A Very Big Sea Turtle & Romy's New Career

A Paris Sighting Enroute to Hawaii

Well, I didn't actually see her. I saw the paparazzi aka two guys with cameras. And then I saw the black Escalade and approached them and asked them who they were waiting for, Paris Hilton? And they said, "actually, yes." Who knew? You can't leave the house without running into a celebrity nowadays. Or at least Paris Hilton. I've seen her more times than I can count. She's usually shopping. Anyway, I then called Romy who was in Terminal 4 to report the Paris sighting (she used my American miles to fly to Hawaii, the company flew me United, so we were in different terminals) and she said, "That's so weird. I just saw Nicky Hilton. She's walking around the airport by herself." Apparently, she was wearing sunglasses, she has dark hair and no handlers. Paris had lots of handlers. I take it that the brunette standing by the Escalade is her friend or assistant of sorts. And then there were some higher up escorts circling back and forth and some bodyguardish type of guy. I didn't see that pr dude that gotten written up in the New York Times this past weekend, but I'm sure he wasn't far behind. All very entertaining. To be honest, I would have rather seen Rachel Bilson. Apparently the two photogs were at LAX shooting Rachel Bilson who had just left on a flight. I told them I like her better. She has great style and according to Romy (who did hair on "The OC" for a few weeks), she's one of the nicest actresses she's ever met. So there you go.

This past weekend, Kelly saw Nicole Richie shopping on Larchmont Blvd and she said she is actually skinnier in person than she seems in the magazines-- if that's possible. That her thigh is the size of Kelly's knee. (Kelly doesn't have big knees, in case you're wondering. I, on the other hand, don't have such great knees-- but I digress). Last week? Romy saw Lindsay Lohan. Who she said is actually very pretty in person. Prettier than she thought. So there you go. Maybe you can believe Us, People, In Touch, Star, The Enquirer, and every entertainment news show out there.

My flight was amazing. I love United. It's my new favorite airline. One of the flight attendants hooked me up with leftover wine from first class... for free! (For the record, I will take first class leftovers any day). We got free headphones, a row to myself and Mission Impossible III for no charge. I also got to see The Office-- which I truthfully have never watched in its entirety and the weirdest thing-- a writer from Drew was not only a Co-Executive Producer on the show (which means he writes for it) but was also one of the characters on the show. I am confused by this. I had no idea he acted. Or if he acts on the show all the time. Anyway, did I mention United also had a game? Which I lost. But you can't win them all.
Poor Romy, on the other hand, had an overly full American flight. An annoying kid annoying her, headphones for purchase, wine for purchase and had to sit through RV. Oh, I forgot that there was a gassy woman sitting behind me. But even the Dollar rent-a-car lady was nice to me. This Hawaii thing has Boston beat, I'll tell you that much.

Re: the post that mentioned Todd the manager-- just so he knows and you know, he didn't give me the third degree. Really. He asked the questions you ask or are supposed to ask. Which no one has asked me in a very long time. And those questions feel hard when you don't have the answers. Or at least not the right answers. And the conversation feels like a bad first date you just want to be over so you can get to the bad second date-- which has less of a stigma. And Todd, I am in no way insinuating you would be a bad first date or second date. In fact, you were quite lovely. Even if you do think I seem sad. But so does John Q and one of the other Johns. And alot of other people. Because that's how it reads. It's the people who talk to me all the time who know I'm not sad so they don't see it the same way. So maybe every person who reads the blog should call me and we'll hang out and you can tell me if it still feels as sad. Which it still might. Which is probably why I'm no longer paid to write comedy. Or write period. But I hope to change that. As soon as I get my Hawaii on.

I Was Singing in My Car Today

I haven't done that in so long. But I treated myself to Mat Kearney. And I LOVE HIM! No song is bad. All songs mean something. I carried him around all day. Car. House. Car... House. I used to listen to music all the time before... roommates and... stuff. I love music.

I heard him on the TV when I was in Phoenix. He is sing-in-the car worthy. And that's even before I had breakfast with Tina.
I walked to Mani's to see her. We caught up. The best breakfast ever. She is sing-during-the-day worthy.

Then, I walked to do all my errands. Good for the environment and me, I figure. And when I got home? My friend Julie dropped by. This picture is from the cruise we took together back in 2000-- to Mexico, Honduras and Belize (all expenses paid compliments of Drew Carey. She was my plus one). I was younger and tanner then. Although I wore sunscreen on my face during the cruise, so I have that two-tone thing happening. Because sun ages you, in case you haven't caught on. That cruise was the first time in my life I can remember being 100% worry free. That's worth dancing about.

Julie writes for reality TV. We went to college together. Waited tables together at Stage Deli to pay for it. She made me laugh when she told me she thinks I'm SOOO brave for dancing with randoms in random cities. But that's just me. I think it's fun. Tomorrow morning? I go to Hawaii with Romy. I've never been to Hawaii before. I've always wanted to go. I thought it would be one of those couple trips. But now it's just a couple of girls. That works for me. I'm working part time, playing part time. And for some reason, I'm not even remotely scared of the bathing suit or the bikini wax I have scheduled for 9am with Anya the Russian woman (why are they always Russian women who wax?).

Friends on the Fly or Come Fly With Me

Okay, that title may not make sense. But, there's this whole thing where I'm trying to hook up with my friends on the fly lately and when I'm flying and I'm trying to get friends to fly with me so I actually get to see people I know. And anyway, that being said, I'm coming to realize that even when I think I'm making sense, it's pretty likely I'm not. Or as in previous entries, I'm just being too honest for my own good and anyone else's and that's something most people aren't comfortable with or are too smart to do. Me? Well, you've probably already come to your own conclusions about that one. And I'll let it go. It will be a first. I know John McQ is breathing a sigh of relief.

Last night, I slept through the night. Which was beautiful. And I woke up at 7am. Even more beautiful. After I woke up, I took a hike, canceled every appointment I couldn't afford, and then made more travel plans. Of course, I also told myself that I won't actually have to go on these trips that I planned. That I will sell some piece of writing or get a lovely job offer or even a marriage proposal and get to stay home. And write. This is my back-up plan. That is all. And then, I proceeded to shut out the world while I rewrote an essay I wrote years ago about *sigh* the ex-convict. I know, could anyone beat any more dead horse's than me? Probably not. I'm hoping someone will find it charming some day. Or at least pay me to stop. I rewrote it to submit to the Modern Love column in the New York Times. It got accepted for publication about 2 years ago and was never published. Welcome to my world's version of acceptance. So today, I cut the living ^$** out of it and plan to send it in tomorrow. I had a little voice in my head tell me I needed to do it when I was in Phoenix. It could have just been the lightning that struck the hotel, but I think it was for real. I'm open to voices. Particularly ones that have a game plan.

The piece is called, "I Dated an Ex-Convict Until He Wanted His Freedom." Of course, I now know the ex-convict just wanted to be free of me because he is currently with someone else-- married, but not. With child. His. Living in a house he bought. So there you go. Nothing says "I don't want to be with you" more than sharing all those things someone said he supposedly didn't want with someone else right after he stopped seeing you. When I dated him, I wanted to be taken to dinner... just once. She's up to twice a week. He must love her. The good thing is that time has given me perspective on things. What was exciting and romantic once, is now just entertaining and sad. And oftentimes, gets sadder. It's a good story, just not more than that. See, I do learn.

Sometimes, I wonder if my life is working as it is simply for the stories. I certainly hope not. I do have an imagination, you know. And I'm not afraid to use it. In fact, I'm more afraid that I'll never get to.

Today I called a manager that my friend met recently at some mixer thing. She mentioned the piece I wrote for "West" to him and he said he liked it. So she asked if he would talk to me. And he said yes. And so I called him. And it was uncomfortable. Only because I got asked all those questions that have answers that basically make me look like a loser. Or a very bad tap dancer. Anyway, even I was at a loss. And didn't want to answer. Any of the questions. Because I'm trying to be positive. And love myself. And all. But I did. Answer them. Honestly. I mentioned the blog. But didn't want to give him the address at first. But then I did. And said "start from the beginning. Which was October, 2005." And that was that.

Then, the manager-- well, he sent me an email. A very nice email. About my writing. And what I had to say. And telling me to keep it up. That he understood. And then he told me a little bit about himself. Which was nice. I love it when people are honest and real (Hence, the ex-convict-- back when that's what he was. Now, he's not that. He's John. And truthfully, I liked him better as an ex-convict-- back when he was vulnerable or maybe I just liked it better when he cared).

All that being said, I'm pushing onward. I leave for Hawaii on Wednesday till Tuesday. Part work/part play. Tomorrow, I have to pack, ship products and I may even brave a bikini wax -- a cheap bikini wax-- which sounds painful, doesn't it? If so, thank God, I'm going to Hawaii. At least there, I can bury more than just my head in the sand.

Unconditional Love

John McQ says this alot to me. This "you have to be happy first before you can be loved" thing. But I think a few things about that. One, I am a happy person. Who is going through a tough time. As my friend Diane said, "I'm a pleasure to be around." I do not carry sadness everywhere I go on a daily basis. I am out there thinking, trying and fighting to make things work in my life. And I have a happy approach 99.9% of the time. I think the majority of my friends would agree. But some days are bad. Or stressful. Other days, I'm not happy or unhappy per se, I'm just getting by. And other times, I cry. That's called being human.

What I'm not happy about is where my career is at. Where my love life is at. I want a family. And where happiness can perhaps come from believing those things will happen for you. Sadness comes as time passes and those things have not worked out how you'd like them to. I am sad about that. But that does not make me a sad person. I have many friends in my life who see this. And know this. Love may not fill a hole completely but not having it or having felt it can create one.

I have loved people and wanted them to be happy because I cared about them and their happiness makes me happy. That's not the only thing that makes me happy but it's one thing that contributes. That's what parents should want for their children. Friends, family, husbands and wives. I've loved people who aren't happy all the time. Who maybe didn't love themselves all the time. I think that's called unconditional love. I don't believe that every person who is in love or in a loving relationship appeared not to need it or was 100% happy before it happened. Sometimes, love can be that missing piece that makes everything click into place. There are different kinds of love. I believe in this kind.

I could sit here and work on myself until I'm dead. In fact, I probably will. But it's not so I can be something so that someone else will love me. I think that's ludicrous. Love happens, I feel for many different reasons. Sure, I probably wasn't ready before. I probably had to learn certain things. Go through certain things. Believe I deserved better-- better treatment, more respect and care than I'd come to expect from relationships. So when I say I want someone to say they love me and want me to be happy, I think that's not too much to ask. That it's a legitimate thing to want. I'm not asking someone to provide happiness for me. Just contribute to it. Not to give me a reason to love myself. But show me that they love me. Just the way I am.

Should I Stay or Should I Go?

I'm having a hard time getting it together after this last trip. First, there's the paperwork. And then, there's the time change. And the emails and phone calls and appointments and errands and cleaning and laundry and such. And then there's the fact I have to schedule trips for next month to make sure I have an income. And I keep waking up at odd hours unable to go back to sleep. Which means when I do wake up, I have no energy to exercise or write or do something about this overwhelming desire to make my life work as quickly as possible. Which is quite troubling. This is only my second day home, though. So maybe I'm just being hard on myself. But I'm less excited about putting on a bikini than I was sixteen days ago. Back before I left. When my exercise routine was in place. Even if my finances weren't. Now my body is all out of whack. Things hurt. And I feel crooked. Traveling does take a toll on you. Who knew? Perhaps the fun kind is a bit easier on the body and mind. Not that I didn't have fun. I did. I just had to work it in with work. Which was... well, work.

But. Work pays. Unfortunately, not enough to change things. Just enough to pay the bills I have. The out of pocket costs still make things uncomfortable. I still have to borrow money from friends to cover them until I get paid back from Boscia. This last three weeks of traveling will at least mean next month I'll be fine in terms of paying the bills and rent. But it doesn't get me any closer to anything I want. I'm not talking materialistic things. I'm talking the tangible things that make life worth living. Results. Love. A family of my own. That's what I woke up at 2am realizing. Actually, I woke up at 2am and started to cry. I'm not even sure why. I just started to cry. Maybe it's because I don't feel like a writer when I don't have the time or energy to write for three weeks. That I'm too tired to write much of anything now. That when I get back from trips, my life is the same. Stuck in the same place. Other than the fact my kitten has grown into a cat. And I missed it. I still don't have the things I want. And the thing is, the longer that remains the case, the more I'm starting to think that I never will. I don't even have the energy so much anymore to believe that miracles can happen. That things can change. Love can happen. That I can have a job I love. Get paid well. Own a home. Have a husband. Or at the very least, a child some day. My cousin's wife asked me if I thought about freezing my eggs. I've thought about lots of things that I can't afford to do. Even match.com costs money. Because I can't afford to feed myself let alone a child. So there's really no option of doing it by myself. And truthfully, that's not the way I want to do it anyway.

I am a little more settled into the fact that for better or worse, this is me. And this is my life. When I cry, it's a bit different than how it used to be. It's no longer, "what happened?" "how did I end up here?" Because I don't know. Really. There's no more "poor me." There is more acceptance that this is what life has given me. And I have no idea why. Because all things considered, I've been doing the best I could under the circumstances. I've been trying all along. To make things better. To change things. But shit. Sometimes it's just hard. And truthfully, there is nothing that I-- being who I am-- could have done any differently. I try to find answers. I try to be a good person. I try to explore options and I even sometimes ask for favors when it's appropriate. And keep asking and trying no matter how many times I get turned down. There are times I wanted to be rescued. By... anybody. I wanted magic. To make it all better. But none of that ever happened. No one ever looked at me and said, "I love you. I want you to be happy." So I have to try to say it to myself. And come to terms with the fact that not everyone hears that. I can look at people like the ex-convict who can turn his life around and get everything I ostensibly want and make it look effortless. But we're different people. With different values and styles and wants and needs. With different histories. And then there's the obvious. He's a man. And I'm a woman. A woman older than him. So maybe it hurts a little more because there's something inside me programmed to want it that try as I may to deny it. Exists.

I just learned a friend who always talks about being broke makes more in a day than I do in a week. When she talked about being broke, I used to empathize with her. I told myself that even someone who lives in a nice house with beautiful children and a good husband can have problems. And I still do believe they can. Although, it goes back to the thing about understanding. The fact is, very few people will or will want to. And no one wants to believe someone who's smart and is trying and has held good jobs and is in their circle, could be struggling so much. And. They're worried about their own lives. That's why when people ask you how you are, they want to hear "good" or "fine." So I'm going back to the lie. The good or fine. Which is often how I actually do feel when I travel because I like being out in the world. Having adventures. Even if some of them are in malls. And I also like meeting men. Even if some of them are creepy and put their hands places where they shouldn't. Because I have stories. And sometimes being some place else lets me believe I can be some place else some day. In other areas of my life. It's only when I get home that I see the truth of where I'm at. Maybe that's why I wanted to be a writer. To be able to transport myself and other people some place different. To feel like if I wrote things just right, I could make people understand.

I'm Home! I'm Home!

I am very tired. I was in seven states in a single day. Seriously. On Monday, I drove from Doylestown, PA to Dulles, Washington DC (4 hours) starting at 6am and passing through Maryland, Deleware and Virginia and onto Los Angeles, CA (5 hours) where I turned around and got back on a plane 3 hours later bound for Phoenix, Arizona (1 hour and 15 min). Only there was a lightning storm so I was stuck at the airport for a few hours. I finally arrived in Chandler, Arizona at my hotel at 11:45 at night. I can only begin to imagine how pretty I looked. Sadly, I was more concerned with the fact that the hotel was hit by lightning and there was no internet access. It's like that crazy baseball curse... wherever I go... well, maybe not. But it's bizarre. Why is it so difficult to get the wireless thing together? Email. Internet access. These are the priorities. That's the only way I get paid. Which is a HUGER prioritiy. I'm not exactly doing this galavanting about the country for my health. Although. There were some healthy times thrown in there. Some fun times. All that being said...

I'm home! The better news? I'm ready to get it together. I know, I know. I've been saying that for awhile now. But seriously. It helped to get away and get some perspective. If not cash. (Yes, am out of pocket to the tune of nearly $1,000... which Caren has nothing to do with being that she's no longer at Boscia. She wanted me to make sure that people knew she was no longer at the company and therefore not responsible for their lack of interest in reimbursement. Which is frankly a given. Because if she was there, I would have actually had a travel advance. Sigh). Probably the best part of the trip was visiting my cousins. My cousins are pretty amazing. There are three guys to our two girls. We all spent time at my grandparents farm together when we were growing up. We usually see each other every few years for someone's wedding... but I'm the hold out so it's been awhile. Anyway, I drove 4 hours from Virginia to PA so I could go to my cousin Scott's 50th bday party (of course, it should have only been 3 and a quarter hours, but I got lost... I always get lost). It was a lot of fun. To see them. And their kids. And their lives. All of which are working. Seriously. I'm planning a trip back there next month. They could be in trouble. A tent. A large plot of land. I'm there.

Now, bed is looking good. I have SO much to write about. But I must sleep. I haven't slept for awhile. Sleep is good. So is home. And things. I have a feeling they'll be good, too. Fingers crossed.

These Shoes Were Made for Dancing...?

Okay. Clearly these shoes weren't made for dancing. God bless the folks at Sigerson Morrison. I love these shoes, but they don't win the comfort award. Still, every single time I wear them when I'm out of town, not expecting anything from a night, tired and ravenous... I end up dancing all night in them. In Florida, with two random guys I met at a restaurant. In Virginia, with two random guys I met at a restaurant. Both sets of guys asked me to join them. And we talked. Ate. Danced. And had fun. They bought me dinner. Drinks. They didn't try anything or expect anything (neither did I, by the way). Which was nice. They were just... fun. Which certainly beat the experience with Boston guy. More fun to dance with guys than to run from them, I've decided. And now that I've done both in the span of a week, I feel like I'm a pretty good authority on the subject.

Today, after getting lost for an hour in the morning. And a half hour in the evening, I got to visit a friend I haven't seen since her wedding. I got to see her house and her husband and her little people (aka- kids). I just met the kids for the first time. They are so adorable. And well behaved. Smart. And Emily? She looks great, is great and just basically has got it going on. She's still the same person with her kids that she was when I met her. Real. It's like no time has passed. I love that. She thinks I belong on the east coast. That the west coast is over for me... Maybe. I do wonder. I do think these trips have some sort of meaning behind them. Some reason for being. Besides wearing me out, dehydrating my skin, giving me separation anxiety from my cats and friends-- oh, and the good stuff-- like seeing old friends and new places. I think it's letting me see I could leave LA. I could open my world just a little wider. It wouldn't be the worst thing and might be the best. Yes, it's true. I'd move. From LA. For a job or a man or to write. I never thought I'd say that. But again, I'm looking for solutions.

After hanging out with Emily, I decided to go get coleslaw from KFC. KFC is in the mini mall outside my hotel. Yes, my fancy unComfortable Inn. We used to eat Kentucky Fried Chicken when I was growing up. Back in the days it was Kentucky Fried Chicken and not KFC. When the Colonel was in commercials. Usually my dad took us to get it when he was picking us up for his alternate weekend visit. I don't think I've stepped inside a KFC since then. But I was hungry. And coleslaw. I felt like coleslaw. So I figured why not? It beat the Zone bar diet for a day.

Well I have news. KFC is not your daddy's Kentucky Fried Chicken. Now they have wraps and salads and sandwiches and all sorts of interesting things. Who knew? Still, I stuck to my coleslaw order. But cool to see. Even KFC found a way to make it work. Solutions, people. I'm working on it.

Then, in the elevator with me... a cute guy. Also being unComfortable, apparently. And he hit on me in the elevator. Well, kind of. I will say it, it's not a bad thing to hear "goodnight beautiful" before bed. He got off at 3. Then asked if I had a boyfriend as the doors began to shut. I said, "No." And he asked my name. "Beautiful"? It works wonders.

Run, Baby, Run

So in running around, I forgot to mention just how much I did run around. Or did I? Me, being a reader, writer, and hoping to be both again-- I like to support those who do. So I drove to Newtonville on my first night to hear J.R. Moehringer--writer of "The Tender Bar"-- read. The bad news? He was sick. There was another writer reading though and I listened to her. Which was good. She was shameless. Also good. And talented. I have her postcard somewhere. I will buy the book later. When funds allow. Then, I ate at Whole Foods. Which was not so different from home. Just a smaller salad bar. And discovered a cool vino store. Called vinodivino. They have a website (vinodivino.com) which tells you nothing yet. But I like them. They do that whole Amazon-ish thing. I think I mentioned them before. I was bummed that I didn't get to hear J.R. Moehringer read. I was really looking forward to it. Really. Oh, well.

Then for the real "run" of it all. See, the night before last I was quite tired. I went to Legal Seafoods directly after work because the Zone bars made me ravenous. Allergies made me tired. And I quite frankly didn't feel like moving. But I needed to eat. So I didn't move. I just walked about five steps from C.O. Bigelow, then sat there at the bar and ate a salad, had a glass of wine and talked to this very cool father about his daughter who likes to write. She's fifteen. He's supportive. He's cool. He lives in Vermont. I told him this and that about writing. Sites and books and things for her. And he told me stuff. It was great to talk to a normal man. So so normal. No agenda normal. Sigh. He actually explained Boston to me. What doesn't work about it for me. In a way I never realized. Sigh. You know what it is? No one laughs. Or else, there's very little laughter. And a lot of reserve. This honesty thing I do? Well, they don't do it. They don't want to and they don't know what to do with people who do. (Although LA isn't jumping up and down about it either, let's be honest). Still, I found it enlightening. So I walked home with a little more lilt in my step. Met a guy outside a bar (smoker...argh) who laughed while I peered in the windows. Then chatted me up. Until I told him I was from LA. That usually helps. Not him. He shut down. Still, the bar looked cool... it was my last night in Boston. So I went back. By myself. And sat there. Until this one guy comes in. Sits next to me. Asks what I want to drink. Then orders his but not mine. Offers to buy me the drink. Then doesn't. Also odd. He was odd. I knew it. But I can hang out with odd. Odd is a story...

Until you're at another bar. You think you're friends. He thinks you're not being affectionate... which you're not with your friends... so he gets upset and tries to maul you. You laugh it off. Until it's last call. And he pushes you up against a wall and kisses you -- really kisses you. And it's the last thing you want. And you're kind of creeped out. Upset even. But you hide it and as luck would have it, he has to go to the restroom. So.... once he's gone. Me? I look at the restroom door. I look at the bouncer. I walk out the door. I see people. Cabs. A general confusion. So I start walking. Then, I start running. Trip. Take off my shoes and run some more. Six blocks more. Luckily, in the right direction. I get to my hotel huffing and puffing. The hotel desk guy? He didn't blink. I checked outside the door. Like I was someone important being followed. Who luckily hadn't been. Then I went upstairs and called a friend. Sometimes, the time difference is a beautiful thing. As is being in shape. And having friends who answer the call.

Completely Biased Reviews or Just Plain Nice Emails Re: My Essay

Since I used to pay a ridiculous amount of money to a therapist in an effort to deal with my shame, I thought I would prove to myself-- if to no one else-- that it was money well spent. (Or. That I've gone too far in the other direction). Because, let's be honest. I could really use that cash right about now. That being said, this is me being shameless. Sharing the nice things friends emailed to me after they read my essay.

And later today, after I've napped at my new hotel-- not so oddly, the two star Comfort Inn in Alexandria, Virginia

which more oddly has wireless internet and a working air conditioner-- I will share more of my Beauty-on-the-Go stories... (I don't mean I'm the beauty or anything-- I mean beauty being the industry I'm on the go for. And that's not being shameful or shameless, just honest). Thanks for reading. Even though I change my mind constantly about this whole blog and life thing. What can you do? My therapist wasn't a miracle worker.

**********

LOVED YOUR ESSAY!
You're fantastic.

**********
i loved, loved, loved your essay! keep 'em comin' please.

**********

I was so thrilled to read your piece in the Times. It was wonderful and sounded so natural. Lovely, lovely flow. With, of course, your trademark wit and humor.

You must be hearing from people out of the woodwork since last Sunday!

********

Jim and my neighbor liked your LA Times writing.

********

IT'S GREAT! I love how honest, open, dry and YOU it is. I love that you put yourself out there-really out there. It must feel sort of vulnerable but freeing and strong and brave. Jody, this article is awesome and I think its fabulous that it made it to the Sunday Times. Huge huge huge congratulations! I feel this is the start of something really great for you!!!

Sincerely - congratulations and welcome back to writing and fuck Hollywood :-)

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Miss Paul,

Love the piece. You should do a continuing series. Maybe about how costly it is to have rich friends. Or how being broke ironically means paying more for everything. The juxtaposition of ridiculous wealth and poverty in one square block. Shit like that.

But it's still pretty cool being in the L.A. Times -- the second largest metropolitan newspaper in the country!

Never, never, never give up. Unless you're fighting me.

**********

They did their best to edit the life out of that one, didn't they?

Edited as they might, they published it. That's remarkable in itself.
Congratulations.

BTW, if the process to register for the site was any more complicated,
it
would have been easier to get in the car, drive cross country and buy
the
paper at an L.A. newstand. Holy crap!

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Congratulations! Ever since we talked, I've made a habit of checking the magazine for your essay, and was really happy to find it yesterday. I know it's not exactly what you wanted, but I like it a lot. There was enough of you in it to make it funny, very female, and quite touching. Just for the hell of it, I'd be curious to see your original to compare it to the Westified version. I'm sure your orig had a lot more good snark-on-the-biz humor. Still and all I bet you get a lot of attention and further assignments off this. Say what you will about the LA Times (and I will say a LOT if given the chance), everybody reads it.

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Hey there
I THOUGHT that was you!! I was sure it was.!! Congrats.. (how did you pitch them? Inquiring minds want to know!)

That was a piece I read *ENTIRELY* and loved and then I saw your name.
Congrats..

**************

Well done, my friend! Humility is good for us all
isn't it? At least the kind that comes with a great
sense of humor and the talent to share it--as you
obviously do in spades...

**************

Nice job, Jody. I like the style of the dialogue at the beginning and I like the tone of the piece.

**************

Hey --

I actually saw and read the article without any prompting. Very well written and entertaining -- and I'm sure it was even better written before they made their little changes. It was nice to see your name in print (in print about a MILLION times, actually, based on their circulation.) Congrats! I'm proud of you!

**************

Congrats. I just read it - it was great. Though it's funny having read your stuff I think I could tell where it was edited and where it was you. (Your writing is a lot more fresher than 'magazine speak'). But overall it had your sense of humor and was a fun and interesting essay! I hope this helps with other publications - I mean that's huge to be printed in the LA Times.

*************

Miss Jody!!!!
WE saw it this morning and were oh so excited and proud of you. It's a great piece and wonderful material for either a novel ;-) OR a screenplay. Lots of love and congrats to you.
xoxoxo

I Like Boston, But it Doesn't Like Me

Maybe I shouldn't have started off with a red eye flight. Maybe I should have traveled during the daytime. Because waking up in Boston ended up being waking up on the wrong side of the US. The stiff neck, I could handle. The lack of beverages on the plane. And elbow room. Also, okay. But the Enterprise rent a car guy was not so nice. The car? Bad. Then they charged the car rental plus $200 because I only have a debit card. Because I'm still owed some $2800 from Boscia -- that leaves me with not so much money in my account in a very expensive city to park in. A fact which was driven home when I got to my hotel-- which has no parking, no parking garage and is surrounded by meters that only take quarters and businesses who refuse to give you any.

And all this before I learned I was staying in boy's town. How did I know? The bar next door filled with beautiful men. Which would lead one to believe the hotel would be swanky or at least a swishy... with modern amenities and colorful bedspreads. But no. There's not even internet access... on my floor. No working remote for the TV, no iron, no coffee maker and no wake up calls. I didn't even know hotels like this existed anymore. And if they did, I thought they were called hostels and were in third world countries. Not in east coast cities with gorgeous architecture and intellectuals and gorgeous gay men who are into sports... who knew?

Anyway, the lack of parking and quarters proved to be not so conducive to taking a nap before going to Sephora #1. Instead, I was forced to drive around in quest of quarters or a place to park for free. I ended up on Newbury Street which is not so close to my hotel, but has interesting things to look at. Shops and such. And meters. Which don't require quarters until 11am. Which gave me a good hour to find a good samaritan to make change. And I did! Just in time to get to my rental car and see that I had a $55 ticket. Apparently, my space was a loading zone until 11am. But not the space in back. There are alot of signs and rules re: parking in Boston. Which I'm usually very careful about. But lack of sleep and lack of a good mood made me careless, guess. What can you do? But walk around, look at things and bond with salespeople in stores which carry items of clothing you can't afford. Which I did. I offered assistance to one moving to LA, a store list to one planning to visit and somehow ended up having a glass of wine at 11:30am at the Armani Cafe compliments of a waiter named Michael B who said it was 2 for 1 Tuesdays. He was kidding, but I thought it sounded like a lovely idea. Which was actually the high point of my day. That and the store Johnny Cupcakes. Which is actually t-shirts. About cupcakes. Which just goes to show that if this guy can do t-shirts about cupcakes and be a success-- perhaps mine will work, too. As soon as I get the money to do them.

When I got back to the hotel, well, that's when I realized I forgot to pack important things-- like a cell phone charger. But remembered things completely unneccesary-- like a bathing suit...? Apparently, I want to be on vacation. Unfortunately, I'm not. And a cell phone helps when you need to call people at stores and do business. Which brings me back to the internet connection. I had to move rooms three times to get online-- apparently every floor has a different connection. And every room has different success rates. Translated to mean, even the best connection comes and goes when it feels like it. Fickle little thing. And it's in a smoking room with a view of a wall. It smells like someone is still smoking in here. I just can't see them. My first room had two windows. It was bright and had a view of Boston. I like waking up to sun. But now? Wall. It's like punishment for needing to work. Alas, what to do?

When I lived in Boston while working on "Blown Away", I was actually making money. And had a substantial per diem. That was easily 10 years ago. Still, I never went out to eat, rather saved my money. Sure, I didn't have the confidence then to go out to eat by myself-- or really see the point to it-- but I wasn't 38 years old and single, either. So me? I saved, saved, saved. And then? I had a swanky fully furnished pad paid for by the production. On Mass Ave off of Newbury Street. I started out by living in the Sheraton Back Bay like everyone else but our production offices were there, too. And there was something a little depressing about pushing one elevator to go to work and getting on the same one to come home and never leave the building. Never see the light of day. So... that's where the apartment came in. Everyone was doing it. Including my friend Gayle who's a production accountant by day, dominatrix by night. That's the only way to go when you go on location. The apartment thing-- although the dominatrix thing might not be such a bad idea, either. I mean if not out of town, then where? Although, Hilary Swank and Chad Lowe were staying in the Sheraton. She was filming the next Karate Kid or Karate Kid II -- it was being directed by Dean Cain's dad. That was pre-Superman. I met him in the Sheraton's gym. He instructed me on how to soften up a baseball cap. I didn't realize there was a whole thing to doing it. That was basically the high point of my "Blown Away" experience. The whole production was plagued with mafia money laundering, studio budget cuts, illicit affairs, and a drugged out director. But. I did get to live in Boston. And see how a perfectly wonderful script could get ruined.

The bizarre thing is I do like Boston. I desperately want it to like me back. But I don't vibe with the place. Something always feels off. Much like the cute yet schizophrenic guy who sat next to me at the bar at Legal Sea Foods. (I do this thing where I only eat Zone bars during the day so I can have a normal dinner and actually be out in the world at night). The salad was good. The martini better. But the schizophrenic sous chef named Damon was a handful. And after about three sentences, seemed not so cute. Uncute, actually. It seemed like he was having a conversation with me, but he ended up answering the questions himself. It was the oddest thing. He was complimentary one minute, hostile the next. I wasn't quite sure what to do but eat and watch. Then he asked me to come with him to his next stop. I said no that I was fine where I was. And he didn't like that so much. So he left. And tried to skip out on his check. They caught him. Which was entertaining. And I ended up making friends with the two bartenders as we discussed the crazy guy. So that was good. The $62 charge for parking? Not so great. I'm thinking if I have Zone bars three times a day, one glass of wine and park anywhere where it's free no matter how far away it is so I have to walk, I may create a new diet and exercise fad and be able to make it till I get paid. Fingers crossed.

Life on Standby.

This is probably not a good thing that I do. This traveling on standby thing. I do know it. And I know it's indicative of a larger problem. But I just can't help myself. I never want to travel on the flight I'm supposed to be on. I want the later flight. I want time. More time. I want to decide what time. The times I want? They are NEVER the times offered for reasonably priced tickets. Never the ones that the travel agent finds for you. (And not my particular travel agent... it took an overzealous Haitian pushing his way into my hotel room before she'd give me internet access. To that? I say, "harumph."... although to be honest, I say it to many more things, too).

This morning, I woke up at 3:37 to pack, answer emails, pack, find my animals and force them to bond with me, pack some more, stare at my dark roots and my chipped toenails. And look for red-eye flights so I could get rid of chips and roots (SUCH a good name for a salon, right?). The customer service guy from American Airlines was not so encouraging... he said the flight I wanted was overbooked... all the flights to Boston are overbooked aka "you may be in the airport until dawn.") That's okay. I just don't want to have to go early. With roots and chips. And I don't want to have to pay more. In the time since the plane I was supposed to be on took off, this is what I was able to accomplish:

check my emails
respond to 17 emails
sift through my mail
get my hair highlighted-- aka "roots be gone!"
return 4 phone calls
feed my cats
take out the trash
do a load of laundry
pack some more
eat
call my roommate
call my cousin and plan to surprise his brother, my other cousin, at his 50th birthday party. It's only 3 hours from DC!
get a mani & pedi (Which I so desperately needed. Now? My toes are purple!... I'm sure the cousins will appreciate purple toes)
confirm Boston stores
confirm Boston hotel & rental car (for late, late, late aka next day arrival)
call this guy who runs the story department at a major agency who I haven't seen in a year and a half who I met through a girl I no longer talk to and offer up my free coverage services so I can get some samples together so I can get work. Translated to mean: I can once again get paid to read scripts. Which has always helped me to write. And pay my bills. Oh happy day.

The last one? Was remarkable! He was so so so incredibly nice that I'm still reeling. I mean, who calls someone after a year and a half with a name out of the air...? Well? It worked! And you know why? Because he said I did the absolute right thing. I offered to do it for free first. He said no one has ever done that before. And that's why he'll try to help me if he can. Is that not the coolest thing ever? Well, if you don't think so, let me just tell you that if I could read two scripts a day, I could stay in town. (Even though I do have the traveling bug lately... long term solutions. I'm working on long term solutions). Which means that I can get back in. I like being in. Out is... not so fun. Unless you're an on-purpose out which means you don't care any way or you're so out, that soon you'll be in. All that being said... standby. The only way to fly.

Wish me luck!

If I Don't Make Fun of Myself, Who Will? or What a Difference an Essay Makes

Here I was. On my morning hike. Having all of these crazy epiphanies, all ready to share them. And then I had a good day. Which was far more exciting than the epiphanies. Well, not really. I mean, the epiphanies last longer. Or at least they're supposed to last. That would suck if they didn't. Well, just in case, I'll share one.

I was watching this thing on 60 Minutes last night about how most of the people who buy lottery tickets are people on welfare because they want out of their situation so desperately and they don't know how to get out. The controversy is that we're paying for them to gamble and yada yada yada. So my epiphany had to do with the fact that in the last five years I have bought lottery tickets. I never did before. I also went to clairvoyants and astrologers and healers and yeah... you get where I'm going with this. Getting hope from these people was important. Feeling confident that it would all turn out was important. BUT so was finding a solution and a different strategy myself. All on my own. I kind of forgot about that part.

I realized I was so lost, I started listening to everyone else but myself. And you know, myself used to get me where I wanted to go. Myself taught me alot. And learned from my mistakes before because I made the choices that caused the mistakes. I created the strategies that made them and got me out of them. When the strategy is coming from somewhere else, there's no accountability for the mistake. There's no rethinking it. Which is bad. Instead, you (or in this case, me) just go back to being lost and sad and make more mistakes. I'm kind of over that now. I've been retreating lately -- while posting my stories-- and been working on a new strategy.

What is this strategy you may ask yourself? So far, it's this: I will still make fun of myself. After all, if I don't, who will? I will still write. And maybe, just maybe, even continue to write on the blog. Depending on whether or not I have something worthwhile to say. Not that it's really stopped me before. I can pontificate about air. I know. I also know I could write about celebrities and that would make me popular in the blog community. But I don't like celebrities. I could also write about beauty. But the only thing I like to write about beauty-wise is how interesting it is to me that so many people care so much about products or fixing their problems but not preventing them (Note to people with hyperpigmentation: it took a lot of time to get your skin looking that way. It's going to take a lot of time to fix it. And sunscreen. You have to wear sunscreen. Skin lighteners make your skin sensitive to sun aka you can do more damage. So. Sunscreen. They even wrote a song about it).

That all being said. I got lots of amazing calls and emails from people who read my article. They didn't miss the jokes that weren't there. They just liked it. It's fun when people like it. It's fun to get calls.

I leave tomorrow for Boston. Then, Virginia and Washington D.C. I'm kind of excited. I've gotten over the fact that Boscia is paying me late. A month and a half late. That I traveled last month to have money to pay my bills and then... no money. Which is when I was negative. Which would NEVER have happened if Caren was still there. But a lesson I learned from working in publicity for Samantha-- a woman who treated me bad in the beginning, during and after the whole situation-- that people who treat you poorly will always treat you poorly. And if they pay you late once, they will always pay you late-- and not care, be it for their own sakes or to prove a point. Whatever. I do find humor now in the fact that I have to leave town to keep my place here. But truthfully, being gone has been better for me than being home. Home wasn't working for me. Now, it is. But still. I get to see my friend Emily in Virginia. And Sam'n. A publicist who worked for me and the evil one (Samantha). She's great. And married now. No longer publicizing. God bless her.

And God Bless Kelly... for covering the rent until I'm paid. And Kristine... for covering my bills until I'm paid. And Romy for putting $100 in my account without question or comment so I wasn't negative. And my mother... for getting it. To John for beating me up. To Kate, for not letting me beat myself up. And the random guy on the plane for being random but prescient. And speaking to me. And me... for finally being able to say this: Yes, I did used to write for "The Drew Carey Show." But that was the past.

When Hawking Uggs, It's Best to Remain Incognito

Okay. That wasn't my original title. But it's not half bad. And it's published. So it's out there. Which is a nice thing. There were edits. Which took out a lot of the humor. Which traumatized me at the time. But I'm over it now... well, kind of. Because it's published. So there's really not a damn thing I can do about it. That being said, here it is... from today's LA Times magazine, "West."


www.latimes.com/features/magazine/west/la-tm-rules32aug06,1,602817.story?coll=la-headlines-west&ctrack=1&cset=true


Let me know what you think. Comments are good. Even when they're bad.


P.S. You have to register for the LA Times online. But it's free.

Cake

CAKE


Rachel is twenty-nine years old and she’s never been in love. She’s one of those girls that people always say, “I can’t believe you’re still single” to and it never makes her feel any better. Because it never seems to change things. There’s wisdom and vulnerability in her eyes, but if she smiles wide enough, you just might miss it. She’s not smiling now. She never does when she looks in the mirror.
She redraws a line around her lips with a liner, then scrutinizes herself. Yet again. Frowns. Rubs her lipstick off with a kleenex and grabs another color. The phone rings before she can decide between a brown or a red.
“Hello?” she answers.
“Are you nervous?”
It’s her best friend, Kristine.
“Of course I’m nervous,“ Rachel says.
“Are you dressed?”
“Of course I’m not dressed.”
Rachel moves to her full-length mirror. Stands before it in the perfect date outfit: skirt, tank top, cardigan and shoes low enough to look like she’s not trying too hard. She turns sideways. Touches her stomach self-consciously, then tries to suck it in. It doesn’t work.
“You’ll be fine, “ Kristine says, soothing, “But you better hurry, he’s gonna be there any minute.”
Rachel pulls off her skirt and tosses it on top of a growing pile on her bed. She’s on her fifth outfit. She wants to look good. It feels important.
The doorbell rings. Now she rushes to the closet and grabs another skirt. She worries it’s not right, but quickly slips it on. The doorbell rings again.
“Coming!”
She straightens the skirt, does another check in the mirror-- hair, face, outfit, then heads to the door.

Rachel opens the door to Jason, handsome and intense-looking: Even though he’s not wearing a suit, you can tell he’s someone who does. Everything’s expensive and everything matches. The two of them look at each other awkwardly.
“Hi. I’m almost ready, “ Rachel says, “I just have to grab a few things.”
Jason steps inside. Rachel’s cat hisses at him. Jason doesn’t seem to notice. He follows her into the living room.

Rachel straightens up as she walks, kicking things out of the way, placing stuff in piles.
“So this is my place,“ she says, “it’s kind of a mess. And small. I mean, compared to your house... “
Jason takes a seat on the couch. His knees scrunch up against him. Like an SUV driver squished into an economy car.
“I still have stuff I want to do to it... “ she continues, “you know, make it bigger.”
She gives a small laugh, but Jason doesn’t seem to get it. So she just keeps on talking.
“Sorry. I think the pain killers the gynecologist gave me have started to kick in.”
She takes a seat in a chair across from him. Willing him to fit into her world.
“So. Should we go?” he says, “I mean, we don’t want to be late.”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure. Let’s go. Don’t want them to start without us.”

Jason and Rachel drive in silence. Except for ‘NSync who are singing “Bye Bye Bye” on the radio. Rachel hates N’Sync.
“So. Your car is nice and clean, “ she says.
Jason doesn’t answer.
She tries to roll down the window, but it’s locked.
“Would you mind rolling down the window? I could use some air.”
Jason hits the button.
“Thanks.”
Again, he doesn’t say anything. She looks over. He’s brooding.
“Are you okay?” She’s concerned. Thinking that maybe this might be affecting him, too.
He sighs loudly.
“Actually, not really. I’m worried about Lulu. I don’t think she’s feeling very well. This morning she didn’t eat her breakfast and she was acting kind of strange on her walk.”
Rachel doesn’t know what to say to that.
“Maybe she’s pregnant, too.” Feeling a little nauseous.
“No. I think something’s really wrong with her, “ he says, “A squirrel ran in front of us and she didn’t even react.”
Rachel’s head is out the window. She’s about to get sick.
“I took her to the vet but they didn’t find anything. I think I might take her to another vet for a second opinion. I feel so terrible for her. I just wish I could do something to make her feel better.”
Rachel brings her head back in. Wipes the corners of her mouth and tries not to smudge her lipstick. She turns to him.
“Yeah, it’s hard to watch someone you care about suffer like that. Try not to let it get to you.”


Rachel and Jason are the only ones on the elevator. They’re both silent, staring at the numbers. Suddenly self-conscious, Rachel shifts her gaze to the floor.
“So. Have you ever been through something like this before?” she asks.
“Once,” he says.
She looks up. Surprised. And not sure what to do with that information. She forces a smile.
“Well, I guess that means you can hold my hand through it.”
Jason’s hand doesn’t move an inch.

The elevator stops at their floor.
“Did you eat?” he suddenly asks as they get off.
“No, I wasn’t hungry.”
She gestures, then leads him down the hall to the doctor’s office.

The waiting room is decorated in festive Christmas fare. It’s packed with women, some pregnant, some not, some with husbands, some without, and a few holding babies. Rachel and Jason enter and take a seat. Rachel looks around, uncomfortable.
“Magazine?”
Jason offers her an issue of “Working Mother.”
“No thanks, “ Rachel says, “ I don’t think I could concentrate right now.”
Jason shrugs and starts to read. Rachel slowly scans the room. Catches the eye of a very pregnant woman. Quickly looks away. Watches a mother reading to a little girl. A nurse enters, clipboard in hand.
“Heel,” the nurse says.
Rachel stands. In unison, all the women turn to look at her.
“Rachel Heel?” the nurse says.
Jason raises his eyes then, catches the gaze of a stunning woman in the corner. Rachel notices him wink at her out of the corner of her eye as she marches obediently after the nurse.

All Rachel hears is a sucking sound. The pain is awful, but the sound is worse. Once it’s over, the nurse tells her to stay there for a while, then asks, “Does he want to come in?”
“I don’t know,“ Rachel says, “If he wants to.”
It surprises her when he does. And she starts to cry.


Before they leave, the office assistant asks Rachel to settle her bill. Still woozy from the anesthesia, she clumsily searches through her purse. Nearly falls over.
“I can get it,“ Jason says, not very convincing.
But Rachel insists. She’s used to paying.

In the elevator, Rachel continues to sway. Desperately tries to steady herself. She wants something. Anything not to feel so empty. But there’s nothing there.
“I got you cake, “ Jason says. “ I didn’t know what kind you like, so I got you three different kinds. She looks blankly at the pieces of cake. Each perfectly frosted in its own individual plastic container.
“Thank you,“ she says. Her words come out slow, almost a slur.

When they get to her apartment, Jason leads Rachel to the couch. She’s still pretty out of it. After situating her, he turns to make his escape.
“You’re leaving me?” she says. Confused.
“I have things to do,“ he says, “I’ll call you.”
The front door closes behind him with a loud click. Rachel looks at the flowers she bought herself that sit on the coffee table. Then passes out.


When Rachel wakes up, it’s dark outside. She’s disoriented. Alone. And hungry. Still unsteady, she makes for the kitchen. Opens the fridge in quest of food. It’s empty save for two Diet Cokes and three pieces of cake. She looks at the cake curiously. For a moment, wondering how it got there. And then she remembers.

The phone rings. Rachel jumps. Thinking it could be Jason, hoping it will be Jason, she stumbles for the phone. But it’s not him. It’s Kristine.
I can’t believe he left you,“ Kristine says. “What if there was a fire or something?”
Rachel tries to make excuses for him. He’s a very busy man.
“He bought me cake, “ she says, trying to make it sound like the gesture meant something.
“But you don’t eat cake,“ Kristine says.
The words just sit there for a moment.
“I know.”

The Menorah

As a white girl from Orange County whose first exposure to "japs" was in the 80s in Queens, New York when my friend warned me about what I thought were her asian friends, only to learn that they were white girls with big hair, long fingernails and thick accents-- I've had quite the interesting time getting exposed to the Jewish culture. Random Chabbad dinners, gifts of matzo, basically everyone I've met in Hollywood who isn't gay and well, things like this... While surreal in some parts (a criticism which I have yet to rectify), the menorah part was true. And the blow-up bottle. And that's why my friends have always told me I have to be a writer. Because "this shit doesn't happen to anyone else."




THE MENORAH



Alan showed up for their second date with a menorah in hand. For some reason, it bothered Melissa more than the guy who showed up for their date with a party-sized bottle of vodka and a camcorder. Even though it seemed both of them were expecting more from the date than she was. Maybe it was because everyone agreed the camcorder guy was creepy. But the menorah, well some people, like her friend, Chloe, thought it was cute. And sweet. And that confused Melissa. It made her worry she was jaded. That she wasn’t giving guys a chance. And because she had been making so many mistakes in other areas of her life lately, she second-guessed herself and thought maybe her friends were right. After all they were the ones in relationships. And Melissa, well she wasn’t. And she really wanted to be. She wanted a lot of things in her life she wasn’t getting lately. Like a real job.

Melissa had met Alan while she was doing holiday wine promotions at a warehouse club store- one of those places where everything is family-sized so either you have to have a family, a lot of friends, or you end up throwing a lot of stuff out. Melissa got a membership there even though she couldn't afford it only because it seemed silly to leave one store after work just to go to another and buy things. Besides, she thought, it was always better to have too much of something than not enough.

Alan, it seemed, felt the same way. He was single but he shopped at the club store because he collected wine. He didn’t really drink it. But he knew a lot about it. Like a lot of the other guys who came into the department. They knew what the “Wine Spectator” said, they lived by the “Wine Enthusiast” and they dreamed of drinking Robert Parker’s number one picks. Melissa only used that kind of information to sell people on her brands. She herself drank wine that cost $6.99 because it made the lonely feeling go away.

The day Melissa met Alan, he talked to her for an hour while his blonde-haired, blank-faced friend stood idly by. The second time Melissa saw Alan, he circled the wine department four times, then selected one of her wines and asked her out. Even though he wasn’t really her type, she needed the sale. Besides, the extra large portions in her refrigerator were starting to mock her and she was getting kind of tired of drinking alone. So she said “yes.” At first Alan wanted to take her to lunch. But Melissa didn’t like lunch and she didn’t like lunch dates. It was her nights she needed to fill. So she made up a lame excuse about quitting Diet Coke and getting bad headaches midway through the day and having mood swings and needing to be alone when they happened and Alan believed her and the date turned into dinner.

Alan showed up for their date dressed for lunch. He was wearing khakis and a light blue, short-sleeved polo shirt. Melissa didn't care whether it was an authentic polo shirt or not, she just wanted it to be one that buttoned all the way down. One with sleeves that went all the way down. She didn't understand how a man who would spend eighty dollars on a bottle of wine couldn’t be bothered to spend that much on a shirt. And not see that it mattered. He did work in finance after all. And he knew enough to buy a condo. How could that be easier than buying a shirt?

As the waiter recited the specials, Alan handed him a bottle of wine from his personal collection. Since everyone else was sharing, Melissa felt inclined to do the same. She took pride in the dysfunctional family stuff that she pulled out to shock Republicans from good families. She regaled him with tales of a father who tried to run her mother over when he left them, a childhood spent on food stamps and a stereotypically evil stepmother. And it seemed to be doing its job. Only maybe too well.

“You’re one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met,” he said.
“You really need to get out more,” Melissa said.
And although it sounded like she was joking, she was actually quite serious.

“It’s too much responsibility,” Melissa said to her friend, Chloe, who came over the night after the date.
“To be interesting?”
“Yes.”
Chloe didn’t get it.
“I told him the book I read. He went out and bought it. I told him the movies I just watched. He signed up for some online DVD club that overnighted them to his house.”
“That’s sweet,” Chloe said.
“It is?”
And here Melissa thought it was strange.
“He likes you,” Chloe continued.
"I know. It's weird," Melissa said. Because she had no idea why. She felt like she was a car accident and that he had slowed down to see how she happened. That she was there to entertain him or something.
"James does things for me all the time," Chloe said.
"Yeah, but it's not like Alan is really doing anything for me," Melissa said. "And besides, you’re married."
"So? We didn't start out that way. We had to get to know each other first. Did you kiss him?"
"No."
"Poor guy," Chloe said, "All that work for nothing."
"Well, not for nothing," Melissa said, hugging her cat, Fido, "It was just a date."

Chloe's cell phone rang then. And when Chloe hung up, she said she had to go. James was on his way home to discuss their holiday plans. It was only eight o'clock. That was four more hours until Melissa went to bed. What was Melissa supposed to do until then? She'd already checked her email. Already searched for jobs on the internet. There was nothing on TV. She'd read all her magazines. And she didn't feel cheerful enough to send Christmas cards. Melissa drank what was left in her wine glass, then in Chloe's. It was still three and half hours till morning. Melissa just wanted it to be morning.

The next afternoon, Melissa agreed to go out with Alan again. Just in case. Who knows, she told herself, maybe he’d mention a movie she’d want to see. Maybe she'd leave a friend alone one night because she'd want to see him. Maybe she'd actually have someone to spend New Year's with. Anything was possible.


The day of her second date with Alan, Melissa was sent to work at a club store about forty-five minutes from her house. Along with her usual wine bucket, wine glasses and literature display-- which she arranged carefully on a white tablecloth over a TV tray, she was required to bring a six foot blow-up bottle of wine. The directions said to blow it up with either a bicycle pump or your mouth. But Melissa couldn’t bear to have that be the first thing her lips touched in six months. So she drove to the service station across the street to fill the bottle up.

As Melissa struggled to attach the hose to the bottle’s opening, her mechanic, Armand, rolled out from underneath the car he was working on to come to her rescue.
"What's this?" he asked Melissa.
"My life," she answered. Something that also needed inflating, that had no shape.
“How did this happen?” Armand asked, as the bottle popped to attention. All six feet of it.
“I don’t know,” she said. Because she really didn’t.
"You need an oil change, you know," he said.
"I need lots of things," Melissa said.
Then he pointed to the broken antenna on her car.
“I could fix it for a bottle of vodka," giving her a wink, “Come by later this week.” Armand handed her the fully inflated bottle. “We’ll drink vodka and then I’ll take you to lunch.”
“Sure," Melissa said, realizing that now she’d have to find another mechanic. And wondering what it was about her and guys and lunch.

Melissa was late to the warehouse store because she couldn’t see around the bottle, so she had to drive slowly. Every so often she'd try to punch the bottle down out of the way, but it would bounce right back in her face like one of those inflatable clown toys she had when she was a kid. She always hated that toy. Curious drivers ogled her at stoplights and angry ones laid on their horns when she cut them off because the bottle blocked her view so she couldn't see whether she had room to get over or not. To make matters worse, her radio was stuck on one station at one volume and it wouldn't turn off. All it played was Christmas music, loud Christmas music. It was giving Melissa a headache.

Holiday shoppers crowded the parking lot, so Melissa had to park across the street and had to make two trips to her car to get her things. Exhausted and sweaty by the end, she slowly dragged the gigantic bottle past Christmas trees and holiday fruit baskets to her station in the wine department, smiling through gritted teeth as too many too interested people felt compelled to pat it in wonder. One man took a picture of the bottle and got upset when she wouldn't pose alongside. A couple of children begged their parents for their own wine bottle that big for Christmas. And when she went to the bathroom, two cocky teenagers tried to steal it. All of this for thirteen dollars an hour, Melissa thought as she chased them down by the wrapping paper and ornaments.

"Come on, what are you going to do with it?" one of them asked her. The one wearing sunglasses. Inside.
She didn't say a word, just yanked it from his grasp and went back to her station.
"What happened to your spirit of giving?" the other called after her.

I don't have one, Melissa almost yelled at them, but instead consoled herself with the knowledge that she had a place to go that night, had someone to go with, and- when she was kept at work because she had to help a touchy-feely couple pick out four cases of wine for their engagement party- someone to call and say she was going to be late. And when she hung up with Alan, she saw that she liked it. It was as if she had more going on in her life than her shitty job. Even though she didn’t really.

That night, Alan arrived early. Melissa heard the knock when she turned off her blow dryer. And she couldn't believe it. So she turned her blow dryer on again, then off and waited a minute, just to make sure. But there it was again. A knock. It was as if her phone call had never happened. Like what she wanted, what she needed, didn’t even matter. Didn't Alan realize that he was cutting into her girl time, her get ready time? The only time Melissa ever got to spend in preparation to go somewhere special? Apparently not. And it bothered her. Whether Alan was the one taking her there or not. Melissa informed him of the fact in no uncertain terms.

“What time is it?” she asked when he called from his cell phone outside her front door.
“5:45.”
Melissa stood inside, in front of the door, but refused to open it.
“What time were you supposed to pick me up?”
“6:15.”
“Exactly. That half an hour means a lot to a girl.”
Melissa hung up then, without waiting for a response. She opened the door to an enormous bouquet of flowers.
“These are for you,” Alan said, giving them to her.
He was wearing a suit this time and at his feet was a menorah. But Melissa wasn’t Jewish.
“I picked them out myself, ” he said.
At a loss, Melissa left Alan and the menorah at the door, put the flowers in some water, then went to the bathroom to finish getting ready.

Melissa refused to rush. And she resented that Alan's flowers made her feel like she should. Like she was a bad person for not wanting to. And like she should act like showing up with a menorah was typical second date behavior. Not to mention, driving around all day to find one. Which Alan told her he did exactly half an hour later when she finished getting ready and took a seat next to him on the couch. He had been sitting there doing nothing but waiting for her the entire time.

"Bo-ruch A-toh Ado-noi E-lo-hei-nu Me-lech Ho-olom A-sher-"
Without a word of explanation, Alan started to recite what Melissa assumed was a prayer in Hebrew as he lit the candles on the menorah. Her cat slinked over curiously but when Alan paused to pet her, Fido hissed and ran from the room. The last time Melissa's cat had reacted like that was when a Jehovah's Witness had tried to pick her up.

"Ki-de-sho-nu Be-mitz-vo-sov Ve-tzi-vo-niu Le-had-lik Ner Cha-nu-kah," Alan continued, lighting a blue candle, then a white.

Melissa wanted to know what it all meant. The Hebrew. Lighting the candles. Their colors. But for some reason, she was afraid to ask. What it really meant to him. To light these candles. And to light them with her. She was sure it meant too much.
"Shouldn't we get going?" she said instead, once he had finished.
"Yeah."
Then he looked at her with concern, indicated the candles, "We're supposed to leave them lit."
"Oh."
Melissa looked around at her antiques. The pie cabinet, Chinese armoire, down stuffed French campaign chairs. All things she had bought in better days. She pictured them going up in smoke.
"Well, we could always put the menorah in the bathtub," she suggested.
"No, that's okay. I'm sure it's alright if we just blow the candles out."
Melissa didn't know why, but she felt kind of bad. As the last candle extinguished, Alan picked the menorah up. Melissa half expected him to wave it at her like some magic wand that would turn her into the nice Jewish girl he wanted her to be. But instead, he placed it on her mantle. Like it belonged there. At that moment, Melissa decided that no matter what, she was going to get a tree this year for Christmas.

Melissa's primping and Alan's ritual made them late to the play. Melissa discovered once they got there that it was being performed by a deaf theatre company. A musical about slavery, the entire thing was done with the aid of sign language. So you really had to pay attention. Everything about this date is work, Melissa thought. Knowing full well she was being insensitive. But she was still confused about Alan's behavior, still confused about the menorah. Did that really make her a bad person?
Then Alan pulled her hand into his lap.
“Is this okay?” he asked.
“Sure,” she finally managed, not wanting to be disrespectful to the deaf by saying more than was necessary.
But the truth is, it wasn’t okay with Melissa. Not really. Melissa didn’t want Alan holding her hand. She wanted him to give it back. It killed Melissa when she thought about all the other guys in her life she had wanted to take her hand who never did-- Jeff, Jonathan, Andrew. Why did it always seem to work that way? What was she doing wrong?

“Should I come up?” Alan asked when they got to her house.
“You’re parked in the red zone, ” Melissa warned him, then in a further attempt to dissuade him, "and they give tickets to people like you."
“I could drive around the block and try to find a space,” he said brightly.
“You know you’ll never find one,” she said, “not in this neighborhood.”
And for once, she was thankful.
"Yeah. I guess you're right," his face falling, then perking up again, "Do you want to come over for breakfast tomorrow morning?”
Melissa hated breakfast even more than lunch.
“I can’t. I have to work,” she said.
“I had a great time with you,” he said, leaning in.
“I had a great time with you,” Melissa said leaning out, then stepping out of the car.
“Call me when you get in,” he called after her, “so I know you’re okay.”
“No,” she said. And she didn’t. Instead, she pulled the blue and white candles off the menorah, put it away in a cupboard, let some air out of the inflatable wine bottle and went to sleep clutching it beside her.

Melissa didn't have to do much to forget about Alan. After all, when it’s not there, it’s not there. But it seemed like that wasn’t the case where he was concerned, because Alan left three messages for Melissa that week. On his fourth call, he got her. He was home sick. She felt sorry for him, but she still didn’t want to talk to him. She told him she was running out the door, trying to get things done-- do errands, buy Christmas presents.
“I wish I could see you,” he said.
“Well, you can't,” Melissa said quickly, “you’re sick.”
“I wish I could spend everyday with you,” he said.
“Well, you can't, because I have to pay my bills. I have to work."
"I wish I could support you," he said then.
"Me, too," Melissa said. Because she wished someone could. She was tired of doing it all by herself.
"I miss you."
"That's sweet," Melissa conceded, then hung up. She didn't know what else to say. And it was hard to be that mean to him when he wasn’t feeling well.

“You’re leading him on, you know,” Chloe warned her, after Melissa told her about the phone call. The two of them were buying Christmas trees. Chloe's was a hundred and sixty-nine dollars, not including delivery. Melissa still hadn't found one she could afford.
"You should have just told him you’re not interested.”
“I couldn’t,” Melissa said, “He had the flu.”
"Well, he's going to get better sometime."
"Maybe he won't," Melissa said.
"That's a terrible thing to say."
"Well I'm a terrible person."

Despite her vow, Melissa left without a tree. So when she got home, she plucked the blow up bottle from her bed and set it up in the living room. Sure, it was man-size but it was also tree-size, so she figured it would do. She used double-sided tape and stuck the ornaments to the plastic. Grinning Santas, stunned snowmen and perfect angels made the bottle festive. When her cat, Fido, tried to massacre a reindeer or two, Melissa had no choice but to cut her nails. At least one of them could get a manicure, Melissa figured. And besides, it was all in the name of Christmas. The star on the top, the lights strung, Melissa plugged it in. The Chipmunks had barely jingled their bells before she smelled burning plastic. Not the tree she signed on for, Melissa pulled the plug, turned the fan on, then went to bed.


After a particularly bad day at work, Melissa climbed the stairs to her apartment. She had to make a change. A man had kicked her display and broken her only set of wine glasses, after calling her a “dumb bitch." He said she was blocking the aisle. Even though she wasn’t. There was plenty of room. Now she’d have to drink her wine from a regular glass. And that’s precisely what she planned to do. But when she opened up the door to her apartment, she saw that everything was gone. Everything. Everything but the six foot wine bottle. Every single solitary thing she owned, it was gone. Melissa didn’t know what to do. She blinked, walked out the door and entered again. But still, there was nothing else there. She had paid her rent. Barely. But it was paid. She knew it was. Wasn't it? Suddenly panicking, she ran inside and raced from room to room. Her footsteps echoed loudly in the emptiness. And where was her cat? Where was Fido? She wanted to scream, but she couldn't even breathe. She reached for her cell phone. She had to call for help. Someone had to help. Before she could start dialing, it started to ring.

“Hello?” she answered.
“It’s Alan.”
It took Melissa a minute to process who he was.
“Oh. I've got to go. I have an emergency.”
“What is it? Can I help?” he asked.
“No. I don’t think-- No. I’ve got to go and call the police or I don't know-- something.”

An hour later, Melissa was still waiting for the police to arrive. She sat Indian-style on the hardwood floor. Trying to remain calm. There were no appliances. And no wine. Just her. And the bottle. With its cheerful snowmen and Santas, she couldn't even bear to look at it.

Hearing footsteps, Melissa jumped up. But it wasn’t the police, like she had expected, it was Alan. And Melissa was not in the frame of mind to deal with him.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“I was worried.”
“Oh."
“So. You’re okay? I mean, you seem okay.”
Melissa blinked. Wondering how two people could see things so differently.
“No, I’m not okay. Are you blind or something?”
“No.”
From his face, she could see that he still didn't understand. She gestured around then. Gave him a minute to notice that there was nothing in the apartment. Nothing except for them.
“My stuff, “ she said finally, “It’s all gone. Everything. I. Own. Is. Gone.”
“It is? Great. They did a good job, didn’t they? I didn’t think they’d get it all out so quickly, but they did.”
She stared at him. She didn’t know what else to do. Then finally, she took a step towards him, “Who?”
“The movers.”
“Movers? What movers?”
At that moment, she wanted to kill him. She was trying to keep it together, but it didn’t seem to be working. She felt herself lunge for him. But she only got a small shove in before he took a step back.
“Well, I would’ve done it myself," he said, not missing a beat, "but you have a lot of things so I just paid this company to pack everything up and move it. They double wrap everything. So nothing gets ruined. They came highly recommended.”
“Oh, my God," she said, "How could you? Are you insane? You are, aren't you?"
She realized she was screaming when she heard herself echo.
"Your landlord, Dorothy. She gave me the key."
"Why would she-- Why would you-?" Melissa stopped when she saw Alan didn't seem to notice her anger, her fear. She didn't know what to do with that.
"She's happy for us."
"Us? There is no us!" Melissa couldn't help but yell louder. "And what about my cat? Where’s my cat?”
“Actually Melissa, I have to talk to you about that. Now don't get upset.”
Melissa felt like she was going to be sick. She dropped back down to the floor. Prepared herself for the worst. He was crazy. She didn't know how to talk to him because he was crazy. Finally, she found her voice.
“Why? What’s wrong with her? What's wrong with my cat?"
“Well, it’s just...I’m allergic.”
Melissa stood up then. She couldn't take it anymore.
“So?”
“Well, it’s just she can’t stay at my place.”
“I don’t want her to stay at your place. I want her to stay at my place.”
“Well, I was hoping it would be our place.”
“Our place? There is no way in hell it would ever be our place!”
“Well what’s yours is mine and what’s mine is yours right?”
“No. What’s mine is mine.”
“Well I only have a one bedroom so it’s kind of all ours. Otherwise it doesn’t really work.”
Melissa was starting to see nothing she said worked. He was beyond reason.
“Okay, I’m going to try and understand what you’re saying,” Melissa tried, lowering her voice, slowing it, “For some reason, it seems my stuff is at your place. Only I have no idea what it’s doing there.”
“I thought that’s what you wanted," Alan said.
“And why would you think that?”
“Because you said so.”
“I did?"
“Uh huh.”
“When?”
Melissa knew she had missed a lot but she wasn’t willing to admit she’d missed that much.
“Sunday when I called. I said I wished I could support you. And you said, ‘Me, too.’ Or wait was it Saturday? I think it was Saturday... No, Sunday. Well anyway, now I can because I got a raise."
“Oh, really? You did? You got a raise?" Melissa spat at him.
"Yeah."
"Well, who cares, Alan? Who cares? I was just being nice!”
As the words echoed through the room, the sun went down. Melissa went to the wall to turn on the light, but nothing happened.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“I turned your utilities off,” he said.
“Oh.”
So they both just stood there for a moment. In the dark.

The Sandwich

This was written a LONG time ago... far before I knew I had a thing for guys who break or have broken the law:)




THE SANDWICH


The man of my dreams broke into my car today. He took Tori Amos, the Eagles, Pearl Jam-- and he left behind a sandwich. Turkey on a whole wheat roll with avocado, olives and ranch dressing. It’s my favorite. He got half way through it. The rest was left there in a white wrapper on a brown paper bag. It’s an unusual choice for a man. I like unusual men. I’m sorry he got interrupted. Or rather, I wish that I had been the one who interrupted him.

I had a doctor’s appointment later in the day, so I didn’t go to work that morning. It was early afternoon before I went out to the garage. The door was open. And inside, so were the car doors. It took me a minute to register what had happened. I climbed inside the car and looked around, in an effort to inventory my losses. Whoever it was left the dry cleaning I hadn’t bothered to bring in, a shirt I had to return to a store, and the quarters I keep in the console for parking. But they took a few select CDs and a book-on-tape. David Sedaris. This thief has a sense of humor, I think. I’m intrigued. So much so that it doesn’t even bother me that my battery’s dead because he neglected to lock up when he was done.
A criminal and I like the same music, eat the same food. I didn’t even have that much in common with my last boyfriend. I smell his cologne in the car. And I like it. It’s kind of musky with a hint of citrus and spice. I realize it turns me on. I wonder what he looks like. And how he picked me, my car, my garage. If he just knew instinctively that he would find what he was looking for inside.

I have the police come by. I insist they dust for prints. They think it’s a waste of time and say they probably won’t find him.
“But you have to find him," I say, “for me. I don’t want this one to get away.”
“Okay,” they say, “We’ll do our best.”
But they don’t mean it. Not really.
I think of taking out an ad. Setting a trap. Instead, I go to the police station, ask to look through mug shots like people do on TV shows. The officer clearly thinks I’m nuts but it’s no skin off his back, he says, so he sets me in a chair with a book. Carefully I leaf through each picture and read each rap sheet, trying to imagine the two of us as a couple. For some, it’s harder than others. Criminals come in all ages, shapes and sizes. Not to mention, all ethnicities-- there are Latinos, African-Americans, Caucasians and even a few mutts. It’s more diversity than any bar or internet dating site, that’s for sure. Facial hair is big with them, too. Serving as a source of camouflage, I suspect. I’m not really a fan of moustaches or beards, but I figure I can be persuaded to make an exception if the guy has other qualities going for him. I learn that the police also make a point to list certain characteristics that I usually take for granted in a man. Like-- Teeth: Normal and Speech: Normal. I know my guy has to fall in the ‘Normal’ category. No question about it. I can’t envision a man with black and crooked teeth listening to Tori Amos. Or being a fan of David Sedaris either, for that matter.

Some of the men have legitimate jobs, apparently performing crimes in their spare time. That’s got to be tiring, I think to myself, fully understanding why those who have jobs have no wife or children listed. They’re out of the house twenty-four seven. In some cases, they’re divorced. And I wonder why – was it that their wives just didn’t get them? Were all their crimes getting in the way of their sex lives? I remember the scent my guy left behind in the car and I know that he couldn’t be divorced. The smell of him alone would stop me from leaving. I concentrate on the singles.

For some of the men, it’s hard for me to view their offenses as anything but accomplishments. After all, how many men are smart enough to run a counterfeit ring or athletic enough to scale a twenty-four foot wall? I figure the guy deserves a diamond necklace for his efforts. And what about the executive who kidnapped his boss and led police on a four hour car chase? If he can keep news crews and the people at home captivated for the entire ride, I figure he can entertain me on a date. Who cares if they all got caught? At least they’re resourceful, I think to myself. Go-getters. They know what they want and they go after it. I’ve never been the type to date a guy who sits on the couch watching football and drinking beer.
After four hours, I’m convinced I’ve found him. He seems to have the right MO for the burglary and for me. I leave with high hopes. And I know what I’ve got to do. After I park in the garage, I turn the alarm off on my car. I figure why play hard to get with this guy when there are naïve women all over the place forgetting to lock their doors? I go upstairs and pick out some other CDs I like as an offering. And this time, I choose to leave a book by Maya Angelou. Then, I wait.

Throughout the night, I sit by the window drinking a glass of wine in the dark, watching over the door that leads to my garage. I see cats run by, alley diggers collecting cans, neighbors who return guilty and intoxicated, but my criminal doesn’t make a move. This goes on for four nights. I become familiar with the comings and goings of the people around me. I figure out who’s having an affair and who’s hiding a dog from our landlord. Some guy goes out every night at two in the morning, only to return an hour later. To do what is a mystery. But there’s no one taking my CDs.
I try to avoid the car wash because I don’t want his scent to fade, but soon I can’t take it anymore. I realize, it’s time to cave in. That’s when I get the call.

“We found your man,” the officer says on the other end of the phone.
My heart races.
“Do you need me to come down and identify him?”
“No, no need to trouble yourself.”
“It would be no trouble, really,” I say. “It would be my pleasure.”
“No. No need. We have a positive ID on him from his fingerprints.”
“You do? That’s great. So you’re sure it’s him?” Trying to mask my excitement.
“That’s right.”
“What does he look like?” Then, “I just want to make sure he’s the same guy I saw lurking around the alley.”
“He’s Latin. Dark hair. Green eyes."
So far so good.
“He has a scar on his neck.”
“Really?”
I want to go there now. Visit him in jail and bring him a sandwich. Something to read.
"Oh, and he’s about five-foot four, a hundred and twenty-five pounds," the officer continues.
“Excuse me?” I say.
“He’s about five-foot four, a hundred and twenty-five pounds. That sound like your man?”
"No," I say, suddenly, "too short. The guy I saw was entirely someone else.”

Cat Leaves Girl.

No, my cats have not left me. But in honor of the fact that I got a very funny message on my machine yesterday about my cat, Will (the black one- below. Skunk is the one on the right), I am posting this story today, "Cat Leaves Girl." It wasn't in the original plan-- it was one of my first stories ever-- but it seemed fitting. This woman called to tell me how much joy Will gave her and some other people in the neighborhood. That he was fun and sweet and entertaining and gentle. And he played with the dogs and even the guys on my street. Yes, apparently even some cat-hating men (according to her) love Will. God bless him. She has pictures to prove it. And she's bringing them by. It should be noted, I get calls about him every couple of weeks. Good calls. I've always had those kinds of animals. The lovers. God bless them. For loving me. You've got to get it somewhere, right?



CAT LEAVES GIRL



Rita is used to being greeted by her cat the minute she gets home. She’s used to her cat meowing at her plaintively as she closes the garage, then getting under foot the entire walk to her apartment, wanting to be fed. She’s used to tripping on her cat as she walks up the steps, her arms full of whatever it is she’s carrying. Groceries, things from work. Inevitably her arms are always full because she hates having to make a bunch of trips back and forth. She only has two arms, after all. And the more trips she makes, the more she’s reminded of this. And she hates being reminded of this. That it’s just her.
Tonight, her arms are more full than usual because it’s Christmas time. And her cat is nowhere to be found. It throws Rita off. She doesn’t know how to negotiate the steps without dodging Harold. And she stumbles. Drops all the packages she’s carrying. And rips her skirt on a loose nail. She really liked that skirt.
But she can’t worry about that now. She spent a fortune on those Christmas presents - presents for her sister, presents for her sister’s husband, presents for her sister’s kids, for her friends, her friend’s husbands, her friend’s kids… Now they’re all scattered up and down the steps. Rita sighs and starts to gather them into her arms, wondering where Harold is when she needs him. At the bottom is a ‘See and Say’ propped on its side. It keeps repeating “The cow went moo" over and over again. It’s annoying, but Rita decides to leave it there till the very last, thinking it just might taunt Harold into coming out from wherever it is that he’s hiding. But it doesn’t and finally she picks it up with the other packages and climbs the stairs to her apartment.

Rita jiggles her keys pointedly before she puts them in the lock. But still, no Harold. This isn’t like him, she thinks to herself. Where could he be? She opens her door and turns on the light. The quiet hits her all at once. She leaves the door ajar and dumps her packages onto the bed because she doesn’t have a Christmas tree or a Christmas anything, for that matter. She didn’t really see the point of a tree for one.

As she makes for the kitchen, she checks her watch. She’s a few hours late getting home, but still. Harold should know better. She grabs a can of cat food out of the drawer and loudly closes it, to let Harold know she’s home. She puts the food in his dish and waits, pouring herself a glass of wine. She finishes the glass, and is onto another, but still no Harold. Now she’s really starting to get worried. The answering machine has two messages on it. Suddenly Rita thinks maybe Harold was hit or something else may have happened to him. So she plays the messages. But it’s only her mom and a telemarketer offering her a vacation for two if she signs up for DHL.

That reminds Rita to turn on her TV. But there’s nothing good on. She calls a few friends – machine, machine, feeding Lana, the baby’s crying, can I call you back? Eric needs help with his presentation. No problem Rita says and finishes off her wine.
She turns the TV off then back on because she likes the noise. Until she hears a sitcom actress bemoaning her solitude to laughs from the studio audience. Rita grabs a flashlight and heads out into the front yard.

“Harold, here kitty, kitty," calling out, “Harold, where are you? Here kitty, kitty.”
Nothing. She shines the flashlight around the yard even though she knows that if Harold was there he would have answered with a meow or at least showed himself. She heads over to his favorite hiding place, a grate that was pushed open. He likes to play under the house. The sprinklers just went off, so everything is wet. Rita gets down on her hands and knees. She flashes the light into the area. All she sees is concrete and pipes.

“Harold I’m sorry, I was late,” she calls into the space. As if that would make a difference.

“This isn’t funny anymore," she says then, getting up. Mud covers her skirt and her hands, but she doesn’t care. She wants to know where Harold is. The wine is kicking in and she’s starting to feel a bit frantic. She heads back inside.
“Harold, Harold, where are you? Here kitty, kitty," she calls out, wandering the hallway.
At the end of the hall, a man opens his door, putting out his trash

“Excuse me... ,” Rita approaches him, “Have you seen my cat?”
“No. Sorry," he says, noting first her torn skirt and then her overall muddy, disheveled appearance.
“Okay, thanks.”
As he starts to close his door, Rita hears a meow from inside the apartment. She stops and looks at the man a long moment.
“That sounded like Harold," she says.
“Harold?” he asks.
“My cat.” Like they both knew what she was talking about.
“I’m sorry, you must be mistaken.”
There’s another meow. She looks at him again. Not just suspicious anymore. Accusing.
Another meow.
Rita shoves her way in. And that’s when she sees him- Harold, playing with the man’s young Martha Stewart-like wife next to the Christmas tree. He’s rolling around in ribbon, having the time of his life. Upon seeing Rita, the wife snatches Harold up and holds him to her breast.
“Oh, my God,” Rita says, “You kidnapped my cat!”
The wife looks at her a moment. Then, delicately, as if to a child, a very slow child “Well, we didn’t really kidnap him, he kind of chose to move in with us.”
That’s when Rita notices the cat bed, the cat scratching post, and the squeaky toys.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demands.
“Just that. He’s happy with us,” the man says, then turns to his wife, “Right, honey?”
“That’s right, sweetheart.”
She gets up and puts an arm around her husband. The Christmas tree lights blink behind them.
How long has this been going on? Rita wonders. Last night he slept at home… Then, she notices. Harold has his own stocking. The man and the woman, the couple, clutch him close. The three of them creating a picture like the front of Christmas card. Rita looks at Harold, imploring, but he doesn’t respond. It’s like she’s not even there. But she’s not willing to give up just yet.
“Why don’t you put him down and let him decide for himself who he wants to be with," she says to the man and his wife.
The woman looks to her husband. He nods his approval. The Martha look-a-like gingerly places Harold on the floor.
“Harold, come on, let’s go home,” Rita says. “Let’s go home, kitty, kitty.”
But Harold doesn’t make a move. He stays there. At the couple’s feet. Almost as if he’d been brainwashed or something.
“Harold, come on,” Rita says again. This time, more forcefully
Instead, he curls up into a ball and starts to roll around.
The couple looks at her. Like they told her so.
“Well, good for you,” Rita says, hating them and their smugness, “You’re happy, he’s happy. Just one big, happy family. But you know, it’s not my fault I’m single. I mean it’s not like I can just go out and find a man. It’s not that easy, you know. For some of us it’s harder. And that makes it harder to be happy. You know? Well, do you?”
The man and his wife don’t speak. They look at each nervously.
“Would you mind leaving?” the man says, “I think you’re scaring Harold.”

Rita goes home then, but she can’t sleep. She wonders what it is she did wrong. What would make Harold want to leave her. Sure, she’d been working a lot lately. And she hadn’t been as affectionate as she usually was, but she was tired. It was hard doing it all herself. Being all by herself. It was easier for the couple. There were two of them. They had more love to give.

Rita wakes in the middle of the night with a start. She thinks she hears Harold meowing outside her front door, so she gets out of bed as quickly as she can and opens the door. But he’s not there. She looks down the hallway. It’s completely empty. Rita wonders for a moment if Harold really was out there, trying to get back to her and the married couple heard him meowing and took him back inside. Or if she just wanted that to have happened. Rita gets up three times throughout the course of the night, each time more positive than the last that Harold was out there. She doesn’t sleep at all.

When Rita wakes up, she plays Christmas music as loud as it will go feigning holiday cheer. But Harold still doesn’t come back. Instead, two neighbors ring her buzzer and complain. It’s only seven am. She goes to get a Christmas tree then and spends the afternoon decorating it with tinsel and lights and an angel on the top. When she’s done, she starts making cookies. She wears an apron that says “Mrs. Claus," thinking that a Mrs. of any sort is better than no Mrs. at all. And certainly Harold has to see this. He has to understand that she’s trying. That she’s doing the best she can.

When he still doesn’t come, she gets him turkey and giblets, heats it in the microwave for smell and fans it outside the couple’s apartment, hoping Harold will notice. But she never hears a sound. Then she tries a ball with a bell inside. She bats it around for a good ten minutes. Nothing she does seem to work. She doesn’t think Harold will ever come back. And as she returns to her apartment and places her Christmas packages under the newly decorated tree with an angel spinning around on top, she realizes that the only thing lonelier than being a single woman with a cat is being a single woman without one.