The Count Down

I just wanted to write and say that I will see you next year. Which is less than a week away. And I am a nervous wreck. And I woke up this morning and felt very strongly that I could no longer spell. But I think it's just my nerves revving up for great disappointment as the new year arrives next week. And I am going to sit on my porch in Carpinteria and wait for the clock to strike midnight and really try and see if anything has changed.

I think it's gonna I think it's gonna.

Because God knows why but I have this positive feeling that maybe just maybe the bad stuff might be over if only for a short while and I might be one of the humans going through a good patch instead of a bad patch and I might actually be able to wake up in the morning and not be afraid to come out from under the covers.

So I'm starting to count down now and I will see you next year and maybe I won't recognize you because you will look so different and maybe you will look like your very best self and we can swim together or have a glass of wine and maybe we can do our goodly deeds together and maybe the Palestinians and the Israelis can break bread and we'll leave Iraq and the first female president of Iraq will be elected and women will remove their veils and we as a country will ask their forgiveness and no one anywhere will be hungry and everyone everywhere will have shelter and disease will be cured and there will be jobs and families and peace and love I will never feel pain again nor will you......................

Happy New Year.........Hallelujah.

Very Funny

This...

Is going to be short and sweet.

I woke up this morning with a black eye! A...BLACK...EYE!!...My left eye. The bottom half. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry or poke my right eye until it matched my left eye. YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING. IS THIS SOME KIND OF A JOKE! And if so, who is laughing and where are you and is this just one more way of telling me that 2007 is such a bust that for the next ten days, until the year ends, I am going have one hideous thing happen to me after another until I am down on my knees begging for surrender?! Well, guess what...I have gotten this far and yes, I am limping towards the finish line, and yes, a good friend of mine died yesterday, and yes I'm a neurotic mess about finding peace and happiness again in my lifetime but I am telling you that I am not going to let a left black eye stop me from making it to January first so I can see what's on the other side of the horizon. So whoever you are who is doing this to me...

What? I'm not supposed to take these things personally? You are telling me this is not all about ME? That all of these things that happened were just.............RANDOM!! That I am but a cog in the wheel of life? A COG? I'm a cog. A cog with a black eye. Here is what I've decided. If I wake up January first and I still have the black eye, I am going to do something drastic like...

Cry.

But no. That would be a terrible way to start the new year. I want to laugh. I want to laugh and see peace in the middle east and I want someone to whisk me away and rub my back and tell me that everything is going to be okay and that I don't have to be afraid anymore and the worst is over and I'm safe and we're all safe and............

I'm realizing that the one thing that will never happen in my lifetime is peace in the middle east. And that's a lot worse than having a black eye. So maybe it isn't about me after all. Maybe being a cog is not so bad because without it I suppose that the wheel would fall apart. And maybe that's what they need in the middle east...More cogs. More conscious cogs.

I'm tired. Of 2007. Of disappointment. And as Mr. Ferlinghetti said..."I am waiting for a rebirth of wonder..."

Ch...Ch...Ch...Changes

Yesterday, whilst getting my vitamin drip, a woman in the room who seemed slightly sophisticated and was possibly an agent since she was on her phone during her entire drip and seemed to be talking to clients who were out of work...Anyway, this woman asked me if I was in the FASHION INDUSTRY! Me! The woman who frets about what to wear to her own funeral. And that very morning, as it was raining out, I was in a complete dizzy tizzy about wear to wear on my feet and I ended up wearing these old army kind of boots and a pair of brown corduroys and a green sweater. A stretched out old funky green sweater. And this woman thought I was in fashion. I don't know, maybe she was very ill and couldn't see well. But I had to laugh. Hahaha. And there was a man there with a frightening wig on that seemed to be crooked or maybe it was the style but either way it was not a good fit and then I thought the poor guy had probably lost his hair to chemo and I shouldn't make fun of him but boy did he make the wrong choice in hair styles.

I am trying to get into the holiday mood. But I must admit that the shopping part is fucked. My son wanted to buy a couple of presents so we went...ON A SATURDAY! Were we out of our minds?!...To an outlet land. I am not kidding. This place was miles long and two Saturdays before Christmas it was so crowded that once we pulled into the parking lot, we could not even think of getting out. We were whisked into shopping madness and I thought never to be seen again. I actually think I saw a family trying to find their car and then they seemed to disappear into a mountain that was right behind the lot. I'll bet people die there and are not found for months. So it took us at least a half an hour to find an illegal space. I admit it, I was bad. I was so desperate I pulled into a handicapped space and put a sign on my car that said I had cancer and couldn't walk very far. So parking was bad enough but then we had to shop. And all that Bing Crosby Christmas music just made me want to tear my hair out. And we all know that Bing Crosby was a horrible father and at least one kid committed suicide and there he is singing Silent Night and What Child is This and I wanted to shout, "Bing was an asshole! He wasn't even nice to his own child!" but I don't think anyone would have noticed. Calvin Klein, Ralph Lauren, The Gap, Levis, Occicontine or whatever the name of that soap store is...They were all there. And so were all the people with their packages knocking you this way and that. Will finally got a present and we rushed to find our car and that, of course, is the real nightmare but we did leave a trail so we wouldn't have to wait until everyone else left to find the Prius but then...

We couldn't get out. I think I drove in the same circle seventeen times. And I couldn't find the exit. But the good news was we were NOT listening to Bing and we had snacks in the car and no one was hitting us with the corner of a large box. You have to look for the good things in a situation like this.

You know, I can barely breathe just thinking about that outlet land. Not going there again.

I have made the most exciting discovery of my life. (Okay, I exagerate. But then again, this may be the most exciting discovery. And is that good or is that pathetic? You be the judge...) Yes, I have discovered...CHEESECAKE! I can eat cheesecake. Four bites a night and I am in orgasmic heaven. Not too much sugar. And it's cheese. My new best friend, cheese. I think I am going to die of high cholesterol but that's got to better than dying of cancer. Certainly more satisfying. And I get to eat cheesecake. I get these mini cheesecakes and I carry them around with me for support.

You know what I just did? Of course you don't. I just went into the kitchen and had one bite of my cheesecake. So I have three bites left for the day. Is that too anal? I think that happens when you get sick. The anal thing. You say to yourself, "If I do this then later I can do that." Sort of a reward, sort of a mental illness anal thing. Oh oh...

Now I want more cheesecake. The holidays are making me a bit neurotic. Well, maybe it's not the holidays. I am anxious about the New Year. All the pressure to be fabulous, you know? That change that's coming exactly on January first. But maybe the change has already happened. Maybe the change is cheesecake. I could live with that...............

Ike

How is this for a last testament to a life...The headline for Ike Turner's obit reads...(In big letters, mind you...) ROCK PIONEER WAS KNOWN FOR ABUSING WIFE TINA TURNER. Shoulda controlled yourself, Ike, because you were one talented guy.

I used to go to this funny little place right next to the Los Angeles airport to see The Ike and Tina Turner Review. It said that on the tiny marquees outside. You went into this little nothing place and the lights would go down and come up on a ball of energy and rock and roll and legs and Ikettes and it was amazing. Tina running all over the stage, followed by those girls and Ike on his base and little did I know that Tina wished she could run right off that stage and away from the tall skinny guy in the back who discovered her. I think that club is a strip club now.

I was reading a magazine in a doctor's office and I came upon an add for Louis Vuitton luggage. And I kept looking at the guy in the ad and I knew he looked familiar but I couldn't quite place him. So I looked at the small print at the bottom and it told me that this man was Mikhail Gorbachev! In a Louis Vuitton ad! What? This is what's it's all about, right? You save your country from what Communism had turned into and instead of just speaking around the world and helping other countries out of their messes you sign on to look like a successful gentleman using expensive luggage. Well, I might as well just die right now because that seems insane to me. However, if it makes Gorby happy, more power to him. Or less power, actually.

And speaking of insane...I ran into someone I hadn't seen in quite a while. A year, maybe. And she asked how I was and I hesitated as I usually do then finally told her about cancer. And this woman, who is not a dummy, asked me what type of cancer and I told her and she said, "Isn't that what Steven had?" And she went on and on about Steven and how he had seemed so much better and then he took a turn for the worse and couldn't eat and then, of course, Steven DIED and she talked about his death and how slow and painful and awful it was and wasn't it the same type of cancer that I had? And she didn't even let me answer before she was talking about Steven's funeral and his memorial and I'm just standing there wanting to throw up ON HER and I'm thinking, "Can someone actually be this rude? Does she have any idea what's she's saying to me?" And she just kept talking..."And he looked good, just like you do, and then a minute later he was in the hospital unable to breath or talk..." And I wanted to punch this woman's pretty face but I let her finish and I told her that I did not think I was going to die soon and then....AND THEN... without missing a beat or hearing anything I was saying, she had the nerve to ask me...

"What are you using on your skin?"

What? My skin! (This is me thinking now.) If you think I am going to tell you anything else about me, you are nuts and I am especially not going to tell you any of my beauty secrets because I hope you age instantly and your eyebrows fall out...In a restaurant!

Oh my God. I don't expect people to make me the center of attention when I tell them that I have cancer but can they think for a moment about what one says when one announces that they have cancer or polio or whatever. You say something like, "Oh, I'm so sorry. How are you feeling?" Not..."Oh, wow, you're going to die soon, aren't you? Bummer city. But you look great." From now on I'm just going to tell people I'm fine. "How are you?" "I'm fine. Had a great year. Nothing went wrong. It was perfect. And you?"

I will not be blogging until next Monday or Tuesday. Don't be frightened. I'll be back. Is it Christmas yet? And then there's the New Year when everything wonderful will happen and the world will be completely different. Right?...RIGHT?

Why is there always silence when I raise this question? I'm telling you, I am going to wake up January first and everything bad will seem like a dream. Sort of like the Newhart show. It was all just a bad dream. And I can once again eat chocolate. And have a martini.

Right?...RIGHT?

"I'm fine. Had a great year. And you?"

You Got Da White Mattah and Da Grey Mattah

So I'm doing my walk yesterday in the park and there was this nice looking man in his seventies talking to a nice looking lady in her seventies and they were talking about the brain and he says, "You got da white mattah and da grey mattah. And at our age da white mattah doesn't mattah anymore." And they talked and talked and from what I heard their white mattah was working just fine.

They advertise stars for sale on the radio. You can have a star in the sky named after somebody you love for just fifty nine ninety nine. Then they will be able to look up in the sky and see their very own star named after them for eternity! Imagine, we all look up and see...Delores. Hey, that's Delores. Yup. I named that star after her for just fifty nine bucks and change. If anyone reading this has purchased one of these stars I think you might consider getting your white mattah examined.

I have seen three movies in the last couple of weeks that I liked a lot and all of them had very interesting women in them. Nice looking women, natural looking woman, not the glamour girls that usually fill the screen and make all the rest of us feel less than lovely. And these female characters were fleshed out to the point of actually having back stories and lives beyond the cute thing on the guy's arm. And I realized that all of these movies were written by women and one was also directed by the same. Juno, The Savages and Lars and The Real Girl. Oh, those uppity women. Not only did they write movies that actuall got made, they were bold enough to write female characters that were fully realized which is something one does not always find at the AMC. And the actresses playing these characters were really good actresses, not models who think crying on screen will get people to take them seriously. Not one of them wore a low cut dress or too much make-up or woke up with perfect hair. Oh my God, was that a relief. Do you know how hard it is to watch a movie or a tv show and see women wake up, sometimes with a cold or the flu or something terminal and yet they look like they just got their hair and makeup done by Wally Westheimer...(Okay, I know there was a make-up artist who had a name sort of like that. Maybe I just like the name Wally.)

Anyway, I, of course, hope this woman thing is a trend. I'm slightly hopeful but I've seen it almost happen before. I thought Thelma and Louise would make a huge difference but it apparently didn't make as much money as Die Hard. And that's "the bottom line." I sold a script once that was a pretty big sale...Big enough to make the front page of Variety. And, oh, producers and agents were so happy and I foolishly thought this is it! I am on my way to the big time. And I had Goldie Hawn attached and I had Bette Midler attached and then when it came time to actually get it made, I was told by the powers that be...Little men in big towers...That honestly..."Who would want to watch a movie with a forty year old woman in the lead?"

"You need stronger male characters."
"But this movie is all about a woman and the journey that she takes. Remember, you laughed, you cried. The men are perfunctury."
"They're what?
"They're objects, really. Sort of like most women are in the movies, only in reverse."
"Maybe you could change the lead to a male and have the women be perfun...You know, what you said."
"Didn't you buy my script as it was written for a lot of money?"
"Well, maybe we didn't read it thoroughly enough."

At least I cashed my check. Wonder if they'd like a heartwarming story about a middle aged woman who gets cancer and can only eat cheese and she meets a guy who is allergic to dairy. Hmmm...Maybe if I changed the lead to man...

A Parallel Universe

I tried to get onto my blog this morning and it told me that my cookies were disabled. Okay, I am completely computer challenged and I had no idea what the thing was trying to tell me. My cookies? I didn't even know I had cookies. But it's working now so I am assuming that my cookies are in working order again.

Some people think that if I don't write on my blog it means... I'm dead. Or dying or something awful is happening. Now, that may be true at some time during this process but for now the reason I don't always write is that I'm not here or I'm writing something else or nothing really happened on that particular day although I have found that something always seems to happen no matter how insignificant it might appear at the time.

For instance...I took a yoga class this morning and I got there a few minutes early so I sat down and checked out one of those free yoga magazines. I love the ads. There is someone who describes herself as a "Conscious Bookkeeper." What does that mean, exactly? Who would hire a bookkeeper who wasn't conscious? Wouldn't you want her to be paying attention at all times? These are your books we're talking about. And then there was my favorite...A Psychic Realtor. I kid you not. How the hell d0es that work? Does she show you a house and say, "Oh no. Uh uh. You get out of here as fast as you can. This is so not the house for you." Or do you go to her office and she closes her eyes and tells you how many bedrooms you want and if you want Tudor or Country English? And are these services only for people who live in LA? I somehow cannot imagine a psychic realtor in Davenport Iowa. But maybe these people are for real. And if everyone had a psychic realtor maybe we wouldn't be having all these forclosure problems. And then, in these magazines, there are all these pictures of people who can wrap their ankle behind their neck. Is that really necessary? What, exactly, is the purpose of that? It's just another one of those crazy things that humans do to occupy themselves while they're alive. I actually could spend the rest of my days trying to get my ankle behind my neck. What's the difference between that and writing a novel? Except, maybe, a living.

Okay, so I hate the young woman who wrote Juno. First of all, she's 29. Hate her. She made it pretty quickly. Hate her. She's talented. Hate her. But here's what really got me. She apparently started with a blog. I read this in a couple of newspapers. And one of the things they always point out is that her blog is very honest and "refreshing" and she even talks about things like the BREAKUP OF HER MARRIAGE!

Hello!!

These kind of magical things only happen to certain people. She writes a blog and someone reads it and then she sells a book and then she sells a movie. AND SHE'S 29! And her movie is really good. BUT, can she put her ankle behind her neck? See, if I could do that I wouldn't be filled with so much jealousy that I could explode because I would have this thing that I could do that only certain insane people can do. But everyone can write. Everyone and their mother can write. And there are those who make it...Big Time. And yes, I'm glad she's a woman and yes, I'm glad she's talented because she deserves to make it. But I am older and the clock is tick tick ticking and what if the right person does not read my blog. And she has her whole life ahead of her...

BUT

Bad things can happen. She might run out of ideas. Her next movie might be a bomb.

But I hope that doesn't happen. She actually seems very cool. She probably doesn't have any problem with her cookies. Maybe that's just an age thing.

Cedric the Sort of Entertainer

Okay, I think I'm going to do it. I know it seems crazy, extremely futuristic for someone like me who doesn't even know how an IPod works and has never had one...But I really don't watch television anymore except for football or basketball and I've never watched American Idol or Dancing with People Who Were Never Stars To Begin With and I haven't really watched a series since my son and I watched X-Files...(Although I did watch the last two years of The Sopranos just to have pasta with friends)...So I am going to do it. I am going to get Netflix. (Don't you hate when they purposely spell things wrong. Like, it should be NetFLICKS. And it should be chicken AND biscuits, not chicken 'N' biscuits. And how, actually, do you spell biscuits? And I wonder if I could eat one of those?)

So as soon as I figure out how you can get this Netflix thing, I'm going to do that. Not that I mind sitting on the couch at night and reading, which I will do anyway, but one thing I have learned this past year is that reading is very silent. It's sort of fun to have someone in the room while you're reading at night. I guess that's why people go to the library to read. I went to the library to play footsie under the table with a guy named Nathan. Maybe THAT is why people go to the library.

Footsie...There was a guy named John in my sixth grade class and I had such a crush on him and everyday after recess he would walk in and hand me his hat...The hunting kind with flaps on the ears...And I would put it in my desk and touch it all afternoon until the bell rang. Oh my God, that was the most orgasmic thing that had ever happened to me...Up to that point...And then John got kind of big and ugly as school went on and the thought of touching his hat or his sleeve or any part of him for that matter was like totally yuck. He probably thought the same thing of me. But I never saw Nathan of the foot after a certain grade and it was probably a good thing for both of us.

The hot dog man's name is Cedric. He is a handsome African American man somewhere in his late twenties, I would guess. He remembered me. I don't know why but I lied to him when he asked me what I did around there. I told him I worked in a nearby building. It just seemed too much to go into me taking vitamin drips in the area because I had cancer and blahblahblah and it's all so boring so I took the easy way out and I lied. I said I worked at a chiropracters office! I lied so easily it scared me. He told me there were a lot of chiropracters in the area and we had a long conversation about that before I changed the subject to hot dogs and his truck. He owned his truck. Ced's hot dogs. He was very proud of the fact that he had never worked for anyone else, only himself. I stupidly asked him what he really wanted to do. Acting, music, screenwriting...All the things most waiters and waitresses in Hollywood really want to do. And he looked at me rather blankly and said he always wanted to sell hot dogs. And I was so jealous. First of all, he had never worked for anyone else and I had worked on tv shows for some of the biggest assholes in the universe. Wasted years of my life sitting there and listening to these guys go on about themselves. (And yes, in my case they were always guys.) And secondly, he was a young man and already doing exactly what he wanted to do. And here I am, a person who could be his mother (and if I really want to go there, his grandmother!) and I still don't seem to be doing what I want to do. What is up with that? Why do I always feel that there is something I'm not doing that I should be doing? Why didn't I just want to sell hot dogs? Okay, I did have a child and that was and still is the greatest and that was something I really wanted to do. But creatively, just me alone, I'm still trying to figure out my career. My hair would be gray if I let it, I would be dead if I was living a hundred years ago, but here I still am trying to figure out who I am and what is that big thing that I am supposed to be doing. And Cedric is as happy as a clam, talking to his customers and steaming his weiners and setting up his chairs for the people to sit. I love Cedric. I want to be Cedric. And I hate Cedric because he's doing it. He's doing the life. I told him I had a nineteen year old son. He gave me a piece of advice. I should tell my son to pick one thing and focus. Focus on "that thing" and it will happen. But make sure it's only one thing.

And Cedric's right. I'm all over the place. One thing? But aren't I supposed to be completely neurotic and do twelve things at once?

Maybe Cedric could be my therapist. He'd probably race away in his truck after the first session.

Maybe I shouldn't get Netflix. Just another distraction. I wonder if Cedric has Netflix. I think I'll make an appointment with him for next week.

And Yet, Another Dilemma

Okay, now I'm obsessing on what to wear to my divorce. This may be actually harder to decide than what to wear to chemo. I mean, you want to look good, right? You want the guy to say to himself, "What was I thinking? Look at her. She's a knockout."

Well, a knockout is a bit of an exaggeration. A knockout is Greta Garbo or Carol Lombard. And then I'm thinking, maybe I should try and look sickly and go for the sympathy card. "Oh, what was I thinking? Look at her. She looks so pale and wan. I just can't leave her now."

I actually don't think I've ever looked wan. I don't think wan is a Jewish girl look. But the right outfit is key. I don't wear skirts even though it seems like a very black tight skirt kind of situation. You know, you cross your legs provocatively and you're wearing black heels with ankle straps and maybe not any underwear and what is he going to think then, huh?! You can bet he's going to think twice. If only I still had heels. I do not think Ugh boots or Doc Martins are correct for this occasion.

Low cut. That's the ticket. Something very low cut. With the right bra. And this may be a bit personal but what the hell at this point...I'm not sure what my right bra is anymore. Something has changed since my operation. Oh, they're still there. But I think because I haven't been swimming regularly yet my back size has changed. (Oh, sure Trish. Blame it on your back.) Anyway, that is way off the point but I think the holidays are making me think faster than I can write. Did I buy this one a present? Do I have to buy that one a present? Do we really like this time of year?

No Country For Old Men. It's good. The scariest thing in it is Javier Bardem's haircut.

Some days I wish someone would just whisk me away. Tell me they have something just wonderful to show me in a very special place that only a few people know about. And they will take care of everything. They'll pick out my clothes, pack for me, give me a bath, make sure Gracie the dog is taken care of while we're gone. They'll make sure everything is taken care of and I don't have to worry about a thing. They'll make sure I eat when I'm supposed to and have delicious healthy little foods ready and waiting for me when I'm hungry. They'll rub my back, hold my hair when I throw up. Be there in the middle of the night when I sit up and wonder what has happened. And we'll walk and we'll run and we'll laugh. Laugh a lot. And listen to James Taylor even though all I do is cry through every CD. But I love to cry because it feels good and I love to laugh and I wish I knew what to wear. That's really what this is all about. Someone to help me with my wardrobe. How do I look in this? Am I fetching? Was I ever fetching?

I think I was whisked away but it was into the cancer world. Definitely not the special place one dreams about.

But it's my clothes. It's all about my clothes. I know if I had the right clothes everything would turn out just right. Happily ever after. Like Enchanted. You just need the right blouse, that's all.