Wednesday, June 18, 2014

The Beginning

I've been putting this one off for a long time. It's hard for me.

But I'm inspired tonight, and bolstered by tequila and the symphony of cicadas that are my sound track tonight in the windy hills outside of Austin, Texas. It all brings me back to the beginning.
My beginning.

I was born in South Africa.
My daddy was a handsome white man from Texas, my mother already famously beautiful. She had appeared in the pages of Esquire Magazine, opened a U.S. premier of a well recieved play at The Old Globe, been one of the original Playboy models (back when they wore little black suits with bunny tails and ears), and dragged back to Texas by her mother from 'dreadful Los Angeles' and the MGM contract that her little, Irish mother would not let her accept. She married my tall, blonde, well spoken father to escape Texas and her family. She wanted to travel the world.

And she did. For a minute.

My father whisked her off by air, boat and train to Europe, then to Johannesburg, South Africa during Apartheid  - when white men of any education were welcomed with jobs, maids and nannies. Black men were called "boy" and not allowed to walk on the same sidewalk as white people. Nelson Mandela and Athol Fugard were both in prison.

But I knew nothing of this. I was growing inside my 'mother's' belly. Concieved on Lake Grapevine,Texas, at a keg party, I traveled with them as a secret stow away from Dallas, by air then on the USS United States from New York City to South Hampton, then on a Castle Ship to Cape town, and from there on the Blue Train to Johannesburg where they finally found me out due to my mother's diagnosis of morning sickness.

My mother's name was (and is for all I know), Judy.

My father, George, told her to "travel light".
She proceeded to bring FIVE large, white suitcases in contrast to his one.
George, in an effort to conserve funds, refused to pay bell captains and hauled all six suitcases to and from every port of departure and arrival location. Sometimes I think more is genetically imparted than we imagine. This frugality of my father's nature, for instance, immediately reminds me of my younger brother, Marcus.

When George and Judy (and I, of course, - the stow away) arrived at their New York City hotel room - right off of Times Square - Judy took one look around at her surroundings, plunked down on the squeaky bed and burst into tears.

I imagine my father saying "What's wrong, darling?", and Judy not answering him. Shaking her head, mascara streaming down her pretty face.

What was wrong, of course, was that my father's frugal nature had procured a shit-hole hotel room and it was NOT living up to Judy's imaginings of a glamorous stay in New York City.
Again, I ponder on the strength of genetic impartation as I recognize that Judy's reaction to her sub-par accomodations is precicely what mine would have been at the same age, and indeed a reaction which I wrestle with to this very day.

And again, I question nature versus nurture (you will soon see into this questioning a bit further) when I hear the story of my father and mother crossing the Atlantic Ocean on rough Seas. They both (and I as well - for I was there as a small stow away don't forget) became incredibly sea sick. So intensely sick that a nurse in white garb came and gave them injections of  Dramamine. To this day I cannot stomache stormy seas. Some can weather any weather - I turn five shades of green and heave my soul into the Ocean.

Not long after my parents were safely installed into their Jo-burg high rise apartment, I was born into this world at a Convent Hospital atop a hill surrounded by 'The Sound of Music' style nuns and Jacaranda trees in full bloom.

My father tells me the story of rushing back to the Convent in the wee early hours of the morning and finding his wife being wheeled by nuns on a gurney with your truly in her arms.  Judy (according to my father) looked serene, unflustered and beautiful. Not a drop of sweat on her brow. The sweet scent of Jacarandas surrounded his new family, purple blossoms in the air and laid out as a carpet at the convent and all around the city in May.

I was taken home to be cared for by a a beautiful woman called Ileta. She wrapped me in a blanket close to her heart beat and kept me there while she cleaned and cooked. She sang and bounced me. Comforted me when I had a bad diaper rash. Ileta called my father "Masta" and Judy "Madame".
Judy instructed her not to do that, but she did it anyway.

Judy's mother came to to visit. They packed me into the back of a VW Bug and took me on safari. Babies didn't need car seats then. I saw lions and tigers and elephants before I was one year old. I saw slides of myself later with these exotic landscapes and animals. Photos of me as a duckling-blonde baby being held by Ileta, by Judy in her glamorous, super-model fashion, by my father looking….young.

I have a memory of South Africa.
 I THINK I have a memory.
I came back when I was so very young. But I think I have one, true memory.

It is of being with Judy, Ileta and another woman - a friend of Judy's - in a stroller, in the park. The stroller was made of a floral print cloth. With a metal frame. I remember bouncing and jiggling along (as a baby would on a park path), going in and out of sunlight, of the warm, warm sun on my skin, of Ileta's smile, and Judy's indifference.
I remember her talking to her friend, glancing back at me from time to time. In my entire childhood memory of her - she always seemed like she was acting.

I came back to Texas on a ship. The Captain made me a little wading pool out of a life preserver and some plastic. There are beautiful black and white photos of me being held by my young, thin, four-eyed father. I look like a prize-fighter. A little Irish-Nordic tank. My father looks like  Peter O'Toole crossed with Robert Redford.

Life is funny.
I used to hate those photos of myself. What girly-girl wants to look like a prize fighter, right?
But now I respect and love those photos.

Little did I know how much I needed that fighting nature on the trip back to Texas. I needed every ounce of it. Things were about to get crazy - Texas crazy - and I wouldn't be the only offspring of George and Judy that would need to be tough.

I was just the oldest.

Friday, March 7, 2014

Stranger than Fiction

I am a little tipsy as I write this. Got back from a nice dog walk with me Mum and the pups - looking at the moon, her dogs peeing on Lance Armstrong's front lawn...

It's Austin. South by South West has just invaded.

It's been PERHAPS the craziest roller coaster of a week I have ever had.  And that's saying something.

A week ago  I threw a party. Professionally.
An ART party.
All female artists - sorry to brag - but I'm pretty sure it was a "success". My directive from this company has been "make it fun - don't spend any money".
MY mission staement is to SELL ART and PAY ARTISTS. EVEN MUSICIANS. (shock and horror in Austin, TX - where musicians can be be bought for a hot supper)

Anyhoo - I'm running around at this event, putting out fires and shaking hands - thanking people right, left and center - when this tall, handsome fellow comes up to me and says, "Is your name Jennifer?"

I looked at him with the terror gripping my heart. I thought, "WHAT NOW!!!???"
 I also thought - "Really!??? This CUTE guy is going to tell me what's wrong or inform me that the police are at the door, the fire marshall is here or some such thing!?"

I looked up at him in his Dolce and Gabana glasses and said meekly.."Yes..?"

"Is this your thing?" he asked me directly.
 "Yes, " I sighed (as a confession), "this is my event. All of it. Guilty as charged.."

The tall, good looking man looked slightly sorry for me then, and by way of easing my pain said, "No! I think it's lovely! Cake, wine…what's not to like!?"
 I just looked up at him.
" I was just wondering…" he continued, "would it be ok if I fill in on the piano when your pianist takes her breaks?"

 You could have blown me over with a feather. But I changed gears quickly.
"Are you good?" I demanded.
"Yes." the man said without hesitation.
"HOW good?" I continued to demand looking into his pretty, brown eyes.
"Very good, very good. I have been paid to play in Cancun - at resorts. I do Pink Floyd, Billy Joel, the Beatles, classical - and transition seamlessly from one thing to another.."

I looked up at him skeptically. He looked like a tech- geek to me.
"Are you sure!?"
"Yes. yes." he assured me.
"Well, ok." I said (my brain was already half way to my next task of the evening - I was super under staffed and my Mom and sister were stranded across the street at the other gallery helping out ALL night!) …"But you better be GOOD!"

" I am. " he said, "Don't worry."
 Then he read my mind as I sent a worried glance towards the growing line for the bar. "Good party. A line for the bar is always a good sign!" ( he said this in the most encouraging way imaginable - I thought he might be making fun of me…but sensed ...not…?)

 Something in me stirred.
 The glasses, his voice (he sounded a little like Adam West from the original Bat Man series - EARLY childhood crush!), his tall frame, sweet brown eyes - and his BOYISH, HAPPY ENERGY!!!!

 I took my leave for the next event-related fire that had to be put out, but I could not shake the feeling of him.

 Across the street, my mother and sister were manning the other gallery like the pros that they are. The sitar player was amazing, there was still food left and a little beer (the wine had long since run out - that joint was jumpin' !) and the "Geishas" that I had signed up were getting ready to leave.

 I stayed for only minutes until I knew all was under control and made my way back to the bigger venue - the turn of the century theater turned into performance space and temporary art gallery/bar/sit- down Victorian, candlelit 5 course dinner in a secret, Masonic dining room.

I had tried to mention the super cute guy who mysteriously knew my name to my Mom and sister , but they were far too focused on telling me about their night of adventures to hear about a fleeting and 'unimportant' moment of fanciful adoration.

 Back at the theater, I started to hand out checks and cash to my performers and helpers. Things were still hopping, but the transition from party to DJ'd after party was underway.

 The tall man found me again.
 He put his hand on my waist and suggested that I should dance with him, "Have some fun.." he said.

 His hand felt like it was melting my skin right through my dress. I immediately wanted his hands (both of them) all over me. I looked at him and had at least 500 things race through my mind. All of them were good.

I wanted to dance with him.
I wanted to drink with him.
I wanted to kiss him and have his his hands ALL OVER me.
I wanted to know more about him.

But all I  knew at that very moment was that he seemed like a super sweet, happy guy - and he was TALL.

One of my artists, Isabelle, needed help getting her pastells down from a high spot on our "gallery" wall.

"Will you help Isabelle get her paintings down?" I asked him, trying to keep myself intact.

 "Yes. Yes I will. ", he assured me. "Right after I get another glass of wine. And you must dance with me!"

 I noddded 'yes' and disappeared into the green room, and then from the party before seeing him again.

 "He'll never find me", I lamented to my brother that morning at 2 am.
"He only knows my first name…."

"You liked him, hu..?"  Marcus said, sweetly.

"Well, I don't KNOW him, but…yea. Yea. I liked him. I really liked him. "  ( I couldn't stop FEELING his hand on my waist)

 "Awww, that's too bad. " Marcus said, sleepily.  "I got a good look at him. He seemed like a good guy. I got a good vibe. "

 I nodded and put my head on my little brother's shoulder. We've been there for one another through the thick and thin of love. The 2 muskateers.

"Well, maybe he'll find you, Jennifer. Maybe he'll find you."

TBC…….

Sunday, November 17, 2013

Tomorrow is another day

Sometimes LIFE is wierd.

Sometimes it's confusing.

Sometimes it doesn't seem worth it. The living part.

I get it. The drudgery of "LIFE".

And we, in this country, don't always have the luxury of survival mode. In other countries - in other cities - things are so difficult that people kick into survival mode and just MAKE IT THROUGH. They  try to feed their kids. They do not question what they have. There is no bigger question than "Will I live another day?" or "Will my children live another day?"

I have been lucky. I had my first child when I was so young. And like so many well educated young Western children - if I hadn't had my first child when I wasn't old enough to legally drink - I may not have made it. I may have questioned things too seriously. It might have hurt too much. It HAS hurt too much. But I have not had the option of checking out. As an adult, I have always had another person to worry about. Another person to feed. Another person to love, and another person to love me.

I read "Gone with the Wind" when I was 15. Or maybe 14. I loved it so much. I loved Scarlett O'Hara. Even though she was an anti-hero. The point I took away from the book was that women were taught that LOVE was an entirely different thing than SEX. And SEX was evil. Women who wanted sex or were sexually attracted to men were evil. LOVE was taught to be a religious thing. A holy thing wrapped into matrimony and children  - a thing women were not allowed to enjoy. The slavery aspect of "Gone with the Wind" seemed to me secondary and - (different from the movie) - I did not take away the idea that the novel idealized it - but rather made fun of the notion that so many Southern folk idealized the concept. Made it romantic when it was actually diabolical. I thought there was a parallel drawn between slavery and marriage. Which - I can see as well as any other human - is a bit overwrought and exaggerated (clearly slavery being much, much worse than marriage  - not exactly parallel) - but if one were to go down that road of thought - Scarlett was an awesome anti-hero. Using marraige to her advantage financially (using the institution that 'enslaved' so many women), but saving her plantation and her family in the process. And, ultimately, realizing her very,very flawed idea of romantic love. Whether or not it's too late for Scarlett - we are left to wonder. Whether or not she deserves redemtion at all - is also a good question. But in the face of sexist repression, in a world where Scarlett's waistline is more important than any thought in her head, she at least proves herself self reliant and resourceful. She delivers the difficult baby of the woman who is married to the man she thinks she loves - and rescues her,  her baby and young Prissy through war and fire, then proceeds to do any and everything to save her family and their land.

SURVIVAL.

THAT'S what I admired about Scarlett. She was a survivor.
How many times have I quoted to myself, "After all, tomorrow is another day.."

I am on the other side of young now. Thank goodness. And I can tell you from experience that tomorrow IS another day. No matter HOW crappy today might be - tomorrow might just be the best day EVER. REALLY.

Sometimes it takes a few days to crawl out to the the other side of rotten - but you never know. Sometimes tomorrow can surprise you in the best sense - IF YOU LET IT.

And sometimes we all have to believe in the future when our 'now' is too painful to believe in or accept.

Monday, April 29, 2013

4 am..

...can't sleep. I've been really sick and I need to. Been tossing and turning for hours. Maybe some 'Sleepy Time' tea will do the trick.
 It's hot here now. Still and muggy. My Mom used to joke and say "It's the Vietgong". She's not far off.
I need to work at 10 am tomorrow, and I'm in the tortured vice-grip of my worried brain.

WHY did I ever think I wanted to fall in love again? WHY??????? You'd think I'd be done with that by now. Hurt enough, stomped on enough, taken advantage of enough, lied to enough.
But hope keeps rearing it's bastard little head inside of me. "Maybe this time it will be different, the romantic six year old inside of me whispers to the guarded, older me. She's SIX! WHY does she always WIN!!???

I have started to care about someone enough to feel vulnerable.
All he had to do tonight was to text me that he has a board meeting tomorrow evening from six to eight pm (my one sure night off of work) to send me into the depths of insecurity, suspicion, and (I'm not proud of it) revenge-filled plotting. Oh yes. That's all it took. And now, here I am - wide awake at 4 am confessing the depths of my paranoia to anyone who cares to read about it.

BOARD MEETING at SIX pm??? BOARD MEETING at SIX PM!!!???? Really!? DINNER meeting, maybe. Ex girlfriend that looks like a St. Pauli's girl flying into town, maybe. But, BOARD MEETING!!!???? Who has a BOARD MEETING at 6pm? 6 - 8 pm, to be precise. Prime dinner hours. I mean MAYBE if we were in Manhattan. But not here. The kitchens are all closed by10pm here.

I've been tossing around in this close, hot space thinking about how tomorrow will play out. I probably won't hear from him at all. But, IF, by some miracle he texts me and wants to see me after his "board meeting", I shall simply text back and say that I have scheduled a board meeting for 9 pm. If he can have one at 6, I don't see why 9 is any more ridiculous - at least the members of MY board will have already dined!

I do realize how silly I am being. But I can't help it. I've been trying to talk myself off the ledge for several hours now to no avail. The truth is....I've been really sick for the last few days. And I had to go into work sick last night and tonight. And the only thing dragging me through it was the anticipation of seeing this man again. Seeing what baby step forward we might take. Ot what we might learn about one another next. It's been really, really fun. And exciting. And I'm getting a little bit wrapped up in the idea of him. Or us.

And that makes me vulnerable.


Thursday, April 18, 2013

The Club. Downstairs players.

The Players:

SAM. An aging princess. Wears the remnants of a once beautiful face like a well worn jewel. Moves gracefully. Dark blonde hair, Nordic features, demure voice. Smiles easily and sees everything. Being trained as Bar manager. She might have secrets. In fact, her secrets are wilder than anyone there could imagine.

DAVID. Bar tender ala 'Cocktail'. Handsome, late twenties, cocky, rough around the edges. Houston transplant. Gay men gravitate to him like kids do to candy. He's got a chip on his shoulder - he's better than this place, this job, and he's ready to leave. His secret passion is playing guitar in a metal band.

LEE. She is in her 30's, with dark dramatic eyebrows, dark hair and a sexy, smoky voice. She's just called off her wedding - and the members are upset for her. She's going to the big bachelorette weekend in Vegas anyway. She makes the best of things. She is a floating server who has been there long enough to know everyone's name and what they drink.

KAREN. Karen is around 50, overweight, a smoker and a slob. She calls everyone "hun", and has a curly, dark bob with grey roots. She acts like she's so subserviant, but says evil things when a person's back is turned. She's got a mean streak a mile long, especially hates any new hostesses and ESPECIALLY hates the pretty ones. She drives a fancy, new car which is always washed, but turns up to work herself in dirty clothes with no make up and dandruff falling on her black shirt.

CHEF. We'll just call him Chef for now. Who knows where he's come from or what his story is. 50's, mostly bald, medium sized man with a wry sense of humor. Very attentive to the members.

JORGE. BIG man. Sous chef with a BIG, DEEP voice to go with his size and position. He smiles a lot. Seems easy going and happy to be there. His voice could sell anything. He runs the kitchen with Chef coming and going. Chef is the quiet, little boss - Jorge is the ever present, 6 ft 4in man that makes it all work. And no matter what task he's involved in (cutting meat, making sauce, directing a prep cook), he always is ready to look up and dish out a smile that's like a giant kid's smile.

ALLEN. Allen is a pro. A happy, flambouyantly gay pro. He makes a lot of money and is loved by all the members. He looks like a tall imp. An imp with a red crew cut. His eyes are always twinkling with mischief. This one is an expert at entertaining himself and delighted at the ease of a job which involves making people happy by the delivery of his unique wit and talents.

my battery is going out - so that's all for now.


Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Costa Rica

I'm seriously thinking of running away to Costa Rica with my little sister.

Not joking.

Thursday, April 11, 2013

The Princess has to Work Hard.

Oh good golly!
I am just back from a grueling night of work. My back hurts, my feet hurt. I have been listening to people at the Country Club talk about their golf games. Or whether they should summer in Maine or Paris.

A little part of me wanted to chime in, "I've summered in Maine AND Paris!"

Oh, It's so amusing. So amusing what a princess I've been able to pull off being for SUCH a long section of my life. I mean, I've worked hard...sometimes. And being a Mom is often considered hard work, BUT.....come ON! I've been a damn princess. I just ate at that same Country Club a week ago as someone's guest. It's ALL so very funny!

I took a good look at the woman who was still "making arrangements" for summering in Paris. I shook my head (just INSIDE OF my own head) and thought, "I wouldn't trade places with her for all the summers in Paris, all the tea in China, or all the money in the world!" I imagined what HER summer in Paris would be like. Uh uh. No sir. Not fun. (I'd been listening to her prattle on about her own wealth for over an hour - to people she KNEW, no less).

Then, I remembered MY summer in Paris.
Only last summer I had MY summer in Paris. Oh my GOODNESS! What adventures, what FUN I had! Chasing after the fireman's ball and ending up in a lesbian bar in the Marais, fireworks, romance, conversations with strangers, croissant making class, picnics, kisses, the old man on the bridge - it was all so....so exciting. So unexpected. With Blue, and Sophie and unexpected friends.

And if I were to tell you about my summer in Maine...well...I  would have to take many blogs for that. Maine was SO, SO enchanted. The frame of a slow food documentary - but really all about Lake and Hilary (yes - some of you know her - Hilary Aptowitz) and their beautiful, gorgeous worlds. Full of organic gardeners and chefs, and musicians, and bread artisans and vegan geniuses, and young people making and living in te-pees and tents, and soft summer rains, and idealistic love and fantasies of a better (almost perfect) world. A garden full of vegetables, an orchard full of fruit, another of flowers, and an outdoor wood fired oven that my children and I got to help make (if only for a moment).

That summer (not so very long ago) there was swimmimg in the freezing ocean, there were lobsters (of COURSE!) - but not at a stuffy restaurant or club with boring, pinned together looking women that have nothing to talk about except their money - these lobsters were procured fom the fisherman himself at 5 am. - a lovely bread artisan's father! These lobsters were lovingly made into a sushi-making party where all generations of adults and children rolled rice and seaweed and fish together into delicious concoctions while laughing and singing and dancing. These lobsters were ooohed and aaaahhhed at in admiration by many Californians. These lobsters were thanked profusely for giving their lives for our pleasure and nourishment. These lobster shells were not thrown away, but made into a delicious lobster bisque.

That summer in Maine, there was excellent bluegrass music and excellent blues music played at every turn. That summer there were Bob Marley covers played and sung in the barn. There were kisses and there was insiration. There was poetry. There was sunshine. There were perfect stars and glowing fireflies. Lake's kingdom was as amazing as any Tolkien world. It was impossible not to feel alive and lucky and  full of love that summer. It was hard not to think that the rest of the world was crazy. All the people that were in malls or minimalls or chain"restaurants" or anywhere at all that was not so connected to our beautiful Earth.

That summer there was sailing.
That summer there was blackberry pie. We picked the blackberries.
That summer there was bicycle riding. On a bicycle built for two.
That summer Hilary sang 'Summertime'.
That summer Mieke and Luka came up and joined us. He sang and played a song in the barn. Oma read a poem.
That summer we went sea weed gathering with the master hugger. He hugged you and you felt as if warm honey was being poured all over your insides - you instantly felt like a happy child!
That summer I saw a porcupine by the moonlight as I was walking down a country lane.

That summer was the kind of magic that money can not buy.

I've been a spoiled princess. People used to ask me what I did for work. I said, "I'm an actress."
Then they said, "Oh, you mean you're a waitress?"
I would laugh a little and reply, "I was a waitress once when I was 18. I wasn't very good at it."

That's my truth. I've been very lucky for a very long time. Maybe my luck's run out. Or maybe it's just time for me to remember how great I've had it most of my life. So that - if and when it ever happens again - I'll appreciate everything THAT MUCH MORE.