I have to get this blog written in May or there will be NO May posts. Holy canoli. Where did the time go?
I really have no good reason for not blogging. Let's blame Dancing with the Stars and American Idol and leave it at that (damn you David Cook!).
Where to start?
A non-sequitor.
I had the most amazing experience on iTunes the other night. I looked up the 1978 compilation and every song, I mean EVERY song moved me to the core, hit me like a ton of bricks and transported me to a different time and place. It was like time traveling. I give you Jefferson Starship's "Count on Me" and Dan Hill's "Sometimes When We Touch" and Gerry Rafferty's "Right Down the Line" as some deeper cuts. This is but a tip of the iceberg my friends. 1978 was an unusually rich year for all kinds of music.
I've always known that at a young age I had a watershed of musical interest. Suddenly, I was aware of all the songs on the radio. I began to understand the emotional pull of music (thanks in large part to the "Saturday Night Fever" album I bought my mom for Mother's Day - for MOTHER'S DAY - hilarious!). I must have been 9 years old because the music of 1978 just SENDS ME. I suggest you check it out.
It's been fun.
I've also been cleaning a lot. A LOT. Along with that comes the admission that my house has been DIRTY. You see, first off, I can longer afford my twice a month housekeeper. So a few months of my doing the cleaning on my own has caught up with me. Then we got a dog. Then my kids had the stomach bug that kept them going at both ends. There was a week (those who are queasy of stomach might want to skip ahead) when I had my hands in the puke and poop of both my kids, my cat AND my dog. Enough already.
I feel almost obsessed with cleaning my house. Like the acceptance of a little dirt I had been working on suddenly plummeted and my baseboards, my baseboards, my baseboards! Who painted them black? Is that DOG HAIR? Is that DOG HAIR in my CEILING VENTS? Oh, and then I got cockroaches. You know how I had all that stuff in storage and then sitting in my garage for a year? Well, I finally got it put away and I was so happy and relieved for like a week, cause then it turns out all my stuff came back from the storage unit with cockroach eggs. Yes it did.
So I had to pack all that stuff back up and PUT IT BACK IN MY GARAGE so the nice man in the mask could come spray my house with poison.
While I was packing up my kitchen at 2am in a fog of bitterness and resistance all I could do was pray. I mean, Jesus! I don't want to do this, but I have to do this, but I don't want to do this. GRRRR. And then I had to slap myself. What am I COMPLAINING about? Moving all the wonderful stuff I own from my wonderful house to my wonderful garage and back again, okay...and back again?
Sometimes I just don't know about me. But, nevertheless, there I was. All ego. All disconnected. I was pissed. So I prayed. I prayed and packed. I gave it up. Gave it up to those without stuff and houses and garages.
And finally, I had the break-thru. I am cleaning up a lot of messes.
Sometimes if I take that one refrain that goes on and on in my head and just listen to it, really listen to it, without emotion (whining) and resistance, just listen to it objectively, the message can get through.
Yes.
I am cleaning up a lot of messes.
Yes.
I have a lot of messes to clean up.
Yes.
Things are a mess.
Yes. They are. They still are. And that's okay. This is a large mess to clean up.
Luckily I have a lot of experience cleaning messes and I can clean up this one. It just takes time.
Oh, that's my kicker. It takes time. It's a process. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. I'm listening now. It takes time. It's a process. I have a big mess to clean up. My life right now? It's about cleaning up messes. Got it.
But, I did finally get smart and put on a pair of rubber gloves so my hands can still look pretty. You don't need to have red, chapped, old-looking hands just cause your life is a mess now do you?
No you don't.
It Is What It Is
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Mommy Wars (Give Peace a Chance)
This is my response to Salon's review/interview re: the new book, "The Ten Year Nap" about stay-at-home moms. Here's the link to the story:
http://www.salon.com/books/int/2008/04/03/meg_wolitzer/index.html?source=search&aim=/books/int
And my response:
If someone gave you the chance to live a six or so year adventure where you’d get to live your life’s dream and go to exotic places and grow like crazy, but you had to leave your present job and take the opportunity right away because the chance wasn’t going to come again, wouldn’t you take it?
That’s what motherhood is for me. I always dreamed of being a mother. Mothering has taken me places I’ve never dreamed of. I’ve grown into a woman and it has changed me for the better in every way.
Wolitzer makes some smug cracks about the lives of stay-at-home moms. I must ask: since when is caring for someone not an “intelligent” or "purposeful" act?
It takes incredible intelligence to be a parent. And the areas in which you are not intelligent, shine through straight away, let me tell you.
Our society measures success based on the amount of your paycheck. The higher the paycheck, the more important the job. And since mothering doesn’t pay, well, you know what that means.
No respect.
Mothers aren’t "going" anywhere. We’re not really "doing" anything.
Well, I don’t give a damn what society has to say. Mothering actually gives you a wonderful excuse (read: opportunity) to opt out of society’s standards and processes.
I don’t care about moving forward. I don’t care if I’m “losing ground.” I challenge myself with boredom and tediousness. I push myself with the day by day. Like a monk, I sweep and cook and wipe butts and kiss boo-boos…and five minutes later I do it all over again.
I live a life of passion and intelligence. I’ve learned when to laugh and when to cry, when to empathize and when to discipline, when to give in and when to stand firm. I’ve learned negotiation skills that they should apply in the Middle East.
My everyday is lived with instinct, compassion, awareness, joy and heartbreak. Some days I recognize the freedom of my choice; some days I’m face to face with its limitations. No different really than any job. Except you get no respect. Just a Hallmark holiday and Orpah’s applause.
So please know, that just because I hang out with toddlers doesn’t mean I am a toddler.
I’m busy. I serve others. I’m a good citizen. I volunteer. I teach yoga. I help my friends. I accept their help in return. I write. I blog. I take photos. I try out new recipes. I garden. I talk to my neighbors. I recycle. I juggle the bills. I clean house, load the dishwasher, clean the litter box and do the laundry.
I dream.
Motherhood is my passion. One of many.
I’m passionate about living this short time in sync with my kids, walking in step with them on our journey. It will not, does not, last long. I have a seven year old and a two year old and already their babydom is a blip on the radar.
Now that’s heartbreak.
I’m not a corporate lawyer but I don’t need to have a high-powered job and an expense account and carry a briefcase to measure my intelligence.
God, no.
Patience is intelligent. Empathy is intelligent. Being in your highest self, holding space for your kids’ emotions and keeping a ten-point to-do list in your head at all times is intelligent. Just installing a car seat takes both an enormously high i.q. and the diligence of Thomas Edison. I’m in awe of my friend JH who instinctually can work her way around every car seat made by man and she has yet to get her degree in engineering…
But then mamas learn the best way...by doing. Trial by fire.
There are no degrees needed. No institutions of higher learning. You have nine months and however long your labor is to figure it out. Welcome to the rest of your life!
So don’t question my intelligence. Don’t question my passion. I am no dumb bunny. The days are long but the years are short. I know my time with my kids is limited. They will some day not be interested in coloring with me. They will some day not be interested in making cookies with me. They will some day not be begging me to attend their assemblies or assuming I know where their superhero cape is or looking to me to nurse them, bathe them and read them a bed time story.
I believe in nursing my babies.
I believe in sleeping with them.
I believe it makes a difference who reads that bed time story.
I believe it should be me.
I want it to be me.
I believe I make a difference.
Yes, caring for young children can be mind numbing, but all jobs can be mind numbing. And I’ve had other jobs. Lots of them. None as flat-out rewarding.
I don’t need to defend myself or my life. I know I’ve made the right choice for my kids and myself. Other people make many different kinds of decisions that work for them and their families and I respect that. We’re not the same. We’re different. Different things make us happy. Thank God.
So, for now, I love my job. And it is a job. A career, even. One I’ll never, ever regret.
No matter the other dreams I will chase in my life, being a mother has been an honor and a privilege and I’m a better person for it. Leaving my film "career" (har, har...as it was) for a full-time job as mom made some people in my life scratch their heads. To those people, I just quoted my Dad:
"If it begins and ends with love, it's okay with me."
http://www.salon.com/books/int/2008/04/03/meg_wolitzer/index.html?source=search&aim=/books/int
And my response:
If someone gave you the chance to live a six or so year adventure where you’d get to live your life’s dream and go to exotic places and grow like crazy, but you had to leave your present job and take the opportunity right away because the chance wasn’t going to come again, wouldn’t you take it?
That’s what motherhood is for me. I always dreamed of being a mother. Mothering has taken me places I’ve never dreamed of. I’ve grown into a woman and it has changed me for the better in every way.
Wolitzer makes some smug cracks about the lives of stay-at-home moms. I must ask: since when is caring for someone not an “intelligent” or "purposeful" act?
It takes incredible intelligence to be a parent. And the areas in which you are not intelligent, shine through straight away, let me tell you.
Our society measures success based on the amount of your paycheck. The higher the paycheck, the more important the job. And since mothering doesn’t pay, well, you know what that means.
No respect.
Mothers aren’t "going" anywhere. We’re not really "doing" anything.
Well, I don’t give a damn what society has to say. Mothering actually gives you a wonderful excuse (read: opportunity) to opt out of society’s standards and processes.
I don’t care about moving forward. I don’t care if I’m “losing ground.” I challenge myself with boredom and tediousness. I push myself with the day by day. Like a monk, I sweep and cook and wipe butts and kiss boo-boos…and five minutes later I do it all over again.
I live a life of passion and intelligence. I’ve learned when to laugh and when to cry, when to empathize and when to discipline, when to give in and when to stand firm. I’ve learned negotiation skills that they should apply in the Middle East.
My everyday is lived with instinct, compassion, awareness, joy and heartbreak. Some days I recognize the freedom of my choice; some days I’m face to face with its limitations. No different really than any job. Except you get no respect. Just a Hallmark holiday and Orpah’s applause.
So please know, that just because I hang out with toddlers doesn’t mean I am a toddler.
I’m busy. I serve others. I’m a good citizen. I volunteer. I teach yoga. I help my friends. I accept their help in return. I write. I blog. I take photos. I try out new recipes. I garden. I talk to my neighbors. I recycle. I juggle the bills. I clean house, load the dishwasher, clean the litter box and do the laundry.
I dream.
Motherhood is my passion. One of many.
I’m passionate about living this short time in sync with my kids, walking in step with them on our journey. It will not, does not, last long. I have a seven year old and a two year old and already their babydom is a blip on the radar.
Now that’s heartbreak.
I’m not a corporate lawyer but I don’t need to have a high-powered job and an expense account and carry a briefcase to measure my intelligence.
God, no.
Patience is intelligent. Empathy is intelligent. Being in your highest self, holding space for your kids’ emotions and keeping a ten-point to-do list in your head at all times is intelligent. Just installing a car seat takes both an enormously high i.q. and the diligence of Thomas Edison. I’m in awe of my friend JH who instinctually can work her way around every car seat made by man and she has yet to get her degree in engineering…
But then mamas learn the best way...by doing. Trial by fire.
There are no degrees needed. No institutions of higher learning. You have nine months and however long your labor is to figure it out. Welcome to the rest of your life!
So don’t question my intelligence. Don’t question my passion. I am no dumb bunny. The days are long but the years are short. I know my time with my kids is limited. They will some day not be interested in coloring with me. They will some day not be interested in making cookies with me. They will some day not be begging me to attend their assemblies or assuming I know where their superhero cape is or looking to me to nurse them, bathe them and read them a bed time story.
I believe in nursing my babies.
I believe in sleeping with them.
I believe it makes a difference who reads that bed time story.
I believe it should be me.
I want it to be me.
I believe I make a difference.
Yes, caring for young children can be mind numbing, but all jobs can be mind numbing. And I’ve had other jobs. Lots of them. None as flat-out rewarding.
I don’t need to defend myself or my life. I know I’ve made the right choice for my kids and myself. Other people make many different kinds of decisions that work for them and their families and I respect that. We’re not the same. We’re different. Different things make us happy. Thank God.
So, for now, I love my job. And it is a job. A career, even. One I’ll never, ever regret.
No matter the other dreams I will chase in my life, being a mother has been an honor and a privilege and I’m a better person for it. Leaving my film "career" (har, har...as it was) for a full-time job as mom made some people in my life scratch their heads. To those people, I just quoted my Dad:
"If it begins and ends with love, it's okay with me."
Sunday, March 30, 2008
A Somewhat Different Week
Got back in town late Monday night. (The trip was nice and the kids always have a great time, but trips are tiring and I was thrilled to be home.) Hit the ground running first thing Tuesday morning. Got home from dropping Molly off at school to find Andre (my foster son who left my house last year) in a police cruiser in cuffs. Six police cars had responded when his adopted "mother" and he got into a fist fight outside my house. I talked to the sergeant and spilled the whole story of him being removed from her custody and her violent tendencies, my restraining order against her. The police took Andre out of custody and out of cuffs thank God. They then asked ME if he could stay at my house. Did I not mention the RESTRAINING ORDER?
WTF????????
No, I'm sorry, but I don't think so. Evidently my number is the only one listed under L.A. County Children Protective Services because criminally, they sent him home with her. He ran away immediately.
That was Tuesday.
Wednesday was my writing day which went very well. Very productive.
When I came home, Andre's "mother" was outside my house again and yelled at me in front of my kids, breaking her restraining order. More calls to the police. Then I had mediation with the dh.
I was a half hour late due to terrible traffic. That's 100 bucks down the drain. On the way there I was panicing as I was so late but also because something terrible was starting to happen in my gut.
Cramping. Cold sweats. Must. Keep. Driving.
If you take something huge and horrible, like, mmmm...my marriage say, and you force this huge, horrible thing through a small space, like a coffee grinder, and it's so huge and the space so small that only a thin and vicious liquid can escape...that was what was happening inside my body.
I barely got into the mediator's office where they were waiting for me. I had to immediately excuse myself to the tiny bathroom.
That feeling is unlike any other. My insides were suddenly trying to escape through the southern route. I only wanted to be alone with my God, begging for mercy, but instead I was at mediation. I was late. They were waiting for me. It was like hurrying through labor with someone you're divorcing on the other side of the door asking, "Are you alright?"
Oh, the humanity!
I rolled my sweaty, tear-drenched face along the cool tile on the sink in front of me, one cheek and then the other, trying to comfort my soul. What is it with bathrooms and breakdowns?
I get myself in the room only to have my life, my marriage, reduced to a printout from a divorce software program. I hear my dh say he wants the kids half the time and I see myself fired from my job as mother. I keep crying and they stop and look at me.
"Are you alright?"
I continually excuse myself to allow a few more innards to grind into acid in the bathroom.
I do my trick where I picture my Jesus there. I see him sitting at the mediator's desk chair, playing solitaire on his computer, giving me the thumbs up. I'm here, he says. Always here. And you're doing fine.
When I hear the dismal financial picture, I envision huge piles of money falling all over the table.
My dh and the mediator view me skeptically. I'm not following along on the printouts...which I couldn't understand anyway under the best of circumstances. I'm checked out, praying for this meeting to end.
Thursday.
I'm so tired. I still haven't finished un-packing. I'm also a little depressed. JH invites me to the park with BC and then lunch and it's nice to be out of the house and in their company.
BLT pizza at CPK. Life's good.
I return home and see some stuff out of place in my bedroom. Weird stuff Ray doesn't usually get into but that's how kids are. One day they do something they've never done before. So I pick up the bedroom a little and since Ray's napping I go into the office to work on my computer. Only thing is my computer's not there.
It's been stolen.
Someone has broken into my house.
I call the police. I call JH. I call AL. I wait for help.
I wait to breathe.
In the end, I lost my laptop (a month's worth of writing), a couple diamond rings (my first ex's wedding rings - how ironic considering I've posted about those, and a promise ring my present dh got me on our first year dating anniversary), two digital cameras and a stereo speaker...couple small things too. It's all too weird to get into but the situation is all the more insane because the break-in was most likely at the hands of Andre or his "mother." Freaky. Crazy. Not cool.
I must shout out to SV who dropped off a spare computer that very night so I could have e-mail and blog. Thanks chica. Thanks also to JH who babysat my daughter AGAIN (you are officially up for canonization) and for AL for giving up valuable super-hero party-planning hours sitting and drinking wine with me.
I feel on one side like this stuff is gone forever and there are huge inconveniences and financial issues with that.
Then on the other side, there are the desperate emotional implications. My computer was a friend. A lifeline. My ticket to freedom. My rings were important to me. The digital cameras held pictures from Christmas we'll never have back.
Then there is the third side, the rarely viewed side, the metaphysical side, where I question my whole fucking life. What am I doing? Am I doing something wrong? I don't feel like I am but, man, the present situation seems to be reflecting some messedupness. And it could be residual, maybe...but was I that messed up even a year ago? Or do things happen randomly and without meaning? If so why do look for meaning in anything??? Because that very night I found that my grandmother's precious rosary was missing from my luggage. Most likely lost during an airport luggage search. There just can't be meaning in that. And if there is, I don't want to know it. I want the rosary back. I've slept with that thing for two years and I want it back.
But no.
These are the questions, this third side, this fucking doubt, that sticks in my craw the most.
Cause I feel alright. I feel okay. I feel taken care of and blessed and grateful. Now don't get me wrong. I cry all the time. All the time. I rush sometimes to get myself alone. Be it in the car or at home in the back yard or in the shower just so I can break down for a minute.
But I still maintain that I'm on the right track.
Am I kidding myself? Can I trust myself? Is this an aneurysm I feel coming on??????
Friday.
JH and HL and I go to UCLA and hear Annie Lamott and Elizabeth Gilbert be their totally hilarious, smart, crazy, cranky, alive selves and all is alright. There is a God. Annie said so. Faith is alive. Prayer is the best course. Crazy is a normal state of affairs for most of us alive enough to realize it.
I ride this razor edge between joy and a little shy of devestated every day. It's been like this since December. Every day.
But joy wins out by a landslide.
And many of my tears feel like strangely happy tears. I laugh a lot when I get to reframe this shit with my friends (that includes you) and then it's reframed forever. It gets posted on the joyful side of the ledger (my printout if you will) and there's one more less thing on the side of devestation.
Maybe devestation is just a little pissed about that.
It will never win. I know that. And it can just keep falling short of its mission.
Because I'm unfazed and less than impressed with sadness and depression, shock, agression, resistance, self-consciousness and despair.
In fact, they can all just take a hike.
Might as well.
Cause I'm going to drive to the beach.
WTF????????
No, I'm sorry, but I don't think so. Evidently my number is the only one listed under L.A. County Children Protective Services because criminally, they sent him home with her. He ran away immediately.
That was Tuesday.
Wednesday was my writing day which went very well. Very productive.
When I came home, Andre's "mother" was outside my house again and yelled at me in front of my kids, breaking her restraining order. More calls to the police. Then I had mediation with the dh.
I was a half hour late due to terrible traffic. That's 100 bucks down the drain. On the way there I was panicing as I was so late but also because something terrible was starting to happen in my gut.
Cramping. Cold sweats. Must. Keep. Driving.
If you take something huge and horrible, like, mmmm...my marriage say, and you force this huge, horrible thing through a small space, like a coffee grinder, and it's so huge and the space so small that only a thin and vicious liquid can escape...that was what was happening inside my body.
I barely got into the mediator's office where they were waiting for me. I had to immediately excuse myself to the tiny bathroom.
That feeling is unlike any other. My insides were suddenly trying to escape through the southern route. I only wanted to be alone with my God, begging for mercy, but instead I was at mediation. I was late. They were waiting for me. It was like hurrying through labor with someone you're divorcing on the other side of the door asking, "Are you alright?"
Oh, the humanity!
I rolled my sweaty, tear-drenched face along the cool tile on the sink in front of me, one cheek and then the other, trying to comfort my soul. What is it with bathrooms and breakdowns?
I get myself in the room only to have my life, my marriage, reduced to a printout from a divorce software program. I hear my dh say he wants the kids half the time and I see myself fired from my job as mother. I keep crying and they stop and look at me.
"Are you alright?"
I continually excuse myself to allow a few more innards to grind into acid in the bathroom.
I do my trick where I picture my Jesus there. I see him sitting at the mediator's desk chair, playing solitaire on his computer, giving me the thumbs up. I'm here, he says. Always here. And you're doing fine.
When I hear the dismal financial picture, I envision huge piles of money falling all over the table.
My dh and the mediator view me skeptically. I'm not following along on the printouts...which I couldn't understand anyway under the best of circumstances. I'm checked out, praying for this meeting to end.
Thursday.
I'm so tired. I still haven't finished un-packing. I'm also a little depressed. JH invites me to the park with BC and then lunch and it's nice to be out of the house and in their company.
BLT pizza at CPK. Life's good.
I return home and see some stuff out of place in my bedroom. Weird stuff Ray doesn't usually get into but that's how kids are. One day they do something they've never done before. So I pick up the bedroom a little and since Ray's napping I go into the office to work on my computer. Only thing is my computer's not there.
It's been stolen.
Someone has broken into my house.
I call the police. I call JH. I call AL. I wait for help.
I wait to breathe.
In the end, I lost my laptop (a month's worth of writing), a couple diamond rings (my first ex's wedding rings - how ironic considering I've posted about those, and a promise ring my present dh got me on our first year dating anniversary), two digital cameras and a stereo speaker...couple small things too. It's all too weird to get into but the situation is all the more insane because the break-in was most likely at the hands of Andre or his "mother." Freaky. Crazy. Not cool.
I must shout out to SV who dropped off a spare computer that very night so I could have e-mail and blog. Thanks chica. Thanks also to JH who babysat my daughter AGAIN (you are officially up for canonization) and for AL for giving up valuable super-hero party-planning hours sitting and drinking wine with me.
I feel on one side like this stuff is gone forever and there are huge inconveniences and financial issues with that.
Then on the other side, there are the desperate emotional implications. My computer was a friend. A lifeline. My ticket to freedom. My rings were important to me. The digital cameras held pictures from Christmas we'll never have back.
Then there is the third side, the rarely viewed side, the metaphysical side, where I question my whole fucking life. What am I doing? Am I doing something wrong? I don't feel like I am but, man, the present situation seems to be reflecting some messedupness. And it could be residual, maybe...but was I that messed up even a year ago? Or do things happen randomly and without meaning? If so why do look for meaning in anything??? Because that very night I found that my grandmother's precious rosary was missing from my luggage. Most likely lost during an airport luggage search. There just can't be meaning in that. And if there is, I don't want to know it. I want the rosary back. I've slept with that thing for two years and I want it back.
But no.
These are the questions, this third side, this fucking doubt, that sticks in my craw the most.
Cause I feel alright. I feel okay. I feel taken care of and blessed and grateful. Now don't get me wrong. I cry all the time. All the time. I rush sometimes to get myself alone. Be it in the car or at home in the back yard or in the shower just so I can break down for a minute.
But I still maintain that I'm on the right track.
Am I kidding myself? Can I trust myself? Is this an aneurysm I feel coming on??????
Friday.
JH and HL and I go to UCLA and hear Annie Lamott and Elizabeth Gilbert be their totally hilarious, smart, crazy, cranky, alive selves and all is alright. There is a God. Annie said so. Faith is alive. Prayer is the best course. Crazy is a normal state of affairs for most of us alive enough to realize it.
I ride this razor edge between joy and a little shy of devestated every day. It's been like this since December. Every day.
But joy wins out by a landslide.
And many of my tears feel like strangely happy tears. I laugh a lot when I get to reframe this shit with my friends (that includes you) and then it's reframed forever. It gets posted on the joyful side of the ledger (my printout if you will) and there's one more less thing on the side of devestation.
Maybe devestation is just a little pissed about that.
It will never win. I know that. And it can just keep falling short of its mission.
Because I'm unfazed and less than impressed with sadness and depression, shock, agression, resistance, self-consciousness and despair.
In fact, they can all just take a hike.
Might as well.
Cause I'm going to drive to the beach.
Friday, March 21, 2008
TGIF (Part Two)
Back to our New York story...
My man Tom has hired me to help him publicize his short film at the New York Expo. I am having the time of my life and it keeps getting better!
My amazing, think-of-everything friend has gotten us tickets to the Independent Spirit Awards being held in Manhattan to coincide with the Expo. At the awards show, the IFC presents a lifetime achievement award and guess who the lucky recipients were that year? Well, since this is cleary MY WEEK...it's the inspiring, iconoclastic, personal heroes of mine: The Coen Brothers!
As my email address suggests, Spielberg helped me identify that I wanted to be a filmmaker. Watching E.T. and Raiders of the Lost Ark cemented my desire to direct movies but the Coen Bros pictures allowed me identify the KIND of filmmaker I wanted to be. Blood Simple, Raising Arizona, Miller's Crossing and Barton Fink catapulted me into the world of independent filmmaking and my vision has never been the same.
The big night arrived and Tom and I got ALL gussied up. The event was at an old elegant hotel. There was a red carpet and Sigourney Weaver walked ahead of us so all these flash bulbs are going off all around us. We drank and smoked at this long old-school dance hall bar and everyone looked like a glamorous star out of the 1940s. John Turturro introduced the Coen Brothers and they made their typical short and humble speech. It was indy filmmaker heaven!
Then a dance band took the stage and everyone was shaking it on the floor.
Dancing!
And you know how I love to dance.
I danced with Tom.
I danced with Marc.
But I wasn’t done there. No. I, ELLEN PASQUALE, wanted to dance with Joel. Joel Coen.
Why the hell not?
So I went up and asked him. He looked down at me and said, “Uh, let me ask my wife.”
Joel checked in with his wife.
Frances McDormand.
She said, "Oh-kay," and smiled that sardonic smile. Thanks Frances!
So the next thing you know, I’m slow dancing with the guest of honor, Joel Coen! And the things I said to him, if I may be un-p.c. for a moment, were so retarded.
They were actually on the other more retarded side of retarded. I won’t quote anything I said. Let’s try to keep this positive.
The next morning I felt like friggin’ Cinderella with a Marlboro hangover. I had quit smoking a couple years back but had suddenly developed (quite by accident...) a pack a day habit. My mouth and throat were in physical PAIN every day. But it was worth it. Back in the convertible, back to work.
Work was wrapping up though (devastating!). To lessen the blow, on the evening of the last day of the Expo, there were going to be some killer, blow out parties. Three in fact. A fruit and cheese affair at the Angelika. A dinner and dance party sponsored by Kodak down at the piers. And then a kick-ass, after-hours party thrown by Miramax in a three-story club.
Tom in his infinite wisdom (only a filmmaker could organize so well) got us a couple hotel rooms in Manhattan so we wouldn’t have to worry about driving back to Jersey all hammered (again). We check into our rooms after the last film and put our going out clothes on again.
I had started promoting some other folks' films too during the Expo and had some stuff to wrap up. Tom said he had something to do as well so Tom suggested we meet up in a couple hours at the TGIFridays in Time Square.
TGIFridays?
Okay.
A couple hours later, when I got there, I saw the TGIFridays was a two-story affair. The second level housed a ginormous bar and it was all glass with panoramic views of Times Square. It was cool in a TGIF/Time Square kind of way.
I walked up the stairs to the bar and saw my handsomedapperdarling Tom sitting at the bar with a bouquet of roses and two glasses of champagne with strawberries on the rims. Tears jumped into my eyes. He turned and it was like the greatest scene in the greatest movie. The gesture was so unexpected, so genuine and sweet--the strawberries on the rims of the glasses slayed me.
To this day, it is the single most romantic expression I have ever experienced.
He had written a letter and he read it to me. He thanked me (thanked ME) for the greatest week ever.
It was.
For both of us. It is not too often in this world that two people get to experience their dreams in tandem like that.
We sat and sipped our champagne and had another. We re-lived every great moment and toasted our agreement that it would never get any better than this.
We canoodled so long at TGIFs that we were late to the next party. We hopped in a cab and it had begun drizzling and it was Manfuckinghattan and it was dark and the stars twinkled. We were buzzed on champagne and looking GOOD. I felt like Frank Sinatra.
The cab stopped outside the party at the pier. People milled around looking terrific and the music blasted onto the sidewalk. Tom helped me out of the car and I spotted Marc also looking charming standing on the sidewalk in the bright sprinkling rain. He grabbed his heart in that movie way (it was one big movie!) and then touched his finger to his watch.
“Where have you been?”
Wait. I have to take this in for a minute. A man, a cute man, is WAITING FOR ME IN THE RAIN OUTSIDE A TERRIFIC PARTY. Waiting for me.
“Where have you been?”
I turned to Tom as a way of explanation. Tom patted my back, smiled and pushed me slightly toward Marc.
“Have fun,” he said in his sly Sid way. Because when you are very, very married, away from your husband for one short/long week and you’ve already turned into a big ho, it’s nice to have your friend Tom turn into your friend Sid and refuse to pass judgment. Yes, it’s nice to have Sid around.
So he bee-lined it inside to the free drinks and Marc and I stood a moment, in the dark night, in the rain, under the sparkling lights of the restaurant and he said:
"Shall we?"
And I said, "Certainly," and he turned and behind his back, picture this please:
He extended his hand to me behind his back without looking.
Just reached his hand back without looking so I would take it and he could lead me into the party. Just like that. I'll never forget it.
Two romantic moments in one night. He wanted to hold my hand. He was confident I would take his hand. We were TOGETHER.
At that moment Frampton's “Baby I Love your Way" began to play from inside.
Who was writing this movie? God?
Indeed.
Certainly.
I took Marc's extended hand of hope and let him lead me inside.
The night rocked. We partied. Par-tayed. Marc was a great dancer (duh) and we danced from the pier to the after-hours party. Everyone we had met during the week was there. Robert De Niro was there. I did not ask him to dance (something tells me he's not a dancer, but for that matter, either is Joel Coen. SNAP!) Anyway I was busy. In a private room.
Yikes.
Later that night, God helped me talk my way out of having to spend the night with Marc. I wasn’t quite ready for that. I was Married. And even if in my mind I knew it was over, my dh didn't know that yet. It's fine line but it's a LINE okay?
The sun came up as Tom got back to the hotel and we decided to forgo sleep and get some greasy breakfast food, smoke, and re-hash the whole week one more time.
Tom drove me back home that night.
I was different on a cellular level. I walked back into my house a stranger. Who's house was this? Who's husband was this? No kids thank God. Who's cats were these?
I secretly called in sick the whole next week and listened to 70s Freedom Rock non-stop while my dh was at work. I smoked. Wrote. Processed.
When you have a spiritual epiphany, it's sometimes called an AWAKENING. That is what it was for me. Literally. I was awake. More importantly to me, at the time I was awakening I realized tragically:
I had been asleep.
I married someone while asleep. How could this have happened?
That's a shame I still deal with.
But once you do wake up, there's nothing you can do about it. Not that I wanted to. I was incredibly grateful. Astoundingly alive. I started writing that screenplay about the waitress. (It's called "Loserville.")
I spoke to Marc on the phone once for closure.
He said he wasn’t into married women.
Fair enough.
Me either.
I knew my marriage was finally, truly over. Now to tell him. I couldn't. A smattering of unforeseen events would keep our separation from happening for another, believe it or not, 6 months. But it was okay. I had already started my new life.
I am forever indebted to Tom. He saved my life. I love him dearly. We lost touch almost immediately after the Expo. But he’ll forever be in my heart.
I’ll never ever forget that champagne in TGIFridays, that rainy NY night.
God bless you. May you remain forever awake.
Love,
ellen
My man Tom has hired me to help him publicize his short film at the New York Expo. I am having the time of my life and it keeps getting better!
My amazing, think-of-everything friend has gotten us tickets to the Independent Spirit Awards being held in Manhattan to coincide with the Expo. At the awards show, the IFC presents a lifetime achievement award and guess who the lucky recipients were that year? Well, since this is cleary MY WEEK...it's the inspiring, iconoclastic, personal heroes of mine: The Coen Brothers!
As my email address suggests, Spielberg helped me identify that I wanted to be a filmmaker. Watching E.T. and Raiders of the Lost Ark cemented my desire to direct movies but the Coen Bros pictures allowed me identify the KIND of filmmaker I wanted to be. Blood Simple, Raising Arizona, Miller's Crossing and Barton Fink catapulted me into the world of independent filmmaking and my vision has never been the same.
The big night arrived and Tom and I got ALL gussied up. The event was at an old elegant hotel. There was a red carpet and Sigourney Weaver walked ahead of us so all these flash bulbs are going off all around us. We drank and smoked at this long old-school dance hall bar and everyone looked like a glamorous star out of the 1940s. John Turturro introduced the Coen Brothers and they made their typical short and humble speech. It was indy filmmaker heaven!
Then a dance band took the stage and everyone was shaking it on the floor.
Dancing!
And you know how I love to dance.
I danced with Tom.
I danced with Marc.
But I wasn’t done there. No. I, ELLEN PASQUALE, wanted to dance with Joel. Joel Coen.
Why the hell not?
So I went up and asked him. He looked down at me and said, “Uh, let me ask my wife.”
Joel checked in with his wife.
Frances McDormand.
She said, "Oh-kay," and smiled that sardonic smile. Thanks Frances!
So the next thing you know, I’m slow dancing with the guest of honor, Joel Coen! And the things I said to him, if I may be un-p.c. for a moment, were so retarded.
They were actually on the other more retarded side of retarded. I won’t quote anything I said. Let’s try to keep this positive.
The next morning I felt like friggin’ Cinderella with a Marlboro hangover. I had quit smoking a couple years back but had suddenly developed (quite by accident...) a pack a day habit. My mouth and throat were in physical PAIN every day. But it was worth it. Back in the convertible, back to work.
Work was wrapping up though (devastating!). To lessen the blow, on the evening of the last day of the Expo, there were going to be some killer, blow out parties. Three in fact. A fruit and cheese affair at the Angelika. A dinner and dance party sponsored by Kodak down at the piers. And then a kick-ass, after-hours party thrown by Miramax in a three-story club.
Tom in his infinite wisdom (only a filmmaker could organize so well) got us a couple hotel rooms in Manhattan so we wouldn’t have to worry about driving back to Jersey all hammered (again). We check into our rooms after the last film and put our going out clothes on again.
I had started promoting some other folks' films too during the Expo and had some stuff to wrap up. Tom said he had something to do as well so Tom suggested we meet up in a couple hours at the TGIFridays in Time Square.
TGIFridays?
Okay.
A couple hours later, when I got there, I saw the TGIFridays was a two-story affair. The second level housed a ginormous bar and it was all glass with panoramic views of Times Square. It was cool in a TGIF/Time Square kind of way.
I walked up the stairs to the bar and saw my handsomedapperdarling Tom sitting at the bar with a bouquet of roses and two glasses of champagne with strawberries on the rims. Tears jumped into my eyes. He turned and it was like the greatest scene in the greatest movie. The gesture was so unexpected, so genuine and sweet--the strawberries on the rims of the glasses slayed me.
To this day, it is the single most romantic expression I have ever experienced.
He had written a letter and he read it to me. He thanked me (thanked ME) for the greatest week ever.
It was.
For both of us. It is not too often in this world that two people get to experience their dreams in tandem like that.
We sat and sipped our champagne and had another. We re-lived every great moment and toasted our agreement that it would never get any better than this.
We canoodled so long at TGIFs that we were late to the next party. We hopped in a cab and it had begun drizzling and it was Manfuckinghattan and it was dark and the stars twinkled. We were buzzed on champagne and looking GOOD. I felt like Frank Sinatra.
The cab stopped outside the party at the pier. People milled around looking terrific and the music blasted onto the sidewalk. Tom helped me out of the car and I spotted Marc also looking charming standing on the sidewalk in the bright sprinkling rain. He grabbed his heart in that movie way (it was one big movie!) and then touched his finger to his watch.
“Where have you been?”
Wait. I have to take this in for a minute. A man, a cute man, is WAITING FOR ME IN THE RAIN OUTSIDE A TERRIFIC PARTY. Waiting for me.
“Where have you been?”
I turned to Tom as a way of explanation. Tom patted my back, smiled and pushed me slightly toward Marc.
“Have fun,” he said in his sly Sid way. Because when you are very, very married, away from your husband for one short/long week and you’ve already turned into a big ho, it’s nice to have your friend Tom turn into your friend Sid and refuse to pass judgment. Yes, it’s nice to have Sid around.
So he bee-lined it inside to the free drinks and Marc and I stood a moment, in the dark night, in the rain, under the sparkling lights of the restaurant and he said:
"Shall we?"
And I said, "Certainly," and he turned and behind his back, picture this please:
He extended his hand to me behind his back without looking.
Just reached his hand back without looking so I would take it and he could lead me into the party. Just like that. I'll never forget it.
Two romantic moments in one night. He wanted to hold my hand. He was confident I would take his hand. We were TOGETHER.
At that moment Frampton's “Baby I Love your Way" began to play from inside.
Who was writing this movie? God?
Indeed.
Certainly.
I took Marc's extended hand of hope and let him lead me inside.
The night rocked. We partied. Par-tayed. Marc was a great dancer (duh) and we danced from the pier to the after-hours party. Everyone we had met during the week was there. Robert De Niro was there. I did not ask him to dance (something tells me he's not a dancer, but for that matter, either is Joel Coen. SNAP!) Anyway I was busy. In a private room.
Yikes.
Later that night, God helped me talk my way out of having to spend the night with Marc. I wasn’t quite ready for that. I was Married. And even if in my mind I knew it was over, my dh didn't know that yet. It's fine line but it's a LINE okay?
The sun came up as Tom got back to the hotel and we decided to forgo sleep and get some greasy breakfast food, smoke, and re-hash the whole week one more time.
Tom drove me back home that night.
I was different on a cellular level. I walked back into my house a stranger. Who's house was this? Who's husband was this? No kids thank God. Who's cats were these?
I secretly called in sick the whole next week and listened to 70s Freedom Rock non-stop while my dh was at work. I smoked. Wrote. Processed.
When you have a spiritual epiphany, it's sometimes called an AWAKENING. That is what it was for me. Literally. I was awake. More importantly to me, at the time I was awakening I realized tragically:
I had been asleep.
I married someone while asleep. How could this have happened?
That's a shame I still deal with.
But once you do wake up, there's nothing you can do about it. Not that I wanted to. I was incredibly grateful. Astoundingly alive. I started writing that screenplay about the waitress. (It's called "Loserville.")
I spoke to Marc on the phone once for closure.
He said he wasn’t into married women.
Fair enough.
Me either.
I knew my marriage was finally, truly over. Now to tell him. I couldn't. A smattering of unforeseen events would keep our separation from happening for another, believe it or not, 6 months. But it was okay. I had already started my new life.
I am forever indebted to Tom. He saved my life. I love him dearly. We lost touch almost immediately after the Expo. But he’ll forever be in my heart.
I’ll never ever forget that champagne in TGIFridays, that rainy NY night.
God bless you. May you remain forever awake.
Love,
ellen
Thursday, March 20, 2008
TGIF (Part One)
A little story to tide you over while I work on processing the last couple weeks!
As I have mentioned in a previous blog, I was married before. I got married at 22 years old (I know, I know…but at the time it didn’t feel so young). Things weren’t good from day one and improved not one wit over the next two years. Nevertheless, I was in the marriage for the long haul and tried to make it work. My ex-dh and I even bought a house together hoping that would cement our future.
I was working as an assistant manager at a Christmas gift shop and as a bartender/waitress at a barbeque joint by night…anything to not be home I guess. My dh was a graphic/comic book artist who suffered much for his art. By day he worked as a manager of an indy music store where bitterness was bought and sold at a high price. Suffice to say I was not doing any writing. I was also not pursuing film work although I had just graduated at the top of my class at Penn State. I had really lost my way.
But there was one week that changed everything. Changed my whole life. Changed it so much that I could never go back to my old life again.
It changed everything.
One week.
As “backstory,” I received a call from a good friend from college saying accusingly but truthfully, “What are you doing with your life? When are you going to get back to writing? Have you given up on film altogether? Are you just a bartender now?”
Ouch.
I did like bartending. And in my MIND I was working on a screenplay set in a restaurant. Still, his call struck a chord. He was right. I needed to get back to work but I had no idea how.
Calling the universe…
A short while later, I got a call from my friend Tom Manning (this is his real name and I don’t care who knows it. He’s my hero.)
Tom Manning said that a short film of his was accepted into the New York Film Expo. Filmmakers bring their independent films to the Expo for publicity and of course ultimately, to sell them. The films are all screened at the Angelika Movie Theatre in Greenwich Village over the course of one week.
One week.
He asked me to go with him to the Expo and help him publicize his film. He would cover my expenses and pay me $300 for the week! I accepted immediately. I thought it sounded fun and I never said no to a new experience.
I had no idea what was ahead of me.
Tom and I spent nights in his parents’ house in Jersey and then commuted into Manhattan every morning in his old convertible, smoking, talking, laughing and listening to Dylan and Springsteen and Paul Simon (“The Boxer” will forever be our song). It was magical. Tom’s a great talker, a great listener and wickedly funny. We’d listen patiently to each other’s stories, waiting the whole time for our turn to tell a story that we’d secretly been writing in our head the whole time.
We’d drive into the Village and go hang out at the beautiful and historic Angelika all day, drinking coffee, smoking and networking with other filmmakers. We quickly found out that by supporting other people’s films you could get them to support yours. Hand out flyers for your new friends’ movie on Monday and they would pass out fliers for your movie on Thursday. And the best thing you could do was attend screenings. Everyone wanted a full and enthusiastic audience for their film so we got to see lots of movies, every dang day!
It was ah-mazing for me.
I was a filmmaker again (by proximity). I watched films no one else had seen yet, met indy filmmakers from all over the country, elbowed with famous actors, directors and cinematographers, and partied every single night with all my new friends, for FREE. Cause here's the icing on the cake: every night of the week, after “work,” in the city of cities, in some fabulous, chic and trendy restaurant or club, a party would be thrown just for us Expo participants, totally gratis and sponsored by some industry muckety-muck, thank you very much.
Just for fun, let me spell that out for you at home.
Free fancy drinks.
Free fancy food.
In fancy-schmancy Manhattan.
Surrounded by oh-so-cool indy filmmakers and the like. And I was like one of them.
I. Was. Getting. Paid. For. This.
Plus, Tom and I were totally bonding. We were living out our individual yet conveniently mutual versions of heaven. We pinched each other and gaped and drank and smoked and laughed. We watched movies and promoted movies and talked about movies and partied on the movies.
Every day fell into a wonderful pattern. Joy streamed like the morning sun on Tom’s convertible. I lived in the Village for a summer during college and it was great to be back in the Big City. Every song from Tom's car, every song in a bar was like the soundtrack to our lives. Tom and I "worked" all day, partied all night and dragged our asses back to his parents’ house to nurse our hangovers for another day.
I was 24.
It was heaven. Heaven!
And I was just a little bit developing a huge friend crush on my man Tom.
Let me explain something about “Tom.”
Tom and I went to film school together at Penn State but I actually MET Tom the summer after my senior year back in Lancaster, PA.
We graduated from different high schools but I was dating a guy from his alma mater, so Tom and I would often be at the same parties that summer. Back then, “Tom” was known as “Sid.”
“Sid” was a drunk, arrogant asshole that I couldn’t stand. He was always in my face at parties, challenging me, harassing me, being totally rude. I thought he was such a dick and I made no secret of it. (Little did I know that Sid wasn’t the dick, the guy I was dating was the dick.) I remember at one party, late in the summer, Sid practically spit at me in a loud, drunken stupor that he was going to Penn State Main Campus like me. “Ha! Ha!” he laughed, enjoying himself at my expense, “I’ll see you there!”
Oh gawd. Gag me. I rolled my eyes at him and walked away.
Well, good luck! I thought. At least among 30,000 Penn State Main Campus students, Sid and I stood no chance of running into each other. Ha ha yourself Sid. Joke's on you.
Well…imagine my surprise when it turned out that “Sid” was ALSO a film student! But “Sid” went by “Tom” now and so Tom and I got (re)acquainted. To his profound credit, Tom immediately acquiesced to being a jerk to me back in Lancaster, apologized and we started anew. We became good buds and he was always the funniest guy in the room. He was still acerbic and direct as hell but I really liked that about him and realized I always did.
And NOW! Now to be able to spend all this time side-by-side my man Tom/Sid was a complete compliment to my karma.
About mid-week Tom and I met a group of filmmakers from Chicago. A group of cute, fun, filmmaker guys. We did the whole cross-promotion things for them and met up at that night at the nearest Expo party. One of the guys was Marc.
Marc was a guy wholey different from anyone I would ever imagine being attracted to. He was pretty slick and a real jokester and short. But he was cute and clearly into me.
Into me. Into. Me.
Me.
This was a shock let me tell you.
After a couple years in a pretty much love-less, sex-less marriage it was a shock to be into-ed. I had gained 40 pounds in the first year and half of my marriage. Somehow I managed to find the strength and self-control to pick my face out of the Oreos and lose all the weight and then some. Still my self-esteem was pretty shattered from my relationship with my dh and it had not yet caught up with the new hotty I was...or so I thought.
You see, I think when I hit New York (and ya gotta HIT it) I suddenly felt like a SOMEBODY and all this shiny, new-found confidence just showed up one day. But I didn’t REALLY know that until I saw it reflected in Marc’s eyes.
As he watched me.
Sing karaoke.
To Ms. Aretha’s “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman.”
In a basement bar crowded with industry folk.
Such a wallflower, right? Well, Marc thought I was something. And it was wondrous to me.
So Marc and his posse started joining us all the time. Now I had two dates to everything!
Cowabunga!
Tom and I were becoming closer and closer in that truly amazing, miraculous way you become totally intimate with someone in a very short period of time. He was funny, kind, generous and the life of the party. And he was taking me on the ride of my life.
And Marc! It was like having a boyfriend just while on vacation. While you are at your happiest and most relaxed and most attractive.
One night, the boys and I took a nighttime cruise around New York Harbor. Oh my sweet Lord!
NY Harbor on a boat in the dark of night. All the lights of the skyline sparkled like a million stars above us and their brilliance was reflected in the dark, murky water around us. As the boat cruised along the harbor, the captain gave an intimate, detailed audio tour of all the precincts and neighborhoods and their histories. We got up close to the Brooklyn Bridge and then, and then, we’re suddenly looking up from our watery G&Ts and staring up the nose of the Statue of Liberty. Ellis Island. It was beautiful and majestic and friggin HUGE.
There were all these American flags blowing in the night wind and as the captain shared stories of those early comings to America, we all got a little teary-eyed. And suddenly Marc pulled me in his arms and kissed me. Right under Liberty Enlightening the World.
Oh. Wow.
I was like an immigrant myself, discovering freedom and enlightenment in a new world. In New York.
Stay tuned for the exciting finale!
As I have mentioned in a previous blog, I was married before. I got married at 22 years old (I know, I know…but at the time it didn’t feel so young). Things weren’t good from day one and improved not one wit over the next two years. Nevertheless, I was in the marriage for the long haul and tried to make it work. My ex-dh and I even bought a house together hoping that would cement our future.
I was working as an assistant manager at a Christmas gift shop and as a bartender/waitress at a barbeque joint by night…anything to not be home I guess. My dh was a graphic/comic book artist who suffered much for his art. By day he worked as a manager of an indy music store where bitterness was bought and sold at a high price. Suffice to say I was not doing any writing. I was also not pursuing film work although I had just graduated at the top of my class at Penn State. I had really lost my way.
But there was one week that changed everything. Changed my whole life. Changed it so much that I could never go back to my old life again.
It changed everything.
One week.
As “backstory,” I received a call from a good friend from college saying accusingly but truthfully, “What are you doing with your life? When are you going to get back to writing? Have you given up on film altogether? Are you just a bartender now?”
Ouch.
I did like bartending. And in my MIND I was working on a screenplay set in a restaurant. Still, his call struck a chord. He was right. I needed to get back to work but I had no idea how.
Calling the universe…
A short while later, I got a call from my friend Tom Manning (this is his real name and I don’t care who knows it. He’s my hero.)
Tom Manning said that a short film of his was accepted into the New York Film Expo. Filmmakers bring their independent films to the Expo for publicity and of course ultimately, to sell them. The films are all screened at the Angelika Movie Theatre in Greenwich Village over the course of one week.
One week.
He asked me to go with him to the Expo and help him publicize his film. He would cover my expenses and pay me $300 for the week! I accepted immediately. I thought it sounded fun and I never said no to a new experience.
I had no idea what was ahead of me.
Tom and I spent nights in his parents’ house in Jersey and then commuted into Manhattan every morning in his old convertible, smoking, talking, laughing and listening to Dylan and Springsteen and Paul Simon (“The Boxer” will forever be our song). It was magical. Tom’s a great talker, a great listener and wickedly funny. We’d listen patiently to each other’s stories, waiting the whole time for our turn to tell a story that we’d secretly been writing in our head the whole time.
We’d drive into the Village and go hang out at the beautiful and historic Angelika all day, drinking coffee, smoking and networking with other filmmakers. We quickly found out that by supporting other people’s films you could get them to support yours. Hand out flyers for your new friends’ movie on Monday and they would pass out fliers for your movie on Thursday. And the best thing you could do was attend screenings. Everyone wanted a full and enthusiastic audience for their film so we got to see lots of movies, every dang day!
It was ah-mazing for me.
I was a filmmaker again (by proximity). I watched films no one else had seen yet, met indy filmmakers from all over the country, elbowed with famous actors, directors and cinematographers, and partied every single night with all my new friends, for FREE. Cause here's the icing on the cake: every night of the week, after “work,” in the city of cities, in some fabulous, chic and trendy restaurant or club, a party would be thrown just for us Expo participants, totally gratis and sponsored by some industry muckety-muck, thank you very much.
Just for fun, let me spell that out for you at home.
Free fancy drinks.
Free fancy food.
In fancy-schmancy Manhattan.
Surrounded by oh-so-cool indy filmmakers and the like. And I was like one of them.
I. Was. Getting. Paid. For. This.
Plus, Tom and I were totally bonding. We were living out our individual yet conveniently mutual versions of heaven. We pinched each other and gaped and drank and smoked and laughed. We watched movies and promoted movies and talked about movies and partied on the movies.
Every day fell into a wonderful pattern. Joy streamed like the morning sun on Tom’s convertible. I lived in the Village for a summer during college and it was great to be back in the Big City. Every song from Tom's car, every song in a bar was like the soundtrack to our lives. Tom and I "worked" all day, partied all night and dragged our asses back to his parents’ house to nurse our hangovers for another day.
I was 24.
It was heaven. Heaven!
And I was just a little bit developing a huge friend crush on my man Tom.
Let me explain something about “Tom.”
Tom and I went to film school together at Penn State but I actually MET Tom the summer after my senior year back in Lancaster, PA.
We graduated from different high schools but I was dating a guy from his alma mater, so Tom and I would often be at the same parties that summer. Back then, “Tom” was known as “Sid.”
“Sid” was a drunk, arrogant asshole that I couldn’t stand. He was always in my face at parties, challenging me, harassing me, being totally rude. I thought he was such a dick and I made no secret of it. (Little did I know that Sid wasn’t the dick, the guy I was dating was the dick.) I remember at one party, late in the summer, Sid practically spit at me in a loud, drunken stupor that he was going to Penn State Main Campus like me. “Ha! Ha!” he laughed, enjoying himself at my expense, “I’ll see you there!”
Oh gawd. Gag me. I rolled my eyes at him and walked away.
Well, good luck! I thought. At least among 30,000 Penn State Main Campus students, Sid and I stood no chance of running into each other. Ha ha yourself Sid. Joke's on you.
Well…imagine my surprise when it turned out that “Sid” was ALSO a film student! But “Sid” went by “Tom” now and so Tom and I got (re)acquainted. To his profound credit, Tom immediately acquiesced to being a jerk to me back in Lancaster, apologized and we started anew. We became good buds and he was always the funniest guy in the room. He was still acerbic and direct as hell but I really liked that about him and realized I always did.
And NOW! Now to be able to spend all this time side-by-side my man Tom/Sid was a complete compliment to my karma.
About mid-week Tom and I met a group of filmmakers from Chicago. A group of cute, fun, filmmaker guys. We did the whole cross-promotion things for them and met up at that night at the nearest Expo party. One of the guys was Marc.
Marc was a guy wholey different from anyone I would ever imagine being attracted to. He was pretty slick and a real jokester and short. But he was cute and clearly into me.
Into me. Into. Me.
Me.
This was a shock let me tell you.
After a couple years in a pretty much love-less, sex-less marriage it was a shock to be into-ed. I had gained 40 pounds in the first year and half of my marriage. Somehow I managed to find the strength and self-control to pick my face out of the Oreos and lose all the weight and then some. Still my self-esteem was pretty shattered from my relationship with my dh and it had not yet caught up with the new hotty I was...or so I thought.
You see, I think when I hit New York (and ya gotta HIT it) I suddenly felt like a SOMEBODY and all this shiny, new-found confidence just showed up one day. But I didn’t REALLY know that until I saw it reflected in Marc’s eyes.
As he watched me.
Sing karaoke.
To Ms. Aretha’s “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman.”
In a basement bar crowded with industry folk.
Such a wallflower, right? Well, Marc thought I was something. And it was wondrous to me.
So Marc and his posse started joining us all the time. Now I had two dates to everything!
Cowabunga!
Tom and I were becoming closer and closer in that truly amazing, miraculous way you become totally intimate with someone in a very short period of time. He was funny, kind, generous and the life of the party. And he was taking me on the ride of my life.
And Marc! It was like having a boyfriend just while on vacation. While you are at your happiest and most relaxed and most attractive.
One night, the boys and I took a nighttime cruise around New York Harbor. Oh my sweet Lord!
NY Harbor on a boat in the dark of night. All the lights of the skyline sparkled like a million stars above us and their brilliance was reflected in the dark, murky water around us. As the boat cruised along the harbor, the captain gave an intimate, detailed audio tour of all the precincts and neighborhoods and their histories. We got up close to the Brooklyn Bridge and then, and then, we’re suddenly looking up from our watery G&Ts and staring up the nose of the Statue of Liberty. Ellis Island. It was beautiful and majestic and friggin HUGE.
There were all these American flags blowing in the night wind and as the captain shared stories of those early comings to America, we all got a little teary-eyed. And suddenly Marc pulled me in his arms and kissed me. Right under Liberty Enlightening the World.
Oh. Wow.
I was like an immigrant myself, discovering freedom and enlightenment in a new world. In New York.
Stay tuned for the exciting finale!
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