dating (and adventures)in the Land of the Lost

The Beginning

2014-06-18T21:07:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

And she did. For a minute.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was just the oldest.

Stranger than Fiction

2014-03-07T23:35:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TBC…….

Tomorrow is another day

2013-11-17T18:19:00.000-08:00

Sometimes LIFE is wierd.

Sometimes it's confusing.

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

I get it. The drudgery of "LIFE".

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

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

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

SURVIVAL.

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

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

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

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

4 am..

2013-04-29T02:30:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that makes me vulnerable.

The Club. Downstairs players.

2013-04-18T21:45:00.001-07:00

The Players:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Costa Rica

2013-04-16T20:17:00.002-07:00

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

Not joking.

The Princess has to Work Hard.

2013-04-11T22:37:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deja Vu

2013-04-07T21:59:00.000-07:00

As she listened to the music, it felt like she was not ONLY listening with her ears and her brain. The combination of this music and her emotions drugged her inside and out. She could not take her eyes off of the love of her life, and yet she felt she couldn't see him clearly. Tears were in the way for one thing. Hot tears. And lots of them. She tried to keep her body as frozen as possible so no one would notice her deranged, helpless state - but even as her body stiffened, she felt transported to another place and time.
Without closing her eyes, her psyche was inondated with visceral memories from many, many years past.

*********************************************************************

He played, and she was on the beach of a lake. It was foggy. She was waiting for him. jumping out of her skin with anticipation. She didn't know if he would come. The fog parted like a curtain, and he made his entrance into her world for real. He was tall and thin, with the softest, sweetest eyes ever given to a man. Searching eyes. He looked around a little, then laughed very slightly.

"Is it you?" he said.
"Yes." she said, feeling like her insides were about to explode. With happiness and nervousness and seventeen year old hormones.
"You wrote the notes?" He asked.
"Yes. It was me."
He looked a little bit baffled. Moved closer to her. Shook his head, laughing nervously again.
"Wow. I never would have guessed it was you."
"Why not? Who else would it be?"
"I don't know.." he smiled down at her shyly, "..just not you."

They were quiet for a moment, listening to the lapping water. The sound of the water was so calmimg, and the fog felt like peace - but they were in another place. Transported by a much stronger energy.
"Are you disappointed?" she asked, trying to see his face in the dark fog.
"No." he said. "Not at all. Are you kidding?"

He was so close to her now. His body was like a magnet. She pulled him to her by his shirt, stood on her toes and kissed him. He kissed her back. His lips were warm and perfect, his breath was like sex and home all at once. And although it was a soft, gentle kiss - it instantly left her wanting more and everything.
It was a perfect first kiss.

He leaned over her. Whispered, "I can't believe you were my secret admirer."
"Why not?" she asked, trying to be flirtatious and not just throw her arms around him and hold on for dear life.
"I don't know..." he whispered, close to her face. He kissed her again. His lips sent hot waves of longing all through her body. "I just can't"

She took him to her dorm room that night. They kissed and talked for hours. She wanted to rip all of his clothes off and do everything with him. But she didn't.
His hair was so soft. It was like silk.
Sitting in that concert hall, she could remember exactly how it felt and smelled. How his shirt felt on her cheek. How his skin felt under her hand. She remembered exactly how it felt to finally have him in her arms, and how from the very first few moments she knew that she never wanted him to leave.

The Matisse has finally arrived!

2013-04-04T16:33:00.000-07:00

I have spent the day....WAITING.

Finally, D and Mom came back to the house to have a little chat and catch up on the details of my life.
D was in a merry mood, having lunched with my sister at one of his favorite French bistros, Epicerie. He brought back a macaroon for us, which was quite delicious - even to my exacting standards.

They spoke of friends, and recalled a ghastly seafood casserole they'd both been invited to dine upon in the recent past. "The SMELL!", D exclaimed, "The SMELL of that thing - the whole house just STUNK!"
The two of them bent over in laughter at the memory of the horrid meal.

Then, D was trying to explain to me that I looked a bit too much like Rebecca De Mornay in 'The Hand that Rocked the Cradle' to realistically think I'd ever get a position as a nanny. I thanked him.
(I never get tired of being comapred to her!)
"Why do you keep glancing at the door?" D asked me.
"She's waiting for UPS." Mom said. "For her painting."
"It's not a painting. It's a litho." I asserted. "An original litho. I've been waiting here all day."

And I had been.
Just like Scarlett O'Hara, I am reduced to selling off my treasures for neccecities. It's not the first time, either. I had to sell a beautiful ring a long time ago in London so that I could buy diapers. I don't mind. Lots of things are more important than owning a Matisse right now.

"I told her she should wear her glasses when she interviews to be a nanny..." my Mother went back to.
"Well, can we open it up and see it when it arrives?" D asked.
"I've tried that, Mom. Doesn't seem to help." I looked at D, thinking. "Well, I guess so. I have to open it to have it appraised anyway.."
Just then my Mother gave a little gasp. I looked out the window and saw the man in brown shorts. I let out a squeal right at about the same time the dogs across the way started barking at the poor man like crazy. "It's HERE!" I practically shouted, jumping up and running to the door. I flung it open to see the man gaurding himself against a ferocios Chihuahua with my box. The bigger dog was barking loudly at him, but keeping a civilized distance. As soon as the man was able to turn around and hand me the big package, D was at my side exclaiming "Oh your Picasso has arrived!"
"It's a Matisse, D."
And as soon as the door was closed D confided "I didn't think he would know who Matisse WAS!"
"Oh, so you were showing off for the UPS guy?"
"Well.."

The three of us wielded box cutters and sissors and got the thing out, styrofoam peanuts flying everywhere. D set it on the couch with a flourish and we all stood back and looked at the delicate face of a Matisse girl framed in gold. A few simple strokes were all he needed to create a face with personality and movement and expression. I had chosen this very simple face because it reminded me of the Matisse drawings and cut outs that seemed to most inspire my mother in her paintings. My mother loves Matisse so much that I took her to New York one time specifically to see a huge Matisse exhibit that had come to The Museum of Modern Art from Paris. We stood in line with people from all over the world to see his work. And we met Woody Allen on that trip, after seeing his jazz band play. It was one of the best trips of my life. That's probably why I bought the litho in the first place.

We all looked the thing over for a moment before D said (in his most lordly voice) "The Matisse has FINALLY arrived!"

Making Rain and Crayon Art

2013-04-02T21:16:00.001-07:00

Well, this may indeed be a stalling tactic.

For one very important reason, I feel compelled to write a story that is very hard for me...and I'm gearing up, but not quite ready.

So, instead, I'll tell you about today.
Today, I spent with my little sister, Liat. We had breakfast, talked, then went for mani-pedis. Then we went to the Bead Shop and spent a ridiculous amount of time looking at and sifting through all kinds of beads and sparkly things. There were bins of "bead soup". That's what the shop was calling big bowls of mixed up beads for a lesser price. These bowls of sparkling, shiny beads made me feel just like a kid. I wanted to dive my hands into the bowls and lift them up full of sparkling beads and gem-like things. I wanted to don a pirate hat and Puss in Boot's boots and steal all the treasure, write a play and perform it on the high seas! Something about that place made me feel happy and free. The idea that I could spend a few dollars and come out with everything I needed to make beautiful jewelry was empowering.

Then, I came back to my Mom's house and made curry and salad. The smell of exotic spices began to fill the small house. As the curry simmered away, making me think of far away places and adventures yet to come, I took my drink outside to the balcony for some fresh air. It was getting warm and muggy in the house.

I sat outside looking at the sky. Thinking. Smiling.
The sky was pregnant with dark clouds, like so many days before it - promising rain, but not delivering. Or delivering just a stingy, muggy, drizzle. Texas has been in a six year drought, the lake is FORTY FEET low. We needed RAIN.
I held my drink up to the sky and challenged it.
"I want RAIN!" I demanded. "Nothing less than a STORM!!! I want it to rain down like crazy - like diamonds or cash in a Snoop Dog music video!!! I want it to POUR!!!"

My mother came out with a bowl of rice and curry to join me.
"This is GOOD!" she said. "Delicious! And it's so nice out here..."

The wind had JUST started to kick up and a cool breeze cooled our foreheads. It was delicious. I smiled all the way through my body and let it sweep over and into me - saffron, the breeze, and the light drizzle that had just started. Then, just as my mother shifted and got comfortable, making some "Mmmm..." sounds, the rain started for real.
"Oh! " she said, "It's really raining! We'd better get inside!"

As we hustled inside, lightning cracked in the near distance and thunder rumbled. Mom's dog, Dorothy, tried to hide under the bed. "It's happening.." I thought. "THIS is more like it."
Then, before my mother had time to get in the car and pick my sister up from the coffee shop down the street, the sky let LOOSE. It was raining sideways buckets and cracking lightning, roaring thunder. We had to drive Liat to an appointment in flash flood conditions. My brother texted "DON'T LEAVE THE HOUSE. Massive FLOODING!"
I texted back, "TOO LATE!"

Later tonight, when we were all safely home and relatively dry, my Mom brought out a special crayon.
"Look what I found at school today." she said. (she's a preschool teacher) "It's a PRANG!"
Apparently Prang crayons are a brand of crayons long gone that are superior in pigment and over-all quality.
"Let me see that thing.." I said. (I had never heard of these crayons)
I started drawing on some paper right away.
"You know, it IS better." I said. "Smoother. And a GREAT color!"
Then, my Mom got all excited and started bringing out more crayons and paper. "Try this!" she said with excitement.

So I did.

The thing is, is that I can make all kinds of things. It's easy for me. I can make some pretty good crayon art, or costumes, or scenery - I can direct a play, I can sing, I can make a damn good curry (Thai, Indian, Balinese - you name it!).....I can throw a party on the smallest or largest scale with my hands tied behind my back and blindfolded. Once upon a time, I won awards - cash money even - for my poetry (although I fear that skill is lost)....I can make a child feel safe, shake a perfect martini or make a wedding cake.

I MAY even be able to make it rain.

But REALLY... how do I put these skill sets on a resume?
Let me know ifyou have any ideas.

Rich or Poor...?

2013-03-21T21:13:00.000-07:00

Last night,while I was busy NOT sleeping, something occurred to me.
A light bulb moment.
All of a sudden, I thought "Only a 3 months ago, I had tons of cash..."
Then I kept thinking.
I assessed my present state.
"Mmmmmm...." I thought. "I am cozy and happy and warm and overflowing with....."

OK. The thing is - I spent all of this time in Portland, with tons of cash in the bank, in a beautiful, big house, anything MONEY could buy - feeling like a beggar.

That's what I realized last night.
I thought back to the last time I had loads of money, and instantly remebered what a beggar I felt like there and then.
In Portland, I would go into a store and buy something I didn't need or really even want, just so someone would talk to me. Really. That's how bad it was, and if you've been reading my blog, you know it already.
Well, the interesting thing that sort of hit me in the head last night, was that I'm going to sleep every night in a house that I do not own and am not even paying for, and I feel like the richest lady in the kingdom. Here, around family, friends, and even new people that seem to have dropped out of the sky right into my lap - I go to sleep every night feeling loaded UP with love. Stinking RICH with it. I have soooo much love - I am giving it away by the bucket full!

I went into a gas station the other day here and I had to fish out change to pay for my gas. (that's how cash poor I am!)
"Sorry! " I said to the guy behind the counter, smiling and pouring my excess of love and hapiness all over his little store as nickels and dimes spilled out onto the counter.
He looked at me a little confused. The juxtaposition of coins versus the overflowing abundance of joy that was pouring out of my happy face was clearly confusing him.
"Well, that'll only get you about 2 gallons, Ma'am." he said, looking scared as a nervous puppy. (I think he thought that that information would burst my bubble)
I laughed at his uncertainty. "I guess that'll get me home." I said to him, beaming. I was SO full of love and happiness, it would be a CRIME not to own it and share it. "Thanks!" I said, smiling ear to ear - sincerely meaning it.
"Well.... you have a real nice day, now, Ma'am." the man said as he timidly picked up a little of the happiness that I had splashed all over his love-less establishment. "A REAL nice day.."
"It's a GORGEOUS day!" I replied with abandon - tossing my blonde hair and kicking my heel up. I MEANT it. And the subtext - MY subtext - was -" It's GORGEOUS AND IT'S OURS FOR THE TAKING!!!!! YOURS TOO, BUDDY!!!!!"

So. The question staring me in the face was : "Would you rather have plenty of money in the bank and be lonely and loveless (and FEEL like a beggar), or have NO money in the bank, but FEEL rich as a king because of the love that was flooding into and over you?"

The answer for me is clear and simple.

Since I have been here, I have had love given to me by my sister, my brother, my mother, my cousin, her family, friends, new people - it's just been POURING on. I am so grateful I can hardly express it.
Even my baby sister - who is just barely back and a bit fragile - is giving me her love. I am the weathiest human in Texas if love is the standard. I really am. I have so much - if you need some - open your hands and let me pour it on - because I have love to spare. I have happiness in ABUNDANCE! I have a HUGE, motherload of JOY!!!! I really do, just ask me if you need some - because I share everything I have.
How do you want it? If you want money, you can ask for a check or a money order or cash or gold bars or stocks, bonds, etc. - and LOVE? Just ask me. You can have it in back rubs or songs or hugs or smiles or poetry or cake - you just let me know. I am stinking RICH with love. I have plenty to share.

And this question that appeared to me last night - to feel like a beggar with money in the bank, or like a king with none - that was easy for me to answer.
But what about you?
What is YOUR answer?
I would really like to know.

Fast and faster.

2013-02-12T21:10:00.000-08:00

So sorry I haven't been able to write lately! Everything's been going so FAST! And I mean EVERYTHING!
Here are some examples :

The other week I woke up with 2 pimples on my face. By 6 pm that evening, they were gone.

A couple of weeks ago, I met a man at my cousin's theatre and he pursued me AGGRESSIVELY for 4 days and nights. Non-stop texting, phoning, etc. On the fifth day I agreed to meet him for lunch. We had lunch, he followed me to my next appointment (I was meeting a friend for happy hour), then he called me the next morning to tell me he didn't want to date me because I was a "strong willed person". (I figured it was really because I let it out during lunch that I have 4 children) - I didn't want to go out with him in the FIRST PLACE!!! But he managed to court, convince and dump me in less than a week! Now that's FAST!

Also - I have managed to go from culinary school to line cook/prep cook in less than a month at one of my favorite restaurants. I have been trained in a language that I do not speak in less than 3 weeks. I think that's BLOODY FAST!!!!

I have gone from deep pockets to empty ones in record time - less than a year ago I was flying loads of people to Paris, putting them up in a 4 star hotel and taking everyone out for - well, everything!

A year ago I had a beautiful house that had been mine for twenty years, now I'm homeless.

BUT....everything's been going SOOOO fast - who's to say that I won't have a million dollars in the bank a year from now?
I've lost ten pounds in two weeks and gotten some fab, fun headshots done for free over the course of a week - so as far as I'm concerned - ANYTHING'S POSSIBLE!

Bring it on, Life. I've burned all of my fingers and they healed in a day. I'm doing my sit ups, getting Spanish books at the library and, quite frankly, I'm ready for anything. Bring it on - and DON'T spare your fast balls!

The New Normal, or What Kari Said..

2013-01-10T09:48:00.000-08:00

I am sipping on a cup of excellent Costa Rican coffee, with just a touch of almond milk and brown sugar. My breakfast is a bowl of greek yogurt piled high with fresh blueberries and strawberries. I am sitting at a modern, glass dining table in a sun drenched room - looking out at a city view past a sea of tree tops, and a perfect chalk blue sky with only a few cotton candy clouds hanging above it all.

When I wake up in the morning, the view outside my bedroom window is of a castle. Ok, maybe not a CASTLE - but definitely an Italian chateau. ( It looks like a beautiful Four Seasons Hotel was accidentally air lifted and dropped in from Tuscany!) Most mornings there will be a deer right outside that window. Two feet away. If you had told me this would be my daily routine a few weeks ago, I would have laughed at you in disbelief. With all of the horrible things going on in the world, how is it that I am so lucky?

Right before Christmas, I went to visit my brother's X-wife, Kari. I still love her, and my children still call her 'Aunt Kari'. We had a little time to talk about life things while our lads were entertaining each other. Everything seemed to be going as well as could be in her world. Her new marraige, her son, her new house. Everything seemed so right on. And Kari, herself, was more beautiful than ever. Happiness and confidence poured out of her lovely face.
Then the conversation turned to me.

I had a whole routine down to explain my erratic moves of the last year. I told her about all of our dear friend, Mark's, family and friends of family dying in the last few years BEFORE they got to take their dream cruise or dream trip. In some dramatic instances, it seemed they dropped dead two days before the cruise. Mark's family couldn't be more 'safe'. They were mid-west folks who played by the rules their whole lives. Two weeks vacation a year - ONLY two weeks (the rest of the first world countries think we are mad regarding this)...and then, like some cruel joke - DEAD - BEFORE they could enjoy their long awaited retirement.

"So, you see, Kari", I told her, "I was just not going to fall for that trick. I just decided to do it in reverse. Have my fun dream trips NOW, when I can and I'm super healthy and young enough to still get into some trouble, and then I won't mind if I work until the day I die. I'll just be some little old lady in a corner shop. You know, with a little apartment. I'll toddle on down to the shop with my lunch in a paper bag and sell things to nice people all day. I think that sounds pretty good."
"Oh, I see." she said."YOU are going to magically turn into a little old lady that works in a shop some day?"
"Yes! And I won't have any regrets - you see?"
"And when do you imagine this happening?" she asked with a smile in her eyes.
"Oh...you know..pretty soon. In my fifties, I guess."
"So, a few years from now - some time in your fifties - you're going to change into a completely different person?"
She said this looking right into me. She was certainly laughing at me inside.
"Why not? I can be a little old lady at a shop! You don't think so? What's the matter with that?"
"Nothing. I just have a hard time believing that you're going to turn into a completely different person than the one I know - the person that is standing right in front of me now. That's all."

I just stood there in disbelief. I must have had a very stupid look on my face, because then Kari laughed out loud.
"Oh, Jennifer! " she laughed, giving me a little hug, "Think about who you ARE. You're the one who is always travelling around the world - it wasn't just this year - going on crazy adventures...you're whole life is a crazy adventure. I'm just not sure you're going to be able to change into another person altogether."

I was stunned. My bubble popped. Maybe she was right. I thought about this for a few moments as she scooped up her little blonde boy, kissed him on the head and redirected his play away from an electrical cord that he was fascinated with.
"Cookie?" she asked sweetly, as she offered forth a chocolately bit of decadence.
"OK", I said in slow motion, trying to assess how I felt about this severe wrench in my life plan.
"So, are you saying..." I slowly forced out while waving the cookie in the air, ".. that I will NEVER be an old lady in a shop?"
Kari just smiled and shrugged.
"Are you saying that I'm just going to keep ON this way? "
"Well, you are YOU."
" Do you think I am going to become a sort of Aunty Mame kind of character? "
Kari just laughed and shook her head. "Well, more like that.." she said, amused.
"My goodnes, Kari. I never thought of it that way."

Now I'm here.
Only a few weeks later. Everything's been going so FAST. How did I end up so QUICKLY in what may arguably be the most beautiful spot in Texas? Despite the fact that I am now near penniless. (in cash anyway)

Just yesterday, my sister called me after a panic attack. The one thing she said comforted her was that she now knows that I am able to pack up and get out of any city in under a week.
Darn it! Maybe Kari's right. People that can pack up that fast, move, spend all their money, then land on their feet next door to a bloody castle might not EVER turn into little old shop ladies!

Oh well.
'Normal' is overrated in my book. Time for me to accept the new 'normal'. My normal. It's NORMAL for me to hit up 6 or 7 countries in a year. It feels just as 'NORMAL' for me to be so elegantly homeless now as it did to HAVE a home! I'll just have to kiss those dreams of NORMAL normal goodbye and be thankful for all the crazy good stuff that comes my way.

But that's all I can write for now. I have to plan an outfit for this weekend. I'm going on an excursion on an old fashioned steam train to the country with my little nephew, my brother and sister.
And one must ALWAYS dress appropriately for each and every adventure!

It's New Year's Eve tonight...

2012-12-31T10:50:00.000-08:00

It's New Year's Eve tonight.
I confess, that as I write this, I'm still a little bit loopy from the ambien my brother gave me last night to help me sleep. I just can't DO that stuff - too hard to shake it off the next day. However, for now, I have a pleasantly goofy feeling all through my body. QUITE relaxed.

Tonight I'll bring the New Year in working. Which is just as well, and quite good, since I don't have a date anyway. It's how I hope the coming year will follow - lots of WORK!!!!
I feel good about the year to come. Good about things in general. Lucky to have such great kids and such great family all around me.

But I DO have SERIOUS New Year's resolutions this year.
For the first time in a long time - I am DETERMINED to make some that are top priority and follow through like a maniac.
It's just no good anymore - this - this lollygagging about, this using only a tiny part of my potential. It simply WON'T do any longer. This year I will :

1. Stop Drinking. (either full stop or mostly)
2. Learn French. For REALS - like enough to have some simple conversations!
3. Learn to pay 3 songs on the piano.
4. improve my Spanish.
5. Do yoga. EVERY WEEK.
6. Walk around the lake at least once a week.
7. get a job (that goes without saying, really)
8. do theatre. (it's been FAR too long!)
9. sing. a LOT more.
10. write letters - actual ones, not e-mails.
11. take dance classes.
12. fall in love.

The only thing I see as a real challenge is the falling in love part. Kind of hard to MAKE that happen. But I'll write it down in a spasm of hope.
Check in with me next year, and see how I did.....

MAY YOU ALL HAVE THE MOST AMAZING, MEMORABLE , HAPPY 2013 !!!!!!

Christmas Eve, 2012

2012-12-24T21:43:00.003-08:00

It is Christmas Eve.
As I am writing this, I am looking out over the hills to the sparkling lights of the city. It is so warm here.
So warm in so many ways. And I must be the most pampered and spoiled homeless person on this earth.

I have just come from church (yes, I went to my childhood church - quite odd - looked so much smaller!) and Christmas Eve dinner with my family. I am full of good food and good feelings. We are the lucky ones. Everyone is well and full of good cheer this year. Everyone is grateful. Perhaps a little bit because of the Sandy Hook shooting - it certainly puts things into perspective right before Christmas.

I have to confess, I couldn't sleep the other night - so I turned the TV on looking for an old movie to calm my mind. 'Miracle on 34th Street' was on, and the first thing I thought of was how horrible it would be to see these sweet, family Christmas movies if your child had been shot dead at school just a week ago.

Tomorrow I will give gifts to my family that I have accumulated from all over the world. Exotic things. I have dragged them with me on planes, trains and automobiles in an attempt to share a piece of my adventures. I look forward to giving my little nieces the headdresses from Bali - golden tiaras studded with jewels (not real ones, of course), saffron tea to my mother, cashmere scarfs from Scotland for my nephews, jewelry from South Africa for my sisters and the impish mask of happiness for my grown up cousin who runs a theatre. As I wrapped all of the trinkets and treasures - the silks, the woolen things, the wooden carvings, the beaded art, etc - I thought of where and how I got them. All of the different looking money used over the last many months, the adventures associated with each and every item.

And as I enjoy the greatest gift of seeing my little cousins faces light up, or a smile from one of my sisters, I will not take a single moment of it for granted.
I will treasure each second of tomorrow's Christmas, and feel deeply how lucky I am. How lucky we are. We had a close call in our family - very recently - but we've made it through. So far.

We are here. We are safe, well fed, healthy and loved.
We have each other.
And after a year of great travels and adventures and culinary school, I feel like I am about to embark on the very greatest adventure of all.
I don't know what it is exactly.
I just know that's how it feels.

the OK Cupid experiment...

2012-12-22T15:14:00.003-08:00

SO.... (big breath)

Before I left Portland, my sister gently shoved me into the online dating world via OK Cupid.

"Look," she said, with a note of resigned pity on her face, "we both know that you are a breeder."
Before I could shake my head, "no", she went on.."A MATER - someone who likes to partner up. Am I wrong?"

"Well..." I said, thinking about it. "I guess so."
"And this is how it's DONE these days, Jennifer." she instructed me. "At the VERY least - you can just look at the guys in Texas and see what you think."

So, I started looking at the guys in Texas.
I was rather amazed at how many lovely, intelligent men were swimming around the pool of the OK Cupid waters. AND with good taste in books and music and film!

The first conversation I had online, was with a nice Atheist man from West Texas who scolded me for not having good photos up. "You need one where we can see your FACE." he wrote to me.

Ok, ok. I put more photos. 2 without sunglasses.

"That's good." He wrote. "Now fill out your profile and answer some of those questions."
"I don't like the questions. " I wrote back. "And I can't sum myself up in one page!"
"Well, I don't know what you want out of this experience.." he replied, "but I don't really want a pen pall. I really want to meet someone - and the more specific you are, the better chances that you'll meet someone you actually like.."

I thought about that. What DID I want? Just to look at the big, tall Texas cowboys? A pen pall? Well, no. I DID want to meet someone cool and great and all that. But I was NOT going to answer a million questions about sex and intimate stuff like that on a public site. So, I decided to try something different. I put up a link to this blog. Now - it's ALL out there. They could research me if they so chose to. My thoughts, my worst Christmas, my past - some of the TV shows I was on - easy to google, etc, etc.

I thought for sure I would get some hate mail - but I was ok with that. It certainly would be a weeding out process, wouldn't it?
Instead, I got lots of positive responses. Not one hate mail. (not yet, anyway). This OK Cupid thing was going pretty well - and the most LOVELY men were writing to me! Maybe it would WORK!!!

But then, conversations began to develop. Online. On screen.
These lovely men all had a LOT of questions. Good ones.
"Do you have a job lined up?" "Where will you live?" "How many times a week do you work out?"

Uhhhhh.....
Uhhhhhhhhhhh........

I realized very quickly that I have NO answers to these questions.
Then I felt like a COMPLETE IDIOT.

"What the hell is wrong with you, girl?" I asked myself - while laughing at myself.
I have no job lined up, not sure where I'll be living and last week I worked out ZERO times and in fact was sitting in a car for 12 hrs at a time and only now am regaining feeling in my ass, and am on some road to recovering my poor stomach from the dreadful road trip crap I've put into it over the last few days.

In short - I am a mess.

So...as much as I really do want to cover all of those lovely Texas men with freshly sliced Texas peaches and eat them all up - as much as I want to go on a million coffee dates with different fellows - this one gentleman told me something that sticks in my head. He told me that he went on a date with this woman from OK Cupid and she BRAGGED at dinner that she just went out with all these guys to get a bunch of free meals out of it. If you can BELIEVE that! Not cool!

I in no way want to be like that woman.
And these super nice guys deserve a little better in my book. They deserve to go out with someone who can answer at LEAST those first 3 questions. I mean, they ARE pretty basic, after all.

Gentle readers - I have torn myself away from the scintillating and slightly addictive world of online dating for NOW.
I intend to get myself into a place where I can answer those questions (and more)very happily, and then I'll just dive back in.

Maybe.

In the mean time - single ladies who read this blog - if you EVER thought about moving to Texas - I can tell you that there are some MIGHTY FINE gentlemen here - smart, cool, athletic, single (unless they're lying - but I don't think so) - that are ready to meet you for coffee!

Sandy Hook Massacre

2012-12-16T11:06:00.000-08:00

On Dec. 14th, I couldn't sleep.

All that early morning I was awoken by terrible, horrifying, violent dreams. I kept sitting up and physically shaking myself to try to get away from the nightmares.

I dreamt about my mother, after my family's car accident, on the side of the road just outside Clovis, New Mexico, with her 10 year old boy in her lap, his neck snapped. I couldn't shake the extreme, deep horror and sadness of that moment.

Then I dreamt about my best friend, Mieke.
She, too, held her daughter in her arms after it was too late. Nothing - no amount of love or desire - could bring her back. I dreamt and felt so distinctly how that MOMENT - those moments - must have felt. A mother losing her child. It felt so real.

Then, I was awoken by a random dream. It was vague, and hazy - but there was a man with a gun. I heard the shots, and again was awoken in terror and a deep, deep sadness - not knowing why these dreams were coming to me this morning. I shook my head, hard. "Perhaps it's just because I'm leaving today.." I thought. "Maybe I'm scared and don't realize it fully?"

I tried to sleep for another hour, then gave up and switched on the TV to see what time it was. Almost 8:30 am , on the West Coast. I was getting a late start to my journey back to Texas.

And then I saw the images.
Little children being hustled out of somewhere. Grown ups hunched protectively over them - cars everywhere - a scene of chaos.
I turned the sound up and listened to the news in disbelief. A SHOOTING? At an ELEMENTARY SCHOOL??? TWO FREAKIN' DAYS AFTER THE MALL THING HERE IN PORTLAND!!?????

It was hard to believe. Awful to believe.

I tore myself away from the terrible images, packed my car, made a couple of sandwiches, and left.
I'd been looking forward to the drive through Southern Oregon. Grant's Pass, all of those beautiful mountains - and I was also in a hurry to beat the next snowfall.

My cat, Zyll, and I , took in the glorious scenery as Handel's Messiah washed through me. Clouds swept and swirled around the tops of tall evergreens and snow capped mountain tops. Then, as I lost one radio station and searched for another, I landed on NPR. The reporters were clearly accounting the details of the Sandy Hook Massacre. TWENTY young children believed to be dead, and SIX adults, not including the shooter and possibly his mother. It was almost too horrible to believe - and RIGHT before Christmas!

I cried and cried through the beautiful trees, mountains and vistas. The sun popped out at times looking like those paintings of 'God'. The green pastures dotted with white sheep were so vibrant they almost glowed green. I lost the station, and switched back to classical music. It was raining off and on, making my over active imagination feel like the beautiful sky was crying with me. Then, just passed Grant's Pass, a rainbow appeared.

I went to Catholic school as a kid. I am not Catholic any longer, but all of those stories stuck in my head. And, I feel like the bit about rainbows being a sign of hope just makes sense. Even if I never heard those stories - I think a rainbow WOULD make me feel hopeful. Just from it's sheer beauty and magic. Maybe there IS a pot of gold, maybe everything WILL be ok....

But then again, if there is a God - how the hell can these 2 realities be reconciled? The horror of those poor families losing their children ( AND the adults, too, of course) in such a terrible, disgusting way - and this incredible, peaceful, glorious rainbow - looking innocent and HOPEFUL!!!???

I stayed in Lake Shasta, then continued my drive yesterday, crying off and on all the way into L.A.
It doesn't make any sense to me.
No sense at all.

Back to Roots

2012-12-10T13:48:00.000-08:00

After I sold my house a year ago, I didn't know where to go.
I felt homeless.
So, I traveled the globe looking for options.

I thought perhaps it would be good to go back to where I was born, South Africa. I could get citizenship there if I wanted to, and I hadn't ever been back. "Perhaps these are my roots?" I thought as whizzed through the sky in a huge man made machine, looking down at fluffy, white clouds underneath me.

South Africa felt familiar and strange all at once. There WAS something of me there. A tiny part of my history. But it was not where I belonged. Not now, anyway.

Then, after much travel, I decided on Portland. Partly because of my sister. She'd been wanting to move here for years, and I truly loved the city when I was coming to "scout it out".

But now, after a few short months, I know that Portland is NOT where I belong right now, either. I feel like a ghost here, and that's quite something for ME to say. If you know me at all, you know that I am not a shy or introverted creature. I did not feel like a ghost in Bali or Paris or South Africa when I was traveling there alone. Not in Amsterdam or Scotland.
Something about this beautiful place and I - is just not clicking.

AND....I do feel, after many conversations with my sister, that perhaps both of us were running away from something at the beginning. She certainly was and is. And maybe I was, too. From family - from perceptions of both failure and success - from my past....

But I've come to a glorious and wonderful new enlightenment.

I don't WANT to run away!!! NOT FROM ANYTHING!!!
I WANT the messy family stuff - the lovely, complicated, complex relationships that make us who we are. I want it ALL. I want the drama, the stress (sometimes) the laughs, the love, the food... I want to see my little cousins and my niece grow up ...I WANT IT ALL.

So...I am packing up my car once again. getting rid of even MORE stuff (a serious shedding)...and heading back to my roots, and my family in Texas. Of ALL places.

Shaken, not stirred.

2012-12-01T02:01:00.000-08:00

There is a great debate in my family.
About martini's.
One camp (my father and his cousin, Jim, belong to this camp) believe that a true martini is made ONLY with gin - NEVER vodka. This camp prefers their martini's shaken, not stirred.

A great, and very old friend of mine, I have recently learned - is staunchly in my father's camp about the gin, but he prefers his martini's stirred. Gently. "You'll bruise the gin if you shake it." he explained to me earnestly on the phone. "Gin has a distinct and delicate flavor - you want to taste that." he explained.
I laughed on my end of the phone - hundreds of miles away. I laughed because people can be so very passionate about these seemingly little things. My father and Jim are the same way. When I order a VODKA martini in my father's presence, he shakes his head and looks very sincerely disapointed.
"It's not a MARTINI, Jennifer." he'll say. "Ask Jim! He'll tell you."
"I know, Dad." I said the last time we had martinis. "I remember."
"Well..." he said back to me with an accusing look on his face."When you went to Harry's Bar, in Venice - you went, right?"
"I did. I went. I promise. I took photographs to prove it."
( I HAD gone, and I KNEW I'd have to have some evidence, so I begged my friend, Dorian , to take some pics of the martinis, the bartender - the whole scene)
"Well....did you have a REAL martini there? Or a "VODKA martini"?" (I could hear the sarcastic quotes hanging in the air around those 2 words)
"Oh, Dad...gosh..." I struggled to remember exactly what I'd ordered. For some reason it seemed important. It had been important to my Dad that I go there in the first place, so I had. These strange little strings of communication that we all hung onto in our family. Our bizarre versions of tradition, I guess. Harry's Bar was famous for being a Hemingway spot and an American x-pat spot, so of course the artists and writers of our family felt they had to make it ours as well.
"I just ordered a martini, Dad. That's what I did. You told me to order a martini, and that's what I did."

My father's face was suddenly covered with a cloak of righteous happiness. He looked fulfilled and delighted. A half laugh forced it's way out of his lips, "Ha...WELL..then you had a REAL MARTINI. A GIN martini - that's how they do them!"
"Mmmhmm. Yep. It was gin."
"A PROPER martini! THAT'S Harry's Bar for you!"
"It was a good martini, Dad. Cool place."

I prefer vodka martinis in general. But my father and I do land in the same camp when it comes to shaken, not stirred. I don't think a martini is drinkable if not shaken vigorously. And of course, I grew up hearing 007 say, "Shaken..not stirred".

This Thanksgiving, I had the impossibly great pleasure of having all of my children around me. And my brother, my sister and my mother. These days that's quite something. We are all so spread out and mobile. And after the girls all got on their planes and trains, the boys and I decided to go to a movie as it was spitting rain. The new James Bond on Imax won out. 50 year anniversary of the series this year. Wow.
It was great fun seeing that with my boys - Jake, Max and August Blue. The theme of the movie (or the hook, rather) seemed to be 'Sometimes the old ways are the best ways'. And I loved that. But - with that set up - I was disappointed that James never ordered his martini "Shaken, not stirred".

I found myself daydreaming during the movie. Remembering the drive around Lago Maggiore a couple years ago - how I felt like I was truly IN a James Bond movie - and little drives around the English countryside when I lived there many years ago. "Shaken, not stirred" was really sticking in my mind. I couldn't shake it (pardon the language).

That night I dreamt about all of the roads not taken. The safe roads. The predictable roads. The destinies I so often yearn for. And every night since, I have had similar dreams. The life that eludes me.

How can I say what I am trying to say?
I don't know how yet.
I am an awkward toddler of a writer at best.
I write like a toddler walks - like a drunken sailor. No balance, no form, no grace, no expectation or taking for granted that the next step will land well...or at all.

These dreams have been tormenting me.
I could have taken over my Grandmother's shop. She wanted me to. I didn't hate it. I sort of loved it.
I could have done a lot of things differently.
But I didn't.

I must come to some peace with the fact that I like my whole freakin' life shaken, not gently stirred.
I have loved so passionately, been hurt so terribly.....bruised all over. My martinis must be shaken. HARD. So must my life - at least up until this point.
And the question that remains - that dangles in front of my face like a cat toy - is...

......STILL??????

Fall in a rain forrest

2012-11-03T09:36:00.000-07:00

Halloween has just come and gone.
The sunny fall days have turned into rainy, cold days here in the Pacific North West. When I drive into school at 6:30 am, the sky is pitch black. When I get to the lit up bridge, I can finally see the beautiful curves of Portland reveal themselves as curtains of fog move and sway like a dramatic set. The city is placed among hills of Christmas trees with this giant river and many beautiful bridges acting as a frame as you come in from the east. The darkness and fog at that time make the city look like a grey-blue water color painting - or an old photograph that is slightly out of focus. It is heartbreakingly beautiful to me every single morning. And every single morning I am reminded of all the different types of people who have cultivated and built this place - from the rich people in the twinkly houses that scatter down the hills, to the working class people who built these bridges and have worked by them, on them and under them, to the native American Indians who were here with the bears and the salmon and all this luscious growth long before any Europeans found it.

Rainy days are for lovers.
They always feel especially lonely to me when I am without it.
Here, I find myself moving from one rainy day to the next like an invisible woman. Other than my one friend, Chris, and my sister (whom I see once a week if I'm lucky) - I am invisible here. It's a strange feeling for someone as extraverted as myself. I know there is a lesson to be learned - I'm just not sure what it is yet.

I'm not invisible anywhere else.
And, as if to prove my point, the ONE person I have met on my own in Portland - I met in the air (on a plane) above Los Angeles. ( my invisible cloak had not yet descended, you see)
Her name is Cindy. She is roughly my mother's age, and she has invited me out to hear her daughter sing tonight. Of course I am going. I am dying for a friend!

I miss my friends and family in L.A. And I miss my friends and family on the East Coast. So many of them are STILL without electricity after hurricane 'Sandy'. Some I have not heard one word from since the storm and have no assurance that they are ok. So I worry and hope from this far corner of the country.

There is nothing wrong with this beautiful rain forrest. No terrible storms here, no fires or drought. The fall days and nights are saturated with colors and nostalgic smells - smoke from fireplaces mixed with rain and flowers. There is no shortage of culture here, either. More art house cinemas, live theatre and music venues, more amazing restaurants than I can relate to you. The only thing missing is all of the people that I love.

Now I'm Pissed.

2012-10-05T16:49:00.000-07:00

Just got back from school. From my first practical final (which just means all of the actual cooking and everything else that's done in the kitchen - as opposed to written tests, math, etc) - and I was so mad, I drove straight home and took it out on the dishes. Not throwing them or anything - just DOING them.
I know - it would be so much more exciting if I told you I threw them all across the kitchen and glass and porcelain were flying everywhere - but that didn't happen.

(Now, Mark has a GREAT 'throwing glass' story, and if he doesn't agree to write a guest blog one of these days soon, I may just write it FOR him - as heard second hand, of course!)

The thing is, these chefs are (as so many people warned me ahead of time) such ego-maniacle jerk- holes, it's hard to take sometimes. Let me, at this time, try to paint a picture of the three chefs I have had the occasion to study under so far. I shall not use their real names, of course, and as you may have noticed, I will never even name the school which I am attending for fear of being sued or failed.

First, there was the night time chef. Let us call him Churchill. He seemed like a nice enough fellow - just a little defeated and not seeming to love his job. Churchill is an older man (late 50's , I should guess?) quite tall, with a thick head of salt and pepper hair and an unfortunate goatee/mustache combo. I posit that he would be much more attractive if he would grow his full beard in. I asked him meekly one evening if he ever DID wear a full beard and he looked at me as though I had asked him to join my satanic cult.
Despite the fact that we are expected to learn about a jillion things every night and our lecture time is precious, Chef Churchill chose to amuse us with stories about his glorious youth. He told us all about how he was a super star in San Francisco - smoking weed and doing blow with the hottest chefs in town. He had been an unstoppable young gun in one of the most exciting cities in the world. He told us all about how he could do any station on the line - and how he frequently did (when someone called in sick or something) - all the while dangling a cigarette in his mouth, or resting it on the edge of his cutting board. Those were the days before health and sanitation were concerned with things like cigarettes in the kitchen. "We all smoked in the kitchen!" he laughed.
I rubbed my hands together in the freezing cold lecture room and tried to imagine him when he was young, hanging out with my heroin, Alice Waters. I imagined that he was very cute back in the day, and very cocky.
I can tell you all kinds of things about Chef Churchill. Because that's how he spent our evenings. Telling us all about his personal life. I know where he grew up, that his first restaurant job was at Mc Donalds, all about his culinary training, his 2 wives that both divorced him (he seemed a little sad about that), that he used to have a cat and he doesn't have any children...I could go on and on.

Next in line comes Chef Jefferson. That's what I'm calling him, because he thinks he's so cool. And if he had slaves and lived in the time of Jefferson, I bet he'd sleep with them. This chef seems to think of himself as the young, groovy, "hot" chef. He's married with kids (cute kids - we saw pictures), but he's not really all that. It is immediately apparent that lots of young, female culinary students get crushes on him, and of course he loves it. Why wouldn't he?
Jefferson's the one I'm so mad at right now. This man makes my bullshit detector go off like crazy. In fact, I'm so mad at this moment, that I think that's all I'll say about him right now. Except to say that he's only made ONE dish that was any good so far.
And THAT is what my sister thinks is really bumming me out so much about this whole school experience. That the FOOD doesn't taste very good. Seriously. So far, it's like we're learning to cook for a geriatric cruise ship.

You see, I'm ok working with or for megalomaniacs IF they are brilliant. If they are truly brilliant, they can be as nuts as they want to, as far as I'm concerned. And of COURSE I've worked with and for these types of people. I'm an actress! Directors have yelled at me, sometimes made me cry, sometimes I held my own...but, I guess I have this idea that one has to EARN the right to be a crazy jerk-hole.

Which brings me to my favorite chef. The only ray of hope I can see in this twisted learning environment. I shall call him Napoleon. Chef Napoleon.
I adore this man. He has made me cry already. That was embarrassing. But he is the ONLY one catching me out on my bad habits, AND the only chef so far that seems to have a real LOVE of the culinary arts.
Chef Napoleon is a smaller man (not tiny, but a hair shorter than me) with a HUGE amount of energy and sparkle. He is from another part of the world, where life is harder and he has worked harder than anyone there, I believe, to achieve what he has. He yells a lot, and his sparkle can turn on a dime into anger or impatience, but he doesn't seem to hold on to any bad feelings. He is funny and intimidating.
Chef Napoleon can yell at me or make me cry all he wants - because he is BRILLIANT. What this man knows about spices and flavor profiles is invaluable, and can NOT be found in any book. I believe he is the absolute treasure of the school. He is the reason I want to go to school every day, and dread going to school if I am even slightly unprepared.

It is another glorious day here. The sun is shining, it is barely cool and crisp, and the wind is sending the fist of the colored leaves around in flurries. Believe it or not, there are still roses blooming all over town, and the views outside my windows could not be more idyllic. All of this gentle fall beauty is taking the wind out of my little huff. And as I am calming down, enjoying the chestnut trees and the golden leaves, I have to laugh it off, shake my head and remember that I have a LOT of work to do before monday - Chef Napoleon demands perfection, you see. And HIM, I don't want to disappoint.

NOT sticking my foot in it - for once!

2012-10-01T15:21:00.000-07:00

Just got back from another hard day at culinary school. All of the instructors over there seem to be in CRANKY moods.(how can they be when it is SOO beautiful outside?)

I should be going over my math quiz right now to figure out all the stuff I got wrong - but I just can't face it yet. I feel like I'm in some bad high school movie. What's that one where Drew Barrymore has to go back to high school as an adult - and they STILL treat her like she's a total dork? THAT'S THE ONE!!!! THAT'S THE ONE I'M IN!!! Only there's no cute teacher to fall for in my movie.

Oh well. I'm proud of myself for today. I can be pretty awful about sticking my foot in my mouth, and for ONCE in my life, I kept quiet.

I got to school 4 minutes before the classroom door closed, and some other chef was in there chatting with my instructor. Out of the blue, he turns to me and asks, "So, do you miss Chef _, yet?" (my other night-time chef instructor).

I just looked at him. Immediately 2 answers flew into my head.
The first one was,"Well I'm pretty damn sure he doesn't miss ME."
And the second one was, (dripping with sarcasm) "Oh yes. I really miss hearing him lecture us about his X-wives. Riveting!"
But instead - INSTEAD, dear readers, I merely looked at this chef for several seconds with my mouth open (I'm sure I looked like an imbecile), telling myself very sternly, "Don't say anything, don't say anything.." and finally sort of blurted out, "....uh...yea."

This was a small victory for me. Especially considering how out of it I am in the morning. I am just not a morning person. I do not like this new schedule very much. Sometimes I wish I could whine to someone over there about stuff. I wish I could tell someone that that other chef seemed to dislike me quite a bit for some reason (maybe I remind him of his X-wife - one of them? I don't know!) , and that I'm too lonely here as it to be able to handle that AND the mean kids at school. I don't know what it is about Portland, but no one talks to me here. It was so different feeling when I was on my own in Paris or Bali - even South Africa. I spent loads of time there on my own - but people TALK to you. If you are sitting at an outdoor cafe in Paris all by yourself - someone will strike up a conversation with you.

One lovely evening in Paris, I was having a drink at Duex Magots all by my lonesome. I started writing in my journal, and before I knew it, a handsome man a couple of tables over asked me if I was a writer. We ended up talking for two and a half hours - despite the language hick-ups. It was great fun to meet people like that - all over the place. This couple that Mark and I met in Bali are still our friends - we ended up hanging out with them in Portland when we up here scouting it out. Total strangers. But one of us was brave enough to say "hi", and now we have some really cool new friends. Mark's even written them into his screenplay!

Here, I may as well be a leper.
Thank goodness for you, gentle readers. You are the most communication I have in any given week.
Thanks for hanging in there with me!

What's good is good, right?

2012-09-24T23:20:00.000-07:00

I am going to fail culinary school.
This is a fact.
A statement.

Right now, I am (let's face it) chowing down on the plum/blueberry tart I just made tonight. It is FABULOUS. It really is. The perfect amount of sweet to tart - soft to flaky. And I made it to cheer myself up from a BAD day at culinary school.

The thing is - I'm not good at math. And all these years - I guess I've just somehow faked my way through things - SOMEHOW changing a recipe for for Moroccan chicken that serves 8 into a dish that serves 150. How did I DO it without the math???? I DON'T KNOW!!!! I really don't. Apparently I am super math challenged. Well, I knew it all along. I'm dyslectic. Mr. K held my hand through the last 2 years of high school math at an ART SCHOOL!!!! My 14 year old is 4 years past any math I ever did right now. I SUCK.

And the thing is that this school preached a good sermon about giving extra help, etc - but they're not around. They are going fast as lightening and there's no time for an old broad like myself.
"How many teaspoons in a gallon?" - who the hell knows THAT???
How do you turn 5 pounds of potatoes into ounces???? I DON'T FUCKIN' KNOW!!!!!

Some kid barked at me - SCOLDED me - for scrubbing a pot that had food stuck on it the other day.
"We don't DO that." he said, condescendingly. "We just just dip 'em."
I looked at him in horror.
"The 'THREE DIP SYSTEM'!!???" he asked me as if I were an imbecile.

I just don't know. If there's food STUCK on a pot or pan, you gotta SCRUB it. RIGHT? I don't want someone serving ME food that's just been cooked in a bunch of sani solution with goodness knows what else all over that pan....!

I started bawling TWICE today in front of my instructors. VERY embarassing. I am BEHIND on the math stuff. And I'm not making any excuses for that. That's WHY I came to culinary school. To learn all that. I know I've been faking it all these years. I WANT to learn the math. I do. But - I think it's the attitudes and the lack of ANY ...whatever - kindness - that's really getting to me.

And the thing is - is that sometimes I feel like getting up and making a speech when these kids are such brats - saying (all public- movie-speech-style) "You know what? Most of you are the ages of my children. And I GET that you just look at me and see some older woman and don't want me here. But - if your mom or dad ever came to your side and was protective of you - think about this : What if YOUR mom was in culinary school as part of a second career move? Wouldn't you be proud of her? Wouldn't you want the other students to be decent to her - regardless of anybody's age?"

That's what I would like to say to some of these students.

And, bottom line is, we're producing food every day. Some of it REALLY sucks. But nothing I have had a hand in so far has. It's always tasted GOOD.

Math or no math, culinary school or not - what's good is GOOD - right?

Ask for What you Want..

2012-09-22T13:15:00.001-07:00

I grew up terrified to ask for what I wanted.
That's what spoiled, bad children did. Good children are grateful for everything they get and are only allowed to ask Santa for what they want once a year IF they are instructed to compose a letter to him by their parents. That's what I was taught. In school, at home, in church.

Church and religion class also taught me that it was better to be poor - a rich man had a harder time getting into heaven than a camel through the eye of a needle, etc. If I ever had a teacher I didn't like, it was my job to tough it out and be grateful I had any teacher at all. If my food was terrible ( and it often was growing up - money was TIGHT), I was to eat it anyway and be grateful. "There are children starving in Africa, Jennifer!" my father routinely barked at me.
"Well THEYcan have my food!" I thought, but didn't DARE say. I frequently imagined boxing up the dinner I was loathe to eat and sending it on a plane or a ship to some starving kids in Africa.

This lesson was pounded so successfully into my head as child, that I am beyond surprised (when I look back at things now) that that, along with a terrible fear of authority did not successfully trap me in Texas in some dead end job forever. Grateful for it, of course.

I don't really know where the little flare ups of rebellion came from. Starting as little sparks, then growing into bigger and bigger sources of energy. Maybe it started when my Grandmother took me to Broadway and showed me her secret ninja method of getting tickets to a sold out show. I was only 14 then. I had seen Patty LuPone sing 'Don't Cry for Me Argentina' on the Tony's, and after witnessing me weep and hearing me sing that song for days on end everywhere I could, she bought us a couple of tickets to New York.

At the Plaza Hotel, we asked the concierge if there were any tickets available for 'Evita'.
"Oh no, Madam." the concierge said wagging his head at us in the manner of talking down to silly Texas tourists who didn't have a clue. "It is sold out for MONTHS, Madam."
"Well, alright." my Grandmother said, clearly irritated with his attitude. "Come on. Let's go get changed for dinner, Jennifer." she then said briskly as she bustled my crestfallen face into the elevator.

At Sardi's, she said, "Well, if we just get a bowl of minestrone and some pie, we'll have plenty of time to walk over to the theatre."
I looked at her in disbelief. The thought briefly went through my mind the she might be losing hers. After all, it hadn't been that long ago that she had lost her husband and continued to talk to him every morning at breakfast. "Didn't you hear him, Granny?" I asked her gently, "It's sold out for months.We can't go."
My grandmothers eyes sparkled like a million diamond firecrackers. "Well, we'll just see about that. He doesn't know everything - I have some tricks up my sleeve."
I sighed and shook my head a little, but I couldn't help smiling at her radiant spunk. I was grateful to be here. I LOVED getting soup and pie at Sardi's. If that's all we did the whole trip - I knew how lucky I was already. It seemed like WAY too much to ask to actually get into 'Evita', the show I was obsessed with beyond anything.

I followed my Grandmother over to the theatre and watched her negotiate with the young man in the box office. She looked so cute in her Chanel suit, but I could see the young man shake his head, 'No', even if I couldn't hear him. But Granny didn't seem disheartened one bit.
"I told him we'd be waiting right over here." she said confidently.
I was positive it was all for naught, but I was caught up in my own feelings of excitement to be this close to Patty LuPone, and biting envy of all of the dressed up people walking through those doors with tickets in their hands. Just when I thought the last person had gone through, the bells were ringing people into their seats, and we would have to go back the hotel - the young man waved us over.

My Grandmother turned to give me my ticket exuding happy triumph.
"Fourth row, center", she said, gleefully.
My jaw was on the ground!
"What!? How did you..??"
"Come on. Let's get in our seats before the curtain goes up."

As we sat down in our fourth row center seats at my first Broadway show, I thought my heart would explode with happiness. I really did. It was the absolute highlight of my young life. I was so full of love and excitement and gratitude to my amazing grandmother - I could hardly contain it.

She looked over at me as the orchestra started to play and patted my leg with her pretty, plump little hand. "Sometimes you've just got to ask for what you want, Jennifer." she said matter of factly. I looked at this little woman in awe. As far as I was concerned, she'd just pulled off a miracle.

She looked right into my saucer-sized eyes as if she were a great Ninja Master imparting the core of her secret wisdom.
"Just remember to ask nicely. That never hurts."
The red, velvet curtains began to part. But before I could become completely engrossed in the magic around me, I felt as if the curtains of my brain were parting and a great ray of golden light was pouring into it accompanied by the dramatic score of 'Evita'.

"Ask nicely." I whispered to myself.

LP's are my only friends.

2012-09-17T13:35:00.001-07:00

Over the last few days, this feeling of loneliness has crept up and over me like a blanket. It has become so intense, it is physically painful.

I'm listening to Stan Getz on my new RECORD PLAYER right now while I write and launder my uniforms for culinary school. I went into the record store downtown to see what they had the other night and was a little surprised to find it so shockingly pristine and clean and organized. Every single LP was in perfect condition. No bunged up dollar rack in this shop. But they didn't have a ton of stuff.

I took my handful of LPs to the register and a nice man who looked like he was straight off of the set of 'Portlandia' asked me if I had found everything ok.
"Well, I didn't see any classical. Do you have any?" I asked.
"Not anything good. Not right now. We only take albums if they are absolutely perfect. You might try some garage sales.."
"Yea, I noticed. Thanks."
"You from here?"
"Nope. I just moved here. I don't know anyone. That's why I'm at the record store by myself on a Saturday night."
The man with the chin beard looked at my face, as if he was decoding me.
"Well the records will keep you company."
(I chuckled) "That's exactly what I was thinking.."
"Hey, welcome to Portland - I'm gonna put a couple of freebies in here for ya. I think you might like these. And I hope we see you in here again."
"Oh, you will," I said, (aware that my throat was aching a little bit from the mere thought of walking out of that lovely store and the 2 minutes of human interaction that came with it), "..I'll need some more friends."