Penis Shaped Food

So...here I am. Trying to sell my house in a BAD market. Feeling ALL kinds of things - but mostly remembering all of the great memories and parties and growing up and love that has happened in this house. (This house should be marketed as 'the house of LOVE'- no joke!)

And during this ...experience...I remembered that I have been trying to get my sister out here for YEARS to go to Day of the Dead with me - because it's one of the coolest things in the WHOLE WORLD. No joke. The Day of the Dead thing at Hollywood Forever is jam packed with music, art, dance,food, drink, costumes - all in and around graves of famous actors and regular folk - CELEBRATED as if they are ALL STILL HERE FOR THE PARTY. It's SOOO cool that I MADE our brother buy her a ticket to LA so we could go one last time before I move to who-knows-where.

Let's call my sister Paloma - shall we?
She had only 2 and a half days in LA to hang with me and the kids and experience Day of the Dead for herself. And the funny thing is....well...this is what happened...

Paloma is picked up from LAX by Blue and I in my nondescript Toyota.I am wearing a bright blue wig and cat make-up on my face. She dons her BIG WIG. Marie Antoinette style.We get a bite at the ORIGINAL FARMER'S MARKET on the way home. She loves the vibe. Stop at Trader Joe's for tequila and limes on the way home. Are joined by brother forces at the home-stead. Meet up with Mark and Saara and parties (including the young 'Ryan') at Day of the Dead. Proceed to take in art, music, dance ,food, booze, have a BALL.......!!!!!!!!!!

Paloma doesn't eat much. She has corn on the cob, and a long plantain thing at the cemetery.She is mostly vegetarian.I worry about the fact that she is drinking and NOT eating too much... this could be bad.
Anyway, we make it home and Paloma goes to bed pretty quickly.
At 4 am, I am awakened by the sound of her retching into my bathroom....uh oh.

The next day she is sick beyond belief, but we must ALL vacate the house for a big open house....NOT GOOD. At brunch, she leans on Ryan heavily and feels terrible. Luckily, my brother can offer her his bedroom/bathroom for the duration of the 'open house'.
When I pick her up after the open house and drive her back to my place, we are both scared that she is still feeling SO badly and contemplate taking her to the ER.

"Well, have you had a 'headache hangover'?" I ask.
"Not at ALL." she replies. Confusing.

Luckily, we had planned a big ,family dinner in her honor that night. She was NOT able to attend, but my brother's girlfriend was. I made penne with mushrooms and spinach in a light cream sauce and a big salad with warm bread.
My brother's girlfriend mentioned that Paloma had had a street hot dog right before we got into the car to leave the night before.

"No, she didn't", I said. "she doesn't eat meat!"
"She DID." was the reply. "And the guy TOLD her it was all BEEF - but she ate it anyway! I swear - I SAW her!"

A light bulb went off in my head!
As far as I could tell, she had only had the vegetarian stuff that we had all had - corn on the cob, and a plantain - stuff that other people in our group had had and not gotten sick over!

Paloma and I talked it over that night. She could NOT remember having that street dog - but she was not surprised, either.
"I KNOW what's happening!" she declared to me when she was feeling better.
"What!?" I asked.
"I haven't been with a guy for four and a half years - I mean, REALLY - and I was reaching for that HOT DOG - that WIENER - and it was ...you know.."
"You wanted a wiener?" I asked.
"Yes! I was thinking about that ....man. That Ryan. And I just NEEDED a wiener."
"Wait a minute.. " I said, "are you telling me that you only ate WIENER shaped food last night!?"
Paloma burst into laughter. "Ha! YES!!! Penis shaped FOOD!!!! That tell'
s you what STATE I'm in!!!"
"A plantain, corn on the cob, and a street WIENER!!!!" I howled..."That's hilarious!!"

Four and a half years since my sister had been in any intimate dating situation...it figures.

The next day, on the way to the airport in Obama-crazed traffic,she confessed to stealing into Ryan's room in the middle of the night. There was snuggling (pretty innocent and cute), but - the FUNNY thing was.... she fell asleep holding his.....hot dog,corn on the cob,plantain shaped extremity.

Oh, life. You are the ultimate stand-up.
Girls just want to have fun.
Girls need boys, and boys need girls.
And if anyone needs something wiener-shaped badly enough - it JUST MIGHT MAKE THEM SICK.
And it also might make them feel better.

I'm just sayin'......

losing my house..

I've been too busy and depressed to write for a while. Mostly too depressed.
Like many other Americans, I am losing my house. For sort of the same reasons, and sort of different ones. I'm not 'under water' - and it's not that I signed a loan that I didn't understand. It's more just about being underemployed (especially this year)and having had my credit destroyed by evil Citibank - it's a crazy story, which I am not allowed to discuss due to the terms of the settlement. (I think I AM allowed to say that they were supposed to restore my credit COMPLETELY within 5 days of said settlement - that was over a year ago and - yup. Still hasn't happened.)
I paid some guy $4,000 this summer to help me get the credit stuff worked out, and tried to finagle any and every trick in the book short of bank robbery to get into a decent loan - but I failed. If I HAD gotten into a decent loan, I could have rented the house out and MADE money on it. I have a lot of equity in the house (or so I thought - this market may prove me wrong)- but without the credit and the steady job...I failed.
After paying the mortgage on this house by myself for 18 years, my kids looking forward to bringing their kids here some day,after 18 years of SOMEHOW always paying the property taxes and brush clearance for an acre and a half of land, making it through all of the problems that home owners go through - I have now FAILED.

And I feel like a failure.
And it sucks.

And I know - I should count my blessings. And I do. I really do. I have my beautiful children, we are all healthy and smart, and things really could be a lot, lot worse. I know they are for so many people in this country right now. I know that.

I'll make a new home somewhere else. And it will be good. I'll pant tomatoes again. I'll plant bulbs and sunflowers, make birthday cakes and Christmas cookies...
..and who knows...maybe I'll even find a boyfriend.

The Birthday Party

That Friday before my birthday, Pen came over after work with flowers for me. I don't know if I can describe the feelings that went with those flowers - I almost felt like I had slipped into some alternate world. A world where it was GOOD to have a baby and the news was celebrated - BY THE FATHER!!! Even though we weren't married and hadn't EVEN discussed it. My head was reeling, my heart was confused and somersaulting - I was all over the place. When Pen gave me that ..that LOOK...and handed me flowers with tears in his eyes, I threw my arms around him and didn't let go. If I had had any doubts about him before (and lets face it - I had doubts), they were completely banished that day. I have always known that a huge part of my personality is loyalty (I am loyal like a saved dog), and that day Pen earned my undying loyalty.

The next day was my party. It unfolded in dream form.So many things to do to get ready for this "huge" party, that I was distracted up until the very eye of the storm. The house we were living in was WAYYYYY up in the Hollywood Hills - up winding streets, hard to find, on the edge of the mountain that looked over all of Hollywood. Montgomery Clift's old house - it had high, vaulted ceilings and a deck on stilts that showcased the sparkling lights of downtown LA. I had ordered hundreds of balloons. When they came, Max and I marveled at how they looked as they floated up to fill the vaulted ceiling and trail curly ribbons down just at head level in the living room.
I filled the bathtub with ice and beer(my bathtub - not Scott's fancy jacuzzi tub.)Pen came through with his promise to buy a vat of champagne, and the kitchen was filled with every bottle imaginable, plus deli snacks and fruit and cheese and....on and on....
As the evening unfolded, with guests panting into the front door (parking was an issue up there - some had to park blocks away), I watched and felt the evening as if I was outside of my body looking down at everything from the perspective of the balloons up in the nooks of the vaulted ceiling.

The party WAS big. So many people came, I could hardly believe it - people were squeezing into every corner of the house and tiny garden...
Amongst a cacophony of laughter and color and music, I watched Pen take groups of people outside and pour them champagne, give them cigars. Watched the people he told our news to smile and laugh and give him big hugs.In my sober but hormone fueled state, things were confusing and emotional. I never seemed to be there when Pen was telling people that he was having a baby.Except for one group. The person that introduced us. And his brother. I was there for that.
Pen got Patrick Voetberg and Eric Voetberg and I together and thanked Patrick for introducing us. Then he poured champagne and told the happy news. Patrick hugged Pen, then me. Pen was brimming over with tears. Eric shook Pen's hand, then hugged him, and he hugged me too. Then Eric gave me a look. He is, by nature, a quiet fellow. And I don't know what his look meant for sure - but I took it to mean, "Are YOU ok?"
Which I REALLY appreciated. REALLY, REALLY, REALLY.


It was pretty intense for me. So much new information, so many new feelings, so many unanswered questions. My sublet was coming to an end soon. Would I live with Pen? Would I find a new place on my own with 2 kids to think about now? How much would he be involved - a little - or a lot? And how would this affect my work? Thoughts like this were dropping into my head a mile a minute as the music played on, and the balloons finally began to fall and my friends sucked their contents and spoke in silly, helium-induced high voices. We were all so young.

And I was going to have another baby.

The Very Best Birthday Present...

So, I'm living up on Hollyridge with Max and my house-mate, Scott Firestone, dating Pen, and having a pretty great time.Work is good, Max is having a ball,Pen is sweet and always taking me to glamorous places....things feel like they're really clicking into place for me. And then, a week before my birthday, I had this funny feeling.

I had trained Max to climb up on the counter and make coffee for me in the mornings. (I know - that sounds pretty awful, doesn't it - but he really LIKED doing it. It made him feel grown up and important) I loved waking up to the smell of coffee brewing - and Max was the sweetest angel, putting just the right amount of cream in and bringing it to me in bed. I was always so grateful and gave him big hugs and kisses for his efforts. But this one morning in May, the coffee did not smell good at all. In fact, the smell of it was making me feel a little sick.I hid my distaste from Max so I wouldn't disappoint him - he loved our little ritual almost as much as I did - but the next couple of mornings were the same. Coffee, even the smell of it, was making me feel a queazy.
Then, later that week, the alarm bells really went off.I went out to dinner with Pen, and alcohol had the same effect on me. I recognized the symptoms.And I remember that dinner very well. It was the thursday night before my birthday, and Pen took me to this nice French restaurant that he knew I liked (even though he would have been happier with Taco Bell).

"So..you're birthday's coming up." he mentioned at the table.
"Yeeeeesssss...." I said. I had already planned a big party at my house that he knew all about and had friends coming to as well.
"And your party is on Saturday, right?"
"PEN! You KNOW it is - didn't you invite people?" I was going to be a little bummed if he had spaced this thing...
"Yes, yea. No - I'm just saying that SUNDAY is the real day, though, right? The 19th?"
"Well, yea - but you can't have people over for a party on Sunday. This is going to be a BIG party, Pen..." (It was my first BIG party in LA. I was in the mood to celebrate. I finally was making some money - and the pilot and, I wanted to do a BIG thing. I invited ALL of my friends.)
"No, no - I know about Saturday - and I did invite my people. I didn't forget. I was just wondering what you're doing on Sunday. The actual day..." Pen explained.
"Well, I guess I'm going to be cleaning up all day." I replied testily. I was getting more and more upset as the dinner went along. This was all so weird and unimportant. What I had on my mind was possibly EXTREMELY important.
"Ok, ok. I get that. But, do you think you can take a break from cleaning so I can give you your birthday present?"
I looked at him like he was nuts.
"It's not exactly a THING...I'll need about 3 hours."
I just kept looking at him like I didn't get it.
"I'll help you clean up - and I'll get a sitter for Max."he offered.
"ok. Fine." I agreed.
"Do you not like the wine I ordered?" Pen asked, noticing my untouched glass. He looked really nervous and I knew why. I had been giving off a crazy vibe all night. I took one look into his concerned face and burst into tears.
"What the heck is wrong, Jen?" Pen asked, "I just wanted to plan ahead a little, that's all - if you don't want to do the thing on Sunday,it's ok...I'll figure something else out."
I shook my head,'no' and tried to choke out what was on my mind. "Not that!" was all I managed at first. I got up and dashed to the lady's room, leaving Pen bewildered.By the time I had gotten myself together, cleaned up my face and returned to the table, Pen was signing the check.(thank goodness!)He looked so worried as we walked to the car. "And he damn well should be.." I thought. I grabbed his arm and held on tight, trying to let him understand that I wasn't angry at HIM. And anyway, it might be the last time he let me hang onto him that way.

Once we were in his car (the 69 convertible T-bird that night), I put my hand on his thigh and tried to face him with what I had to say. "I think we need to stop at the market on the way home." I said in a very somber whisper.
"O- kayyy..." (It was Pen's turn to look at ME like I was crazy)"What do we need to get at the market that has you bursting into tears at your favorite restaurant?"
"A pregnancy test."

It felt for a few moments like a silent bomb had been dropped into that car. Terrible, awful silence followed. Pen looked stunned. Just as I had feared. I braced myself for the yelling and the anger that I now assumed came after every such announcement. But there was none. Only silence, and Pen looking like he couldn't quite understand what I'd said - it seemed to be happening in slow motion.
"Or two..." I quipped, sheepishly. It worked.It broke the spell. Pen laughed, and then he said, "Wow."

As we walked into the glaring light of the store, Pen asked the usual questions. "Why do you think you might be?"
"Because coffee and alcohol make me sick.."
"How long have you been thinking this?"
"Just, like a week....or less."
"Well, is there anything else - any other symptoms?"
"Symptoms?" I asked.
"Signs."
"You know what....maybe it's nothing. Let's just do the test - then we'll know. It's probably nothing."


And then at my house that night, after Max was put to bed and we were trying to go sleep, "But you've been taking the pill, right?"
"Yep."
"Do you think you missed a day?"
"Entirely possible."
"Well, how could that happen?"
"I don't even know if I DID miss a day...I just said it's possible. Everything's been going so fast the last couple months - I've been racing around like crazy!"
"No, no. Ok. I get it. I wasn't accusing....just asking."
Then Pen snuggled up with me, and I was so grateful for that snuggle. All of my experience up until that point had taught me that if I came out of the bathroom the next morning and that damn stick had a pink plus sign on it - all hell would break lose. The man who was snuggling with me tonight might yell, might say horrible mean things to me, would probably break up with me, and worst of all, maybe - he would blame ME. Solely. As if I had done the thing by myself or plotted against him and done it on purpose. That's what MY experience had prepared me for.As IF I would do such a thing - NOW! My "career" seemed to have really just started to take off - and being preggers isn't so good for an actress. Actresses (especially young, blonde ones) are supposed to be thin and sexy and UN PREGNANT.I said a little prayer that night. It wasn't, "Please, God, don't let me be pregnant." It was, "Please, God, help me through whatever tomorrow brings. And help me do the right thing."

The next morning, I woke up super early. Pen woke right up, too. I went into the bathroom to pee on the stick, set it down gently on the bathroom counter, then tip toed back in to my bedroom to wait for twenty minutes (or whatever it was - it felt like an hour!)with Pen. He was sleepy and sweet. I was so scared I was shivering a little. I tried not to let him feel that. We had not said one word about what we would DO if the outcome of the test was positive.After that bloody endless wait, I slunk back into the bathroom as if the little plastic stick was a ticking bomb. I had sort of convinced myself that it was going to be a minus sign and that all of my craziness about the coffee was just that.

When I came back into the bedroom, Pen was wide awake, sitting up in bed.I had never seen him so wide awake early in the morning.
"Well, what is it?" he asked.
I shook my head, 'yes'.
"It's YES?" he asked, "It's positive, you're...?"
I shook my head 'yes' again, and waited for the yelling. But he didn't yell. He jumped up and ran into the bathroom. "Oh, great.." I thought, "he didn't understand me - or didn't believe it.."
But he did understand. He came back holding the plastic stick with the very CLEAR, BRIGHT pink plus sign showing in it's little window - AND HE DIDN'T LOOK MAD AT ALL.
"We're pregnant!" he said, tearing up and hugging me."We're going to have baby!"

Well, you could have blown me away with a feather. You really could. Pen's reaction was just about as opposite of anything I had imagined as it could possibly be. He smiled, he cried - he seemed overjoyed. I just couldn't believe it.

All day long, Pen kept calling me from work. He said things like, "I'm going to be a father! I'm so happy!" and "This is the happiest day of my life, Jennifer!" and,"I'm going to buy a VAT of Champagne and tell everyone at your party! ...if it's ok with you!", then he'd call back in 5 minutes and say, "And cigars! I'm buying cigars! Jennifer - thank you! This is the happiest day of my life!"
Most of the time I could hear him break into tears at some point during the call.
It was the very best birthday present he could ever give me - a couple days early, but that's ok. He gave me my daughter, Isabella Mary Pendleton, for my birthday that year. And I DO believe it was the happiest day of his life.

For that alone (and there is more) - I will always love him.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. (the Chevy Nova story)

This post is about cars. Kind of.

I am lazily ignoring the world in my freezing cold bedroom as a sort of protest today. I am sick of cleaning up after other people. I did not go to a fancy art's high school or The London Academy of Music and Dramatic Arts so that I could be a maid. That is not why I moved to LA many years ago - I have no intention of being a maid TODAY. Not TODAY, anyway.

I also had a stupid, horrible morning that took me on a round trip excursion down memory lane. I ended up driving past my old house (where Izzy was born) and my old haunts - including the place where I very first landed here. Before I found my first apartment. It all felt like a sign. A sign of WHAT - I have no idea. I feel like I'm in an M. Night Shyamalan movie today. Anything could happen - maybe I should just hide.
But it also felt like maybe it was the last time I'd see these places. I might be moving soon. So, that makes me think I should get back to some of these LA stories before I forget them....

The last one about my PAST was when I was dating Pen Pendleton. Living up on Hollyridge in the house that Monty Clift used to live in. (yea, I can call him Monty, cause I lived in his old house with his ghost as a roomy.)
That spring, after I did my pilot, Max went to visit his Dad in Dallas (as usual) for spring break. And when he came back, he was full of stories. Some bad, some good. Then this happened.

I was driving an old Chevy Nova with the back windshield broken out. I think I have mentioned this car before. And the morning after Max got back from Texas, he climbed into my car through the back - OPEN - windshield to come with me on my auditions (as he always did), and then promptly said this, "MY DAD has a brand new Mercedes. Did you know that?" -(he was sort of looking around my car with a disgusted look on his face)
"No. I didn't. That's nice."
"It's really nice and expensive and it's all leather inside. How come WE can't have a nicer car? This one's old and crappy."
I felt like I was reeling from a slap in the face. Of course Max didn't mean anything bad by it.
"Well...." I said, looking at him, and trying to think on my feet, "Does your dad let you eat food in his fancy, new Mercedes?"
Max thought about it."Nope.Not at ALL. Not even a drink or anything."
"Well, you can eat in this car. We do it all the time, right?"
Max didn't look convinced. "Yea..."he said.
"AND...can you hop into your Dad's car through the BACK WINDSHIELD like you're in a TV show or something?"
"No! Of course not!" (Max looked like a little light bulb had just gone off in his head)
"AND...do I ever get mad at you for spilling anything in this car, or making a mess?"
"No!" he practically yelled. Max was looking a LOT happier. "And my Dad's car doesn't get super, super windy on the freeway, either!" Max piped in. (I hadn't realized that was a plus, but I was glad he felt that way!)
"So." I said, "It's really all in how you look at it. Your Dad's car might be prettier and fancier, but maybe MY car is more fun..?"
"Our car IS more fun, Mom!" Max said happily. Then he confessed, "My Dad did yell at me a couple of times for even messing around in his car. I guess this car's pretty cool. All of my friends think it's cool to go in through the windshield, too."

When Pen realized that there was a giant hole right beneath the feet of the driver's side, he patched it up for me with some plywood. He fixed a couple other little things on it, too. But, ultimately, when I walked away from that car a few months later- leaving it at the intersection of Fountain and Fairfax - it still didn't have a back windshield.
Are you kidding? After that whole sell to Max - the missing windshield was the coolest thing about it.

Coyotes.

As I sit here, attempting to write (on this warm summer night) I can hear the coyotes howl across the canyon. And I feel like running away with them. Giving way to my animal soul, and running off with them into the night. Hunting, killing, howling, fucking.

My animal soul has needs.
Needs that are not being met. So,as humans do, I try to appease these desires with alcohol,food,literature,HBO - and in my bizarre case - Benadryl. (Benadryl is my drug of choice for sleeping.)

Like most well educated Anglo/European people I have gone through a good part of my life with my brain ruling the day.

Here's an example : "If I can't have love, I'll write about it. That should do nicely." or, "If i can't have sex, I'll write about it WHILE sedating myself with copious amounts of alcohol so I don't actually FEEL anything - it will all just be in my BIG ASS BRAIN."

But sometimes, you know, when the coyotes are out - howling away across the canyon - and it echoes here like a bugle beckoning one to war - and the itch that can't be scratched by HBO (as brilliant as it is!) or even BBC or PBS or any amount of writing starts to crawl under my skin - I swear to God - it's all I can do to keep myself from running right out of this warm room (with all of it's WINDOWS and DOORS!!! sometimes it's like a jail, this beautiful place!) and joining up with the coyotes.I'll be DAMNED if I don't hate all of these stupid routines and rules that we all live by so FUCKING much sometimes! (and if you READ this blog - you WILL note that I hardly EVER say 'fucking') - and there is a part of me that is a well brought up girl who wants to say "I'm sorry" for cursing - even on a page that very few will ever read - but then there is coyote howling in my brain and blood that that doesn't give a FUCK.

Do you know what I mean?

Possibly I am losing my mind.
I have been thinking about this pretty intensely lately.

Because I tried to do the "right thing".
I really did.
I married a man who was "safe" and he turned out to be a drug addict and beat me to a pulp in front of my 2 daughters.
I married him because he WASN'T a crazy artist or musician or actor and everyone around me said "He's a good bet!"
I've tried so hard to do that "right thing". Get married, settle down - and it's really bitten me in the ass.

And I have to admit that mostly - I feel better off than my married friends. (So many of them call me telling me how stuck and miserable they are) - and of COURSE there are examples of GREAT marriages and families that taunt me - make me feel like a LOSER. But it seems to me that that's the exception, not the rule.

I've been watching all of these science shows with my wonderful, brainiac little boy lately. We are animals. And animals are vicious. It's eat or be eaten in their world.The coyote that kills the most gets the most - of everything. Alpha dogs, and the other dogs. And let's face it - I AM NOT AN ALPHA DOG. If I were a fish, I'd already be eaten.

But sometimes - just sometimes - I feel like a strong, caged up coyote that just needs to get back to her pack.

And tonight's one of those nights.

Californication.

I just got back from the Barnsdall Farmers' market - which I love because it's wed AFTERNOONS. (I am not a morning person in case you have not figured this out yet, or it's your first time checking this out), The other reason I love this farmers' market so, so much is because it is at the Barnsdall Art Park. Very close to my house, and an amazing place. The park houses the Hollyhock house (a famous Wright masterpiece), and a theater, and art studios, art classes for kids, yoga classes in the grass, festivals, the IDEA PROJECT last year, and all kinds of cool stuff! It is also on a beautiful piece of property which has recently been replanted the way the original owner and gardener had desired - olive trees all the way up the hill until you get to the main lawns. The olive trees are now grown in enough to be quite, quite beautiful, and on a day like this, I can think of no better way to spend my time than wandering through the sweet little farmers' market at the bottom of the hill, looking up at all of those olive trees, and sampling fresh,organic, local produce and chatting with the sellers of all those lovely things.

I will tell you that the nectarines I sampled and came home with taste like CANDY - they are so sweet! And that perfect texture! The strawberries, likewise - nothing like the tasteless ones you find at the market. Smaller and sweeter and juicy - YUM!!!
I made a giant salad for the boys (Mark is over helping despite cloncking his poor toe yesterday and almost losing a whole toe-nail! And Max and Jake are KILLING it out on the sunporch - stripping,sanding,painting whilst they blare the Arctic Monkeys!) and myself from these beautiful farmers' market gems. Max says I should call it the 'Barnsdale' - a nod to Barnsdall, but a little classier sounding. It's sort of a Mediterranean/nicoise with a tart,garlic-y vinaigrette. It was a big hit. Definitely going on a menu some day!

So, here I am, on one of the hottest days we've had all summer.I think it's 88 degrees with a nice cool breeze. I'm feeling bad for the greater part of the country.I checked out the 10 day forecast for Austin (where my sister is stuck) and there are "extreme heat warnings" in place for all of the upcoming 10 days. YIKES!!
Mark is now planting some succulents in my garden that he literally found on the side of the road. I used to hate being here in the summer.I don't know if LA has changed or if I have (or a little of both)- but now I can hardly imagine wanting to be anywhere else for the summer!

Where else can you look forward to movies in one of the most beautiful cemeteries in the country AND classical music at the Hollywood Bowl all summer? If it DOES get too hot - the beach is 20 minutes away. If you REALLY get too hot , and stir crazy - San Fransisco is 5 and a half hours away by car - it's RIGHT THERE. So is Big Sur, Three Rivers, Palm Springs, Joshua tree, Big Bear, Lake Arrowhead, San Diego and Mexico. Yosemite, Mammoth Mountain,Catalina, Coronado (where 'Some Like it Hot' was filmed)are all also a stone's throw!

Ok. I admit it. I am Californicationed. Californicated? You get the idea.I LOVE CALIFORNIA!!! I love the way we vote, I love it that Mary Jane is legal for medicine, I love it that even our incompetent republican governor cared about the environment and consequently our beaches and cities have gotten CLEANER since I've lived here. I love all of the diverse culture we have,I love that we are not homophobic freaks here, I love the freakin' weather (like everyone else)and I love, love, love the natural beauty of this state.

Max and Jake now have 'WICKER's new CD playing - 'The League of Lonely Hearts'. It's so catchy....and so...I don't know...cool.Happy sounding to me, despite the title.
I really thought I had something deep to say to tie this blog together - but - honestly, I am so content and happy right now, it's gone right out of my head.

Maybe THAT is the real down side to California. It's just too much fun for some of us to ever get anything significant done.

asking Mark to guest blog about Santa Barbara....

The trip to Santa Barbara was like something out of a Woody Allen movie. Surrounded by the intellectual elite and their understated money.
Mark and I also mused that it was a bit like a 'Sex and the City' episode. Being invited up to a glamorous beach dinner/sleepover last minute like that. Walking along the beach at midnight, avoiding the millions of sand crabs by flashlight after Mark's epic game of scrabble.
In the morning, we walked the beach again and were able to see more clearly the beautiful houses big and small, of all styles that lined the beach. We fantasized which one would be Mark's if he had a few million dollars for such a prize.

But it occurs to me that it would be fun to hear HIS point of view on this story - so I am doing something as a first, and asking him to 'guest blog' about this trip we both took - infuse HIS biting humor, etc.

If you have a moment - please comment here and help me to persuade him!!!
And THANK YOU all again for reading!!!!

day 3....already screwed it up.

OK. Last night's writer's group thing was really fun. Instead of uptight, West-side jerk-balls - the writers were shockingly sweet. AND the actors. So, I blew the whole raw food thing by going out for pizza and beer afterwards. Oh well. Murphy's law.

Getting ready to head up to Santa Barbara with my gay BFF, Mark. Which is fun because this Texan with the beach house there has a 'gay Mark' of his own - who is also a decorator (mine's art dept.!)I have my materials ready - and I'm excited about the prospect of getting this guy to invest in one of the best scripts I've ever read.

I am also inspired to roll up my sleeves and get back into some of the tougher stories for my blog. There's no point in being worried about things that haven't happened yet. I fear for this country. Now more than I ever have. But I keep trying to remind myself that I'll have enough cash (even in a fire sale scenario) to flee this country and try another for a while.Seriously thinking about taking my 13 year old son on a trip around the world for a year.

day 2, Storm approaching.....

This is hard.
Going to farmer's market in a minute and think it will be easier when I am better prepared. Hard to fall asleep when you're hungry. Or at least it is for me.

Sophie is back from the East Coast. She is being mean to me.Will check back in soon.

OK. Stocked up on fruits and veg so I won't feel so starving and hopefully can stick with this.
Have been invited to a fairly exclusive writer's/actor's group tonight and I'm REAL excited about it. (maybe this could become a toe back in?) - then tomorrow, Mark and I are driving up to Santa Barbara to hopefully speak with a super cool and super WEALTHY Texan who might be interested in movie investing.....things are getting interesting around here.

Meanwhile - I am watching the news and the President's address to the nation biting my nails (not literally....I'm not a nail biter) because this DEBT CEILING HOSTAGE MOVE that the crazy Tea Baggers are pulling - will not ONLY affect millions of Americans and American companies - it will directly affect ME. In a VERY BAD WAY if it doesn't get raised on time! My timing for possibly selling my house is August 4. And NO ONE is going to want to buy if interest rates shoot up the way ALL the economists say they will if the Baggers continue this dangerous game. I am possibly SO SCREWED. It feels like a giant storm is brewing and I know the exact date it will land. August 4th. And that's real,real soon.

dinner - day 1.

I am STARVING. Raw broccoli sounding pretty good. Funny how your brain ONLY thinks of food when you're starving - all of my other neurotic and deep thoughts pushed aside. Like a 14 year old boy thinks about sex. Remember how THAT was , all of you BOYS!!????? Don't lie.

OK. Tomorrow is the farmer's market - after that I'll be good. Tonight - raw broccoli and a mango,orange juice concoction. YUMMMMMM....right???? ....convincing myself it WILL be yummy. Going to look at expert, Kristan Andrew's website now. I have consumed 4 glasses of water with lime juice. And some unsweetened cranberry juice (which tastes AWFUL!!! I'm not going to LIE to you here! What would the point be!!!???)

I want SEX. And maybe a cigarette. Hope none of my kids are reading this. Of course they aren't! If I start sounding loopy - it's because I'm SO FUCKING HUNGRY!!!!!!

getting serious about things...(raw food cleanse - day 1)

Don't worry - I'm not going to get explicit about gross things here. And hopefully I won't bore you with just talking about what I'm eating, either. But a lot of people around me are doing this, or asking about it - so I'll just weave it into the other stuff, I figure.

First of all, I have been drinking WAYYYYY too much! Ask ANYONE. Especially Mark. Second of all, I think I've been doing this sort of self punishment thing for the last year. Really it started when I realized that my one and only soul- mate on this earth is married to someone else, that that was a path NOT taken, and I will never be with him again, maybe never even SEE him again, and NO ONE compares to him. No one. Life will go on. I will have sex a few more times (I hope!) and maybe some fun romantic adventures are around the corner still for me - but TRUE LOVE. That rarest of things that some people NEVER find - I had it. It's still alive. It's OUT THERE and lives in another human's GORGEOUS body, and I CAN'T HAVE IT.

What EVER. Time for me to shake out of this year long mope and remember how fun it is and nice it is to have a body and brain that you're friends with. I HAD the real thing. The REAL DEAL, baby. And so what if it was super short on a time -line? As I myself JUST SAID - some people NEVER experience that.So, get over yourself, Jennifer, and get SERIOUS.

Starting with getting all of this toxic sugar and booze OUT,OUT,OUT!!!
And starting tomorrow with yoga!!! (I LOVE yoga!!)

Day 1 : starting off well, I think. Have already cheated by trying one bite of the cookies I just made for Soph (that girl needs a few calories right now!) - they are delicious. Why did I need to do that? How many batches of cookies have I made in my lifetime? HUNDREDS!
Otherwise - good.
Made a salad from freshly grown Boston lettuce, tomatoes I grew, kalamata olives, hearts of palm, artichoke hearts, and apple cider vinaigrette. Sprinkle a few pieces of shaved parmesan on top if you wish to be decadent (yum!)

Apple cider vinaigrette : 1/4 cup olive oil, 1/8 cup apple cider vinegar, dash salt, 1/2 teaspoon dijon mustard (I can't LIVE without dijon mustard!),one fat garlic clove - squeeze it through garlic press,squeeze of lemon or lime - adjust to taste!

Apple cider vinegar is supposed to be very good for you, but if it's just TOO tart for your taste buds - add a little honey, OR substitute orange muscat champagne vinegar (at trader Joe's and NOT expensive - it only TASTES expensive!) Bon Appetit!!

Summer Lovin'....

I am just back from the Hollywood Bowl. From the 'Grease' sing along that IAA organized. It was super fun. I went with my brother, Marcus. There were probably hundreds of drunk pink ladies there. Marcus and I couldn't stop laughing at the spectacle and energy of THOUSANDS of girls and women of all ages (and I do mean ALL) - most of whom seemed to be completely LOADED by the time we walked back to our car. There were hot 40 year olds carrying bottles of vodka and drinking right from the bottle, and hot 30 year olds with champaign, and twenty somethings with their gay BFFs, and I saw a drunk 80 year old woman in a poodle skirt with rollers in her hair being led down the stairs by her drunk 50 year old girlfriends (also dressed up!) There were daughter/mother teams and Father/daughter teams. It was super cute.

I thought about Marieke (see Marieke post for relevance), but I thought about her in a good way. For once able to remember such sweet and specific things about her without crying and hurting so badly. I thought about my daughters. And I thought about love.

'Grease' is such an interesting movie. With influences from 'Romeo and Juliet' to 'The Gift of the Magi' to 'Rebel Without a Cause' - the story is about love. Plain and simple. And it's about sex and sexuality. The perfect 70's classic - an homage to the fifties, but also breaking out a message of cool 70's sexual liberation. It was really fun to hear the crowd SCREAM bloody murder when Sandy is revealed as her new sexy self, all done up in her Candies and spandex.

A couple of days ago, I declared on facebook that I intend to have a brilliant summer. And that summer has begun. Last summer was full of loneliness, heartbreak and stress for me, and I won't do that again this sumer. I wrote about mutant powers after seeing the new X-men movie - and I have started to experiment with my own to astounding results.

Let me explain.
For much of this last school year (I still measure everything in school years) I have been pining over an old boyfriend. Someone who materialized from my distant past and made me realize that I have screwed EVERYTHING up as far as love goes. And it's been hard. No one can live up to him. No one. So, this dinosaur/superman/love of my life guy sweeps in and CLEARLY DEMONSTRATES that I'm screwed (as far as love goes) - and I just think, "Why bother? Why bother getting up in the morning or going to the gym or anything? What is a life without love? True love?" That's what I've been thinking every week for months. I know. I sound like a pussy. And I DO have love. My kids - OBVIOUSLY. They are awesome - and of course I have them and I am very lucky. But you know what I mean.

So, after living in the hospital for almost a month with my daughter, I started feeling like I just HAD to get back to myself again. But didn't know how. So - first things first - plays, movies, art, music. And after the X-men thing, I had to ask myself, "What do you want?"
My answer was "I don't know."
There would be NO boyfriend that could live up to this old love from the past, and also I am gun shy about boyfriends after the last couple - but STILL... I crave romance and intimacy.
I gave my mutant powers a try.
I decided to WILL a romantic fling - complete with good conversation, kisses and snuggling - into my summer.
And night before last.....the Gods, or my own powers, or fate, or WHO KNOWS - dropped the perfect fantasy evening into my lap.

At the end of a fun, adventurous night with my friend, Ted - and after picking Mark up at LAX at midnight, the most random coincidence occurred - right down the street from my house, at my neighborhood French restaurant. Ted wants more whiskey at the end of the night. It's past last call here in early LA, and Mark is tired and cranky from a long, bad flight. Ted persuades us both to stop at La Poubelle for a nightcap after I confirm that there is no liquor in the house.
"None at ALL?" he demands. "NO WINE? ANYTHING?"
"Sorry, nothing." I reply.
We go in and sit at the bar at La Poubelle. The bartender is nowhere to be seen. But sitting next to me is an incredibly handsome man. He turns to me, holding his beer. He looks like Joaquin Phoenix - only more handsome. He has incredibly intense blue-grey eyes, rimmed with black eyelashes and a gap between his 2 front teeth - just like me. We discuss the whereabouts of the bartender. When said bartender arrives, Mr. Fantasy-come-to-life buys my drink. This rarely happens in LA. Then he asks me to keep him company for a smoke.

He turns out to be a father and a neighbor. Not only a neighbor - he lives about 5 houses away from me. He comes home with me to 'hang out some more'...you know - meet the neighbors.
Sophie is home by now. She meets him and gives me an enthusiastic thumbs up.
"He is SOOOO attractive!" she whispers to me. Now I feel like the teenager - hoping he didn't hear her. I give him a tour. Ending up in the back yard. Which is more like a field with a view than a yard. We stand in the tall grass, looking over at the mansions on the other side of the hills. The moon looks like it's made of paper.We talk about how great this neighborhood is - how much fun it is to have deer in our back yard and skunks and raccoons - in such a big city. Then he walks towards me. He takes my hands in his.
"I just want to kiss you right now."
That's what he said.
And so he did.

Ed says my blog shouldn't have "adult content" warning because it's so tame. And maybe he's right. But still..... the rest of this story is going on my fiction blog. Let it suffice to say.....those kisses under the paper moon turned into the fantasy night that I asked for and WILLED into being. They were an answer to....something. Some question of love. Or summer. Or the power to will something to happen - or God - or fate - or I don't know.

All I know is that that night turned into a night that dreams are made of. Really movie style dreams - unbelievable. I kept thinking "I'm dreaming. this isn't really happening..."

And tonight, at the Hollywood Bowl, in the cool and temperate weather we are blessed with - watching the drama of the beautiful Hollywood sky unfold with the movie - I thought once again - "This can't be real. I am living in a dream. In a faery tale. But I WILL take it. I will accept this gift."

I may not have summer love. True love. But I will TAKE some summer lovin'.
And thank you - whoever - for it.

the Ultimate Weenie (or Weiner Burns His Wings)

Look...I was up a good part of the night thinking about this Weiner scandal-thing. Not because of IT - or at least at first - but because of the conversations it sparked on - you guessed it - Facebook. Well...and on TV and in life, etc.

When I first saw the story break, I believed the man was hacked. Like the true optimist and romantic that I am. I LIKE Weiner as a politician. REALLY LIKE. Appreciate what he fights for and how he does it. He is well spoken and I think he relates - or RELATED - to younger voters. Which I think is VERY important. So - I did what I've done many times in my life - I believed what I WANTED to believe.

Then he confessed. Finally. After lying to a whole lot of people. Did you SEE that? Oh. So pathetic. Really sad.
I am one of those people (perhaps in the minority) who don't care much what an elected official does with his private life - no matter how silly - as long as it's consensual,legal, etc. I may feel a bit sorry for his wife - but then again, I don't know either of them. I do NOT know their story, and it's none of my business. I was disappointed in one of the few elected officials that I thought was worthy of their office - but - not GREATLY disappointed. Not at first. Not like when Obama took his sweet time responding to the BP oil spill. That is our PLANET! THAT was people's LIVES - in the immediate. THAT was a big deal - weeners in underpants are NOT such a big deal in my world view...

But THEN....it started to become CLEAR. Conversations started up all over the place. And I am fascinated. And starting to see that Weiner's weener is a MUCH BIGGER DEAL (he probably likes that) than I had previously imagined.

Here's how I am seeing it all now.

1 : A lot of passionate liberals had Weiner up on a pedestal - a little bit. Maybe even me - just a little. And he super shocked and disappointed us. Especially with the lying to everyone part. Let's face it. It felt personal. After all, he really did lie to ALL of us, too - on MANY forms of national TV. Premeditated lying. A passionate liberal's LEAST favorite kind - am I right?

2 : I am afraid that his actions (especially the lying) will turn off untold amounts of young voters and women voters. Our team needs those votes. Young people don't care as much about the photos or tweats - but they are SUPER SENSITIVE to hypocrisy and being lied to. If Weiner lies to them (and he's perceived as one of the good guys) - then they may as well stay at home and NOT VOTE. Because it doesn't even matter. (They are ALL liars and hypocrites.) - AND - for OBVIOUS reasons - WOMEN are not going to want to vote for him. They will put themselves (many of them) in his wife's shoes and FREAK OUT!!! If HER husband is going to do this to HER - and she is SO uber-glamorous and successful and cool - AND they're practically newlyweds....! This looks VERY BAD on paper! I mean we don't - any of us - quite know the inside details - but - it looks bad to a WHOLE LOT of women.
Harry and Nancy and the Dems couldn't BE more pissed right now - and I don't blame them. Weiner goes and gives the other side a loaded gun and then moves their hand so it's pointing right at him, and by default the democratic party. (and JUST when they seemed to be making some headway! We all know how HARD it is for the pussy Dems in this country right now1) I hope he survives this as well as Clinton did, personally - on some level - but it ain't lookin' so good for Weiner!

3 : There is something so awful and shameful in seeing a man as talented and clever as Weiner make SUCH a HUGE WEENIE out of himself. One of the brightest stars in Washington D. C. - on a glittering career path - WHAT!!!????? Destroys himself? By behaving like a second grade BOY? A man - who vocally,admits on the NATIONAL STAGE that he has been teased about his last name being WEINER all his life is SENDING PHOTOS of his WEENER ON the INTERNET!!!?????????????? Is it possible that this could be lost on ANYONE?????? AND - the cleverest boy in the room is SOOOO out of touch that he doesn't realize that TWEATING is by it's VERY NATURE both narcissistic and PUBLIC!!!!!???

It really is beyond my comprehension.
I have come to the conclusion that Weiner is like Icarus. Like so many that are great or almost great. They fly too high - their egos take over - even any shred of common sense is lost - and their wings are melted by the sun. Mighty, beautiful Icarus comes crashing to his demise into the cold ocean below.

Weiner might pull it off. I don't think so right at this moment in time. I do not have much hope for him. But maybe he'll pull it off.
And either way - this "non-sex scandal" really has me thinking. Thinking about men and women. Why and how we are so different - but also these STRONG similarities that are often denied.
We all need love and attention. We all need our egos stroked now and again. Practically none of us are perfect. And a LOT of men (I hate to tell you this, ladies - but it's true) have an odd obsession with their weeners.

It's NOT JUST WEINER.

In summation - I am super disappointed with Weiner for being such a STOOOOOPID weeny. But I guess I feel a little TINY bit sorry for him. You know, for being such a loser and such a tool. He doesn't even RANK sleaze-bag in my book. He doesn't deserve it. Only the much less exciting title of ...WEINER the ultimate WEENY.

What is YOUR Mutant trait?

I've just come from seeing 'X-Men, First Class' with my 13 year old son. Which I enjoyed very much. Which, surprisingly, I found myself relating to.

I have always tried to convey to my children that a person's biggest weakness can also be their biggest strength. So I related to the movie on that level.

For example, one of my worst traits is that I am stubborn and don't listen to anyone. This most certainly can and is seen as a bad thing many times. But it also gave me the will and strength to go to school in London with a tiny boy when everyone around me said I'd be crazy to do it. "Just stay in Dallas and 'settle down.'" they said. If I had followed their advice I probably would have shot myself in the head by now. Instead, thanks to my bullheaded nature and an uncanny ability to take no one's advice throughout all of my younger years, I had the adventure of a lifetime and some great training as well.
Another time that I tapped into this mutant power of mine was when I bought this house."You'll never be able to handle it. Just move into an apartment" everyone around me said as if I were crazy.A single mother of 3 (at that time) with jobs that resembled a financial roller-coaster, and ZERO credit had no business buying a house in the Hollywood Hills. I willed and morphed myself into Scarlet O'Hara just as Mystique can morph into someone she needs to be at that moment - channeling the power of that character to buy a house that would give security to myself and my children. "As God is my witness...As God is my witness!" I shouted in my back yard,shaking my fists at the sky.
This house has turned out to be the best thing I have ever done for my family. It has literally saved us year after year, put groceries on the table, and been a haven for starving artists and mutants of every description.

I also took pause at the scene when Magneto tells Sebastian Shaw (the Nazi who killed his mother in front of him as a boy) that everything he (Magneto) had become was because of this man's evil doing. All the hurt and rage that was caused to the Magneto character gave him strength of will and power.
Although my mother wasn't killed in front of me as a child - she did leave. Never to come back. When I was 4. I feel sure that all of my childhood hurt and rage has empowered me many times. And during that miserable, tortured childhood - I felt like a mutant. I felt like I was covered in blue scales. Or that I might just LOSE it some day and my anger would change me into a raging, animal beast.

I think we all feel like a mutant or a freak sometimes.
And I think a sense of justice and right lives in most of our hearts - more than we even know.
Deepak Chopra has just written a book with his son, Gotham, about comic book heroes - why people relate to them so much, and why they are cool. As a child, I felt so helpless. And never have I felt so idealistic about things as when I was a child. So - delving into the land of comic books, where mere mortals are given special powers or special tools to fight evil and injustice was liberating. The stories are purely fantastical, but the feelings and ideals are relevant and on par with the heightened emotions of children - before we are so well trained to 'tone it down' by society and culture.

What is your mutant trait?
What are YOUR special powers?
I can't speak for anyone else (of COURSE!), but I need to remember what mine are and damn well tap into them before life washes over me like a giant tsunami and buries me in the sand of insignificance and irrelevance for the rest of my short life here on earth.

Sophie goes to a Piano bar in NYC

Last year, I took Sophie to New York for New Year's Eve. Just the 2 of us. I am a strong believer in one on one time with your kids. Especially if they are super fun and great and always teach you new things, as mine do.
We only had a few days to pack in the quintessential New York girl trip, then have New Year's Eve with Uncle B, Laura and their whole wonderful family in from Paris before we had to pop back to LA LA land for school. I had found what I hoped would be a pretty cool hotel right at Columbus Circle, but when Sophie looked up at the entrance, she had to express her SERIOUS doubts.
"We're staying HERE?" she said, glumly.
"Well, this is the address.." I replied. I could see why she was skeptical. The only thing to see from the street was a VERY plain cement wall with a small door in it and the address barely visible above. I mentally crossed my fingers that it would be as cool as it had looked on the old 'interweb' when we got inside. Once inside the door, there was a narrow hallway, just big enough to hold a narrow escalator that went up and disappeared into a hole in the ceiling. There was also a man dressed all in black who glared at us and looked like a waiter in a trendy restaurant. With the grey walls and the weird lighting, it was actually a little sci-fi scary.
"Come on!" I said, cheerily, lugging our bags onto the escalator. Sophie just shot me a look.
But THEN - what happened as we rose up through the escalator into the next level - was WONDERFUL! We were brought up to a huge open space - immediately greeted by the sight of a huge glassed in garden behind the registration desks, and skylights above, beautiful topiary everywhere in this dark, cool looking space. It looked like Victorian English conservatory meets uber-glam, ultra modern NYC.
I wanted to see the look on Sophie's face as we passed from the bland and scary entrance into one of the coolest hotel lobbies I'd ever seen. I was well rewarded. She looked a bit in awe, then soon as she could, she was tugging on my sleeve (do children ever outgrow doing this?) whispering, "This is SO COOL, Mom. How can we afford this place?"
I just laughed. I have very good hotel karma. Very good parking karma. Terrible line karma (as in I ALWAYS choose the wrong one - no matter where, no matter what!) and the magical power of being invisible to bartenders.

Once in our room (she liked that, too! pretty groovy!) Sophie and I proceeded to dance around the room singing 'New York' to the radio at the top of our lungs, jumping on the bed, and throwing our clothes out of our bags as our manner of unpacking. In the next few days, we saw some Broadway shows, went to museums, did some shopping, ate great pizza - ate at Sardi's (in honor of my trips there with my grandmother)and basically had a great time.

At 16, Sophie felt like most girls do at that age. Half way in between a grownup and a child. She wanted to do that NYC nightlife thing - at least a LITTLE. When I went to NYC with my grandmother at 16, I could go to a bar or a nightclub with her (think the Algonquin)and nobody thought twice about it. As long as you were with your Mom or grandmother, it just wasn't a big deal. She even ordered me Brandy Alexanders sometimes.
But now it's different. So strict! I couldn't take Sophie anywhere like that.

But then, the night we were walking back down Broadway from 'Hair', this super charming, bouncy fellow accosted us.
"You want to go to a Piano bar? It's right around the corner? No cover! It's really fun! You'll love it! I promise!" he rattled off to us as he thrust fliers into both our hands.
"Oh, she's only 16..." I told him.
"That's ok! It's all ages! Brand new place - come on! Give it a try - I'll walk you there!"
The guy reminded me of 'Tigger' from the old Disney Winnie the Pooh cartoons. I expected him to start bouncing 6 feet in the air at any moment.
Sophie shrugged, 'Why not?', so we followed the exuberant young man around the corner, down the block and down some stairs into one of the strangest spaces I have ever seen in Manhattan.

The entrance to the piano bar was a long narrow hallway. Extremely nondescript. The hallway opened up into a rather large, empty space with a makeshift bar by the other end of the hallway. In one corner was a small stage with a piano on it, and a man playing piano. The room was painted light grey, was devoid of ANY artwork of any kind - in fact all of the walls were completely empty except for a dry-erase board near the piano player. The chairs and cafe tables seemed to be second hand - but the MOST NONDESCRIPT black tables and chairs imaginable.It looked like an office space had been cleared out yesterday, and someone moved a piano in.(Viola!! Piano Bar!) There were 3 other people in the joint. A surly looking old man sitting by himself, and a middle aged couple (bridge and tunnelers by the look of it) making out and getting plastered over in far corner. The piano player was playing and singing raucously - as if the whole place were filled with merry tourists throwing tips at him.

Sophie and I looked at each other in dismay. I was sure this was NOTHING like she had imagined New York City nightlife to be like. "You want to go?" I leaned over and whispered to her.
But before she could answer, a strange young man came out from behind the strange makeshift looking bar and introduced himself.
"Welcome, welcome, ladies!" he said happily, pumping both of our hands as if we were long lost family."I'm John, where would you like to sit? The first drink's on me!"

We opted to sit right by the bar - as close to that get-away hallway as possible. "How about my special drink for the LADIEEEESSS?" John suggested. Sophie and I looked at each other, trying not to laugh. All of a sudden it felt like we were slipping into some bizarre Will Ferrell movie.
The night became more and more surreal as we stayed. The bartender (who seemed about 20) fell head over heels in love with Sophie, and kept bringing us strange pink,bubbly drinks all night. A comedy show next door emptied out, and all of a sudden the piano player had people to sing to. At one point, I came back from the restroom to find Sophie behind the bar concocting some crazy drink for me with smitten John. We sang Billy Joel at the top of our lungs along with everyone else in there, and walked back to the hotel singing and laughing in the cold. Just as we were getting to our corner, Sophie turned to me and said "You know what we need right now?"
"A warm hotel room?" I asked
"No! Ice cream!" she beamed, triumphantly. "And maybe chocolate cake!"

As we munched on chocolate cake and ice cream back in our warm hotel room, Sophie and I could not stop laughing about that crazy, weird place - and night.
"Thanks for bringing me here, Mom." Sophie said."I'll never forget it."
"Thanks for coming. " I replied.

I'll never forget it either, Soph.

what day is it?

Day.....what?

Tomorrow we will have been here for 2 weeks.
I am sitting in the waiting room alone while Sophie is having her THIRD procedure. Surgery guided by radiology. 3 incisions. One incision is dangerously close to her sciatic nerve. I am a mess. A stress mess.

Sophie keeps getting sent down to the dungeon - oops - I mean basement - of Cedars. This is where trolls operate the giant sci-fi looking CT scan machines. And other instruments of torture.
She is being VERY brave.

After this third 'procedure'. She will have either 3 or 4 plastic tubes sticking out of her abdomen to drain the infectious mess out of her body.

I am experiencing empathy pains. When her stomach hurts, mine does, too. When she is nauseous, I am, too. When she is so exhausted she doesn't even wake up to have her finger pricked, I am in the same state. As if a big, heavy blanket of sleep has been pulled over me and I can't get out from under it. And the last couple of days, I have watched Sophie's face become thinner than ever, and her eyes look bigger and bigger. I told her that she looks like a baby owl.
Then, today, when I looked into the mirror, I saw that my eyes looked bigger, too. Rimmed with dark circles. Now I look like a mamma owl.

Sophie has requested that I write about the time we went to the piano bar in NYC. So - OF COURSE - I shall. Happier days.

Sophie's Snakes.

May 7, 2011. 11:35 am.

I am sitting next to Sophie's hospital bed watching green slime make it's way out of her stomach via a tube through her nose and down the back of her throat. The tube full of green stomach bile snakes it's way around until it reaches a vacuum tight container that is attached to another tube that goes into the wall. Along with other hallucinations (from the morphine, I suspect) she has been having terrible nightmares about snakes. My poor baby who is terribly afraid of snakes now has one coming out of her body.

I don't think Sophie is a princess anymore. I think she is a super hero. She has been so, so brave. And I wish with all my heart that I could stick that nasty tube down my nose and throat for her. I am now reaching my stress limit.I keep bursting into tears in front of my daughter.So I have asked Val to bring me something to calm my nerves. Wonderful Val. She'll have them here this afternoon. The 'don't freak out' pills.

And I have begged Mieke to come.I need a hug from her like you wouldn't believe.I need an infusion of her strength to face another night of snakes.

From Bad to Worse.

May 7, 2011. I have never seen anyone look as pale as Sophie looks now. She is as white as a ghost. her lips and eyelids tinged purple. She is so weak, but still cries out in pain during her sleep. Her cries are soft and kitten weak.

I am terrified.

it's horrible, the comparisons you start to make in a place like this.Like, it's horrible when Sophie was crying out loud in pain, but then at least she had the energy to do it. The CPs and nurses are getting worse,too.3 times in the last 12 hours no one came at our call at all. Ever. And I needed help. No matter that between our expensive Blue Cross insurance and what will be out of pocket, this will cost a FORTUNE. Apparently, a fortune doesn't buy you much in this country when it comes to health care.

The night we just came through was gory and horrible. So much so, I will spare you the details. But now it's even worse for me - because she looks so, so terrible. So pale and so weak.

Something's got to give.

And Counting

Day 7 of living in the hospital with Sophie. I am living in her nightmare. What should have been a speedy recovery is NOT going well, and my eighties angel is reaching critical mass as far as pain, anxiety, and fear. Sophie has had no less than 8 different IVs in 7 days. This last one is a "pick line" -- the mother of all IVs. She has small veins in her thin little arms. "Bad veins," the IV nurse muttered last night at 2:30 a.m, shaking her head as she poked the needle repeatedly into Sophie's hand, moving it around as she tried to find a vein that wouldn't explode.
I am sitting next to Sophie's bed. A moment ago she was crying out in pain. Her stomach hurts. Her IV hurts. We are waiting for an X-ray (another one) so they can move the painful IV up into her "pick line." (Further up her arm.) She has finally nodded off, and I am grateful for I am reaching critical mass, too. Stress and exhaustion are finally taking their toll on me. Earlier when Sophie asked me to sing to her, I couldn't make it through "Blue Skies" I was overcome with tears. Sophie scolded me. "Mom, you're supposed to be cheering me up!" she said plaintively.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I know. But I can't help it. It's so awful to see you hurt this much," I managed to choke out.

I am losing it.
There are many more days ahead. Poor Sophie. My poor little bear cub. She has been fighting terrible infection. High fevers - she's packed in ice every few hours... Super high heart rate. And pain. As soon as the opiates wear off - terrible pain.

A couple of days ago, the nurses seemed like they were really out to lunch. They kept disappearing, forgetting to give Sophie her pain meds, so that they were being administered anywhere from an hour to three hours late.
I was beginning to think I was going to have to pull a Shirley McClain from "Terms of Endearment." You know -- when she runs out to the nurse's station looking like crap yelling, "My daughter is in pain! Where is the medicine? My daughter's in pain!" and then she basically chases down a stupid nurse until someone gives Debra Winger's character the meds.

They will send Sophie for another CAT scan tomorrow. And then she might have to go under the knife again...

I keep trying to tell myself we are lucky. Lucky to have insurance for her, lucky to be in such a wealthy country, lucky to be in such a nice, clean hospital. But as I watch my daughter scream out in pain or watch her fever spike with her shivering uncontrollably, or hear her beg for water when she can't have any - it all just feels like really bad luck.

Immigration. And Color Codes.

May 4, 2011. It is my baby's 13th birthday today. Or was. August Blue turned into a teenager today. But I was still living at the hospital with Sophie. Her routine appendicitis turned into a nightmare. This is what I wrote the other night when I couldn't sleep for worrying about her.
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It is 3:30 am. I haven't been able to sleep even a minute - even though we are now in a private room up in the OR section and the nice people at Cedars Sinai brought a fold out cot for me.

I am worried. The nurses are worried, too. They keep coming in to fuss with Sophie and check on her. Her heart rate is too high and she has a fever. They have packed her in ice.

Our main nurse is called Suzy. She looks like an African Queen. She is tall and beautiful with very dark skin and what seems like hundreds of tiny braids pulled back from her face into a cascading pony tail from the top of her head. She has a beautiful soft,round accent.So many of the people who work here are first generation immigrants. It makes me think of one of my heroes - Lawrence O'Donnell.He has an interstitial running on MSNBC right now in which he speaks in favor of immigration. A brave thing to do in this country right now.

We are a country of immigrants. My Cuban grandmother came to this country when Castro was coming into power and never looked back. She brought her culture with her. (My mother makes the best Cuban empanadas you have ever tasted. They melt in your mouth!)

My grandmother, Dona Hilda, married a German/Irish professor. The classic American melting pot fairy tale. They bought a cute house,had 4 children, traveled, enjoyed their grandchildren and their big extended family and were in love with each other until the day they died. American,Cuban, Irish and German customs all made their way into my grandparents' house. This was a good, fun thing to grow up around.

On my father's side...it was pretty waspy. White people with black servants. The servants wore uniforms.My grandmother had a cook/maid called Willie the whole time I was growing up. When we were little, we got to stay in the kitchen with her. Watch her make chicken and dumplings or banana pudding. We ate our dinner in there, too. There was a special little table and chairs in the kitchen just for the kids. I was scared of my grandfather, so it was much better to eat in the kitchen with Willie.

She gave us our baths, too. In my grandmother's big, pink bathroom. I LOVED that pink bathroom.(Now I have a pink bathroom of my own) Then she'd wrap us up in Granny's soft, fluffy towels, put us in our PJs, tuck us into the guest bedroom beds, and sing old, Southern songs to us. Spirituals, I guess. 'Old Black Joe' was my favorite.
Then my grandmother would come in and say the Lord's prayer with us. As if Willie was the opening act, and my grandmother was the headliner. She always looked so pretty and smelled like Channel.

The Christmas that someone decided it was ok to give me a sewing machine at the ripe old age of 6 and I sewed my finger, Willie washed me and calmed me in the bathtub that evening. I had to hold my bandaged finger up high while she ran a wash cloth all over my body and talked to take my mind off of it. (I was really traumatized) She started telling me about her funeral - how she wanted it to be. A shiny black car for her son and friends, the biggest, shiniest hearse for her coffin (mother of pearl color - she had picked it out), and everyone wearing black and dressed properly.
"And I want to be in that cemetery over yonder." she said, "The one with the great big shade trees and all the yellow flowers in front as you drive in. That's the one I want. That's where I want to rest."
I burst into tears, of course. I couldn't BEAR the thought of Willie leaving me. She was my second grandmother - well, sometimes she seemed like my first grandmother!
"Now, child!" she clucked as she gathered me in a pink towel, "Ole Willie's not going anywhere for a long time!" she laughed her soft, throaty laugh. "I couldn't leave my babies!"
"You're not old, Willie!" I cried into the towel, "and I don't want you to die!"

Then one day when I was much older (a teenager), my aunt Mary said we had to go visit Willie and bring her some money and some things because she was sick. I was thrilled. I hadn't seen Willie for a couple of years. She'd retired from my grandmother's house when she was finally too old and too blind. But she still made us Christmas cookies every year like clockwork.

Driving to Willie's house was one of the strangest things I'd ever done. I couldn't believe it was real - even as it was happening. My aunt drove us from the rich, white part of town (Dallas, TX)across the railroad tracks (not very far) and it was if the tracks were a solid dividing line between rich,sunny, azalea lined houses and falling down,tiny,crap houses. Once we crossed that line, there were NO more azaleas. NONE of the houses were freshly painted. They were ALL in disrepair, the street itself was in terrible shape, and everyone was black. My aunt and I were the ONLY white people I saw the entire time we spent on the other side of the tracks.

I knew now where that expression came from. It had never crossed my mind that it was LITERAL. I had been coming to Dallas for my entire childhood, and then lived there for a few years - and I never knew this part of town existed. I was shocked.It was like a big, dirty secret - just a few miles away. In the EIGHTIES!!!!

Willie's house was a shock, too. I couldn't believe she was living in such poverty.It was like something out of a movie. A movie about poor people in 1930.

I held on to my sweet, old Willie for dear life and choked back my tears as hard as I could. I was outraged and heartbroken. I couldn't believe she made us those wonderful cookies every year from this dark,dusty,falling down, molding little house. It didn't seem possible.

On the drive back to the white side of town, I railed against my grandparents - hot tears running down my face in helpless anger.
"They didn't PAY her enough!!" I wailed accusingly to my aunt.
"Well you're partly right, Jennifer. But only partly." my aunt said kindly.
"Your grandmother has kept paying Willie for this whole time she hasn't been working, and she paid for all of Willie's medical expenses. That was a lot. She even offered for Willie to move in with her - into that cute cottage in the back - but Willie didn't want to. And the biggest reason she's so badly off now is because of her son."
"That man that was there?" I asked. Willie had said something in passing to a man who came out of the bedroom in a dirty wife-beater for just long enough to glare at us before he slammed out of the front door.
"Yes. That's Willie's son. And he's been to jail a lot of times. Your grandmother payed his bail the first time, but she wouldn't do it again. When he got arrested the second time, Mom wrote him off as a bad egg. He's really been a drain to poor Willie."

Flash forward to me, now.
I have a housekeeper. Her name is Dora. She's from El Salvador. She drives a nicer car than I do, has better credit than I do, and I pay her 20 dollars an hour to clean my house once a week. She's a terrible cleaner, and can barely heat up a pizza. But she's been helping me out since August was born, and I love her.

Willie made my whole family Christmas cookies every year until she died, even though she was legally blind for the last five of them.

My aunt and I dressed up and went to her funeral - which my grandmother paid for - and was exactly the way Willie wanted it to be.

I'm not saying that my grandmother was right, or the way she was raised was right. Not at all. I'm just saying....that's what happened.

Sophie's first surgery. April 29, 2011.(or, Only the Good Die Young)

On the day of my best friend's picnic on the anniversary of losing her 14 year old daughter, I am in the E.R. with my daughter, Sophie. The younger one, who has not had the occasions that my older daughter, Izzy, or Mieke's daughter, Marieke, have had to spend hours and days and nights in the hospital.

This may sound a little screwy, but as I put my beautiful, 17 year old daughter into the car to come here today, even as she was moaning in pain, I thought, "I am so lucky to HAVE a daughter to take to the hospital. I wouldn't trade places with Mieke for all the tea in China or all the money in the world."
As awful as it is to see Sophie (my little bear cub) hooked up to IVs, hurting, scared - I am shockingly aware (every moment of this) - that SHE is ALIVE. She is alive.

Life comes with pain.
Death promises the lack of pain.

I have been here for 6 hours. Some inane sci-fi-zombie-vampire thing is the constant background noise, along with the nurses' chatter and an occasional 'bing'. Sophie says they shouldn't be playing scary zombie-vampire- end- of- the- world movies in a place where people aren't feeling well to begin with. I agree. The remote control is lost. We are stuck with the zombies.

I have been looking at drawers marked with their exotic contents. They boast labels like : urethal catheritization tray, micromist nebulizer, oxygen connecting tube, salem sump 14fr., 15fr., 18fr. All of theses things sound technical and foreign to me.

My daughter is shivering uncontrollably.A sweet Indian nurse piles warm blankets on her. Even in this helpless state, she is more than capable of acting like a princess. Treating me like her serving maid. It's funny because my older daughter, Izzy, was always the bossy one. The alpha dog. But when she is in this moveable bed, hooked up to IVs and contraptions, her bossiness goes out the window. She looks up at me with sweet, helpless, kitten eyes.
"Thank you, mom. I love you." she has said to me countless times in this very hospital. In complete gratitude. As if I might NOT come and stay with her. How could I not? And thank you for what? Giving her the shitty genes that keep her coming back here? If only I could take them for myself. I would without a nano second of hesitation.

I am watching Sophie finally sleep. The morphine and the pain have finally done her in.I am sitting here watching her breath through her beautiful, full, pink lips. Her taped together glasses sliding down her nose. She looks like an eighties angel when she is asleep - with her pixie hair cut and her pretty skin. Right now her cheeks are flushed bright pink.

I watch her (under all those blankets) and think about the picnic we are missing. The anniversary picnic to remember when Marieke was still with us. I think about the times when the girls and I went to visit Marieke in the hospital. She was always at Kaiser. I hated that hospital. Walking down the fluorescent lit hallways with horribly bright,garish "children's" murals all over the walls. But I sort of loved it for making her better. In the middle of the night sometimes. Or in the middle of a family vacation. Whenever she needed it, they were open. Ready to help. As were the EMs and the ambulance drivers. I have been watching EMs and firefighters and police officers wander in and out of the ER all day.

Sophie's doctor just came in and told us "appendicitis". Thank goodness. Not her sister's thing. Surgery, then better. The nurse is surprised at our happy reaction to appendicitis. Sophie and the doc make a joke about "being patient."

I am so lucky to have a daughter with appendicitis. I am so lucky to have a beautiful,eighties princess of a daughter to order me around in the ER.

Doctor Short just walked in. He is very tall. Pediatric surgeon. He speaks to Sophie in a low, monotone voice. His eyes are bloodshot, but otherwise he is handsome. He explains the scars that will be made on Sophie's perfect 17 year old stomach. "Scars are cool." she says.

I'll sleep here tonight. Thanks to Izzy, I am prepared. Toothbrush, cozy clothes, a good book.
My daughters lend me books. Both of them. My daughters both paint and draw. They are both really good writers. They are both smart and kind and beautiful. They are both alive.

Wherever you are, Marieke, I'm sorry we missed your picnic. I don't understand why it was your time to go. And it shakes my tenuous belief in God to it's very core.

Only the good die young.

So, please, PLEASE, my darling, beautiful Sophie - DON'T STOP ORDERING ME AROUND!!!!

GOD.

I'm not sure I believe in God anymore.
I grew up believing. Even before I was sent to Catholic school by my stepmother. I believed strongly. As far as I was concerned, there was a big, strong,JUST man up there in the clouds somewhere that would one day save me from my miserable childhood - if I only prayed hard enough - believed with all of my heart.

And then I was sent to Catholic school, and it was all laid out for me. Explained. Specifically. The nuns had a bad reputation that first year. They still rapped kids knuckles with a ruler, and kids were sent to the principle's office for spankings with a big paddle. Scare tactics were the order of the day - my first year - then, things changed.

By my second year of Catholic school at St. Austin's (in Austin , TX), the hippy-Catholics had taken over the school. Mass sounded like a PBS show, with long haired guys and their wives singing and strumming guitar, the student body changed colors - all of a sudden, I was going to school with black and hispanic kids. And that was the year (the wonderful year) that Sister Annette taught the fifth grade as home room teacher.

I will never forget the first day of fifth grade. Sister Annette came into the rowdy class room. All of the kids were just chatting away, being very loud and bad. She came in a couple of minutes after the bell. She was a thin, almost fragile looking woman who chose to wear the old fashioned uniform of black and white, with a black and white head covering. She may have been 45, or 50 even. To a kid - she just seemed kind of older. Not OLD, but older.

Sister Annette stood there, her hands folded, looking at the entire classroom serenely. It took at least a couple of minutes for the kids to even realize she was there. Slowly, they started to quiet down. Sister Annette said nothing. She just looked at us all intensely, and then, when she had our attention, she stood on her head.

Sister Annette stood on her head like a Buddhist. Very calmly, very gracefully. EXCEPT that her underwear was showing! Well....Nun underwear, anyway! The whole classroom took a collective gasp of breath in shock. Nuns did NOT stand on their heads and show their underwear! They just DIDN'T!

We all sat there with our mouths open. A couple of kids started to giggle, but then stopped. It seemed like Sister Annette held that pose for a long time. A long, uncomfortable time.
Then she bent back over to her normal standing self (her body looked like Olive Oil), her skirt going right back down to her ankles where it was supposed to be, and continued to look at all of us intensely. Unlike other teachers, who seemed to see us as one big blob of a problem, she appeared to looking at each, single one of us. Looking into our eyes, taking in each kid's set of bad habits - the squirmers, the fidgeters, the shy ones, the trouble makers. When her eyes landed on me, I felt positively naked.

"Have you ever seen a nun stand on her head before?" she asked us seriously. We all just sat quietly, shook our heads,'no'.
"Does anyone have any idea why I did that?" she then asked the dumbfounded class. Again - none of us did, and were too confused to speak.
"Our very first lesson of this year is, 'stereo-types.'", she went on. "You all think of nuns as a certain type, probably clump them all together and think that we are all the same. Well I have news for you. Underneath these black dresses we are PEOPLE. With legs and everything. And we are all different. So don't think that this class will be like any class you've ever been in before, because it won't."

Sister Annette gained our love and respect that very first 5 minutes of school, and we were her loyal and loving disciples from that moment on. She taught us many life lessons that way. One day, she came into class and told us to pass out different colored helium balloons to everyone. Then, without explanation, she left the classroom for 5 minutes. We were full of boisterous energy by the time she came back in. Even in fifth grade, balloons were fun. The classroom looked like a party.
When sister Annette came back in, she walked around the room and popped all of the yellow balloons. The kids whose balloons were popped looked kind of shocked. Why theirs? Were they in trouble?
Sister Annette explained that the balloon demonstration was about prejudice. That she had made up her mind to pop all of the yellow ones before she even knew who had them.It worked. We got it.

I was so in love with Sister Annette, that I signed up to go with her 2 times a week to old people's houses, that couldn't get out, didn't have enough money for decent food. We went around and brought them meals. Sister Annette prayed with them, and I told them about my day or my week. I loved it. It made me feel really good. And somehow it seemed to tie in with the idea of God.

Sister Annette allowed me to write,produce, direct and star in my first play that year. It was a huge success (by elementary school standards), and that bug (for the theatre) was solidly lodged in my heart - never to leave it again. But GOD, on the other hand, started seeming like a sham very shortly into my next year. Sister Annette left us at the end of fifth grade. She went on to another school somewhere that needed her more than we did. I will always be grateful for what she taught me, and what she allowed me to explore on my own.

In sixth grade, we had to take a pretty intense religion class. Go through the Bible bit by bit, etc.
Soon enough, our teacher (a priest)explained to us that ONLY Catholics could get into heaven. My hand shot straight up immediately.
"What about Jewish people?" I asked.
"They will go to hell." the priest said, matter of factly.
"That doesn't seem right." I said."What about Methodists?" (my grandmother was a Methodist)
"If they have heard about the true faith, and have rejected it, they will not abide in Heaven with our Father." he explained.
Someone else raised their hand and asked about babies who haven't been baptized.
"They will go to limbo." the priest explained.

I squirmed in my seat for the rest of the lesson, which turned into the whole explanation of limbo and Hell and Heaven.If what he was saying was true, my whole damn family on my Father's side was going straight to hell! This was NOT possible.My grandmother and her friends were some of the sweetest, best people I knew. And they went to church every Sunday - sung their hearts out. Plus, my family knew plenty of Jewish families - they all seemed REALLY nice! I simply could NOT believe that all of those people were going to hell, OR that all of the babies that weren't baptized Catholic were damned to fly around in limbo for eternity. None of it made any sense to me. Nor did most of the bible. What kind of God would ask a man to kill his own son to prove that he loved GOD!!!??? A monster! That's what I thought.

The more I read the bible, the more I decided that I didn't want anything to do with any God that had anything to do with that book. The more history I learned, the more I came to think of religion (most of it)as a force that caused war, or was an excuse for it, or was an excuse for hating people who didn't look or think like you. AND it was all crazy. A virgin having a baby!? What's THAT about???

Before I even got to Interlochen, I realized that religion was not for me. My brother said that it was important to belong to a religion or a church, even if you didn't agree with some of the things they preached. He talked about changing things "from the inside". But I just felt like I would be a hypocrite to say I was part of ANY religion that hated gay people or other religions. Period.

Over the years, and with much thought put into the matter, I have come to believe in some kind of God. Not a man with a white beard. Not a MAN at all. My God is a mix of science and faith. A mixture of the miracle of all that we DO know now, and all that we don't. It's a little bit like "the force" in Star Wars. Even in this enlightened time, there is still so much unknown. the more that we know - the more we know we DON'T know. And why should we? Mere mortals?

As cloudy and muddled as my faith is, I still go to bed every night saying, "Thank you God. Thank you for my beautiful children. Thank you for every moment you give me with them."

And, as cloudy and muddled as my faith is, I still imagine a kind of heaven. I have to. I imagine Marieke there. In her own tailor-made heaven. In my imagination, she is surrounded by all of the lost or broken animals that need her love. It's a bit like the 'Isle of misfit toys' from the old Rudolph Christmas special. Only it's a perfect,sunny day. And for some reason, I see her as a giant girl. A great, big version of Marieke. Laying in the grass, the sun warming her long,blonde hair, her big eyes sparkling with joy as she cuddles with puppies and bunnies and cats and birds and - you name it.
Like some kind of bizarre fairy tale, she can part the grass beneath her (as if it was cloud material) and look down on her family here on earth. Blow kisses to her mother. Check in on us all.
And once in awhile, maybe, Tom might be able to visit her. Stepping out of his heaven into hers. And maybe even Paul.

If you believe science, nothing ever goes AWAY. It only changes. So I believe that their energy is SOMEWHERE. SOMEHOW.

Just because I can't understand it, or imagine it, doesn't mean it isn't so.

Max's First Taste of Fame.

I am just back from Vegas. Where I took my 12 year old son - let's face it - out of desperation. Let you who have never done anything out of desperation be the first to judge. It was his spring break, I had promised travel and adventure - and at the eleventh hour, all I could afford was Vegas, baby. It was kind of like when I got Max a limo for his 13th birthday - it would never be that cool again to have a limo with all of your friends piled in,enough snacks and soft drinks to put a professional wrestler into a coma, unlimited rides at the Santa Monica Pier, and midnight skateboarding at a private ramp in Venice. I hung out with the driver all night, cracking jokes, sharing stories with a big black man that I had just met. We had a good time. The boys had a good time. At 13 - a limo is memorable. By 15 (in LA), it's passe. So that was my thought about Vegas.

For a 12 (going on 13) year old boy - Vegas is world class glamour! Big lights, big games, big shows,big pool - the whole nine yards. By the time he's 14, this kid will look at Vegas the way I do, I suspect. Tragic. Old people in track suits from frozen places smoking indoors and throwing their money away on a dream. But when you're 12!!!! The Flamingo is pure fun! Big pool with REAL flamingos, a water slide, lots of kids to play with - pizza by the pool! And my super cool friend hooked us up with tickets to the Blue Man Group! Oh yea. Mom looks like a rock star. August totally loved the show - completely got all of the jokes and subtleties, and left talking about it - making great points. My BFF, Mark, went with and took the kid on his first ever REAL roller-coaster - thank you very much!

If you could have seen Mark and I walking through the various casinos and hotels, explaining them to August, you would have laughed REAL HARD. Mark is looking at all the cute boys, commenting under his breath to me - I'm laughing at him, we're all laughing at each other - basically - a LOT of laughing. And as we were explaining all that we could to the little brain that is August Blue, the subject of Cirque du Soleil came up.

"That sounds so cool, Mom. Why haven't you ever taken me to that?" the brain asked me.
"I have! I'm sure of it! Maybe you were too young to remember, though..." I answered.
And that conversation made me remember the very moment Max discovered the feeling of fame.

When Max was 4 or 5, I took him to see Cirque du Soleil with a few friends. Eric Voetberg, and his brother, Patrick, were there for sure. But our seats were such that we were slightly split up.As I remember it, there were 2 seats in the front row (center) and another 2 or 3 right in back of those in the fourth row. Max was never a very shy little boy, so when given the choice, he opted to sit next to Eric in the front row, Patrick and I sat behind them in the fourth.
This was only the second time I had been to Cirque du Soleil - the first time being with Peter in NYC - and I thought it was absolute magic! I was over THE MOON to take Max at his age. I remember distinctly the overwhelming feeling of anticipation and excitement about the whole event. My heart felt like it was going to burst right out of my body I was so happy and excited about taking Max to this. And I do believe I have the Voetberg brothers to thank for it. I believe THEY scored these great seats, and the whole event was that much more sated with happiness because of their presence. Max loved them both. Theses guys were the best.

The show started. I felt like I was 6. I tore my eyes from the stage to Max's face again and again. When he laughed, I laughed. When he held his breath, I held mine. If there was a scary moment, Max grabbed Eric's arm and felt safe. So I felt safe.
I tried to watch Max's face as the little Asian girls twisted their bodies into crab-like sea creatures. Some of them were no older than he was. I watched his face as a man stacked chairs upon chairs upon tables upon tea trays...until the stack was 25 feet high - all the while he was climbing these teetering things to music with comedic glances down to the audience - AMAZING! If he had fallen, he would have fallen right on top of Max and Eric!

And then the clown came out again. The clown that did not speak. International comedy. Some things cross all boundaries of language. And the clown chose Max.
He tried to coax him onto the stage.
Max shook his head "no!"
The clown did not give up.
Max shook his head "no!" again. He didn't want to go up there. He was NOT ready to be on stage. Not yet.
But the clown did not take no for an answer, and pretty soon, Max was being pulled up on stage (fighting it all the way)by the clown - and something TERRIBLE happened.

As Max was pulled UP, his pants were pulled DOWN. And before anyone knew it, or could do anything about it, Max was full on mooning the entire audience.

HUGE laughter ensued - GREAT applause! The clown felt like a success - for a moment.
Then, Max started to cry. For real. And the clown could not appease him. It was terrible.
I wanted to jump on stage and punch that clown in the nose. Kind of.
The audience was with Max - entirely! A great big "Awwwww!!!!" came from them in sympathy - but that just made him feel worse.
So, the clown handed Max over to Eric, made gestures of "I'm sorry", Max shook his little blonde head at the clown - very angry - and after the entire audience booed the clown on Max's behalf, the show went on.

Max curled himself up in Eric's arms for the rest of the first act, trying to disappear. Eric shot a look back to me in reassurance. What a guy! What a great guy.
Even so, as soon as intermission came, I rushed to Max to hug him tight and make sure he was ok.
"I hate that stupid clown, Mom!" he told me right away.
"I know. I know - but you were great! You handled it really well!"
"Everyone saw my butt!" he wailed.
"Oh, honey! Not everyone! Anyway...it's a cute butt."
Max buried his face in my sweater. "I want to go!" he said into it.
"You don't want some ice cream?" I pleaded.
"I want to go home!" he wailed into my sweater.

I looked at Eric and Patrick, shaking my head. Good grief. My pure joy and excitement about sharing this with my kid had turned into a nightmare. They were both very understanding.

I walked Max out towards the entrance of the tent, thinking we might be heading home.
But then, something interesting happened. Before we got even 5 feet down the aisle, people started stopping us. Complimenting Max.
"Oh my gosh! You were so great!" they said.
"You were the best part of the show so far!"
"That clown was a bully! You did GREAT!"
"You were so brave!"
A couple of people even asked if they could take a photo with him. We were assaulted!

And I saw Max's face turn from humiliated to happy.
Before we even got to the concessions, Max had been made to feel like a superstar.

"Wow. People really liked you!" I said to Max. "Do you still want to go home?"
Max looked at me with this really brave face and said, "No. I think I'll stick it out. Can I still have ice cream?"

Of course he could still have ice cream. The kid had his pants pulled down in front of hundreds of people and come out a rock star. I wished I could hand him a trophy there and then.

Ice cream indeed.
Ice cream INDEED.

Tweak's wicked little game....

Another night that I was with Tweak in NYC, I went to see HIM play (amazing keyboard player)in his band and afterwards we went to see Joey's brother play in the Village with a whole group of people.It was already a fun night. Matt was there, and all of the other people in that band were really nice to me and fun to be around.

As we walked in the door, the place was just starting to get crowded. And almost immediately - as soon as there was a little space between Tweak and I, some incredibly forward guy started to make a play for me.
"I'm with someone.." I said loudly over the noise of the place.
"Oh yea? I don't see nobody you're with!" the guy challenged me.
"He's around here somewhere!" I laughed.
I found Tweak as quickly as I could and went right up to him. I remembered how this worked. New York was NOT like LA. Men are much more aggressive in NYC. If you don't make your statement of claiming or being claimed right off the bat - all bets are off, and everyone's fair game. I went right up to Tweak and stood real close to him.
"Will you please kiss me right now...right on the lips?" I asked him sweetly.
"Why?" he said.
I just looked at him.
"I know why. You don't want that guy to hit on you."
"Well...that's right. I don't. I don't want anyone to hit on me. Except you. And it would be nice to have a kiss anyway."
Tweak smiled his wicked smile. Then he shook his head.
"Nope. I don't think I will." he said.
"Why NOT? You don't want to kiss me?"
"I know what you're doing....What if I want to flirt with some girls? Maybe I don't want everyone here to assume that I'm taken..."
(Wow.)
"Oh. THAT'S the way you want to play tonight, is it?" I asked, bristling up into war mode immediately. I am one of the LEAST competitive people I have ever known - but I KNEW how to play this game. A little TOO well. I had played it before when I didn't even know what I was doing. And (let's face it), THIS GAME was slanted in favor of the ladies. ESPECIALLY in NYC. I was a little pissed - but mostly amused.
"Yea. I think I want to be a bachelor tonight."
"Fine by me. See ya later."

I walked away from Tweak.
"Let the games begin.." I thought as I looked around the place, then decided to go to the ladies room to find my balance. As much as I could hardly admit it (even to myself) - this hurt a little. I didn't think he was my BOYFRIEND. But I guess I thought he was my boyfriend for that week. Had I been acting too clingy? Or needy? I didn't think so. It almost felt like he was trying to establish a pecking order with me.HE was the rock star at the moment, and I was...what? A mom? I had no idea, really. But, despite how this may read on paper (or screen) - and in spite of how it felt even then - something else was stronger. For all of Tweak's weird head games with me, I FELT like he was a good guy.I even felt like I could trust him.So - I played his little game. If nothing else, it would be an interesting experiment.

The night started shaping up quickly. Joey's brother was REALLY good. He played piano and sang with a small band backing him up. Reminded me of Billy Joel. His name was Gavin De Graw. And by the end of his set, I had a GORGEOUS Argentinian man speaking Spanish to me, buying me drinks and kissing my arm over by the bar.
I looked across the room and spotted Tweak.He was chatting up a couple of lasses in their early twenties who could hardly look more bored or dismissive. I shot him a winning smile. He grinned back a little sheepishly. It didn't take too long after that (and thank goodness - MY guy was starting to promise all KINDS of things in the hopes of...something) for Tweak to wander over to me and admit defeat.

"How are you doing?" he asked, shaking his head at the ridiculous spectacle my latin lover was making of himself.
"Well....as you can see." I replied.
"Yea, yea. Ok. Uncle. You win."
"Well, it was YOUR game."
Tweak nodded in admission.
"Excuse me for a moment. " I said to my gorgeous plaything. Then I turned to Tweak, sans arm sucker. "Will you kiss me NOW?" I asked him plainly.
"Well, I don't want to get in the way of anything...more exciting."
"Don't be an idiot. I didn't WANT to get hit on by anyone else. Remember?"
He nodded. I guess he remembered.
"And was that good for you? " I continued ( I had to rub it in a LITTLE) "Did you get what you wanted tonight? Lots of attention from some young hotties?"
Tweak looked right into my eyes. He seemed to be laughing at himself. "Not really."
As I squared my shoulders and looked up at him, I could feel the Argentinian pawing at my backside in a drunken manner.
"Will you FINALLY FUCKING KISS me, then?" I demanded.
"My pleasure", Tweak laughed.

Then he took me in his arms and kissed me.
As sweet as the taste of winning was, Tweak's kiss was even sweeter.