The Reality of It All: Learning a Lesson From My Fair Weather Father. But I Prefer My All Weather Friend.

Today was a great day. I'm logging on "Beauty and the Geek" and it's a fun group of people. I miss testosterone and there's testosterone-a-plenty in production offices. I also miss creatives. And as much of a bad rap as reality shows get, the people who work on them are smart. And creative. And they do write. The difference is that they mold stories out of footage. And they sometimes don't have a lot of good footage to work with. And truth be told, they're flying blind a lot of the time. And more truth-- they have more creative control than most staff writers do on sitcoms. Because they get to create their own stories. It's kind of like what they do on some news shows. The difference is in the content. And even if you hate reality shows, much like movies -- how it's just as much work to write a bad movie as a good movie- it's that way in television, too. ALL forms of television. And you know, it's entertainment. That's why the people are there. They're not trying to save the world one TV at a time. They're just trying to keep you occupied, tell stories and if you connect with the material, it's all the better for them and for you.

Still. Experience or no experience, I am starting on the ground floor once again. And I need to keep that in mind. And much like I was in my early days on Drew, I need to play it close to the vest, so to speak. Not to share any information about myself. In other words, to not act like the world or the production office is my personal blog. Not to tell my story. Julie warned me of this today. And she was right - telling me it was okay to be friendly, but not too friendly -- and to not say anything that reveals too much about me. Because they don't need to know why I'm 38 (that I'm 38!) and doing the same job as a 23-year-old. Like my friend Mary said in New York, I could have been having a fabulous romance and traveling the world. If only. I know I do have a tendency to be an open book. I think it's a reaction against my childhood and my parents since they never paid attention to me or my life so I just never shared. And then people thought I was something I wasn't -- and then I got tired of that and just told people who I was and the rest is well- ???. I mean, look at me now. In other words, being yourself is not always a good strategy in a work environment, which I do know. (Or a dating environment, for that matter). And you know, I did slip today by making one self-deprecating statement and didn't really realize it. That it begged for explanation or at least suggested that there was a story to tell. So Julie pointed it out. And said she hoped I was okay with it-- the her pointing it out part. And of course, I am. I need to be hit over the head with things sometimes. To think more. About what I say-- I don't need to just generally think--- I do that too much as it is. Because the fact of the matter is I need to move forward in my life. I don't want to log forever. And even if I'm not being me and it feels wrong and inauthentic at times, I need to let it go. Which can be hard because sometimes my honesty and laughing at myself and where I'm at feels like all I have to hold onto. And the only way I can survive. I also know it's a defense mechanism -- which was just cemented when I got a comment on my blog today from my father.

I guess he read about the job. And so he wished me luck and said he loves me-- the only thing is, he fails to demonstrate any of the traits of love. (Which is why I'm so damn confused.) Or at least the kind of love I want. The kind any kid -- even an adult kid-- wants from their parent-- unconditional love. In other words, he disappeared yet again because times were bad and told me to call him when I could be positive or my t-shirt line takes off. And just like I told him at the time, he had 20 years to rest. 20!!! Yet, it seems it wasn't enough. And see, with him? It never is. And I don't want to have to be something else or some way else for someone to love me. (You better believe he was standing there when I won homecoming... but nowhere to be found when I went to college). I know everyone loves a winner. Or a contender, at least. So if nothing else, he reminded me of that. And he also made me sad. On a really good day. And that's why I prefer Julie's way. She didn't walk away when things were bad. She accepted me, she helped me out when she could and she's doing what she can to remind me of who I am, what I'm capable of and who I need to be to get where I want to go. Which is what an extraordinary friend does. What a family is supposed to. And if nothing else, I can recognize that.

The Program is Working.

I had a ridiculous amount of things I wanted to write about tonight. I was thinking about it as I was traipsing through the bookstore. So loving the grammar section and being obsessed with making sure I was 100% correct with everything on this novel that I'm editing. And being so annoyed at myself for forgetting the comma rule. Meaning where the comma goes when you have at least three or four adjectives modifying a noun. And then I got annoyed about the it's-its thing. Which I know but am second-guessing myself. So I bought the Chicago Manual Style-- which is just a really big reference book for writers and editors and considered a bible of sorts (but kind of hard to read). I also bought Eats, Shoots and Leaves which is a funny book on grammar and how no one knows anything about it. It was also a bestseller for over a year and I'm just now buying it. I mean, I do get this stuff. But unfortunately, when developing my own voice as a writer, I changed the rules. Not like James Frey-- meaning that I change punctuation mainly for effect, kind of like he did. But that being said, I love embracing my inner geek and re-learning the right way to do things.

Maybe that's why I was also exploring the self-help section again. Which really, you need help to find anything in. Which if people have any of the problems on the titles of the books, they may not be so inclined to ask for help in finding. Mine was pretty funny and the "drone" at Border's seemed amused (he called himself that, not me). But apparently, I'm supposed to stop with the whole boundary research, because I got a call for a job!! Julie called me-- just two days past avid exploring and I'm going to log for the company she's working for. According to Isaac, the guy she put me on with, it's a five day job, but the key is that it could lead to more. Especially with Julie on my side. I nearly cried in the bookstore when she told me. Okay, I choked up. I so needed this.

The most bizarre thing of all in all of this? I'm doing my Magick Program again. (Yes, Magick. As in MagickLady). When I did it last time, that's when I sold my essay and spoke to my dad, and my old boss tried to help me out. This time, my friends are hooking me up in jobs where I want to be. The goal being to get to writing there, too. I'm still working on my script. I'm still putting my stuff out there. But I need to pay my bills and get out of dodge (aka Cypress. Which makes me wonder... where did that expression come from? Where's Dodge?). I've seen a lot of my friends do the program, too-- "Life Magick." And I've got to say, it's done wonders for them. And for me. And I'm so happy. That it's working. And I'm working. Tomorrow!!!

My Body's Doing Things I Never Thought It Could.

Which is a phenomenon. This Orange County yoga thing is all twisty and stretchy and well, different. Not that I'm opposed to different. On the one hand, I don't feel the love quite so much for it. But on the other hand, I'm kind of proud of myself for sucking it up and trying. It seems to be working. For some reason, I can fit into my skinny jeans. Which I didn't really even care about. But that might also have to do with the fact that there's no Whole Foods and I can't find any food I like. Which if I cooked or really cared enough about it, I could probably do. It's just there's no room for things I like in my mom's fridge any way. And why belabor the point? She never read the memo on boundaries, so I'm thinking the fridge takeover might be an issue. And then cooking? Forget about it. Even though she does have a dishwasher. No need to upset the balance more than necessary.

And speaking of boundaries. Or writing about them, rather. I did read an entire book about them in a day. I got all caught up. It was quite enlightening. And actually quite beneficial. Who knew? But I'm going to have to re-read that book and probably bone up on a few others before I can actually put some of the suggestions to use. I wonder if I can carry cue cards for the next boundary violation I have to navigate? Hmm. That's a thinker. I'm kind of embracing this somewhat self-helpy period in my life. I better, otherwise I'll never get out of here.

I did have one option presented to me today. An ex-roommate from my 20s emailed me with a proposition... yes, my past is catching up with me and actually chasing me around the table. Well, he did that a long time ago, too. Actually a few times, if I remember correctly. He also slept with like four or five of my friends. So I'm not really responding to his champagne-hotel-make-out-session suggestion. Not that I couldn't use it. But I kind of want the whole shebang and I don't really find myself attracted to him in a shebanging kind of way. Too bad.

Which takes me to 3Ball. It's the name of a company that my friend Julie is working for. She brought me in on Sunday to teach me the avid. I pulled clips from their interviews. And I gave her notes on the story. It was reciprocity at its best. I'm excited about it. I really need to keep moving forward. And the more you know, the more you realize you already knew. And the better chance you have of proving it to others. Let's see if my body can actually do that.

Nowhere to Hide.

Yesterday I finished up the logging job. And was quite excited to learn that I made more than I thought (a whopping $3 more an hour... which put me at $13 an hour. A rate, it should be noted, I couldn't survive on in LA. Not that I didn't try. And not that I wasn't grateful for the extra cash. I needed it for my gas tank). It was a strange day, however. Where Carla had made me an insider all week in a world where loggers aren't quite there... which was quite nice of her. And really did make a difference, Friday wasn't so much like that because the writers-- the ones on the show-- were treated to lunch by the producers. On the conference table in the bullpen.

While I was there, we ate lunch at least three or four times on that conference table. When the delivery guy got there? The hierarchy was established. Which is an interesting thing to witness. Food being brought in. Everyone who's left in the bullpen smelling it, working, but still not entitled to it. So you kind of have to leave. Or at least you should. Otherwise it just seems to be an insider-outsider lesson. Which on Drew Carey was a constant as well. There were the writers and then there was the production office. I'm sure it's that way on many shows. And in many jobs and situations in life. Of course, you could always ask if you can have some of what's left once they're done. The people above you. Which just re-establishes your place as being not where they are. And frankly, feels not so good. Luckily, I don't eat pizza. And I was just visiting, so it didn't really affect me like it would the people who are there all the time. I just forgot about the whole office lunch thing-- since it's been so long since I've been in an office of more than three people.

When I was a writer on Drew, we got lunch bought for us as well. Not just bought, but also brought in for us-- and the same thing applied when I was a writers' assistant on the show-- since we might have to be called into the writers' room at anytime and didn't have time to leave. Everyone else had to foot the bill for their own food. Yes, even the p.a.'s. I felt bad about it. Free food is key when you're making no money. But you only get perks when you're making money. That's why the rich get rich and the poor get poorer. And when the food was catered? The writers (and producers) were first in line. Followed by writers assistants. And only once the writers and writers assistants had gotten all they wanted was the rest of the bullpen aka production office allowed to dive in. I always hated that.

Still, yesterday was a good day, and it was a good thing for my resume and my ego and my education. And I was happy to finish up early and still have time to go to yoga. Where. I ran into a girl I've known through a friend. And then this is what she said to me, "Hi! How are you? So are you working?" All in one breath. It should be noted that I haven't seen this girl in probably three years. And I was working then. Just like I am now. The difference has always been just what I'm working on. Even if it was working on getting a job or just having a job I don't want or one that didn't pay enough, or writing a screenplay, I always have been working. Still, I do know this is sore spot for me. INCREDIBLY SORE. So I'm sensitive that way. And if I wasn't, I probably would have thought of something clever to say to turn it around.

There's this odd thing where people think writers aren't working when they write every day. But they are. Writing is a lot of work. Great work. But a lot of work. And it doesn't always pay. It doesn't mean we are free and hanging out and doing nothing. Well, sometimes doing nothing but trying hard to do something. Put something on the page. Even if it sucks.

Still. Who asks that? That's right along with "are you dating anyone?" when you're single and don't want to be. And haven't dated in forever. Or alternately, I could imagine, for people who are dating but not yet engaged, "Are you engaged yet?" And then for people that are married, "So when are you going to have kids?" It's intrusive and assumptive and... in my opinion... just wrong. Because it puts people on the spot. It assumes what you think they should be doing. It gives an expectation. And it makes people uncomfortable. Because it's so direct. It's so loaded. Well, at least for some people. And besides, if people have good news to share, they're usually not shy about it. It's like, let them tell you.

Sure, there is the hope people are coming from a sweet, pure place. A place where they want to hear that you're incredibly happy and the world is fulfilling your every wish, your every expectation. But. Still. For God's sakes. Whatever happened to "How are you?" or "What are you up to?" or "I'm so happy to see you"? Argh.

Then, tonight. I was pouring a glass of wine. I worked out today. I edited parts of the book today. I did a number of things. I wanted a glass of wine. I'm living in a place where they don't pick up mail from mailboxes on Saturday. Even if you can find them. Mailboxes, who knew I'd miss them? So I need wine. But you know what my mom said? "When you're pregnant, you can't drink wine." I just looked at her and said, "Really. Well, that was a shitty thing to say." And I walked away. Who says that to a 38 year-old woman (nearly 39) who wants to be not living with her (that would be 1), married to someone (that would be 2), and pregnant (that would be 3). Actually done with pregnancy and living with her kids and a husband. I mean seriously. What was that about? That was the kind of comment that makes someone WANT to drink. Argh.

I know I could have said something flip like, "Well it's a good thing I'm not pregnant," but that would have taken being in a zen place (which I'm not). And those are the things you think about after the fact. Because when someone's pushing your buttons, well you have nowhere to hide.

After a Blank Slate, Then What?

I remember when the ex-convict was living with us... yes, us. Me and Quentin. And I came home from work to find him sifting through a box. One cardboard box. Bigger than a file box but not all that big. Not big enough to contain a life. And that's what was pissing him off. Or at least that's how I interpreted it. Because that's all that was left of the life he had before. There were empty CD cases, one random shoe and other things. I just remmber him saying, "empty, empty, empty" as he tossed the CD cases aside. That's how I feel right now.

Seeing him go through that box broke my heart. His girlfriend was supposed to be taking care of his stuff. Well, she didn't. I couldn't believe someone would have so little respect for someone they were with. For the things they had. The evidence of someone's life. I was speechless. Now. I'm speechless, too.

On the one hand when you have nothing of your own surrounding you, there is the chance to reinvent yourself. There is a blank slate. No evidence of anything you've done. On the other hand, there is a blank slate. No evidence of anything you've done. It's the ultimate in vulnerability. Because it's a blank slate when you've always had a slate before. So there's no crutch. There's no comfort. There are no reminders. And without those things, sometimes, there is fear. Now? I have fear.

I was waiting for Carla tonight. I finished - slash - burned out at a quarter to 7. She didn't finish until 8. I waited. I was 20 minutes away from a place I lived for 14 years and it felt like I should be able to just go home But that home isn't mine anymore. Which feels crazy. And makes me feel blank. Unaccomplished. Ungrounded. So I waited to go to my mom's home. To be driven to Carla's So I could drive to my mom's from there. I got here at 9:30. To a place that doesn't feel like home. Carla said, "Next month your life could be completely different. It could change tomorrow even." And I started to cry.
She said, "You know, next month you'll be working one place and I'll be working another." And then I thought that the high point of all of this has been seeing her and spending time with her. And every morning? Seeing her kids. Getting the welcomes, getting my hand held and shown whatever they're excited about it, and also the hugs. I know next month I won't have that. But I guess, I can at least see what's possible if the blank slate is filled in just how I'd like it to be.

Two Hours Later. Which is a Long Time... Even For a Spring Chicken. Which I'm Not.

So the good news is that the place that fixed my car -- the piece that was lost in the sideswiping incident of December '04 -- did a shoddy job. That's why the new piece that was put on in April of '05 flew off on the 405 freeway in December of '06. The man from the body shop - Ike's - said it wasn't their fault. But I knew it was. I could tell that it wasn't attached right. I mean, come on now. How often do pieces of your car just fly off? I'm not crazy. Well, at least not about that. The State Farm guy who works out of some makeshift van in an Enterprise Rent A Car parking lot (which is suspect as well) checked it out today. At first he said that something had to have hit the piece for it to fall off. Then I pointed out the screw situation and telltale signs that there was a lack thereof of signs that they'd ever been used in the first place. And well, he got excited. Because he worked at a body shop... once maybe? Because apparently he didn't recognize the situation without me playing Vanna. But suddenly, he knew the screws were all wrong! The piece of paint that had a hole in it was evidence that they tried to attach the piece in the wrong place!!! And then there was rust on the screws on the piece of plastic that's still attached which means that those aren't even the right screws!!! And well, it was like a regular episode of CSI out there in the parking lot. Only it wasn't. Still, it's now his mission to have my car fixed. From some place other than Ike's. Which is a bonus. Because that would take me over two hours to get to as well. That is if today's commute was any indication. And since I'm not so fond of Ike's? It doesn't really seem worth it.

See, this afternoon, Carla had to be at an event for her daughter and I had to do the car thing. So I flew solo. Not so fun. There was like a wall of traffic. Which I didn't really need. Because you know, I've hit enough of those over the last five years.

This whole life thing? Where I'm at right now? It's surreal. I just don't know anything for sure any more. I remember when I took the job at Drew as a writer's assistant. I was 27 years-old. We had a guy that was 26 years old running the show... well, he did after two years. Still, he was first in line. Like the Vice-President of the show essentially. Our Gerald Ford, if you will. All of the other writers' assistants were 23, 24... I thought I was sucking it up then. And I did. I typed my little heart out. I wrote my little heart out. I did coverage on the weekends for extra money and I wrote my screenplay. And finally. Finally. I got staffed. And then... Then...

What the hell? I didn't even commit a crime. I didn't have a baby. Or get divorced. I'm kind of sad that I missed out on those experiences. They seem like more reasonable explanations for this. Place. I'm at. I mean, a baby is a miracle. And a divorce would at least mean I'd been in love... and out of love and probably hated and despised. But I'm sure men have hated and despised me even without ever having loved me or divorced me. Did I mention that there's a guy I went on a date with once at some point in my life I can't even remember who used to be an assistant when I think I must have been writing - only because he asked me if I was still writing -- right after he saw me typing/logging for $10 an hour and then told me he now has his own production company next to the company I'm logging for? Well, that was fun.

On the one hand, I feel hopeful. Because I have to. On the other, I'm scared. Horrified. Which doesn't mean I'm not grateful to Carla. I am. Obviously. SO grateful. I like the environment. The people. The show. And to be making stories. And I'm also grateful to Julie. Because she's going to let me help her this weekend on her show. Which is what I've been wanting. Which she will use to help me later, when her show gets picked up. Sure, I won't get paid. But I will learn. And I will get closer. And I'd rather get closer in one weekend than in months and years. Because Cypress is a long way away. And I'm no spring chicken. You know.

In Suburbia, Things Close Early

Which when you commute for an hour and twenty minutes from damn near close to the place you used to live just one short month ago, well... it means you can't get anything you need. Staples? Closed. Which is a huge bummer because I so wanted to print my January letter to go with my January cards which I am sending out probably in February. But what can you do? I spent all this time writing it and I really like my January cards (I would show you but they were taken off of the website... argh!). And yeah. I know I could have and should have gone to Staples over the weekend but I spent most of it editing a friend's book (funny and good and I get compulsive when I have a task that I enjoy) and getting my ass kicked in yoga and putting yet more things into my storage space and doing notes and thinking about my script and answering emails. And contemplating my life and watching Click. Oh and updating my resume into a fancier, less pathetic version. Which it should have always been. But I didn't always feel less pathetic. So I couldn't always do.

Being around Carla has been good for me. She is fearless. (She was the girl on our cheerleading squad at the top of a three man high pyramid who did a toe touch and trusted we -- well, other people than me-- would catch her). And there was a part of me that was fearless in some ways when I was younger... obviously we became friends somehow... and there is a part of me that always still is, but a bigger part of me got lost and mired down and kind of forgot who I was, what I've done and what I'm capable of. So the new resume? A marked improvement. It's night and day. And it's true!!! It's just knowing how to spin it and present it. And it's not that I didn't have other people who believed in me in the past -- in fact, I still do-- some great, supportive friends-- it's just the people in my industry I worked with didn't concretely help me within my industry-- either because they weren't in it or they didn't know how. Sure, they offered help outside of it. And I took it. And I'm grateful. And I won't forget it. Ever.

But telling stories is my heart and soul. Being creative. And talking to creative types. To me, it's home in its own way. Much like Carla and Caren feel like home because I've known them since I was a Brownie. (Like a lot of other great friends I have... although they came in post-Brownie). So the creative environment-- the being home with myself again is making my current home-- which doesn't feel so much like one (even though I grew up here-- maybe because I grew up here)-- so much better. Suburbia, or no.

You Don't Know What You Don't Know.

And I had a lot to say about that. A lot. Like I do when I'm in my head. And I go to yoga. And then... I started to watch Click. And I cried. And you know? That says it all.

Step Away From the Broken Person!

I used that line when I was talking to one of my friends recently. When she was recounting a date and how it somehow turned from getting to know each other, to her helping him find the source of his anger. It was just instinctual. It just happened. And stuff like that always happens. I know. Because it happens to me. And to alot of my friends.

Carla said to me, "you need to stop surrounding yourself with people that are broken... or need help" or some version of that. I can't remember exactly. And while it may sound simple to her, who is married to a wonderful (yet real) man and has two children and a house and gets great jobs and has no time to just hang out-- it may also be logical, but it's not so easy for the rest of us. Those of us who are single AND were expected to be there for needy parents. (Divorced parents.) Who often fall back into that trap of helping and fixing when we're weak or lose our way or just do it because we're alone and recognize that emptiness in someone else and don't want them to feel it. Because it doesn't feel so good and we know. it.

If we know our issues and we recognize them, why do we continue to dance the dance (for lack of a better, far more original phrase)? Because it's easy. It's familiar. And quite honestly, if your career falls to shit, most of the successful people in your life who are problem free (or like to pretend to be) bail on you. (They would be the "unbroken ones"). And yes, even your friends bail. Actually, mostly your friends. Or it's just your friends not being there is all that you seem to notice. Because who wants to drink martinis with someone who has to drink water? Or who wants to feel bad about where they're at when it's some place they've worked to get to? Who wouldn't rather celebrate... with happy people?

And then there's that other thing. When you're single and your friends marry, they disappear. POOF! They start spending time with other smug marrieds (to quote "Bridget Jones"). And when they have kids, forget it altogether. You'll never see them. Unless you have a wedding you can invite them to with some place for the kids. Or find reason to initiate a playdate.

And as the years pass, the people who are around, available for conversation, nights out and are able to be there for you (and you them) dwindle down to the people whose lives aren't where they want them to be. Because if they were, those people wouldn't be available. And you wouldn't need them and they wouldn't need you. It's that simple. They (or you) would be with a fabulous man and fabulous children and spending time with other fabulous women just like you or at least ones who have what you have but are still complaining about it in the five free seconds they have-- not seeking filler for what can seem like endless Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights.

Granted, this isn't a situation that occurs so much in your twenties. It seems oddly unique to your thirties. To when you want what everybody else wants: the payoff. Love, life, a career and all the things that make you happy. And there's a camraderie that exists in feeling that you've missed out or that someone feels what you feel. It's also nice to know that someone understands. And best of all, is sharing what you've learned on the way to what you want with someone else-- and if it can't be your own child, maybe in the meantime it will be a thirty-something.

Today I Went to Kindergarten.

Well, actually, I didn't actually attend kindergarten, I just went to Carla's and then we dropped off her daughter on the way to work. And I have to say. Her kids are beautiful and sweet and adorable. Beck, her son wanted to give me a hug and a kiss and said "You have pretty hair." That's not a bad way to start the day. And today, Lana said she wanted me to take her to school. So we all walked. Or rather, Carla and I walked and Lana ran. It was pretty great. And then at the crosswalk, I saw one of my sister's old friends from when we were growing up. She has a daughter in Lana's class. It's a small little world. And sometimes, especially when kids are involved, that's okay.

Baby Steps. But At Least They're Steps. Closer. To Being Creative.

It started with a good, no -- actually, a great meeting with my friend Sonja. Who had never read my screenplay (the ancient one). Who read the screenplay and said she laughed out loud and that it had texture. ( I love the word texture!! That's like the greatest compliment ever to me!!! I always said I wanted to marry someone with texture). Anyway, she also read the article I read in Glamour and as it pertains to my script, she sees what I see. Which was all very exciting. And that was yesterday. And after that? I went to work. Yes, work. A freelance job that my friend Carla got me on a Travel Channel show!!! And I've gotta say, even though it's not paying much ($10 an hour) and I'm just typing the dialogue that I see on the footage, it made me happy. Happy to be working on a show again. Any show. In any capacity. Because it doesn't matter what I do for them in that production office, but what it makes my mind do for me. And in creative environments, I am creative. It fuels me. I see possibility. I see story. I love production offices. The people who work in them. Guys, girls. Whoever. The fact that something is getting made. A story is being told. And Carla? She's been introducing me to people. And talking me up at the show with people. And we've been carpooling. Which is really fun. You know, I'm so rarely a passenger. Normally I'm the driver. Always the driver. I can count the times on one hand that I've been sitting in the passenger seat in the last year. But today, Carla drove me. And you know what? It was nice-- actually, a relief-- to be in the other seat for a change. And let someone else drive. To navigate the ebbs and flows. While I just was-- as Carla said-- bubbly Jody. WIthout a function or responsibility. I was just myself. Because no matter what I'm doing and what's happened in my life, that hasn't gone away, she said. And it's nice to to know that some people still recognize it. And even more so, that they think that's enough.

I Have No Boundaries, But I Do Have Straight Leg Jeans

I'm just now realizing that my therapist missed a lot. Like the whole boundary thing. And how I have none. Which I'm just now seeing has been a big part of my problem during the last 38 years. Notice big. But also notice, "part". Then again, I did only go to her for 2 years. She probably couldn't see the forest through the trees. She had a lot of stuff to busy herself with. The bummer is that the problems with having no boundaries only really kicked in during the last 5 years. Like when I couldn't make my life better-- which is another issue-- needing to accomplish things to see where I fit in or to feel worthy enough to be loved. So anyway, not being able to accomplish anything made me unlovable (and tragic) in that way in my mind, so I did everything I could to be there for everyone else. Because if I did. They would love me. Or at least see my worth. Or how valuable I truly was. Um... yeah. Are you following this? It seems so simple now. When you break it down like this. (And yes, I am an issue sponge. If you're bored with your issues and can't figure them out, just hang out with me, I'll take them on and you can figure it out by observing. Genius, don't you think?) (By the way, Ken, I borrowed your word. I will just take it on loan and give it back at the end of this entry:)

So this no boundary, taking care of other people thing to get them in a better place issue explains why some of those people are now married. Or have great jobs that I helped them get. In other words, are in a better place. And I'm still... yeah. Because oddly enough, men don't fall in love with you just for being there. And they don't owe you love because of that. Or even dinner. Although dinner, at minimum would be nice. You know, from a lot of guys, I didn't even get dinner. Who's the dummy now? And um... yeah. You get what you settle for. Yes, this whole situation was set up in my childhood. Which is the past. Which is what I'm trying to get over. But it takes time. And I needed to get away from everyone else's problems first. Because I took them on. Wanted to help. Couldn't always. Leading to less power... (and just being overwhelmed)... blah blah blah blah blah. And my friends? It's not their fault I can't say "no." That I'm always there for them. I mean, who's foolish enough to say "no" to someone who will be there for you? Exactly. The only problem occured for me when their lives started working and they weren't there for me. Which brought up the whole abandonment issue from my dad. But that's another issue for another entry. By the way, I can't really take credit for seeing this. My friend Michael nailed me on all of it when I shared the fiasco otherwise known as December '06. I think Kate may have helped, too. I'm pretty sure. And maybe Caren...? And why do I think anyone reading this cares? I don't know if they do. It's just writing it out helps me process it. And who knows, maybe help people understand someone they know a little better (and if they don't know anyone with so many issues, maybe they can just understand me...?).

Anyway, that all being said, these epiphanys occured while wearing straight leg jeans. Me. I've become a jeans girl. Go figure. I never liked jeans. Never wore them. I have thin hips, but I have thighs. No jeans ever fit. (Not huge thighs, but thighs. I mean, I'm a 34-27-34. Not great knees though. I hate my knees). But then I went to New York. And jeans, they're everywhere. Even more than here. Or here I just pretend they're not really here. Because I want to be there. And fit in somewhere. So I thought-- straight leg jeans--- in boots! But no straight leg jeans on the market or at least at the Barney's Jean Bar fit me. So I took two pairs of jeans that I have that did fit me that I never wore to Denim Revival and they made them straight leg. And they looked good. And so I've been wearing them. I think it was only like $26. For straight leg jeans!!! That now fit!!! But not into my boots, unfortunately. Because my boots are all wrong for straight leg jeans. But I bought them before I had straight leg jeans, so I didn't realize it was a whole process. See fashion, can sometimes be just as complicated as people and issues. Although, I must say, I prefer fashion issues. They are much easier to fix. And there are people you can hire to fix them for you. Which means no epiphanies or f%#k ups are necessary. Well at least not on your part. If they happen, they're on theirs. And they fix it. Usually free of charge. And after a fashion epiphany? At least you look cute.

A Little Nice Helps A Lot.

Before Christmas, I got a nice email from a guy I worked with on "Backdraft"... which was 17 years ago if you can believe it. (I know I can't. But that doesn't mean I shouldn't take it off my resume ). His name is Stephen with a PH and a last name that I can pronounce but not spell. He was the Assistant Location Manager on the movie. I was the Assistant to the Producer back then. We all hung out during that production which was based in Chicago. My friend, Wileen, worked in the production office. And Jim Rodney was a PA. There was also Louisa, who worked for Ron Howard then... and still does. We all still talk. Well, Wileen, Jim Rodney, Louisa and I have talked regularly. When Jim Rodney (we all always call him by his first and last name-- I have no idea why. It just seems to fit. Actually, even he does... come to think of it) moved out here from Chicago, he slept on my couch or on my floor until he ended up renting a place from my landlord (not the peach of a landlord who owes me my security deposit. Another one... a good one). Well Jim Rodney still lives in that place in my old neighborhood. And he's an editor now and is doing really well. Wileen moved out from Chicago, too, a few years ago. She's line producing, producing, you name it. Honestly, she's one of the smartest people I know. She's from a family full of professors. She could be one too-- now, without a PhD if she wanted to-- but she likes making movies. Then over the holidays, I saw Jack McGee who's now on "Rescue Me." And a few years ago, I ran into Jason Gedrick at The Grove (which is a mall in LA that closely resembles Disneyland complete with dancing water and trolley). There was something about that movie. There was a lot of bonding. I know it was the first time that Todd Hallowell ever worked with Ron Howard. And all these years later, he still does. And Aldric Porter, too. I had a great time on that movie. It was a pretty remarkable experience. And job for a girl staight out of college. I say, girl, because I was 21 years-old, had no experience on a movie set. Or working with big name directors. I had just a few internships, a lot more confidence than I do now, and a UCLA degree. That job and production set the bar really high. My expectations, really high. Now, of course, I would kill to have a position like that. Hey, it even paid more than my last job.

So anyway, right before Christmas and over the last few weeks, I've talked to Stephen with a PH a few times. (Even though to me, he's still Steve, not Stephen). Anyway, he moved out here about a year ago. And he's kind of in transition with his life and career, too. And I guess that's why he understands me right now. And for some reason-- after 17 years, he sought me out. He said he thought there was something special about me. And that I stuck in his mind. That ever since "Backdraft", he's thought about me at least four or five times each year. Which is an incredibly nice thing to say to someone. Particularly someone who feels like their life is falling apart. And who isn't trying to hide it all that much. Well, last night he was great. He listened. I didn't want to talk to anyone, really. I warned him about my very dark place. And still, he wanted to talk. He said he told me stuff the last time we spoke that he never told anyone. And I listened. And helped. Not that it always has to be about reciprocity. But when you're a mess, it's nice to know that you can be there for someone in a time of need. No one wants to feel like they're being needy 100% of the time. Anyway, it's not romantic with us. (Although we did flirt 17 years ago) But it is... nice. Nice to hear a fresh perspective. Nice to hear that you can make an impression on someone. And that you can matter in some way. Even when you're in that very dark place.

So much like in yoga, it seems the down does oftentimes come back up. Even if it's just for a day. Nice helps. And it came in the guise of an email from my friend Tina last night. And one from Sonja, too. And in a message from Michael. And in a conversation with Laura. And even in a blog comment I read this morning from the ex-convict. (He calls himself the ex-con. I call him the ex-convict. We both like to be contrary to each other. Or maybe, we just are). It got my ass to yoga this morning. Yes, Orange County yoga. Which was an excellent class. Hard to believe I liked it so much. Then again, it had hip music. And was really challenging. It made me sweat. And the instructor was cool. It turns out she's based in LA during the week and comes to Huntington Beach on the weekends. Which is a place Laura randomly decided she wanted to go to because they have a dog beach. Go figure. I guess I'm not as cut off as I thought. Thank God for that. And for the nice emails and calls and comments. (Thank you, Kate, too! I still love the pineapple!)

The Bad to Worse Update.

Today. Fiasco. Mom upset about money again. She was screaming at the Dish people about being overcharged and how it cost too much money. When I spoke to my old landlord? I didn't scream. And that was $1450. Not $40.

I got a residual check in the mail today. For $85.16. Okay. Not very much. I didn't care. I was excited when it came. Still. I signed it over to her. Told her to take it. To cancel the Dish. That I was tired of hearing her scream at people. This money shit is getting old. I had to listen to it the whole time I was growing up for God's sakes. And past five years have been no financial picnic. Now I'm 38. At home with mom. Hard enough. And still listening to it. After I gave her the check? I sent an email to the temp company I had met with in May or June and told them I'd work next week. If they were okay with me being in Orange County. (Sometimes they like you to be local so you can get there quickly).

My face looks like a pizza from stress. I didn't yoga. I don't care. I've been sitting in bed crying and writing. If I don't get out of here quickly, I will put a ladder on the side of the house and jump. Things have seriously have gone from bad to worse.

Glamour magazine published an essay in their Februrary issue about a 43 year-old woman who put an ad in the newspaper for a new family. And her story had many reasons that were similar to the script that I wrote 4 years ago. About a woman whose life isn't working so she kidnaps the perfect parents to be re-raised. I'm thinking that could be a fix for my script. And for my life. If only. It was pretty uplifting. Her talking about unconditional love. And estrangement from her parents. And how she thought that these parents could get her closer to a real relationship. Closer to marriage. How her patterns have been changing. I am indeed living with my issues. I've lasted 27 days. And I don't think I can take it any more.

People keep telling me I've reached my low and it can only get better... then *presto* lower.

So Much For Security.

So it's the weekend. And when I woke up this morning, I wanted to go to Runyan Canyon and hike. The problem? Runyan Canyon is an hour away. And then there's that little matter of gas money. Up and back costs me $15.00 and I am unemployed. And actually trying to get out of mom's, not stay here forever. There is the part of me that wants to say, "Who cares, drive to Runyan. Give yourself that one little thing. Money be damned." I mean, I do need my glasses adjusted. And to pick up my boots at Pasquale. And to show my missing piece of car to the place that did the shoddy job putting it on. Even though they only have a one year warranty and it was one year and eight months when it flew off on the 405. Hopefully not hurting anyone in the process. I wonder if I should have pulled over and retrieved it? If a car hit me, it would get me out of Cypress quicker... and into intensive care. There are no hospitals here. So I'd be in Los Alamitos or Long Beach or maybe even UCLA. If only. I know that's really no laughing matter. I need my face. And working body parts. I'm still single. I had two friends have parents who had major health scares this past week. And I should be thankful that's not something I've had to contend with. My mother is healthy. Her sister, though, my aunt, isn't doing so well. Which I worry about.

Yesterday, I spoke to my old landlord because he still hasn't sent back the security deposit. The law says 21 days. It's been 28. Like he cares. He said he lost my address. Which apparently, it didn't occur to him to call and get. He took it down again. Said he was sending the check that day. Later last night, I saw I had a voicemail. Apparently he's now confused about how much he owes me. And says he has to recalculate. Never mind that I explained it all in a letter to him. Sent him a copy of the lease which he somehow lost so he had no idea how much my security deposit was. It's the same amount it's always been. He owed me $1750 less the $300 he wanted for cleaning. Which seemed like alot for cleaning. But I gave it to him just to appease him. Kelly had a cleaning crew ready to come in. They were only going to charge $150 or something like that. But we cancelled them. I don't know what his problem is. The man has more money than he knows what to do with. That's exactly how he was whenever anything needed to be fixed. He would wait forever to deal with it. Then finally have people come and do a crummy job. And complain about how much it cost him. And how hard it was to be a landlord. When they painted the building they didn't let any of the tenants know and one of the girls who lives in the front got her brand new curtains ruined since her windows were open and she wasn't home to close them. The painters painted anyway. My old landlord, Cavour? He told her that having a building that looked nice on the outside should make up for the curtains. She spent $600 on them. He offered her $50. My next door neighbor, David, fought with Cavour a lot, too. David had good reason. He did tons of work on the place himself-- refinished the hardwood floors, painted, etc. Cavour didn't care.


Okay. So I just called him. He wanted to charge me more. I told him that he gave me his word. And then he said that I still had some things in the kitchen area the day after I moved out. Which I did. But he had said "take your time" and "no problem when I said I was coming to get them that next day" and apologized because I was sick. And so I believed him. When I got there, there was this guy there who was preparing to paint and I went in and got my things. It's a big place. He was in the bedrooms. I didn't get in his way. The guy was there every single day doing work that week and still never made it to the kitchen. I told my landlord I didn't get it. He was being so nice before. Which I appreciated. But then he was going back on being nice. I wasn't sure why he was penny pinching me. So now he says, he's going to send the money. The originally agreed upon amount. We'll see. I don't really trust the guy. Legally, he's supposed to send the breakdown of everything he's spending the $300 on. Anything over $125 that a landlord keeps from a security deposit. I hope it doesn't come down to me having to ask him for that. Even if he did charge for the extra day or days, it would be $120 for him. So if we had cleaned it ourselves... which he didn't want us to do since he's renovating the whole place-- we'd be at about $300 anyway. Argh.

Now I'm just going to go to Orange County yoga. He took the wind out of my sails.

Good Writing. Bad Life...?

Okay, that sounds kind of down. And it is a bit. Why pretend? I'm just kind of in shock that I'm sitting here. At my mom's. And that this somehow became my life. And that it's all because of me. Working since 16. And this is still. All because of me.

When I was talking to Laura yesterday and talking about my script and writing and basically my life, I said that before I left LA, so many things weren't working that I didn't even know what to focus on first... money, a man, work, writing...?? Now, at least there's only one thing I can focus on. She told me I should try and match (as in match.com). I told her I'd rather jump off of my mother's new Dish. And I meant it. For oh so many reasons.

I had a hard enough time when I was on the show and wanted love and a life. (Which was only a million years and lots of failed situations ago). I lost the show, but didn't get love. Just a life. Just not the life I wanted. Weird how that happens, right? When I thought I had love, I did. But the other person just had a place to stay until he could get the hell out. Weird how that happens, right?

Clearly, there are lessons here. I'm just a little tired of them. To be the person left behind. I feel like I should star in my own after school special. If only. I could act. But, no. Luckily, I did write today. All day. And got some good stuff down. Effortlessly. Also weird. But now, I'm tired. Mom is doing her millionth workout of the day and then has a date with her boyfriend. If only.

Foul Mood.

Very foul. Nothing. Could get me out of it. Not driving up to LA. Not being in LA. Not getting my glasses. Not seeing the cute guy who sold me my glasses. Not picking up my drycleaning. Not getting my vitamins. Or going to my Whole Foods. Not getting my roots done. And really much of anything else. I was like that picture. A foul, angry thing. I'm not sure if it was because I had to listen to my mother argue with yet another customer service person about being overcharged and how she has no money. I would like to shake it off. I would also like to shake a martini. And another. And another. But Skunk is on my lap. And I'm going to pet her.

My Own Pursuit of Happyness.

So yesterday, I went and saw The Pursuit of Happyness with mom -- for free! Which she liked. The WGA card makes her think that having me around may pay off somehow. I'm not sure how she felt about my sobbing during the movie, though. She's not much of a crier. But I am. Particularly when Will Smith told his son not to listen when someone tells him he can't do something. And to protect his dream. I'm a sucker for good parenting. My crying, however, didn't start until Will Smith's son asked him if his mom left because of him. Yes, being from a broken home there are just some buttons that are no brainers to push. And then there was the not having money thing. And not giving up thing. And making it thing. Well. It worked for me. I came back all tired and drained and motivated at the same time. And I read my script. And realized it may be farther along than The Holiday... but not quite where The Pursuit of Happyness is at. In other words, I need to get my shit together.

Still, it's so quiet here, that I think about nothing else than this script. And getting out of here, of course. No. Actually, it's not that bad anymore. If you don't care about seeing any human beings other than people you're related to. The Dish works and mom worked out the whole billing thing and is only angry at my old landlord for not sending the security deposit yet. Which is her money. I mean, money I owe her to pay for the very expensive move to the 10x25. Which I can completely understand. I'd be annoyed, too. Anyway. When we came out of the movie, my mom was all worried about the kid in the movie and what happened to him. And I was wondering if he ever saw his mother again. So we bonded over the kid. I mean, I get the whole Chris Gardner needing to be a good dad part. And given my circumstances, I wish I could arrange a private screening for my father. But that would be a waste, as I've learned. I would have to arrange some sort of hypnosis session or something. Which again, would be a waste. But a kid also needs their mother. I'm kind of partial to that whole two parent thing. That's how I want to do it. Otherwise, I would have done it by now. And probably would be much happier in some respects. The kid? Well, that's another story. I would want the dad to be there. And if he didn't want to be. Well. That's something you live with for the rest of your life. And so does your kid.

Back to happiness. Spelled properly. And I'm glad the movie sorted that out, by the way. Bad spelling drives me crazy. I seriously couldn't date a guy who wrote me a love letter because he couldn't spell. I couldn't take it. I will say I'm happy not to have to ask for half of the bills or toilet paper or worry if someone else will pay or if I can pay or if someone is home watching something. Which is a relief. I mean, mom? She works out three times a day. She walks, she Curves, she bikes with her boyfriend. Me? I'm just here. So I'm sure I don't have long before mom gives me the evil eye. But I have a plan. So that helps. And she sees me working in between workouts. So that helps. When I finish this script-- "What Looks Like Freedom" -- I'm buying myself that necklace. Not to hold the torch for the ex-convict. But for me. Because I'm ready for a little freedom. He's had it for awhile. He's had a lot of things. I like the key. It's a cute little touch. It also adds a few bills to the equation. Cute is not cheap.

So today I did Orange County yoga. Which was slow. Yet hard. And mellow. Driving there? Easy. Parking? Easy. No hip music. No long lines of hip people. No famous people. And that was fine. I'm adapting. Even if the yoga instructor didn't have a sense of humor. I always get thinking during yoga. Which is a good thing. Next time I'm bringing a notebook even if he doesn't find it amusing. I came up with some good stuff in downward dog. And afterwards? I dropped off brownies at my sister's that I baked for my nephew. He likes brownies and when I'm bored? I bake. When I need to stay awake? I bake. My AP Biology class in high school loved me. And hopefully now, my nephew will. If not, he has a mom and dad. He'll be fine. Happyness for all.

This is Weird. Very Weird.

Having time to write. Having no place to go. Nowhere to be. Not having to panic about money. Well, I still panic about money. Particularly when my mom freaks out about AT&T overcharging her. Dish overcharging her. And how she can't afford it. Which makes me feel great. As you can imagine. Because I have none coming in. I'm trying to shut it out. The panic and the arguments with various satellite & telephone companies. To keep my eye on the prize. To believe there still be a prize. And that there's a reason to get dressed every day.

In LA, I would break up my writing with walking to get food. Walking to get cat food. Walking to fill prescriptions. Just walking. But here, it would take me two hours to walk to Staples. And showering for the guys that work at Staples seems kind of depressing. Sure, there are always those 19 year olds at the coffee place that wanted me to go to that hooka bar... And there's also death. So today, I read. And cut 100 words from my essay that the editor at the LA Times told me was too long. And went through my notes on everything I've ever written. My works in progress. My script. Waited for the mail. And listened to my eggs shrivel up.

Tomorrow, I visit my storage space again. I can hardly wait.

What My Life Comes Down To aka My Life in a Storage Space

I know, I know. It's not that bad. No social life. No stuff. Lots of people are single at 38. With no kids and no divorce behind them. No ring on their right finger. At least I have my uterus. Even if I'm not using it for anything important. Unlike that one disabled girl whose parents removed it so she wouldn't develop. And I'm not lost at sea like that one guy. Well, not literally. Just metaphorically. So what if he has four women waiting for him? Okay, only one that he can sleep with. The others are his children and that would just be wrong.

Anyway, the storage space is depressing. Sorry, but true. It is. I would close my eyes when we drove through but it's a busy place and I might hit someone. So again, lots of people have their lives in storage. Or just own a lot of shit. Still, I liked my shit. Kind of miss it. Not enough to go to the storage space very often though. It's not like I can touch things or reminisce or anything. Everything's all wrapped up.

So on the whole wrapping it up bandwagon of life, I'm trying to keep all of my New Year's resolutions. I would post them here, but I'd guess anyone who's ever read one posting of mine could probably figure out what I need to do. Or need to work on. So why bore you? The rest of you can catch up. Life in storage. Go.

So welcome to this exciting life change for 2007. It seems astrologyzone.com did peg my move and all of this other stuff. Aries all over America are moving. So if you overhear someone mentioning a move at a bar, bet they're an Aries and see if they'll buy you a drink when you win. Anyway, I can't wait to see if they're right on everything else. If so, I'll be getting a fantastic opportunity in the second half of January. Fingers crossed. I did submit an essay today that I wrote this week. And sent a few other pitches in, too. Yesterday was spent doing research on all the fabulous places that might find anything I have to say interesting. I've also been reading my friend's book to give him notes and help him out if I can. And getting my head back into writing my script. Which is quite heady, I must say.

It's weird to be so cut off from everything. This is validation of why I worked so hard to stay where I was. I'm a city girl. I like stimuli. Independence. People. Places. And things. Not as many things as my mom. Trust me. She put half of her townhouse outside just so these two women could come in and clean this morning. Don't ask. I can't even go there. Where was I? Cut off. That's right.

Oh. John McQ sent me this blog. And told me to check it out. It is quite funny. Yes, funnier than me. But who isn't?
http://gwennieutah.blogspot.com/

And the cute guy from Oliver People's called me today. My glasses are ready. He said they look good. Maybe he wants to take them to dinner. I wonder if I can go, too.

Cypress. In Case You Were Wondering.

Cypress is a city located in southern California near the northern border of Orange County, California, USA. Though it is considered to be a suburb of Long Beach, it has many resident industries. As of May 2005 estimates, the city population was 48,863. Actor John Stamos of Full House fame and golfer Tiger Woods grew up in the city. The Los Alamitos Race Course has Arabian, quarter horse and thoroughbred racing. It was once the only harness racing in Southern California. Although the race course is often thought to be in Los Alamitos, it is actually in Cypress.

There are more fascinating facts on Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cypress,_California

But the median income here is about double that of Detroit. So there is an upside.

Windmills.

On the way back from Palm Desert. A metaphor or a message perhaps? I would guess so. Then again, the windmills were there long before I ever drove past them.

Look at Me, I'm Sliding!

Okay, I may not technically be the one sliding. Actually, that would be Kate and her dad, one of the Bills, doing it up on the dance floor on New Year's Eve. She taught me how to slide yesterday. The first day of 2007 and I already learned a new skill! Watch out, world. Here I come. Kate knows lots of fancy things. And she explains them in ways that I understand. And can easily do. Which is all very exciting for me. Much as is the fact that the DSL Man will be at my mother's house today. How can things get better than that?

Okay. Here's how. Last night we saw "The Holiday"-- for free! That WGA card still works whether or not my membership is active or not. Isn't that a beautiful thing? We saved 18 bucks. That's a lot of money. The movie was sweet if not more than a little contrived. So it didn't really stay with you all that much. Which was too bad. But the outfits that Cameron Diaz and Kate Winslet were wearing? Phenomenal. Kate and I were trying to figure out what designers made different pieces (her coat, her boots, her sweater) and crazily enough-- the info was on some random blog on the internet. Which had a lot of hits. And comments. It seems other people were on the same page as us. Quite sad that we were more entertained by that then the actual movie, however, we remain females who like to look good. Or aspire to own cute outfits. While conquering the world. So the movie was effective in that it motivated me to finish my screenplay. It's been printed out for awhile. It needs to be read and worked on and focused on. And all those kind of things. I realized last night that it's much further along than I thought. So now, it's all about finishing it without falling into the black hole of ex-convictdom aka romanticizing what was not. Which I have a tendency to do. Which "The Holiday" spoke to quite well actually. I am Kate Winslet. In that movie at least. Or at least I was. Not anymore. Because now, I can slide.

Happy 2007!

Well, my mantra for the new year was going to be "No Pain. All Gain." But then I spent the first day of 2007 vomiting. Maybe that means I'm getting all of the pain out of my system on the first day...? Well, anyway. It would seem it was from having a too rocking of a New Year's Eve. But it wasn't. I had a perfectly rocking New Year's Eve. I drove up in no traffic, met Kate and the two Bills at the outlet stores over here aka "Buyers Can Make Mistakes." Still, I found some dirty martini juice to buy and an Auntie Anne's pretzel. Oh, and pretzel mix for my niece and nephew. I thought the best stores were the home stores. Although, Kate and the 2 Bills made a purchase at the Adidas store. I probably should have gotten some socks. But I didn't go even go in.

After free wine and cocktails from the bartender at The Embassy Suites (every day from 5:30pm-7:30pm) and some bar snacks, we headed out to The Nest. It was quite fun. We danced. We saw wigs. Lots and lots of wigs. On men and women alike. Even one on a guy wearing leather pants. (Both were not good wardrobe choices. And after some deliberation, we decided that they both were a choice. In other words, not a joke). Kate's brother even got hit on. By our waitress. She didn't make eye contact with any of the rest of us the entire evening. And Bill Sr? He's quite the dancer. We could barely keep up. Maybe that's why I'm sick today. I do try. Still. A lovely time was had by all. So here's to a Happy 2007!


P.S. I'm following your advice Mr. McQ and doing the deadliine thing. I even told myself I had to feel better by 2pm. But I didn't until 4:30pm. Close. It was in the same day. Now off to write my resolutions. I have lots of them.