just don't like where I'm at. And I get mad at myself. But that's not the same as not liking myself. You can like people and be mad at them, right? So I'm mad at myself. But not all the time. I just wish I could be another way sometimes. That it might make things easier. But I'm going to try and believe that this is who I am and who I'm supposed to be. And that it's all perfect. Even when I can't handle things gracefully. Which is a lot of the time lately. Well, intermittently. I did do the hard hike today. The one where it's a climb climb climb. And it was exhausting but good. It's always funny to see what people wear when they hike. Skirts sometimes even. What's that about?

Oh, and I do like understanding other people. I like to figure out what makes them tick. Why they do what they do. What gives them resilience or success or love or whatever. I hope I can still keep doing that even if don't care if people don't understand me. I don't think that's a bad thing. Well, if it is, I'm sure I'll learn that sooner or later, too.

So here's me trying to let go of wanting to be understood. And the past. Oh, I'm supposed to also let go of the past. I'm sure any of you could have told me that. I could have told me that. It doesn't mean I always know how to do that. But well, I think I'm starting to talk in circles.

Welcome to my Meltdown

Yes, it's true. I had one. A bonafide meltdown. I just cracked. It started with being sick. Really sick from allergies and sinuses. Thinking that I'd still be okay to travel to Chandler, Arizona to do a Sephora training. Thinking that if I just took Mucinex D then I'd be fine. (After taking a Claritin D and two motrin). So I called Southwest, moved my flight, and layed down. Well, I started to feel worse. So I moved my flight again. And then I called Sephora. And checked about rescheduling. The manager sounded busy. And disappointed. So I said I'd be there. And then I layed down again. Went online to check my bank balance. And then I felt worse. Because if I don't go on the trip, I don't get paid and there's the little matter of rent. I hate rent.

Then I tried to have a glass of wine. Which sometimes helps. I know, but it is a histamine. I thought, okay, I'll just take a cab to the airport. I can still make it. The wine did not help. Nothing did. I took six motrin. I watched a bad movie. And then got in a fight with a friend-- which I never do-- and then lost it. Completely. Cried my little heart out. Did I mention that it's that time of the month? Well, it is. Unfortunately this time was a little worse than all the others. All women's immune systems dip during the week before their period. That's usually when I get sick. This time, I just got cranky as hell. And when my cycle started, well, that's when I got sick. And as emotional as a crazy person. Which I pretty much was. I hate being a crazy person.

This is usually when I say I'm not fit for human consumption aka I need to be alone. Because lately I keep getting all of the suggestions for fixing my life that I've already tried and tried again. Or else people saying things like, "maybe you shouldn't be a writer." Or "maybe you should go on antidepressants." The only problem being that I am a writer. That's what I am. Who I am. And I am not depressed, my life is. I don't want to be artificially happy when things suck. I wouldn't mind being artificially happy when things are good, but that's the Orange County in me.

The good part of the meltdown is I got alot of shit out. I guess it was bound to happen. I suck at pretending things are okay when they're not. But I've been trying to do that since I've been seeing humans that I haven't seen in a while and doing trainings and selling things to people who aren't about to listen to or buy from a cranky, depressed person. Luckily I've been doing yoga and hiking alot so I'm fit. And I got a great root job so I appear to the naked eye superficially fine. It's just once I start talking... So I've been sucking it up and trying to shut up when possible. But here's the truth. I'd rather that things just worked. So I didn't have to worry about all this shit anymore. I would like to not worry for one day. To have someone else take care of me and my shit for one day. If only I wasn't too old and cranky to be kept. Maybe if I got boobs...Then again, if I could afford boobs, that would mean that I wouldn't need them. Isn't life a pain sometimes? And me with boobs is just a ridiculous thought anyway. Although people lately seem to think they've grown. Which I hope not, because bras are expensive. Yes, I'm pouting.

So today I got treated for my allergies and sinuses. And it helped. Which made the day not a total wash. I was able to finish and submit one essay about my crazy wine promotion job from bed. And trim my essay about my blog for Newsweek's "My Turn" column (yes, I know they get over 600 submissions per month). I'm submitting that tomorrow. I also asked my friend Kate if I could come visit her. I haven't been anywhere in over 3 years vacation-wise. I'll probably have to sell some shit to go. And by shit, I don't mean my writing. Although that would be preferable. But I think I need a change of scenery. Although I will go through Will and Skunk-withdrawal (she's the new cat-- she is so damn happy and loving, it's crazy. But it'd be so fun to see Kate and frolic through New York doing all the free things we can find-- And Kate, by the way, has been such a fabulous friend through all these years. She's read my blog religiously. My writing. She's tried to help hook me up with jobs. She sent me pictures of monkeys. She turned me onto Craig's List and Mediabistro-- and those both provided jobs for me. Some horrifying and some entertaining, but still. Kate is always real. Which is a nice thing. Especially when she's only seen the loser version of me. God, bless her. On that note, I do need to get back to the screenplay. And the t-shirts. But I feel stuck on both. Even though I now know the ending of the screenplay. I see the scenes. I just felt like I needed to send some pieces of writing out into the universe that could potentially pay right now. If that's not a concept I don't know what is.

That's it. I'm done.

I Wanted You To Be My First aka Not So Helpful Information

Back when I was in high school, I was a virgin. Yes, we all were at one point. Imagine that. (Sometimes I wish I still was, then I wouldn't know what I was missing. But I digress... as usual.) Well, while in high school, there was a boy who wanted to have sex with me. Yes, one. One that I know about, at least. And one that dumped me because I wouldn't. (I was only 15!) And who then slept with another cheerleader on my very same squad the very next night. I remember that evening oh so vividly--- being at a party with a bunch of my friends and hearing that The Boy Who Wanted to Have Sex With Me was having sex with one of my squad members in a parked car down the street and even worse, walking down the street with a friend to see the parked car with steamed up windows. Yes, that moment broke my heart. Not only was I dumped, but dumped for a not so nice girl who rubbed her pom poms in my face. Well, not really. We didn't have pom poms. Only song leaders did. But you get the idea.

Well, the girl he dumped me for was alternately mean and competitive with me ever since elementary school. She was the one who made fun of my clothes when we were doing the whole food stamp thing back in the the fifth grade. And she was delighted to win The Boy Who Wanted to Have Sex With Me. I had pretty much forgotten about the whole thing, to be honest. I mean, come on, I have new rejections to keep me occupied. And I don't really remember being particularly sad that I didn't lose my virginity to him. I could have done without the stomping on my heart, though. So over the weekend, at this high school reunion-ish get-together which is some 23 years after he lost his virginity to this other cheerleader, he told me how much he really liked me and how he had wanted me to be his first. Well, okay. Is it just me or was dumping me and having sex with someone else a funny way of showing it? Not to mention, what am I supposed to do with that information now-- 23 years later? And what am I supposed to say... uh, thanks? I'm not sure why he felt it necessary to tell me. The whole thing felt a little odd. Along with the added aka too much information that he wasn't the other girl's first and just how he knew. Still, I did appreciate the two dirty martinis he bought me. Although one probably would have been enough. But like I'm going to turn down a dirty martini? I was surrounded by married folks, for God's sakes. I needed ten with how it made me feel. (Including him. He has three kids and a wife.)

So this runner up thing? This almost being the one, but not being the one? Well, it's not so new to me. Sure, there's always a reason. But knowing it doesn't mean it always makes you feel any better. No, I think being The One or finding the One is the only thing that can do that. He was only 16. So it's not like I blame him. But a little waiting period might have been nice. Or maybe instead just hearing those words from a single man who wanted to be with me now.

I WAS Trying. Really. And Still Am.

There's this weird thing that's been happening lately. I've discovered that not only do people seem to think that it's my fault that I'm single, they also think that it's my fault that my career is where it's at--- meaning, that they think I wasn't trying to get to a better place. Find a better job or write something. They think that I just gave up. That I made a choice-- either to not try to get a professional job that pays more than $10 an hour or that I chose not to take one. When the fact of the matter is-- I wish that was true. It would have been a hell of a lot easier. Unfortunately, I have to admit, I have been trying the whole time. Yes. For five solid years. For jobs in my profession. Other professions. Jobs in Hollywood. Out of Hollywood. For positions with health benefits. Yes, actual health benefits. I thought worst case scenario, I'd be a professional something who wrote at night and on the weekends. I'd done that before. I figured I could do it again. But I never got a job that afforded me that luxury. Even when I was working in publicity, I was making so little that I had to work one day a week at a boutique just to pay my bills. So yes, I was working six days a week and still looking for another job. Because even though that one seemed professional, the environment sure wasn't. And it wasn't what I wanted to do. Hence, my free day off was oftentimes spent sending out resumes, writing and contemplating jumping off a building. And not necessarily in that order.

I have about 20 different versions of my resume. I have the professional one. The menial one. The Hollywood one. The non-Hollywood one. The one with an objective. The one without. The one where I downplay my skills. The one where I don't. I've sent over 500 cover letters. I know because that's how many I have in my "Job Stuff" folder. That obviously doesn't include the ones that I sent in the body of the email. I joined job services. Ones with fees. Ones without. I called and emailed every human being I know and asked them for help. That includes my former agent. And other people's agents. I said I'd go back to being a writer's assistant four years ago. That interview I just had was the only one I got called in for. I took the CBEST so I could subsititute teach. I took a class prior to the CBEST so that I could pass the test. I spent over four hundred dollars only to learn that there was a glut of subs and they were only hiring credentialed teachers. I had a friend who worked for the Los Angeles Unified School District try to help me. Nothing. I also applied to an MFA program. I wrote fiction. Lots of fiction. Essays. All of which helped me to find my voice. And told my stories. Did I write scripts? No. But I was writing. The entire time.

Maybe it's easier for people to think that if you try you succeed. But sometimes you can try and hit a wall. Again and again and again. And it can suck. And that can be why you have to take survival jobs and why you get depressed. And yes, oftentimes feel sorry for yourself. All of which I did. So were there a few days I didn't try? Yeah. Sometimes you can only be rejected so many times. And there's this crazy thing about emailing and internet job sites-- you don't always hear back. It's like your resume and email are sent out into this void with about a thousand other emails from about a thousand other people looking for jobs. 2001 changed the economy. And while writers can do other kinds of writing, there are people competing for those jobs, too. Trust me. I tried to use my skills. I even took a magazine writing class through mediabistro. I pitched my little heart out. And now, 4 years later, I just sold an essay. And alot of it is because now, personal essays are big. They weren't back then. And I didn't have that particular story to tell.

That brings me to the single thing. Looking for a man is a lot of work, too. Particularly one I actually want to spend my life with and who may actually want to spend it with me. I know it's shocking but not every man I meet loves me just because I have a pulse. I get rejected. Which is about as much fun when it's from a man as it is from an employer. I did the internet dating thing for awhile. But it was depressing. Yes, it's true. Even more depressing than looking for work is looking for love. Equally shocking to some people is that being rejected by both men and employers can take a toll on a person after awhile. And you know? Unless you're someone who just wants to have casual sex and no ties, being single is not all that much fun at 38. And definitely not as much fun as it is at 28. And that's about how long I've been wanting to meet someone-- well, maybe not ten years. I wasn't really ready until my career started working-- which is when I was 32. That's still six years of wanting something. Six years of being asked "Why are you single?" Like I know.

And here's another thing. I do want to have children. And I don't want to do it alone. It's not easy to do it alone. It's not even easy to do it with someone else. Do I think a man or children will make me instantly happy? Well, I think being in love is much better than not being in love. And having children when you want them is better than not getting the chance to have them. Otherwise, why would everybody be looking for love and having children? Or going to fertility clinics to try to have children? It's about choice. I don't think marriage will solve all my problems. I don't expect a relationship or a person to be perfect. But I do want to have one and I want the chance to find out for myself. I want the experience. Can you really blame me?

The EDD Hates Me.

It's true. They do. The EDD being the Employment Development Department. Otherwise known as Unemployment or Club 330. And by hate me, I mean want me to suffer. And suffer some more. It may seem like I'm exaggerating, but I'm not. The recent letters I received from them are verifiable proof. Not only for the hate and suffering thing, but for just one of the cornucopia of reasons I had to file bankruptcy and take menial jobs. (For the other reasons, see blog entries).

See, there was an incident I had forgotten about. Perhaps blocked out would be more accurate. It's been an effective coping mechanism for my sister where my parents i.e. our childhood is concerned so I guess I thought it would be a good idea to give it a go myself. Then, the envelopes arrived. Inside the envelopes were letters demanding I pay the EDD money back along with penalties, lots of penalties. And if I didn't do so in a timely manner, they would come after me. Or their collections people would. And I'm sure those folks are friendly. They gave me 10 days to show reason why I felt they were wrong in wanting money from me. Apparently they missed somewhere along the way that it was money that I already paid back with penalties-- like four years ago. Luckily I like paper. And I like to keep it. Which makes things not so tidy, but easier to prove. And luckily even though I threw out all tax materials and bills and fun stuff like that for all years prior to 2001, I somehow managed to miss the EDD file. Which made it much easier to spend two days and 14 hours writing them a letter and making copies to prove that they were wrong and I was right.

Somehow, I'm still worried. Because no matter what I seem to do-- what manner of cartwheels I do or low paying jobs I take or bad employers I am subjected to, they want my money and they don't want to give me any. For my 2001 mistake-- not knowing that residuals counted as wages since it wasn't money that I was earning per se by actually doing current work and their manual was not even remotely clear, I had to pay them back the money they gave me for each week I got a residual check with close to an $800 penalty and and additional penalty of no unemployment benefits for 10 weeks. That is what cleaned out my bank account once and for all and made me have to resort to lowly jobs.

One of which I got fired from. It was a $10 an hour job at Trina Turk and I got fired because I couldn't work Sundays because I had my writing workshop. And I felt it was wrong that I couldn't have a day off for class when a part time fashion student could-- just because she was younger than me and still considered a student. I think the fashion thing had something to do with it, too. And the super lame supervisor I had. She didn't want to work Sundays and she didn't want me to work there any day of the week, quite frankly. And me? Well, I didn't want to give up the one thing in my life that made me feel like a writer because otherwise, I'd just be a $10 an hour retail salesperson wearing too many patterns. So they fought unemployment and they're an employer so they won. Which meant no benefits for me and being forced to take an even more humiliating $10 an hour position.

Still, I didn't have to give back the clothes which my clothing allowance purchased. And didn't have to purchase them. Which was good. So I gave them away. Which was better. It was very feng shui. To get rid of things with negative connotations or ties. My friends like that about feng shui. It's clothed them well.

I'm not going to lie, I tried to get unemployment again. After the whole walking out of the publicity job thing. I needed money to live on, I had none and I thought it was worth a shot. I thought maybe the system would reward me for taking care of myself. That it too would think that I deserved better. And maybe, I thought, the system felt a little guilty for having contributed to these crummy positions I kept ending up in. But it didn't really matter what the system thought because the pr boss thought I didn't deserve better or deserve unemployment and she fought it and I lost. Bummer.

So no living off the system. Not that I ever wanted to or had. I just wanted to get by. That's why I'm completely confused as to how some people manage to get away with conning the system -- getting disability and unemployment and stuff when they don't earn it or need it. Maybe it's a skill. Clearly, it's one I don't have. Then again, I was the kid who always got caught the one time I screwed up or was out late, etc. It never failed. Maybe someone somewhere is trying to save me from a life of crime. Um, I'm thinking no.

Still, I feel blessed that even though the system hates me, I have people who love me and are mad at the system for me. Which is nice. Because it's hard getting mad at it all by myself. Not that I haven't tried. Believe me.

Do You Work Here?

So after my hormonally challenged breakfast-- well, not really breakfast in the food sense, just the time sense-- I only had coffee-- I went to Borders to try and find "Other Voices"-- which is a literary publication which my friend Cheryl had a story published in this month. She's an AMAZING writer. And "Other Voices" is pretty cool, too-- all fiction and pretty prestigious. So prestigious that I would be doing cartwheels if I got published in it. Well, Borders didn't have any "Other Voices" in stock. But they did have one voice-- one very annoying voice -- that of my old boss's mother- (the horrible, awful, no good very bad pr one) and this is what that voice said to me-- while looking me straight in the eye with not one iota of recognition-- "Do you work here?" I swear to God. I just looked at her-- came close to saying, "Terri!" But I was so horrified by the question and at seeing her, that I couldn't even begin to know how to process having her look directly at me and not recognize me as her daughter's former employee forget as a Border's employee. So I just said, "No," a touch rudely and walked away in relief. Relief at having her not recognize me after having talked to her and seen her a trillion times in the past and even more so at not having to ever work for her daughter or anyone like her ever again.

I think that was a sign. So I may not work on "Ugly Betty." But I don't work for an Ugly Betty either, Yes, a terrible joke, I admit. But nonetheless, true.

And then another odd thing occurred today. While I was getting my roots done so that I may look yet even blonder and whiter, I was looking through Angeleno and saw a picture of the New York guy I used to date-- the one whose friend mauled me and who I threw olives at the last time I saw him-- okay, not proud of that so much but he was making out with a girl in front of me-- at a dinner thrown for me in New York and I was trying to stop the make out session. Anyway, he was in the Scene in LA section. He was at some Boys Night Out thing at Bloomingdales in Sherman Oaks. It was very strange to see him one- in LA and two-- after six years-- older and wider and did I mention he went to the wrap party for the show with me one year while he was in town--? I will say it is sexy to have a guy who gets women's clothes and isn't gay and is sexy himself and can make you feel sexy and so anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. Strange coincidences or occurrences or just strangeness. I'm not sure what they mean, what it means. I'm guessing something. It has to mean something. I just hope it's something good.

How White I Am.

Too white. They hired an African American girl for the job. They said it was for diversity. I remember back when I got let go from the show I was writing for. Some of the shows I met on were family shows that wanted to hire people who were married with kids. And just knowing people who fit that desciption or being related to them was not good enough for them. And every other show wanted me to be a a minority because well, see diversity. But I was and remain to do this day, a single white girl from Orange County.

Argh. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't sad. Didn't cry. And didn't wish I wasn't so damn white.

Oh, so close.

So I had all these exciting and fun things I wanted to write about on the blog. Especially after seeing John August's blog (my friend Romy is working on his movie) and Josh Friedman's. They're paid screenwriters. They make lots of money. They get lots of comments. They put my blog to shame. But alas, I am not them. And there remains a reason they make lots of money. And I don't. Much like the short story/nonfiction piece I read on smallspiralnotebook.com. It's by a writer by the name of Michelle Wildgen (http:/www.smallspiralnotebook.com/spring06/wildgen.shtml) It's about how she nearly went into anaphylactic shock due to food allergies. That happened to me-- well the anaphlactic shock thing-- but mine was just from the outdoors and my allergy shots. I wrote about it on the blog -- it happened once when I was by myself after working all night on the show and once with the ex-convict. After reading this Michelle Wildgen person's rendition aka a very good piece, I realized mine was merely a telling. But hers? $%&#ing fabulous. Clearly, she has a different style than me. But guess what? It's a damn good style. And that's why she has a book coming out and all this notoriety. And perhaps, I need to work a little harder.

Which brings up the job I interviewed for-- it looks like it's not going to happen. Which I am sad about. I mean, I don't wake up depressed about it. Not to sound depressing or anything, but I have kind of gotten used to the "things not happening thing". But I did have such a good feeling about it. And that does disappoint me. Maybe I was too honest. Too real. But I feel sooner or later people will find out who I am. Pretending I'm someone else is alot of work. Maybe I need to work harder at doing that, too. Other people do it all the time. And quite successfully.

I don't know if the job has anything to do with why I cried at the gynecologist's office today. There are probably a few reasons. One of which is I would like to have children. And of course, the requisite male specimen to help create them. I'm going to some get-together this weekend with people from high school ( the class above mine-- I didn't relate to my class so much. All the girls seemed to become professional cheerleaders. Well three actually. Which is still a lot). It does fill my with a certain amount of trepidation. On the rsvp list for the evite, everyone was a hyphen. And as quirky and unconventional as I may be, I do want to be a hyphen. Well, a non-practicing one really. I like my name. I lived it, earned it and to be anything else at this point would just feel wrong. Maybe I need to work harder at being a hyphen, too.

Because this oh, so close thing is not the same as being there. Sure, it creates little pockets of hope. But hope and happiness are two totally different things. It's the difference between sharing what didn't happen and not knowing why and telling people what did and how you did it. No wonder people like John August and Josh Friedman.

Two Mothers. A 71st Birthday and a Wedding.

Yesterday was my mother's 71st birthday. So Happy Birthday to her. Even if there was drama with Dad that my sister and I had to contend with-- it turned out being a lovely day. (Mom and dad still haven't seen each other -- so it's been 20 years-- and what with the drama of the past, my sister asked my dad not to come to her son's softball game since my mother was coming and it was her birthday and she wanted to prevent any potential drama in front of her kids-- well, dad didn't care-- and got upset. He thought I would be on his side (sides are big in my family). But I asked him not to come just this once and to respect my sister's wishes to shield her children from unpleasant family &$(% - Dad? Well, he screamed, and continue to scream and there was some stuff about my sister's wedding and him not being invited because of my mother and his daughter from the other marriage not being invited to my sister's baby shower-- for which I had no sympathy because I know that it's bigger than that-- and he said he'd been bending over backwards since he started talking to me again-- and I told him well, he had 20 years to rest and then he continued to scream and so I hung up on him-- and it was just like a real family. Almost) So dad showed up anyway. Despite the hanging up and the request. I think my mother saw him. And he saw her but they didn't speak or acknowledge seeing each other. And I hung out with my 71 year old mother who was happy as a clam to be celebrating her birthday. while watching her grandson, my nephew play softball while my niece fell asleep on my lap. Then, we had lunch. I ate tacos. And drove home so I could make it in time to Romy's mom's wedding.

Yes, last night, Romy's mother got married. In a house in the hills without air conditioning but with valet parking. Only in LA, right? I thought Romy was going to pass out from the heat. There were no screens on the windows, so gnats kept flying in. They got all over the wedding cake. And the food? Tacos. They had all you can eat tacos. At a Jewish wedding. Only in LA. I can't remember the last time I ate so many tacos. I'm not really a taco girl. What can you do?

The ceremony was lovely. I cried. More than Romy I think. The groom's kids all stayed downstairs. The bride's friends and family mingled. The groom's kids were pouting. Harumph to them. I tried to mingle with the pouters but they wouldn't have it. What can you do?

Anyway, off I go for now. Consider this the short, sweet version. Until I have time to expand. And the temperature drops. For now, I'm off in quest of air conditioning.

Here Today. And Loving It.

So I clearly could not live on nothing despite the fact it seems like I have for close to forever. And I couldn't keep borrowing funds. Or write as quickly as I would like. And that's where Boscia comes in. And Denver. And Kansas. See, when new stores open in new territories, the staffs (or "cast members" in Sephora-speak) have to be trained in all of the different brands that are there. The hope is that they then identify and adore the brands and sell, sell, sell with total knowledge of what they're selling and what it does for their clients. Ain't the beauty industry a hoot? Well, Kansas was a bit more hoot-worthy than Denver. The store director at Sephora in Kansas is hysterical. Still, there's no place like home.

As luck would have it, the minute I landed in LA, I checked my messages- not like I'm getting inundated or anything, but you never do know. And lo and behold, I had a call requesting that I come in for an interview to work on a new show on ABC that's set in the fashion and beauty world- on a magazine, no less. A world which my odd variety of experience actually comes in handy for-- yes, it's true. I could be of some value. So I met at 9:15 this morning in Burbank at the lovely Walt Disney Studios. There were six of us meeting for one coveted slot. As a writer's assistant. As well as my unusual variety of skills, I also had the distinction of being the oldest one there. By a good ten years. I'm hoping that's of some value for a change. I mean the showrunner worked on The Bionic Woman-- I grew up on that show. There was nothing better than watching Lindsay Wagner rip up the phone book to get her students to behave. And I'm also kind of partial to the Six Million Dollar man & Bionic Woman episodes. The ones that proved there is someone for everyone whether you're part machine or not. It does a heart good.

So I'm not certain if I was as articulate as I would like to have been. Or entertaining. Still I have a good feeling. An odd & good feeling. Maybe that was what's odd-- it's good. I'm sure they want the person to start on Monday. I would like to be that person. I will be that person. I would like to get a script again. I am going to get a script again. I could get my WGA benefits going again. I will get my WGA benefits going again. And get my writing career back to the place where I can actually call it a writing career. How's that for positive thinking? Did you get that's what I was doing?

Anyway, I made the gutsy and bold move of calling my old boss and asking him to make a call. One of those showrunner to showrunner calls. He asked if they knew my level of experience -- that I'd written before, etc-- and I said they had my resume. And I was honest with them. I said my career bit the dust. There comes a certain point in time that dancing around something-- something that took five years-- just seems silly. He said, "Okay." And he made the call. I told him I loved him so much. Yes, I did. I also cried when the assistant told me that my friend Suzanne gave them my resume and said wonderful things about me. I told her I usually save crying for my dates, but what can you do. That being said, I'm happy to be home. Happy to have people helping me. And even happier to believe that it might all just work out.