Therapy from Seat 5B

Are you a good flyer? If you are--I bet you're the type that hates it when someone nervous sits next to you and wants to talk the entire flight, huh? Well just pray you never have to sit next to me. Last weekend I traveled to Arizona for a contract gig. And no, I don't like to fly--but I especially don't like to fly when it's for a job. I can see risking your life for a lovely vacation--but for a daytime talk show? Not so much. But the economy being what it is--I'll do whatever it takes to pay for my used BMW. Including hurling my body through the sky in a tin can “driven” by someone I don't know.

I wish I could be like you. I get really worked up when I fly. Say what you want about not being in control—but I did know someone from college killed in a commercial plane crash. (rationalization) I"m not scared of terrorists either. But rather, the disgruntled mechanic who skips a step to get home to watch the Raiders. Regardless-- I have all my little rituals that I'm sure will keep me safe before, during and after the flight—which consists of the following + alcohol: 1. Aisle seat on the wing 2. tap the plane fuselage 3 times when I walk through the door and say "Fly good little plane" (I'm sure it listens) 3. I have to make eye contact with the pilot--even better if I can say hello (maybe he won't crash if he knows there's precious cargo back here?) 4. Once I'm seated I open up my little bag that goes on every flight with me. In it is a rosary a friend brought from Jerusalem , my Nana's angel pin and an affirmation for flying a friend gave me. I read the affirmation. I breathe. And I hold on to the bag (thereby holding on to the rosary for dear life!) And still the clenching, the gripping, eyes closed, tearing up commences.

This time however, as I went through my weirdness, a nice older woman sitting next to me saw my anxiety as the plane prepared for take off. She said "don't like to fly huh?" I said "Can you tell?" As the plane took off and my eyes started to well up (yes, it's uncontrollable) she said "Here hold my hand!" I needed a grandma's hand, so I took it. And it helped. A little. Once we're in the air, I'm usually okay--after the drink cart comes out, of course.

I offered to buy the nice lady who held my hand a glass of wine, but she refused. Said she was saving it for her visit to see her high school BFF. We did begin a lovely conversation that made the flight go by very quickly. She's 79. She's Portuguese. Her husband died last year. And she likes TV. (We got on that last topic after she asked me why I was flying to Phoenix .) "Oh I like those landscaping shows--especially the one with that cute man who walks up to people in the home depot and surprises them?" I smiled and said "I made that show." Her eyes lit up. "You did?!!" Suddenly she had a new BFF. And I liked it.

As we chatted, I realized this was one helluva strong woman. She told me how she lives alone on a mountain. Her husband died last year but “I wear a ready-alert 911 monitor around my neck. I accidentally hit it once and those cute firemen were there in a flash!” Before her husband died, she told me of how his leg had to be amputated. And how she had to fish him out of the pond when the ride-upon lawn mower he liked to ride-upon rolled into the water. Our conversation then turned to relationships. You had to know someone her age would toss out the “Are you married?” question. I told her "no" and how I had moved to the area for what I thought was going to eventually be a marriage. Lila—that’s her name, in case you were wondering—Lila told me about her daughter. Who is getting a divorce. “Relationships are hard. But you’re such a sweet, nice girl, I know you will meet someone again. Who wouldn’t want someone like you? You're part Portuguese and you listened to me ramble this whole trip!”

Huh. My eyes started to well up again. For the sweet sentiment, for the guy who gave that up--but also for the announcement “flight attendants prepare for landing.” I helped Lila get her bag down from the overhead compartment. I walked with her off the plane—wanting to make sure her friend was there to pick her up. But she said she had to stop and use the restroom-- and I had to get to my hotel and download questions I had to ask the “Minister on Meth” tomorrow. We said goodbye and I thanked her for getting me through the flight. An airport porter drove up on a little cart and asked if I wanted a lift to the baggage area. I said “no thank you, but there’s a delightful older woman in a blue coat --coming out of that bathroom in a few minutes, who could sure use a lift.”

I headed out and hailed a cab. My driver was an interesting Sikh gentleman who had to get directions himself, to the hotel I was staying in. We had an interesting conversation as I tried to steal a few glimpses of Arizona whizzing by. Preet, that’s his name—“with two E’s”, believes American women dress too sexy. “You wear your bra straps showing. Why do you do that? And you wonder why men want to rape you?” At this point—I’m wondering if my bra straps are showing, or if I’ll ever make it to the hotel. “How old are you?” he asks. I tell him that’s something American women don’t like to talk about if they’re old enough to show their bra straps. He laughed. We started talking about travel. (safe) Apparently Preet has been around the world—and not just on layovers b/w Mumbai and Phoenix. He and his brothers are quite famous Indian singers who have performed in Japan and Canada . He said he’d give me the link to his website. (of course, after I told him I was in AZ for a TV show) I asked him to sing for me, but he wouldn’t. We arrived at my hotel—45 minutes later—and just in time. Because at this point, he told me his age and asked me if I wanted to “maybe go out with him because his wife was staying in India?”

So far, it’s been an interesting trip. And to think, I almost said no because of my flight phobia! This IS the one thing I enjoy about traveling—the people you meet. So fear of flying be damned—I’m having a good old time. Maybe I’ll get my crew to take a picture of me standing next to a big cactus!?

The shoot the next day was okay. Long, but okay. As I mentioned, the topic-du-jour was “Minister on Meth.” It’s not easy to talk to people you don’t know and get them to spew their inner-most secrets under lights, in front of a camera, in a perfect complete sentence. But I do it. And I think I’m good at it because I care about people. And it shows. The Methister’s daughter got upset when I interviewed her and started crying. I told her to stop. Breathe. Take some water. At some point, I thought it was cruel to keep asking her to try and answer the same questions that were clearly upsetting her. As we wrapped up, I wished them luck on their road to recovery and said that somehow, this will be helping other people with addictions. Hopefully. Then I yelled out to the Meth family as I ran to the truck—“Say a prayer for me Pastor Brian! I don’t like to fly!” (figured I deserved that extra request—I didn't push their daughter to get the complete answers--even though it may mean no more shoots like this for Lynn.)
When I got to the airport with only twenty minutes to spare—I ran to the ticket counter—only to find out they gave away my seat. “You can’t do that the Dr. Blank Show already paid for my ticket?!!” They didn’t care. “Go to the gate and maybe they can get you on standby.” This is something a scardey cat flyer does NOT want to hear. It means—packed flight. Which typically adds to my freak-out. When I got there, they were asking if people would give up their ticket—“You can have a first class flight out tomorrow and we’ll put you in a hotel!” I thought, well that’s not a bad deal--and it won't be crowded! There’s a young man also waiting to get on tonight who told me he was trying to get to his Uncle’s funeral in the morning. “I’ll do it—if you can give my ticket to him—and take my bag off the plane?” “Oh sorry mam, you checked your bag at ticket counter. We can’t take it off.” BUT YOU GAVE AWAY MY TICKET!!!

At that point, I told the young man—"I’m sorry. I don’t even have a toothbrush." and walked down the jet way. I got the last seat. Almost too angry to be afraid—and too rushed to do my pre-flight rituals—I snapped at the flight attendant who welcomed me “I sure hope your flight crew is more organized than your ticketing crew.” She later brought me a big, free glass of wine “from first class, for your troubles.” Stuck in the middle again—I started to show “weenie flyer” signs as we hit some turbulence. The woman next to me this time around said “Nothing to be afraid of. Just some air.” We started chatting. She just came from Alabama —been flying all day—visiting her sister.

I told her about my ordeal at the ticket counter. And she told me about her day. Two flights and still a two hour drive with her husband once we land. She said her husband doesn't like to fly either. But that's not why he's not with her. Seems her son got a bad infection and ended up in intensive care. After five years in Iraq, he gets some weird, strange illness that almost kills him--at home. I didn't get dinner--because of the long shoot--so I opted for one of those ten buck "snack trays" of old crackers and older cheese. May (that's her name) told me she always travels with food. Especially since she started the chemo. WHAT? "But it's my last round this week--so I'm gonna party!"

What am I complaining about--almost missing my flight? Here's a woman who just did a year of chemo for breast cancer, with her only child in the hospital--smiling and talking and happy to be in the air or ANYWHERE for that matter. I asked her if she had a nice visit with her sister. She said she did. "It could have been for a better reason but--hey--at least we got to go shopping together!" I pushed a little further--like the good interviewer that I am--"I had to bury my mother."

I didn't feel the big drop the plane just took when we hit a little turbulence. May went on to tell me about her mother who became an alcoholic when her father died. She cared for her for many years--until she couldn't do it anymore--and shipped her out to her sister's neck of the woods. "I didn't get to see her. I talked to her though." In that moment, I thought of my own mom. And the similarities the two strong women I met mid-air have with her.

My mom is the strongest, most caring person I know. She cares for my sick dad with a smile on her face--always putting herself last on the list. But she's strong. She got her thyroid removed and was back home making dad sandwiches the next day. She listens to all four of her daughters cry about men, jobs, kids, dogs--and juggles them all while growing tomatoes and paying the bills and managing diabetes. I hope my mom gets to travel someday--like these two ladies. And I hope someone sitting next to her will talk to her and listen to her amazing life stories. I know for sure--she'll hold your hand.

This time I waited. I walked with May to the baggage floor--and lifted her suitcase off the carousel. We said goodbye--and as I waited for my bag--I called my mom to tell her I got home okay. It went to voicemail. I'm pretty sure she was talking to someone else. Caring for them, instead of going to bed. This week is her 70th birthday. And I can't wait to celebrate with her.

As I walked to my car--proud of the crazy journey I just made--proud that I flew--that I said yes to this adventure and had some extra money for the month--I saw May on the phone--probably to her husband. As I passed her I heard her say into the phone "Well how do I know what terminal I'm in?"  I turned and yelled back: "You're in A! Terminal A!"  I like to help people. I like to talk to people. I think I get that from my mom. For years I've believe I got my witty TV talents from my Dad...but I'm now beginning to believe it's all from my mom. I hope so.
Oh wait--almost forgot the title of my blog...the moment you've all been waiting for...the "you can't make this shit up moment?"  I get to my car. Even remembered where I parked. I put the key in the engine--CHECK ENGINE LIGHT. All $1,000 I made on that shoot promptly went into the old, used BMW the very next day. Maybe flying is safer?

Moon Over My-Hammy

WARNING: this is a long one. But I needed to write it out. So all 2 of you reading this should grab a drink.

It's a full moon this week. Even more exciting--a harvest moon. It's gorgeous. But I think a little more devious than your average orb. Because my life turned into a weird, bizarre world this week--and it can only be that uber-lunar pull that's shifted my universe so severely. Either that--or I really have some shitty karma built up. Here--I'll let you be the judge:

Day 1- You are what you wear. I had a job interview for a big gig I REALLY wanted. My City. Good Salary. Totally creative. World travel. I was so excited to go talk to these guys--and I knew I had a good shot at it. I thought the interview with the first person went well. But when they brought me in to see #2--the first thing she said even before hello was, "Banana Republic 2003!" I thought--okay--"Old Navy 1999 to you too!?" I had no idea what she was referring to--until she said it again--only this time added--"Your coat! I did the marketing for that coat--Banana Republic 2003!" I looked down at my cute teal coat and thought--oh--my coat--2003--yikes, its old. I really didn't remember when I bought it.


Now normally what I wear to a job interview really doesn't matter--just as long as I look nice and professional--maybe just a little hip or creative, right? Not today. I immediately thought--oh jeez. She thinks I'm out of style. Not fashionable. That could be a problem. You see---big job interview was with big designer company that puts little red labels on their jeans. All I could come up with in response was "I don't shop much." And then an added whimper "I don't wear it much because I was living in Sacramento and it's hot there." Didn't matter. Her interpretation : It's 7 years old. I might as well have been wearing a hoop skirt and pantaloons as far as she was concerned.

Needless to say--I doubt little red label company will be hiring me as their Director of Content. But then--I guess if they don't hire me because my wardrobe--it's not a good fit for either of us. (no fashion pun intended.)

Day two - I got bitch-slapped by a blogger: The week continued to tank along. The next day, I had a run-in with a young blogger who wrote an article about one of my clients. An article that clearly had errors and mistakes. Now, it's my job to clean up communications messes for this organization. So I contacted the blogger. I simply asked her to repost her article, because her information was wrong and it could potentially hurt innocent people. Sounds fair enough, right? Wrong.

She bitched me out. She literally pulled the "oh no you di-dn't just email me to say change your blog?'"  She asked me -- "I don't know how you have time to read my blog, aren't you supposed to be working? Maybe you should spend YOUR time writing something?!!" Whuck? When did asking for accuracy become MY problem? I've spent many years working in the media--and granted, it wasn't always "New York Times quality" stuff--(IE: Dr. Phil Show) but one thing I always strive for is accuracy. I learned in college journalism classes--check - your - facts!

I was sad to learn today,  that no longer exists OR is necessary. In this new era of fast "citizen journalism,"  a tweet can be reposted incorrectly to infinity.  And that apparently is the norm. It's why I stick to blogging about my zits and dateless pre-menopausal life. If I need to fact check--I just look in the mirror.

Day Three: What year is this? I got a Facebook message from a guy I met five years ago--a work acquaintance of my ex. "Antonio" is some Italian guy who used to live in my hometown. We had emailed a few times after that first meeting.  He knew I was in a relationship, so after that--I really didn't hear from him until now. So when I got the FB message---I groaned a teeny bit at the "wanna have coffee" invite--because I wasn't into him then and wasn't about to be now. So I didn't really think much of it. Was just going to ignore it. Until my mother called.

She said she got a strange phone call --from an Italian woman who was asking about her beautiful daughters--particularly "the one who lives in X?" (protecting the innocent aka: me) "Is she married? Because my Antonio lives near her! How old is she?"  Really? The dude who contacted me on FB got his mother to call my mother? Does that even still happen? What year is this? Suddenly 1953?

My mom replied, "She's 48." Strange Italian mama: "Oh that-sa too old for my Antonio. He wanna be a daddy." Okay. So not only do I have strange men's mothers call my mother, I'm now also too old to be with strange men--even if I wanted to. Great. My mom laughed. I started crying. Why is everything so crazy right now? My clothes are old, so I dont' get a job. My journalism style's too old, because I abhor inaccuracies. And now my ovaries are too old--for--well--pretty much everyone including Antonio.

I wanted to rip "Antonio" a new one on FB. But instead, just replied nicely, "I'm fine. Hope you are. I'm moving. Ciao." And I mean it. Ci-ao.

Day five:  Bye-bye Box. The last straw during this mad moon week, just happened. Someone informed me that my ex is somehow involved with a woman I used to be friends with. Now I know, you're thinking--so what? I'm glad you asked. This woman hurt me. Kicked me when I was down. Dumped me-- after I did so much for her, simply because she was worried she'd lose her job, when I lost mine. AND I HIRED HER. Thanks for doing all you did, but I no longer need you. It's going around.

I mentioned this in a previous blog, when I first got an inkling of this--but when I asked him about it--the ex just denied it and called her a "fan." (of his local garage band.) Stupid me. I bought it. Especially since the ex and I were trying to be friends again. (go ahead, yell.) But when I got an email today, to view a link to a video--starring this former gal pal of mine--accompanied by a soundtrack that was Mr. PP's band--I didn't quite know how to react? Except to over-react. And remind the guy that he crossed a boundary exes don't cross. You don't involve yourself with someone who hurt your ex. Didn't "I love you" mean anything? Can't loyalty survive a bad break up?

Not going into the details on this one--because it's keeping me up at night--but the minute I saw it--I took "The Box" (pls read previous blog entry on The Box) taped it up, ran to the post office and shipped it -- Return to the lying sender. Everything. Jewelry. Cards. My precious Charlie Brown books he gave me. In that moment--I didn't want any connection to the guy. Did he really find another TV producer to play with? And someone who was my friend--until she too dumped me when I couldn't do anything more for her? The two actually sound perfect for each other, to be quite honest. But it hurt. Like the day they both left me.

Day Six: I'm tired. After all the week's wildness, tonight I sat outside with a glass of wine and looked at that big harvest moon--starting to lose a little of it's fullness. I still loved it. I thought about everything that transpired this week--and wondered if there WAS some weird magical force that contributes to us all going a little haywire once a month when the moon is full? As I stared at the sky--I started to cry. For the job I didn't get at NASA this year. (I really love the moon so natural this came up again) For the weird guy who's mother called mine. For my ring I sent back. For the job I didn't get this week because I didn't wear Levi's (there I said it.) and for that break I've been waiting for-- for many moons. In that moment, I realized the week was coming to an end and I stopped crying. Like the moon--life gets full and wild and bright--and then small and quiet and sometimes dark. Life's a circle. Why would there be a saying "What comes around, goes around" if that wasn't so? I know, like the full moon, the good will be back. But this time, I'm not gonna wait for it--counting the days on the calendar. I'm going after that fullness now.

The box is gone. And hopefully so is the rest of the crap.

Oh--PS - Title: "Moon over my-hammy" is my favorite "Denny's restaurant title for ham and pancakes. Random I know. But fun to say. And eat.

A sign from above

I got dumped on last night. By a bird. And in a strange way--I think it was some kind of sign--or a cosmic crapping of sorts--as it was the perfect way to end this particular evening. I have a young friend who invited me out, just as I was about to take yet another lonely, single-girl Saturday walk in the park. Ugly shorts, baseball cap, Ipod. When she called--I stripped them all off and threw myself together. I want to meet someone new. And it's not going to happen by sitting on the couch. So when Rachel called--I jumped.

Now--I say she's my "young friend" but this woman is mature and intelligent beyond her years--which is why we enjoy each other's company. I can always teach her a few things about careers and bad life decisions--but this night--I realized this youngin' had much to teach me. Now before I go all Kung Fu master and bore you with talk about old dogs etc--understand this Grasshopper: seems I never really learned that trick of how to show a man you like him. So old dog, new dog, green dog, blue dog--it's a trick I need to learn--to find love again.

After a fun evening of pizza, street vendors and art galleries--we ended up listening to a band in a garage.  No, not a "garage band" but a band actually playing in a mechanic's garage. (I know random, but it was perfect!) As we listened to the music, my friend starts up a conversation with a man next to her, who clearly had a few too many. But she enjoyed his silliness, danced around with him, laughed, enjoyed the moment.

As I watched in complete amazement, standing next to me, was also a man. Now. I couldn't tell you what he looked like at first. I was just watching the band. But then he asked me a question. So I had to look--only I didn't really. I answered in a very sterile way without looking at him "no, I've never heard of this band before." And...that was it. The quick glance I got--I noticed he wasn't bad looking. (See? I'm not a complete loss?)

Rachel continued to chat with her new pal. And now "my guy" got into their conversation. I played it cool--okay--cold. Figured, I talked to him. That was nice. Lynn talked to a boy. Good for her. More than I've done in years. At that moment--I said to my friend--let's leave and get a glass of wine.

As we left the garage--Rachel stopped me in what appeared to be a sidewalk come-to-Oprah moment. She yelled, "What the F is wrong with you? That guy was hot!" To which I responded. "I talked to him." She went on. "He's a doctor! You could have married this guy--he was into you!" Ahem. Excuse me? Doctor? Now I thought she was making things up. "Didn't you see his t-shirt logo? UC Davis Medical School? HELLO?"

I thought. How did she see that? And I didn't? She continued the lesson, "You had the perfect opportunity to ask him about himself! And you didn't." What? Me ask him something? Right. Isn't that his job? My head spun in circles, flying back to the moment I met Mr.PP -- at yet another concert--five years ago. HE did all the talking. But did I make it THAT hard for him too? I mean, I did give him my phone number, so I couldn't have been that much of a flirting failure. But seriously--I don't know how to be attractive to a man who's attracted to me? Why?

Later, sitting outside a cute wine bar, Rachel and I continued to talk about it.  How can I be in the business of communications--even interview complete strangers for hours for major talk shows--but when you put me side by side with a potential mate--I clam up. Turn into Popsicle Lynn. Ice queen. It's not ego? Or attitude? It's just plain fear. Sprinkled with a heavy dusting of NO self confidence. I need to change that. I needed to be reminded by someone still fearless and young and excited about meeting EVERYONE--that it doesn't hurt to be happy around a man who's interested in you. Doesn't mean you have to take him home and cook him salmon. It's the game. The flirting game. You try me on, I try you on.

And then the young one schooled me in something I never saw coming--because I've never had someone do that for me. She said "Girl--I set it up for you! I was your wing man! I made myself look like an idiot so he would glom on to you! and he did! You blew it!" Huh? Is that what she was doing? I thought maybe she liked the guy? A wing man? I've never had someone actually HELP me seal the deal to love!??

And as I continued to tell my friend about how hard it is for me to talk to men, I don't communicate well, I'm old, my dad...blah, blah, blah...PLOP! A sign from above! Sitting outside under a building ledge, discussing the fine art of flirting--or the lack there of--a bird crapped on me. And it went everywhere. Thankfully, nowhere near my drink, my friend or my Coach purse. But still. That bird--and my friend were trying to tell me something. In that moment, we laughed--Rachel joked about getting the bird flu--and as I quietly rolled up my soiled sweater into a ball, I said--"some countries feel that's good luck. To be crapped on." And if it is--believe me I have a heaping load of karma pulling into the station soon, because I had to hose that mother off this morning.

I couldn't help but think I had two wing-men that evening. Both watching out for me--both trying to tell me to get my shit together. The doctor wanted to talk to me. I ignored him. It doesn't matter if I go out every night or walk in the park every night. Unless I lose that idea of fear that keeps me from being the fun, funny, giving person I gave to PP for 3 years--the person that Rachel sees--I'm going to turn into a large lady who keeps parakeets. (no offense to those who do.) And then I'll have plenty of opportunities to be crapped on--but it won't have anything to do with luck.

Thanks R for the lesson in how to be carefree again. I needed that. (I'll also send you my dry cleaning bill. Still cheaper than therapy.)

She's gonna blow!

I'd like to say a few words about middle-age acne. What the F---? That's really all I can say. Actually no, it's so heinous it requires more than a few words. It seems cruel to add this battle with Mt. Vesuvius on my face, to the list of other "fun" women get to experience at this age. And I'm not naturally pimple-prone, mind you. I went through puberty with barely a scar or scab on my face. Beautiful skin. I suppose that's exactly why I'm being "blessed" with the Clearasil conundrum at this point in my life? Same with being the last of my teenage pals to get my period. Looks like I'm going to be the first to go-- on this side. It's fantastic how that higher being tries to "even things out." Glorious good times.

Now, when I talk about zits--I don't mean a widespread breakout, entire crater-faced disaster every time hormones act up. I'm just talking about one. One. Strategically placed zit. And no, it's not a tiny imperfection--it's large. Big. Red. Boulder. Like the one I have right now. (right, lower chin quadrant) And no matter how much cover-up you put on it--it only looks bigger. Like trying to hide a cake baking disaster by piling on more frosting. The bump only gets bigger. And looks more obvious. Now I don't want to jinx it--but I'd almost feel more comfortable if I got more than just one. At least balance out my face. And wouldn't stick out like a sore--um--thumb isn't big enough. Anyways, it's the first thing you see when I say hello. I feel like it crosses the street before I do.

And at this age--when you get a volcano-sized blemish--you don't want to put too much of that drying medicinal crap on it, for fear it'll be too drying and add wrinkles along with the stress of the lone facial mount. So yes, you can get rid of the zit--but you're now left with a wrinkly hole that peels, cracks and contributes to the make-up flaking. Usually while you're making a presentation.

It's embarrassing because they last so long. These aren't those teenage here-today, gone tomorrow zits. And inevitably, they show up on a day when you have to meet someone important. A date. A meeting. A job interview. "Hi, I'm 40-something and I still get pimples." It's there. You can't avoid it. So do you call it out in public? Or just ignore it and hope they don't see the spot covered in six layers of Lancome? I usually choose full disclosure. Not sure why. When I was in a relationship--I'd always say "ignore the massive zit"--and point it out. Every time he'd say "I don't even see it." But he would if we made out and the makeup got sucked away. So I tell. Maybe it's easier to call out my imperfections before someone else does? (I think I need to call out Dr. Phil on that one.)

On a movie junket a while back--I had to interview Matt Damon.  As I interviewed Mr. Damon--I heard it coming out of my mouth--but couldn't believe I was calling attention to it--there. I asked my last question: "So when you wake up in the morning--do you feel like the same person now that you've won an Oscar? Like me--this morning I woke up and thought--Wow--I'm going to interview Matt Damon--but then I looked in the mirror and realized I had this giant zit on my chin." (I pointed. Yes this story had visuals.)

Chirp-Chirp. (Insert cricket sound effects here.)

He may have looked at me like "lady your five minutes are up right now." But--phew-now Matt Damon knew I had covered up a zit--it wasn't some facial deformity. I felt better. Later in the hallway--the cameraman walked by me..."You can't even see it." he said. Maybe full disclosure to movie stars and men in your life--isn't the way to go after all. Maybe calling attention to your bobbles isn't the way to go either? Considering--most aren't even noticeable?

I know I can't ask for perfection at this point in life--but the constant stream of weird things changing in my body as time marches on and steals any semblance of hotness--is stressful. Do we have to contend with hormone-induced acne as well? Seems unfair. I thought--or was told--things get easier. Had I any idea I'd still be buying Clearasil in my forties--and not for my teenage kids (which I forgot to have)--I probably would have would have kept that sample "DermaWand" I got when I produced an infomercial about an electronic zit zapper Ivana Trump sold. "Gilllls (she couldn't say girls) Try the Derma Band...(she couldn't say "wand" either)...Eet geeves you gorgeous blemish-free skin!"  Only--it looked like a vibrator you use on your face --so I tossed it when I moved. Plus--back then--I didn't need the vibrator zit zapper. Gilllls. And don't say Pro-Active. That lady was my dermatologist when I had beautiful skin. The fact that I had to produce Ivana Trump's zitfomerical, instead of my own doctor's that made her a bazzillionaire--is enough to cause--well, acne.

So what do you do? I need some interaction on this one. Just laugh? Wear a hat? Stay home from work? Cold? Hot? Squeeze it? Don't squeeze it? The fact that I'm giving pimples so much press, is most likely fact that I'm a little obsessed with how I look. I'm not really. As I write this--I sit with an inch thick green mask on my face. It's just part of that jelly roll of insecurities you've read about in previous blogs. Aging. Dating. Dumping. That and ye old lack of self confidence which often forces me to show you where I'm lacking. So next time you see me--please--say "What's that thing on your face?" Stop me from the telescoping (wrong word) pity party! I handled it once--from age 14 - 18...I can do it again. (the pimples, not the pity.) It's really just puberty in reverse. And when I get though it--just like the first phase--I'll have a big, fun, carefree time ahead of me. Free from blemishes and cramps! Only this time, I'll wearing a diaper instead of cheerleading trunks.

(sorry--way more than a few words. Shoulda stuck with What the Fxxx.)

Life's a walk in the park (Sometimes)

So this one's not so funny. But nice. Just a bunch of things that popped into my head while walking to the park. I know...can't you just take a walk in the park without going all Oprah? I must be hormonal. Cuz I'm ruminating. But not ovulating. (Just in case you were wondering.)

I like to walk to the park near my house, 2-3 times a week. And when I do, I play a little game--I try to notice "what's changed" since the last time I walked. A house painted a new color. Baby ducks! New landscaping. Home up for sale. Tonight I noticed quite a bit. But I couldn't help thinking I was noticing these things, because of where I am in life--not because they were different or new. (see? hormonal.)

First--let's back up the walk a bit. Walk backwards?Because this is what put me in the mood for the "noodle walk." Before hitting the pavement--I went and met a man for a drink. Call it a date if you want. I didn't. Just a nice man from work who asked me out to have a drink. I don't know if I'm attracted to this nice man. But I do know--He's nice, (said that) and I'm intrigued. Seems he had a bad divorce. Has a lovely young daughter. Was in a relationship with a younger woman. And now--says he's "under construction" when it comes to relationships. I love that. The fact that a man is strong enough to say--"hey--I'm learning. I"m building. I'm trying to make myself better when it comes to loving." That takes guts. And an openness I love. We all should be hammering away at that one.

Walking, walking. A house has new scaffolding up. It's under construction too. I laughed at my friend's comment. "Hard hat required." The scaffolding wasn't there Sunday. So this is something new. The house looked perfectly good to me a couple days ago. But looks are deceiving. This I know for sure.  I like walking at this time in the evening. So many couples going for a 7pm stroll after dinner. Tonight it made me smile, instead of the usual lonely, hate you're a couple and I'm not, feeling.

Walking. This time past my old office. Which sits across from the park. I used to love walking to work. Mostly because of the park and the insane shape I was in. But also because of the job. Executive Producer of some pretty fun cable TV shows. I looked up at the window of my office as I walked by. I used to stare out at that tree--often look at the people walking the park. Now I was one of them. I loved that job. I loved how in charge I was. Tonight--I wasn't. Not really. I could see myself in that office--barking out orders and laughing. My Ipod hit a song that was oddly and appropriately timed-- a song by Natalie Merchant--right as my eyes welled up. "But don't cry,  you know the tears will do no good so dry your eyes..." I hate my current job. But she's right. Does no good. (The title of that song is "The Sweet Life"...I thought I had one-- working in that office.)

I thought the sweet life was also the relationship I was in. Earlier this week--I talked to Mr. PP. I know. Again--say what you want. I think we have these moments where we get a flash of what was, and pine away for it. At least I do. And so we talk. Or text. Anyway, we talked about "needing someone." I believe we all need someone--to some degree. We can't exist alone. I look around in the park--and people are together. A big, giant party yelled out as someone opened a gift. "oooooh!!" They have each other. I asked the ex--don't you want someone to help you? Someone to lean on and help share the hard stuff? He blurted out--"No. I don't need anyone. I don't want anyone to help me."

Wow. That keeps floating around my noodle. How much someone hurt him to make him feel that way. (And it wasn't me!) I kept walking. A man fell on the sidewalk ahead. Two people stopped to help him up. They stayed to make sure he was okay. I cared. I stopped to make sure he was fine--even from across the street. He needed someone in that moment. See? We need each other. It's fine to go "jogging" alone, but at some point...

The nice gentleman I had drinks with earlier tonight told me he always hooks up with women who need him too much. He said his upbringing forces him to be there too much. What is that? Guilt? Co-dependency? Maleness? I thought Mr. PP was there for me. I thought he liked that? Maybe I needed him too much. But then--I thought he needed me--to help heal the crap from his divorce. I was wrong. Really wrong. Or just really narcissistic? (me or him?) Doesn't matter now.

That experience aside, I still believe someone will need me. Someday. Because I need someone. A lot of someones. We are a community. What you do--effects others. You can't walk on this planet (or in the park)--and not effect someone else?!! If you don't know need--how do you know care? As I continued my walk--on the way back--I ran into a firetruck and ambulance pulled up to a  house I love on the corner. I stopped. Because I always wave at the elderly woman who lives there. My heart sunk. She's always out on the sidewalk--walking her Jack Russell terrier, tied to her walker. When I go by and I see her, I wave. She waves back every time.  I"m not sure if she thinks I'm someone else--or maybe--hopefully--she's just happy someone notices her. We all need someone to notice us. We need each other. Tonight I hope she has someone, by her side. If the fire truck was there for her.

Walk's over. I'm back home. Glad I went on my park exploration--of what's new--and what's not. Every time I take that walk, I feel better. It's a chance to explore nature--and my thoughts. I guess if P doesn't want to be needed, then I don't want him. I hope he gets his confidence back--and learns to accept help--rather than fighting it off because it makes him feel in control. I'm sure losing a wife--is a sort of out of control that's not easy to come back from. But I sure tried.

Maybe he's under construction too? He had the roof fall in on him...so it's a long and expensive renovation. Me? I've got the blueprints. I patched up the holes in the drywall.  Maybe just a paint job. Maybe a total re-do? Stay tuned. Oh--and next time you go for a walk--see what you can see. (inside and out!)

Press 1 to Pee, Press 2 to...

Yes, I'm going there. And only because this has been bugging me for days and I think I need your input. I promise, this will be quick. Unlike the actual moment which seemed to go on forever. This week--I went into the ladies room at my "McDonald's" job. Big public restroom with multiple stalls. I never strategically pick a stall, however I've noticed a pattern with some at this place. Regardless--as I sat down to relieve myself--I heard a woman's voice in the stall next to me--TALKING ON HER CELL PHONE.

Now I"m sorry. But a bathroom is a room with one purpose. Okay maybe two--uh, if you count fixing your hair. And at work--it's really a fast in/out do your business room right? Apparently not here. As I sat there--I realized I recognized the voice on the cell phone. Great--A woman I manage. So I listened. And sat. I listened. And...COULDN'T PEE. I felt like if I did--I'd be heard on her cell phone conversation. NOT that I knew the person on the other end--and not that I cared if she cared (clearly she didn't since her friend was on the pot too) But still--suddenly my bladder got very shy.

So--and here's the part I"m obsessing over--I said "Gretchen? Are you on your cell phone?!!" Silence. From all the stalls. Not even a courtesy flush to hide my strange inquisition. Finally I gave up. Washed up. And left. Quickly, so no one could see who was the culprit to call out the caller. The rest of the day, I felt bad. I avoided Gretchen. Why? I don't know. So help me please. What would you have done? Keep quiet? Ignore it? Whistle? But seriously--IS NOTHING SACRED from the cell? Good lord--what if I had to do #2? (sorry)

I felt compelled--and a bit scared--that maybe I was the outsider who DOESN'T talk on her cell phone in the restroom--so I emailed Gretchen. "I hope I didn't embarrass you in the ladies room...just surprised to hear someone talking in there." God. I made it worse didn't I? She emailed back--"not to worry--someone died and I was counseling a friend." (While she was peeing mind you.) AHHHHHHH. That makes it better. I should have peed. Or farted loudly as they cried about a death.

I think I'm working in a place where everyone feels so comfortable--it's like they forget they're not at home. You know--sometimes people talk in the theater because they forget they're not sitting in front of their Blu-ray player on their couch? There's even a dedicated stall in this work toilet room for "Long termers"--complete with newspapers and magazines. It's the stall at the very end. And is always booked with someone wearing sensible shoes.

I'm trying to learn from this work experience. Try the end stall. Be an empathetic manager. These people are good people--Work just isn't #1 on the list--neither, apparently is urinating.  I suppose it's a good lesson to learn. But I"m getting nervous. I haven't been finding anything in my field of television--and I"m scared I'm going to have to be a spokesperson for the rest of my life. And start wearing sensible state worker shoes? I almost cried this week, when a talk show I contract for contacted me and asked "Are you on board for Season 9?" I yelled out loud in my office--"GOD BLESS DR. PHIL!" Let me go interview crazy people who are addicted to talking on their cell phones in public restrooms...just don't make me manage them anymore.

Sadly, this job would have been perfect for the relationship with Mr.--sorry--PP. Leave at 5. No homework. No worries. My stressful TV gig kinda put too much stress on the guy gig too. I've thought about that a lot since the bathroom situation...would it be easier to find another dude right now--than find another job? Maybe. I sort of miss being in love. That feeling for schwa, takes your mind off the little things. Like this bizzaro-world bathroom and the creatures that inhabit it. Thanks Gretchen. Your gonna force me into online dating aren't you? (Insert toilet flush here)

The Head Cheerleader's a Lesbo

It's what's floating around my noodle these past few days. The fear that's what they'll think. "They" being the entire Class of 1980. You see, this week is my 30th high school reunion. And while I've done some pretty darn groovie things in my life since we graduated--seems these parties only boil down to who you're married to, what size you are, and how big your house is. I went to the 10, the 15 and the 20. But I'm having a little bit of trouble committing to the 30. Maybe because I feel I have nothing new to report.

I'll be the first to say-- a hell of a lot has transpired in the past ten years--including a guy that I had hoped to bring to some kind of reunion. But as far as this crowd's concerned? Nada new. See, all that stuff the past ten years-- ended the same as they saw me last: single. So while I know they're not saying it...they're thinking it. She's never married. Our head cheerleader clearly is a lesbian. Doesn't matter that I look better than most of them--I don't have a ring and never bring a guy. Les and Bo. So...no go. Just don't feel like explaining. Besides--I don't quite know why I"m not married?

I stay in touch with the friends from high school that I want to see. Why do I need to see people who have chosen NOT to stay in my life? And at the same time--if I wanted to see them--I would have. (I hope you got that--if not, go back, please try again.) Yesterday I received a lovely thank you note from a friend who recently spent a weekend here. I also got three phone calls from old friends who always check in on me--we always catch up. All three made me feel so blessed and loved. I have -- and have always had--amazing friends. And I know that's a reflection on the kind of friend that I am. (See? Not a total debbie downer loss.)

I fear though, that lately the term "friend" means less than it used to. It's tossed around so much. I wish FaceBook had picked a different word for someone who chooses to read all the crap you write about yourself. Maybe "Lurking Pals" would have been a better choice? But not Friends. If you have kids--please teach them what a true "friend" is. It requires so much more effort--than a simple e-thumbs up. No one can possibly have 1,885 real friends.

After the second phone call from my friend who now lives in Houston--I started to think about Mr.PP--and how important it's been to me, that we remain friends. But for the first time--I asked myself--WHY? Sure, because when we were together--we were inseparable and had fun together--we were friends. But since he decided he wanted out, of the relationship and the friendship--why would I give him the benefit--no the honor--of being my friend?

Friends call you on your birthday. He didn't. Friends email you when you lose your job. He didn't. And when you're humiliated in the local paper by a crazy woman you used to manage--a friend writes a letter to the editor and says "your paper spreads lies." He didn't. (But his friend did.) I've spoken to him a few times recently. And I hear the words coming out of my mouth. "I want us to be friends." But what does that mean? Go have a sandwich now and then? Get together for a drink? (We don't.) Don't ban me from your Facebook profile? Or send my emails directly to the spam folder? (He does.) Can he possibly be the type of friend I call a FRIEND?

I have plenty of friends. So I think, maybe, I want him as the friend he used to be. And that can't happen. I miss him, so I convinced myself any part of him in my life is better than none? So "let's be friends!" Nope. Sitting on my lawn chair, drinking a beer and reading "Eat, Pray, Love" for the 50th time, I finally admitted to myself..."find someone else to play with." I know what a friend is. And what they do. And I'm confident I'm that kind of friend to all of mine. I would have been to Mr. PP too--even post breakup--because I am open and forgiving and hopeful...but not hopeful enough to think he'll call to say hi when he meets another potential lesbian head cheerleader.

Now I see there are two types of friends......the ones who take vacation time to come visit you (and then write you a note to say how much fun it was) and the ones who just don't want you to hate them. So they can feel better about themselves. For dumping you. And the ones that are mere acquaintances--from  high school--or that great big digital yearbook called FB. Real friendship requires work. My true friends aren't going to the reunion...and they all know the head cheerleader isn't a lesbian. They also all know I had my heart broken and that's why I'm not married and they're happy to allow me to take all the time I need to crawl out the hole and meet a new friend and that I WILL get married.

Maybe by the 40 year reunion. We'll see. If I want a reunion--I just have to pick up the phone. But if I go to that one--I'm bound and determined to bring a date and a ring. And then let them say what they want. By then, they won't be able to see whether it's woman or a man anyway. And I"ll still look better than most of them, no matter what team I bat for.