She Writes

Take and Eat

2012-02-29T02:22:00.002-08:00

Staff of life, indeed.
Bread. Not the sappy rock group whose albums temporarily infested our carefully strewn classics. The real stuff that rises in a big ceramic bowl on top of the cold stove under a linen towel until Mother punches it and yells you're using too much flour, knead up, down, side to side, that's enough, did we want hard crunchy millet or warm soft slices with butter we churned ourselves? She greased those pans from 1940 with Land o'Lake wrappers you never, ever threw away. An hour later, the kitchen smelled like a bakery and she allowed you a tiny heel with a pin-sized butter pat because an extra inch would ruin your dinner.
Until I went to Tricia Nixon's for dinner--okay, this girl's mother still starched her hair and wore dresses while she vacuumed and assembled the ghastliest casserole of tuna, noodles, margarine, frozen peas, and something crusty to seal in such sheer goodness--I didn't know bread came from anywhere but our oven. So I'm hiding this casserole under baked beans, sipping Kool-Aid, staring down parfait glasses of Jell-O because Mother said it was about as good for you as drinking water laced with sugar and I was on the lam, in a house decorated with plastic covered chairs, all the better to protect Colonial American fabric, and two chunks of warm canned tuna into it, I gave up, and unused to not speaking during meals, asked, "What's in that bag?"
I would have been better off asking where they hid the dead bodies. There were mutters about these city kids, that EYEtalian family invading this peaceful community, and I, curious as a cat, just picked up that white plastic bag with the pink, yellow, green, and blue dots and gave it a good squeeze.
The slap stung. I was a badly-mannered little girl who really ought to go home. Sleepover, over. I called the house, collect, and said I was homesick and someone, anyone, needed to get me.
A little welt grew on my greedy, intrusive hand. I waited outside that miserable split level, no Jell-O as a thank you/parting gift, and half an hour later, Pops pulled up in VW #4, the one that didn't have a dodgy clutch or doors that didn't quite close.
Why the eviction? He didn't actually like Mrs. Nixon, or her balding insurance salesman spouse, or their daughter, whom he rightfully named trouble (she's actually done time and lost custody and written bad checks and you better believe I blocked her on Facebook after reading her odd revisionist history of the last 35 years...though I gave her the benefit of the doubt and verified all of it through her many, many mugshots)...and I told him about the squishy food and he had to pull over from laughing and missing 1st, 2nd, 3rd gear.

So. I'm in a new state, hoping to bake like Mother, but this place barely holds ME, let alone a kneading board and huge mixing bowl and an oven as willful as a Hollywood starlet.

And last week, the 2 cutest sisters on earth, in life, raved at my cosmetics counter about our product and I, ever the sensitive seller, asked what they did.

The next day, I grasped a coffee bag-style bag of mix. Okay, so the ONE Duncan Hines box I just had to have in 7th grade created a lopsided and mostly raw dessert and really, what kind of half-brain couldn't read a recipe? Someone put Joy of Cooking next to the Jean Webster Pile, and I got good at it, assembling ingredients, utensils, turning on the oven when the stirring commenced.

The new mix had an expiration date, and I imagined warm bread fresh from the psycho stove (lots of rotation). I mixed it with a full cup of milk. Poured it into a spanking new Crate and Barrel pan. One I smoothed with those wrappers Mom told me I'd always need. Oh, how she is always right.

It baked a very long time. 90 minutes at 400 degrees. Again, my stove hasn't seen a good day since, I'm guessing, 1979.

The loaf slipped from the pan without one crumb tumbling on the floor, and sliced perfectly, always a good sign you didn't knead or, in this case, stir too much.

Okay, so I'm on this size 0 or else kick, but whole wheat is on the list, and I'm getting really weary of scrounging for meal ideas at 7:30 p.m., and my stars, the aroma of yeast and butter and whole grains had me salivating for something better than my usual raw carrots and slice of chicken gourmet fare.

Baked Better. Park Slope Staple. Add liquid, stir, pour, bake, slice. Perfectly healthy, better than white flour swill no home should own.

Maybe it's those perky, fun, New York Girls seeking me out 1 day after they coyly showed me their brochure and proudly placed that bag in my hands, or living in the hippie version of Lake Forest where women dress in their fleecy best for lunch at Tyler Florence and wouldn't dream of giving me a lift from the boondocks to, maybe, the grocery store (I know I've mentioned this, but that stringy haired blond who thankfully works on another floor and we've silently agreed to never, ever speak after her snotty proclomation I had no one but myself to blame for making this lifestyle choice to leave the Midwest and settle---chuckle, snigger, WHO are you to invade OUR peaceful commune---here), or, possibly, accepting Mother might have been right, but really...that bread was exactly what I needed to turn this underground room into a closer approximation of home.

I'm ordering more. And so can you. Take it from the least foodie person in the state of California: You'll like it.

Bakedbetter.com

And because not everyone shares my deranged plain no-taste give-it-to-me without interesting seasonings preferences, Baked Better has other, more intriguing options:

Dumbo Delicious--lots of seeds and grains for the myriad cyclists in dire need of more protein
Cobble Hill Crave--for those who dare to add...ingredients (raisins, cranberries, nuts)
Park Slope Staple--my keep it simple staple

One last thing: These are the easiest instructions on earth. Take it to your next weekend visit. Make it into French Toast. Wrap it in a clean dish cloth and place it in a basket. You'll make a much better houseguest than I did those many years ago.

Ma

2012-02-20T20:40:00.022-08:00

I don't think Mother wanted to leave me at the hospital, or forget me at my grandparent's, or ask one of the neighbors to take me in, but there were moments when she'd look at me like, WHAT was I thinking, adding a fifth to the batch?

Three unruly, sporty boys. One sporty, preppy, good girl. Then I showed up, and Kennedy was assassinated a week later, and my dad developed a heart condition, and my brothers pointed fingers and hid my dollies and no one, and I mean that, NO ONE at Sunday school wanted me at their table.

Okay, so abandonment was all in my head, right, I was a loveable little sprite, many cousins were jealous of the attention I attracted by just, as one of them has said since I was 7 and she was 9, being. I learned early on good-looking siblings with minds and smarts and one slice of disdain could take you very, very far. Then they all left and I had a house to myself and my parents let me be. I had a stereo, albums, TV room so I never missed Eight Is Enough and cash jobs so I could dress right.

Ma didn't notice. She was on an activist tear, the Patron Saint of Lost Causes, took up with these really hideous bovine women who taught enlightenment and marched for equal rights and put me down for using my looks. Um, I didn't mean to! I just brushed my hair and dabbed on Maybelline makeup and a couple coats of mascara and there I was, the man-grabber, had "9 to 5" taught me not to kowtow to men?

Ma was, and is, pretty. Her high school picture shows Katharine Hepburn's less acerbic younger sister. The guys at the feed store, the lumber mill, the junkyard (we're talking the true Midwest, auctions and animals and chores and 3 TV stations) lit up when she opened the door. She never got the clothing thing down. She was either too young or two or three seasons too late.

I think she gave in, then gave up, and if you ask for a pivotal moment, well, it'd take an hour at least. The real turning point, when I knew to just let go, happened over 30 years ago. I waited for her in the parking lot at school. She started the car, let me twist the radio station to WLS, and drove 3, 4 miles until she spilled. My stoned, disinterested English teacher threw me under the bus with a pile of infractions. I was addicted to magazines and library books. I was allergic to homework. No college would have me. Every teacher knew this. I was a lost cause.

And she went along with him. I didn't speak to her for a week, ten days.
We found other things to fight about. My room, for one. When would I vacuum? More new clothes? I lived in sweatshirts and Levi's.

What she must think of my appearance-based career, I have no idea. Seeing as she loved sharing my sibling's test scores and fine marriages and perfect cooking while dropping how I wouldn't amount to much, well, I think she's happy I never asked for a cot by the furnace.

What I did learn from her, when she deigned to pay attention and I didn't stomp on her last frayed, fried nerve, was: Save your money, never lend money, don't ask me for money, I have no money, take care of your clothes, I'm not getting you any clothes, you want tomato juice bread--bake it yourself.

All things you work out with a paid professional, and it's a neat solution, blaming your parents for something or everything. The good news is, we don't hate each other and we're 2100 miles apart. The bad news is, it's taken ages to reach a cease fire and now...well, now I have other things to do, and she isn't interested in them. She has her grandchildren, her church, work, books to read and dissect.

Maybe, being the youngest, she wanted a little mollycoddling, doting, attention. Now what would I know about that?

Paying Dues

2012-02-09T23:06:00.000-08:00

First week in Chicago, 1983-ish, everything went wrong. Wrong classes, dorm, wardrobe, text books, teachers, trains.

Pathetic 20-year-old ME, wiping tiny tears on the L. Getting pick-pocketed. Eating alone in the cafeteria where everyone seemed to know each other and saved seats for their lab partners.

I begged for a refund and called my safety school and they said it was just too late.

And then someone invited me somewhere, and I flashed a fake ID, and found Second City, and Ben, My First Crush, crashed my birthday party and all was correct. I moved a few times and while no one would name me Fulbright material and a couple girls threatened to throw me out of the dorm for taking the elevator with their boyfriends (DPU was full of South Side toughies), I caught on, and stayed, and found part-time work, and made Lincoln Park my home. For 28 years. I spent a couple on the North Shore because my sister wouldn't take rent money and we had a lot of fun, she did anyway, using my clothes. So did I, eating her food.

When you're 20ish, even 30ish, your rootlessness allows ample freedom to shove things in Hefty bags and call U-Haul and GO. When you're a decade or more past 30, you have STUFF you care about, and driving many miles to a city you've never seen, to do a job you know you can do, sounds simple. You'll know everyone on the street, and someone's kids will tackle you on their way to school, and next thing they're inviting you to dinner and holidays and taking you to the grocery store.

One would think.

It's been 5 months, and I haven't found that niche, that groove, heck, even a hangout where the barrista knows my drink and confides she's going back to grad school if they don't put her in management and I tell her to hit the books. I've been out socially 3 times since I stared at the world's dinkiest closet and somehow arranged my wardrobe into it. I miss my space, the dangerous back steps that led to my deck where I wrote and plugged ear buds into the laptop and ignored prissy moms who praised their precious darling's every move.

I wasn't a Midwest society dame, but even when I was hermetically sealed and huddled against the storm, someone was around. I could get places. I don't live in cosmopolitan glory. I'm in an actual valley with hills, without sidewalks, and I leave so early and get home so late, the people on my street sort of squint as I sprint up the big hill to my postage-stamp sized studio. Someone waved the other night. Progress.

There's a very easy solution. I could wrap the good china in $60 worth of packing plastic and load wardrobe boxes and hire some guys to move everything somewhere else. The city, in particular. I'd do it tomorrow. Except I'd make only the rent, and food and phone and those mythical social plans would crumble like fallen leaves in late December. At least my shoes would be in better shape, and I wouldn't have to walk down a dark road at 7, 8 pm where cars don't see me.

So a few days ago, when I was certain things could get bleaker, and the really sweet Berkeley girl who works in the store's Market said UP was the only way to go, I mapped it out.

Firstly, I've built a huge business and am no longer accepting the level playing field answer. Pay me what I'm worth, what I've brought in numbers, logic no one can argue.

Secondly, I came out here for a new place to write. It's not a cool top floor library like my Cleveland Avenue showplace. It's a miserable, unheated, semi-private space in which I keep bumping into sharp counters. I'm suffering for my art. Whenever I want to call one of my brothers or my sister and tell them to come get me, I open a manuscript and edit and rewrite and ask if I'd pay for these words.

I don't have a choice about the payout. I need one. And I'll get it.

Every day gets slightly easier, and any unexpected kindness--a ride home from the bus stop, a lift back to Death Valley after work, a piece of gratis on the back steps from a grateful vendor--and I get it, I have to adapt. No one needs to look out for me. But I wouldn't say no if they offered.

And I know this: So many have it worse and would love to have a job, any job. I'm lucky. As are those who put me here and realized I am their personal money tree. Hand me a few branches so I can maybe, possibly, live like a person.

I'm halfway there. Not asking for handouts. Just a better period of adjustment.

And if I really had my druthers, I would never again watch someone who lives a block from me refuse to get me home because, you see, she didn't want to crumple 20 bags of couture she couldn't live without. Right. I take up too much room. I'm a known clothing wrecker. And did you have to say life is all one big choice, I made my bed, too bad I lived so far away?

I'm sure your daughter will turn out just fine. You cover her in every new Burberry piece and spend hours deciding who will watch her when you and your husband go out on much-needed day dates. I'm sure she'll join the Peace Corps and donate her hefty allowance to the poor kids. She's 10. There's hope.

Me, I'm a workhouse. A pioneer. Stranger in a very trippy land. I'm pretty sure I like it. I'll be certain I want to stay when the year is up. If not, I'll find a new homestead. And I'll know how to make it easy. Easier.

Payoff. No one who's worked this hard won't get one.

The Sweater

2012-01-30T22:15:00.000-08:00

Most girls keep bouquet ribbons, matchbooks, first notes, every note, any little tidbit that reminds them of the boy they probably loved, then absolutely did, and...it dissolved, evaporated, and they tossed that moldy memorabilia last time they moved.

I never really wanted that stuff, I chronicled everything in photographs, just like Ringo, and journals, just like Andy Warhol. I have one photo of Former Flame, we're several hundred sheets to the wind on a hot August night by Halsted and Diversey, and I'm not entirely clear who else is in this shot, or why I wore brown Weejuns with a short print (!) dress, or the moment his snarky pompous sister shot me evil looks when I'd just invited out everyone I knew to, you know, HAVE FUN. I have 13 diaries, starting in the fall of '81, and almost every entry opened with whatever was on WMET, or WXRT, or The Loop (all you young 'uns scratching your heads at my ancient references, those were radio stations that played stuff your parents hum when they think you're not around).

So those are my life references, snapshots I took with a killer Pentax and developed at Photo Hut and put in albums until the shelves collapsed and I winnowed what mattered down to two pasteboard boxes, and blank books covered with my loopy penmanship detailing first dances, kisses, crushes, jobs gone wrong (if those walls could talk).

I have a couple other pieces that shouldn't really mean anything, but the heart is willful, and I don't hold onto them so Former Flame can see them and smile and say he remembers them, along with my ordering him to watch "Moonstruck" and "The Princess Bride" or he'd never know "SNAP OUT OF IT!" or "As you wish." I keep them so I remember he might have been a really good person once or twice in his tightly-wound years, and I understood him much better than he thought, which scared the bejeesus out of him. Who wants someone seeing right through you? Actually, it was more a case of seeing what I hoped he'd kept covered, but oh well. He was mostly just average.

When he'd visited and the city seemed to greet me anew, and I had a hopeful glimmer that, 10+ years after we last spoke, he'd FINALLY seen the light, this was pretty simple, he seemed to glow too, I just waited for the ease and familiarity to match the spark. Okay, the fireworks. Combustion. Happiness condensed into a week of great food and waiters whispering about That Couple In The Front all over each other. FF needed a respite. I needed someone. The real equation, solved.

And when it ended, and neither of us spoke to the other for five months, and I turned a corner and a page, I tossed the traces of HIM: Empty beer bottles, full beer bottles (sap), the Gemini Bistro (best restaurant in my old neighborhood) gift card envelope, and all the body washes he'd borrowed and drained. This evacuation turned into full-out purging, and suddenly stacks of too-big clothes stood by the front door. Out went the clothes steamer, madras flip-flops, salad bowl, Candice Bushnell novels. I owned way too much cashmere, if such a thing is possible. There it was, hidden in the exercise wear basket. The pale blue v-neck pullover from the Burberry outlet that rang up $39.99 with tax. I'd tried shrinking it and wore as a sweatshirt. FF had found it just divine, it fit him smartly, and brought out those crystal blue eyes, and anyway, he was wearing too many plaid shirts for my snippy aesthetic preferences. I unfolded it half a year since its last outing and dangled it over the basket, eyeing the Get The Hell Off My Property box. Well. FF sure loved his gourmet meals, because I found 4 tiny moth holes. Should it stay or go?

I'm wearing it now. It's holier than ever, a sleeve is unraveling, and my new apartment isn't insulated. In fact it's freakishly colder than a Chicago night. Not so warm, California, like they said. The v-neck keeps me from waking up at 3am, shivering like a dog left in a snowy yard.

Anyway, I'll stick to my practical theory on why I'm holding on to something that makes me look like the poor relation.

As for my other sign of that guy I liked, well, there were flowers. Nothing I'd pick, in fact I thought the whole arrangement was a little chintzy, arriving a year to the day he climbed 3 floors to my apartment and looked like heaven seeped from his pores. I'm a rose girl. White, yellow, pink. Not to sound like an ingrate, but it's hard to muster enthusiasm for a bud vase filled with blooms that died 48 hours later. I very carefully plucked the green sprigs that were more plentiful than the blossoms, put them in the glass canister-type container, and every now and then, I make sure they haven't completely crumbled. Sturdier sprouts never existed. They're still here.

PRODUCT PART III

2012-01-24T20:12:00.000-08:00

Can't pass a mirror without looking, can you?

Look at you. Stare. Find your best angle. Because you've got lots of them now. Your skin...wow...who knew? It's pretty. Glowing. Vibrant. Younger, even.

Don't think it can't get better. Part I was the primary, II, the election, and now, the inauguration. You're in office. Lead. You just need a few more tools to do it fearlessly.

Here, again, is Professor Product, who believes in joy, makeup, and looking good.

Just a few more things to add to your Beauty Cabinet. Don't fret. You've got the money for dinners out, right? Eschew a few and invest the dough in those almost-perfect features. Let me again remind you: Slathering your face with all-natural whatever will never make you look like anything but a flower child intoning "We Shall Overcome." The Chanel Ladies in their, ah, golden years all tell me they started using the good stuff in their 20s. They look and act swell. And so will you.

1. CLARISONIC. Not that Oprah and I dish or even speak (well, 2 times, once when she visited my school, and another at Leigh Jones in Chicago, right before she hit it REALLY big and I have no idea where those pictures of her, head covered in plastic, might be), but we are in full-out agreement on this necessity. Washcloths breed bacteria and think about it, you're putting your favorite laundry detergent on your skin. DON'T get me started on dainty buffers or loofahs or...anything other than something that gets your skin 61% cleaner and prepped for that serum and moisturizer. $225 for the Face and Body model.

2. EYE MAKEUP REMOVER. Still a believer in baby oil on cotton pads? Notice how much you're scrubbing and fighting to get off those last layers of liner? STOP. Buy Kiehl's Supremely Gentle Eye Makeup Remover. It doesn't sting or burn. And no, your regular cleanser doesn't belong anywhere near your eyes. No cheating. $16.50.

3. EYE SERUM. "But--I'm using eye cream!" Good for you! Want to make it work even better? Prep that area with Fresh's Lotus Eye Gel. It de-puffs, erases dark circles, soothes, and holds that eye treatment even closer to your orbital area. For all you exercise kings and queens--you can store it in the refrigerator and give "cool down" a new meaning. Use it twice a day UNDER your eye cream. Dab it over your concealer if you're having a "moment." $48.

4. BOTOX IN A BOTTLE. If you're over 25, fine lines are setting in, and no, olive oil isn't the answer, no matter what that clerk at the organic bookstore advised (and not that you asked her). I've tried every last line reducer and the granddaddy of them all is Kiehl's (no, they don't pay me) Powerful-Strength Line-Reducing Concentrate. It's loaded with Vitamin C (10.5%) and goes on BEFORE your serum and warms on the skin and pretty soon you're finding all kinds of reasons to dab it on. It's also a lovely primer under your Trish/Tom Ford/Chanel foundation. Get the big bottle because your significant other will want in too. 2.5 ounces, $77.

5. MASK. Twice a week, like a personal trainer. If your skin's prone to acne, use Chanel's Masque Destressant Purete ($50) to really purge those clogged pores. If you need hydration, I swear by Fresh's Black Tea Instant Perfecting Mask ($88). Masks work best if you just stay put, as you would if you were getting an actual facial in a swanky salon. Leave either on a good 15 minutes and...

6. EXFOLIATE. Dead skin cells must be disposed of properly. If I had my druthers and didn't obey my rules, I'd smear Sugar Face Polish ($55) on my Clarisonic and let it roll a good 10 minutes. The right way is swiping Trish McEvoy's "Even Skin" Beta Hydroxy Pads ($65) over cleansed skin ONE NIGHT A WEEK. You get to skip everything else and wake up to a clearer, more even skin tone.

There you go. Only 6 easy pieces. More prettiness in the powder room. And, more importantly, the prettiest YOU I can promise.

Don't Do That

2012-01-22T23:05:00.000-08:00

Okay, friends, readers, both family members who follow my acrobatic train of thought:

Here's something for the fellows. The many, many, work, college, and high school boys who've left and returned, who cried because I invite such soul sharing, who take my side and make me laugh--thank you for being great. Even the weepers. Glad to know you. You're amazing, patient, smart, and funny.

How I wish you were here. Maybe not the criers, because once was tolerable, twice uncomfortable, three times...over the phone...1am...okay, visitation's all right, I suppose.

The men I now know need some serious learning. I'm not pointing cultural fingers, and I'm not the most adaptable gal out there, but, enough. No decent woman could or should listen to your trippy mind games. Stop it. Be quiet. Sit down. Listen. It's for your own good. I shouldn't be smartening you up, but this week just about turned me into Thelma and Louise's darker accomplice.

Be sweet. You saw how we turn out when you are not.

Here's What You Should Be Doing, Or Not:

1. Do NOT ask us, before we know your last name, how much pot we smoke. Not interested in your get-out-of-jail medical excuse card, will not partake because the 70s collapsed 30+ years ago, and what you do in your lonely 3 million dollar house is your business. If you're collecting residuals from great music, you are allowed to ask us to share, as the only good musician is a stoned one and those lyrics didn't pop out of the dictionary and yeah, it might be fun hearing your loopy tangents. Just not right away, and not if you ask us to kick in some bucks.

2. Do NOT ask us to hike on the first date. Me, in particular. I just got here. I don't know you from Alice's barn cat. 5 mile tread on my day off with a stranger? It's parsimonious and dangerous. Two words pop up when you light up about your hiking club: Decomposing. Body.

3. Do NOT ask us to a museum on the first date. It is boring. It is your opportunity to show how terribly smart you think you are. It induces a coma-like condition. Most of us majored in Art History or Philosophy or The Great Books and wrote papers in front of the Picasso. You'll donate money to a year-round membership, then claim dinner is not in the budget (I swear I received an e-mail with those last 6 words--deleted and blocked, thanks). I'm a light eater who doesn't drink. I promise not to push you to financial ruin. Face to face is how you get to know us. If it's a complete disaster, skip dessert. It's 90 minutes out of your life and a good opp to see (hopefully) refined table manners (both of ours).

4. Do NOT ask us at 5:30 to meet you at 6:00. Sorry your Friday night poker plans dissolved. We are not your Plan B. You are not a UCLA freshman, seeing how the day flows, Dude. Be a grown up and set a plan by Tuesday or Wednesday. IF you like us. If not, leave us alone. We'd rather be home watching old movies than watching you under-tip the cocktail waiter.

5. DO ask about us. We are not narcissistic parasites dying to tell you about our childhood kittens named Puff. We do expect a little interest, or you wouldn't be calling/texting/Facebooking. We know better than to bore you with ex stories (and that goes both ways, Bub, sorry about the split but really, what do you want US to do about it?), but the safe topics are school and work (SEE #8). All it takes is one tiny spark to make it a little...real. It won't work if you open with the doctor's prognosis or your updated prescriptions or, again, did we want some weed? (Sorry to carp, but it seems quite a THING in my 'hood).

6. DO look like SOMETHING. We go all out to look good because we're mostly vain, or appearance based, but it means we represent pretty, or at least making the best of what we have. You, there, in the '86 Super Bowl hat and moth-eaten fleece. Goodwill doesn't want your old rags, why would we want to see them? My dad sent my brothers to their bedrooms if they were heading out in mangy tavern tee-shirts: "Are you going to a barn raising or a date?" I'd press their Oxfords and watch their second slink out the door and those boys were never alone. You can dress like a person without going overboard. College ended ages ago. Your shirt shouldn't remind us what campus handed you your degree.

7. DO be a little afraid to talk to us. Respectful, at least. See, you're about twice our size and while being singled out can be a lovely thing, it's really kind of creepy when we're minding our own business on the bus and there's no escape. Don't startle us out of our iPod zone unless you think there's a tiny chance we won't get mad you interrupted our third replay of a favorite song.

8. Do NOT make fun of our careers, or tell us your EX also worked in that industry, or advise us to get out of our seemingly miserable jobs. I take a lot of pride in what I do. No need to swing a wrecking ball at what you think isn't a respectable profession just because we're far removed from what you believe we should be doing. Particularly if you think we'd be great at real estate or teaching or going back to school (we'd pay for it how again?). Now, if you're hiring at Google or putting together a big-budget film and we'd be just dandy for either, we'll allow that.

9. Do NOT debate about the following: Best movie, author, book, "Star Wars," athletes gone astray. We're not going to listen to you pontificate until maybe Date III, which will not happen if you continually, incessantly, nauseatingly provide ample evidence of the brilliant life lessons George Lucas has provided us for 35 years. And saying, "Come ON! How can you NOT like "The Phantom Menace?" will not change our minds. And if you're over 40, you should have other things to talk about. Come on. Pick something. Just not Han Solo (I'm pretty sure that was a character).

10. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES: Ask for half the check, cancel as we're getting ready, toke up in the car (I know, the horse is not glue, I'm putting away the whip), talk about your financial problems (we have it worse because of those petty Puritans who put the kibosh on the E.R.A.), assume we are interested in your children's natural childbirth, tell us about the many women who won't leave you alone. We will not throw ourselves at you like a roadblock, pleading "CHOOSE ME!" and you'll just seem insecure, dim, and a bit of a liar, frankly.

Dump the online dating games and just be YOU. Unless you really need a complete rehab. In that case, my rates are reasonable. We'll meet at Starbucks. One hour limit. Your life will change. You will offer me a silent toast at your wedding.

You're welcome.

Bop!

2012-01-18T20:09:00.000-08:00

Oooh, fashion!
We are the goon squad
and we're coming to town...

The creature in black and sensible loafers is cracking her shell and maybe not torching the fashion world, but come on, enough is enough. I awake just fine, hit the coffee button because I haven't mastered that pesky timer thing, check the "Thanks for the submission, we are not currently seeking your style of work at this time" e-mails, use those lovely aging foundation brushes with the perfect liquid/powder increments, spackle on the right eyeliner and keep my lids closed until it's dry (you only open them too soon once), gloss up, smile...
And remember my closet is 1/3 the size of the 12' hallway storage space in Chicago.
And half of what went on hangers is now living the country life with my lucky sister who loves my not-so-sloppy seconds.
And I work in a city that's half cranberry wide-wale cords with Crocs and fleece, half Gucci suit with Chanel bags.
I'd rather commit to following Amy Adam's movie career than dress in yoga pants with Uggs.
A Chanel bag is an easy 3 grand. While it's perfectly amazing, well, it's all I could ever own, and mine is not a wear-what's-comfortable job.
Parsimony leaves you with a nice warm feeling when you watch that $4.21 interest build your bank. Where once no week was complete without a new outfit from the now-shuttered Sugar Magnolia (yummy trendy overpriced stuff I had no business even touching), I shut off my material urges and dismissed shopping as a dreadful, evil habit.
Then I got into retail which was like letting a rehabbed drug addict run a legal crack house. No one said no more than I. That black patent Valentino frame bag with the rosettes still haunts me. The filmy smoky gray chiffon Alexander Wang that fit just so would be sales catnip at the front of the store. And that Lanvin ribbon contraption--necklace? bracelet?--would go with ANYTHING. I indulged in what I thought I needed, instead of getting what I wanted...then I left that store, and marched back with my receipts and bags of unworn finery, smiled through the endless credits, walked to the bank and opened a CD. Which I used to move to California, where I'm starting all over again (SEE Crocs and Chanel).
Last call. Last chance to find some easy pieces in my size (2 to 4, depending on the designer--and let me say I'm convinced some of them cut and sew for Mick Jagger). Checkbook in shaking, trembling hands, I found 4 sweet basics several steps above my she-works-in-publishing uniform (black Vince pants, prim cardigan, Tod's): Marni. Prada. Dolce. Marni again, because you're not living if you don't own trousers that fit like they were tailored for you. Enough.
Plenty. They'd make up for my scuffed shoes. But my poor tired feet, why, didn't they deserve some attention too?
I still make weird fiscal deals with ME: If it's 75% off, NO, 85%, YES. There they were. Bejeweled mules. Low heels. Sassy little bows. Beyond. I nodded, my favorite shoe guy grabbed the last pair, and I needed to surgically remove my checkbook one last time.
I was almost at the register when something sparkly came out of hiding. There THEY were. Black D'orsay basics with tiny black feathers and sequins and discreet rhinestones. I held them as one handles a newborn or crocodile Hermes bag. Shoe Guy MADE me put them on and look in the mirror.
"You're going to feel brand new, T," he smiled. "Like the million bucks you really are."
Maybe the mirror dropped 10 pounds, or my back is still pretty straight, but when our eyes met in that elongating mirror and he nodded and a customer said she, too, wanted in, I got it, these were also ME.
You know that dim adage about spending money to make money? Well. The very next week, someone who knows me pretty darned well gave me the best gift. A Visa card. Enough to snag another safe black cashmere cardi. J Crew makes good ones, and they were on sale, and I ordered one. Another 30% off, free shipping, and...this swirly skirt that would go WONDERFULLY with those new Manolo's. And, running around the store as I do, why not grab those lightweight wool trousers marked down to $39.99? A mixed marriage of high-end and easy basics. Less law librarian, not quite head-to-toe designer, but who wants to be too much?
I'm wardrobed and set and no longer donning the first dark shirt I grab in my unlit, chilly apartment.
I just need one final push to actually wear those shoes.

2012-01-18T19:51:00.000-08:00

PRODUCT PART II

2012-01-07T22:57:00.000-08:00

You did it, right? Tossed the ancient cleanser you don't even remember buying, filled in the skin cracks, hydrated? All set? Ready to put on your big-girl Mary Jane shoes and brave the cold again?

You're prepped. Dewy. Glowing. You even purged the pores with a masque that pulsed, yes? That icky green one that erased the last bits of teenage breakout from your complexion? Aren't we obedient.

Here, now, are Professor Cosmetic's Rules of Makeup. Clip this, drop it in your genuine Jimmy Choo patent leather bag, and run back to that nice person who arranged your skin care.

1. LEAVE YOUR FRIENDS AT HOME. Honey, they're either a) jealous of the attention or b) don't want to be with someone prettier than they. Either way, they will undermine you. Or the artiste who is just waiting for you. They will drag a chair right next to you, bump into the person applying tightline, make grumbly noises about their expert at that OTHER store, talk you into things you don't need, talk you out of the necessities. For this day only, they are NOT your friends. Tell them nothing.

2. GO IN BARE-FACED. Seriously. We need to see the real you, the one who didn't quake at The Fab Four (POP QUIZ ANSWERS: Cleanser, Eye Cream, Serum, Moisturizer). We need a nice blank page. A fresh canvas. Clean slate.

3. PICK A LINE. OR LINES. Okay, this, I love. WHAT is the best primer (Laura Mercier, no contest), foundation, powder? Without actually seeing YOU, I can promise only: Pick the best you can afford. The prettiest. Just like your moisturizer. If you've got the coin, get thee to Trish McEvoy. Or Tom Ford. Foundations are, quite honestly, never a perfect match. You may have to mix a couple. The nicest results I've seen lately are the TF Foundation Stick for touch-ups over Trish's Treatment Foundation.

4. YES, YOU NEED POWDER. Pressed or loose, like an emollient chalk. It stays put, and you won't have to manhandle your face 5, 6 times a day. The one I go to again and again is The Treatment Powder Foundation by La Mer, applied with a really thick brush. Look at you! Base and powder. That was painless.. You're looking smooth, Lady. Aren't you glad Muffy and Madison and Megan are playing at the yoga studio? Who'd want this thunder stolen?

5. BLUSH. One wisecrack about "Oh my mom said I'll look like a clown" and you can take your sorry Prada-clad feet back to that mill town that gave you the Brown scholarship where you discovered something in the computer lab and everyone said you were a tech genius and here you are in the big bad city...
I have to give La Prairie props here. Their blush gives you a pop and a glow and has NO sparkle. But it's not so matte you look like you've been, well, striped.

6. EYE SEE. Still on that mascara-only kick? Still majoring in women's studies at a state school and shivering in your brother's moth-eaten LL Bean sweater only you find attractive and arty? Stay in 1995, then. Fine. Or, line it up. Liquid eyeliner, in particular. I've found Benefit's stays on all day, every day, when I have about 6 seconds after lunch and no one sees me opening one of 4 compacts to make sure I haven't gone all teary over someone's sad broken engagement story. Top and lower lashes, honey. Step up. You have eyes. Let's see them. In brown or black only, please. If you have hazel eyes, NO, lavender or plum will not bring out the deep green. It's a deep myth I'm putting to rest NOW.

7. ME AND MY SHADOW. There are about 500 varieties of smoky eye, not that I'd have time to count them, as I'm listening to your life story (and really, I WANT to hear the name of the first song they played at your wedding...I do) and unpacking stock and writing thank-you notes and opening accounts and dusting shelves and waiting for someone who can't live without my know-how....
I dig palettes, the shiny expensive ones. The ones almost too pretty to mar. Get one with natural colors, one with an ebony and pitch-dark shimmer. Day and night. Let us show you how to put it on. Hold that hand mirror. WATCH. LISTEN. LEARN. Do the other eye yourself. It won't look half as good as the other, but life is one big lesson, isn't it? And no matter what THEY say, blue is not back, and green looks good on no one. The end. Chanel Dunes and Tom Ford Titanium Smoke. REALLY the end.

8. LASH 'EM. Do. Not. Stint. Do not believe that supermodels pack pink and green drugstore tubes in their Balenciaga's. They are contracted and paid to say that. You are not. Fresh makes ONE in black. Supernova. No lye, no tar. It will stay on all day. It will not irritate your eyes. It will separate your lashes. Its thick brush will make you swoon.

9. LIPSTICK. Like foundation, one isn't enough. And if one you just can't live without is discontinued, well, there's a reason. Liken it to those chunky shoes you wore when "Friends" premiered and everyone said your legs looked great in them. They're out of style, and so is that color. Let us find another for you. You CAN wear bright red. Make it your signature, if you like. Secret Red Lipstick Rule: Apply, then blot once. You can also do deep brown--if you're auditioning for an unpaid internship at a state-funded theater where performing unedited, student-written plays is part of the program. This is my barely gentle way of saying, you're not 21 anymore, flashing your ID at Neo, so no frosty mocha or shimmery copper. When we've decided what you CAN wear, and you stop saying your sister told you never to even think about this color, here's what you can pick: Armani Lip Silk. Then touch it up with...

10. GLOSS. I always add this because a) it perks up the lipstick and 2) if you're too lazy to layer, just shine. My fave, FAVE is Nars. Like Guys On The Roster, about 5 or 6 will do. Seamless application, impossible to find a wrong color. They work with your lip stain or stick. They stay put. They hold their own alone. If you're jogging to The Bart or The L, swipe on a little Odalisque or Turkish Delight without benefit of a mirror.

You're now better than you were before.

How tough was this, really?

You're done. Your friends are hopping with envy and curiosity. Send them our way. One at a time. And please make them recite The Top Ten before you proudly drop them at the store. And, make yourself scarce. You know the rules.

Sam

2012-01-05T20:49:00.000-08:00

Probably the kindest literary act anyone ever committed after I left home and didn't have brilliant advisers making the selections happened at good old DePaul, site of my almost-education. Someone, and I swear I can't remember his name, saw me repeatedly writing and reading at Peter's on Fullerton and Halsted, reached in his backpack, and slammed a book next to the coffee I pretended to drink.

It was battered and whole scenes were underlined, highlighted, noted. The cover arrested me. That piercing stare, eyes that didn't miss a trick. I knew him, all right. Not in any deep intellectual association. Just from his celebrity. He was in the movies. So was his lady love.

Somewhere between Liz and Dick and Angelina and Brad, there was Sam Shepard and Jessica Lange. They were a homespun scandal, town and country, independent film actors, Oscar nominees, Oscar winners, unmarried, together. They were a whole lot quieter about it. No big jewels or multiple adoptions. Studios wrote movies for them. Vanity Fair followed them everywhere. His occasional second-leads in blockbusters amped up the game for much bigger names, and he swiped scenes from co-stars trying mightily to keep up with things they just didn't get: The writing, the story, were more important than catching the high-cheekbones/glowering reaction shots. She came up when there were actual movies for leading women, when the story revolved around a strong female not toting multiple guns or getting battered by a bad man. Watch "Men Don't Leave" and you'll get it, she owned every moment. Together, they ruled.

So I had this book of plays, and I tried like the Dickens to follow them, and--nothing. Comprehension troubles. Which meant it was way too good for the likes of me. I kept at it, and I'm pretty sure I got it, he writes about screwed up families, siblings in particular, and apologies to the other playwrights out there, but his dialog sounds like he wrote it that morning after setting up a fight with one of the poor relations who showed up on the doorstep. When the guys in my acting class did "A Lie of The Mind," they heard the notes too. Well, one of them did, the other had a serious beef about not being as good as the guy who wasn't trying to hogtie us to his every move. The words and mood held up. As our teacher would say, "LISTEN." And we did, and it worked.

There they were, Jessica and Sam, on horseback, luminous on a film set, at home in the East Village, raising all those kids, shutting up most of the time. 29 years after the scandal broke--she brought him to the "Frances" premiere, and for you youngsters possibly reading this, that's sort of like, well, Angelina and Brad walking steps apart at "Mr. and Mrs. Smith" when the ink on his divorce papers wasn't even legible--you wonder WHAT could go wrong with such apparent solidarity. Come on. You're no spring chickens. You built something. Was it boredom? The kids out of the house? His arrest and probation? Someone else? I know, there are millions of things I should be caring about more. But this--2 exceptionally gifted people who seemed pretty balanced and created that elusive IT factor, a magnetism Brad and Angie somehow manufactured--just seems sad.

Someone once told me pain makes the best material. I hope Mr. Shephard writes something pretty quickly. Something about a longtime couple who stop being and start all over again. Something sad, but true. Something that would make a good movie.

CLEAN IT UP

2012-01-04T23:35:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I never really did collect a degree. I live and breathe anyway. I'm not a martini-swilling burden to society. I can spot a good actor from the worst, decree who's sucky or good or great, cinema-wise (in that order, quickly: Natalie Portman, Annette Bening, Meryl Streep), and name a tune before it starts. Have a laundry emergency? Turn OFF the dryer and tell me about it. Breaking out like a 15-year-old on a fast-food diet? See me, I'll have you glowing like a retouched In-Touch magazine cover in a week. No lie.

But I can't do the last one alone. You need to understand some very simple rules on the second best thing about being a girl (the first is making a guy cry, which I assure you on all that is good and holy produces a feeling of power you will spend ages trying to duplicate...I've done it 3 times, not intentionally of course, and while you can't really plan it, just liken it to matching most of a winning lottery ticket and you get the drift).

You HAVE to look good because it's just so damned easy no matter what you see in the mirror. I'm in the biz. I've seen it all. Improved the impossible. Converted the ones so certain of their own perfect natural look, they almost always say, "Eye cream does THIS?" Scraped a bad home-done job off primitive non-believers and sent them away with a bagful of goodies they replenish 2, 3 months later. Applied red lipstick to a really kind manic depressive attorney who lit up 6 ways till Christmas when I promised her luck would change.

Get it? We care. We want you to be prettier than you think you are. NO ONE looks good without makeup, even those celebs who swear they drive their kids to school in sweats and a touch of tinted moisturizer, if they remember it. NO ONE who uses cheapo skin care for too long looks as amazing as they should. Hey! You! Still cleansing every night with anti-acne soap? 40 passed you a long time ago. That see-through bar is as tacky as the polar fleece you wear to work and a nice restaurant. Still confused about that table in the back the host-person barely led you to?

Clearly, there's work to do. You can dress your rich self with all the Valentino on the planet, but pair it with the wrong foundation, and I don't mean garment, you'll be TV dinner served on Meissen ware.

Start off with your face, which, if you let people like me near it, WILL be your fortune. Go to a high-end store. And take this list with you.

1. Walk into the cosmetics department like you mean it. But don't pull a haughty rich girl pose. Gets you nowhere. Looks as counterfeit as that "Gucci" you scored on e-bay.

2. Look for someone clad in black, smiling, and doing something. Anything. The straighteners and cleaners keep their bays perfect because they are expecting YOU. They will ooze charm and sincerity and advice. Hold it! You NEED us.

3. Ask this Someone to guide you. LISTEN. A good artist knows a little--or a lot--about every single line. Hear him/her out.

4. For the sake of everyone's sanity, never, EVER say, "I'm just looking." You know why? Because we don't go to your office and hang out, doing nothing. Think about this, then...

5. Take a seat. Sit up straight. And get ready to take it in the gut, nicely.

6. CLEAN UP. Whatever you're using isn't working. Not even a little. All the Bikram yoga and hideous whey shakes aren't improving things. Start with cleanser. Cetaphil doesn't count. Don't swear you're allergic to anything else. You aren't. Someone--not us--made you think that. Take it out of your head, and, later, out of the beauty closet you're building. The best ones are whatever WE are using. We try them all. We match the right one to your complexion. We can be trusted.

7. EYE CREAM. This is not a lie. No one, anywhere, can do without it. Professor Cosmetics can tell you, the skin around your eyes is not related to the rest of your face. It has no oil glands. So STOP skipping this step. And really, REALLY cease using your regular moisturizer under your lower lashes. Press the right one with your ring finger onto the orbital bone, hit the corners, and stop fiddling. Let the eye treatment do the work for you. Don't rub until it's gone. It's like tea, it needs to seep.

8. SERUM. HI! Yes, Mummy slathered cocoa butter on her forehead and shimmered like fresh-spun cotton candy as she read you "Runaway Bunny" and never had a single wrinkle. The environment is much worse than those days she bought one lipstick a year and preened when her pals called her an Ivory Girl. Serum fills in the little fissures so your moisturizer has something to hold onto. It's that simple. 2 pumps at night, 1 in the a.m.

9. THE BEST HYDRATION YOU CAN AFFORD. You'll drop hundreds on a bag you'll forget you even own because a better one made Lucky Magazine's must-have list...yet you're STILL convinced any hydration will do. You're learning from an expert. What you can afford might cost $38, or $480, but if it feels good, the price is right. And as we're applying and experimenting, STOP your infernal sniffing. You're working on skin care, not a new bottle of Sexy Number 9. However it smells in the jar will evaporate once you gently pat and press it on. Seriously. Quit the scent test.

10. MAKEUP. Nope. Not until we get that skin perfected.

The essentials await: Cleanser, serum, eye cream, moisturizer. Whether it's Kiehl's or La Prairie, which I've sold in tandem with a touch of Guerlain and a ton of Trish McEvoy, you're going nowhere without The Fab Four.

Start now. Book an appointment. Drop by. Look good at last in your pictures.
And didn't I start this with a brief history of acting?
Well, those ladies grooving on the screen aren't covered in Aquafor.

The Graduates

2011-12-29T19:57:00.000-08:00

I never worry about the guys who married because it was their time to stop acting like a permanent frat boy. Many divorced four, five years later. They'll be fine, most of them got alimony and insurance and spent a year or two deciding what's next. One is driving all over the country, as if Route 80 holds the secret of life. Another is dating anything in a skirt, and maybe, possibly, reuniting with his wife because 60/40 custody is pretty wretched and he's weary of twitty young things who wouldn't know Woody Allen from Woody in "Toy Story." The last who told his sad, sad story--I should start charging psychotherapy fees, looking back I'd rather have read a good book or dusted something or even talked to my mother--is in his third home in four years because, this time for sure, he's found a career. A dubious choice in this market, he's lucky the lawyer saw it his way and for a good laugh, I picture the ex in that icky olive green, ill-fitting Casual Corner suit, throwing psychobabble at his departing back as the judge's chambers closed.
I hear it in messages and phone calls I might answer--certain area codes scream "NEEDINESS ALERT"--and occasional postings on Facebook. And not that I appointed myself Gestalt Counselor To The Divorced, I still have this well-hidden, seldom-used kind side. Shocks me too.
They're all 40ish+, looking good, confused, but like everyone else, just need someplace to be. And they need somebody. Someone their age? Too old for a family (nature's just plain cruel). Someone older? Are you kidding? Someone in their 20s? Well, there's the demographic that gets them thinking and drinking. Except these dolls aren't that impressed with a guy who still parties like a University of Illinois freshman, then needs a nice long nap instead of brunch with her sorority sisters.
That leaves one safe, sure thing.
I've discovered their new It Girl.
No more Choo's, monthly handbag, Kardashian marathons.
SHE is a PGS.
Permanent Grad Student.
I've been reading up on it. Twice, which makes it true. Someone sort of famous snapped up a Harvard/Yale/Princeton MFA candidate. A certain number of idle women stopped the employment hunt to get some more learnin' till that job market stops its Titanic dive.
There you go!
So, guys, do your research. She'll have a fellowship not too near the city because she needs space for the 5 mutts she adopted and named after the dudes in "The Odyssey." There's no timeline to finish that dissertation. She teaches one class, grades papers at the coffee house, wears knit hats that benefit the charity of the week, and goes to dinner in those black square glasses and an interesting vintage dress. A guy paying for a whole meal? Gold.
HE can tell everyone he hit the I.Q. jackpot.
SHE can do her laundry without scrounging for quarters because he has the room and the Tide for the mountains of thrift store finds that could probably move and molt.
He can remember he majored in 19th Century Literature and skip one playoff game when she has finals.
She will work on The Novel till you retire. She will always be the smartest one in the room.
It'll be easy to tell who's taking this seriously: The groom will be 42+. The bride, 28. Preferred majors include philosophy, handy when the kitchen sponge disappears and she asks if it really was there in the first place; English, to help him polish the resume; biochemistry, because who does that anymore?
Skip the match.com matches. Go back to school. She's waiting by the library, wearing ripped tights and no makeup.
You, my friend, will look like a genius.
Next time my kind psychiatric services are needed, I'm sending them to university. Somehow, they'll learn something new.
Adult education when you really think about it.

Away From Home

2011-12-25T20:42:00.000-08:00

Took me long enough.
I mean, 3 months without one social outing? Who does that? Me, quite honestly.
I've stopped saying "Back home" because I have a new one, and here I am, in the land of rich hippies, terrible clothes, good energy, and lots and lots of earrings. Because I wear and sell makeup and skincare, I look more than okay around people who brag about olive oil in the hair, coconut oil on the face. Um, you didn't need to spell that out. The lines and shine gave it away. See, there's a reason for the multi-billion dollar a year industry. Scoff at chemicals, you're so pure, but they keep your face soft and supple. There's nothing vain about matching the right foundation. And that nonsense about sensitive skin? I trace it directly to the yoga mat that, I've noticed, really hasn't realigned your spine or your mind. It's all in your head, those product allergies. You just don't want to shell out big coin. But you will dump thousands on ski trips, which I REALLY don't get. But hey, it's your money, your complexion, your high-waisted jeans and Crocs and nubby sweaters, so the plainer you look, the better I seem. Very equitous, thanks.
So. I finally hauled out the good stuff, the thousand dollar pieces one gets for a song and dance in retail. Got my hair all straight, wore a new smoky eye (if you need the perfect one, get thee to Tom Ford--no one does it better, this one stays, no lie), and, at long last, someone with a car who lives by me and didn't need to rush home to a standard poodle or housebound relative said sure, she'd go. She picked the place like legislators write new by-laws and I finally said, "Just drive the car" and I give her most excellent credit.
I had fun.
The good kind, like you have when you've forever lived in a great neighborhood or you're on vacation. Not to compare one flock of guys from another, but a whole bunch actually stopped to talk to us. Not for directions or "Have you seen my girlfriend" or "I thought you were someone else." Nope, they were askers, if that's a term, and after one drink, I was answering.
If you're a girl who grew up with brothers and dated a guy who asked you to listen to music while he toked up, you have an encyclopedic knowledge of artists, tracks, release dates. The guy next to me claimed to be this big-time session musician and got EVERY song so wrong, I don't think he should have left the house. But he was sort of nice, and when one notices you, you're on to something. I still think it's the lucky Ferragamo's I bought last year, they are perfect black patent leather that make my legs look more dancer-trained, less linebacker, and even though I'm still the biggest lightweight (the second drink hit like a sweet smack on the head), I can walk in heels, jog, even, and suddenly, somehow, we had a crowd. I didn't do much. Not a hair toss, or lip gloss touch-up, or the squint-stare-nod. I just shut up and next thing I knew, it felt all right, so much better than writing all night and swearing to never, ever watch "Eat Pray Love" no matter how soothingly that dopey yet riveting story unfolds.
And then it was time to go. Early morning call or something. Writers workshop assignment due, oh, months ago.
Then I saw him. The double whammy, a writer and friend of a good Kennedy. Just sitting with friends who didn't do the macrobiotic plan, all earnestly listening to HIM, which, hell, I would too. Best I could do was just look and absorb and not gape too much.
Well, well, well. He's my neighbor. If the streets weren't pitch black, and I weren't afraid of getting hit by a VW, I'd walk around more when I got home from work.
I'm doing the next best thing. Trying to figure out how these people got so rich not lifting a finger. See, in the Midwest, everyone works themselves to death and watches in disbelief when someone absconds with their retirement money. There are whispers here of tech and one-day work weeks and one clever idea reaping big dividends.
Not killing myself with work. No snow, salt, storms. Fashion-y at last. Surrounded by brilliance. Time to start liking it here a little more.
And I just got something else. It was the first time I didn't have Former Flame on the brain. Worth the price of admission right there.

After Hours

2011-12-01T21:03:00.000-08:00

All one of my faithful readers are familiar with Former Flame. You know, the one I met when I was 30 and pretty chunky but he didn't see me that way, in fact he said over and over he liked what he saw, and many spats and fun times and separations later, we met again (thank you, Facebook) and who wouldn't see some potential in someone wanting to see you 10+ years after the last big fight?

So I'm a dippy romantic like all the nice ladies. Now you know. He disappeared, then reappeared, and even I was getting worn out from hearing what I wanted. Well, that shut me up but good and I closed the chapter and started writing and found a great teacher who thinks it's quite the story.

Maybe it's revising and editing and revamping the personal history, but I think of him for no solid reason except damn, he's now a fictional character.

I keep it true and (I hope) funny and over every word I ask, "Would I pay for this?"

HE comes off a little sad and confused. Like real life. Except it's going on 2 years since we reconnected and I wrote it out, so perhaps he's this unstoppable jolly success he promised he'd become with all the therapy and travel and dreamscaping (I know, I don't know what he meant either).

And last night, I was happily rewriting and deleting, being my own editor in chief, you know, and I took The Happy Pill. Or did I? No, I was pretty certain I had not. I would be tired, and mellow, and not plotting character's early exits if I'd popped 2 milligrams. I really need one of those Monday-Friday dispensers, in fact I'll stop by the nursing home and buy one.

I took a dose.

Make that another dose.

I've been working out, walking the steep city hills for 65 minutes every morning, dancing like Goldie Hawn at night, kind of forgetting regular meals because the grocery store is quite the hike from the new place, and the payoff is the ladies in Designer at The Store saying I really ought to think about swapping the uniform for this divine Marni that should be marked down very soon. Sure. I didn't work 5 months this year, then moved mostly alone, and earn enough to just BE, so new clothes, check and check. Anyway, I'm about as energetic as a slow-moving boll weevil by 9pm. A mood mellower kicks in faster than Jesse Owens going for that Gold medal. An extra, and I'm...quite...a...child of the 60s. Loose. Really relaxed. In love with love.

Former Flame wasn't that bad. Just--sad. I'd learned a lot from him. Like when a guy says he's free as a bird, he means, "I'm seeing a bunch of people, or want you to think that, anyway." Or if he tells you, "I'm meeting some work friends," he's seeing ONE work friend, and she's a girl. When I finally got it through my thick stubborn skull I didn't really like him all that much, just the idea of him, I couldn't keep that to myself. He responded in kind: "I hear that. Wishing the best." No word in months. Which means I had to write him in my post-have-another-hit mood.

3 sentences. Harmless stuff. Save in Drafts.

Then, hit SEND.

And pretend I didn't do it, sleep till 9am, and squint at the laptop and scramble the passwords and just pray on all that is good and holy he, well, doesn't check e-mail anymore. Everyone texts. Or uses Facebook.

Excellent use of a day off, waiting for a snotty or neutral reply.

A new version of drunk dialing: Prescription prose.

The worst that would happen would be a stern, Ivy League Honor Boy reminder about No Contact. My commandment, remember? His permanent grad student girlfriend wouldn't like this. His sister, once my close friend, would disapprove. A husband and 2 kids and a house in the tropics simply aren't enough to keep her busy...she still oversees his love life. My brothers could care less what went on in mine, as long as I was happy they'd stay out of it.

I was about to just go insane wondering, then decide this will be a sanguine moment, who really cared, it's not the dumbest thing I've ever done. Shouldn't even make the list.

And guess what? I was off by one letter. Undeliverable. Nice of g-mail to let me know this, 24 hours later.

Whew. I am not Miss Liberty, still holding a torch. Just someone who needs those big lettered TODAY IS MONDAY/TUESDAY/WEDNESDAY etc dry erase boards. MY NAME IS___________. I LIVE IN_____________.

If only that nice whichever way the wind blows haze came without an almost lethal dose.

There's No Cure

2011-11-27T21:49:00.000-08:00

Okay, I know I'm sinking into the Middle Ages and like James Garner says, aging sure as hell beats the alternative, and I don't want to be the mixed-up 20-and 30-something dope who coasted her way through the prime years without a plan, but the big old H word nudges me with the subtlety of a heated branding iron and I get it, eat right, work out like a maniac, skip those salty caramel coffee drinks ALL the time.

H=Health. Everyone takes a hit. Jen, my favorite cousin in life, who survived acne and bad boyfriends and getting caught taking our first drinks, ran into, then over, cancer 9 years ago. Do you think there's a day she forgets the operations and hair shedding like leaves from a tree? Well, just when she's this side of safe, here it comes again. Her best friend found a lump and the doctor booked another appointment in 24 hours. Probably thick tissue from bearing 4 kids. Benign, right?

Her first round of chemo starts this week. Tina, the life of my late teens/early twenties party. Leggy, dishwater blond, blue-eyed, crafty, bright. Hated The Eagles, but I liked her anyway. I took my first kiss outside her parents' house in the Northwest Suburbs in '82. If she hadn't invited Ben, and made me sit by him, well, I wouldn't have had my run with the Bad Boy. I'm eternally grateful for the nights "Dreams (I'll Never See)" played in Ben's restored Camaro while he listened to my big plans and told me to slow the roll, I'd make me into whatever I wanted.

Tina was game for taking a ride anytime, anywhere. She knew all the fun songs, loved those 1-hit, forgotten ones, giggled when "Flamethrower" popped up on the long-gone WMET. And there were always boys near or around her. Cute ones. Drunk, stoned, funny, pool-playing, seedy, essentially harmless.

And one weekend I ended up in her NIU dorm room where, and I still don't know how, a circle of her friends started their own soundtrack. Our voices worked. Like a chorus. A well-rehearsed one. The endless mixed cocktails, and "Revival," and I went with it, this was love on some level and we didn't part until 6am.

Back in the city, she spent a weekend at my very first apartment, a lovely basement with steam rods on the ceiling where I hung hand-washed sweaters without really wringing them dry first and fell asleep to water dripping on carpet...and Tina and I saw "Pretty In Pink" for $2 and just walked all over Old Town and of course we (well, more she) were invited into The Last Act and stayed till last call. I thanked her for the best August Saturday and Sunday I could remember. I was 22. She was 24. We had the world on the string. And when she left, she said, "It was like hanging with a celebrity. You know everyone in the neighborhood." Happens when your home and work are a block apart and you sell your neighbors newspapers before they headed to their real jobs.

Like everyone else I ticked off or cut off before I turned 30 (that's one long naughty, not nice, list), we lost touch. She married weeks after Jen took the plunge, had all those kids, and that was that.

I looked up the old photos of us in loud sweatshirts and jeans you couldn't fit a cigarette paper under, both of us with big, big hair and loud red lipstick, drinks in hand, and wow, did we have the best skin when the teen years ended. Clear as a bell, not in need of heavy makeup, or any at all.

She has to get through this. I'm too far away to make any real contribution, but hey, she'll be fine, I just know it. She knows I'm here in my own good vibrations way.

It was she who loved to go out just because it was Tuesday, and took a picture of me next to Bruce Springsteen (actually a really cool poster on her wall but if you squint enough it does look like I've been pulled onstage by His Highness), and played the new Joe Jackson album at the end of, I am really deadly serious here, the BEST Labor Day (which evolved into my least favorite holiday a few years later) party. I'd been at Fullerton Beach all day and taken too much sun. I wore a doctor's v-neck smock, snug Levi's, and Topsider's. I looked like an overcooked lobster, wavy hair held UP with a couple bobby pins. And there I sat in Tina's basement, everyone wrecked at 3am... and looking back, I liked every last song on "Night and Day."

Except "Cancer." Almost 30 years later, it seems dopey and unfair.

Just like her diagnoses.

The one she's going to beat and forget.

I can't imagine those 7 years without Tina. She's going to be around a long, long time. That's MY answer.

Footless

2011-10-27T19:48:00.000-07:00

I can't imagine a worse "dance" movie than "Footloose," but apparently Hollywood outdid itself. They made it again.

I saw it in '84 with Tiffany, the Stupidest Girl at DePaul. One of the theater majors who looked good at the audition and borrowed my leotards (thanks for washing and returning them, I'm sure you've looked up my forwarding address) and oozed charm because she had quite a thing for Levon, who, unfortunately, liked her back. She had no use for me until he and I were talking outside Clifton Hall, then she tossed that moronically crimped mane and said I was SUCH a smart girl, giggle, and he thanked me later for the introduction. It all ended very badly for her, tears and huddles of equally dim student actors comforting her for months, Levon walking away kind of rudely, and even I said he was a little mean about it.

"I never told her we were serious or even a couple."

And that was that, she shot me evil glares the rest of the year, Levon and I stayed close pals a really long time, and the only thing Tiffany and I ever agreed upon was yes, "Footloose" was so unbelievably badly-acted, directed, cast, edited, cliched. Kevin Bacon had the presence of an overfed cow. I waited for a "moo" or reaction shot or some resemblance between he and that body double who couldn't dance either.

Anyway, there was drama with Tiffany, Levon, and me, I couldn't tell him I liked him a whole damned lot because he was way out of my league--people mistook him for Nicolas Cage and he majored in finance and I still played the cute, cutting kid sister--and I was more or less involved with Ben. Ah, Ben. DuPage County's matinee idol. Ben, who waited at the train for me and drove me back to Lincoln Park and would NOT visit the dorm because cripes, those pre-attorneys (I never corrected him) were people he'd want to punch on principle. They were snobs, even I had a little of that in me with my fancy clothes and books no one else read.

So back to that cinematic sewer, the one with the worst soundtrack EVER, that girl from Heart made you forget she once made okay music...

Ben called the next day and asked why I wasn't home, waiting for him to ring me up.

And I made the permanent fatal error of telling him where I'd been.

Loud, loud laugh from the Northwest Suburbs.

Did I know Kenny Loggins once wrote some great music? I believe "sellout" came up. And as for me...

"Look," I folded, unfolded my sleeves, divided a few split ends, "I didn't love it. Kind of hated it. But there was one thing that wasn't totally revolting."

"Don't worry about ruining the ending." Long, deep, soothing inhale.

"OOOOkay. You know that song you've been mocking for--let me narrow it down. This hayseed guy learns to dance and it wasn't that awful. The only one who understood he was in a movie, not making a video."

A little moodiness about not being at his beck and call, then he went off to watch another Cubs game, and I said maybe he had some problems, and we hung up and I wondered if he'd really meant that, about actually bringing my fake ID and showing me Rush Street. Mostly we listened to Yes and the Allman Brothers in his mom's rec room.

I went back to my homework. Tiffany's voice echoed in the room next door. In excruciatingly pin-pointy detail, she told my roommates about the movie, and I put on headphones and "Starship Troupers" helped me write a very dull paper about fossils or 20th century politics or Kant.

Ben and I were on and mostly off for years. Something got to him, because suddenly he was inviting me to hang with his shiftless friends, and one night I got home really late to a ringing phone.

Let's hear it for the boy. He played it until I yelled the point was made, and he laughed and said he knew I'd get it.

"I saw it. Good Christ. It's worse than you said." He clicked off the stereo.

"Oh, it wasn't so awful."

"Next movie I see, you go with me. You pick."

And I did, and I waited outside the theater till the very last second, and went alone.

Not one word since.

I think that's a pretty good rationale for never, ever, liking one thing about that movie. Stood up on Michigan Avenue on the first warm spring day. I blame it all on a dumb, inane film. Not completely rational, but those are the memories creeping up as movie people yet again run out of ideas. An anti-dance film? A town without dancing? The once promising Dennis Quaid making a comeback in this? Come on.

Book Me

2011-10-18T23:06:00.000-07:00

All about the books last time.

All about BEING booked this time.

I promise, I'm not a felon in cuffs.

All 3 of my faithful readers know I quit working last April and took the summer off to read Cheever and pretend I could write half as well. Every afternoon, in the hottest hours, I walked the Chicago Lakefront, ended up at Caribou on Clark and Arlington, met up with WASP-y Betty and Kicky Kay, women I wish I'd known my whole life. Betty was a tad haughty until you tapped into her wicked humor. Kay and I go back further, and the three of us talked about ME, their favorite subject. I'm a few decades behind them, and they were there when the West Coast beckoned, and Betty assured me I'd be in my right place, and we all said a tearful goodbye while they pretended to lock the Caribou door behind me.

Between the stories I read and created, I put my acting classes to work. Auditioned. Sent my photos. Missed a pretty nice part because I was too short (oh, those wacky casting agents). The show was cancelled 3 episodes after its premiere. Had they allowed me to work some spiky heels, well, perhaps, possibly, it might still be on the air, viscous assaults to the Kennedy era notwithstanding. Where DO these kids get such ideas? The 60s weren't divided by prim suits and hippies. There were Goldwater girls and surfers and leftover Mamie Eisenhower dressers. Research, please. A Chicago politician's wife would no sooner drive herself in a convertible to the North Side than allow her children to skip Sunday Mass.

I kept looking and calling and sending my non-professional photos. Nice guy from Germany took a few snaps that were good enough for some callbacks.

So I learned to look good on camera, and hit the mark, and not react when the obnoxious second director duking it out with those L.A. know-it-all's just could not, would not, wrangle the extras. And as they say about jobs and the person you marry and the house you buy, it just takes ONE, an actor's monogamy so you commit to a springboard that will allow you to roam. Something like that.

And somehow, I hit the demographic/appearance mark.

It's been 2 months since I felt that little snap, where the director and client laugh out loud at your serious monologue and admire your hair and makeup and you are pretty sure you would be stellar, a star, or hired, anyway.

Like the cute guys from Glascott's in the 80s and 90s, they were all talk when the lights came up at closing time. I was leaving town, soaking up that wonderful late-summer humidity, packing and saying goodbye and kind of dreading the long drive.

It wasn't so bad. I commandeered the U-Haul's radio and figured my way around a new city and love, LOVE the new job and have free cable. So my family's 2000 miles away. So I know NO ONE here. I'm hermetically sealed, free to write, socializing in retail, which in my opinion is more than anyone needs. I'm not friends with 2" beetles that wave their little antenna when I make toast, and I could live without everyone asking WHY I left Chicago. Cold winters, and salt on everything 9 months out of the year, and hell, why not take an offer just because is not enough for these inquisitors. I'm thinking of mentioning the long arm of the law and a desire to be near as many yoga studios as possible as the reasons I sold most of what I owned and got here in 47 hours.

And then yesterday, as I'm finally in my groove, no missed buses or wrong turns on Market Street and the big red Barneys sign as my guide to life, I got the call. I was in Cafe Au Chocolat, yes, those are vegan brownies, no fat content there...and that almost-forgotten audition sprung to life. I was, at last, needed and wanted. On camera. Little old me.

Relocation didn't sound so good as I headed to Geary and The Store and I heard a semi-promise of "We'll work it out." I clicked off the phone. Looked down at my ancient shoes and bag. Okay. I have a real, live career here, and maybe offers in the place I left. If a bar were open at 10am, and I were a drinker, I would have sunk some Bloody Mary's and let the bartender decide for me.

All I could do was hope, and appreciate the nice feedback about nailing an audition, and think how things changed since last year when I moped over Former Flame and practically jumped when his number showed up on the phone. He's gone, and so am I, and my story is much, much happier than when he was more or less around. I'll always give him credit for shaking up my safe little world a couple winters ago. I wouldn't have taken those acting classes, or corrected my writing, or put myself through a full year of excellent therapy, or started all over again, if his own meekness hadn't taught me how very unlived life can be.

I learned I can jump off a cliff and land somewhat safely.

But the old competitive thing, a family trait, survival tactic, is back. Man oh man, I want that gig. And to excel here. No one's signed a bill saying I can't do both.

Can't resist: Stay tuned.

New Kid

2011-10-09T12:04:00.000-07:00

28 years ago, I whined about getting robbed 2 times in 1 week on the L, which back then cost .90, a buck with a transfer. I called home. My family enfolded me with care and advice like, "YOU picked a city school, we closed up your room to save on the heating bill, the tuition's paid, do you think the trees out here grow money?"

Moving is a pain and a bitch until all your things are in the dresser and there's food in the icebox and the first piece of mail with your new address arrives.

Then there's a new job, nothing I haven't done before, but I've never been a group dynamic/ team-player so I just, you know, do my own thing. Mainly, selling, stocking, walking away when the gossip commences.

So far, it's an easy transition. Except some rat bastards swiped 2 boxes from the moving truck. Okay, so they didn't get the good jewelry (ONE strand of real pearls) or the journals (beyond embarrassing, who wants laundry day details in someone else's hands?). They did get some signed first editions with my name in them. Maybe crooks have hearts too, and will read what I know, and smarten up, and Google me, or donate to the Chicago Public Library, or, more likely, curse their luck at picking the wrong things to swipe.

I've ordered almost all that I'm missing. Complete works of my favorite authors. But there's one that just ripped at the cockles of my heart, and really, I don't want a paperback replacement. I wrote to the author. Subtly threw myself at her mercy.

I have so many sentimental attachments to your book. Alas someone stole 2 boxes of my favorite books as I moved from Chicago to SF...yours, 1st-edition Jay McInerney, Jill McCorkle, and Elinor Lipman. Many were signed. What a thing to steal! Never leave a moving truck unattended...
Is it possible to order it through you or your agent? Only used copies are on Amazon.
And I have an aversion to paperbacks.
I know you are busy but would appreciate any help you can offer.
I reconnected with a boy I dated many, many years ago last year. I kept telling him about your book. He picked up my copy one night before we went out to dinner. He read me the entire first chapter. He had the most beautiful speaking voice. When he finished, he said, "I see what you mean." Months later, he called and said, "Guess what I bought? What I'm reading? What I'm holding in my hands and makes me think of you?" He loved it as much as I did. Not to tug at your heartstrings, but....
All good things to you.

And she wrote back yes, she'd be happy to send her book.

It won't be the one from which Former Flame read, but it's the very last thing that connected us, besides the book HE recommended, which I foolishly bought and Dorothy Parker-ed across my living room floor. Daily writing exercises. Prayers. Quotations everyone knows. Why wasn't that in the box of stolen goods? Sap that I am, it's on the shelf. Okay, so is the tiny vase that contained the flowers he sent after Valentine's Day, a holiday he assumed I loathed because he did. There's also the wristband from the Shedd, an excursion from which I excused myself, and, to make up for my absence, he showed me hundreds of shots from each scaly angle. Fish tales. Wow. He really understood me. I didn't get him either. He's a moody, self-absorbed, sad person these days. That's my guess. Or, maybe, he listened to one other piece of my mind:

"Fix yourself now, or it's another fifteen years of loss and confusion and marrying a woman who matches on match.com again and guess what, twice-divorced doesn't look good on paper."

So he cried. I swear I didn't mean to do it. But then, the mind works in powerful subconscious ways.

Anyway, here's to the crooked crooks who thought they found manna. You took my library. Have fun at church, where the elders look over your shoulder when the collection plate passes your hands. Enjoy work, where you'll likely be removed for embezzlement or stealing supplies. No one should trust you. On the off chance you see this, understand I have the last laugh. Yes, you have some nice rare books. Not that you know how to read any of them. But if you do, enjoy, and know karma shows up when you least expect it.

As for Former Flame, you have no idea where I am now. You could be exploring the tundra for all I know. But I thank you for doing a few nice things, and if it weren't for that lovely evening when the words unfolded, I wouldn't have another story. You're very, very useful.

But he did one sweet thing, reading to me because I asked him to and he made his voice go all croony and slow, and we were both a touch happy and weepy at the end of the chapter. Then we went to dinner and got hammered and didn't read together again.

I wish him well. But I wish me better things. I'm almost there.

True Midwest

2011-09-02T18:27:00.000-07:00

MEN, WHAT ELSE?

There's only one way to move 2,000 miles in the middle of a hot month with all your stuff crammed in a U-Haul: Sell or give away 85% of what you own. Take your clothes, favorite books, dishes, 800 pieces of cosmetic gratis from jobs you swore you'd never do again, except in this case I will, with a smile, and there it is, that little snap of joy when something looks and feels right. No way did I ever think of living on another coast. OTHER people did that. People with Ivy League degrees and families and groups of friends who barbecue in the back yard they display like docents in a Monet garden. I mean, seriously, this fascination with landscaping and pebble paths and brick formation brings to mind Nicholson losing it in the maze, and when someone enthuses about designs and cut stone I want to hack up something. You planned all this? Three cheers, brava, let's post it on our Profile page.

Since the Junior League and every other club I never tried to join wouldn't have me, I made my own way with Retired Rich People, the best demographic, especially if it's a second marriage because someone doesn't like the other's kids/grandchildren and I don't have to hear about Li'l Chasen's amazing rugby triumph at (insert name of prestigious prep school here). These folks like throwing back and treat me like a junior career gal waiting for the 30th birthday trust to kick in, heh heh, I passed both ages ago but their vision is questionable on the back deck where real food awaits. None of this Martha or Ina or Paula Deen swill, these are old school recipes with meat and without roasted spices. They like their Bloodies and my farm stories and agree, by gosh, kids these days have entitlement in their veins. My entire social life on Cleveland Avenue, 1996-present: Fun, bright young things in my multi-unit building till they married each other and moved to Naperville, then old bankers/doctors/lawyers near my top-floor flat who can tell a dirty joke and quote a Cheever story.

So when an offer came in, and I thought maybe they had the wrong number, and they said they weren't joking, it was easy. My siblings will be grandparents before they know it. I hardly know anyone on my street anymore. My Pie is gone. I fell down the back stairs doing laundry and haven't felt quite right since February. I like being recruited. I said "yes." And I walked around Armitage Street like a bumpkin, bumping into people, remembering I came here just for school and never really exited student mode. College is over. I went home, still dazed, and wished I had all the money I spent on books and baskets and cook ware so pristine I could probably return it.

Paper memories of those so-called glory years are worthless. I tossed and shredded almost every letter, drawing, note, bad photo. Took three hours, and four trips to the recycling bin, and where fourteen shoe boxes once held every last record of 40+ birthdays, there is one small box of my dad's letters, a Christmas card from the one true love of my life, and the first pictures I ever took. Amazing shots of cats by the barn. Woo.

One envelope with my first name prefaced with "Miss" was exactly what I thought. See, a couple months ago I wrote about Nate, and the Fourth of July, and how we argued on the phone more than we socialized, and all two of my readers said something about it. Well, here it was, solid proof of my lifelong solitude.

It was 1992, and I had a lousy secretarial job for two Neanderthal lawyers, and a great apartment because Nate was leaving and I was subletting. He'd been dumped. I'd been in the suburbs too long. We talked, and liked all the same music except Boston which probably wasn't his fault, being from the East Coast and all, and made caustic remarks that shocked the other. He thought I was shy but mean; I said it took one to know one, and he slammed the phone, then called to apologize. A couple months into this fun, an old newspaper friend asked me to her holiday party, and I invited Nate. Here's what you DON'T say to someone who asks you out: "Yeah, I'll go, I'd love to meet some new people." Um, HI! Is my attendance not enough? We'd get there and some preppy-pretty ad rep would see this rumpled but clean-cut James Taylor doppelganger with excellent hair and pretend to be my dear, dear friend, and ask me, "Who's this?" And he'd fetch her, not me, a drink, and I'd read a magazine in the corner until someone named Marge's the BEST at 1 a.m....and he'd call at noon to thank me for introducing him to Margaret Von Woodridge and...

So I did the brave, sensible thing. I wrote him a letter. Typed a neat concise excuse for my social ineptitude and left it in his mailbox. Every guy I knew back then lived on Diversey, my street. Couple hours after I dropped off the letter, one appeared in my mail slot.

It is good that you chose to inform me by written word. If you'd called, I would have accused you of being a wimp and escaping back into your shell. Socially inept people tend to do that. I probably would have had a rotten time at your stupid party anyway, with your yuppster friends, each with their own. THANK YOU for wimping out on what would certainly have been a dull, rotten, useless waste of time.

And he closed it with: Reverse?

Like I said, I don't need every thank you note and holiday card to prove my existence. But this one, in the monogrammed envelope that held a copy of my letter folded into his, went in the KEEP pile.

You have to admit, the closer was pretty priceless.

One Night

2011-08-06T17:07:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is August 7th (yup, the calendar makes this true). It's an anniversary I don't celebrate. But I always remember it. And I made it into a story. This is how it all started 17 years ago....

On a shimmery and steamy August evening in 1994, I walk a single block to my friend Ginny’s apartment. She is taking her huge wardrobe and 3 pieces of furniture to her boyfriend’s. Her brother is moving in. Their parents believe they will share a studio with a closet kitchen.

A rumpled white shirt flatters a rangy build, a humongous grin lights up the hmm-not-sure-he-is-cute-oh-yes-he-is face. "You must be Ginny's work friend."

In my baggy shorts, strappy sandals, and light green J Crew blouse, I smile back. My hair hangs past my shoulders, down my back. It’s full and tangled and calmed with a madras headband. My cheeks and nose are dotted with freckles from skipping the sunscreen. I wear a touch of mascara and pale pink Chanel lipstick. “Your sister and I have this standing Sunday thing.”

“So she said.” He shakes my hand a long time. His mesmerizing deep blue eyes have a minty cast. There’s comfort, ease, but I see more. He is one quarter pure heat. He will age well, with those defined features and fairly high cheekbones. “So, T., I’m Griffin.”

I could help. I could tote boxes. I lean against the dark brick lobby. No looters approach the truck. He nimbly loads a cart. Then another. The bed will take up his living quarters. It is dark wood with room for four. He returns in a clean Princeton tee under another loose button down, damp hair combed and orderly.

Ginny follows. “How long have you been here?” She looks like a Melrose Place regular. No body fat, bangs, clothes just a touch too tight but I’d wear them too if I were 5’6” and 95 pounds.

I break down a single cardboard box. “I was helping.”

Griffin laughs, asks where we should eat. Ginny vetoes the restaurants I name and selects a cafeteria-style Thai spot on Lincoln Avenue. Griffin pays before I take out my wallet.

Ginny tells us where to sit. Griffin pulls his chair next to mine.

He hasn’t seen a movie in months. He was, he eagerly tells me, backpacking Costa Rica since graduation. No, he did not surf. He hiked. Did I know what was playing? What did I like?

“There’s one at nine,” I say. I give up on the par-boiled swill. Satay my eye. This is not even meat. I dump the remains in the trash.

Ginny refuses the shared popcorn, folds her arms. Nicolas Cage plays a good cop. Griffin squeezes my shoulder when the sappy film ends. He eagerly matches my city pace. At the front door, JD, my golden retriever and roommate, happily bounds up to this stranger. "If you ever need someone to walk him--” Griffin says.

“I have to get to the new place, and you need to unpack,” Ginny says.

“Night, guys,” I say.

“Thanks, T.,” Griffin follows her. He turns in time to see my smile.

JD follows him.

“Hey, Boy! HERE!”

Griffin leads him by the collar to my door.

“He sure likes you,” I say, scratching the dog’s ears.

“About walking him. I’m keeping Ginny’s number. You could call me.”

“That’s so great of you.” I don’t tell him dog-walking is an easy way to meet people.

We shake hands again. His fingers are smooth, except the cuticles, because what guy pays attention to his fingernails? This is sweet, late summer trouble. I can feel it. And if his look--like a pierce in the eyes that stays but doesn't make me flinch--means anything, he's going to love it here.

Cooking

2011-08-04T18:14:00.000-07:00

So I took this job when I was almost 18 and promised my new employers I could cook. I knew how because I watched my father, and sometimes my mother, do it. Grimy open cook books stood on the butcher block by the stove; they'd glance at the pages; they did it their way, better than those endless dredging directions, and I don't remember going hungry.

About that job...I had to prep a meal for 6 every night. They weren't picky. If it was semi-hot and on a plate and not from a jar, they were happy. On my days off, they cooked, and it was so much better, I thought maybe I could, perhaps, open that casserole collection and try.

Many, many years later, I'm still a one-trick pony. I can make about 5 or 6 surefire hits. Kind of the Ringo of the kitchen: Serviceable, palatable, you like the familiarity, but you're not naming anything a can't-wait-to-try-it-again favorite. Okay, I can make a mean apple crisp. The kind you put in the oven when you serve the main course so it's bubbly and gooey and ready an hour later, and you load it with homemade whipped cream and everyone swoons and swears they'll try the recipe. I don't have one. It's maybe 8 (?) ingredients, and I don't measure anything, but I use a metal pan and marinate the apples in lemon juice. Cinnamon is involved. So is peeling. I treat the fruit like wood about to be refinished: Slice WITH the grain, forget the food processor, I always pick the wrong blade and then we have applesauce for dessert.

There is another. I call it a skill. Something I perfected with a whisk and lots of stirring. I don't follow the drain-the-fat rules. I use twice the cheap wine the recipes advise. I use wine from a box, or leftover from a fancy dinner party, never that junky cooking stuff that looks and smells like swill. Did I mention how it's all in the wrist? The first attempt looked like a pottery experiment gone schizophrenic. The second time I used a colander to separate the lumps. The third version was perfect.

I'm not a foodie or alcohol expert. Look in my icebox, there are breakfast items and a ton of fresh fruit and vegetables and whole wheat bread. I cut out meat a while ago and dropped 2 sizes. I read restaurant reviews and feel a little ill at all that talk of garlic, and fried dough, and shaved truffles over rare fish, and hope the critic has a gym membership. But once or twice a year I do a big dinner party. And stand back, clear the sidewalk, do NOT go near the stove or move the ingredients. Where's my whisk collection? I roast a chicken. Nothing to it. Butter, salt, pepper, a pierced lemon. 350 for 75 minutes. Baste. Drain the drippings. Sift in the flour. Curse loudly when I singe my fingers on the baked lemon I squeeze into the frying pan. Here comes the liquor. And I stir till dinner's over, practically, or at least the vegetables are perilously close to overcooked. Then there's that moment when the citrus and white wine meld and one more shake of pepper and here you go. It's creamy and zesty and gone too soon. I made a gallon last time. The guests were dunking every bite in it, and at the end, we picked at the carcass and wiped the gravy bowl clean.

Not to brag. I've come a long way from that first meal I burned. I had no idea some people liked broiled burgers. That frozen peas needed watching too. That there was more to a salad than lettuce and tomato.

The rest is gravy.

An 80s Memoir

2011-07-28T19:26:00.000-07:00

I moved from a tiny town to a bustling suburb when I was 17, carrying my "Empty Glass" album and Phil Donahue's autobiography. I bumped into Mick Jagger the next year. He and the band had set up camp at a fine Gold Coast hotel.

"Move it," he ordered, and everyone hit the ground.

We became such close friends we didn't need to talk about it. I knew where he was all the time. As luck would have it, he was visiting a Broadway producer a mile from my place. I rode my bike straight to the door and, the 4th time I rang the bell, the housekeeper pointed to the polo fields and Mick saw me and I saddled up and I scored a goal for the other team. I cleaned up after the horses and, months later, welcomed 1982 with Huey Lewis who paid The Loop to play his songs every 15 minutes. I called the station manager and said "Please stop." They pointed out I did this to every one trick pony, Billy Squier and Greg Kihn the year before, why the beef with Huey?

"I like everything about him except his music and lyrics."

They called me picky and I told Billy Idol to hang tight, and he sneered and invited me to England for some chukkers and I scored a goal for the other team. I polished the saddles and noticed Prince Charles was subdued, and a blond I mistook for an extra horse would not leave, and I kept my mouth shut.

I turned down the Meg Tilly part in "The Big Chill" to write a self-help book. The 60s were over; I knew the movie would tank and be forgotten in minutes. Tom Cruise had begged me to play Lana, or Guido, but we were eye to eye and I thought he was simply too petite for a leading man. As for "Flashdance"--they wanted me to dance AND be a body-double but refused to pay either of us and you know Yale, they have a monopoly on the industry and Jennifer Beals did look better in those torn sweatshirts I left at my audition.

I was the original Sondra on "Cosby" but at the very last minute, they decided to go with someone who didn't so closely resemble Bill and Phylicia. Howard Jones told me things could only get better, and I said that sounded like a song, and he replied, "Too simple, love, it'd never fly" and I accepted a walk-on "Dynasty" role that was cut because Joan Collins' mink made me sneeze while she slapped someone, and we weren't even filming, and I had a reputation as difficult because I wouldn't perm my hair. It's all political. "Knots Landing" caught wind of this and Alec Baldwin won the role of Joshua Rush and it served him right, he's just stayed afloat, career-wise, and wishes they hadn't electrocuted him, or cancelled the show.

Bruce Springsteen asked me to marry him. I said I'd think it over; you never know how a rock star's fortunes could change on a dime. "Fine," he said, stacking hundred dollar bills on the dining table until I couldn't see him. He married someone else a week later and I still wonder if I should have mentioned I wouldn't wait forever.

I was club-hopping with Gary Fencik and hoping Tim Wrightman wouldn't hear about it. My goose was almost cooked one day at the gym when Richard Dent tossed me a 50 lb weight and I caught it one-handed and I cleaned my riding boots and he thought we were at Soldier Field and I scored a goal for the other team.

I begged Madonna to stay single. I said no one who married in a black hat had a happy union. Sean was adamant: The hat stayed, and George Harrison stepped on the set, and he swore he'd never, ever see a film with either of them, or any other movie, ever again. I was shocked; "Shanghai Surprise" seemed perfect, and Madonna went off-book after every take and Sean loved her as a missionary and I predicted they'd both be nominated, and win, Academy Awards.

Oprah called me, weeping: There was a part-time weekend news field reporter position, or hosting "A.M. Chicago." "You're a newswoman, O," I reminded her. Nothing could be done. She'd signed a contract. They had her over a barrel. I told her agents they'd be lucky to cast extras on "Bozo's Circus." They stood firm, and Oprah did the best she could. Eked out a living. She never asked for money and stopped bringing the wash on laundry night. She loved watching the quarters slide in the machine.

Ollie North was trouble; he ran out of medals and took his daughters' Girl Scout awards and yanked the EAT THE RICH button off my power blazer. And he was a crashing bore. He had no chance on camera, and Reagan said once the red light was on all the unpleasantness would evaporate. No one wanted to work that spring, so I touched up Fawn Hall's makeup and told her she forgot everything and Gary Hart needed me on his campaign and I always got seasick and Donna Rice was such a drippy groupie I didn't think she knew what a camera was.

Don Henley asked me to marry him. I just knew he'd never reunite with The Eagles and those solo projects were so iffy and we fought about the right amount of detergent per load and he caught me with Joe Walsh in The Hamptons where they were short one player and I put on my breeches and scored a goal for the other team. Don took our breakup very, very badly: He dated Eleanor Mondale the next awards season and called me about forgiveness and I said that was a truly bad song title and he agreed, I would always be smarter than he.

I paired black Reebok high-tops with high-waisted jeans and pink Ton Sur Ton sweater and cleaned out the drugstore's Tenax stock and always remembered a frosted stripe under the cheekbones really made them pop. I was a bridesmaid 6 times, and I lined the dresses in the closet because they were petroleum based and repelled moths and looked like shiny satin business suits that grew and would survive a nuclear reaction. Years later, every basement on my street flooded. I stopped the waters with those frocks. When we drained them, 6 barrels stood full and the colors didn't run and the dresses looked brand new and they remain today like stiff soldiers propped with crinoline and lace. Even the shoulder pads held up.

Just before the new decade, Michael Jackson asked me to duet and we were shooting and he used all my Coco Red Shimmer lipstick and my costume ripped and he told me to pick something from his wardrobe and I got so depressed when his trousers wouldn't fit my wrist that I wandered off to the last chukker and climbed the horse and went the wrong way and scored a goal for the other team. I was replaced. I just didn't believe he'd ever go away and assumed he'd ask me to record again and I still think Elizabeth Taylor didn't like me.

The Gig Is Up

2011-07-25T19:54:00.000-07:00

When you win or fail, do it spectacularly.

Someone liked my picture. Someone else said I could go play with real actors. And I told ME to lay off the carbs and amp up the push-ups on my deck, this time not just to torment the neighbors. With only 3 hours to prep, I got busy. Flatiron for the the world's unruliest hair...one gallon of hair serum...$100 Fekkai brushes...coiffure straight like a pin. Shellac, varnish, line reducer, five coats of foundation, several layers of powder, the perfect smoky eye. Two tubes of mascara. Here's a confession: No one lip color will do. It takes several to make your natural color pop.

I walked 3 miles to the Cattle Pen because I'd knock off a few more calories and wouldn't that show up on camera?

It also dishevels the hair. Creases the shadow. Dissolves the mineral powder. I checked a mirror. A hot mess. I didn't care. I was in Show Biz.

I've been on my own since I was 17, when my parents wished me well and gave me $50 and told me to write when I found work. Going into strange places shouldn't rattle me. People pick up on fear and don't want to be around it. I bucked up. Made friends with the caterer. Security guy walked me to the right room. A couple nice girls sat by me.

And we waited and chatted quietly.

And all at once, something really nice happened in this room of hopefuls, trying to look like, oh, sure, we're thespians and, um, what?

"You. And you. You, you."

Nothing behind me except a rickety stone wall. I followed the guy with the headset.

Naturally I got grouped with the Chatty Cathy who stopped every person walking a dog and wanted to know when we'd eat. I wanted to swat her with my Tennessee Williams Collection. I can be a genuine snipe, imagine that, and literally turned away. Directly towards the director. He, ah, has made movies and TV shows and you'd know him in 2 seconds flat. He was sweet. And charming. And told me I was--I cannot make this up--too good-looking for a particular scene.

"I can be ugly. Give me five minutes to scrape off the makeup, rat up my hair--"

"I need not-so-pretty and a little dumb. Not you."

Rejection never felt so good.

Back at the table, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I was needed in hair and makeup. According to the artiste's expression, quite badly. I could easily get used to someone re-flattening my hair and twisting it into a tidy Carolyn Bessette chignon. And someone filling in the cracks and crevices? Can these girls take over the studio down the hall in my building? Could I get a job where this isn't a perk, it's an expectation? Well, that's why I was there. Why I spent a whopping year learning beat work and how not to step on people's lines and never correct them when they stomp on mine.

We'd signed a form promising not to talk to the actors. Problem is, they are dressed like extras, and if you ignore your peers, you are quickly labeled A Problem. Nice dreamy youthful guy reminded me my mark was HERE, by HIM. I was still learning "reset" and "move" and "background." He asked if I was from Chicago. I figured answering him wouldn't shut down the set. I told him the truth. What about him?

No training. First audition out of elite east coast college. Agents fought over him. He is a series regular. I expected a polite escort from River North loft buildings where people four floors above us watched guys get out of cars. I've been thrown out of places enough. Know to just hold out my hands like the cuffs will soon be mine. I apologized for fraternizing. It wouldn't happen again.

"Why wouldn't I talk to you? We're in a scene together."

Okay, I could ramble about walking up and down the same street and NOT tripping on myriad cords and bumping into someone and hearing "CUT" like it was straight out of an I-forgot-my-gymsuit nightmare because that's what production really is, lots of repetition with cold fingers of dread clutching at your heart.

Slamming directly into a 20 million dollar a year actor doesn't do wonders for your confidence. Not to point fingers, and I know I've pretty shrimpy, but did the film guys know I had to get around the cameras, and THEM, if they wanted the scene shot properly? And I promise you, when someone looks at you and says, "You, my love, yes, YOU, just stay put" you cannot fight, and if you flee, you will never work in this town again because HE knows one call will get you deleted from the database and pretty soon I'll be shilling $25 face cream again.

One full year. Some lesson stuck. Because I shut up for good, and focused, and walked. Mr. My Love stopped me.

"I saw you hesitate when you passed our lead. Any reason?"

"I'm background."

"He's the head of the city. If you were to pass the President, wouldn't you have SOME reaction?"

"THANK you. I can do that. I just needed direction."

I think he smiled as I walked like a person back to the starting point. And there it was, recognition without invitation. Eye contact. Takes a little skill to convey all that in two seconds. I was well-taught. I can't take my acting teacher everywhere. I'm on my own. They didn't throw me out.

It's hardly any money. It's not Eugene O'Neill. I walked home, my hair crunchy from hairspray and--I didn't know they still made them--bobby pins.

So I'd walked like a wind-up doll into an Emmy winner who shot me a sweet death glare. A multimillionaire who's seen a lot of bad shit in his lifetime, and started with nothing, and didn't give up, and hopefully didn't sulk about wrecking a full hour of work with one tiny mistake. And if evicting me from acting makes his world complete, then he's a petty, petty man. I doubt he'd do that. He never worked in cosmetics.

And when we did the last take, and someone told him, "This is it, Fella," he about knocked me to the ground and I really hope no one heard me laugh, because it's very loud when something makes me giggle from the gut.

He said, "This time for sure." NO ONE got this. I promise. He had the tone, the timing. This time for sure. Give up? Okay, think Moose and Squirrel.

I stopped kicking myself halfway home. You are not a quitter. The girls said you have nice skin. The co-star thought you were his age. Your acting coach said you'd get work if you wanted it badly enough. No successful people gave up after one near-miss.

Back in the game. Not giving up. Being very John McEnroe about this: Serious as hell. For sure.

Running On

2011-07-20T17:35:00.000-07:00

I'm back in touch with my long-lost pal. Brule. Thank you, Facebook.

When I started this habit, you know, the blogging one, I did it for practice. Like I had a newspaper deadline. I had ideas. I wanted to see them in print. It surprised me when people read them and made comments.

I went over some really early postings and wondered what I was trying to say. That I kept journals and wanted to relive my favorite years? Or someone really stomped my last frayed nerve and they'd better read it here? I signed up for a workshop. I spent an entire week rewriting a 709 (!!!) page novel into something readable. I salvaged the worst thing I created because I learned how to do it. It's now a reasonable 350 page tome, just about ready, and even I, the harshest writer/editor, am impressed not with the content, but that I could clean up a mess. So when I reread what I wrote here 3 years ago, I let it alone, because I was learning.

I was figuring out what to do and be when I started She Writes. I knew I'd have to decide, because everyone else was passing me and I didn't worry about catching up or fitting in; like Don Henley wrote, I was just searching for someplace to be. I've tried every job out there, nothing stuck, and now it's pretty obvious I've learned a lot but have a long stretch to go. Maybe not a ton of time to do it, but at least I know what I know. One of those things is, Man, I was mean to someone who was really most decent to me.

Back to Brule. Well, he was Bruce, but I was the Queen of Typos at our school and he wanted me to type his papers, the ones he dictated to me, which is way too Girl Friday but we had a blast staying up and mocking Dylan Thomas. Calm down, I know he's a genius, but really, that thing about not going gently? Hey, death happens, you're going and it stops and what's so calm about that? Brule let go my asides and jibes and smiled as I parsed his way to an "A." We went to grown-up parties because we weren't too enamored of dorm people and I'd lucked into a tiny Chicago literary group through a babysitting stint. There we were, he in jeans and James Dean jacket, me in the shortest of skirts, wild tights, long sweaters, sipping real drinks, then, like something out of a Cheever story, asked to improvise for those drunken writers and publishers. No wonder they never asked me to be their editorial assistant: Brule had the skills, I giggled but knew how to step on or over a line. So how did I repay his kindness? By disappearing, which you'll find under Special Skills on my resume. He wrote a heartbreaking letter about my thoughtlessness. I had it coming. I was only surprised he didn't do it sooner. I tried picking up the pieces a couple times over 20 years ago. He said no.

We're even more mature now. I wrote to him. And this time, we're not the students at our old school, we're the deans. We agreed we'd picked the exact wrong academics for our interests, ages, and temperaments. We should have gone Quaker, or No Major, somewhere remote where we'd study and learn, not read all day at a coffeehouse then go to Second City's Late Show. He's since built canoes and fasted with Indians and cleaned Appalachia. I, by comparison, am a flibbertigibbet, pushing makeup and selling advertising.

And then he wrote the most amazing thing. Something you cut and paste and make into a banner and hang in your entryway. Something I didn't think he believed. HE was the witty one, the master of the quip, the last word. I was second banana to his lead, the sidekick, the set-up person.

You had a great sense of humor as I recall. Totally see you in acting. Totally.

And all those years ago I thought he played off me for comic relief. Well, well, well. Unearthing that little bit of young ME that's grown into something less flippy was like shooting self esteem into my veins. I got on the phone. Took a couple pictures. Didn't take no for an answer, my new specialty. And met the right person on the right day who gave me a lead, a contact.

So Brule, thanks for coming back, and pushing me the right way, and making me a little less narcissistic. Though that last skill comes in quite handily when one decides to pursue the safe little acting world. It's extra work, and we'll probably stand around, but there are cameras, and someone will see something. It's a start and a step. It's something to write home about.

Gypsy Woman

2011-07-14T20:16:00.000-07:00

You've been alerted: This is not a lovely tale of love that leaves you loving everyone, everything a little more. You may, like I, suck it up and call it a life lesson. Or, for the true optimists who find morel mushrooms when everyone else has stopped looking, you might think it really is a wonderful world when you finish. Take your pick.

I've spent 2 years retraining my thinking, meaning, no, I don't think horrendous people rule the earth and will take away everything from the truly deserving. I still awake a total grump until the coffee hits, and I have to read my Good Moments List, or tell ME to be a little kinder, or turn up Kiki Dee (how's that for an admission?) and move around my apartment until I get it, only the outdoors will straighten me out. So I put on Levi's shorts Goodwill would pitch from their drop-box and one of my 85 black t-shirts and sneakers and go. Down Fullerton, south to Oak Street, north to Belmont, back to Arlington and Clark. I read outside a couple hours then go home to write till I fall asleep around 2, 3 a.m.

And every day, I pass this psychic, a couple in fact, and in another deeply interesting argument, debate which one to try. Should I even try? I've done it, and can practically recite the opening observations: This is a time of great change for you. You're at a crossroads. I see...

The tag sale outside the seer stopped me. $20 for a skirt? My sister's been hinting at a few nice things. Nothing in her size. I went inside to ask.

Angelina Jolie was waiting. Okay, AJ about 15 years ago. Same full, chiseled face, long hair, mystical smile. I didn't even ask. I just sat and waited. She took out a pink pen.

She drew on my palm. Lots of lines and circles and letters. This was new. Ooh, what a lifeline. And--all these guys? She named 3 initials. So many, many "J's." Since I was tiny, they'd followed me. And weren't done with me just yet. Lots of "A's." Too many "B's" to count.

I hadn't told her a thing. She asked who they were. She completely missed my actual age by a good 13 years. There was one, she said, whose wife married him for money and security and he called it real love. He had so many problems, I was right to shed him like dead skin. Had he tried winning me back? Made some grand romantic gesture?

I don't think a $50 bud vase is anything on which to build a future.

"Keep him gone," she advised.

"Happily."

Then she started counting. All the way to 7. "But there's more." A light tap on my fingertips. "Where are your books? Why didn't you sell them?"

"I've tried. I'm trying."

"That's not completely true. Work harder. Don't take no for an answer."

There's something less literal in this world. The ones who've dismissed this are never invited to fun parties. I know too many of them. It's just a coincidence. A good guess. Don't base your life on it. Neither do I like the grass-chewing chanters who want to readjust my aura and build a temple and undo the hex.

Something in her tone and expression and sketches on my bony hands got to me. She told me exactly what to do: Write like a maniac and find that "J" guy I knew 22, 23 years ago. He built things. Like houses. He was lonely and wouldn't admit it. One nudge, and he'd get it.

"He's about three time zones away. I wrote him over a year ago."

"You gave up too quickly. I see water. He can't be away from it. He should see how you are now, and--"

"What about Bud Vase guy?"

"Pure anger. His. Oh, he wishes he'd said anything but what he told you. If he had more sense, he would have tried again. He's a user, a loser, no one you need to know. And that woman he married--" long deep breath--"no makeup, no style, bossy. She had to topple every success he made. What a squeaky, prissy thing she was! Did I mention frigid? She didn't love him, and made that all his fault."

Former Flame had told me her last big fight was over love, how he felt none for her.

"She picked up on exactly what he was feeling. She may have been a cheating, unattractive brat, but she wasn't dumb."

Angelina told me to help myself first, let people follow, give back nothing but honesty. No more gifts or shoulders on which to cry. "Toughen up. Get that success happening. You have six months."

Exactly the timeline I assigned to achieve something besides matching the perfect foundation and powder to someone who should take a little more pride in her appearance.

The pink drawings were fading. J. A. B. A tiny little clock on my left hand that about stumped her. She'd never, in 10 years, seen that, surrounded by roses. It's like an invisible tattoo, one of those white pages you swipe with a watery paintbrush until a pattern emerges.

What could I do but thank and tip her?

And I went home. And pretended The Gypsy's reading was a series of amazing insights. Nothing on which one bases her life. Right?

Long, long lifeline. So much to do. Time to just shut up and get to it. It didn't hurt me, no it did not, to hear her out. I'm 99% right about this. Aren't I?

The Big Save

2011-07-11T18:16:00.000-07:00

From the near-city to a middle-of-nowhere gentleman's farm, pastoral events enthralled me. I helped deliver a calf, sat with Alice the cat as one kitten after another came into the world, curry-combed Clyde, the Dumbest Horse On Earth, and named the ducks. One looked like a calico bird, and she sat by the grape arbor for weeks, and I named her Conestoga because it fit. I brought her cut-up vegetables until someone said I'd spoil her. A pampered duck? Not like she was cute and cuddly and would sleep at the foot of the bed. I casually tossed stale broken crackers her way. What? I'm just sitting here, reading.

Weeks later, 22 ducklings surrounded her. Everyone parked at the bottom of the driveway. You watched your step. The constant peeping cheered you up. Were we keeping all of them? I knew by then not to get too attached, because we always had to find good homes for the livestock. Chickens lived on borrowed time. They fed us in the winter. But these little downy things, well, they stayed. And grew, and my grandfather ordered me to grind corn because I'd talked everyone into leaving them on the farm. We had this antique contraption that inhaled Indian corn and shed it into a big metal bucket. I'd scatter it by the barn. I drew a crowd. One of which was the sweetest, prettiest, and, no lie, white duck. Like snow. Petite and sweet. If I had a leash, I would have walked it up and down the road. He/she followed me anyway. I've never been shy about picking favorites. I shooed away the dogs, certain their clumsy paws would mar this little miracle.

And then someone told me to just move the station wagon a few feet and I hit reverse and felt a tiny bump. I looked in the rear-view mirror. Snowy was stretched out like a dainty blanket.

I'd killed a perfectly good duck. That slender little neck was crooked and broken. I carried the corpse with a shovel I used to dig its grave. I didn't talk to anyone for a couple days.

My family enveloped me with sympathy. My father left out "The Joy of Cooking." Ah, I thought, he's making fudge to cheer me up.

He opened the book. "Let's try one of these. Any preference?"

Chinese Roasted Duck. Crispy Roasted Duck.

What was my favorite Marx Brothers movie? Oh, those mangy brothers of mine.

I picked up the car keys. "Have fun. Don't kill anything," someone called from upstairs.

I became a repentant sinner, a guarder of all things duck. When I moved to the city, I stood in the middle of the Lincoln/Webster/Orchard intersection redirecting traffic while a mother duck and her kids migrated to Oz Park. If you know those streets, you're probably asking out loud, "Were you crazy?"

It's been over 30 years since I ended Snowy's life. I sometime think what he/she might have become. A pillow? A recipe? The only one waiting when the school bus dropped me off? With intensive therapy, I uncovered a deep truth. I hadn't checked the tires where he and his siblings like to nestle against the wind. It wasn't my fault. I could move on.

I thought I'd put this all behind me. Until today, when this deranged but kindly girl whipped around the corner of Arlington and Clark. I knew that look. Feral, protective. I saw the duck and her charges. 6 pairs of yellow webbed feet following big brown ones.

This is for all the reformed duck-slayers, I whispered. Then I went into action. Stood in the middle of Arlington, which is like taking your life in your hands because everyone wants to park on that quiet street before they take up tables at Mickey's, a college bar divorced guys my age frequent. I asked a couple drivers to go really, really slowly. Brake for the birds. Their rescuer, meantime, breathlessly told me she'd been their tour guide since they walked directionless down the Route of Death, Clark and Fullerton. The little family walked under parked cars, took a right, and last I saw, were checking out the new construction on Lakeview. 2 bedrooms start at 800k. That down payment would erase their nest egg. Here's hoping they settle for Lincoln Park Zoo's public housing.

Peace at last. I'm ready for some laughs. "Duck Soup," anyone?

Holiday

2011-07-04T20:27:00.000-07:00

I took the apartment because of the guy who lived there.

It really was a darling place, once I got my Shabby Chic/antique mitts on it. One full L-shaped room, wall-to-wall closet, and this dinky storage space I coaxed the dog to claim his own. He wasn't interested in the plush flannel-covered bed; he'd slept by me since he was 6 weeks old and didn't want his own room.

Subletting. A golden retriever. A really cute, East Coast-y, lacrosse-playing Upstate New York transplant who never looked at home in Chicago. He was way up there on my Favorite Guys list (if 17 makes a nice number, he'd rate #8 or so). After 2 years in a suburban job, living atop an actual house, I made that real estate mine and pretended I'd been away at sea or something. Nate took the bait. Sure, we should see a movie. I almost took him to a party. I wasn't dumb. He was tall, dark, and handsome, picked up checks, knew all the Great Books. The pert little blondes who'd opened their circle an inch for my entre would poach him like marked-down cashmere at Saks. I told him I was staying home. Left a note at his new building, actually. He dropped off a reply. He accused me of being anti-social, unable to keep promises, leaving him alone on a Saturday. He was right. I went anyway. I was the only girl not in a short tight black sleeveless dress. I took a million pictures that night. You see them and wonder if that invitation really had my name on it.

He walked the dog. I picked up the mail when he went back to Albany to see his family. We'd talk for hours, then I'd say something that ticked him way off and that would be that until we ran into each other on Diversey, our shared street. 7 months of hits and misses, and suddenly it was a holiday week and he called.

"You've talked up Galena since we met. Want to drive there?"

"With you?"

"We'll have to talk to each other."

This was 1993, and cell phones were for millionaires. I twisted the phone cord till my finger turned white. "You've got a really good stereo, right?"

"I take it you're saying yes."

It wasn't like I hadn't gone out in ages. Judging from my sister's, then my brother's, expressions, I'd left the convent and run to the first boy who spoke to me. On the 4th of July, a bigger deal than Christmas. Then I had to find someone to take the dog, and naturally THEY asked about That Guy, and pretty soon my neighbors knew and oh hell, I should have run a free ad in The Reader.

We both wore madras shorts. I paired mine with a cardigan and dopey Bass Weejuns. Nate looked like a crumpled J Crew catalog page. Sea salt had stained his boat shoes. I don't know, there's something about leaving the city on a sticky humid day and seeing Rural Route 20 and music we both liked (what a relief) turned way up. He had tapes. I never understood why anyone would road trip to anything but classic rock. The landscape begs for this soundtrack. Another nice thing was, he listened to my directions. I knew my way.

He found Clark Bar first, a parking space last. One last look in the rear view mirror. Hard to say who was more vain about hair. Mine was almost waist-length then; his looked like John Kennedy Junior's.

"Go a little crazy. Drink before it's dark," he said when I pretended to read the drink menu.

I am a lifetime lightweight. One drink, and I'm free, easy, and a great, great listener. And the floodgates opened. See, he sort of liked me, yes he did, but he really liked this other girl. She had some family issues and it was too soon to introduce him to her huge Catholic tribe in Park Ridge or Arlington Heights. Then there was the engagement. The one that broke off last fall. He was 4 drinks into my 1st. His family had planned this huge blowout affair at their lake house.

"Better to find out before, right?"

"The wedding was supposed to be tomorrow."

"Yes," I said with pep and zest when the bartender asked if I wanted a shot. It was barely noon. I was smashed.

Antiquing with a healthy buzz and long sleeves in 96 degree heat. You only dream of days like these. He wanted to stay for the fireworks. Hit another bar. Buy some earrings for the Catholic girl. No, he didn't need to see Apple River Canyon. I walked a very straight line, remembering another guy I brought here years before. He'd been fun and funny and wanted to see the house I grew up in. I knew him better. I shouldn't draw comparisons.

I found a payphone. Guzzled some water. Diverted another bar stop into feigned enthusiasm for homemade jewelry. Deliberately picked super-hideous, dangly, easy-to-lose earrings. The kind your senile great-aunt sends her maid to fetch for your graduation.

"Wow, Janie's going to love these," Nate beamed after I assured him he couldn't have selected better.

I knew exactly how to get home.

My other brother and his wife, Connor and Sudie, didn't mind last-minute visitors. My sister-in-law wasn't at all bothered. She offered to cook. May I say she's a lovely girl, and incredibly bright, and adapted to the country life better than any inner-city girl once on private college scholarship, but she believed recipes were intuitive, not intellectual. Only people without a practiced palate relied on cook books. Her dishes were bland, boring, inedible.

"Sievert's is open!" I announced.

"I really don't mind. I'll do a salad, and grill some vegetables, and I made bread yesterday--"

"Nate, you will LOVE this bar."

An hour later, my brother and I watched his wife and my semi-date laugh and joke. Sievert's is about my favorite restaurant on earth, I've been eating there since I was 10, and 20 years later, we sat in the same booth and ate thin-crust pizza and, like teenagers, sipped soda. Nothing bothered Connor. Maybe Sudie's giggle and flushed cheeks were from living in the middle of nowhere and getting out of the house and breaking their savings plan just this one time. I stopped caring. Connor was lots of fun in those days. And I talked him up to Nate. How he put himself through school while working full-time, a family trait I made exclusively his. How he started this business with nothing and it was a very big thing out here in the country. How he once bought me a car.

And Sudie and Nate talked about books and movies I didn't think she knew or saw.

My brother and his wife picked up the check. We thanked them, and walked to the car. Sudie whispered, "He seems to really like you."

I fell asleep half an hour into the long drive to the city. Awoke to Van Morrison and fireworks blasting every couple of towns. "I like this one," I mumbled.

Nate rewound and replayed it 3 times. Just like way back in the days of old.

There is a moment after a 12-hour day when you've had a little too much togetherness. You either like each other, or you don't. You either know it was an amazing morning, afternoon, and night, or you wish you'd gone to a picnic with other people. Nate pulled the emergency brake. I gathered my bag and some Mason jars I'd found for a buck. I still have them.

"Did you have fun?" he asked.

"Sure--"

"I love your family. There's more of that? Three others? You guys must be a blast at the parties."

"Yeah, we get hired to entertain."

"Let's go out there again."

"Fair warning. If we stay on the farm, they put us to work. I got you a free day. Next time, you'll be baling hay and painting fence posts."

"You got a little color today, Kid." His fingers just brushed my collarbone. "Sun freckles are out."

I opened the door.

"Hey. I really enjoyed myself. And just so you know, I really do like you. You're the nicest girl I've met here. This has been a rough bunch of months. You cheered me up."

I got out of the car.

"HEY! I'm thanking you. Great, great day."

"Me too." I stood on the sidewalk.

"And thanks too for the jewelry advice. They're perfect. When you meet Janie, though, don't tell her you did the work."

I opened my front door. Nate drove off. The dog was waiting. The 4th was over.

He called one more time. I didn't answer or call him back.

I never did see him again. I only remember him in July.

Stirring Up The Dirt

2011-06-16T20:44:00.000-07:00

Career Recap, Part XXII:

No career ever consumed me, I never put one Tod-covered foot on the fast track, I worked where they let me. Once I got in, I met and exceeded expectations. Then I'd get bored, or anxious, or in a huge tangle with some overly-bronzed supervisor who demanded daily, hourly touch-base meetings. I'd save my paid time off, indolently tabulate the coffers, decide to live on less, write a book/screenplay/play/letter to an editor.

This reads much more morbidly than living it. I had some amazing jobs. Nothing I'd advise the current crop of grads to pursue, but if all you need is fun and a continued adolescence, give nannying a whirl. You will be in great physical shape because those tots take off like a shot and if you aren't guarding them like children of royal lineage, you will search for them in long echo-y hallways. They will hide. You will fear the worst: They are wedged in the room NO ONE is allowed admittance. People who don't have regular jobs and own 6-bedroom houses simply like an extra set of hands so they can count their money or host book groups. Of the latter, you do NOT look the attendees in the eye. If spoken to, smile and say "thank you." "Oh, I believe I dropped my serviette." "Thank you, here's another." "Are there any more of those darling macaroons?" "Thank you, yes." "Would you mind warming my car?" "Thank you, I wouldn't mind."

For 8 years, I spent every weekend with the socially elite. You'd think they were uppity and rang a bell to summon me, and I'd dash to curtsy and gather the younger kids for bath and book time, but...music played. Constantly. In the kitchen as I mixed milk chocolate chip cookies and vanilla spilled in the dough and I assured the older boy, yes, that's EXACTLY what that batter needed. In the car, loudly, which they delightedly promised their parents would not allow because road trips were for family meetings. So one night the kids were in the tub after a long nature walk--yes, there were acorns and cracked eggshells and sumac--and demanded a new song. Anything. I knew them all. These were some smart, quick-witted youngsters. They learned "Uncle Albert" and got dressed and dashed downstairs. Did I mention their father was, and is, a world-famous singer? He did not make fun of my vocal range, not exactly, just said I'd probably not make a living as a troubadour. The kids acted out each character. I was still kind of convinced Admiral Halsey was a perv and Uncle Albert a drunk. The children sang it until their parents said, "LAST time."

A couple days later, the parents called: Did I know their darling pets were now Beatles'-obsessed? They were scrambling to find sheet music (Google wasn't even a twinkle in the eye of the Internet) and, since I introduced their little cherubs to Paul & Co., perhaps I might continue this education.

So, that Sunday, I drove the older boy home from church. As editor in chief of musical growth and development, I turned on the last 20 minutes of the ONLY "Breakfast With The Beatles" that actually focused on the band, not the million knock-off performers who sadly sang and played wherever anyone would have them. The last song put a smile on my charge's face I hadn't seen since I welcomed him home from school with cooled, frosted brownies. Mystical staring. Chocolate brown eyes fixed on mine. He ran in the house and said I surely could sound out those notes on the piano. This was not a house of no. We practiced for an hour. My full year of piano lessons wasn't completely forgotten.

He memorized it. He sang out. His mother walked in just in time for "What they need's a damn good whacking."

"MOMS! I heard it once, and SHE knew it, and listen!" He did the pig snorts. Brought down the house with Everywhere there's lots of piggies/Living piggy lives.

I braced for weekly wages/severance in a heavy white Crane's envelope and "Perhaps the kids have outgrown your services."

"What ON EARTH would we do without your Tess, looking over my two little prizes?"

I told all to (now) Former Flame when I got home. FF asked if there other tunes not about damn pigs.

One of those moments I forgot his Bible-thumping family regretted sending him to a progressive school that prompted his ungodly spiral towards girls like me.

"I'm just saying, you had could have picked something appropriate." Why was he so irritated over music he didn't know?

"There's little else besides John and Paul," I replied. "Okay, hotshot, which Beatles song would have met with your approval?"

He had no soundtrack, and therefore no answer. I let go the White Album and his tiny corkscrews to my heart.

"Their parents probably--"

"LOVED it. They said so. Oh, and get this, the kids liked it too."

"If they were my kids, I'd monitor the sitter a little more."

"You do that. Follow her around with the words and music to "'Swanee River.'" Not a bad idea, actually.

Poor guy never did understand music. Listened to Enya. Listened to Pink Floyd as if it might make him popular. My friends Gregg, Robbie, James, Don? He knew their names, but not their numbers.

I'm back in touch with the kids who believed I could cook and make up songs and asked for my own fiction when we finished the 100th telling of "Curious George."

Former Flame is long forgotten. I wish him peace. And at least one hour with The Fab Four. I've never heard anyone call that a waste of time.

Some Tips

2011-06-13T19:15:00.001-07:00

As both my readers know, I have worked too many jobs to count. Last time I made it up to 2004, remembered the election, decided to dust, and remain reasonably certain I was employed...somewhere...or...other. Advertising, perhaps, where entitled Coach-clad post-grads believed a personal assistant was a transfer away, and of COURSE I'd be thrilled down to my toes to--God almighty, if I ever have to do this again, I will drop an anvil on my fool head--bind some PowerPoint presentations. It could have been worse, they might have expected me to write those insipid slides I promise no client thought about 8 minutes after some chirpy thing presented them like they were deciphering the Pentagon Papers. Advertising might have been every University of Michigan graduate's dream, and maybe I would have liked it if other people weren't there, but I did it because it paid the rent. That's all it covered, which really bit because I had to work every weekend. Friday night, Saturdays, most of Sunday. Someone always needed a sitter. I negotiated for laundry privileges.

Then, like a sweet dream just dropped on my doorstep, I found something that paid twice as much. Catering. The chef was a food artiste; serving was way beneath her. She had a point. If I--ha ha ha--slaved over a hot stove and placed the results in front of the person who asked me to combine ingredients, I'd likely hover until they said something, anything, and would have grabbed the plate with a "FINE! I knew you wouldn't like it. Nothing's enough, is it? I'll make you a sandwich. Everyone else likes this."

And so I became the waiting expert. Stealthy as a cat for a North Shore hearty golf 'n ale type. Hair pulled so tightly I looked Botoxed, crisp white blouse, black trousers, silent shoes, I aligned those $500 plates so the haricot vertes were flush with the centerpiece that cost as much as my weekly secretarial salary.

I politely nodded when a guest decided I was really a sommelier and knew red from white.

"Ah, yes, a fine vintage," I whispered with a tiny French/German/Pearl City, Illinois lilt.

"What year?"

One doesn't inspect a label while serving, so I muttered, "Nineteen twenty," and retreated to the kitchen.

Fan, Madame Chef, prepped salade with vinaigrette that would make you weep. I arranged those chilled plates like MacArthur assigning troops. I'd probably make an excellent General, if precision and organization were the only requirements. This was a drinking crowd; food didn't matter; I was superfluous; then they saw the last course.

Springtime dessert in Winnetka? Creme brulee, or strawberry shortcake, or tiramisu? Think big. Think bittersweet chocolate and homemade whipped creme and icy cake layers. Powdery cocoa sifted around each plate. Because the last was my responsibility, the effect was more Picasso-esque than Martha Stewart. Those financial drones asked for seconds and slid their knives around the last bits of cocoa like it was a high-grade drug for which they'd paid dearly.

When you work around food, you work with smokers. Fan and I waited in the garden by the back door to settle the bill. We puffed away. I pretended to inhale. It was nice, the roses about to bloom and summer a few days away and a hundred clams about to go in my pocket.

"WHAT a dinner." It was the guy who'd needed my alcohol expertise. "How did you do it all?"

"I actually didn't. This is Fan. She's le chef."

"Funny, it seemed like you cooked everything." He looked like a younger Bobby Kennedy. Sounded like every guy who graduated New Trier after bombing out at boarding school. "Mind if I have a smoke with you girls?"

I held up a candle. He lighted up and said, "I don't want them to dock your pay for fraternizing." His hand just grazed that dopey apron.

I didn't care. I was about to take 2 trains home. Fan never tipped herself. "Really not a problem," I said.

He finished up and returned to his rather frosty girlfriend whose dress was just way too short and tight and black. All the other ladies were dressed like Margaret Dumont. The guys made their own fashion statements with--oh, those wild bankers--colored kerchiefs tucked in their breast pockets.

Fan dropped me at Howard Street in Evanston. One less train home. I finally took off the apron. Something dropped into the seat next to me. A business card clipped to a fifty.

1920? Let me know how we can hire you.

Which read a little crass, and besides, dealing with HIM meant facing his anorexic better half you just knew worked at Sotheby's and lorded her East Bank Club membership over her underpaid assistants. I could hear her prissy directives: "Hand wash the Baccarat. You know what that is, right? Oh, and I can't have gluten. Just make sure you pour from the right." I tossed the card. Kept the coin, of course.

He didn't have to do a thing but sit and be served. That he spoke and joked and stuffed money in my pocket meant a lot.

Just a little tip next time someone pours so you don't have to: Slip that person a couple bucks. You'll never miss it, and he or she will really, really appreciate it. Go ahead. Be a big shot.

Moving Up

2011-06-02T18:49:00.000-07:00

30 years ago this month, I took my first full-time job. 50 hours a week. $50 a week. Room and board.

The summer gig stretched into 2 years, and I left with money in the bank and a car. Moved home, slept a while, watched TV, then my dad kindly found me a really easy gig, matched every dollar I saved with two.

If you live in a small town, you either settle in or forever plot an exit. One night, something whispered "Maine" and if I didn't pull over and buy a map and determine to just go east.

I sat in the filling station, sipping Tab, imagining the home front commentary: She's a baby, she'll get lost, someone put that idea in her head, go GET her. I had a stack of tapes and a wad of cash. 2 changes of clothes. Why, I'd ease my way into a restaurant gig and sleep in the car. Isn't this what writers did? Wouldn't I be bored in English class soon enough? A cop pulled up behind me and asked if I needed anything. I folded the the directions and shifted into first.

I headed west, to my best high school friend's house, and we stayed up talking till 3 and fell asleep on her mom's living room floor. Davenport was, from what I could see, nothing like Bangor. The back roads along the Mississippi fed the longing for the sight of big, big water, and, like a good girl, I went home, then off to school.

Every summer, I map it out: Rent a car. Throw sunscreen and Madras in a duffel and just go. Every summer, some magazine rhapsodizes about a family house in Maine and I imagine asking to just stay in a cot in the basement and clean the beach front as recompense for room and board. I like lobster. I like docks. I can build a fire in any weather, on any terrain. I could write and read those short story collections and return after Labor Day, fit and tanned and ready to take a Real Job. Pesky quotidian details like money, work, and family block this path. By mid-June, it hits me again. I have to stay in the city and bank paychecks.

Because the restless virus invaded my nervous system this spring, and I've had lots of time on my hands, and I'm rather over how great Chicago summers seem until you've lived through another without a weekend house, I figure, enough people have crashed here because they needed a change, a rest; why can't I get out of town too? So I'm doing what my pioneer forebears did: Exploring the unexplored (though they had horses, I think, and roots to plant into acreage on which they're now buried), discovering a new world. All I need is an attic and a glimpse of the ocean. I don't eat much or take up a lot of room. No need to worry about me monopolizing the conversation.

I have a dozen days to make this happen. Mid-June always creeps up way too fast. I see it's on next week's schedule.

The Coat

2011-05-27T19:39:00.000-07:00

I HAD to have that coat. It was black, and plaid, and toggled. Fitting for a headmaster or 6-year-old, not an urban girl who walked 3 miles in the snow every night. So I waited for the big sale, unwrapped it like a rare gem, wore it like an estate piece. 5 times.

I read somewhere we pick our wardrobe based on who we wish we were, not what flatters us, and even romanticize a piece of clothing: That long full Ralph Lauren prairie skirt? Why, wasn't that the perfect thing to wear home for Thanksgiving, where we'd gather together by the fireplace and sip sherry? Not in our fractious family. The Parents had split, Mom was rediscovering her youth, Pops didn't want to roast an 18-pounder if we were going to wolf it down then run off to meet our friends. I turned it into a casual piece. Wore it everywhere with cable-knit tights and a v-neck pullover until everyone said they were sick of the sight of it. It's about to turn 30. Someday my niece will riffle my closet and declare it the exact thing she must wear--somewhere--and didn't she have the coolest aunt, her friends were into vintage, could she have it?

The toggle coat was an itchy mistake. The pockets were useful for the 45 lip glosses I carried and mostly lost. The hood made me look like I'd never be allowed near the cool kids at the merry-go-round. I held on; hadn't I wanted this since someone swiped a lower-end version from my dorm room years before? Wasn't it a great deal? Was I not, as many pointed out, A Burberry Girl?

I wore it to Oz Park with a Former Flame. More than 10 years of silence collapsed with a sweet call and invitation: Could he visit me? Stay at my place? Take me out to dinner? Hopeful sap that I am, I didn't say no.

He had another tiny request. I'd surely say yes. He wanted to take a really good picture. See, he'd taken a class and spent thousands on this equipment. He knew what he was doing. And it seemed he did, the way he arranged the shot and waited till dusk. The set up was faultless. Then he started talking. Telling me what to think. I'm not wearing enough makeup. The hair straightening collapsed hours ago. Put away the zoom lens. That's what the instructor taught you? CLICK CLICK CLICK? Take your time. Wait for the good side. Enough. This is about YOU taking an arty shot, not ME looking amazing.

He proudly showed me the snaps. All 34 of them.

I looked giggly and silly and that damned coat was the least flattering thing I owned. Not one picture caught a nice angle. My teeth looked big and scary; the light captured every dark shadow under my eyes; and oh, those forehead lines, could we emphasize those even more?

"I just don't photograph well." I took the hit.

"You don't like any of them?"

I hit DELETE. Emptied TRASH. I got away with this because we couldn't wrestle in a public place. Anyone else touching his precious Nikon would have been trampled. "No, not one."

Mr. Picture Taker, the expert--models wanted him to assemble their portfolio--sullenly put away that $2000 camera. He sulked all the way to the restaurant. Put the bag far from my reach because who knew what else I was capable of? Destroying the memory card? Scratching the lens? Hey, View Master, I've been doing this since you were 10 and didn't even have a Kodak Instamatic. He got over it when the Champagne arrived, and who could stay mad at me?

He left. And we won't ever see or talk to each other again. I removed every piece of evidence he'd been here. And a few weeks ago, I made my own delete pile. Clothes that outgrew me. Books I'd never read again. I slipped on The Coat. It was scratchy and miles too large. I took it back and threw the money in savings.

It's possible one photo remains. That even I, in my determined hurry, didn't completely empty the trash bin, and Former Flame has a truly awful picture of me looking unsure and not cute and really tired.

It might be good for him to know he had a day off from photographic brilliance. But I'm very glad there's nothing in my house tying me to him. Except this amazing pale blue sweater that fits me like an oversize sweatshirt and him a little snugly. But that's a clothing story for another day.

A Day Late

2011-05-25T18:57:00.000-07:00

Lincoln Park, when I was young. I took root. Mapped it out: Someone, somewhere would hire me, right? And I'd write The Book on my off hours. Worked out very well. Many someones hired me. I am not an office girl or, it turns out, a makeup girl. Yesterday, I understood my writing problem. Bob figured it all out. He had heroin and money and pretty people telling him he was great. Buckets of talent. Me, well, a few teachers said I had promise, but I never completed those articles for the school paper and went my own way. Ways. Why did I make it so tough? Suffering for my art, as it were.

20 years ago, he turned 50, and I was more or less involved with this guy who, I am certain, was sent to the same newspaper office out of sheer meanness. On a very hot weekend, I had a huge apartment all to myself, and Mean Guy chattering how I'd never amount to much because college didn't like me, nor did anyone at The Paper. He told me all this for my own good. What a treasure.

Bob was everywhere. The New York Times wrote Valentines for him. Everyone suddenly ALWAYS liked him. I'll confess to hugging his album cover when I was 7 or 8 because he looked so darned cute in those corduroys and that scarf tossed about his neck and I've had a thing for shocking blue eyes my whole life. So Mean Guy was lecturing how he didn't care what I did, and I was so eager for company, even on the phone, I listened. After my soul was sapped and self-esteem revoked, I walked down Armitage. As if Someone knew I needed something swell, a really cute group of guys stopped me outside Kincade's. Bought me drinks. Endlessly asked about ME and didn't make tasteless jokes or scope out the other raving beauties giggling in the heat. An hour after Mean Guy assured me I'd never marry, shouldn't have kids--made me PROMISE never to have any--would get published in a pig's eye, I was treated like a person. What happened between that depressing call and meeting the fellows who said I made their night? I put on makeup and changed into something clean and cranked the radio. It was Bob's weekend. You are devoid of feeling if the opening crashes of "Like A Rolling Stone" don't readjust your mind. That's all I did. Dabbed on lipstick and looked in the mirror and said, "Girl, you pick the worst men" and ducked out the door.

I don't want my twenties back, or too many people who were around then, though I did like the publishing gig when it was fun and newspapers meant business and advertising and editorial were very separate. But for a few hot May days, everything felt hopeful, Dylanesque, special. About those Kincade guys: They kept me out till 3am. Promised we'd all have really good lives. Were very, very happy I wrote a list of songs they should know.

Terminated

2011-05-17T18:11:00.000-07:00

Could this get any worse?

Arnold, you and your...staffer...sure give the help a bad name.

No work is beneath me. PowerPoint, maybe. Insurance sales, definitely. I discovered summer jobs never got you anywhere but up-to-date on the tuition, so I found a way to stash the cash. 5 mornings a week, I left the confines of Clifton Hall, mop in hand, passing the Good Girls wearing the Andersen Consulting navy-blue-suit-and-barrette combo. Clad in Shimer College shorts and a saggy Great America tee, I knocked on doors. The ones on Seminary Avenue or Bissell.

"Fifty dollars for the whole place."

A worse marketing approach never worked better.

The second maven said "yes." And she gave my name to her friend, and within 2 weeks, I cashed out $100 a day. No one scrubbed like I did: I washed the floors on my knees, removed a mouse corpse, ironed sheets, alphabetized spice racks. One slow afternoon I rearranged a closet. Removed wire hangers, edited garments by the season. Mrs. Weatherly (pseudonym) tearfully palmed me an extra $10.

"No one's ever done anything like that for me," she sobbed. "You even separated the cotton and cashmere. I wish you could LIVE with us."

That furnished basement was mighty enticing, but there was also Mr. W., a hulking toad in J Press who lurked like a 3rd-rate Bela Lugosi and made stupid comments about college girls and the frat boys who chased them. He was somewhat nice, if you like a guy trying to look down your shirt while you clean the fridge. I just smiled and sometimes pretended to have real comprehension problems. Remedial reading group. Slow math club. You want me to do WHAT? I had a date? Huh? I went back to my wash pail, stirred the suds. My my, these burners are an abomination. He got the hint, skulked back to his study. I never said a word. I needed the money, he was a dope, his wife looked the other way.

Which of course brings me to another why-are-we-not-more-shocked mess: A married person flirting is kind of dumb. Making suggestive remarks, okay, not such a comfortable place. Carrying on with an employee of your home? Unacceptable. Distasteful.

What's so heinous about Arnold, besides the complete lack of acting talent (except when he pretended to be the family man which we now know was his best performance), are his choices. He wanted to be married. Have a big family. Have a mistress. On that last, in the name of all that is good and holy, WHY WASN'T HE SAFE? Or, gosh, instead of chasing skirt in that mammoth house or wherever the hanky-panky happened, why didn't he opt to spend time with those 4 beautiful kids? Guys--this double-standard is beyond sexist. You put on a big show, push your conservative agenda (HI! Mel), yet live in exact opposition to what you espouse.

Here's a guy who opposed same-sex marriage but couldn't handle his own, children with a man who doesn't respect their mother, said kids possibly aware someone close to them was involved with their dad (The Gem) and another innocent child. He will apologize and everyone will say he is such a great father, co-star, co-worker, shopper, tipper. He still humiliated his wife.

When you work in someone else's house, you do it, then go home. You're more privy to secrets and family issues, but hopefully you leave those things at their door. That family is not your own, no matter how they insist you sit at the dinner table with them. Besides, it's usually a madhouse, getting the kids out the door, driving carefully, coordinating one kid's soccer practice with another's hockey tournament, pretending you know how to cook. I didn't add anyone on my cleaning roster to my close personal friend list, but admit to hanging out, many years later, with a family whose boys I helped raise and are now like my older, cool nephews.

Trust me. The good guys don't mess around. They need their sleep more than a fling. They'd never trade a nanny for a roll in the hay.

Anniversary

2011-05-16T13:57:00.000-07:00

MEN + MUSIC

Both my readers know I've had a thing for this guy I call Ben. Haven't seen him in years. Couple decades and more.

Everyone has ONE they don't forget. Not that they'd drop the spouse and kids if he/she showed up, but some sense memory reopens that long-shut door, and you are 18 all over again, with every unlimited option waiting to be grabbed and conquered.

How lucky was I, back in '82, living rent free, working all day, making the Dean's List at night, hopping to that last-minute party where the cutest fellow singled me out without even saying hello? I wrote when my hands stopped shaking the next day: Ben walked right up to me and asked, "Why didn't you get her sooner?" Heady stuff, dancing to The Doobie Brothers, a very compatible band with the hits Ben took on the deck where we ignored everyone else. No guy had ever been near me; I shoved them all away because I had 3 older brother who didn't call girls back. I stayed neutral while taking messages What time did he leave, when will he be home and promised I'd be the chased, not the chaser. A lesson I dropped like a bad habit when Ben smiled, walked me to my car, and said we should meet up the next day.

No one primped less. I figured he liked the natural day look, having presented him with the makeup-free evening one. He waited by the water, smiled like a goofball when I went up to him, carrying that ugly green back pack holding my brilliant writing and snobby literary choices. He talked about the party, who liked whom, why we hadn't met sooner. Oh, I was so, so busy, you see, being teacher's pet and ticking off seniors who didn't like this. Such a poser. I re-read those golden moments and cringe a little. Had I just shut up, we might have a very different story here, I would have applied myself more and lived in the moment and followed tech trends and had one of those real jobs. Not me, I liked the spotlight and had scant knowledge what to to with it. Ben wasn't the savior sent to pull me back by my hooded sweatshirt so I wouldn't fall off the precipice, just a sweet kid without a clue who took care of things and probably wanted a little edge to accompany his high on life (literally) world. Took a while to really get to know each other, but worth the wait. We talked on the phone. For hours. I took notes. He read awful poetry (his) which he wouldn't have written had I not been such a prissy unproven genius when I haughtily said, 'Oh, I'm studying it this term, here's how it's done.'

Why the pull to someone clearly not that interested, except as a receptive listener to my prattle? Well, the music that first night about pounded me in the gut, and the soundtrack puts you in that moment, a years later, when your 20s, 30s, and mostly 40s fade like sea grass. When a guy whispers, 'Ain't it funny how the night moves?' while you're driving around in a rebuilt Camaro on a super-hot night, those words and that breeze permanently absorb into your last pore. I don't care who you are, you haven't lived till you've hung out with a good-looking guy in a vintage muscle car. Simple fact of life. Besides the tunes, we talked about everything. He wanted to learn, he said. But, Hey, You (what he always called me), he just didn't want to be serious or involved. Not with me or anyone. Was riding around and gabbing enough?

On the 'yes' days, I remembered he was my first kiss, first dance, first guy who tagged me pretty. I was a kid. He had the answers. On the 'no' days, I didn't answer the phone and hung out with dorm kids who bored me stiff. Come on, didn't anyone listen to the classics? Had Michael Jackson completely taken over? Ben wouldn't be caught dead with 'Thriller.' I wavered and finally decided: Move on. Let it go.

Exactly 29 years ago today, he woke me up, took me into those fun nights where his friends said, 'Oh, YOU'RE the one Ben's been talking about,' and it was about damned time. I can't imagine it would have been this sweet with anyone else. I have one photo of him. I hope he's even half as adorable and fine-looking. A few dozen creases and wrinkles line my complexion. If we crossed paths, would we know?

Best to store the old journals, not study them like pertinent historical data. But every May 16th, he's back: Kind Ben on that steamy breezy night, shyly asking if we could go out the next day.

For a couple brief shining moments, he was The One.

Peace of Mind

2011-05-15T20:22:00.000-07:00

Keep your royal weddings. I have scant interest in them, and, as a patriot, follow American crowns.

You know. The Kennedys.

Apparently Caroline Kennedy (who seems to have dropped the Schlossberg to which I say, good on you, girl, I've seen that hulking mass in New York and wonder when you'll take up with someone who has a job and a personality) and her cousin, you know, the one who just announced her separation from the world's least appealing actor, are very close. They stood up at each other's weddings (BAD on the bridesmaid dresses, maybe they didn't look too closely or were 80s slaves or secretly had it in for each other) the same year. Caroline's dress was just right. Maria's was an explosion of too much lace and many man-made fibers, the train went from New York to Hyannisport. Caroline was trim and flawless. Maria hadn't quite shed the baby fat.

They are aging nicely, those girls, looking better than 25 years ago. Cheekbones more defined, lush hair straightened and flawlessly tinted, if I had their money, I, too, would opt for a little skin-tightening. They want to look fit and amazing, and they do.

Maria's ex seems to be taking this awfully well, making Barneys stops and hanging with big bulky bodyguards. No one could accuse him of pitching too much woo to win her back. She makes her feelings clear on t-shirts and Twitter. He's 63 and that forehead is smoother than my 22-year-old niece's brow. How DOES he do it? And, who are the women who'd want THAT? Some aspiring actresses dying to get in the talkies, probably. Instead of being the family man he conveniently played when he ran for public office, he likely tried, "Yes I'm married to a princess and have four kids but have all the time for you, liebchen." He wouldn't have garnered more than 10% of the popular vote had Maria not stepped up.

I do wish the women in that family would knock off the stand by your man routine. They are the actual strength and should have run with it ages ago. They mimic their grandmother, Rose. They are well-dressed, perhaps working and bringing home money or managing the inheritance. But they just won't waver on their spouses. They'll tough it out till the kids are grown. Maria probably felt that gut wrench pull you think is true love, and gave up journalism for it, and who reaped those rewards? That kindergarten cop. And he looks like he could care less. I'll put money on another split before the summer ends: Caroline and what's-his-name. It's been 25 years. Give him a payout. Redo the house. It's not to late to make something of yourself with that law degree and those bestsellers.

Ladies: Dump the guys. Take the reins, make your mark, stop slobbing around with Republicans and unpaid artists. You can do better than that. Your kids will be fine because they'll see who has the real class, power, and honor: Their moms.

My Situation

2011-05-09T21:34:00.000-07:00

There's a great, underplayed, underrated Springsteen number: 'Out Of Work.' His version is good, the Gary U.S. Bonds take made the summer of '82 unforgettable. I had a good job, paid no rent, drove a VW, all was well. If you'd told me I'd make more than $50 a week and live in Lincoln Park by the time I turned 23, I would have said, 'Well, of course that'll be me.'

Voluntarily, and for a good cause, I'm taking five. Someone asked me why I'd just walk away this time. Not like I sold a tech company and can barely lift a stock portfolio, or a dead relative remembered me as a favorite who deserved his/her secret stash, or a bag of money materialized on the doorstep. The plain truth is, I'm tired, and want to create something that might make a little bank, and once I'm rested and those rejection letters fill the in-box, I'll return to the drudge. Meantime, I'm picking the right fit, making sure I don't again get stuck in the Bad Job Quicksand.

I've selected many, many awful gigs. I took what was offered. It's what you do when you're slobberingly grateful someone thinks you deserve a paycheck. Some seemed like the perfect steppingstone to writing and editing.

The national edition with whispered promises of New York opportunities...assurances flung like a catapult because the Girls in Pencil Skirts With Family Money were there FIRST, why, if anyone would take Manhattan, it would be they. I lasted 3 months. The endless frivolity of Billy Dec, Latin School, Lake Geneva, Barneys/Theory/Marni made me want to dive from that 21st floor window, not line the entryway with flea market frames minus photos, a cheery decorating tip from our Editor In Chief (a bigger name-dropper never existed).

The right-wing financial publication where I pretended to understand deadly precise online research. Staring at the door handle relieved the tedium, as did the wacky WASPy account manager who screamed--I mean, loudly enough that the girls at the next-door law firm grabbed me after and swore they'd report that frosty crone to the powers that be, the EEOC, The President, God--I was an inept mess, deliberately sent to ruin her advertising life. Exactly how I planned it. I lasted one year.

But hands down, the absolute dregs of legitimate work, the kind that makes you want to enlist in the Army or Peace Corps or live in someone's rumpus room and work 7-11, 3rd shift, was taking care of father and son lawyers. Allegedly I know paralegal work. Took the class. Never finished the 3 month term. The art of the brief alluded me: 10 pages trimmed to one? I knew I'd miss 1 salient detail, proving again I couldn't master the big picture. Dad and his Boy didn't care: I was a live body, well-dressed when I cared to pull it together, an excellent file maker.

Oh, these attorneys were shady. Something with railroad injury payouts. Making sure no worker collected compensation, or knocking the settlement into a joke of a reward: One guy lost most of his hearing. They offered him 11k and a hearing aid. My job was to get the defendant's Social Security number, pay the son's household bills, field his wife's calls, answer the phone and record precise messages that went unreturned. High point of the day hit around 11: I made reservations at Italian Village, watched Senior and Junior, the homeliest lawyers on LaSalle Street leave, and open a floppy disc to my myriad short stories. Earliest they returned was 2 or 3. Then they'd slam papers and law bulletins and point to my many, many mistakes: They didn't do depositions earlier than 10am. Didn't I know how to operate a SELECTRIC? They were MISTER____ and MISTER______, not Frank and Frank, you nitwit.

I called in sick one too many times. They received RETURNED/NO FORWARDING ADDRESS envelopes way too often. Even the ancient retired judge who basically did the trickier tasks because I played pitiful and he was sort of sweet on me, called me a genuine dish with great stems, why, he'd help me find a fella, well, he told me to throw in the towel: 'They're nuts, those two.' So I left, reassessed, landed a job with a huge ad agency, career moves no one should miss.

But the worst co-worker, the one who gave me nightmares and headaches and nearly drove me to drink, was the one who called me dumb, stupid, unqualified, a waste of time. She's still pushing print ads. In this economy. No reason for her to worry about job security. Not that I wish her any ill will.

So this new choosiness, does it make sense? I can't do the Gal Friday thing again. Retail wears me out after 7 hours on my feet. Same old story, back to the reason I moved from the cornfields to the big city: Publish or perish.

Second Generation

2011-05-04T17:08:00.000-07:00

MUSIC

Life Coaching Assignment: Make friends.

All two I have now are bored of me, as they should, because this self-imposed lock-down stipulates I remain chained to The Novels, the Short Stories, memorizing Tennessee Williams. The last is like learning biochemistry without an instructor. You can't do it unless you step back to that bar or boarding house or mansion where everyone's ticked off and has a beef with the drunkard one table over.

Last night: Acting Level IV. Small group. Same amazing teacher. I arrived from the worst interview, one YouTube should post and label 'How NOT To Look When You Want Work.' I left the house with that faultless Chanel matte look. Forgot eye pencil does not make the best tightline. Forgot to check a mirror. Remembered my perfect Cross pen and tasteful blank bound notebook. Was told my note-taking drove the interviewer CRAZY, she just couldn't talk if I wrote, she knew she had ADD, frustrated fingers worked their way through her hair, would I please take notes later?

I am not one to be responsible for another's madness. 'Why, of course,' I smiled, careful twisting the black and gold quill and putting it squarely on the book. Folded my hands and shut up.

Same as it ever was played, replayed; she repeated everything she'd spoken on the phone and written in the ad. I was about to smack my forehead like David Byrne and you may ask yourself, well, how did I get here? So easy, I committed to The Artist's Life then saw something online I COULD do.

I really don't think the Pen Police agreed with that. I concur: Anyone without the good sense to maybe check under the eyes had no business seeking such an important job. Took a good 10 minutes to undo the spackle, erase the Alice Cooper look, rip off the pencil skirt, hosiery, Choo heels, and stuff it all in a Co-op tote. Barneys purged the most horrendous meeting in employment history. Anything Vince or James Perse cheers me up. As does the really sweet Co-op girl who designs jewelry and greeted me like a dear old friend. Said I should be doing much, much more than pushing product. She wrapped up size 2 (ah, yup) khakis, 80% off, and there's something about tissue edging out of a new shopping bag that puts some sass in your walk.

Feeling friendly in my own introverted way, I was pleased Cara was in class. She's more into it than any of us; I love her optimism, and she doesn't ever get on my nerves, and she's got more sense than I do, most days. We had to name our theme song. I've never heard of hers. Not sure she knows about Elton John.

And like any Tuesday night, we wound up somewhere cheap where we could talk. She said she wanted to know more about Former Flame. Well, spilling on paper is one thing. Live? To a person? Really? I did it. She got it. No actor can fake listening. Well, if you do, it's going to show. Just so I don't sound like a complete narcissist, I put together a Life Plan for her. She's a smart cookie. She can do it.

So I got us lost on Fullerton. Told her to drive a couple more blocks so she could dump me in the seriously shady part past the Expressway. Then I asked very nicely if we could listen to the radio. Kept my Coldplay opinions to myself (just barely).

'One of the best you'll hear,' I intoned as The Who kicked off.

'One two three four five six seven eight....'

Oh, that smile. She GOT it. Wanted to own it.

It's official: She's a good friend. And deserves a decent nickname. I wrote it today in a message about scripts and auditions:

Hey, Slip Kid.

Life Coaching assignment: I've got my clipboard, text books. Ready for a decent grade.

My Stars, So It Is

2011-04-29T20:02:00.000-07:00

MOVIES

Everything I need to know I learned from 'Tootsie.'

Saw it in the theater 4 times. Had to because people were laughing so loudly, you couldn't hear the next line. Verbal gems. Lots of ad-libbing. You know 'That's a corn cob' wasn't scripted. Jessica Lange, the sole weak link, improved by everyone else, snagged the only Oscar. Bill Murray, toe-to-toe with Dustin Hoffman, who probably had to stand on a couple boxes to fit in the frame, swiped each scene but did the whole ensemble thing very well.

So. I saw it and decided then and there I'd go into acting. Live in a loft with someone funny. Land a soap. Do a play. Write a play. Write a movie based on the album 'Nebraska,' something I blurted when I met a real live TV actor who deigned to ask me what I was working on so diligently at someone's Christmas party. I was actually journaling my favorite songs of '82 but a movie treatment sounded much more impressive. He was sweet enough to say, 'When you have something, I'd like to read it.' Next time I saw him was on the silver screen in a blockbuster that tanked. Handsome devil.

Here's what I know:

1. Write like Jeff the playwright creating the enchanting 'Return To The Love Canal'

2. Actors act when they're not killing each other for roles, but are really a tribal bunch

3. Wait tables at some point in your life so you swear 5 different ways it's not your only career path

4. Having a baby alone (quite a risk in late '82, a successful unwed mother you didn't pity) is absolutely acceptable

5. Own the audition, get the role, shut up and obey the director...the one you had to bully to get the part

6. Learn to sing and dance so you can knock 'em dead on a holiday weekend AND do the foxtrot when you cross-dress

7. Read Dashiell Hammett

8. Know all there is to know about Uta Hagen; without her, bad actors would never rise above wretched material

9. Get an agent who knows you need therapy

10. Acting was, and always will be, a big boy's club; I see it at Second City and learned it from the venerable John Van Horne played with great pomposity by George Gaynes

Now, about that 'Nebraska' idea...I see someone beat me to the punch. Oh well. Next time I'll keep my brilliant ideas to myself, or, here's a thought, actually write them.

He's Not There

2011-04-16T20:00:00.000-07:00

MEN + MUSIC

So, about that Life List I wrote: I was 21. Things change. Wants and needs erode. There is no magic that will make them appear; I don't need to want them again.

Except. There's one guy. I've always wondered about him. Not in a swoony, what might have been way. Just, hey, we had the best times together, he thought I was one smart cookie, I encouraged him to pick up a book. We talked in his back yard after his myriad sports practices, and he was a firm believer in holding hands as an art form. Very junior high for a couple kids in their 20s. Suited me just fine. I probably showed off too much for the cute boy who loved the world and had no problems. No ambition either. He said I could carry the weight of the world and still come up smiling.

'I hate the North Side. I'm too old for college parties. You barely drink. And, you're just too much.' Well, this is what he REALLY thought. Huh. Dope made him very, very touchy.

I told him to go back to his simpletons, those mall girls dying to get married and buy a house in Roselle. 3 years was a long time to like someone. Love him, actually. I sulked for a few weeks. My first heartbreak. Every song meant something. 'Badlands' made me cry. Grace Slick, Ben's favorite musician ever, was out to get me. Don't be afraid to come dancing: My roommate wanted to call the clinic when I holed up by the window, headphones firmly clamped, unfinished homework catching an occasional tear.

My best friend at the time, Levon, finally performed the verbal equivalent of cracking my skull:

'Never, ever want someone who doesn't want you too.'

I stopped sniveling. Levon was relieved and promised he didn't mind. Much.

I didn't leave up the walls for more than a couple months. But no one was ever as much fun, which likely had more to do with school and work than whomever I was meeting. Bunch of business dullards for a while. A younger guy. An older one. One my age who looked so damned fine on paper, we could have been a model for match.com.

And because Facebook brings your past to smack you in the head, I figured hey, maybe Ben's out there and might remember me. I'd say yeah, you know me, still into The Arts and mocking bad taste (he told me to 'be nice' a lot, then chuckled because I was right about the whole trapeze top over leggings mistake). And I'd write, Hey Ben, how did it turn out for you?

Except I already know he's a suburban dad, living in his mom's old house, married to the girl he dated before me. (For the record, he is NOT one of the weepers I wrote about the other day. He once tried out for a professional hockey team. Only things that ever made him cry were death or worse.). I don't need to know him again. He stays in the hazy past, in his Great America tee and Levi's, taking out the trash, tooling around Route 64 with the windows down and Seger turned way, WAY up.

No point in reconnecting with someone who hasn't tried it himself. Like I said, that list is toast. Like my old friend said, it does you no good to want something, someone who doesn't need you.

Cry Baby

2011-04-13T16:16:00.000-07:00

One good friend from acting class who appreciates a tight, concise story without a lot swoops and inane details, almost laughed out loud last night.

I made the big confession.

And she practically cackled, 'You made a boy cry?'

'Two, now that I think about it. WAIT! THREE!'

'That sounds like you.'

More a Noel Coward reply, less soap opera queen of mean.

Of course I didn't mean to make them weep. But, if I'm willing to listen, the guy's going to spill.

Go ahead, tell me about that summer moment in front of the mirror, wondering if the world would be better off without you. How glasses clinked, music blasted, you looked sharp. Then sought something sharp. Cradled it in your hand, edged it up each finger. When you found a vein, it occurred to you: My parents will never get over the scandal. We are in the dark, dusty, claustrophobic dorm room, and I probably look as horrified as I feel, and your waterworks start. And I assure him, 'You're wanted and needed here, I promise,' and you smile and say, 'Yeah, I see that now.'

6 years later. Another good-looking, mixed up fella. 2 girls fighting over you (well, one--I'm the throw-in-the-towel kind if he looks at another), a larger living space. I'm straightening the room as I do when conversation stops. I mean, I just can't stand or sit still. Suddenly the onus of all this adoration hits you like a sweltering August wind and...'Oh, God, I don't know what to do.' Silent tears. Your eyes actually look nice and smoky when they're damp and emotional. Crystal green. And suddenly, they are very very happy, and crystal clear. 'I do know one thing. I'm in love with the other girl. So that puts the kibosh on us ever seeing each other again.' You bound down the stairs as if your shoulders weren't shaking 10 minutes ago. What, no high five as you start the 3 hour drive to her place?

And, the worst, of course, is the most recent. Last month. It's so fresh, like an uncovered wound in need of a compress. As usual, I'm hearing you out. You are the first guy on earth to be left for another. To lose most of your money in less than 4 years (you picked her up online, what'd you think was going to happen, you nitwit?). Once you were nice, kind, fun. Good to me. Full of plans and ideas. Charming, handsome, quick-witted. Last time we met, you admitted something I could turn into a book. Great heartbreak makes wonderful copy in the right hands. Why I sought you out after 10 years apart mystifies me still.

So we're on the phone, because you know I crave your endless lawyer, settlement, rights, who gets what tacky knickknack you should have thrown out years ago, stories. You are suddenly very, very quiet.

'Hey, Pal, it's me. What is it?'

Oh no please not this. The silent tears. The ones I can't see. But surely hear when you unload it all. It's there, all right: Disappointment, hurt, the love of your life who treated you like a stray rabid dog. I do not say, 'Good riddance, this is the best thing to happen to you, sign the forms and move to Siberia.' Because after all these years, I stop caring after the first sob.

It's not really heartless, just pragmatic. I empathize with genuine woes, not creepy boy-men looking for the sympathy vote. Or maybe...I'm just skilled at cracking the tough cases. A really excellent acting technique I've uncovered and perfected. A very easy analogous emotion on which to draw when I nail the dialog.

Three crying guys. Each story should provide amazing outlets for scene study. Ooh, how Level IV is going to rock.

Making Other Plans

2011-04-11T19:50:00.000-07:00

Oh well, I didn't want it anyway.

So they said no. They found me, thought I was a nice safe bet, decided to go in another direction.

Happens every spring. June is my new school year, next semester. April and May are my summer. I stop everything and take on a major task. Last year, getting a good tan. This year, purging paper memories. Journals.

Some details are laughably bad. Was it so important to spell out every last line of the Seger song playing when I met my first big crush? Yeah, it is, when you're 19 and have all the time to write that novel, go to law school, live in Manhattan, work for Vogue, model for Vogue, marry a rock star, run for office, accept a pivotal movie role.

I find the list: 'Life Goals.'

1. Meet Dustin Hoffman

2. See The Who from the front row

3. Write 12 short stories

4. Drive to Connecticut

5. Buy a loft

6. Work at a newspaper

7. Buy a Chanel bag

8. Take classes at Second City

9. Marry Ben--deep down, he's the only one you really love

10. Stop hating Mom

11. Sing back-up for The Rolling Stones

I was 21. Naive. Hopeful. Not thin. Not even pretty, really. I had verve, and restless thoughts, and was rooted to nothing. I don't remember writing this tenable life plan. I was probably wearing stirrup pants, big bright sweatshirt, high tops. My hair towered naturally, and I went through a navy blue mascara phase (those Chanel girls could convince me to try anything). Perhaps a cute guy asked at the coffee bar or diner, 'Hey, what are you working on so diligently?' Bashful, 'Oh, a movie script.' Anything for a laugh or attention or both.

Many, many years later, I examine these lofty, pretty goals. And think, 5 is a nice number. Almost 50% achieved. I don't think Mick and Keith would find me age appropriate, knowledge of their entire catalog notwithstanding. Ben married someone else. I saw Dustin, dead center at the old Blackstone Theater, when he played Willie Loman. A quieter, more attentive audience never existed. A Chanel pocketbook is not the key to everlasting happiness. Well, the moment you unwrap and fill it might make it seem so. And--I kind of like my mom. She did what I'm doing, moved on without a plan, left an unhappy safety net because anything else seemed better. Lofts are heat-wasters. The Who will be back.

I'm kidding who, here? As always, I'll find a new direction. The one I want. No one so determined should be stopped with the occasional blip. I'll trounce the no's with an easy rationalization: It's not the right thing. I can do better. It's scary. But necessary.

And hey, anyone who feels like sternly issuing orders, I'm all yours. I am 100% convinced you DO know better. Advise away.

All I Get Is Talk

2011-04-07T20:44:00.000-07:00

I'm really not looking. There's nothing I want to do except read, clean, rewrite, walk, and nap. A clean break I've earned.

And that pragmatic money-making gene embedded in my DNA snaps: Are you KIDDING here? Everything you've earned--gone while you take another walk towards bliss? Even my sister answered the phone yesterday with, 'What are you doing home?'

I get busy. Send one essay. Wonder of miracles, they want to see more. Make ONE call. They summon me. 5 days without makeup, wearing these saggy pajamas the rag bag might reject, and I have 45 minutes to beautify and dress like the cat didn't drag me to the door.

Say what you will about my slothfulness--this could take hours, and isn't very nice to sloths--I can hustle out of lethargy and get in gear faster than a three year old on a sugar high.

When you know everyone in the business, chances are excellent you'll run into the right person. She oversees the pretty black palettes and large C's. Someone pretty high on the cosmetic food chain. 'Dearie, can we do something about those brows?' She fills them in. Touches up my gloss. Sends me up the Avenue.

I don't carry resumes anymore. They generally have yours already. Remember, I can take or leave this or any other job, right? Uh no. It's like the cameras go up and I have to deliver. I want to slay this Dude. He's dressed the part, all right, but man! He's into tennis. Lived on a coast. I pretty much follow his trippy twists because I'm on to this generation gap. You think they're backpacking the Rockies in their mind's eye; faster than a blink, they turn into a full-hooded cobra. I'm ready. Yes, I can manage. I can coach. Want proof? Call the gals who heeded my advice a couple years ago and are now top producers.

He almost traps me. 'Why would a woman want one luxury piece instead of ten others?'

'Less is more. Better to have a few stellar things than a crowded closet. I cater to the Jackie Kennedys, not the Kardashians. Though I'd sell to them too.'

I assume he's texting. Checking Facebook. E-mailing his boss, 'WHO is Jackie O?'

He displays pictures of HIM with Jackie's White House portrait. And JFK's. Bill. Jimmy. Jackie's inaugural outfit. 'My mom insisted,' he smiles.

I feel less like Murphy Brown to his Miles Silverberg.

I don't want or need to work just yet. Because right, I'll just have years to find another job, I'm that fiscally responsible. When do things fall into place?

Probably when you finally let go of things that don't work and lounge around the house till noon. That's my plan. Foolproof.

Royalties

2011-04-04T21:47:00.000-07:00

30 years ago, enchantment over this tall, lanky, attractive blond who brought sapphires into vogue. One day she's in a long kilt and flats, the next, the world's best LBD. We cut our hair into brushcuts, discovered shetland, wore long khaki shorts and prim collared shirts.

She was truly the only woman who photographed well with just a touch of gloss and eyeliner if she remembered it.

No one knew she was doomed. Oh, that husband of hers. Mean. Bitchy. Completely unsuitable. She was in love. He was under pressure to have a family. He needed a brood mare and got show biz. He was staid, dull, cruel, cold. She was flash and charm. His family had the personality of the horses they loved more than each other.

She slimmed down. Dressed better. Chose the worst wedding dress in history. When she went up those stairs, and didn't say his myriad names in the correct order, and knew that wretched Camilla was merely biding time, well, all you saw were rosy cheeks and a sweet smile.

The press didn't shut up for 6 months. Cover of Time, cover of People. Shy Di looking up at the camera. We were prepped and primed for that July day.

This time, uh uh. Kate's adorable and a perfect brunette, all legs and cheekbones and great complexion. She's been around so very long. No flash in the pan, she. She's stayed the course, built something real, had a career. Very of the moment. No mystery. Intact family, no drama. College friendship that sprung into, allegedly, true love. She's been around too long to be truly alluring.

How Di would have loved their shopping trips! Becoming the world's most glamorous grandma since Jackie O! Imagine her mother of the groom wardrobe!

Let's hope Kate doesn't put up with meddling in-laws. Camilla shouldn't be telling her a thing. Charles seems stoned, he's so remote and unaware.

As for the dress, it's something between Diana's and a Bessette. Perfect for a princess. William should remember he's his mother's son.

This time, it's just not interesting. Not like 1981. Not like Diana.

All The Finest Girls

2011-04-03T22:51:00.001-07:00

MAKEUP

More of a man's friend than a girl-talker, I noticed today, gee, I'm having fun. The point of cosmetics: Bring out your best side without being so earthly serious. We have goals, quotas, the threat of not returning if we miss either. I really don't care how well I'm doing, because it's the best I've got, and if it's not enough, I'll take over my sister's guest room and clerk at the Piggly Wiggly, lose the Prada, wear Maybelline. Sure I will.

A few girls grudgingly taught me the ropes, then stood back when I went into Barracuda Mode. The squint, glare, hard aisle stance: I took those who didn't know what they needed hostage. Made them shop. Made them feel perfect. Made them open accounts. And I left it all in the middle of a huge money-making season to do nothing. A plan that lasted 5 weeks. I went back.

It's the toughest thing I've ever done, starting over. Every sale is a fight. The art of The Pull eludes the leaners behind the counters. I've been told to stick to my own line.

I hardly mind this. Energy expended on a $20 cleanser is time spent away from what really matters. I mostly love what I do, the way you adore the long-married spouse who doesn't set your toes on fire and just cohabits easily. I'm having a love affair with writing and acting. This day job is my stability, my sure thing, my safety net.

Thank the Lord for the Cool Girls I've known a long, long time.

May, who sat on my dorm room floor, smoking, dressed in a man's suit, naming The Eurythmics THE best band. She had porcelain skin, blond hair, a modeling contract. Guys were jerks, throwing themselves RIGHT at her. She coolly disposed of each one. Discovered her true self. Lives a life she loves.

My sister Mavis, who turned heads and stood me in front of a mirror: 'Tell yourself you're a knockout.' Turned me into a politician with an agenda. 20+ years later, I'm halfway there.

Marni, who let me room in her den and said, 'Writer's block is a fallacy.' She told me to spell it out, sound it out, let it out. 'One day, someone will tell you yes.' She was right there when The Paper casually handed me a non-paying assignment. Presented the framed article as a birthday present.

Even my dear sweet put-upon mother had guts. The Old Girl broke down doors others blocked. Her finest moment: Mowing down the choir director who REFUSED to let me sing Christmas Eve. That over-reaching soprano, drunk with power, snippy head shaking her obvious wig. Mom's, 'LOOK, Georgine, she's dressed, she's here, she knows every key.' Mom could have conducted the service herself. Instead she led me to the front row, opened the sheet music, and walked away. Held the candle and watched me sing OUT.

Then there is Kyra, who gets my weird humor, propensity for acting out whole scenes based on a throwaway movie line. Who recently warned me, 'You're going through something, and I understand, but everyone else is picking up on it, so be kind to yourself, okay?' Snapped me right out of that wallow-fest, back into selling, keeping me safe, protected.

I love my guys, all of them, for toughening me up and teaching me to be a little less, ah, feeling. But The Cool Girls--well, we're so much alike, it'd stand to reason we'd be closer. Thanks for being my friends. Every last one of you.

The Coach

2011-03-30T10:54:00.001-07:00

Early to class, usually just on time, and The Instructor deigned to join me.

He's a swami, guide, green eyes reading everything, everyone, most intensely. Gets me to spill every time. Told him about the World's Oddest Week: Dumped a bad, ancient, unworkable habit, found a great college friend who's living her life well, rewrote the unprintable, and finally understood this whole drama thing. You know, the lessons he's patiently taught since, oh, September. Something's connected.

He leaned in and said, 'I saw the snap last week. Keep going. You're getting it.'

And he said I must have made some huge changes. I swear, the man's a psychic, or intuitive, or psychological, whatever. I'm usually the one in the corner reading. Now I could tackle Tennessee Williams just fine. Or O'Neill. Beth Henley. Sam Shepard. Which is how I should always think and feel, until real life intrudes and I want to hole up, wish I'd met someone, anyone other than the last one. Spilled milk. Not the worst experience. Not in Life's Top 10 Moments either.

He had paperwork. I had lines to memorize. I withdrew this notebook of All Good Things. Favorite times, places, people. Good way to move forward, recapturing those halcyon seconds and hours and days, right? Happiness happens more than once. I chose it over the blue periods a while back. It's brutal, opting for sunshine, not shadows. But the only way to live.

And there they were, golden times. My first kiss, car, dance, Springsteen song. The unexpected inheritance that endowed a full summer of doing whatever I pleased, namely dozing on the deck and filling notebooks with silly little stories. The thrill of adopting my dog after a cruel spring and summer. My first byline. Name in print. Photo: Courtesy of the author.

Last night's class was a beautifully wearying experience, lots of peaks and physicality. Direction. Blocking. Count those beats! But don't announce them! We know this. Or ought to by now.

Exhilaration, lessons, sense memory. An excellent Tuesday night. Went home to The Novel that deserves editing, hacking, attention. Of every sentence I asked, 'Is this something I want to read?'

Finally: Yes, I do. Finally: Out of my own head, away from anything that doesn't work. Killer chores and tasks. No one said this life would be easy. The next chapter will be exactly what I need to see.

Book Smart

2011-03-28T21:04:00.000-07:00

Every spring, my dad read 'The Odyssey.' Said he discovered something new each time. An arc, surprise, character. He quoted entire passages. 'Take your time, think it out,' he said. No pressure.

I obeyed his literary leadership. Once those words made sense, a world opened. Oh, there's a beginning. Exposition. Neat, concise story. This is why you read. Brilliant.

He's a tough act to follow, that guy they called The Professor. He knew them all. Twain. Hemingway. Roth. Dizzying list of the greats. No wonder I picked English as a major. Anything to catch up. To please him.

Elitism is lovely. I had a brief lapse with bestsellers until a pink and black dustcover screamed, 'Waste of time.' Back to the basics.

Intolerable, the way non-readers avow A Book was highly recommended from someone equally dim. Heard all about it a few days ago. I grudgingly picked up the volume Former Flame swore would change my life. Only for him had I purchased it.

Had I really studied it? Understood it, followed the exercises, picked up The Truth?

The writer advised, but never had her own novel. Yet she swore--promised--declared--discipline made it all so.

I saw the Toni Morrison quote. The misery of 'We hold ourselves back because we are afraid of offending our family.' Lots of religion. The tiniest taste of Tolstoy. Thank you, Dr. Psych.

'Thanks, but no thanks,' said I demurely.

'But-but-you-you know, it wouldn't hurt to open your mind.'

Last person who uttered those words sat next to me at the dull ad agency playing Celine Dion. She sure knew whom she was addressing.

I laughed way too loudly. I mean, seriously. ME? I need you?

Sound of smarting pride many, many miles away.

And I thought of dear sweet Ben, First Flame, who shut up and read what was put before him. Comprehension issues over 'To Kill A Mockingbird' but once he got it (with a little help from his friend), he knew. He smartened up. Attempted a crossword. Almost made it through a Woody Allen movie. What can I say, Ben liked ganja more than cinema. But he took my advice.

'I get it, a movie can just grab you. I saw one that changed me for good. Kicked in a whole new me,' he announced, all excited after a hockey game and shot contest.

Coppola? DePalma? Scorsese? Please?

Ah no. The film that realigned his stars? 'The one about the dead rock star.'

'Really. Really?'

Had I taught him nothing?

In line by line retelling, he proclaimed it a masterpiece. Like, if we die, right, are we really gone?

'Maybe it spoke to you on a less literal level,' replied sensible English honors student ME.

'Uh uh. I'm supposed to start a band, stop messing around, not give a shit what anyone thinks of me.'

Which temporarily put the kibosh on our dates in his mom's basement. Rehearsals lasted exactly one month, then someone got bored or drunk and the neighbors complained about the noise in the garage.

If someone enthuses about something I will never, in the name of all that is good and simple, ever read, I brace myself: Uh oh. Another 'Eddie and The Cruisers' moment.

I still have the required reading list my dad organized in 10 minutes. I'll get through it.

This one about writers discovering their true selves would never have made the cut. Thanks, Dad.

Champagne

2011-03-27T18:43:00.000-07:00

MEN

Pop the cork, I'm a carefree society gal in Prada and Gram's diamond necklace. 2 full glasses, the world is love. Top it off, hold on, we're sharing and whispering about affairs and that...THING...up at the lake last summer.

The hangover's almost worth it. They're doozies, those headaches that start at the base of my neck and finish around my fractured nose (walked into a glass door--no alcohol involved). I squint and cower at noise louder than spiders crossing the floor. Sun is the devil. People shouldn't talk. Sunglasses, ah, my partner in crime. And I swear to never, ever again imbibe.

Passed the liquor store last night. Celebrate, or drown the sorrows?

Went home ready to rumble with words. Writers workshop deserves special attention. Want my money's worth. Can't drink and write, though it worked pretty well for F Scott and Hunter and Ernest.

Nice, dreamy, creative state. I'm not strictly awful. And didn't I have a really swell chat with Former Flame? A little promise there? Glad he called. He's awfully sweet. He knows how I feel. Who could refuse such kindness? He'll figure it out.

Awoke with a clear head. Backbone reinserted. Tough Italian girl with 3 big brothers and a smart sister guiding me. 'Sweet talk is cheap, actions are real money.' They had it all, those siblings of mine: Talent, smarts, good looks. People went to them. Each had a broken heart. ONCE. They were chased. The guys got the girl, my sister fought off men with a stick. I thought it was rather heartless and turned prim. Which got me exactly what I deserved.

The stature and benefits of an unpaid therapist. The Good Girl never asking for a thing. Couple walks with bad, fun boys. Best friend status.

So I sent the world's greatest kiss-off. Someone should pay me to write these things. No bitterness, blame, concern.

No one's replied faster to an e-mail. Unlike the others he's claimed to missed.

Last words. The famous kind. The ones I'll drop at the June party I PROMISE to throw. When wine will flow and everyone will say, 'You wait months for nights like these.'

Feeling pretty damned saucy and secure about now.

Key Moments

2011-03-25T18:22:00.000-07:00

A whack on the head. That moment I crashed and looked down 50 feet. A sturdy laundry basket stopped me. Sense has seeped into my sore head, a month later.

Okay, not like the Grand Canyon invited me, but a fall can scare you. Or startle you into being. I'll take living, thanks.

My house is full up. Too many things. And these dopey paper reminders of dances, weddings, first and last dates? Space invaders. They are gone. Someone pawing through the recycling bin with all the time in the world might giggle over Former Flame's insipid pledges of semi-love. Yeah, get out of mom's basement, you money-hoarding burden to society. I brought you into the light. Nothing was enough. You got the money, the settlement, the house.When I was over you and your fake promises, you were back. Just how stupid do you think I am?

This smart girl wised up and told you what was what. Good luck to that puffy chick with the family dough. She'll need it for the therapy one gets after you've wrecked a nice thing. She got diamonds. I got flowers that died 2 days later. I never wanted them, said they were dollars down the drain. What I wanted wasn't what you felt I should have. Like I don't have my own mind. Right, you went to the best schools. Rest on that sheepskin forever. You seem really happy, waving it around those of us who went to work.

The story ended today with you finally, FINALLY returning what was rightfully mine. Something you swore up, down, and sideways you couldn't give up. You'll do nicely without it, without me.

Every tale has 3 elements: Setup, Complication, Resolution.

We liked each other.

Your family did not like this.

You are a big chicken.

Go back to your woods, honey, not that you understand the earth and land like we true farm people. It's going to be a lovely April and the steamiest summer ever. Everything will blossom, bloom, come to fruition. You and your drinking buddies will tell the same golf/back yard/college stories. I won't pretend to listen. No need for you to remark on the length of my dress, the height of my heel. Yeah, I wear makeup, you're the one staring at me. Sure, I look GREAT without it. Until you see that bare face.

You couldn't name a Beatles song if someone yelled, 'HEY JUDE!' Dim. Dull. Tin ear. Enjoy the coin and the silence. You're very good with both.

Miss Taylor

2011-03-23T12:34:00.000-07:00

MOVIES

Two days ago I left the sales floor with, 'When Liz goes, I'll be blue for weeks.'

Hate this prescient side.

From the time I could read, Liz was around. On every magazine cover. Slim. Chubby. Out of it. Married. Divorced. Always, always working. Doing something. Dazzling us in diamonds. Living every second. Doubt she ever had a bored moment.

She was beautiful. She could act. Held her own with Dean and Newman and Burton. Shared the scenes. Glowed and had it and made everyone around her give back, perform better. She and Montgomery Cliff? Rock Hudson? What other actress would make us believe in their love scenes?

Minks, pantsuits, skirts showing off that sometimes-tiny waistline. Riding outfits. Wore white like a dream. She strutted like a supermodel, all 5'1" of her. She knocked herself out with the pills and drinks and fixed it all, made others face their demons. Loved changing another. Helped when no one else dreamed of lifting a finger.

The first full-length, uninterrupted movie, long before cable and DVDs, 'Cat On A Hot Tin Roof,' played on public TV. My brother Alex said, 'Just watch and don't say anything.' I almost got, at age 12, that passion overruled sensibility and families fought more than ours. I discovered mendacity and accused everyone of it. Wanted that filmy white silk dress and red lipstick. Also wished to wipe those miserable kids playing for Burl Ives off the face of the earth.

Tennessee Williams is among the hardest dialog to nail, using a southern accent doesn't ensure complete immersion into his easily complicated characters, but you saw Maggie The Cat, not Liz.

She played an innocent, a debutante, a bride, a VIP. Yes, her loveliness helped, as did her willingness to shut up and listen to the director (truly the secret to a great performance). She was fashion, activism, theater, film, comedy, drama, an icon.

It's a grim day, one I wish to fill with A Place In The Sun. Taming of the Shrew. Butterfield 8. From eras when one actor had it all. Will miss that grand dame, especially when I think about today's shallow talent pool. You will never, ever see another like her. Plenty will try, but no one could fill those shoes.

There's No Answer

2011-03-21T22:23:00.000-07:00

I don't socialize too much because that means money out of my wallet, not in the bank. When I go, I want a floor show, perfect food, scintillating dialog. Tonight's lucky dinner partner tried to engage me in--shudder--books on tape.

My friends are sweet to my sour, kindness to my surliness, sunny skies to my sullenness. So we talked about the last 6 months. About makeup and my book. Her job and fellow and...friends I don't know. A margarita cooled me out. So what, it's company, tapas, someone I knew when I gave parties. Who shared a keen interest in JFK Jr. Still remembered Carolyn's Narcisco Rodriguez dress. Loved New York. Went to any movie I suggested.

Really kind harmless girl who listened to my cosmetics tale much more patiently than anyone should. But books, well, sorry, they should be read and placed on the shelf and reread. Okay, not everyone scoops up what Vogue and the Times says we must read. Hear her out, I thought. She did the same for you about Ambivalent Guy.

3 hours felt like 45 minutes. The staff cleared their throats and we got the hint. She drove me home with promises to visit The Shoppe on Thursday.

'I may be a little late. Just one thing I have to do at nine-thirty. At the, um, doctor's.'

Instant, dreadful recognition. Tears welled. I hid them.

More x-rays. They want to be sure. See, these little spots needed one last look. Surely they're nothing. They did want to see them quite soon after last week's exam. An hour before she's saying, 'Time to let go of Mr. Start 'n Stop' in a kind, understanding voice. Now she is scared and too young for...this.

'It's a teeny blip. Nothing's wrong. I can feel it. People around me have lots of luck.'

'You know, you're more than right.' Brave, tight smile.

'And guess what, if it's more, we'll get through this. You know me, Tough As Nails Tess. The one you want around when the boat is sinking. I'd scare away the water. Get us to dry land.'

'It's going to be an interesting three days.'

'Then they'll tell you, 'See? Nothing there.''

She almost believed me.

I looked around my apartment at the sheer frippery that makes me so materialistic and mildly venal. Tons of clothes. Product. Fine, fine books. Sweet love letters from a boy who forgot me ages ago. Dumb gifts that meant something from their sheer unexpected delivery, nothing because they were tokens, not promises.

If someone needs these things to make my friend healthy, you may have them.

I promised her she'll be fine. I don't lie. If anything happens to her, I'll kill the bad cells myself. Meanness can be valuable. Watch out, Big C. Do not go near my friend.

The Pain of Pages

2011-03-14T22:31:00.000-07:00

You're supposed to write what you know. Everyone knows that. Then they turn in their papers or assignments and let it go.

For this novel I've worked on over a year, I relive a detour into the dark side, I dropped out for a month, agonized over what went sour that would compel me to recreate it. It's a bittersweet saga. Worth the emotional investment, but Jesus, refining each line opens niggling little fissures and I wonder if I could stand seeing it on a shelf.

Oh yes indeed I could and hope it does.

You define the depths as something real, familiar, and understandable. Roger Daltrey said of Pete Townshend (not that I'm anything like those guys), 'Heaven forbid he has a good day. He'd have nothing to write about.' Paraphrasing here. Books about joy with a pinch of sadness where everyone gathers for a happy wedding or funeral seem so, well, trite. Not that I want misery on every page. Just the feeling of winning over helplessness. Like a movie. No victim I, I mean this character; she's got edge and nerve and a soft spot for anyone who can't find his way home, or never had one.

Time to wrap it up. Don't chronicle, let it unfold. She's a character placed in your circumstances. Way better dressed. Quicker with a comeback. Not taking guff. Owner of a Valentino bag I coveted, and naturally someone else decided she couldn't live without the black patent leather frame covered in rosettes, one hour before cold fingers of dread clutched my heart as I haltingly held out my bank card. Hope she's doting on that piece of art. Doubtful. Salesgirl said she sort of pointed at it and said, 'I should get that.'

The characters are absolutely people I know, or compilations of them. Jumping off that cliff last Memorial Day Weekend kicked off a restlessness that plays nicely for the leading lady. So she's me in the right set of circumstances. Ask any other writer, they'd probably tell you yeah, someone said the right words at the right time which got them thinking, then likely drinking, and there it was: The Book. I eradicated over 200 (!) pages of tripe; with every sentence I asked, 'Is that something I'd want to read?' Select, delete. Crop. Fire B-list characters. Give a few some more airtime. Amp up ones who deserved better.

And what do you know, it works. It's nearly readable. It's fun torture, editing yourself. Letting go things that sounded bravely clever in real life, absolutely useless on the page. Critiquing until you, too, want to see what happens. I'm about 89% there.

Correcting and righting yourself are the best ways to improve.

Fiction is the way your own story should have happened. You create the real you. With a twist and a little less truth.

That's Rich

2011-03-13T18:49:00.000-07:00

Like any midwestern girl who came of age in the 80s and listened to AM radio and hid Tiger Beat, I had crushes. Mine are permanent. My first real date where he nervously tuned the radio and asked, 'You like this one?' about 10 times. My best guy friend who called me the sister he never had, which knocks the wind out of your sails until you convince yourself he'll somehow see YOU are the one. A lawyer who got me out of a jam, won me money, and announced his engagement, all in 5 days. A really handsome, smart, witty guy, who, when he's not acting the Ambivalent Jerk part, really has a sweet side.

Never had a thing for movie or TV stars (except Daniel Day-Lewis, for whom I'd pick up dry-cleaning and iron t-shirts). If I had to name a type, I'd say, Writers. Good ones. Jackson. Keith. James. Robbie. Rock gods. Scruffy guys with (I'm convinced) good manners, edge, biting humor, excessive literature knowledge. Reserves of it, making that English/History/Philosophy degree appear useless because he, well, summed it up in a few lines you and your friends played on the tape deck until someone asked you to PLEASE pick ANYTHING else. Where the ads take aim.

So why did I nearly drop my good-girl-in pearls hauteur at the name on a credit card a couple years ago? Because there he was, The World's Greatest Columnist, stocking up on Creme de Corps and whatever else I said he ought to have, saying Chicago was one of his favorite cities, had I been to that place by the pond? To Twin Anchors? And our zoo, and the Picasso, and the Art Institute. He got caught up here. Mr. New York loved our town. Just he and his family, choosing the Second City as a vacation destination. Heady stuff.

You send thank-you notes in this business. Hope it shows appreciation. Might lead to more sales.

You don't count on thank-you e-mail. But you archive and forward it like a note from the cute boy in science you were sure had NO idea you existed. I haven't looked at it since 2009 but when I read his news today, I had to find it.

He's leaving the Great Grey Lady. Going to a magazine I read for years but cancelled when they gave an undeserving writer full credit to write about music. Knew it was trouble with his 'I had enough of that growing up in the Chicago suburbs.' Dude, this place didn't make you a writer, following the stringent MFA outlines--bet you were teacher's pet--plus a lot of luck and connections gave you a career no one deserves less. Re-read the Amazon reviews from your first book. The one that peaked on the Times Book Review cover and tumbled faster than any bestseller in history. Trust me, I was watching after your smarmy reading, when you affected Valley-speak for all the female characters YOU wrote.

Resubscribing tonight. Trusting World's Greatest will trim the fat and hire gifted writers, the ones just like him. I still have his e-mail address. Believe it or not, I'm not afraid to give him a performance review.

Simple words. Glad I saved them:

Thank you for your kind note, and for helping me, Alex and Nathaniel during our brief Chicago shopping spree! It was a pleasure to meet you and we hope our paths will cross again.
Best,
Frank Rich

School's Out

2011-03-10T16:32:00.000-08:00

I went to college with the most jaded attitude. Hey, you in the Ton Sur Ton getup, I worked and paid for all this myself. I'm more wicked than you in my denim mini and flashy flats and Who t-shirt. I know how things should go, because I practically grew up on a New England-type campus 10 minutes from our house. Activism ruled at Shimer College. So did Mayfest, nighttime tennis,cute boys from a lot of money, girls in batik, and teachers in Levi's. I can name the Great Books. I helped (almost) save a school. Spent whole weekends with officious older siblings who knew everyone and attended at staggered intervals and said I could stay if I, too, did my homework.

First week at that Big City School: Culture shock. No quad, lots of commuters who couldn't stay out past 10pm. The southern suburbs dumped a pile of second-generation attendees on Seminary Avenue. Couples got serious and engaged freshman, sophomore year. Hyper organized classes bored me stiff. No discussions, lots of quizzes, 2-page limit on essays.

I was the stranger in a bland land. From Shimer's activism to prim Catholic guilt nipping at my heels. My roommate coveted my record collection. She'd so badly wanted to see The Who but her mother heard the boys in the band did DRUGS which meant everyone at the concert joined together for a joint. She and I had it out over my weird friend who, egads, spiked his hair and drove a motorcycle. How dare I? Didn't I know he was trouble? And by that association, people would talk about her. I left her to the endless girl gossip and dorky interns at Andersen Consulting and mean boys on the soccer team. Went my own way and never picked a group. Solved this social division by having only 2 friends, both guys.

Then summer hit, and those who never chatted outside class were thrown together in the empty dorm. We partied on the tiny decks overlooking Belden, walked everywhere, took our fake ID's wherever they passed unnoticed. Guys from the track team, girls like me from nowhere. Dancing in the concrete garden, mixing lethal cocktails till Labor Day returned us to our exclusive corners.

What if my Shimer had stayed open, not moved to a suburb then a city? Their scholarship fund had dried up. Reagan was in office and Pell Grants were abolished. The entrance exams would have doomed me. You either aced them or not. No middle ground. ACTs and SATs weren't how you were picked. They wanted the whole person who could chant at the protest (though by the mid-70s there wasn't much to argue) and excel at a sport and work in the library.

So I took a city school I didn't take seriously. Lasted 2 years. Migrated around the city, then the suburbs. Stayed in Old Town with Mr. Spike Hair who invested right and no longer works. Last I heard, my old roommate packed on the pounds, took up smoking, and shops with her mother.

Last summer we drove past Shimer. Same tennis courts, beautiful low red brick buildings, President's House. For one minute, I wanted to roll down the big hill by Dessendorf Hall and look up at the hot June sun like those teenage years, when Older Girls fussed over me, the Little Sister, and told me to get straight A's and think about law school. When problems were solved and no one had a thought that wasn't pronounced perfectly and everyone knew they would save the world.

I had it way too easy as a young girl, as a teenager. I got to sit at the grown-up table and pretend I knew what everyone meant. And then I went where none of it mattered. When asked why I picked that school, I say, 'You go where you're accepted.' There aren't a lot of second chances in life. Regrets hold you back, slow you down. So I'll keep those idyllic memories where they belong. In the back of my memory with a few photos of kids who made a difference.

The Sweetest Thing

2011-03-06T20:35:00.001-08:00

Days off, writing and writing and not envying those in the March snow showers, I looked up old friends. Journal entries. Plugged in James Taylor. Repeatedly. Read who I was almost 27 years ago, when it seemed everything was about to begin.

Read notes on a missing link: 'Knock Wood,' by Candice Bergen. Loved, loved, STILL love that book. Comedic genius father, Southern bell mother, birthday parties with Liza, debutante takes on Sidney Lumet and just looks good on camera. Modeling, channeling a natural wit into a winning movie presence, honing photography skills, surviving Pauline Kael's reviews.

All before 'Murphy Brown' landed her on the cover of Tine, and eventually evicted the Republicans. I mean, really, 'mocking the importance of fathers?' Been around the US population much, Dan?

I found my first copy just lying at the train station. Brand new in a Kroch's & Brentano's bag. Read it in 2 days. Hers was a life I craved and admired. Part hippie, slice of WASP manners, 60s flower child, always meeting the right people. Really unfair she looked like a beautified mannequin with wit.

So I did what I always did when I discovered a new book. Called my dad. Enthused about her coming of age tales and Esquire freelancing and exquisitely lovely mother. Pops, of course, said, 'Don't forget her father's debonair looks.'

And a week later he called. He'd found it at the library. Thoroughly agreed it was historical and timely and likable. 'On your recommendation,' he said. 'You said it was good, so naturally I read your required reading.'

He then predicted even bigger success, as he had Cher when her variety shows left the air: 'Just watch, she'll surprise us all.' And Jessica Lange: 'A model with a mind who, if she listens to her next director, will survive 'King Kong.' As for Candy, 'She should just be funny.'

Kind of a bummer he passed several months before the long-running sitcom started. He would have loved the politics and Quayle-bashing and housepainter-who-took root. I watched almost every episode. The writers brilliantly wrote in Pee Wee Herman who stole scenes before the getaway car could collect him. And always, Candice timed every beat, line, Ralph Lauren outfit. 5 Emmys. As she said of her '79 Oscar nomination for 'Starting Over,' Not bad.

I wish they'd write another series for her. She's now running an internet news corporation, putting the screws to a Kardashian or skewering Charlie Sheen or telling Miley Cyrus to grow up. They'd line up to work with her again. Even John-John guest-starred to plug 'George' Magazine. What better way to show news stayed in her blood and she kept ahead of it instead of resigning and letting the younger, dumber demographic commandeer the business? Paging Diane English...

The book I filched from Union Station disappeared between moves. I didn't want a paperback version. So parsimonious me shelled a few dozen clams to bring a new edition to the library. And I picked up where I left off, when she took a Manhattan flat and went to work.

Like this sequel I'm dreaming up, the second time around is even sweeter.

Show 'em how it's done, Ms. Bergen. Some of us believe magic doesn't die.

I've Got Energy

2011-03-01T22:43:00.000-08:00

MUSIC

Still haven't learned to download music and stuff it all into this tiny device, which would be handy when I went mobile, but no, I need a full stereo as I write and do these painful sit-ups that will surely tone that midsection that once oozed over every waistband. I play and replay those songs that formed me when the addiction kicked in but good around '80, '81, '82, when Musical Ben looked up from his rolling papers and said, 'Pete's new solo album is so, so good' and repeatedly played the 'Face Dances Part Two' video until even he had enough. He said I was adorable, always listening to Pete, and to him. I blushed because I didn't know how to handle a compliment.

Rather than wait for someone to sometime turn my musical wish list into a portable jukebox, I went the hell to Amazon and found the essentials. How did Pete EVER get away with such an album title? Facebook threads would bash 'All The Best Cowboys Have Chinese Eyes.' Comments about the Asian culture boycotting Pete and that band he started. Almost 30 years ago, not even one complaint. In fact we seriously discussed the meaning and concluded it was sensible and brilliant.

I don't care, 'Stardom in Acton' remains his best solo single, it's all about sex and fame and music and narcissism and starts out like a Broadway show tune and why no one's turned his work into a musical ('Tommy' was the whole Who hash and had its awesome moments) I don't understand. Meld it with 'Rough Boys' and 'Gonna Get Ya' and whoever inherited Fosse's talent has solid gold just ready for interpretation. Long-running performances for fogies like me who play the oldies and place themselves wherever they were when those favorites first played.

I haven't stopped playing my ancient tunes since they arrived. Replay, flip, next, listen, get inspired, write. I'm back in tune. Aced the writers workshop latest challenge. Some people need weed or rye or crack or whatever gets them through the night. Me, I need Pete when he was under 40 and creating genius. So I'm a fan. He's mine.

Today's my day that's sort of free once the therapist's listened to my amazing new world view and suggests I won't need her much longer, then I promise something will come up she'll need to solve, and I finish rare household tasks because there's a solid gap between spilling my guts and getting to acting class which, I promise, is more soul-baring than the one-on-one, I scurried just a little too quickly on the back steps to finish three weeks of laundry. And I was airborne for a few seconds and waited for that sickly sensation that coincides with the landing.

I am not a faller. Seldom trip. Am actually pretty agile and catlike, able to squeeze under the bed and find the earring back, walk through slippery storms with military-like precision: See the black ice? Yeah, me too, so let's hop to the muddy grassy knoll. But today, carrying a laundry basket and wearing driving moccasins--not really recommended for maneuvering slippery stairs that haven't fully absorbed chemical salt stuff which turns ice into non-threatening puddles--one foot didn't land correctly, and I hit my forehead on the nice cold metal railing, and went into this survivor-mode, 4 flights up:

This won't hurt. Nothing will break. You can loosen the death vise on the five-dollar laundry tote. Scream if you must, but the neighbors are nosy and gossipy and will forever joke, 'Care to drop by?'

I didn't claw at something that might have stopped the fall. Just slid, pulled in those not-so-weak abs, took the hit mostly in my back. And shoulder.

And kept going. This was a mild crash. My heart didn't plummet then race. I got up, gathered the wash, carefully made my way upstairs, put away stacks of tee shirts and towels and allowed one hour on the couch and waited for a bruise or minor swelling.

Went to class, equilibrium still not one hundred per cent, and literally couldn't get where the heck Level III was situated. Nice receptionist actually escorted me to the stage because a tinge of dizziness puzzled me. The Instructor saw me and asked if I was really, truly, okay. So I needed solid physical directions. I waved him off: I was fine, all good.

Then we did really tough stretching and breathing and the guy next to me about slowed my basic inhale exhale with some vile cologne and hey, why is he always way so close during warm up? When we sit and listen to The Instructor's words of wisdom, Annoying Cologne Guy shifts and fidgets and adjusts that stupid stocking cap and chews his nails and I want to smack his crackly knuckles with a yardstick or branding iron once and for all. Naturally we're assigned a scene together, and there's a tiny crimp in my neck, and you know bad energy hits you in the solar plexus because life is that way. And after 17 weeks of listening to his crunching and demanding solid, literal direction, I gave in to the slight swelling on my cheek like it's all his fault and told him, 'I'm really serious about this class, so stop cracking jokes and build the scene like EVERYONE ELSE HERE.'

The Glare strikes again. The bruises, and the grimy guy who can't stretch because he wore constricting jeans and squeaky sneakers, and I'm out for blood. But I don't run the class, just want to really get the process down so, gee, maybe I can audition for something using these techniques The Instructor has so, so patiently taught since October. You are either into it or going because, as Cologne Guy smarmily said when he invited himself to our after-class binge, 'Oh, I'll keep taking the classes, I don't have anything else going on Tuesday nights.'

Please PLEASE don't assign him to me again, because that fall will manifest itself into serious injuries and if any scene calls for me to kiss him, I'll spit up. And if the scripts requires a slap or punch, I can't promise it will only appear I've taken a swing.

Anyway, I give the new session a solid A-, because I got to do a scene with My Favorite, Cameron, who knows how to improvise and get me laughing and we sort of nailed it. Cologne Guy eventually bothered someone else, and that pinch in my neck was soon a memory, and Cissy, the only other female in the class, graciously drove me home.

I took a strengthening Vicodin which loosened the limbs and made those cruel crunches much, much easier, and soon I was stretched on the floor, thinking about a darling early a.m. e-mail that made my day, my week, and who better to accompany a long day of thrills, spills, sharing, and hitting those acting beats, than Mr. Renaissance Man himself? Yup, I cranked Pete while I wrote and executed a few push-ups and what I assume are yoga moves.

I'm a tough Midwestern girl. Got hit by a flying hay bale when I was 12; shook it off because there wasn't time to fix a tiny scratch. Just soaked in the creek a few minutes and returned to the loft and carefully stacked the livestock's winter food supply.

A couple slides down creaky wooden city stairs? Just a blip.

Now, about Annoying Cologne Guy: Scrub off that vile fragrance. I promise you, it's enticing no one. And shut up, listen to The Instructor, and quit being so bloody literal. Listen to your intuition. Or find it at least. But don't even THINK about using my music for inspiration. It's mine. Go find your own.

Wow. Prescriptions may calm the body, but sharpen the mind's claws. I promise to build some tolerance before the next class. I have 7 days. Ample time to forget ACG's...everything.

The Things That I Do

2011-02-28T19:46:00.000-08:00

MEN+MAKEUP

So this lady carrying a Chanel (A REAL ONE) bag walks up to my counter and says, 'I did it.'

I'm about to reply, 'Botox is not a sin' when she continues, 'I read your blog. WHO was that guy, and just how wretched was he?'

Okay, no more telling people about this high-paying side gig. 'Not so evil,' I reply, thinking, Buy $200 face cream, preserve the paralyzer. 'We always pick one bad boy who's never as rotten as he thinks he is.'

HE tried convincing me his suburban upbringing was truly radical, wow, divorced parents, every other weekend with your dad? Step-parents? You were truly revolutionary. And, you took road trips, anyone else on to that? You were average. You wanted everyone to think you started something they never knew they needed. You thought innocent ME bought it all. Well, I did, then I saw the man behind the curtain, and let the shroud drop for good.

Madame Chanel is riveted. Says it's a great story. I say it was a long time ago, and I'm so much older and wiser, and she says, 'I had one of those too.' Who knew Mrs. Lake Shore Drive and I would have anything in common? She buys what I tell her she needs and leaves, pleased as punch because she has enough samples to last till the next lethal dose of botulism (so okay, I'm a little jealous; I, too, wish to appear unworried).

And I turn to Daniel Antonia, Life Coach, and he's dealing with this unbelievably pretty blonde lady with 2 Ralph Lauren kids. The older girl is hell in a handcart and I picture that perfect Bonpointe frock in tatters when it's caught on a sharp edge. The Magazine Ad Family finally leaves, and Daniel and I figure they're more concerned about good manners than safety first. I tell him I know lots of women like that. Shrewd, polite, worn out, but deep down, kind of mean. Okay, so we only saw them for about 5 minutes, but that little girl stomping and kicking while her grandmother oh-so-gently and southernly corrected each move meant, Future Sorority Girl Hellraiser.

Like the one who had to hear my life story. Like this one who acted all ladylike and elated with new palettes. Like the mother paying for everything.

Smart Biscuits.

See, we can't really actually use the 'B' word, so now you're in with the cosmetics in-crowd: Biscuits=well, you get it. When you throw around 10K attitude over a $10 lip balm, and smack your credit card on the counter we just polished, and flaunt those Tory Burch flats like no one else ever thought to wear them, you're going to get tagged. You make enough money or take the right amount from your parents to more than get by.

Clever little Biscuit. You socked it away before the layoffs. Told the beau you just loved that Coach bag, then exchanged it for a better brand, making up the difference with a gift card courtesy of the returned coat Grandma put under the tree. If you're not married, you will do so soon, and well. You have a mind for math and a heart for sin.

Okay, so in real life I'm a bit of a banker. Parsimonious ME can squeeze a dime from a penny and scrimp like Hattie Green wearing all-black because it hides the dirt and live on almost NOTHING and walk to and from work to save--I think--$4.50 on bus fare. I click off lights and wash cashmere in the machine with Delicare and snap up designer bags when they're reduced 90% because of one tiny flaw. I decided to work in makeup because they said I could, and I knew I'd get free stuff. No more monthly Barney's runs for the right mascara, I have dozens of options, thanks.

Money equals freedom, which opens the mind, and brings me to yet another trippy, flippy, point: I may be openly courteous and able to keep the conversation going, but behind these hazel eyes lies a real, honest, living, Smart Biscuit.

You just don't see it because Smart Biscuits keep their secrets, and everyone else's. Confidential info is like a savings plan, it pays off if you're patient and don't scatter it this one time. So once you unlock this secret and join the SB Club (I'm taking applications and fees), do the right thing: Recruit. Keep your edge without being blatant about being accepted into exclusivity. And you will, by all rights, have had one boy who toughened you up.

The one who made you want to be a Biscuit.

For The Righteous

2011-02-27T20:04:00.000-08:00

MEN

You pick your favorites at work and home. It's human nature. I liked my brothers and sister, and their popularity rotated as their fortunes and luck changed. When one brother said, 'Let's do the chores really early then hit Timber Lake,' you loved him a little more. Another who painstakingly built the science project and wrote concise cues on index cards and got you that A+, well, there's a little more room in your heart for him. And the one who said, 'Don't take any guff,' and stood up to the bullies for YOU without taking a single swing? You put away his clean laundry before Mom yelled at you both for being such slobs.

So I'm working with Kendall, the Glam Glam fragrance model who could talk Marc Jacobs into putting his name on a bottle of Coco, and because it's impossible for me to just chat, I start cleaning the tester units and rearranging the bottles per visual's standards, using a little ruler to equitably divide hair care from the guy's stuff. And Kendall gets me on a Guy Tangent, I don't know how she does it, and I spill a little about one whom I should have known better. I was a fool for fake love, the kind that sneaks up on a blistering July night when you're bored and a storm crackles miles away and one minute you and the handsome newsroom boy are happily agreeing on literature, the next, seriously kissing by an open window as he pretends to like Jackson and Bob (both Seger and Dylan) and tells you no, he can't be serious...yet.

Kendall now knows the sad details, and she's not judgmental about anything, this is one good-time girl with a brain, and I'm thinking, Wow, it's been over 20 years, is HE still a mean summabitch in love with himself? What about that whole people can change edict I adopted? I figure someone who stole his best friend's girl while dating another closer to home and not immediately informing the latter about the changed relationship status has surely done some serious thinking. Like how he turned a department against one person with 'She threw herself right at me, who was I to say no?' Which was not the entire truth. I mean, I was there, sure, but didn't have to ask 'pretty please' because the way it unfolded was, we were 25, 26, certain our futures were rosy and green (money), and you can't fight a potent attraction unless you're made of garden stone, and we simply liked each other.

Until our true selves inched into the picture.

I'd been in love with the same guy from age 19 to 25, and it became clear as the spring water that runs down the ravine on the old homestead we'd never be more than amazingly close acquaintances, not even friends. I promised myself I'd never get pulled into that emotional cyclone again, and developed a heart that warded off hurt. And then HE appeared and I broke the rules for a few months. Quickly retreated. Stayed very, very busy. Suddenly I wasn't a twentysomething with zillions of options strewn at my feet: I had to make money and establish something, somehow.

A true friend from those days summed it up, many years later: 'Life is all about living in the present, loving mightily, forgiving everyone.' I've preached this almost 3 years now, and believe it, but sometimes it's hard as hell.

So as Kendall heard me over the din of solid metal shelves screeching across glass counters, I thought, This is officially a funny, not tragic story. We met. We mashed. We crashed. We parted. He made millions of dollars. He's still a miserable miser. I don't have as many clams in the bank, but I save what I can and gift people with things they had no idea they needed. He probably still mocks my obsession with 'The Pretender,' said it was EXACTLY what someone like me would like. Trust me, HE, I never had comprehension problems. I don't even regret liking you. From you, I learned how to spot a coyote at the door. Without you, I'd still believe every compliment disguised as a pass.

Here I go again, keeping friends, laughing out loud, not totally insulting the guy who tried making me feel like I did something awfully, dreadfully wrong. Who knows what was going on in his mind back then? I'll take a stab: Narcissism. Greed. The need to prove he knew all. Oh, in that last, I find a little kinship. But deep down, he wasn't evil on a stick, just a manipulative tool with another stretch of growing up to do.

I wish him more happiness than any of us deserve. Try that on your next nemesis. You'll feel this amazing freedom and calm and want to take up a cause, make some action, find your own amazing self.

It's really, truly, that easy.

Oh Darling

2011-02-24T20:05:00.001-08:00

For both of my followers, you'll know what I mean about the last storm. It became my salvation, turning point, jump start.

Haven't had a bleak moment in almost 4 weeks. And guess what, if I did, I'd flip it around till it was appetizing and appealing. As my father brilliantly put it, 'No one cares about your bad moods, Kid.'

You really, REALLY need that sale I built? It means that much to you? I stepped aside and DIDN'T CARE. That's the secret, you see: Don't worry about a thing. You'll be fretting over the majors, like a father with a heart condition, cancerous Mom, Alzheimer's settling into your grandfather's world like a silent unwelcome permanent visitor. Money is freedom, so stash it, spend it when you truly love that material object. Pick up a check if it will make someone happy. Bow out of the bar hop if you simply can't afford it. But go if you're sure one cocktail will suit you down to your toes. Unhappily partnered with someone? Get out because if something happens to you, he/she will inherit what you could have left to charity. Not that magnanimous you will care, but there's no need to invite someone to dance on your grave.

My work counter was a mess and 15 boxes of stock I didn't need or want arrived and I smiled as I unpacked duplicate orders of things even I can't sell. Grinned, chatted occasionally. Usually the co-workers will take the long route, say, to another store, to avoid me when boxes are in the bay.

And I had my Happy Moment, this new thing where you must have a few elated seconds no matter how smeared your makeup's looking. I hit the hard aisle and there they were, two ladies my mom's age, yeah, 50ish. They quickly explained their 65-year (!) friendship. Their moms were bridge buddies. North Shore Girls. Northwestern and Smith and grad school, then they vowed never to live more than a town apart.

'We're not buying anything,' the rowdier one promised.

'What could possibly make either of you prettier?' I asked innocently.

They followed me for a miracle cure, you know, thicker hair and fewer wrinkles and softer hands.

'If we use these, will we look like you?' This from a literature professor who, at 75, still teaches though her husband likes her home more and more.

'You'll look like an even lovelier you, but think about it first.'

'Nope. We want whatever you're using.'

'If you're sure,' said I, coyly tucking one strand of hair behind my ear.

'Isn't she darling?' asked Feisty One.

'Oh, this one, you're right. Exactly right,' said The Professor.

'You, honey, are just DARLING,' Feisty One said gleefully.

I've been tagged willful, petulant, sugar and spice, cunning, cynical, fun, mildly pretty (a compliment you want to swallow whole), honest, bright, loyal. DARLING?

I've waited years for that one. Applied it to others, hoped it might rebound. Darling. Me.

So there you have it, let go the mean thoughts, spread love, forgive every person who's shut you down because you don't know what made them into that, turn up your soundtrack or ask me to make one for you, talk to strangers. It's going to fall your way and you'll always be happy being YOU.

I swear it works. Please believe me.

Everything Is Just Dirt

2011-02-23T13:46:00.000-08:00

MEN

My brother and I had one of those fierce abrupt fights that disappear like spring rain running down the drain. I thought his wife was being rather, ah, herself about the house I once lived in and they now owned. And it escalated into 'It's HER place too' and 'SHE refinished the floors' and 'It's not the hotel where you bring your laundry and wait for meals.' Stepped up to, 'No matter what guy you brought home, if I didn't like him, you'd never know I didn't approve,' sweet talk for, 'We accept your weirdness, respect ours.'

Sounded a lot like our father, an honor he didn't like hearing.

Gotta give The Old Man credit, we 5 kids had a never-ending series of boyfriends/girlfriends and he treated them really well, even the ones who got too comfortable on the couch and had dreadful manners and couldn't believe we didn't have a color TV.

Once they left, he'd let it roll: 'He couldn't put on a decent shirt? What kind of family lets their daughter spend the holidays with her boyfriend's parents? You could do much, much better, but if you REALLY like him/her, I'll be nice.'

When one of us dropped whoever briefly captured our hearts for a week/month/too many years, the injured party still loved our dad, cried to him over the phone, kept one toe in the family waters. Pops just had a way about him, drew people out, made them wish they could stay in the extra room forever.

So years later, when a I met a really prime boy who loved movies and books and thought I could do no wrong, I didn't think twice that he was related to one of my close friends.

Would that she were as open-minded and adaptable. Oh no, not this one. She caught wind about something sweet and private and instead of being happy for her brother, she gave me the shaft, cold shoulder, dropped me from her elite inner-circle like I was a known felon. One week we were jogging along the Lakefront, the next, not speaking on the train to work.

'She doesn't think I should be seeing any of her friends,' Mr. Ambivalent announced when I stated, 'Your sister's being an unbelievable shrew, doesn't she have enough to worry about, like, work and guys and her inability to eat?'

I finally made her, no, ordered her, to meet me at The Last Act. She took the coward's way and brought her boyfriend. I'd dropped her brother, he wasn't worth it with the guilt and sneaking around, and I'd just seen Jackson Browne and decided to pack up a second-hand car and travel, a plan that dissolved as quickly as I made it...so when SHE and I started throwing back, no, there were no awkward silences or references to her precious, perfect, untouchable baby bro.

Her boyfriend pretended he didn't know a thing and asked myriad questions about my life plans. 'I like being alone,' I said, swilling a perfect vodka and soda, kind of impossible to mess up that mix, 'and rarely go out. I'm a lone wolf, really.'

Oh, that heinous judgmental look. Actors work years to project cynicism, criticism, hatred, and who-gives-a-damn in one expression. It was all in her crystal green eyes.

How I wished I'd said, 'Your brother admired me way too many times to count. Skipped a bunch of dinners with you to take me out. Has many, many sublime skills and if you knew what went on in my dinky studio, you'd drop your Bible and your haughtiness. And oh, while we're being so open, there's nothing wrong with physical closeness. Try it, or stop pretending you aren't interested. It might make you less like YOU.' She'd have slapped me, dropped the Miller Lite she daintily sipped, called me bad names. Pretty sure the boyfriend would have taken my side.

When Former Flame and I talked a few months ago, and he went on and on about his lovely big sister who unintentionally brought us together when I was still relatively young, I didn't even fake interest. He married a cruel person who made him extremely sad. They matched up on paper. He and I had only our affection for each other in common. It took tremendous restraint not to say, 'I wish your sister stopped worrying about you, not like you're an innocent lad of twenty-three, new to the city, don't forget she was pretty mean to me when I was really, really nice to you.'

I merely said, 'I'm sure she's very happy,' and he finally shut up.

No chance I'll see her, or her brother, again. Unlikely, anyway. I'm pretty sure. Okay, never hurts to leave the door ajar. He's not so bad. And maybe she's no longer a bloodless, heartless harpy. After all, we were friends. People can change.

Coyote's In The Coffee Shop

2011-02-20T18:55:00.000-08:00

Ever been chased by a hedgehog? I was in the woods by our house and that big flat white mother turned at the fence and followed me, and an hour later my dad and sister found me barricaded in my old room, and sure, I was 23 and shouldn't have been such a big cluck, but a fear of free wild beasts makes me jump a little when anything less friendly than a cute bunny hops my way.

You must stare down your fears, topple them like they're a flimsy house of cards, and move on. Simple. Thank all God's creatures coyotes have established squatter's rights.

The first one looked like a ungroomed German Shepherd until I noticed he was eating garbage and no human stood nearby, texting and yelling, 'WRIGLEY! BACK!' I sprinted across Cannon Drive like Flo Jo in her heyday, dashed past oncoming cars, trudged up my stairs and, as if that animal had a set of keys and knew how to use them, locked the front door and pulled the side table over it and cowered in the kitchen because he'd never find me there. Why he put the fear of the almighty in me I don't know, I mean, he scurried from me before I pretended a track medal was at stake.

A week later, I am positive the same critter knew I walked through Lincoln Park at 8:45pm. This time he smiled. Glanced back. Scraped one paw all Cowardly Lion-like. This was my turf, I've taken the same route almost 3 years now, enough with the interloper. Mangy cur couldn't scare me, so I waited till he was a really safe distance, say, Winnetka perhaps, before I went on.

And last night during the full moon, I'm carrying the really pricey yummy scrumptious Chanel No. 5, not the cologne, gallons of that surround the vanity already and when I gift the extra it's like, 'Oh gee thanks, didn't you give Muffy one of these too?' Nope, the eau de parfum Candice Bergin parodied on 'Saturday Night Live' when she flawlessly mimicked Catherine Deneuve--crystal bottle and cap stuck to her face--and I thought that was a comedic trick I could try, artless French accent and all.

There he stood, waiting for me. I know it's the same one. A guy on the prowl, pretending you're the only one he wants when he's got a line of others upstairs, downstairs, at the bar, the office, the gym. He very courteously sat down. Watched me. Almost whistled. Did the coy bad-boy head tilt.

Again, another record-setting 50-yard dash.

His partner in crime, the cuter coyote, was not far away; he's the one who says, 'Oh, he's kind of wild but deep down, a good guy. His wife just left him. He's been through a really bad time. I think he'd like if you just talked to him.'

I am deadly serious here, both animals followed me. Once I reached the safety of Clark Street, where no one ever speeds or tries to beat the yellow lights, they slunk away: They now had witnesses.

In the safety of my third-floor walk up, I pondered how long it would take to move my big steamer trunk across the floor. Looked out the window, certain they were circling Cleveland Avenue and figuring out my doorbell makes no sound.

Hedgehogs. Coyotes. What's next, lemur monkeys? Want them all to leave me alone. Scare someone else.

Howl at another moon.

Then I can go back to slaying more things that shouldn't scare me a bit.

Like A Hurricane

2011-02-18T20:18:00.001-08:00

MEN

Who turned on the Snow-Be-Gone machine? No boots, gloves, winter coat too husky for the mildness. I don't miss slipping on black ice, walking to and from work, but am already nostalgic for 2 weeks ago.

Like my farming forebears, I stocked the icebox, stoked the fire, made it home as that hurricane-like wind hit. Dined on whole wheat French Toast with warm syrup, watched 'East of Eden' for the first time and wondered when in heck Brad Pitt would admit he's merely been aping James Dean since 1987.

And then I started thinking and delving and reading those bastions of sanity, my old journals. Pinpointed where it all went right and wrong and rebounded. Man I've been dim about so many things. Time to smarten up. I looked out my dinky 3rd floor window and some piece of long-forgotten mysticism flared like a firecracker and I pictured dropping all the mistakes into the storm. And I just didn't care about so many things that once captivated me. I had what I needed, what I wanted. What I don't have clearly isn't important. I could pack up tomorrow and move home to my sister's, take over the guest-room and let her borrow my good pocketbooks and clothes and load another cabinet with excellent cosmetics. Buy a car, drive west, young lady, and visit my favorite aunt. Buy a car, drive east, stay with an old newspaper friend who now lives less then three miles from one of my favorite people in life.

Or stay put and just not give any kind of damn.

When I returned from this unexpected detour, and everyone at work asked if I WAS OKAY, had I eaten, everything seemed so lucid yet dreamy, and I pretended I was now a clerk pushing carts instead of serum. Sold like hell anyway. And then this amazing opportunity dropped like an acid tablet. I don't know how else to put it. Okay, let's say you never had a friend in high school and couldn't eat in the cafeteria because some wise ass knocked your tray to the floor and anyway, no one would let you sit at their table. And the next week you're elected Student Body President, Prom Queen, Most Likely To...

Seriously, it all unfolded at the corner counter I built out of a deficit, and it's like, George Clooney picked you from the crowd and named you his newest co-star. It's that good. I wasn't slobberingly grateful for the notice and 'you're the best we have' and 'this will look SO GOOD on your resume,' just nodded with dignity and appreciation while inwardly thinking, Oh, that guy who dropped me like old socks, what's he done lately besides pot and whine about money to ME? Naturally I no longer sought his opinion or approval and didn't automatically think, 'Here's something he'd like to hear, good excuse to dial.'

He was one of the problems I tossed out the frozen window.

So I had a little strut in my step and dashed home to tell those who would care, not bragging, of course, but hey, they'd share their good news with me, right?

It's all working out. The troubles I sent packing have blown away and melted like the 2 feet of snow that absorbed them.

This is the best winter I can remember.

Bobby's Girl

2011-02-13T19:15:00.000-08:00

MEN + MUSIC

Not my fault my music is the by-product of older siblings who ruled the house in the early 70s, which was really a post-60s era, so they were in charge of the revolution. Looking back, I feel a little sorry for my parents. They gave up then in while we cranked the stereo and commandeered the library (we built one, yes we did) and blocked their entry with heavy furniture by the door like we were bouncers at an exclusive club.

One guy I just didn't like, or get, was Bob Dylan. For years, I stared at his album covers and thought people liked him out of obligation. This was the only disagreement--musically, anyway, we kids could debate salt shaker placement till dawn--we had. I did what you do when you're the youngest seeking approval and needing rides to the mall and money for movies. I said nothing and left the room when someone flipped on 'Lay Lady Lay.'

Then I was 20 and hanging with cute, slightly older boys and yes, I knew how to get on well with them. I pretended they were teaching me music for the very first time. Feigned innocence about 'Jessica' and 'Eat A Peach' and said, 'Wow, you're right, this is really fun.'

And so I listened to Bob, really heard him, and man, 'Like A Rolling Stone' does go for the jugular, hits you like a punch in the neck and you have to be in a coma not to feel something at 'HOW DOES IT FEEL?' Where it was once too hippie and cluttered, a story unfolded, and there I was, listening to what I'd avoided and now loved.

Could have been an infatuation, as these things go, like finally noticing the cute shy boy and jealousy consumes you when he dates someone else and you have to break it up and win him over for the sake of knowing you could, then send him back to that dopey girl who thought Chapstick constituted makeup...but no, I loved Bob. Finally.

Not just the old stuff. He was nice enough to add some tunes to my college years, and 'Tight Connection' remains a favorite not just because this guy (#12) I liked loved it too, but really, it has everything: Backup, harmony, little reggae. 'Sweetheart Like You' --first school dance. By the way, that's a cute hat. Try staying calm when you're new on campus and a tall dark stranger whispers that as you not-so-awkwardly groove in the middle of the gym, lights out, gangly basketball players trying to scope out half-their-height blondes. Have I said enough that life, like a movie, requires a soundtrack?

And what song has as many amazing incarnations as 'All Along The Watchtower?' Bob, Jimi, Dave (Mason) put the screws to it and rocked it every time.

He's about to turn 70 and if anyone looks like he's still in it for the thrill, well, yeah, he does. The voice may crack and maybe he's scraggy and not entirely present but he's like the kindly rich eccentric uncle who makes fun of your clothing then brings down the house with a verbal gem and leaves a couple hundred dollar bills in your hand as he winks goodbye.

Years after Ben (him again, he's responsible for my advanced musical degrees) suggested I just might enjoy 'Blood On The Tracks' (the guy may have been a doper and ne'er do well, career-wise, but he could teach a classic rock workshop), I did a very grown-up thing. Something I wanted, something that would ground me and make me less of a stranger in a swanky neighborhood. I bought a dog. A gorgeous golden who ran up to me at the kennel, no longer loyal to the litter: He was mine and I fumbled for the checkbook before the breeder told me about AKC and fine bloodlines and perfect confirmation. I looked in those chocolate eyes that conveyed, 'Yes, you may have me, I will slobber at your feet when you are not praising my every move' and was smitten, besotted, in love. 'Yes, I vow to care for and feed this animal and take him to Vidal Sassoon for weekly grooming and make him sit at every corner and, no, of course not, he won't sleep on the bed.' The last, a big fat lie. He had the corner and his own pillow and a baby blanket he found on the street and pushed with his snout until it fit in his mouth and carried it home. I doted. He followed. We were the popular couple people saw at the park.

And when anyone asked 'Why did you name him that?' I smiled and told the honest, gospel, I-swear-on-all-that-is-good-and-holy, truth: That when I settled him in the front seat and told him we were going home, and he rested his head on my knee and feel asleep, I turned on the radio and--NOT MAKING THIS UP--the radio played 'You Ain't Goin' Nowhere.' By The Byrds. Written by you-know-who. My dog Dylan. The best there ever was, named after the guy who changed it all and influenced everyone. Especially me, when the time was right.

But I Like It

2011-02-11T19:50:00.000-08:00

MEN + MUSIC

Wow, both readers asked really deep questions about my last post, so stop clamoring, I'll tell the truth.

No, I never felt the need to inhale. I was on a permanent second high with Ben, who could skip dope for days and still look and smell like a pothead. Seeds and papers and fans everywhere. I could probably roll the perfect joint just thinking about the preciseness with which he did it, but really, I took a pass even when he said I'd just about love it, I needed to cool out and see the little bright spots in the stairwell while the Allman Brothers spun on his killer stereo (YES RECORDS). Pete Townshend's 'Face Dances Part II?' Oh hell yes, I'd see it quite differently from the other 200 times we stared at the bouncy little papier mache puppet (side note: It was actually quite an inventive video and Pete had a killer physique and 'All The Best Cowboys Have Chinese Eyes' disappeared in one of my myriad moves and I miss that album cover still).

No, Ben and I never did more than neck on that scratchy plaid couch his mom threatened to remove because he was an inert object on it 18 out of 24 hours, and yes, there was a time in my life I didn't wear makeup or dress up because he liked the natural look which you can rock when you're 20 but those photos don't lie, I looked like a plain country girl with overly long hair who moved to the glamorous suburbs and thought staying in till the party took off was the way of the world. Now I know he needed the comfort of a packed house so he could blend in and not get stuck coaxing another shy little thing from her hermit lair. Those were loud, noisy, boisterous times, blue collar dudes showing off their equally tough ladies and I looked like the acquisitions editor's assistant who caught every typo. Ben, who really did resemble a cuter Bruce Springsteen, was in his element once he chugged some bottles, and I played Yoko to his charismatic John. We had our own code, silliness and long stares and encyclopedic knowledge of The Band and Bob and his hero, David Bowie. There are only so many times someone running up to you shouting 'Blue blue electric blue' enthralls you, and after a couple years of no ambition (his) and saying no (mine), it was time to put on my good-girl outfit and commit to something besides getting him to crack the spine of a great book. I look back on this tender walk on the wild side with a mixture of pride and, Where in hell was your drive, you?

Next up, Who, She Writes, was your favorite guy ever? Way too easy. Will, Laundry Boy. Perfection in a Brooks Brothers suit. Only guy I've met who could rock shocking pink and look like the buff Ivy League rower he became long before we met.

There’s no other way to say this: He was beautiful. Perfectly sculpted nose descended directly from The Mayflower, deep DEEP chocolate brown eyes that never missed a trick, awesomely chiseled cheekbones. He was a page from the Ralph Lauren look book, a groom from Town and Country. He was kindness with excellent manners and just enough bite to make him non-milquetoast. He was tall and in perfect shape but not scarily so, mildly commanding but wouldn’t want the onus of changing another though everyone wanted to be like him. He moved proudly, carefully, and bravely like his Pilgrim forebears. Never made a grammatical error. Purposely mangled the French language. Called Armitage 'Armitaaaaje.' Tried impossible and said my accent was better and asked where I studied and I looked straight at him and said, ‘The Sorbonne.’ I circled his shadow and listened to him. Silly sentimental me refers to photos I took capturing his sheer effortlessness at living well and wisely and joyfully. He was young Ryan O’Neal and 20-ish John Jr. and one edgy slice of George Harrison. We were the sort of friends who called when absolutely nothing else was going on.

He holds a special place in my soul because, in front of his Harvard/Yale/Princeton friends, he announced, 'Yeah, she's an artist, and she gets me.' Long, thrilling silence at Durkin's. On my birthday. Muffy and Mimsy and Caitlin turned reluctantly approving smiles my way. I may have had a vendetta against toking, but a good vodka and soda, no problem, and I was loose and spackled in Chanel makeup and Little Feat played.

You can't help but adore someone who creates a moment like that.

Mysteries clarified.

Ben: Most. Fun. Ever.

Will: Should have stop searching the Social Register for the right wife and taken a chance on someone who wasn't after your money (though had you offered a nice tropical vacation, I wouldn't have turned you down).

That's what you love about your formative years. It all seems possible, and before you know it, they make you the storyteller by the fire.

And someone needs to hear it all. Very, very glad to share.

Rock Yourself To Sleep

2011-02-09T20:25:00.000-08:00

MEN

I wrote myself into this really great zone, where your music cooperates and you're not copying lyrics but letting them accompany you, and took a call from an old friend who still gets me laughing because he thinks I'm funny, and what makes you giggle more than someone who repeats your quips and bon mots?

What was new, besides the happy addictions of writing and acting? Still living out your soundtrack? Yes, that is I, always scribbling with Mick or Keith or Paul or John in the background while furiously ignoring the regular world. And you, what's going on 2 time zones away? He's working and still divorcing (yawn, stop giving your proceeds to the lawyers and sign the damned papers, this storyline bores the world) and....

Well, he wasn't sure I'd want to hear this.

'Nothing but bad taste shocks me,' I said truthfully. Celeb travesties are disposable, sweat pants tucked into Uggs are a punishable offense.

He confessed like he's been bearing a burden for ages and once it's out we'll all be praying for his soul. He's going to try an illegal substance this weekend. Halt the presses, call the Feds, call his parents. Who. Cares.

He's mapped it out like a vacation with rest stops and mileage concerns so I said, 'You're the only person I know who plans his own drug trip.'

'I think I sensed just a little sarcasm.'

'Gotta tell you, it's so mild, barely a blip, your little detour.'

Think he was expecting a more shocked reaction. I didn't have the heart to tell him once upon a time, I could pass for Ray Liotta's wife in Goodfellas.

Back when I was 20, 21, 22, something like that, I hung with hunky Ben, my favorite date ever, who toked up like most of us now swill Starbucks. Wake up, down a huge breakfast, clean Mom's yard, break for a bong. I did my homework and he disappeared in the basement and called me from the dining room table because he had to tell me something really super important. 'I love how you vibe off the music I pick,' and he'd turn on Dreams (I'll Never See) and he was relaxed and dreamy and I loved being the funniest one in the room. When you're not smoking, you make tons of sense to the guy stretched on the floor as you primly read on the couch. Then he'd crave the worst processed food ever, and make me go for a run with him after because he wasn't a sloppy inhaler, in fact he was in amazing, muscular shape, and I always admired those strong arms and tight abs because I still fought the teenage fat that clings till you're 30 if you don't declare ceasefire on fried foods.

Tonight's caller has nothing on Ben the Pothead. Different generation, levels of ambition (Ben never let anything rest on his toned shoulders too long), education, taste in music (sorry to say, Phone Guy just doesn't get it). Ben was merry and ready to party at the drop of a hat; Phone Guy has to time it and print note cards and what's next, PowerPoint slides with graphs and pie charts?

I didn't judge, just said to keep plenty of beer and Twinkies for those paranoid moments when the hunger hits and you're sure that guy across the street is signalling his narc partner. And when we hung up, I looked up dear sweet Ben, who probably wouldn't remember me, the youngster in barrettes and Ton Sur Ton sweatshirts. He wasn't on Facebook or even Google. So I put his name in PeopleFinder and found exactly what I thought happened:

He lives in his mother's house, with his high school sweetheart, whom he married after we crashed and, um, burned. I'll bet money that basement is exactly how I left it, 25+ years later.

I need to thank my caller for this random trip. A fun, unplanned one. Something he ought to try.

Good Day For The Blues

2011-02-03T11:49:00.000-08:00

It's the hideous black monster that attacks when your barricades are up.

You think it goes away or lies permanently dormant. An army of happiness encases you then SNAP, you're in the cesspool of misery.

It's paralyzing: Mental polio. Stagnating, demoralizing, woeful, agonizing. No one understands, or wants to be around it. They are afraid of catching the virus. You want to huddle under the counterpane and sleep, sleep, SLEEP until your nightmares turn into sweet dreams. There are medications and therapists and perhaps one person who tells you to buck up and a tiny ray of light beckons. And as quickly as it started, it's stopped, and man, you are one tired little soldier because it's like climbing a slippery, icy hill then easily hopping down spring grass with daisies at your feet.

Imagine feeling that way for 30 years. It's a chronic disease, and the doctors say you're all good, your family speaks of you turning that corner, and wow, you look AMAZING! I promise, all the healthy eating and working out and excellent face creams don't mask the pain. Maybe it doesn't show, but you are in it, and it's gone for now. A little crack in the armor - this job is so brutal, someone de-friended you, facing bitter winds gets you down - and you retreat to the safety of your familiar books and photos and stories. Then you're UP because the radio plays 'This Is The Day' and someone says something nice about your writing...verisimilitude, anyone?...and you laugh at YOU wearing your brother's moth-eaten Shimer College sweatshirt 4 days straight and ignoring the phone. You're not such a hopeless mess.

Rather than call in the artillery (support groups, extra therapy, amped-up medicine), I'm calling this one a tic. A cruel January erasing last year's kind promises; attracting what you are, which spreads the unhappiness. So I'll do what every decent coach - writing, tennis, life - told me: Write what you think you can't. Do sit ups till it hurts. Say 'love' a lot and it will hang around.

One last thing: No more focusing on getting more material things into my crowded flat. I'm putting out feelers for real, dynamic, true things. They will come back to haunt me like happy ghosts.

This is the psychological equivalent of an athlete training for the triathlon. They don't take days off from flexing their muscles. The mind is just as important. Work it out.

Kiss & Tell

2011-01-31T21:19:00.000-08:00

MEN

A few months back, I sat outside the building that housed my new job. It was hotter than July and I've never been the sit-in-the-cafeteria-and-make-new-pals type, so I grabbed something frosty and icy and low-cal because that mildly risque Philip Lim number, black lace covering a beige shift, was this side of snug as well as a tad short for comfortable perching. I idly checked Facebook. And Jed from California answered my favorite question:

What's the perfect kiss-off?

You know, the one that makes the other guy look in the mirror and say, 'YOU FOOL!'

I grew up in a house of great-looking people. I'm not shy about this, because one look at the 5 kids, and our parents, and you think, 'Good genetic shaping.' My brothers had girlfriends since kindergarten. One of them went steady with 3 girls in 8th grade. Simultaneously. Another was shy but enigmatic in his LL Bean sweaters and jeans and dock shoes. The oldest had a 20-year-old lady when he was a lad of 16. And my sister...well, guys pretended to like poetry and 'Hair' and arty movies when they planted themselves on our front porch and our father said Herself was doing homework, she was leaving for college at 16, he could stay for dinner but had to excuse himself after dessert. I had a couple junior high boyfriends whom I allowed to hold my hand and buy sodas when we went skating, both ice and roller. When they moved in for more, I thought how my 3 brothers would tease me for liking a boy, and my sister had already demanded I hold off, these hoodlums could talk me into something for which I was hardly ready, and I slid across the frozen pond into the safety of Mom's VW Squareback.

Which means I never learned the essential skill of telling someone I didn't like him back. I'd fade away and someone in the house would take a message and I'd retreat to the family arguments and sheer entertainment of watching my father give in, then up, saying, 'You're right, Hortense, it is difficult living with the most intelligent woman on earth. Perhaps I can find a way to be more prolific, or at least not so useless.' Not really a Get Lost, more a display of two admirable people who made terrific kids and forgot to always be nice to each other.

All I saw were girls getting dropped without explanation and boys slinking out the side door. And I wasn't the main attraction like the others. Content being swept into the mix when they went to movies or the mall, I was the cute baby sister who could get away with verbal murder, precociously telling one old crone who remarked on my long, unruly hair, 'Well, at least it's not a wig.' Someone's hands quickly covered my smart mouth. Hidden smiles as they apologized for The Youngest.

I asserted my independence because they did the same. All of them married and started families and businesses and we were no longer that loud Italian Family From Chicago, moving as one. I started dressing better and wasn't I The Stuff, going to parties alone, ending up in a corner with the cute guys who liked how I didn't take any guff. I kept up with their musical trivia contests and flattered without playing dumb and perfected the bashful head dip/loud laugh. I dated a few stoners and athletes. Some combinations of both. Only a few stuck around until I retreated again and there they'd be, asking what they did wrong. Um, you bored me? You disappeared? You have a girlfriend? Why didn't I create the perfect, 'Beat it, doofus?' Because when you've lurked in the shadows, you often stay in their safeness, the best excuse for not taking a risk. I always left the door open in case What's-His-Name came to his senses and sought me out. It never worked.

Until this last long hot summer when I permanently parted ways with someone who'd been on my mind WAY too long. Who decided, out of the thick humid air, to try one more time. No clear reason, just that he'd been thinking about me. Naturally all the great comebacks hit after I sent a calm neutral e-mail: We'll see, it's been a while, why don't we talk about it. SF Jed knows a good 'beat it, punk' line that somehow sounds more 'I wish you peace.' Me, I am usually out for blood to calm my indignation.

But not Jed. As I've mentioned, he is Mr. Love & Forgiveness and my, this daisy needs deep contemplation after a 10-mile hike that ends in a bar where he knows a guy, see, who went to law school with one of his myriad family members. He's the most connected, at-ease guy I know. He takes my side but makes sure I understand how the other person might feel. Frankly, I like the take-no-prisoners approach to friendship: Hey, you messed it up with my pal, I'm not footing your bar bill, okay? So this time he wrote: As for the perfect sign-off, I'm starting to think honesty=best policy. Okay, Mr. Love Is All You Need, not that you owe me anything, but I'm confused about someone who shows up and leaves like a thief in the night and reappears with sweet promises of spending time together, getting to know each other again, seeing what might happen. Which, in fellow lingo, means something quite different from what we ladies believe. We see some potential; they see another conquest. Come on, Jed, I'm not asking you to co-sign a loan. Just for some homespun, yet new-age wisdom.

Of course I sulked and wished someone might offer to set Old Flame straight. But that's actually my job, I built this mess, time to clean it up. Jed was right, as always. Tell the truth. You can't argue logic. You can hate it and call it unfair but debate it? Ah well no.

And then, Jed wrote a lovely thing. I'm sure if he reads this he'd be leading an electric slide groove to that compliment: 'I write lovely things.' But really, it was.

'If Old Flame is on the kooky side, change the lock. Though I doubt you, of all people, would attract a goofball. He's long forgotten, my friend.'

Those last 5 words sewed up an exceptionally long life chapter. Now if I only had the nerve to use it. Because wouldn't you know, Old Flame reappeared. The door is firmly closed, but the latch isn't clasped. So I practice it, using those excellent acting skills I've acquired...find the beat, feel the moment, think of all the truly mangy things he's done. Then incorporate Jed's equanimity and I've found it. The best 'bye, bye, now' and I will be a better person and Old Flame will get it, at long last. So I'll do it. Let's see that freedom, courtesy of brilliant Jed, lead me away from someone who lives in confusion. He deserves to be long forgotten.

Me and Lattie McGee

2011-01-30T19:27:00.000-08:00

It's a true story that still punches me hard in the gut. Like it did so many who lived pretty lives in the beautiful summer of 1987. I clerked at a law library and hid my writing in the tomes I was ostensibly updating. Six. Bucks. An. Hour. Walked home to save that big money, Walkman on 9, and maybe an hour away a little boy was being tortured and ultimately killed.

Because I'm studying plays and scenes and constantly drawing on that old friend of mine, The Analogous Emotion, I had to pick one to play a social worker. When The Instructor asked what came to mind, I remembered those horrific details like I'd read them that day. I think I got a little vivid; one girl wept. I asked my scene partner to read about Lattie McGee so she could sink to that evil level of abusive mother. We're rehearsing this week. We'll see.

Little Lattie. Abused from the minute he was born, it seemed. I can't get too detailed because then I'll never finish this thing. I mean, ask me to cry on cue and I'll think of that poor baby, struck again and again by his mother and her boyfriend.

Seriously, where does a woman's self-esteem fail so miserably she picks someone, anyone, so she's never alone? Even a someone who beat BOTH her children? She aligned herself with him. To keep him by her side. That's not love. That's fear and hatred and no sense of self. Where does the decline get defined?

I made it through my 20s and 30s with too much drama; moments so fun I'd look at the sky over Lake Michigan and tell myself, I think it's going to be all right; lots of money, no money; boys flocking one week, none for years. Great music and movies and jobs in every sector you can name. One guy stopping his car to lean out his window and say, 'You must come from a long line of good looking people.' Another guy stopping by my desk at the newspaper to say, 'Oh, I met someone else this weekend, thought you'd want to know.' Hanging with rich pretty preppy boys one month; shut out because I couldn't afford their drinking binges the next. All the ups and downs you could imagine. And whenever it got unbearable or untenable or useless one name popped up and I'd tell myself, Buck up, Kid. You're here. Lattie never had a chance.

So when I do those lines in front of the toughest acting teacher out there, and my inner left-leaning/haughtiness surfaces, and I'm trying to ignore the other actor's pseudo-Southern accent, I'll be channeling the lawyer who put away two people who are safely shunned and shackled. It isn't much, but it'll be for every child who's been hurt by adults they trusted.

And if I could, I'd take that blow to the stomach if it stopped one person from hurting a little kid. Hit me. I can take it. A frail 3-year-old cannot.

I Said Doctor

2011-01-29T21:54:00.000-08:00

MUSIC

When you're 30ish and sick of filing and taking messages for fresh-out-of-college kids and the HR Demon says there's nothing for you here, you create a tall tale when she's about to fire you: 'I'm going back to school.' Academia survived just fine without me. I gave my notice and took the best job ever.

Taking care of 2 wonderful, amazing boys, whose mother warned me, 'Doing this all day can get really boring.' Interesting, challenging, yes; mundane, not at 'our' house. Released from the shackles of planning the perfect J Crew outfit, which let me tell you really doesn't work when you're a chubby size 14 and sit at a desk all day and the exercise never burns off the excess calories, I dove into making their lives TV-free, filled with books and made-up stories and crucial Beatles lessons. JJ, the older boy, made me choreograph a dance routine to a very jazzy 'Paper Moon,' special emphasis on dips and twirls (his) and man, that kid hit the mark every time. Nick was just 6 months old when, as his brother said, I came to take care of everything in case their parents couldn't live at home. Very logical 3-year-old thought process for someone who needed coaxing from the ledge because he didn't know me yet and Mom...and Dad...would be back, right? Promise? And I'd say, 'Let's make the house nice for when they get home,' a sly trick he saw through one month later. He didn't want to dust. He wanted to build the world's most intricate Lego monstrosities. Nick needed to be held, fed, changed, put down for a nap the second JJ announced this was the perfect time to sing 'Walkin' After Midnight.'

I was supposed to stay a few weeks. I saw the cast of characters who might replace me. And another ad agency made me an offer. I gave my notice. Then JJ snuggled under the quilt and covers, lush brown hair groomed into a Jackson Browne shag, and dreamily said, 'I fell in love today.'

Which little minx slowed his heart and named the kids he could play with? Those private pre-school girls, Lincoln Park housewives in training. I asked, 'With whom?'

'With you,' he replied coyly, logically.

He laughed as loudly as I did. And remembers it still. I could live without the thankless job of meeting administrative needs for a year. Then another. And one more.

I baked milk chocolate chip cookies. Apple crisp. Assembled not strictly vile meals. Their father, The Newsman, said you could feed a reporter lard and gristle and he/she would down it like it'd been delivered from a wait-listed bistro. Pleasing people was this easy? Pass the Liquid Tide. I honed my laundry skills, organized a spice rack, and discovered the art of making a 4-year-old's Valentine's. How we cut and snipped and pasted and practiced writing Every. Name. Perfectly. I matched each envelope with thickly iced, cake-like, heart-shaped cookies wrapped in plastic and tied with pink and red ribbon. I made the real moms jealous. Mine were a modified 'The Joy of Cooking' concoction. Just scrape about an ounce of vanilla beans into the dough. Sift the flour you use to roll them out. They hired Charlie Trotter's minions. Our pastries looked and tasted better. The teacher said he had to slow the roll, remind the kids to sip milk, not inhale sugary treats like cows at a trough. We were a hit and I was asked for the recipe. 'Pillsbury Slice 'n Bake,' I answered. JJ said everyone wanted to come to our house.

And then one day we were sick. All three of us. Parents on vacation, Nick holding my neck and hair for dear life, JJ miserably huddled in the big bed, saying his bones hurt. Nick had to see these bones. JJ obliged even though pulling up his pajama shirt took Herculean effort. I was nauseous and the boys were hungry and those 3 flights of stairs weren't so pleasant, toting clean linens and a 2-year-old up them. Hourly. My fever broke first. Each boy was well enough to leave intensive care - their parents' room - and allowed me to carry them to the living room. I couldn't bear one more Johnny Socko cartoon and told them the remote was missing. Coloring books and story books wouldn't cut it either. We were between death's door pasty pallor and joining the land of library story hour, tennis lessons, and sledding on the hill by Dickens Street. They were restless but tired. When my myriad suggestions elicited disenchanted grunts--'I don't care'--I plopped them on the easy chairs and popped in a CD. Whipped my head to the beat and imitated Goldie Hawn's 'Private Benjamin' backward slide and sang the only lyrics anyone could understand: 'I GO WILD.' They gave me an 86. Thankful they weren't fighting or throwing up, I hit replay as many times as they asked.

So many years later, and when I see these great young men who once insisted I draw still lifes of their stuffed toy collection, they still need to see The Move. Okay, you loosen your hips and spin from the neck and hope your vertebrae don't snap and it's not something I, the Bob Fosse disciple, can really teach. You just think of two adorable little boys, one day heaving up their guts in a running shower, the next expecting a floor show.

Like I said. What some people call a downward spiral into domesticity, I named a dream job. Wouldn't trade those years for anything.

It's what you do for the ones you love the most. No matter how ridiculous you probably look.

Junior's Farm

2011-01-24T21:55:00.000-08:00

MEN

Oh, the mendacity. I can hear my brother over the splash of the shale brook a stone's throw from the horse barn, where he nailed a Pennsylvania Dutch hex sign back in '73. That talisman was his ownership stake. It took him 15 years, but he got it all, the lucky stiff, because he happened to own money and made a shady offer no one really understood. He promised we'd all have a refuge when Reagan blew up the world. The house is big and drafty and, no lie, filled with ghosts. Three people have died in it. When the phone rang after 10pm it was never good news. We had chores. A long bus ride to our backwards school where I got called out for reading Judy Blume. Prissy little pom-pom girls turned the offending tome to the haglike gym teacher/study hall monitor/Assistant Principal.

I loved the country trails and horses in the stalls and ice skating on our tiny river. You had to climb UP this really fierce hill and hope those steers across the way respected barbed wire before you sat on the split log and laced up. I took one boy back there, the dreamy College Crush, who stood sturdily in boat shoes and said yes, he understood I once spent an inordinate amount of time by these racing waters and went home when I felt like it. Then I showed him the green clay bank and we found TWO arrowheads and 22 years later, I still see his astonished face.

'Blackhawk led battles two miles away,' I explained helpfully.

He finally, finally appreciated Life On The Farm. Before he saw the corn crib and pump house, he wasn't entirely certain how heavy baled hay felt when you were flinging it up to the loft.

It was my pastoral paradise for 10 years, then the lure of Polo and malls that carried it beckoned me to the material world. I went back to my old room when I needed the spring water and hollow tree and view from the hayfield where, on a clear day, you saw 3 churches. Our last holiday, Thanksgiving, and my sister and sister-in-law got mildly toasted and I snapped, snapped, snapped the camera and College Crush later saw the pictures and asked for a framed one of me raking, said he wanted proof positive I wasn't the fast-talking urban girl dashing from Old Town to Water Tower: 'Only you would wear Wayfarers and cashmere for yardwork.' Where is that photo now?

Anyway, the acreage has been under new ownership more than half my life now, we are not allowed admittance unless we use a secret code none of us know. But once upon a time, 5 kids tossed a football and made up rules as we went along and the chipped blue paint on the porch roof made you think of summer year round. We hid in the basement when tornadoes hit. To my vast disappointment, we never upgraded from 'watch' to 'warning' but my father said those weather people were pretty foolish, and though we lived in a valley, you never knew.

I'm over the property disbursement. My scatty nephew now sleeps in my old room and my parent's bedroom is the guestroom for the in-laws and the garden...the one I hoed and weeded and dug potatoes with my grandfather who quietly followed with his own shovel and found 6 or 7 more spuds after I declared, 'I got them all'....is now this mind-numbingly organized organic plan my sister-in-law tends to the way Supreme Court Justices review new rulings. Boringly, tediously, no room for error. She's the liberal Clarence Thomas of nature.

It will never be my home again. But there are a few places for sale, ones I could have for a song if I didn't mind living without food and cable for the rest of my years, not far from the homestead. One has a lilac tree and creek running through the front yard and 3 bedrooms. It's probably not feasible, and what in heck would I do 100 miles from the city, but the look on Big Brother's face as we stocked up at Aldi's makes it so, so enticing. And what fun for him! 'You'll never get an internet connection. What would you do if the furnace went? That roof. From a mile away, I can see it's about to cave. Do you have a lawn mower? What if you get snowed in?'

To which I'd say, 'I have no doubt there are plenty of people who'd lend a hand. Don't fret. I haven't had your phone number in years. Any gardening tools you've outgrown?'

He'll know who's the new kid in town.

Going Mobile

2011-01-22T17:23:00.000-08:00

MUSIC

'I'm only interested in rites of passage stories.'

I read that Townshend quote years ago, 8 little words that then meant, 'Listen, you, sit down, shut up, write a story and quit telling everyone what you're doing.' I followed my own rules, because heaven knows I can't listen to any others, and here I am, paying myself to do what I love. Lousy wages, let me tell you.

Like the author Angelica Huston played in Manhattan Murder Mystery, I'd had a bunch of crummy, character-building jobs and figured one day a Woody Allen editor/agent would find me. Slopping plates at North Shore mansions one day, book deal the next. It happens. Or, like the current crop, you get an MFA and because you followed the exacting standards and word count, that program lazily connects you to their good friends The Literary Lions and there you are, contract in hand. BIG praise to follow. Cover of the NY Times Book Review. I've tried getting through those amazing novels and like Dorothy Parker said, did not take them lightly, threw them across the room with great force. I cancelled my New Yorker subscription when one of those fortunate sons published his short story - something about sliced onions and wanting to skip a party, riveting stuff - and now miss Anthony Lane's movie reviews because there's really no one else who can advise better.

So I'm choosy and unsigned and ready to toss my things in the back of an old VW and drive...somewhere...for inspiration. Because I never get out of my own safe corners anymore, always start the story the same way, and, like my old friend Levon said with the kind of clarity 10 therapists couldn't provide, 'You live your life too many times. Just GO.' I thought I was nicely narrating good times we shared. Demonstrating my amazing memory. He said he forgets the trivial because really, how important was that inside joke we created in 1986? He's the one living it up, moving around, creating things, giving back. Me? I have closets full of black clothes and pricey products that wink at me as I write and restructure Every. Single. Word.

One line I wrote in a book that wasn't very good, but might be once I'm done hacking it, resonated: 'Why am I holding on to this stuff?' Nothing original, but it had a point, mainly, how many frames and THINGS can one person own? Same with ancient tales, boring journals, handwritten stories I wrote when I was supposed to be cleaning the law library on Temp Job #4. Gone, gone, done. Rites of passage? They are what, again? Your first crush, kiss, sex, job, marriage, child, death. Rework those enough, someone will read and recognize it and not be too stultified.

Well, Pete may be on to something, it's worked out okay for him, just read 'Stardom in Acton's' lyrics, they're a regular poem about success wrecking vain people. I promise, that won't be me. I just have to get there soon.

The Doctors Say You'll Be Okay

2011-01-19T17:15:00.000-08:00

Have I mentioned how much I dread/adore acting class?

I prep for it like it's Sunday night and Monday's homework is still in the backpack. I'll do it on the bus. I have a sore throat, I can't do my lines, I'll skip tonight. Catch up next week. I have to leave in an hour. Let me sneak in a nap. Have I memorized the monologue? Put on some makeup, there are many cute young things who will stand next to me and I will appear the raggedy aunt who drinks too much at the holiday dinner and wears pearls year-round. I edge out the door and 20 minutes later there's that little rush to the 4th floor on North and Wells and Michael, the teacher, says he's glad I'm there. That no one's late. And hey, if you aren't enrolled, we're in the middle of a class, don't mess with our process here.

I'm in love again. With the sense memories and analogous emotions and firm direction and counting the beats (even though that's so last term) and making fun of the other rooms screaming their lines. Here's some news: You are not John Malkovich or Glenn Headley. They do not screech, and neither should you. Besides, Michael is a pro, he jokes around just enough to get us on his side, then moves in for the kill so we do what we should, which is be genuine and know how to build a scene. And I get a little impatient because everyone makes their character Southern, like all the drama took place there, and we haven't even hit Tennessee Williams, so I finally told my scene partner, 'Make your character ignorant, not from the Deep South.' It worked, I guess, because I forgot anyone was watching and saw everything unfold and got really, really mad like the character I was playing and then I went back to plain old me.

I get the point of Method Acting, I saw 'Tootsie' like everyone else who then decided to flood acting programs in early '83 because we thought you could live in New York on nothing and have a funny roommate and immerse yourself so completely in a role you left your own personality at the coat check. But you're always looking for clues about the character...would he/she fling books from a desk while intoning 'GOD-DAMMIT' or wear glasses or knock someone's drink to the floor? Yes to all, according to our teacher. I see why actors go mad or pretend to be someone they are not and don't want anyone talking to them in public: They're busily prepping for a play or movie and need fresh ideas and won't find them in the big house paid for by those residuals. And if anyone needs therapy, it's someone whose every move is recorded and can't escape the scrutiny and doesn't require more attention and should be brought down a notch or two.

So there I go, trying mightily to memorize a script and not get rankled by the guy chomping and snapping gum (never in public, pal) while someone else is doing his scene...and if you want some etiquette advice, sit still and WATCH your fellow players because they worked hard too and deserve your attention, not your texting. I know it's all pretending and slipping into another world then trudging home to find the next play because the minute you own this one, you have to learn another. It's schizophrenic and manic and depressing and elating, all in 3 hours.

You have to be a little crazy to want this.

My Very Life Today

2011-01-12T20:23:00.000-08:00

MEN

It's been a year since something quite charming and serendipitous - so I thought - happened. You find a missing person on Facebook, a tiny spark remains, why not reignite it? Bleach those little red flags, like how he barely asks about you because he's the first person on earth to face matrimonial failure and oh, how he needs someone on his side because his family thinks divorced people have claim tickets to hell. Most normal people close the storage shed door when, after he woos you for a week, leaves, then calls to say things like, 'I'm happy as a clam, the world's my oyster, there are other fish in the sea' and why maritime cliches still infest his speech mystifies me. He's supposed to be this intellectual, creative mind, but I think he peaked in high school and college and never got over the finality of graduation days.

But he had his charms, he could be funny and tell me I looked really, really fine and generally took my literary recommendations. Picked up checks, showed up on time, didn't expect home-cooked meals. Had he done so, that would have been one rude awakening. I mastered the art of steamed vegetables and find the whole recipe planning/timing/washing dishes thing a crashing bore, especially when it's for one other person who enthuses about cooking classes and hey, I see all these cook books, how about I WALK YOU THROUGH THEM? How about we go to a French bistro like you promised?

We've stopped communicating for good, he just takes up too much energy, all that talk about joining social clubs and planning activity reunions wears me out. Wow, you're still best pals with your 6th grade lab partner? Wouldn't do to develop a new hobby, let's stay safely rooted in the safe past.

There are only two things to learn from such users/sappers of your psyche: They either suck the life blood from your neck to your toes, or you do everything possible to be nothing like them. So when he said he was ambivalent, but that was okay, once he made the Big Sweep he'd be successful, unstoppable, world-famous, it dawned on me, You, She Writes, are a big sap and he can do quite nicely without you. More importantly, he's an emotional drain. Thinks you're a queen bee one day, then no word for months.

He will sit back and wait for the clouds to pass and one day, from the clear blue sky a new life will drop onto his not-so-wide shoulders and gosh, how stupid has everyone been, not prying him from his hermit crab shelter? It works just that well.

I've sanely picked being his polar opposite. He set off a restlessness in ME and I've made some major sweeps. Found a more challenging job. Seek weekly abuse from the world's coolest acting teacher. Write till I've got blisters on my fingers. Read a book a week. Exercise till those 2s feel just right. Practice ballet. Make myself talk to guys who seem semi-normal.

And today, after years of talking myself out of even considering doing something so common, I dipped my bony, dance-trained toes into the last literary frontier: The ubiquitous writers workshop. Not the kind training the next vampire series money machine in a group setting; interacting with other performers suits my exhibitionist leanings just fine. No, not me, I found one online where I send chapters they bash but good and I won't sulk over it, just take the feedback and improve. 'No' is a huge part of it. I've already created a REJECTION LETTER folder in anticipation that not every agent/publisher/book authority will find brilliance glimmering from my opening sentences.

So a formal thank you to Old Flame: I appreciate you believing I can be fun and kicky, even though I wasn't what you needed, not sure why, I certainly have the knack of taking you out of your sheltered existence. But you need structure with a tiny dose of the mystical unknown. Me, I've worked too hard to expect a fabulous new life will creep through my bolted front door. I'll make it happen. My way. In my very own life. You will match yourself with someone who looks great on paper and face another shock when it crashes because you didn't leave room for something outside your careful planning.

Just remember how well that turned out for you last time. And know that even I'm not so rigid I couldn't hear about it. Again. But this time I'll be awfully busy, actually making something of myself. And from me, maybe you could take away more than lit suggestions and sympathy. Because I'm running out of both.

What Pleasant Company

2011-01-10T21:05:00.000-08:00

Oh, how my sister loves this story. She uses it. Revises it. Contorts the sequence so she can tell whoever may be listening how her kid sis had to revive herself with Chanel.

Years ago someone said, 'Don't look to the rich and famous for answers. Make your own fun, your own money, your own self, and you'll set the town on fire. If you want to.' I was more concerned about survival and making rent when I heard these words, but something stuck, because I have passed Julia Roberts, Annette Bening, Sally Field, Harrison Ford, John Cusack, Joan Cusack (having a fit in Corner Bakery because she waited far too long for her coffee so she shouted 'EXCUSE ME! Could SOMEONE open another register?' and man, how everyone looked at anyone or anywhere else), a couple kids from a boy band, and not said a word. I stopped someone at my old job from asking a recent Oscar winner for her autograph or piece of herself. It was like advising a wall of National Enquirer's, he gaped and repeated her name and that nasty tug on his cheap sweater left a hole, a better end than slapping him silly. I passed menus to Darryl Hannah and her entourage, and my goodness, she was a bright young thing, looking at the selections and asking, 'Is this what you have? Seafood?' Thought the name gave it away: The Blue Point Chowder House. Yeah, John-John escaped that one after Jackie threatened to cut him off for good and he really couldn't live on the D.A. salary AND listen to Darryl's loopy flowers bunnies sugar cookies diatribes. Plus she wore the worst outfit I've seen. EVER. Scraggly men's moth-eaten overcoat, ripped bleach-stained green cargo pants, denim shirt that appeared to have been rescued from repeated run-ins with a tractor, those horrid Doc Martens. Unlaced. She slurped soup through her bright metallic retainer. Loudly. One last thing, she was not lovely enough to pull off the no-makeup look.

Okay then, I am jaded and uppity and worship no one in real life, but might make an exception for Paul McCartney if he was stoned and nice, which I've heard is his normal habitat. For him, I'd do the quick smile/bashful head turn/keep walking move. He'd of course race back and ask where I was headed, did I need concert tickets? Front row? How many friends? His people would send a car. I'm more a musician than actor fan, but cannot take a combination of someone who does both. For example (and don't I always have one), a certain performer from the great Midwest who got extremely lucky and sure, had one or two songs I'd add to my life soundtrack but in general find most repetitious and surly. I know he helped farmers and donated money to great causes but so have most people with coin and power so really, he's just one more who does his fair share.

Out of all the restaurants in River North, he had to infest the one that hired me. What were the chances the woman he'd left his second wife for would be warm and friendly and ask me a million questions? What else did I do besides show people where to sit (what a unique, powerful position when you are 25 and living on $200 a week and picking up outfits at the now-defunct Sugar Magnolia and thinking you can pull off that punky/preppy/Ralph Lauren look)? I told her I was really into photography...and wrote stuff...booked models...

'I'm a model! It's what I do. Who do you know in the business?'

Here's a nice bendy twist: She was discovered by the same photographer who shot her paramour's album (!) covers, and my sister was the personal trainer to said photographer, and I'd been in his studio maybe a month before and saw her snapshots.

So of course I dropped one name, and Mr. Obstreperous rolled his impossibly blue eyes with such disdain he should be grateful I didn't spill that Bloody Mary in his direction. Ms. Model went on determinedly, 'I'm Tina. And you are?'

I told her and she practically squealed with delight because that's what she'd always planned to name her firstborn. Well golly, it's usually what people dub the golden retriever, so I smiled at this recognition and thought, 'Hope your baby is a girl because your partner would have to update 'A Boy Named Sue.''

'Isn't that the BEST name, Johnny?'

Loud slap of menu hitting the table. Impatient ice cube rattling. Another eye roll so far back I wasn't sure they'd return to their frontal glare. 'Yeah, great fucking name, can we maybe order some food, NOW?'

'So sorry,' I said, and scurried to the bar where a Madras stood at the pick up ledge: 5 shots of vodka, a drop of orange juice, tablespoon of cranberry juice. I swilled it like a jailbird on leave and Nick The Bartender said, 'I heard the whole thing. Rude little summabitch.'

Before I gave him the best table in the house, I noticed we were more or less eye to eye. And I wasn't wearing heels. From my safe haven in the coat room, where everyone hung out because no one could see us past the wool, I swigged another cocktail and heard, 'Why are you always so rude to waitresses? She was sweet. Talking to ME, not you.'

'Just stop it.'

'You never know a nice person from anyone else. Why do you hate when I talk to anyone?'

I cut a wide path from the cloakroom to the bar to the hostess area. Made sure His Highness didn't think I was dying for more of his devotion and friendliness. When they left, 86 hours later, Tina looked at me sympathetically and thanked me for all the great suggestions. I left off the best one, 'Drop him like a bad habit, run like the wind, he will ruin your life and you'll wonder where you went wrong,' and smiled and signaled Nick: A shot would be nice, yes. John Hoosier slunk out proudly, smarmily, pleased he'd ruined someone's day, it was on his to-do list.

So I was mildly toasted and thinking I told everyone about 'Aint' Even Done With The Night,' you miserable little shit, and my shift was over, and I was very, very glad I'd never invested in a single ALBUM of his. Then I did what my sister thinks to this day is so dear, and very ME, and what every girl who's been insulted ought to do. I went to the Chanel counter and threw myself at the mercy of a makeup girl which now that I think about it probably pointed me to my current career path. She looked at my blank page of a face and painted. Eyes like Keith Richards, rosy cheeks, fierce red lip. A tube of mascara. My first tightline. I had a new credit card. That eye cream felt like warm marshmallows on my sallow orbital bones.

I bought $300 worth of product that would naturally make me into someone else.

When I left the store carrying that bag filled with samples and a really sweet complimentary lip gloss trio, I thought, What else in life makes us feel SO GOOD so quickly? New stuff. Pretty shadows, dreamy palettes, ruby lip stain that, when applied correctly, makes you look like you sipped from the ancient jar of maraschino cherries. I unpacked the loot in my powder room and admired the flawless black packaging. It replaced the junky drugstore stuff I should have tossed when college ended. And I stared at spackled ME, all dewiness and eyes that popped and actual cheekbones. Turned on the radio, and - there he was, ready to accompany me. Sir Paul. Singing about luck. I think I would have bashed that particular appliance if, say, 'Small Town' cropped up.

My sister makes me tell this story at least once a year, and I've not embellished it once. It's simple. I was poor, he was rude, Ms. Model didn't know what to make of a guy leaving his family for her and wanted someone to know she wasn't half bad. I went out and purchased things I didn't know I needed. An easy lesson to keep your head low and say nothing if someone extremely successful isn't one hundred per cent comfortable in his own skin, and needs to lord his largesse over anyone.

Low class then, no class now. Run, Meg, you can do so much better.

All About You

2011-01-09T18:28:00.000-08:00

MEN

So I'm wrong about so many things, it seems, like music and writing and, well, all of it. Safely rooted in the past, I hear. Did I want some advice? Not actually, but did this stop someone from SHARING his good friend's tale? I really hate stories about people I don't know and how they grew and I should find their wisdom. First off, I don't think this guy knows that many people who'd tell him one thing, let alone a life message. Secondly, I am quite a snob, and I pictured Ms. Growth's makeupless features and down vest and how she saw some hawks on a hike and figured it all out, so thank you, Mr. Whole Earth, I am a better person because you deigned to - let me get this straight - parse some learnin' from someone who probably did you a bunch of favors because that's your idea of friendship. Trade, swap, barter, you're in my group. You weren't always like that, in fact you were the most fun fellow I knew, I fell off a couple chairs laughing at you, now you know more than the President of Harvard and must inform me I am dim as a bulb but hey, you can show me the way.

I did what I do when something's not working: Turn my head and walk away. Shut off the phone. Block the e-mail. De-friend the unfriendly. Wish him no ill will. And come up with a plan because moping gets me nowhere but now that I think about it, he probably had a point, I do tend to stew and fret and get a little grumpy...and because those acting techniques gave me a backbone and maybe too much confidence, I plan BIG. I think of the really amazing successes out there who didn't have a friend or date in high school and told the world to basically shove it and played that chord till their fingers bled and they're laughing from their mansions on the hill, and I don't delude myself into thinking I'll strike it rich but why not try, and then I made a list. Learned this one from my father, write down what you don't want, you'd rather run into a burning barn than do those things you loathe. Work in an office, live in the south, meet guys online, listen to Greg Kihn, never. What would I like? A vacation. Alone. No faces to face, no one to blame, just a sanctuary and a place to read and write and not speak. The best place to accomplish these amazing feats? I've narrowed it down to the front room, the walk-in closet, my sister's guest room on the farm, my old boss' spare room, or The Comfort Inn on Diversey. The last is a little sleazy and too close to Starbucks and beauty stores so I'm leaning towards the country retreat because it's next to a lovely nature trail no one uses except this weird townie on one of those low-rider bicycles that scare me on principal.

Well then, it's all worked out: I got lectured, I picked an activity, I'm going someplace in a month. Ready to throw darts at a map to make a really informed decision. Anyplace will do, as long as Mr. Look At Me I Do Yoga is hundreds of miles from it. I just can't take another bout of I Know Best.

Mixed Emotions

2011-01-07T21:52:00.000-08:00

MEN + MUSIC

If asked to listen, I will not turn on hip-hop or rap or gansta-whatevah. Edgiest I go is maybe one Eminem tune that doesn't drive me too insane. Nope, I am so old school my music still has inkwells and sharpened pencils on folding desks. I was wired like a Stepford rocker around '71 or so, thought I alone discovered Eagles harmonies when Don Henley released 3 solo albums I played till they faded to dust, uncovered The Stones' 'Some Girls' and felt it was mine alone. I don't encourage anyone to dig my choices, in fact I still think they're my gigantic secret and thrill in those who say they can't stand my stuff. Hey, I don't want you to think no summer's complete without 'Good Day In Hell' playing while you ready for a party at which you KNOW someone will crank Sheryl Crow because wow, she's so current and cutting edge yet safe.

Naturally this all lead to a lively fight I mean discussion. It got LOUD. No, I don't need to explore a club where everyone flips their hair and not dance a beat and stand, slack-jawed, texting and talking about office dopiness and wow, this song means SOMETHING. It's usually a generational thing, and yeah, everyone's way younger than I, but this guy was older and ought to know better. He can talk up Jay-whoever and Kanye and any thug in jail and I will coolly answer, 'I hear violence, no harmony, and lots of crimes against woman,' and am told I don't get it. That NPR talked about them. Well then. That makes it all right. Not everything needs NPR's Good Housekeeping Stamp of Approval. It's synthesizers (Who poaching), mania, ghetto chic, metal nuttiness, nothing actually musical. I suppose a message exists somewhere, but who could hear it over 'slap my b***h up?'

Once upon a time the same pretty decent chap flipped through my records and said my Mick obsession would only deepen over time, did I know they had a few things to show for themselves before 1978? He doesn't even like them now. Which makes no sense, I thought once ingrained, those tunes accompanied you till you were too old to play them without your nursing home neighbor yelling at you to turn down 'Sympathy For The Devil,' didn't you know you were closer to the end than you thought?

I gave up. Yes, his music was so much more progressive than mine. I was indeed stuck in a groove, in a moment, I was behind the times, Paul Anka would be my next discovery. I was SO missing out on being a public enemy or guest in the pokey or packing heat or getting smacked around by the guy with the message. That's really what it boils down to, this ideal that they are trying to Rodney King the world, only using guns and fists to make it so. To be fair, I will play one or two songs to convince myself I'm not wrong this time. But we all want to be right, right? Sorry, rappers of the world, I don't care how old your fan base may be, I just think I will continue to miss the point. As often as I can.

Now I'm Back At The Bar...

2011-01-02T21:03:00.000-08:00

MEN + MAKEUP

If you read yesterday's stellar report, thank you, because that was some day. It was as pleasant as my grandmother's funeral, my grandfather's memorial, the phone ringing about my dad's passing. That woman, screaming like a deranged lemur monkey, empty blue eyes shooting beams of hatred, shaky hands folding, unfolding, ready to claw. What a prize. Of all the makeup counters she chose, mine was first on the list. Yeah. Me.

I unloaded it and let the light shine in and did not pray for a Mack truck to head her way, because where would that get me? I watched an old TV show I once followed like a disciple of the nighttime soap, took out a favorite book, toasted the new year which could only be better than this last one that sure, had some moments, but didn't pan out the way I expected. Flipped through family photos, admired our mutual assimilation: Levi's were our holy robes, and we wore them devoutly. No holiday complete without one of us holding a coffee cup, clad in a Shimer College t-shirt or sweatshirt, sneering at the camera because we were too cool for anyone outside our little cult. Kept one eye on the show, another on the novel I've been writing since last February, decided this wasn't a sad day, no it wasn't, Crazy didn't assault me, now did she? But still...

I seldom drink, the only alcohol in the house is the cooking kind for those wacky moments I pretend to know how to finesse a recipe, but man, I wanted something bubbly and fizzy that would sink into my psyche and get me thinking philosophically and glibly. Too late to buy anything. I was maybe halfway thinking sure, I could throw on those jeans and a black shirt and, what the hell, wander into a bar and not care I would drink alone. But Pam and Bobby were having it out over Jenna Wade, and I thought it was funny 3 actresses played her and I could name them all without looking it up (Francine Tacker, Morgan Fairchild, Priscilla Beaulieu Presley), and Barbara Bel Geddes did so much in her cliched role, so I stayed in these really fierce pajamas and hoped big hair would make a comeback so I'd fit in again.

Remember yesterday's miracle, when the tigresses sheltered me? And you know how cool it is when something wonderfully unexpected happens? Quite a build-up for a phone call, but if you knew this person, you'd be doing the electric slide down the hallway too. Not that I was slobberingly grateful he thought to dial, but this one, well, we go so far back it's like we grew up together. Heard it all, saw it all. One marriage. One divorce. I've leaned on his kind shoulder when things went horribly wrong. I suppose I could have latched onto his sympathetic side, but he keeps it so hidden you can't find it, and anyway I'd worried about Crazy too much, and this guy is really, REALLY funny, and he would have told me, 'You should have jumped over your counter and tackled the bitch,' even though he's more Love & Forgiveness than anyone I know. He hates bullies.

His musical tastes are way too young for either of us, I mean I can't even pretend to like what he listens to, and he says I'm missing out on rap or whatever he worships, but I call it lyrics for the dim that sort of rhyme and doesn't have anything binding it together except the bass-line. For the sake of our friendship, we do not discuss music anymore. Anyway, he was in sharing mode, and he'd certainly heard enough from me over the years, and believe me, after Crazy, I'd take anything. So I stretched on the floor and listened. I swear, he always has a story, even a mundane one about grocery shopping or working out, and no, it's not a dormant crush that makes him so very interesting. He just has a way about him that gets you living outside your safe world. I'm no longer his acolyte, traipsing in his shadow; I'm the grown up, dispensing advice he wants. Which is generally, 'Yes, you're exactly right.'

So it turned out to be a not-so-horrible first of the year, I've seen worse, like the time I got locked out of my apartment at 3am. Or the 1980-ish New Year's of The Lost Wallet. It started with Crazy and ended with a great friend saying no one deserved a better year than me.

Who needs liquor when you have someone like that watching over you?

Instant Amnesia

2011-01-01T19:56:00.000-08:00

MAKEUP

Say what you want about my writing and non-published endeavors, I know Jay McInerney's people aren't dying to sign me, and as for my theatrical pursuits, well, it's good I'm aware training will help me improve, mainly because I couldn't possibly be any more...amateurish...than I am now.

I give myself credit for selling and matching couples and knowing the right book to lift someone out of a mood. At the second I am particularly adroit. Ask me out and I promise, sitting at the next table will be your life mate. But when I shill, I am fearless. I know how to draw out the woman who hasn't worn liquid base since high school and get her in the chair with the right artist and watch her leave, smiling, a better version of herself.

So today I'm doing my thing, my job in fact, and a really cute timid teen and her mom hovered and asked for makeovers. I pulled over someone I thought would mollycoddle and dote and teach. Then I hear,

'I only want a guy working on her face. No women.'

Which was not at all embarrassing for the artist or me or the teen whose mom uttered those words.

'We only have fifteen minutes, and she needs a lesson and a full face.'

'No problem,' said I. 'Let me see who else -'

'Get HIM,' she pointed towards another line. Suddenly she had tons of time: 'I'll queue up till A MAN is available.'

Some negotiations; HE had to finish another, so I asked if we could start by removing the tiny bit of shadow.

What happened next still makes me reel and recoil and wish The Brute Squad had heard it all.

'HEY. I told you. NO. WOMEN. I don't even see a woman gynecologist. WHAT are you doing to my daughter?'

I said nothing. Never practice logic on someone for whom the reality switch is permanently OFF. I was more worried about the pretty daughter, whose plaintive 'MOM' was completely lost on this loon.

I reached for the phone. Then I heard, 'So you think I don't know what you're doing? Was I not clear enough that I didn't want A WOMAN touching my daughter?'

GODdammit, where was LP's number? I searched the directory while her vitriol unfurled.

Four-letter words dropped. I was an idiot. Did I know this? Did I not hear her? Did she not say, NO WOMEN? And now, she roared, her daughter was out on the street, alone, because I was too stupid to pay attention. She opened her phone, took my picture, said I was in enormous trouble.

And a beautiful thing happened. First, one of the fragrance vendors silently slipped to my side. Then, another artist. One more. And formed a protective cage around me, their arms crossed, while I watched Joan Crawford's less-stable sister try to take me down. This isn't my real life, I kept thinking. Three tough dames are here to make sure I don't crumble or, worse, react.

For once in my life I was speechless. And did not laugh out loud when she cursed and said, 'And I'll accept your apology NOW.'

'Sorry for the misunderstanding,' I replied, all Jackie O manners and NOW president backbone.

And she snapped my picture again, harrumphed, and left. My girls - think tougher but kinder Naomi Campbell's who'd snap her like a twig if she'd waved her bony fingers in their faces like she did me - soothed me out and asked, 'You all right? You have witnesses.'

'Somebody. Call. LP,' I said. Which I finally did, and naturally no camera was trained on my corner counter, and my description of Camilla Parker-Bowles barely sufficed for someone I, yeah, perceived a threat. I mean, who knows if she was a Sarah Palin acolyte, packing heat, looking for a human head to adorn the fireplace?

I took a breath, wished someone had a Bloody Mary with my name affixed to the glass, and went right back to the scene of the crime: The hard aisle, where you meet people like this. Shook it off. Was comforted by girls who'd seen way more and didn't take any guff. And I went back to the one skill I have, even if I don't always love it, finding the right person to buy the right product.

And Kourtney, who's worked with me for years, patted my shoulder and said, 'I am truly impressed. You said NOTHING. I was waiting for you to tell her off, and you just let her ramble. Which is what I will tell anyone who asks, 'What happened?''

The Loon spouted nonsense for a whopping 2 minutes. Her daughter has to listen to this dysfunctional and skewed world view night and day. I'll be fine, once the Xanadu kicks in and I laugh at that hideous blond head threatening to sic her husband on me for ruining their kid. Honey, you don't need any help with that. You're managing your job just fine. Oh, that poor girl. She certainly chose the wrong mother.

Take A Vow

2010-12-31T17:25:00.000-08:00

MEN

I was a sassy mini-skirted 22-year-old with a very cool friend/mentor/lifeline named Marni. She took me in and let me loaf in the spare room with the door that didn't quite close so I fell asleep to the sounds of Marni and her boyfriend doing...what...they...wanted. They seemed a nice couple, she was a single mom and writer with DNA that traced back to The Mayflower, he was lanky and tall and painted. They were art and commerce and I was trying jobs and classes and writing everything I could in a dozen journals now lining the cupboard. I was as innocent as spring violets and delighted with the association to an almost-famous journalist and her friends who appeared to have stepped out of a Woody Allen movie.

We all went to parties, me with my good friend Brule (Bruce, really, but I typed his name on a term paper wrong, actually it was Brude, but he said it looked like an 'l' so oh well) who had such a thing for Marni he offered to repair her car and build the add-on bookcases. Brule and I attended every Second City ETC free Saturday night show, and one Valentine's Day he read lines from 'Great Expectations' and I had to make it into another story, then someone patted our funny heads because we followed a dramatic poetry reading by someone who really shouldn't have written anything, and I, always seeking her approval, looked over at Marni wearing this red dress only a 5'6" Upper East Side girl could sensibly carry off...and saw a brief look pass between her and someone's husband. Within months she and her artist were done, and Marni's been with that husband (who divorced his wife) ever since.

When she told me, I smiled and said, 'You always get what you want,' and she said, 'I worried you might be a little judgmental which wouldn't have bothered me, but I don't want you to be that person,' and that was that. Not my business. Marriages end. People aren't always faithful. They fall out of love with the one who shared the vows and into something more powerful with someone else. It is always potent, these couplings; I've never heard of anyone leaving someone who made their toes curl for somebody plainer and safer.

So when the NY Times 'Vows' featured a couple who entwined because their families hung out and they found themselves attracted to each other and someone spilled all and here they are, married and talked about, naturally it disturbed a lot of people, people who felt compelled to write the paper and gripe about morals and the hurt of infidelity and why did the editors glorify adultery? I have my theory about this, which is, it hits you in the core to read of it and you fear for your union and shun the evildoers. Like throwing stones out of anger. You get it out of your system and feel better but continue to worry. Maybe it's questionable taste to paste this particular ceremony in a national edition, but look, all the kids are there, everyone looks happy, and quite frankly, we aren't living their lives. I suppose I'd see it differently if I were one of the parties left behind, in fact I'd probably want to lynch him but if I hadn't worked through the anger by then, well, that is a question for the therapist for which he would receive the bill. Not a bad idea, another reason to talk about my troubles to someone who'd have to listen.

Which brings me back to the life theme I adopted over 2 years ago: It's all about love and forgiveness. Someone's going to leave you for a new life. You hope this new life will suck without you. You imagine a pleading and contrite apology you will meet like a stone wall. You burn their photos and never touch a book he or she would recommend and cross the street when the old college roommate sees you. Then you see he or she is living, and you are coasting, and you decide to wake up and find real happiness. It's not the best path, but life gets wrecked on a dime, and you can survive joyfully or bleakly. So a little tolerance, please, for two people who may be exceptionally misguided and find it all crashing soon or end up celebrating their silver anniversary. We are not they. And my guess is, they barely notice anything that goes on outside their enchanted circle.