Where I come from the DJ can make all the difference. I walked into a bar tonight and the DJ was a guy that used to spin at a club I used to sneak into when I was underage. He came barreling up to me and gave me a big hug. I frequent these hometown places like every 5 years but whenever I do I am always on the dance floor. When I'm home I'm known as the actress from LA and people are impressed and they ask for my autograph and I end up apologizing most of the time because they've probably never seen me in anything but it doesn't matter cuz I'm in LA, I got out.
I went shopping with my mother at the mall and it was the most horrific experience. She wanted to go to a mall with over 200 stores and only wanted to go to one store to buy shoes, oh and the whole time she kept saying she didn't have any money but everytime she found something she liked, money miraculously appeared. Anything that is deviated from the plan is a complete meltdown and six shopping bags later she walks out like we are one big happy family and no insults have been traded. It's exhausting. When we pull up in her driveway she says to keep the bags in her trunk because she doesn't want her husband to see. "By the way you're a double D" she says to me. "What are you talking about/" I reply. "You're bras are too small, you've gotten bigger." Only a mother would say that right. "You're waist is still small, so you're ok?" Thanks Ma, for the seal of approval, I guess.
Everything back here is about gaining weight, losing weight, who wears what, etc. etc. "Well thank God you're wearin what you're wearin, cuz everyone's wearin a shift dress with a shrug." "Really Ma, you all discussed this?" " I hope so and so doesn't get drunk at the party and ruin it, you know I think she's on xanax." And this is the extent of my mental stimulation while I am home relaxing. Never a dull moment.
And of course, I take dramatic license and exaggerate the truth while I'm writing :)
Some guy wanted to meet me tonight. I think he was in the mob. I come from a mafia town. When the head of the crime family died, Frank Sinatra came to the funeral. That's what everyone says. This kid I went to school with turned State's evidence and ratted out a bunch of people and now he is in the witness protection program. My cousin says he may come back to town and I probably shouldn't be writing about this but no names are mentioned and the drama is riveting.
Back to the DJ, it was amazing, he played Nia Peeples, Judy Torres, Johnny B, Sapphire, Marc Anthony (before the JLo days, when he was just a club singer), we couldn't get enough. Me and my girls from High School stayed on the dance floor for 2 hours straight. The DJ went off, I could tell he was happy, he was inspired. We told him to play all the old school joints, the classics. It took me back and I remembered who I was and where I came from.
Tomorrow the fun begins, all the cousins fly in and its party time. I can't wait. I have my dress and hat for the tea party. I will convene with all the girls in the family, there are a lot of us, we outnumber the boys. Then I will take them out dancing and my friend will play Madonna and I won't leave the dance floor.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
It's All About The Envelope
I had the most hellish plane ride travelling east. First of all I have never in my life taken a 6am flight and when I finally took my seat on the plane I just about collapsed. I slept for the first three hours which was amazing and then I awoke to the most gnarly turbulence. It was like being on an amusement park ride gone bad. It did not stop for almost 2 hours and we had to keep our seat belts on the whole time. Twenty minutes before we landed I started to feel really sick, it was so hot, I was crammed by the window and the only comfort I had was resting my cheek on the tray in front of me. I was staring out the window and wiping the sweat from my face and then I had to reach for the throw up bag. It was so embarassing, I tried to hide my misery by dry heaving ever so elegantly. I managed to calm myself down and waited for everyone to exit the plane. When I stood up my legs were like jelly. Thank God I only traveled with one carry-on because I could barely lift my purse. I made it to one of the magazine shops and quickly grabbed a coke from the fridge. I don't even remember paying for it as I found the nearest bench and drank the bottle of bubbles in almost one gulp. I curled my knees close to me and rested my head, after about 5 minutes I felt better. I was in Washington D.C. and had to find my connecting flight within a half an hour.
One small plane ride later, much better the second time and I was in Massachusetts. My mother scooped me from the airport. It was humid, windy and grey. We went to grab a bite to eat and I was happy to be back. I couldn't wait to go see my cousin, she just had a baby, so after my lamb chops with mint jelly (yum) we took the highway to her house.
She is 30, beautiful, hard working and the most amazing mother to 2 gorgeous little girls. We caught up on so many things and then we talked about weddings and showers and christenings. She had a cork board filled with invitations to various shindigs. She talked about how annoying it was for her to go to all of these parties and how at the end of the day it was all about the envelope. "All anyone cares about is how much you put in the envelope." she said. Well it was her man's side of the family that thought this way. Now I normally wouldn't air anybody's dirty laundry but she urged me to write about it. She said it was comical and everyone sort of joked about it but to a select few it was serious business. For example, if it was a wedding, you had to give $500 and if you didn't, it was always "oh so and so only gave $450", and you were forever known as "$450", branded like it was a scarlet letter. People actually kept tallies, writing it down and asking you how much you had in your envelope. "I'm so sick of these envelopes, I have to get a second job just to keep up with the envelopes," my cousin said. We laughed. It was so odd yet real. People lived by this. It was this crazy subculture that she was subjected to. In the end, she told them all off, said they should mind their manners and not ask about the damn envelopes.
I got up to leave and gave her a big hug. I told her I was proud of her. We will meet again on Saturday for a Bridal Shower tea party, I will bring my homemade hand drawn card and I'm sure no one will ask me about it.
One small plane ride later, much better the second time and I was in Massachusetts. My mother scooped me from the airport. It was humid, windy and grey. We went to grab a bite to eat and I was happy to be back. I couldn't wait to go see my cousin, she just had a baby, so after my lamb chops with mint jelly (yum) we took the highway to her house.
She is 30, beautiful, hard working and the most amazing mother to 2 gorgeous little girls. We caught up on so many things and then we talked about weddings and showers and christenings. She had a cork board filled with invitations to various shindigs. She talked about how annoying it was for her to go to all of these parties and how at the end of the day it was all about the envelope. "All anyone cares about is how much you put in the envelope." she said. Well it was her man's side of the family that thought this way. Now I normally wouldn't air anybody's dirty laundry but she urged me to write about it. She said it was comical and everyone sort of joked about it but to a select few it was serious business. For example, if it was a wedding, you had to give $500 and if you didn't, it was always "oh so and so only gave $450", and you were forever known as "$450", branded like it was a scarlet letter. People actually kept tallies, writing it down and asking you how much you had in your envelope. "I'm so sick of these envelopes, I have to get a second job just to keep up with the envelopes," my cousin said. We laughed. It was so odd yet real. People lived by this. It was this crazy subculture that she was subjected to. In the end, she told them all off, said they should mind their manners and not ask about the damn envelopes.
I got up to leave and gave her a big hug. I told her I was proud of her. We will meet again on Saturday for a Bridal Shower tea party, I will bring my homemade hand drawn card and I'm sure no one will ask me about it.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Thank You
I am amazed at the response that my little blog is getting. Thank you all for the love. The messages I get from people are so heartfelt and encouraging. I guess truth begets truth and I am slowly finding my way. To be told that reading my blog has become part of one's morning routine is such an honor. I figured I would put some of my stories out there in hopes that people could somewhat relate. A very wise man said to me once "stop licking your wounds, wear them as a badge of honor." That really stuck with me and I started doing just that. I have always felt a bit tattered anyway so why not just go with it. Work with what I've got. Voices from the past have crept up on me with gracious compliments and my horizon is expanding. I usually can't be bothered with more than one or two people that I call my peeps just because that has been a safe little island for a bit, but I think it's time to venture to the mainland.
A friend called my writing lovely the other day. That was awesome to me. Lovely is underrated and I'm glad that part of me represents that. Because of my day job I have so many conversations with all different kinds of people from all different walks of life and people tell me things. It has always been this way, I don't know if it's the freckles on my face or the way I carry myself but a lot of people spill it. I'm ok with this, it's actually a very beautiful thing and a great source of inspiration to me. I feel blessed that I have such a birds eye view into humanity. I think it helps me to write from my heart. The world is in such a state right now that any sort of connection that's good is necessary. At this point in my life I can only speak from my small slice of the world and that happens to be here in Hollywood. Boy, is it a doozy, I think that's why I feel like I'm on the battlefield everyday. The view of the world through celebrity is so skewed. People walk around here like zombies searching for approval and I just want to give them Pinkberry and a hug. It's all going to be ok.
I remember the snow up to my waist in the winter in Massachusetts as I walked home from school. All I cared about was the hot chocolate I would get once I was inside the warm house. I always took my boots, gloves, hat and scarf off at the back door. Everything was slushy and wet. I would run to the heater and just stand there. I would think about my ballet class and wonder if I would ever get to dance in Swan Lake. That was a long time ago and that time in front of the heater allowed me to dream. So thank God for that snow and the cocoa, I'm here now still in front of that heater except it's the California sun and some of those dreams have come true.
A friend called my writing lovely the other day. That was awesome to me. Lovely is underrated and I'm glad that part of me represents that. Because of my day job I have so many conversations with all different kinds of people from all different walks of life and people tell me things. It has always been this way, I don't know if it's the freckles on my face or the way I carry myself but a lot of people spill it. I'm ok with this, it's actually a very beautiful thing and a great source of inspiration to me. I feel blessed that I have such a birds eye view into humanity. I think it helps me to write from my heart. The world is in such a state right now that any sort of connection that's good is necessary. At this point in my life I can only speak from my small slice of the world and that happens to be here in Hollywood. Boy, is it a doozy, I think that's why I feel like I'm on the battlefield everyday. The view of the world through celebrity is so skewed. People walk around here like zombies searching for approval and I just want to give them Pinkberry and a hug. It's all going to be ok.
I remember the snow up to my waist in the winter in Massachusetts as I walked home from school. All I cared about was the hot chocolate I would get once I was inside the warm house. I always took my boots, gloves, hat and scarf off at the back door. Everything was slushy and wet. I would run to the heater and just stand there. I would think about my ballet class and wonder if I would ever get to dance in Swan Lake. That was a long time ago and that time in front of the heater allowed me to dream. So thank God for that snow and the cocoa, I'm here now still in front of that heater except it's the California sun and some of those dreams have come true.
The Door
Everytime I sign in to write I really have no idea what is going to get put on the page. I just try to be and let the words flow. I dragged my behind out of bed and stumbled to my local cafe, toting my computer, I am now one of those people that writes at a coffee shop. I have to say, I'm kinda the worst person to wait on. The servers here wander around aimlessly and I just want take their apron and do their job. I'd probably make about 150, this lunch shift and I could do it with my eyes closed. I better drink some more of my coffee and stop being so judgey, they are trying.
I live in a Hasidic Jewish neighborhood and I am always amazed at these young girls with 4 kids trailing behind them. My street is chock full of beautiful families and they seem to have an inherent joy, something to be said for tradition. In the back of my mind I always wondered if I would be one of those traditional people. For a brief moment, I thought maybe I would marry my first love but life took us in different directions. When we were walking home from school one day, the owner of the local pizza shop asked him if he wanted a job. He was really smart and a promising athlete in school. He dropped out and took the job. He still works there. When I go home I always think about going to that pizza shop but I chicken out. I don't want to see what time has done to him.
I had a brief Hollywood marriage once, it lasted a little over a year. It was very unglamorous. One of those things where it was over before it began. When I talked to my Catholic priest about it, he asked me if I was married in the church, I said no. "Great, then it wasn't valid, you are free to remarry." I'll take that. Pretend like it never happened. That works for me. I always thought it never really counted anyway, there wasn't any unity or husband, wife like behavior. We got together and made a ton of cash, that was the extent of it. He was a shmuck, I left and the rest is history. It brought me to my knees though. Reboot my entire life. I wanted to leave Los Angeles, but I knew in the end that wouldn't make me happy so I moved to the Valley. That's kind of like moving away. It's a whole different ballgame.
When I left, I took my clothes and that's it. I slept on the floor for a year in a converted garage. One day, my only friend that survived the bomb that went off in my life, told her husband that I didn't have a bed. The next day there was a brand new one propped up against my door. I started crying and that's when the healing began, for the first time in a long time I felt cared for. From that point on I slowly started to venture out into society, usually to my friends couch where I would eventually collapse in tears. At one point she looked at me from her computer and said "just cry" and I did, I just wept it all out of my system. My agent started sending me on auditions and guess what, I started booking. I booked a huge modeling job that took me to New York, it was fabulous and I was getting stronger and stronger everyday.
I remember the first time I laughed. I was working for a director and his wife. Me and the housekeeper had become friends and she was helping me tie plexiglass to the bottom of the gates. They had just gotten a puppy and didn't want it to escape. It was a tedious job and it was pouring rain out. She saw me fumbling and poked her head out, "You need help." "Yes, please." I said. We attempted to tie these plastic pieces and it wasn't working, finally they came crashing down into the puddle in the driveway. We erupted in laughter, crying giggles as we stood there in the rain. She looked at me and said "this is good, you're laughing , you're getting better." Sometimes I needed others to point out that I was moving forward because it was very hard for me to see.
So now I sit and write at this coffee shop, the food isn't very good and I complain about the service, but at least I have a voice again. There is lots of traffic on Beverly Blvd. now and I am eyeing my favorite boutique across the street. I want a new dress but I have to pay for the shuttle to the airport tonight so that's a big fat no. I gotta figure out what to do with this writing, I'm thinking about a screenwriting class at UCLA, I've always wanted to take one. Maybe my words will unlock my future. I remember Bruce Springsteen said ones that his "writing was his key to the world".
I've got my key, now I just have to find the right door.
I live in a Hasidic Jewish neighborhood and I am always amazed at these young girls with 4 kids trailing behind them. My street is chock full of beautiful families and they seem to have an inherent joy, something to be said for tradition. In the back of my mind I always wondered if I would be one of those traditional people. For a brief moment, I thought maybe I would marry my first love but life took us in different directions. When we were walking home from school one day, the owner of the local pizza shop asked him if he wanted a job. He was really smart and a promising athlete in school. He dropped out and took the job. He still works there. When I go home I always think about going to that pizza shop but I chicken out. I don't want to see what time has done to him.
I had a brief Hollywood marriage once, it lasted a little over a year. It was very unglamorous. One of those things where it was over before it began. When I talked to my Catholic priest about it, he asked me if I was married in the church, I said no. "Great, then it wasn't valid, you are free to remarry." I'll take that. Pretend like it never happened. That works for me. I always thought it never really counted anyway, there wasn't any unity or husband, wife like behavior. We got together and made a ton of cash, that was the extent of it. He was a shmuck, I left and the rest is history. It brought me to my knees though. Reboot my entire life. I wanted to leave Los Angeles, but I knew in the end that wouldn't make me happy so I moved to the Valley. That's kind of like moving away. It's a whole different ballgame.
When I left, I took my clothes and that's it. I slept on the floor for a year in a converted garage. One day, my only friend that survived the bomb that went off in my life, told her husband that I didn't have a bed. The next day there was a brand new one propped up against my door. I started crying and that's when the healing began, for the first time in a long time I felt cared for. From that point on I slowly started to venture out into society, usually to my friends couch where I would eventually collapse in tears. At one point she looked at me from her computer and said "just cry" and I did, I just wept it all out of my system. My agent started sending me on auditions and guess what, I started booking. I booked a huge modeling job that took me to New York, it was fabulous and I was getting stronger and stronger everyday.
I remember the first time I laughed. I was working for a director and his wife. Me and the housekeeper had become friends and she was helping me tie plexiglass to the bottom of the gates. They had just gotten a puppy and didn't want it to escape. It was a tedious job and it was pouring rain out. She saw me fumbling and poked her head out, "You need help." "Yes, please." I said. We attempted to tie these plastic pieces and it wasn't working, finally they came crashing down into the puddle in the driveway. We erupted in laughter, crying giggles as we stood there in the rain. She looked at me and said "this is good, you're laughing , you're getting better." Sometimes I needed others to point out that I was moving forward because it was very hard for me to see.
So now I sit and write at this coffee shop, the food isn't very good and I complain about the service, but at least I have a voice again. There is lots of traffic on Beverly Blvd. now and I am eyeing my favorite boutique across the street. I want a new dress but I have to pay for the shuttle to the airport tonight so that's a big fat no. I gotta figure out what to do with this writing, I'm thinking about a screenwriting class at UCLA, I've always wanted to take one. Maybe my words will unlock my future. I remember Bruce Springsteen said ones that his "writing was his key to the world".
I've got my key, now I just have to find the right door.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Bits and Pieces of Possibility
I try to read a lot. It's usually bits and pieces of books. Lately it has been a lot of the Bible. I love Psalms, Proverbs, very high drama. I listen and I learn. I am also reading this book called Intimacy by OSHO. He has a section in it where he talks about fame. He says "You can become famous, but if you are phony, you live in misery. You don't know what blessings life is showering on you - you will never know. You don't have enough intelligence to know. You will never see the beauty of existence because you don't have the sensitivity to know it. You will never see the sheer miracle that surrounds you, that crosses your path in millions of ways every day. You will never see it because to see it, you need a tremendous capacity to understand, to feel, to be." Now I don't know about you but I think this is sheer brilliance. I wish I could meet more people that thought this way. This deeply. This honest. This man is speaking my language. A voice that I crave. That's why I read my books, the book of Ruth and Matthew and John to name a few.
Here in Los Angeles, it's usually about auditions, or working out or someone's latest gig. I have seen the misery that OSHO is talking about, young people that hit it big quick and they are miserable. They had a lot of money to distract themselves, but no real friends. I tried to be true to a few but in the end selfishness won. It was bittersweet. Lessons learned.
I think that's why I gravitate toward old people. My best friend for 9 years was Cassie, I've mentioned her before, we waitressed together. She was old school. A real friend. We spoke everyday. It was magical. Nowadays you talk to a friend everyday out here and you're "needy". It's bullshit and reality and I cope. One other friend I spoke to everyday was this Alabama girl named Angela. We had a good run. We were besties for two years and then she moved back home to get married and have kids. We still talk, of course not as much when we were running mates but she checks in and it feels like family.
I stop and look up. My friend is sitting in front of me. I am surprised. He lives here in Los Angeles but we found out we were both born in the same town in Massachusetts. He can go there, a kindred spirit with a sensitive soul. We talked about dreams, friendships, betrayal and heartache. Can you imagine, all of this in the back corner of a restaurant on our break. He then reminded me of the story of Joseph from the Old Testament. It is amazing. Joseph went through it. He was betrayed by his brothers, thrown in jail, got out of jail, falsely accused of a crime, thrown back in jail and then finally had victory. My friend said if Joseph didn't go through all of that suffering he never would have become the man that he did. Having virtues in this town is a rarity. It's a path that is traveled solo a lot.
I'm sitting here, watching, thinking, and another friend, co-worker walks up. He asks me for his tips then says "I'm such a bad Catholic." "Why?" I respond. "I didn't go to church for Easter, I haven't been to church in 2 years." I said, "That's ok, I've been a bad Catholic too, not going to church for a while." He's 22 years old and works his ass off. He brought his girlfriend in for dinner. "You're girlfriend is so pretty," I said to him. "She's my wife." Wow, I wasn't expecting that. "How old do you think she is?" he asked me. I thought maybe 23. He said "she's 38 years old." I could not believe it. He is absolutely in love with her. He is sitting across from me telling me how much he misses her because she is in Mexico for a month. I have a feeling he doesn't really have anyone to talk to. He says he has a sick feeling in his stomach. He's lovesick and I think it is absolutely adorable. It is sweet and innocent and reminds me of the possibilities.
So tomorrow night, late, me and my virtues will take a cab to the airport and fly home to Massachusetts. It's been almost a year since I've seen my family. Babies have been born and engagements are happening. The minute I step off that plane I'm getting pizza, we have the best pizza in the world.
Here in Los Angeles, it's usually about auditions, or working out or someone's latest gig. I have seen the misery that OSHO is talking about, young people that hit it big quick and they are miserable. They had a lot of money to distract themselves, but no real friends. I tried to be true to a few but in the end selfishness won. It was bittersweet. Lessons learned.
I think that's why I gravitate toward old people. My best friend for 9 years was Cassie, I've mentioned her before, we waitressed together. She was old school. A real friend. We spoke everyday. It was magical. Nowadays you talk to a friend everyday out here and you're "needy". It's bullshit and reality and I cope. One other friend I spoke to everyday was this Alabama girl named Angela. We had a good run. We were besties for two years and then she moved back home to get married and have kids. We still talk, of course not as much when we were running mates but she checks in and it feels like family.
I stop and look up. My friend is sitting in front of me. I am surprised. He lives here in Los Angeles but we found out we were both born in the same town in Massachusetts. He can go there, a kindred spirit with a sensitive soul. We talked about dreams, friendships, betrayal and heartache. Can you imagine, all of this in the back corner of a restaurant on our break. He then reminded me of the story of Joseph from the Old Testament. It is amazing. Joseph went through it. He was betrayed by his brothers, thrown in jail, got out of jail, falsely accused of a crime, thrown back in jail and then finally had victory. My friend said if Joseph didn't go through all of that suffering he never would have become the man that he did. Having virtues in this town is a rarity. It's a path that is traveled solo a lot.
I'm sitting here, watching, thinking, and another friend, co-worker walks up. He asks me for his tips then says "I'm such a bad Catholic." "Why?" I respond. "I didn't go to church for Easter, I haven't been to church in 2 years." I said, "That's ok, I've been a bad Catholic too, not going to church for a while." He's 22 years old and works his ass off. He brought his girlfriend in for dinner. "You're girlfriend is so pretty," I said to him. "She's my wife." Wow, I wasn't expecting that. "How old do you think she is?" he asked me. I thought maybe 23. He said "she's 38 years old." I could not believe it. He is absolutely in love with her. He is sitting across from me telling me how much he misses her because she is in Mexico for a month. I have a feeling he doesn't really have anyone to talk to. He says he has a sick feeling in his stomach. He's lovesick and I think it is absolutely adorable. It is sweet and innocent and reminds me of the possibilities.
So tomorrow night, late, me and my virtues will take a cab to the airport and fly home to Massachusetts. It's been almost a year since I've seen my family. Babies have been born and engagements are happening. The minute I step off that plane I'm getting pizza, we have the best pizza in the world.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
The Winds of Change
I have planned a trip home and I think I will stay longer than expected. I feel the need to connect with my roots, where the line between right and wrong is black and white. I know that I am kind, I was raised that way. I think I take after my grandfather, everybody loved him. The only drawback is when its too much. I never thought this was a bad thing but the ways of the world have shown me differently. Probably need to covet this tender piece of me in my reserve tank, for those who are worthy, I wish everybody was but that's foolish. I'm grown and have to accept things as they are. Los Angeles is tricky. Everyone is out for themselves it seems. What can you do for them? What do you bring to the table? I bring nothing but my word and the occasional bad joke, some people seem to laugh. I know in the end I will be ok because I am ok now. It seems I have some semblance of peace after wandering in the territory of heartbreak for just a tinge too long. I convene with like souls, they are few and far between and we all admit our struggles. Not everyone can appreciate a kind heart, it is important to choose wisely.
I read the proverb of "The Wife of Noble Character" Proverbs 31: 10-31. The only book that matters breaks it down. I highly recommend it. I read it and feel reassured. Tomorrow I rest, I am just learning how to do this by the way, never really knew the importance of it. It is more than just sleeping, it is filling up with the good things.
Everything is changing and I'm OK with it.
I read the proverb of "The Wife of Noble Character" Proverbs 31: 10-31. The only book that matters breaks it down. I highly recommend it. I read it and feel reassured. Tomorrow I rest, I am just learning how to do this by the way, never really knew the importance of it. It is more than just sleeping, it is filling up with the good things.
Everything is changing and I'm OK with it.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
In the Late Night
I never thought that when I grew up I would do most of my living at night. I guess my early childhood was an indicator. I literally had to be dragged from my bed in the mornings to go to school and I was always late. The Catholic nuns were none to happy but my Grandmother watched me during the day and she always covered for me. I really can't formulate a sentence pretty much before noon, but let me tell you by 8 o'clock at night it's on. This is considered my afternoon. When I was in college I always scheduled my classes after 1pm and if I did have to go earlier, I rolled out of bed brushed my teeth and put a baseball cap on. This was a far cry from growing up with a mom who told me everytime I left the house " put your face on." I rebelled and still do to this day. Face, schmace. I put my makeup on when I want to play dress up, that's it. Period. Dot. And when I do, it's dramatic, my alter ego is in place, red lips, dark eyes and lashes for days. I still apply my makeup like the Italian girls in my old neighborhood, lots of it and with an attitude.
When I graduated college, I worked a day job for the first two years out in the real world. I actually got into it but it was definitely on my terms. I was working for Chanel in New York City and I had to be there by 8:30 a.m. I lived on the edge of the park at Central Park West right around the corner from Madonna. It was super fabulous and I was 22 years old. Not quite sure how I made it all happen, kind of seems like a dream now. Anyway, I would set my alarm for 8:00, roll out of bed, throw on my suit with running shoes, put my hair in a ponytail, grab my bag, barrel down my steps and head east through the park toward Fifth Avenue. Everyone said it was so dangerous to walk through the park that early, I thought it was magical. I would exit around the Plaza Hotel and then cut through the alley on 56th street and end up in front of 9 West 57th Street. I always got my bagel with cream cheese and a coffee from the cart on the sidewalk. I took the elevator to the 44th fl, the view was like a dream (an aerial shot of the rectangular park) it was intense, and I dashed down the hall to my cubicle. I still didn't have "my face on" when I gathered all the newspapers on my desk; NY Post (I still read it online everyday, I'm a Page Six girl all the way), NY Daily News, NY Times, Wall Street Journal and The Observer. I munched on my bagel, read the papers, put my makeup on and 45 minutes later I could formulate a sentence with a noun and a verb. I was the lowest on the totem pole, the secretary, but of course I could do my boss' job with my eyes closed because I had to, with her 3 hour lunches and two hour sessions with her trainer, Pierre, someone had to run the show. That was my glamorous life in the daytime, it lasted two years and then I got bored.
I quickly returned to the nighttime hours when I moved to California and began my waitressing job. I would only wake up early if I booked a TV Show or a movie, that's it. The sun shines all the time out here so I still get plenty of it, and the the sunsets are killer especially in Venice Beach. I've thought about it and I don't know if I could date a guy who was a morning person. I'm sure I would get mad at him a lot, especially if he tried to talk to me before I was ready to speak or before my coffee I should say. I have become spoiled over the years, the by-product of being massively independent (My mother said I have always been independent, she said on the first day of Nursery School I looked around at all the crying kids like "what is your problem" as they were clinging to their parents). I don't want to share my morning, yet when I do it's like going on vacation. If I mentally prepare myself to get up early and actually converse with somebody, it's like traveling to a foreign land. I'm so amazed that people can function at that hour. The lighting and the smells are different and everyone moves faster.
So I will relish my morning vacations, they are rare but for now I'll stick with the night. Nights are unexpected, fascinating, colorful, inspiring and most importantly it's when I write.
When I graduated college, I worked a day job for the first two years out in the real world. I actually got into it but it was definitely on my terms. I was working for Chanel in New York City and I had to be there by 8:30 a.m. I lived on the edge of the park at Central Park West right around the corner from Madonna. It was super fabulous and I was 22 years old. Not quite sure how I made it all happen, kind of seems like a dream now. Anyway, I would set my alarm for 8:00, roll out of bed, throw on my suit with running shoes, put my hair in a ponytail, grab my bag, barrel down my steps and head east through the park toward Fifth Avenue. Everyone said it was so dangerous to walk through the park that early, I thought it was magical. I would exit around the Plaza Hotel and then cut through the alley on 56th street and end up in front of 9 West 57th Street. I always got my bagel with cream cheese and a coffee from the cart on the sidewalk. I took the elevator to the 44th fl, the view was like a dream (an aerial shot of the rectangular park) it was intense, and I dashed down the hall to my cubicle. I still didn't have "my face on" when I gathered all the newspapers on my desk; NY Post (I still read it online everyday, I'm a Page Six girl all the way), NY Daily News, NY Times, Wall Street Journal and The Observer. I munched on my bagel, read the papers, put my makeup on and 45 minutes later I could formulate a sentence with a noun and a verb. I was the lowest on the totem pole, the secretary, but of course I could do my boss' job with my eyes closed because I had to, with her 3 hour lunches and two hour sessions with her trainer, Pierre, someone had to run the show. That was my glamorous life in the daytime, it lasted two years and then I got bored.
I quickly returned to the nighttime hours when I moved to California and began my waitressing job. I would only wake up early if I booked a TV Show or a movie, that's it. The sun shines all the time out here so I still get plenty of it, and the the sunsets are killer especially in Venice Beach. I've thought about it and I don't know if I could date a guy who was a morning person. I'm sure I would get mad at him a lot, especially if he tried to talk to me before I was ready to speak or before my coffee I should say. I have become spoiled over the years, the by-product of being massively independent (My mother said I have always been independent, she said on the first day of Nursery School I looked around at all the crying kids like "what is your problem" as they were clinging to their parents). I don't want to share my morning, yet when I do it's like going on vacation. If I mentally prepare myself to get up early and actually converse with somebody, it's like traveling to a foreign land. I'm so amazed that people can function at that hour. The lighting and the smells are different and everyone moves faster.
So I will relish my morning vacations, they are rare but for now I'll stick with the night. Nights are unexpected, fascinating, colorful, inspiring and most importantly it's when I write.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Do I Have To?
I haven't written in a day. I have been thinking about it a lot and then when I sit down I am uninspired. Not sure why?
The Chik Fil A I had for breakfast was delicious. Made the drive all the way down to USC to get it. They play Christian music and in a way it's like going to church except you get to eat a chicken biscuit. :)
After that indulgence, I made myself go on a power walk in my fancy neighborhood. Hancock Park, it's Old Hollywood with big beautiful homes and manicured lawns. Lucille Ball used to live in my hood. I wish she were my neighbor, how cool would that be! Anyway, I used to power walk almost everyday. I think I am going to start doing that again, the thought of going to a gym makes me nauseous, all those skinny frames with botox and restylane, I feel like I'm in the twilight zone. I do hit up my yoga teacher twice a week. I adore him. He is the best.
Whenever I drive to his studio I have to pass this massive GNC billboard on Sunset Blvd. that says "Live Radiantly". The model in their ad has so much plastic surgery in her face that she looks sorta like Angelina Jolie but not really. It's just odd and makes me mad. It's a lie. She's not living radiantly, she's injecting poison in her face. Next time, I'm taking the side streets, I'm gonna detour from the hypocrisy of it all.
What else do I have to do? Not much. Except say my prayers and please and thank you. Eat some greens everyday and drink lots of water. I make myself do the water part. I don't have to pay any extra attention to the guy in the expensive suit with the big Hollywood job. Even though he expects me to, I don't have to, he doesn't deserve it. He can't believe it but oh well. I'm not impressed, he didn't keep his word. He can have his fancy TV show. I got my blog. So there.
I remember being in an acting class once with a girl that would get botox injections. The only shots I was used to were measles, mumps and rubella, this was a whole other level. Cosmetic doctors, luxurious, expensive and self indulgent and my grandmother would throw in "vain". My friend was beautiful and did not need it by any means. She brought me to one of her appointments once. I sat there mute in the office while blood spewed from the tiny holes in her face from the needle. I was white. She turned to me with her pin cushion face and said "hey let me see your face under the light, I'll tell you if you need it." I threw my hands over my cheeks and recoiled into the corner of the room. "No, I don't want to know." I knew I didn't need that shit, I have freckles and I giggle a lot, a smile trumps a fine line any day.
Anyway when we left the appointment in Beverly Hills we took off for Hollywood to meet some friends at the latest hotspot, some Cuban restaurant. The busboys that worked there seemed to be impeccable with their cleaning because when my friend approached the glass door she walked smack dab into it. She went down like a rag doll with her hand on her forehead. We both started to laugh awkwardly because it was funny but she was also in pain. She turned to look at me and I swear she had a bump on her forehead the size of a Grade A egg. I gasped. The botox had blown up, backfired, right there front and center. I felt so bad. We got her a towel with ice but it took forever for the swelling to go down. The moral of the story is, I do not trust that stuff. The people that get it done here in Los Angeles, they don't necessarily look younger, they just all look the same, it's strange. It's the same frozen, slightly perturbed look. I'd rather go have some seaweed soup and steam at the Korean Spa, it's a deal, only 15 bucks.
So, I don't have to write, but I do. I don't have to get botox and I don't. I don't have to power walk but I love my jeans and I always want to fit in them. I don't have to giggle but I can't imagine not. I don't have to be a good daughter but I am. I don't have to be a good friend yet I try every day to be the best.
The Chik Fil A I had for breakfast was delicious. Made the drive all the way down to USC to get it. They play Christian music and in a way it's like going to church except you get to eat a chicken biscuit. :)
After that indulgence, I made myself go on a power walk in my fancy neighborhood. Hancock Park, it's Old Hollywood with big beautiful homes and manicured lawns. Lucille Ball used to live in my hood. I wish she were my neighbor, how cool would that be! Anyway, I used to power walk almost everyday. I think I am going to start doing that again, the thought of going to a gym makes me nauseous, all those skinny frames with botox and restylane, I feel like I'm in the twilight zone. I do hit up my yoga teacher twice a week. I adore him. He is the best.
Whenever I drive to his studio I have to pass this massive GNC billboard on Sunset Blvd. that says "Live Radiantly". The model in their ad has so much plastic surgery in her face that she looks sorta like Angelina Jolie but not really. It's just odd and makes me mad. It's a lie. She's not living radiantly, she's injecting poison in her face. Next time, I'm taking the side streets, I'm gonna detour from the hypocrisy of it all.
What else do I have to do? Not much. Except say my prayers and please and thank you. Eat some greens everyday and drink lots of water. I make myself do the water part. I don't have to pay any extra attention to the guy in the expensive suit with the big Hollywood job. Even though he expects me to, I don't have to, he doesn't deserve it. He can't believe it but oh well. I'm not impressed, he didn't keep his word. He can have his fancy TV show. I got my blog. So there.
I remember being in an acting class once with a girl that would get botox injections. The only shots I was used to were measles, mumps and rubella, this was a whole other level. Cosmetic doctors, luxurious, expensive and self indulgent and my grandmother would throw in "vain". My friend was beautiful and did not need it by any means. She brought me to one of her appointments once. I sat there mute in the office while blood spewed from the tiny holes in her face from the needle. I was white. She turned to me with her pin cushion face and said "hey let me see your face under the light, I'll tell you if you need it." I threw my hands over my cheeks and recoiled into the corner of the room. "No, I don't want to know." I knew I didn't need that shit, I have freckles and I giggle a lot, a smile trumps a fine line any day.
Anyway when we left the appointment in Beverly Hills we took off for Hollywood to meet some friends at the latest hotspot, some Cuban restaurant. The busboys that worked there seemed to be impeccable with their cleaning because when my friend approached the glass door she walked smack dab into it. She went down like a rag doll with her hand on her forehead. We both started to laugh awkwardly because it was funny but she was also in pain. She turned to look at me and I swear she had a bump on her forehead the size of a Grade A egg. I gasped. The botox had blown up, backfired, right there front and center. I felt so bad. We got her a towel with ice but it took forever for the swelling to go down. The moral of the story is, I do not trust that stuff. The people that get it done here in Los Angeles, they don't necessarily look younger, they just all look the same, it's strange. It's the same frozen, slightly perturbed look. I'd rather go have some seaweed soup and steam at the Korean Spa, it's a deal, only 15 bucks.
So, I don't have to write, but I do. I don't have to get botox and I don't. I don't have to power walk but I love my jeans and I always want to fit in them. I don't have to giggle but I can't imagine not. I don't have to be a good daughter but I am. I don't have to be a good friend yet I try every day to be the best.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
I Drank The Punch
Tuesday's are shaping up to be my favorite day of the week. It's become routine and expected everything that my life is currently not. I know where I will be on this day and I know who I will be with. I imagine this is what it fills like in a family that sticks together. It's been quite some time since I have wandered this territory. I left my family back east in Massachusetts when I was 18 and I have been trudging, skipping, dancing, running, exhaling, on my own ever since.
My Tuesday's are filled with music, soundchecks, Chipotle, sunshine, high heels, and red lips. That is only scratching the surface. All of my friends gather, we eat mac n cheese, pizza and fries. We settle in and then it happens. It's as if the heaven's open up (my friend's that are reading this are probably laughing because I am uber dramatic) the voice coming from the stage is beautiful and all who hear it are riveted. Two guys, they both wear hats, one sings and one plays the piano. Simple, yet anything but. They cover Adele, Radiohead, Patsy Kline, John Mayer and so on. It is joyous and emotional. People are moved and they are blossoming. It is a festive night pregnant with possibility. I have lived out here in Hollywood for a while now, and I have met lots of struggling artists, movie stars and working actors. Talent is undeniable, it stands up straight, speaks proper English and cannot be ignored. It is rare to come in contact with this raw ability, many slip through with lots of bells and whistles. Destiny unfolding is an exciting thing to watch. Little by little life happens and art is created. I feel a bit like I'm hanging with the cool kids yet in this instance they don't leave me behind.
I sit and I drink my punch, it is spiked with rum. I tap my red shoes and play with my pearls waiting for the night to begin. Next week I will fly home to see my family. I cannot wait, it's been close to a year. Los Angeles can be a very lonely place, lots of glitz and glamour. Truth hides under the palm trees, it is hard to find. Every time I fly back East I want to stay there. It makes coming back that much harder.
At least I have my Punch and at least I have my Tuesday's.
My Tuesday's are filled with music, soundchecks, Chipotle, sunshine, high heels, and red lips. That is only scratching the surface. All of my friends gather, we eat mac n cheese, pizza and fries. We settle in and then it happens. It's as if the heaven's open up (my friend's that are reading this are probably laughing because I am uber dramatic) the voice coming from the stage is beautiful and all who hear it are riveted. Two guys, they both wear hats, one sings and one plays the piano. Simple, yet anything but. They cover Adele, Radiohead, Patsy Kline, John Mayer and so on. It is joyous and emotional. People are moved and they are blossoming. It is a festive night pregnant with possibility. I have lived out here in Hollywood for a while now, and I have met lots of struggling artists, movie stars and working actors. Talent is undeniable, it stands up straight, speaks proper English and cannot be ignored. It is rare to come in contact with this raw ability, many slip through with lots of bells and whistles. Destiny unfolding is an exciting thing to watch. Little by little life happens and art is created. I feel a bit like I'm hanging with the cool kids yet in this instance they don't leave me behind.
I sit and I drink my punch, it is spiked with rum. I tap my red shoes and play with my pearls waiting for the night to begin. Next week I will fly home to see my family. I cannot wait, it's been close to a year. Los Angeles can be a very lonely place, lots of glitz and glamour. Truth hides under the palm trees, it is hard to find. Every time I fly back East I want to stay there. It makes coming back that much harder.
At least I have my Punch and at least I have my Tuesday's.
The Unraveling...
I remember driving through Hollywood and I noticed a red and black street car on the corner of Formosa and Santa Monica Blvd. I heard somewhere that it had really cool black and white photographs of all the old Hollywood movie stars. I parked my rental car from rent-a-wreck (found the place in Reseda, $150 a month including insurance, what a steal!)and walked up to the front door. It was incredibly dark on the inside, such a contrast to the California sunshine at 4pm.
I walked slowly through the restaurant, it was narrow, red and did have lots of photographs on the wall. Elvis Presley, Ava Gardner (she used to have her driver bring her to get takeout, while she waited at the bar, she knocked back 2 double shots of vodka then left with her to-go Chinese food.) As I approached the hostess stand there was a lovely lady with dark red lips standing there with her hand on her hip. She had a big smile on her face and asked if she could help me. "I just came in to look around". With that, she whipped out a flash light and led to a photograph of her with Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis. I looked in awe. She was beautiful. Classy. Elegant. "What's your name?" I asked her. "Cassie" she replied. Little did I know in that moment my life would change. I had been in Los Angeles a month and the woman standing before me would become my best friend for the next nine years. She was 75 and I was 26. We were two peas in a pod. She was sweet, kind and always kept her word. I think we spoke nearly everday for the next nine years. Everytime I called her she would always pick up the phone. It was such a treat, nobody does that anymore. I adored her. For the first time in my life I felt like a had a true best friend. Towards the end of her life she slowed down a bit, but it was really never a dull moment. We went everywhere together. She introduced me to everybody, Brad Pitt, George Clooney, and Bono just to name a few. Everybody loved Cassie. She was a Hollywood legend, a waitress for 57 years! I learned so much from her and I miss her everyday. She set a huge example. She was very careful with me, called me a sensitive girl. She said it was because I grew up without a father. She understood my pain and helped me try to fix it. I think she knew when her time was up, she knew when she was dying. She would often say to me "you know, I'm not going to be around forever" and she would give me things; jewelry, records, and photographs.
I remember the last time we spoke. It was a Wednesday. I had brought my new boyfriend over to meet her, it was the night before she was having an operation. We laughed and ate fish and chips. She always made that for me. New guy was quiet and when we went to leave I hugged Cassie and told her I would see her in a few days. As I walked down the stairs, she grabbed my guy's arm, I heard her whisper to him as she held his hand "take care of her please.". He said he would. He didn't. That was the last time I saw Cassie alive. I felt as though I had cracked in two with her gone. That was 5 years ago. My life unraveled as I knew it. I stood alone after kicking quiet guy to the curb and began to slowly remember what Cassie saw in me that I couldn't. I'm good now. She is part of my story. I reach for the antique pearl pin that she gave me. I hold it and remember her laugh. It stays with me :)
I walked slowly through the restaurant, it was narrow, red and did have lots of photographs on the wall. Elvis Presley, Ava Gardner (she used to have her driver bring her to get takeout, while she waited at the bar, she knocked back 2 double shots of vodka then left with her to-go Chinese food.) As I approached the hostess stand there was a lovely lady with dark red lips standing there with her hand on her hip. She had a big smile on her face and asked if she could help me. "I just came in to look around". With that, she whipped out a flash light and led to a photograph of her with Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis. I looked in awe. She was beautiful. Classy. Elegant. "What's your name?" I asked her. "Cassie" she replied. Little did I know in that moment my life would change. I had been in Los Angeles a month and the woman standing before me would become my best friend for the next nine years. She was 75 and I was 26. We were two peas in a pod. She was sweet, kind and always kept her word. I think we spoke nearly everday for the next nine years. Everytime I called her she would always pick up the phone. It was such a treat, nobody does that anymore. I adored her. For the first time in my life I felt like a had a true best friend. Towards the end of her life she slowed down a bit, but it was really never a dull moment. We went everywhere together. She introduced me to everybody, Brad Pitt, George Clooney, and Bono just to name a few. Everybody loved Cassie. She was a Hollywood legend, a waitress for 57 years! I learned so much from her and I miss her everyday. She set a huge example. She was very careful with me, called me a sensitive girl. She said it was because I grew up without a father. She understood my pain and helped me try to fix it. I think she knew when her time was up, she knew when she was dying. She would often say to me "you know, I'm not going to be around forever" and she would give me things; jewelry, records, and photographs.
I remember the last time we spoke. It was a Wednesday. I had brought my new boyfriend over to meet her, it was the night before she was having an operation. We laughed and ate fish and chips. She always made that for me. New guy was quiet and when we went to leave I hugged Cassie and told her I would see her in a few days. As I walked down the stairs, she grabbed my guy's arm, I heard her whisper to him as she held his hand "take care of her please.". He said he would. He didn't. That was the last time I saw Cassie alive. I felt as though I had cracked in two with her gone. That was 5 years ago. My life unraveled as I knew it. I stood alone after kicking quiet guy to the curb and began to slowly remember what Cassie saw in me that I couldn't. I'm good now. She is part of my story. I reach for the antique pearl pin that she gave me. I hold it and remember her laugh. It stays with me :)
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Put A Bow On It.
I sat with my eyes closed today, tears streaming down my face. Music filled my ears and I rocked back and forth. The singer sang with his heart in his hand, I imagined it wrapped in a big red bow. It was a gift and the people in the room were grateful.
They said thank you by sharing their stories. Some of their tales were wrapped in a brown paper bag, crumbled up and shoved into their hand. They had to deal with it. I sat in awe at what the human spirit can endure and overcome. This was truth at its finest and I had a seat front row center. I have always been interested in the human condition and what makes us tick. I wonder what Picasso thought about when he looked up at the sky? What did Dali eat for breakfast? Who was Georgia O'Keefe's best friend? How does the woman who sleeps in my alley rest at night? What does true love feel like? I wonder what ever became of my childhood neighbors Tommy and Jenny?
My thoughts drifted as I sat amongst the wounded. Everyone stumbling to find their way. There was a comfort and an ease, the melodies were soothing. I thought about the times I tried to put a bow it. A bow on the wrong people, the wrong paths. Smiling for those that didn't smile back. Side stepping and dodging the mad fury of it all. In the end, I untied the bow, letting it fall to the ground taking a piece of me with it. I gathered up the rest and forged on.
Today I reached into my patchwork bag. I pulled out my ribbons. Tangled, they were pink and gold and silver. I held hands with a stranger and he whispered beautiful things to me. I took my pink ribbon and put a bow on it.
I sat cross legged on the floor and listened to the prayers of a girl with flowers in her hair. I handed her my gold ribbon, she wrapped it around her wrist. She put a bow on it.
I left with my silver ribbon. Not knowing when I will tie it neatly. For now, it rests disheveled hanging from my braid, I twist and turn it thinking of the possibilities. The warm breeze catches my breath and I turn to face the streetlight. My bow comes undone drifting up into the haze of night. It has chosen for me and I smile.
They said thank you by sharing their stories. Some of their tales were wrapped in a brown paper bag, crumbled up and shoved into their hand. They had to deal with it. I sat in awe at what the human spirit can endure and overcome. This was truth at its finest and I had a seat front row center. I have always been interested in the human condition and what makes us tick. I wonder what Picasso thought about when he looked up at the sky? What did Dali eat for breakfast? Who was Georgia O'Keefe's best friend? How does the woman who sleeps in my alley rest at night? What does true love feel like? I wonder what ever became of my childhood neighbors Tommy and Jenny?
My thoughts drifted as I sat amongst the wounded. Everyone stumbling to find their way. There was a comfort and an ease, the melodies were soothing. I thought about the times I tried to put a bow it. A bow on the wrong people, the wrong paths. Smiling for those that didn't smile back. Side stepping and dodging the mad fury of it all. In the end, I untied the bow, letting it fall to the ground taking a piece of me with it. I gathered up the rest and forged on.
Today I reached into my patchwork bag. I pulled out my ribbons. Tangled, they were pink and gold and silver. I held hands with a stranger and he whispered beautiful things to me. I took my pink ribbon and put a bow on it.
I sat cross legged on the floor and listened to the prayers of a girl with flowers in her hair. I handed her my gold ribbon, she wrapped it around her wrist. She put a bow on it.
I left with my silver ribbon. Not knowing when I will tie it neatly. For now, it rests disheveled hanging from my braid, I twist and turn it thinking of the possibilities. The warm breeze catches my breath and I turn to face the streetlight. My bow comes undone drifting up into the haze of night. It has chosen for me and I smile.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Checking My Vocabulary
I love writing in my blog. It is something to look forward to when life gets a bit humdrum. I often take dramatic license and overplay scenarios, embellish slightly, and exaggerate a bit. Well this didn't go over to well with my mother, who recently read my blog. She does not know how to access the internet and refuses to use the computer because her husband didn't plug it in where she wanted it. She said she may try to use it when he moves the cord. Anyway, to access any of my material she has to get in her car, make a ten minute drive to her brother's house and my aunt prints things for her. Well yesterday she printed out my blog. In the midst of my luxuriating on my day off I get a voicemail from my mother. Beeeeep...."Coco Bean (my nickname), Auntie printed your blaaaaag (insert Massachusetts dialect), I can't wait to read it." Something in me fluttered and I brushed it off as I tore into my cheese dip at Chili's.
Cut to today and radio silence from the East Coast. No daily phone call, something was up.
I leave work to go get a lightbulb, walking in the sunshine and the warm California breeze. I dial her number and she answers. "I read your blog, I have a few corrections." My mother is a freak of nature when it comes to grammar and spelling. She is impeccable so I figured I missed a comma or two.
"For the record, I have never been bitter."
Oh my, here we go.
I had written a blog post about my trip to Europe and I referred to my mother as being "furious and bitter" at the thought of my trip. It was given to me by the long lost teenage father that abandoned us aka "deadbeat" as she calls him and I took dramatic license and used some rather harsh words when describing her reaction to this so called "graduation present."
I would never want to hurt my mother's feelings. She is my rock, my best friend and my biggest fan. She was a pioneer in terms of raising a daughter as a single mom while working full time and going to school. She is the funniest person I know and my confidante.
She was the best mom a girl could ever ask for and you can print that.
Cut to today and radio silence from the East Coast. No daily phone call, something was up.
I leave work to go get a lightbulb, walking in the sunshine and the warm California breeze. I dial her number and she answers. "I read your blog, I have a few corrections." My mother is a freak of nature when it comes to grammar and spelling. She is impeccable so I figured I missed a comma or two.
"For the record, I have never been bitter."
Oh my, here we go.
I had written a blog post about my trip to Europe and I referred to my mother as being "furious and bitter" at the thought of my trip. It was given to me by the long lost teenage father that abandoned us aka "deadbeat" as she calls him and I took dramatic license and used some rather harsh words when describing her reaction to this so called "graduation present."
I would never want to hurt my mother's feelings. She is my rock, my best friend and my biggest fan. She was a pioneer in terms of raising a daughter as a single mom while working full time and going to school. She is the funniest person I know and my confidante.
She was the best mom a girl could ever ask for and you can print that.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Pulling Me
I have to pay extra attention to my blog today. I have been ignoring it. I've written in it once today but I can feel that it needs more of me. What kind of partner am I? Not even a glance, a tap, or a reach since Monday.
I thought about my blog all the time though. Felt guilty for not holding up my end of the bargain. The broken promises, the instability, oh my, my blog deserves more. So going forward I will promise my blog that I will be more sensitive. I will listen when it beckons and not make excuses. I'm too tired, I have a headache, I need to work, I just don't feel like it. Those excuses don't work anymore because I am a grown up and I must be responsible. Keep my word, do what I say. If I did everything I said I would I think my life would have more color. I am going to work on this. It takes a lot to paint everyday and I am going to change my palette little by little. It's weird to me though. I've been using the same colors for a long time. I've always been a black, white, pink and sometimes red girl. Oh and purple, love me some purple. I will not let fuschia or canary yellow or cobalt blue intimidate me anymore. I'll do bright and vibrant for a while and see where it leads me.
I used to be so adventurous. Traveled on my own through Europe when I was 22 years old. I went for three months with three hundred dollars. Long story - that involves Roman Catholic nuns, Italian guitar players, Vespa's on the Amalfi Coast and gypsy's on the train from Switzerland to Venice, Italy. (Best pasta I ever had in my life was in Venice, made with black squid ink, beauty like I've never seen and so romantic I want to go there right now) Around this time I had located my teenage father that had grown up and become the CFO of Giorgio Armani. Translation - he was loaded. I was raised in a tenement building with my mother and my grandparents. She was a secretary and we went to restaurants that offered blue plate specials.
Anyway when I graduated from college in Boston, my long lost Richie Rich father, puffed his chest up and offered me either a car or a trip to Europe as a present. I didn't think twice about it, I was getting on a jet plane. My mother was bitter and furious and told me I was on my own. She wasn't giving me a dime. So I scrambled for extra shifts at the Limited Express and saved my pennies. When I boarded that plane I had three hundred dollars.
The only redeeming quality about my out of work, poet, singer, college boyfriend other than his fleeting good looks is he hooked me up big time with places to stay in Italy and Spain. He spoke three languages was very charming and always got what he wanted. (Sad to say, that is not the case anymore and he's had to deal with a big fat case of karma, squandered talent and a beer belly.) So snake charmer called all his buddies, cast his spell and I was staying on a vineyard in Tuscany, with sunflowers as far as your eyes could see. I ate buffalo mozzarella with fresh tomatoes and basil from the garden everyday for lunch. I drank homemade wine and read "For Whom The Bell Tolls" by Ernest Hemingway. I threw that book with tears in my eyes when I read the last page. To this day it is my favorite book. My time in Tuscany is a whole separate entry that ends with a proposal on a bus in Rome in front of the ancient Ruins. I said no and Italian boy barraged me with love letters on sheet music. I still have them stored in my mother's hope chest.
I remember being in love with that Tuscan lifestyle. The simplicity of it all. The Italian's love to love. It is normal to them. Just like the fresh food and the fine wine, the eating together at the dinner table and the conversations. Sweet and easy. I was pulled and I pulled the other way. I wasn't ready.
So for now, I eat pasta late in booth one by myself, made by the dishwasher from Guatemala. He is the best cook in the joint. It is perfect and tastes like Italy.
I made the right decision.
People depend on me and look to me for answers.
I lock the doors, sip my wine and contemplate my next adventure.
I thought about my blog all the time though. Felt guilty for not holding up my end of the bargain. The broken promises, the instability, oh my, my blog deserves more. So going forward I will promise my blog that I will be more sensitive. I will listen when it beckons and not make excuses. I'm too tired, I have a headache, I need to work, I just don't feel like it. Those excuses don't work anymore because I am a grown up and I must be responsible. Keep my word, do what I say. If I did everything I said I would I think my life would have more color. I am going to work on this. It takes a lot to paint everyday and I am going to change my palette little by little. It's weird to me though. I've been using the same colors for a long time. I've always been a black, white, pink and sometimes red girl. Oh and purple, love me some purple. I will not let fuschia or canary yellow or cobalt blue intimidate me anymore. I'll do bright and vibrant for a while and see where it leads me.
I used to be so adventurous. Traveled on my own through Europe when I was 22 years old. I went for three months with three hundred dollars. Long story - that involves Roman Catholic nuns, Italian guitar players, Vespa's on the Amalfi Coast and gypsy's on the train from Switzerland to Venice, Italy. (Best pasta I ever had in my life was in Venice, made with black squid ink, beauty like I've never seen and so romantic I want to go there right now) Around this time I had located my teenage father that had grown up and become the CFO of Giorgio Armani. Translation - he was loaded. I was raised in a tenement building with my mother and my grandparents. She was a secretary and we went to restaurants that offered blue plate specials.
Anyway when I graduated from college in Boston, my long lost Richie Rich father, puffed his chest up and offered me either a car or a trip to Europe as a present. I didn't think twice about it, I was getting on a jet plane. My mother was bitter and furious and told me I was on my own. She wasn't giving me a dime. So I scrambled for extra shifts at the Limited Express and saved my pennies. When I boarded that plane I had three hundred dollars.
The only redeeming quality about my out of work, poet, singer, college boyfriend other than his fleeting good looks is he hooked me up big time with places to stay in Italy and Spain. He spoke three languages was very charming and always got what he wanted. (Sad to say, that is not the case anymore and he's had to deal with a big fat case of karma, squandered talent and a beer belly.) So snake charmer called all his buddies, cast his spell and I was staying on a vineyard in Tuscany, with sunflowers as far as your eyes could see. I ate buffalo mozzarella with fresh tomatoes and basil from the garden everyday for lunch. I drank homemade wine and read "For Whom The Bell Tolls" by Ernest Hemingway. I threw that book with tears in my eyes when I read the last page. To this day it is my favorite book. My time in Tuscany is a whole separate entry that ends with a proposal on a bus in Rome in front of the ancient Ruins. I said no and Italian boy barraged me with love letters on sheet music. I still have them stored in my mother's hope chest.
I remember being in love with that Tuscan lifestyle. The simplicity of it all. The Italian's love to love. It is normal to them. Just like the fresh food and the fine wine, the eating together at the dinner table and the conversations. Sweet and easy. I was pulled and I pulled the other way. I wasn't ready.
So for now, I eat pasta late in booth one by myself, made by the dishwasher from Guatemala. He is the best cook in the joint. It is perfect and tastes like Italy.
I made the right decision.
People depend on me and look to me for answers.
I lock the doors, sip my wine and contemplate my next adventure.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
The Pinnacle
Every once in the while I go cliff walking. I scoop up the bestie and off we go to Malibu. It's a secret spot, nobody is ever there and it is paradise. Makes it all worth it. The sun is shining, the air is clear and there are yellow flowers everywhere. The views are spectacular and I remember why I moved to California.
There is one particular point during our trek where the edge of the mountain is indented and there are inches between me and a vast drop into the ocean. My heart starts to beat really fast when I know I have to run quickly to get past this obstacle. I always hesitate and then convince myself I have to go because on the other side is complete beauty and bliss. I will get encouragement from my friend and he is always just close enough in case my fate is one where I stumble out to sea and have to grip his hand at the last moment. High drama, I know. Wouldn't have it any other way.
One, two, three, I run, scream and have made it to the other side. This is where the pinnacle is. The highest point. The tippy top. I must stand there. The guys did it first, arms stretched, photos taken. It was breathtaking. I was standing on the sidelines, jumping up and down, cheering them on, they were so brave and so cool.
"You're turn." my friend said.
I turned away from him and then looked back, he couldn't possibly be speaking to me. There was no way I was standing on the highest point of that mountain. He must be crazy. He is. But that's another story.
"C'mon, I'll help you."
Oh, no. He wasn't letting this go.
"I can't."
"You can." he said.
Ughhhhh. Now I had too.
I leaned over and put my hands on the flat rock. I crawled until both feet were firmly planted. I slowly stood up, knock kneed and gripping myself. (by the way, this was making it way harder). I reached my arms out and gasped. "Take the picture" I squeaked out. He did.
"Ok now turn around and face the ocean."
"What?, Oh God." I mumbled to myself.
I slowly turned around and faced the ocean, arms outstretched.
Photo snapped. Wind blowing. Freedom.
I jumped down from the mountain top giggling and out of breath.
I did it.
At that moment something in me changed.
I hopped, I skipped and ran back toward the yellow flowers.
When I looked toward the ocean I realized I didn't even think about the narrow obstacle that I had to jump back over to get to flat land. It didn't even cross my mind.
I lifted my finger and pointed.
"I can't believe I ran past the scary part on my own." I said to my friend.
"It's always harder to run toward love and joy and much easier when you're running away from it," he replied.
I thought about it.
Made sense to me. It's much easier to stay in one spot and be comfortable. To walk away when the going gets tough. To be independent. To not need anybody.
Then I realized how boring that is.
I'll take the pinnacle, the cliff walking, the wind blowing, the heart beating, the crawling,and the standing.
I'll take the fear too. The risk, the doubts and the questions.
No more scaredy cat.
Next time, I won't hesitate, I'll stand up straighter, scream louder and breathe more air at the top.
There is one particular point during our trek where the edge of the mountain is indented and there are inches between me and a vast drop into the ocean. My heart starts to beat really fast when I know I have to run quickly to get past this obstacle. I always hesitate and then convince myself I have to go because on the other side is complete beauty and bliss. I will get encouragement from my friend and he is always just close enough in case my fate is one where I stumble out to sea and have to grip his hand at the last moment. High drama, I know. Wouldn't have it any other way.
One, two, three, I run, scream and have made it to the other side. This is where the pinnacle is. The highest point. The tippy top. I must stand there. The guys did it first, arms stretched, photos taken. It was breathtaking. I was standing on the sidelines, jumping up and down, cheering them on, they were so brave and so cool.
"You're turn." my friend said.
I turned away from him and then looked back, he couldn't possibly be speaking to me. There was no way I was standing on the highest point of that mountain. He must be crazy. He is. But that's another story.
"C'mon, I'll help you."
Oh, no. He wasn't letting this go.
"I can't."
"You can." he said.
Ughhhhh. Now I had too.
I leaned over and put my hands on the flat rock. I crawled until both feet were firmly planted. I slowly stood up, knock kneed and gripping myself. (by the way, this was making it way harder). I reached my arms out and gasped. "Take the picture" I squeaked out. He did.
"Ok now turn around and face the ocean."
"What?, Oh God." I mumbled to myself.
I slowly turned around and faced the ocean, arms outstretched.
Photo snapped. Wind blowing. Freedom.
I jumped down from the mountain top giggling and out of breath.
I did it.
At that moment something in me changed.
I hopped, I skipped and ran back toward the yellow flowers.
When I looked toward the ocean I realized I didn't even think about the narrow obstacle that I had to jump back over to get to flat land. It didn't even cross my mind.
I lifted my finger and pointed.
"I can't believe I ran past the scary part on my own." I said to my friend.
"It's always harder to run toward love and joy and much easier when you're running away from it," he replied.
I thought about it.
Made sense to me. It's much easier to stay in one spot and be comfortable. To walk away when the going gets tough. To be independent. To not need anybody.
Then I realized how boring that is.
I'll take the pinnacle, the cliff walking, the wind blowing, the heart beating, the crawling,and the standing.
I'll take the fear too. The risk, the doubts and the questions.
No more scaredy cat.
Next time, I won't hesitate, I'll stand up straighter, scream louder and breathe more air at the top.
Monday, April 11, 2011
The Aftermath and The Rock Star..
I've taken up gardening on Sunday's, digging up the messy, dirt that brings me to my knees as I pull up roots. At the end of it I am covered in stuff, my eyes are swollen and I can't speak. I am laying the ground work for lots of pretty flowers to grow. Preferably pink. Seeds are planted and I wait.
I can't talk much about what goes on during these gardening sessions so I will simply label it a "healing workshop" which is anything but simple. As I am weeding and churning I feel as though I am performing soul surgery. I have studied many years to do this. Much like a brain or heart surgeon only its intangible. It has to do with feelings and sometimes they can be so fleeting and other times it's like striking gold. Which is what happened to me yesterday.
The gold in this case were my tears that sprung from me like a geyser. I never knew I had that much snot. Ick! My tears streamed down my face and all I wanted was Chris Martin to sing to me and fix me. It wasn't hysterical crying, it was a deep weeping. I made every other woman in the room cry. My sadness exploded and the root was gutted. I had all these soothing voices telling me that I was in such a good place and through the slits of my eyes I saw their faces and believed them.
I learned about different attachment styles in relationships. Avoider, pleaser, controller, victim and vacillator (I can only think of vacccum cleaner when I say that word - am i avoiding? - sorta bad joke, I know). Oh and secure is the holy grail of relationships, if you're secure you have met Oz.
It's tricky though,and I had questions so I pulled aside the brilliant woman that broke this all down for me and begged to know how to break these patterns. She said we can eventually reach a secure place in relationships but every once in a while the wicked witch of the west will rear her ugly head and you have to take a deep breath only to be saved by Glenda the good witch. Bottom line is... we are all works in progress and life is up and down and all around even when you are secure. So, with that I clicked my red nikes and felt like I was home.
I wandered out of my garden for the car ride home. I gripped the steering wheel and used every ounce of energy to get me back to Hollywood. I could barely respond to the person I was driving with. When they spoke it sounded like the teacher from Charlie Brown, I simply nodded in agreement. Thank God they were consumed with the directions to where they were going because I don't even remember saying good bye.
The car door shut and I was alone for the first time all day. Me and my swollen face and tired limbs. I needed a friend, a shoulder to rest on, someone I could trust. I called my pal Sunny and she invited me over for pizza. I raced over there, pizza is my fave. She poured me a glass of red wine, I collapsed and listened to her beautiful voice. I knew I was in good hands. She is my oldest, closest friend in Los Angeles and she is always there when I need her. She is the sun, just like her name.
After a few hours of re-grouping I slapped on some makeup and made my way to work. Our resident Sunday band was playing for the last time before they went on their European tour. I witnessed the birth of Vintage Trouble. They are an amazing group of super talented, super humble, kind gentlemen who are now rock stars - signed, sealed delivered. They are a new breed of rock star, not cocky, not arrogant. They are real and they are grateful.
Let's begin with Ty. When Ty walks into a room every woman AND man falls in love with him. He has the voice of a naughty angel. He has sung on Broadway and he always kisses my hand and tells me I'm beautiful when he sees me. He's charming and when he performs you can't take your eyes off of him. He is usually soaking wet at the end of his set, he gives everything he has. He defines sex appeal and he is front and center.
All the girls love Rick the bass player. He is a funky white boy with soul. He is sweet and kind and deserves everything he gets. He drinks tequila and gives great hugs.
Richard the drummer, well he was the one I had a tiny crush on when I first met him. He looks just like my college boyfriend, scruffy with long hair. His eye contact is dangerous and he would often make me blush. Enough said.
Nalle is from Sweden and he is fabulous. He plays guitar. His accent is well, you know. My friend Ana fell hard for him and I think he liked her too. He always asked about her and I was hoping to make a love connection for them.
So those are the boys that grew up and became rock stars. I will always remember them.
Their last show was epic. It was hot. The air conditioning broke and people were dancing all over the place. I wandered in like a zombie from my garden. While digging through my dirt I realized that I'm a pleaser (remember the relationship styles) I do a lot for others. I barely had enough energy to stand let alone do anything for anybody and then a supernatural thing happened. There is no other way to explain it - maybe because I had cleared out so much sludge I was open to the new. My friends embraced me and waited on me hand and foot. Everytime I turned around there was either food or a drink or a hug waiting for me. It was an incredibly loving supportive experience and nobody knew what a I had just gone through. I even mustered up the desire to dance swinging my hips in ways that are usually reserved for the bedroom (I gasp, hand over mouth). What a celebration!
I stumbled out at the end of the night with a couple of friends. I was going to walk home because that extra shot of tequila made me wobbly. My friend offered to drive my car home for me. I didn't lift a pinky, didn't even have to open my own door. Dare I say, I was being spoiled. Umm maybe.
I have a sneaking suspicion that lots of flowers are going to grow in my garden. Out with the old, in with the new. I could get used to this.
I can't talk much about what goes on during these gardening sessions so I will simply label it a "healing workshop" which is anything but simple. As I am weeding and churning I feel as though I am performing soul surgery. I have studied many years to do this. Much like a brain or heart surgeon only its intangible. It has to do with feelings and sometimes they can be so fleeting and other times it's like striking gold. Which is what happened to me yesterday.
The gold in this case were my tears that sprung from me like a geyser. I never knew I had that much snot. Ick! My tears streamed down my face and all I wanted was Chris Martin to sing to me and fix me. It wasn't hysterical crying, it was a deep weeping. I made every other woman in the room cry. My sadness exploded and the root was gutted. I had all these soothing voices telling me that I was in such a good place and through the slits of my eyes I saw their faces and believed them.
I learned about different attachment styles in relationships. Avoider, pleaser, controller, victim and vacillator (I can only think of vacccum cleaner when I say that word - am i avoiding? - sorta bad joke, I know). Oh and secure is the holy grail of relationships, if you're secure you have met Oz.
It's tricky though,and I had questions so I pulled aside the brilliant woman that broke this all down for me and begged to know how to break these patterns. She said we can eventually reach a secure place in relationships but every once in a while the wicked witch of the west will rear her ugly head and you have to take a deep breath only to be saved by Glenda the good witch. Bottom line is... we are all works in progress and life is up and down and all around even when you are secure. So, with that I clicked my red nikes and felt like I was home.
I wandered out of my garden for the car ride home. I gripped the steering wheel and used every ounce of energy to get me back to Hollywood. I could barely respond to the person I was driving with. When they spoke it sounded like the teacher from Charlie Brown, I simply nodded in agreement. Thank God they were consumed with the directions to where they were going because I don't even remember saying good bye.
The car door shut and I was alone for the first time all day. Me and my swollen face and tired limbs. I needed a friend, a shoulder to rest on, someone I could trust. I called my pal Sunny and she invited me over for pizza. I raced over there, pizza is my fave. She poured me a glass of red wine, I collapsed and listened to her beautiful voice. I knew I was in good hands. She is my oldest, closest friend in Los Angeles and she is always there when I need her. She is the sun, just like her name.
After a few hours of re-grouping I slapped on some makeup and made my way to work. Our resident Sunday band was playing for the last time before they went on their European tour. I witnessed the birth of Vintage Trouble. They are an amazing group of super talented, super humble, kind gentlemen who are now rock stars - signed, sealed delivered. They are a new breed of rock star, not cocky, not arrogant. They are real and they are grateful.
Let's begin with Ty. When Ty walks into a room every woman AND man falls in love with him. He has the voice of a naughty angel. He has sung on Broadway and he always kisses my hand and tells me I'm beautiful when he sees me. He's charming and when he performs you can't take your eyes off of him. He is usually soaking wet at the end of his set, he gives everything he has. He defines sex appeal and he is front and center.
All the girls love Rick the bass player. He is a funky white boy with soul. He is sweet and kind and deserves everything he gets. He drinks tequila and gives great hugs.
Richard the drummer, well he was the one I had a tiny crush on when I first met him. He looks just like my college boyfriend, scruffy with long hair. His eye contact is dangerous and he would often make me blush. Enough said.
Nalle is from Sweden and he is fabulous. He plays guitar. His accent is well, you know. My friend Ana fell hard for him and I think he liked her too. He always asked about her and I was hoping to make a love connection for them.
So those are the boys that grew up and became rock stars. I will always remember them.
Their last show was epic. It was hot. The air conditioning broke and people were dancing all over the place. I wandered in like a zombie from my garden. While digging through my dirt I realized that I'm a pleaser (remember the relationship styles) I do a lot for others. I barely had enough energy to stand let alone do anything for anybody and then a supernatural thing happened. There is no other way to explain it - maybe because I had cleared out so much sludge I was open to the new. My friends embraced me and waited on me hand and foot. Everytime I turned around there was either food or a drink or a hug waiting for me. It was an incredibly loving supportive experience and nobody knew what a I had just gone through. I even mustered up the desire to dance swinging my hips in ways that are usually reserved for the bedroom (I gasp, hand over mouth). What a celebration!
I stumbled out at the end of the night with a couple of friends. I was going to walk home because that extra shot of tequila made me wobbly. My friend offered to drive my car home for me. I didn't lift a pinky, didn't even have to open my own door. Dare I say, I was being spoiled. Umm maybe.
I have a sneaking suspicion that lots of flowers are going to grow in my garden. Out with the old, in with the new. I could get used to this.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Why the "Mad" in my title?
When I thought about doing this blog I wracked my brain for a title. I had been a waitress for most of my young adult life so far and I felt that the experience shaped me, became part of my identity. I connected with people, worked hard and learned life lessons on a daily basis. At the end of my day, I was my own boss< afterall you are what your tips are. I think. But why the "Mad"? Well I'm mad about a lot of things, I'm mad about a good piece of chocolate cake, I'm mad about old black and white movies, I'm mad about art that screams the truth, I'm mad about a good friends laughter, and I'm mad about the way Brad Pitt looked in "Legends of the Fall". So those are some ways that I'm mad.
Then there is the flip side. What else makes me mad? Fake smiles make me mad, excuses make me mad, cheaters make me mad, lies make me mad, the fact that people go without food in my neighborhood makes me mad, laziness is insulting and Kanye West can really irk me.
So coming from a gal that has been labeled "sweet as pie"(and having to apologize for it, what a concept - who knew being kind to people was such a detriment) her whole life, "MAD" seemed fitting. It was my way of rebelling. Of changing.
No longer would I want the mad, frowny (is that even a word), people in my life. I would fight for the kind like souls and be mad if anybody got in my way.
So far, so good, I feel like a soldier. My mother always wanted me to go to boot camp, because I was a messy girl that never cleaned her room. Well I clean my room now but I'm still messy.
Why am I mad today? Well my lunch date at 2 got pushed to 2:30, that didn't make me mad, its Los Angeles, its expected. Waiting ten minutes to get my coffee was annoying, the waitress in me wanted to get up and pour my own damn coffee. As I waited, I whipped out my computer and was mad about writing my latest entry. My lunch date arrived and had to wait until I finished this sentence.
I hope they"re not mad.
Then there is the flip side. What else makes me mad? Fake smiles make me mad, excuses make me mad, cheaters make me mad, lies make me mad, the fact that people go without food in my neighborhood makes me mad, laziness is insulting and Kanye West can really irk me.
So coming from a gal that has been labeled "sweet as pie"(and having to apologize for it, what a concept - who knew being kind to people was such a detriment) her whole life, "MAD" seemed fitting. It was my way of rebelling. Of changing.
No longer would I want the mad, frowny (is that even a word), people in my life. I would fight for the kind like souls and be mad if anybody got in my way.
So far, so good, I feel like a soldier. My mother always wanted me to go to boot camp, because I was a messy girl that never cleaned her room. Well I clean my room now but I'm still messy.
Why am I mad today? Well my lunch date at 2 got pushed to 2:30, that didn't make me mad, its Los Angeles, its expected. Waiting ten minutes to get my coffee was annoying, the waitress in me wanted to get up and pour my own damn coffee. As I waited, I whipped out my computer and was mad about writing my latest entry. My lunch date arrived and had to wait until I finished this sentence.
I hope they"re not mad.
Day Two Of My Committed Relationship
I woke up this morning, opened my eyes, rolled over and realized my blog was still there. It didn't "need space" or tell me it "wasn't ready for a relationship" or simply a "free spirit". It was right there waiting for me to make the first move. Well I have never been the type of girl to initiate so I pondered. Then I realized I was a grown ass woman and I better get with the program. So with the gentle touch of my fingertips my blog wanted more, so I obliged and here we are. Day two. No complications yet.
I also awoke and realized that me and my blog have two followers. That's good. No meddling from outsiders yet. We are still in the courting stage.
After my first cup of coffee and a kick ass yoga/ballet class, I was ready to face my day. My yoga teacher is proud that I am committed to my two days a week and my shape is taking form once again. I work late nights, so that means a midnight snack or two or three. I always manage to check myself before I wreck myself and the affirmation from my fit friend let me know I was back on track.
So after lots of water and a sushi lunch I was ready for the hungry and thirsty people. I put on my favorite purple dress to match my purple nails, my Katy Perry Purr perfume, curled my hair, my eyelashes and put on lipstick for days (I was in that kind of mood). My new committed relationship inspired me and I needed material so I got into character. Hollywood Glamour 101. I could handle anything.
Off to the restaurant, blasting my Adele CD, with my Chanel shades on someone asked me if I was a movie star. Once upon a time I was in a movie with movie stars, but today I was managing a restaurant. The new hotspot with fancy drinks and beautiful people.
The restaurant phone always rings off the hook and I rarely get calls there. People just blow up my Blackberry whenever they want a table. So when my host (who looks like he just walked out of a gucci ad) pulled me aside to tell me I had a call, I wondered who it was. Maybe Josh Brolin (he asked for my card once) nooooooo.... it was one of our regulars, he needed a table for one. I thought this odd because he always brought his adorable wife. They have been married 47 years and she is 12 years older than him. She's 94 and he's 82. Whenever I would see her she always told me to snag a younger man because when I reached her age he would still be around. I guess all of her friends lost their husbands but she still had hers because she "got him young", her words, not mine. :)
Anyway he was alone because she had fallen and was now recuperating in the hospital. It had been two weeks. She hadn't broken any bones but she couldn't go to the bathroom on her own and needed a walker to get around. He told me he missed her and visited her twice a day. He said it wasn't so hard being alone except for at night. The nights were hard. I could relate.
People that know me, know that I like to ask a lot of questions. Maybe it stems from that Journalism Degree I got from that fancy private college in Boston. People always responded well, so I had a knack for not coming off nosy..... So I asked him where he lived? "Westwood." Was it a house? "Condo." Did he ever have a house? "Of course, in Bel Air." How many bedrooms? "Six" Did they have a pool? "Yes" How many years did they live in that house? "Twenty five". His life was flashing before me. "Not many people make it to 94, you know". he said. I nodded, tears filling my eyes. I took a deep breath, I couldn't lose it at 7:30 on a Friday night in the middle of the rush. I sat quietly with him while he finished his meal. At a loss for words, I gave him my business card and wrote my cell phone number on it. I wanted him to please call me if he had any news. He said he would, and I knew he would. Old people always do what they say, keeping your word is now old fashioned.
I walked him to the door and gave him a big hug. As he shuffled down the street he turned back to me and told me maybe I would get lucky. Maybe I would get lucky and find a guy to be with for 47 years, maybe I would get lucky and book another movie and maybe I would get lucky and be able to buy a house someday. I smiled and turned back into my reality.
I couldn't stop thinking about him, it was in the forefront of my mind all night long. What a life he had, so many accomplishments, such a great love and he was a kind man. I thought about my life, my family, my friends and my blog.
I knew I was kind.
Now let's see if I get lucky.
I also awoke and realized that me and my blog have two followers. That's good. No meddling from outsiders yet. We are still in the courting stage.
After my first cup of coffee and a kick ass yoga/ballet class, I was ready to face my day. My yoga teacher is proud that I am committed to my two days a week and my shape is taking form once again. I work late nights, so that means a midnight snack or two or three. I always manage to check myself before I wreck myself and the affirmation from my fit friend let me know I was back on track.
So after lots of water and a sushi lunch I was ready for the hungry and thirsty people. I put on my favorite purple dress to match my purple nails, my Katy Perry Purr perfume, curled my hair, my eyelashes and put on lipstick for days (I was in that kind of mood). My new committed relationship inspired me and I needed material so I got into character. Hollywood Glamour 101. I could handle anything.
Off to the restaurant, blasting my Adele CD, with my Chanel shades on someone asked me if I was a movie star. Once upon a time I was in a movie with movie stars, but today I was managing a restaurant. The new hotspot with fancy drinks and beautiful people.
The restaurant phone always rings off the hook and I rarely get calls there. People just blow up my Blackberry whenever they want a table. So when my host (who looks like he just walked out of a gucci ad) pulled me aside to tell me I had a call, I wondered who it was. Maybe Josh Brolin (he asked for my card once) nooooooo.... it was one of our regulars, he needed a table for one. I thought this odd because he always brought his adorable wife. They have been married 47 years and she is 12 years older than him. She's 94 and he's 82. Whenever I would see her she always told me to snag a younger man because when I reached her age he would still be around. I guess all of her friends lost their husbands but she still had hers because she "got him young", her words, not mine. :)
Anyway he was alone because she had fallen and was now recuperating in the hospital. It had been two weeks. She hadn't broken any bones but she couldn't go to the bathroom on her own and needed a walker to get around. He told me he missed her and visited her twice a day. He said it wasn't so hard being alone except for at night. The nights were hard. I could relate.
People that know me, know that I like to ask a lot of questions. Maybe it stems from that Journalism Degree I got from that fancy private college in Boston. People always responded well, so I had a knack for not coming off nosy..... So I asked him where he lived? "Westwood." Was it a house? "Condo." Did he ever have a house? "Of course, in Bel Air." How many bedrooms? "Six" Did they have a pool? "Yes" How many years did they live in that house? "Twenty five". His life was flashing before me. "Not many people make it to 94, you know". he said. I nodded, tears filling my eyes. I took a deep breath, I couldn't lose it at 7:30 on a Friday night in the middle of the rush. I sat quietly with him while he finished his meal. At a loss for words, I gave him my business card and wrote my cell phone number on it. I wanted him to please call me if he had any news. He said he would, and I knew he would. Old people always do what they say, keeping your word is now old fashioned.
I walked him to the door and gave him a big hug. As he shuffled down the street he turned back to me and told me maybe I would get lucky. Maybe I would get lucky and find a guy to be with for 47 years, maybe I would get lucky and book another movie and maybe I would get lucky and be able to buy a house someday. I smiled and turned back into my reality.
I couldn't stop thinking about him, it was in the forefront of my mind all night long. What a life he had, so many accomplishments, such a great love and he was a kind man. I thought about my life, my family, my friends and my blog.
I knew I was kind.
Now let's see if I get lucky.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Always Starting Over
The first time. After numerous threats to start a blog I am finally taking the plunge. I have always had a slight fear of commitment so I will let this be my first grown up committed relationship. Me and my blog. So here goes:
In February of 1997, I was living in an art gallery in Tribeca. My friend Laura and I worked there by day and slept there at night. Our neighbors were Robert DeNiro and John F. Kennedy Jr. We lived right next door to Nobu and above a Korean deli. There were floor to ceiling windows and we would gaze out them all day long waiting for the phone to ring so we could see some art. We talked about boys and our dreams and got through most of the day eating only a bagel with cream cheese. Oh we were broke too. Living in the most expensive neighborhood in NYC. If you could make it there you could make it anywhere. My boots had holes in the bottom from walking everywhere and my socks would often get wet from the melted snow. I had a closet full of Chanel clothes in storage and an entire Armani men's wardrobe. Hand me downs from a father I never knew. My life was always divided in two. Fabulous and searching. I always wanted more. Not material things. More meaning.
One day we saw JFK Jr. walking down the street. It was snowing and he was with his then girlfriend soon to be wife Carolyn. She was tall and beautiful and he, well, there are no words. He was my prince growing up, after all I am a Massachusetts girl. Anyway, they were walking down the street and he had on a long grey wool coat and black knit hat. She had on black leggings and a flimsy ski jacket, her long blonde locks strewn about by the wind. Laura and myself could not take our eyes off of them and then all of the sudden JFK Jr. opens his coat and pulls her close under it. It was the most romantic gesture I had every seen in person. I couldn't believe it. My boyfriend never treated me that way. It was time for a change.
I plotted my getaway plan. I would move to sunny California. I always wanted to be an actress and I would make a quick jaunt to Los Angeles to try my luck during pilot season.
A month later, my bags were packed, and I was waiting for a town car to bring me to the airport. I sat on hapless boyfriends lap for an hour and cried my eyes out. Not because I was going to miss him, because I was starting over. Alone. In a strange place. From scratch.
Almost fourteen years later, I'm still here. The ups and downs have been epic. I've worked professionally as an actress, worked with Oscar winners and befriended movies stars. I've made the best of friends and lost friends and met crazy people and fake people. I could go on and on. Oh yeah, that's what the next blog post will be about. Titled the "Crazies".
Until then, I'm starting over once again. Alone. In a strange place. From scratch.
In February of 1997, I was living in an art gallery in Tribeca. My friend Laura and I worked there by day and slept there at night. Our neighbors were Robert DeNiro and John F. Kennedy Jr. We lived right next door to Nobu and above a Korean deli. There were floor to ceiling windows and we would gaze out them all day long waiting for the phone to ring so we could see some art. We talked about boys and our dreams and got through most of the day eating only a bagel with cream cheese. Oh we were broke too. Living in the most expensive neighborhood in NYC. If you could make it there you could make it anywhere. My boots had holes in the bottom from walking everywhere and my socks would often get wet from the melted snow. I had a closet full of Chanel clothes in storage and an entire Armani men's wardrobe. Hand me downs from a father I never knew. My life was always divided in two. Fabulous and searching. I always wanted more. Not material things. More meaning.
One day we saw JFK Jr. walking down the street. It was snowing and he was with his then girlfriend soon to be wife Carolyn. She was tall and beautiful and he, well, there are no words. He was my prince growing up, after all I am a Massachusetts girl. Anyway, they were walking down the street and he had on a long grey wool coat and black knit hat. She had on black leggings and a flimsy ski jacket, her long blonde locks strewn about by the wind. Laura and myself could not take our eyes off of them and then all of the sudden JFK Jr. opens his coat and pulls her close under it. It was the most romantic gesture I had every seen in person. I couldn't believe it. My boyfriend never treated me that way. It was time for a change.
I plotted my getaway plan. I would move to sunny California. I always wanted to be an actress and I would make a quick jaunt to Los Angeles to try my luck during pilot season.
A month later, my bags were packed, and I was waiting for a town car to bring me to the airport. I sat on hapless boyfriends lap for an hour and cried my eyes out. Not because I was going to miss him, because I was starting over. Alone. In a strange place. From scratch.
Almost fourteen years later, I'm still here. The ups and downs have been epic. I've worked professionally as an actress, worked with Oscar winners and befriended movies stars. I've made the best of friends and lost friends and met crazy people and fake people. I could go on and on. Oh yeah, that's what the next blog post will be about. Titled the "Crazies".
Until then, I'm starting over once again. Alone. In a strange place. From scratch.
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