My Very Successful 2006 Resolution

Some time in late 2005, I started realizing that all of the things that I was always complaining about were actually situations where the ball was in my court. Or at least situations where I could grab the ball and put it in my court. (You see, I'm using easy to understand and technically correct basketball analogies here.) One of those things had to do with friendships that I had lost over the years. In a lot of ways, I'm an easy going gal, but at the same time, I'm my grandmother's daughter--or a leo. Either one would explain my tendency to get hurt easily by some people and my quickness to turn to roaring anger when hurt. Anyway, I realized that I had "unfinished business" with about 5 people.

And through this year, I not only forgave the people who hurt me, but I did so in a ceremonious way, which coincided with my other New Year's resolution: To outwardly declare to the world in very certain terms those things that I wanted from it.

It was definitely awkward and hard to do. And my pride has taken a beating, but just like a broken bone, its healed stronger than ever. Some of these people I had spent the last 4 years pretending that they didn't exist. One of the girls refused to talk with me about it. I think she is ashamed. I forgave her anyway and we are civil if not friendly to one another. I worried that peeps would think that I was in a 12-step program or that I was resolving issues before going home and killing myself. Or some other dark and dramatic reason. And the timing was off on a few of
them. One of the girls with whom I talked it out, an old friend, she thought I was suddenly trying to take advantage of her new position at a theatre where most performers in Chicago want to work. So I had to try to explain my resolution, which made me feel like a hateful bitch, because who has so many grudges that she has to make a New Year's resolution to get rid of them?

Me.

Anyway, there is one last person out there. I can't say I am still holding a grudge, but I definitely haven't spoken with the Asshole about it, so I haven't exactly committed to not holding a grudge against Douchebrains either. The funny thing is, I completely forgive the Blowhard when he's not around. But when I see his Smug Donkey Face, I find myself wanting to slap it to high Heaven. I mean, Fucko isn't a part of my life or thoughts anymore. I'm happy and have great friends who aren't Ego-Manical Freakshows like he is. And I'm sure the Tool has changed, even though he HAS THE MOST INCAPABLE HEART I HAVE EVER HAD THE SORROW OF KNOWING. Anyway, I should talk to the Dirtbag about it, tell him that I forgive his slimy self and that I'm no longer putting pins in the eyes of the voodoo doll whose body I keep trapped under the foot
of my bed.

So, yeah, for the most part my resolution was successful.

Toucs Says Hi

Toucs says hi. He’s been kinda down lately. It all started because he missed you. He was asking all about you and where you lived. I told him. He asked me to drive him there. I told him I didn't have a car and his face fell. I fetched him a pink tissue, from my purse. It was the designer kind with flowers on it. He blew his beak into it.

All of the sudden, his little fabric eyes lit up: he had an idea! He could fly to your house! He started bouncing up and down on his soft fabric bum, made one giant leap off the bed towards the open window and fell beak-first on his head. Thankfully, my navy throw pillows were on the floor under him to soften his fall. He just lay there, looking cross-eyed and dazed. He asked me why his wings didn't spread when he tried to fly and I told him it was because, like the rest of him, his wings were woven into the fabric of his body.

He grew sad. It was the saddest little bird face I’ve ever seen. He fell into a long depression. Every morning when I left for work he asked to be tucked in the covers rather than sitting on the top of the bed all day while I was gone.

Then one day, I came home and found him on the internet. He was excitedly typing out words with his beak. I asked him what he was doing and he told me he finally got out of bed and decided to see if there were any online support groups for toucs like him - flying challenged toucs. He told me that he came across a touc in Brazil just like him and they talked about all the downfalls of being built like pillows. In the process of doing this, they also realized there were advantages too. People like to squeeze them more and they got to live in nice, dry climate controlled bedrooms, rather than rainy forests. And best of all, they got to live much longer lives! So now he's all cheery and excited to see you to tell you of his realization.

If he talks about it, pretend I didn't tell you.

I am married.

Chris and I got married on November 11. It was the best party of my life. Expect more entries as we near the New Year. Weddings, however untraditional, are a lot of work. At least my wedding was; I'm a Do It Yourself kind of gal.

She's back!

Chris said to me yesterday, "She's back!" She being me, of course. I've been pretty down around home, hence the soul-searching blogging, nothing more than a little funk. I’ve just been so busy that I haven’t been flourishing creatively, thus the funk.

With the pending wedding and the fact that my agent has been calling me in for Mom roles, I’ve started to feel the effects of getting older for the first time in my life. I’ve noticed little tiny lines creeping onto my face and, and the downside of pursuing commercial print modeling, is that I’ve been thinking more and more about my appearance. And I thought being an actor made you insecure... Although I am merely 27, at least I am also comforted by the fact that 30-something actors work a lot in this city. And getting older means that I am coming into who I really am. There is comfort to be found in getting older.

Meanwhile, Poor Chris. He’s been so good to me and I’ve been such a self absorbed pissant lately. I'm sure he's sick of hearing me complain about looking like a plus model in my comp card photos. The photographer took shots of me in 4 "looks" to be used in my modeling comp card. To be fair, there were 3 looks wherein I photographed fairly well, to the point that I came to terms with those little lines around my mouth and eyes, the slowly sliding features. After seeing the photographs I said, “I look older and I don’t mind it in these photos. I like my older face.” Of course, the photos were carefully styled by a stylist and shot by a skilled photographer whose job is to make me look really good, but nonetheless it is part of growing into this new-old skin of mine.

Smoke and mirrors be mine.

Anyway, in one series of shots, the "suit shots," I actually look like a plus model. Chris confirmed. It would have pissed me off had he not, because there was definitely an elephant in the room. Ha! And I can’t stand anyone patronizing me, much less my Love.

Of course, I’m exaggerating about the elephant part. I realize I look like a Plus Sized model mostly because of the way my jacket is hitting my pants and the angle at which they are shot, straight on. But, to be fair, I’ve gained weight and the suit pants are tight. So there is some truth in that comedy.

Do I think I'm fat? No. Have I gained weight for only the second time in my life, the first being when I was 19 years old and drinking beer and eating pizza and oversleeping every night of the week? Yes, I have. Has it been hard to lose the weight, for the first time in my life? Yes, it has. Can I hardly fit into my wedding dress? Yes.

The last time I tried it on, it was very tight.

Boo-hoo!!!! Wah! Poor Carrie finally has to deal with hard truth that the other 4.5 billion humans (minus the poor, sick and starving 2/3 of the population) have to deal with--that most human beings can't eat anything they want and never go to the gym and maintain the same weight.

I realize that it seems pretty ridiculous that a 5'10'' 135 pound girl should be complaining about this. To look at me in clothes, I am very thin. To look at me without clothes (ew, gutter brains!), I am still thin, but I am flabby. I have no muscle, no firm padding, yet my fat percentage is surprisingly high because I don't exercise. As the ex-model, makeup artist at my comp card shoot said, "People don't realize, skinny people can be flabby." Hear, hear! There is no amount of weight gain that would really bulk me up and make me curvy. Until I get muscle, I will always look like a skeleton draped in pasty flesh colored Jell-O. There is no amount of explaining that will make strangers accept that.

There is a reason that I have been hesitant to go to the gym. “Why do you need to exercise?” I have been asked in regards to my small frame. I have been on the receiving end of remarks such as “Do you eat?” and “You are too thin.” and “You need to eat something.” A few months ago, I was told by a co-worker, “If I didn’t know you, I’d totally hate you because you are so tall and thin.” And when I was in high school people would just come out and ask, “Are you anorexic?” How do you answer that? What can you say in response? It is a touchy subject for all involved. And by discussing it, even in this blog, I run the risk of being called a braggart or “high on myself.”

It doesn’t matter that you may grow up to be thankful for those traits that earned you teasing as a kid. I was called “Bony Barrett,” among other names, as a child. And I am thankful that I’ve been blessed to not have to worry about my weight. But at least part of the insecurity stays with me for life. I have constantly felt judged for being too thin. Judgment is judgment, even if it seems a ridiculous complaint to some.

So it is funny, ironic even, that I am complaining about looking like a plus size. Shouldn’t I be happy?

I've been 128 pounds since I graduated high school nearly 10 years ago. And all of the sudden, I'm ten pounds heavier and I can shed it to save my life. What kills me is that because of my stomach ailments, I already eat so healthfully. Oatmeal and nuts and fruit and whole grains. I can't remember the last time I stepped into a fast food restaurant. Eating well is good for you, but not enough to lose 10 pounds in time for your wedding. I sit at a desk 45 hours a week--I need to exercise, for more reasons than just my weight. It has been a hard adjustment to the way I have lived my life for the past 27 years. And change is hard, even if its relatively silly to the ails of the world.

Other than that, I realize I am blessed.

“Braggart!”

This Morning

Cab Driver: Huh, it looks like that guy’s using a garbage bag for a roof.

Cab driver points to convertible car with duct-taped garbage bag ragtop billowing in the wind.

Me:Yeah, it does look like that.

Cab Driver: He must have holes or something.

Me: Yeah. Looks like it.

And not far, my love, from where we were before.

Last Friday, while I was listening to my iTunes on shuffle, a song came on that I hadn’t heard since I was a child. It was I Loved You Once in Silence from Camelot, sang by Julie Andrews and I don’t remember downloading it.

Unexpectedly, a wave of nostalgia washed over me and I started sobbing. These were not silent tears; these were levies being broken open by a storm surge of tears; guttural, animal-like sounds escaped my body; my eyes were throwing up tears. It was pain and catharsis. I haven’t cried like that in a long time.

When I was a little girl, my mother used to sing to me all the time. Like me, she was a performer, an actor, a dancer and a singer when she was young. She wanted to study theatre and acting, but her parents refused to support such a cause. My grandmother has told me she regrets not watering my mother’s talents. My mother’s singing repertoire was mostly show songs from the days of her youth; I Feel Pretty from West Side Story; My Favorite Things from Sound of Music; and I Loved Him Once in Silence from Camelot.

I loved you once in silence
And mis'ry was all I knew.
Trying so to keep my love from showing,
All the while not knowing you loved me too.
Yes, loved me in lonesome silence;
Your heart filled with dark despair.
Thinking love would flame in you forever,
And I'd never, never know the flame was there.
Then one day we cast away our secret longing;
The raging tide we held inside would hold no more.
The silence at last was broken!
We flung wide our prison door.
Ev'ry joyous word of love was spoken.

And now there's twice as much grief,
Twice the strain for us;
Twice the despair,
Twice the pain for us
As we had known before.

And after all had been said,
Here we are, my love,
Silent once more,
And not far, my love,
From where we were before.

The song from Camelot is beautiful and sad indeed. But that is not why I cried then--and cry now writing of it. It was homesickness that made me sob, the wistfulness of remembering those intimate moments with my mother singing during long night drives, the overwhelming warmth and comfort I’m so lucky to have had, the awareness that with age I travel farther and farther from that home in search of my own home, my own family and my own daughter to whom I’ll sing.

I very much look forward to that journey with Chris. But I love my mother so very much. Despite our low lows, I think of our relationship in terms of our high highs. She is a very good mother and I am lucky to have that. I cry tears of joy that I have and have always had such an amazing love in my life.

Its a small world after all.

When I was in first grade, Mrs. Barnes tried to explain the phrase “Small World”.

“If you were at Disney World and ran into someone you know, you would say, ‘What a small world!’”

Crickets. The class blinked confused looks at her. “Its hard to explain,” she conceded.

Like the rest of the class, I had no clue what she meant by that and it took me years to figure it out. I would go so far as to say I would have figured it out sooner had she not tried to explain in it at all. The fact that she used Disney World to explain it only made it worse, as I kept thinking it had something to do with the Small World ride. Would I say “What a small world!” anytime I ran into someone I knew? Why not just say “Hi! How are you?!” And could I only say it in Florida?

Years later, when I was a senior in high school on a European holiday, I saw a girl I knew in Pisa, Italy. I first saw her singing opera at a talent show at the Virginia Governor’s School for the Arts summer program. A 16 year old opera singer, they didn’t have any of those in my hometown. I was blown away. The program was small, around 200 people, but I never got a chance to meet her, but I remembered her nonetheless.

When I saw her in Pisa, Italy, my jaw dropped again. There she was in her signature oversized sunglasses with a group of teenagers all wearing kelly green youth opera program t-shirts. Her group was walking away from the leaning tower, we were walking to it. We locked eyes, and stared at each other inquisitively, me dumbfounded. She recognized me, but I can only presume that she couldn’t quite place me. I am not, after all, something as memorable as a 16-year old opera singer. I smiled weakly and we went our separate ways.

The world is indeed small, Mrs. Barnes.

Blowing off the dust...

When I was 12 or so, I mentioned to my mother's friend that I wanted to be an actor. Linda casually told me that actors live difficult lives and that I'd be better off picking something easier. My cheeks burned and my heart sank. I was crushed by her comment--not because she was telling me something I didn't know. It was her condescending, teaching tone, her presumption that my wanting to act was nothing more than a naive childhood fantasy. Her remark, so seemingly fleeting, has left an ugly scar on my heart. It has very much shaped how I view myself, how I view others, and how I’ve conducted my life.

After my first year of high school, I gave up performing and enrolled in a pre-business program at the University of Virginia. My mother begged me not to do it. I thought I was being practical. Although I loved UVA, probably for its aloof un-attainability, I was miserable there. I wore pearls and sorority pants and drank a lot of bad beer. I made out with boys at parties and tried to be someone I'm not. But all in all, it was good that I went through that then and not when the stakes were higher. And I had a lot of fun so, of course, that year and a half was not a total loss. I joined an improv troupe, which is, in a roundabout way, the reason I am so happily living and performing in Chicago.

More than she could ever know, Linda made me afraid of living the life I wanted for as long as I can remember. I have been afraid of looking stupid, afraid of wanting something so difficult to attain, afraid of dreaming, afraid of not conforming to untailored expectations. I would love to be naive, but I can’t take myself seriously enough for long enough to know what that’s like. And these fears have extended beyond my career choice. I have since defaulted to the role of the cynic, which is not fun for the cynic or her friends and family. It wasn’t until I met Chris that I resolved myself even to love without feeling silly.

For a while, I have struggled with these issues, a sort of quarter-life crisis, if you will. It wasn’t until about a year ago that I realized that I wasn’t willing to put my neck out to get what I want. And if I wasn’t willing to do that I might as well give up. A little courage was needed to repair the damage Linda’s words wrecked on my confidence.

I have since rectified the situation and my neck is out further every day. I like to think myself as one of those African women with beautiful gold bands piled high about my shoulders and below my regal chin. To spite my reservations, to spite Linda, I tell anyone who wants to hear that I’m an actor. It doesn’t matter that my executive assisting pays the bills; I am and have always been an actor. At first I couldn’t do it without proactive wince. But the more I said it the more proud I’ve become that I, most likely unlike Linda, am exactly where I wanted to be when I was 12.

But, oh, what damage advice can be. I wonder how easier things would have been had she not said it that day. No doubt I’d have heard it elsewhere, but would it have been different? Who knows? We’ll both have to wait and see how this story ends.

Teach me!

With my wedding 2 months from today, things are getting a little crazy in CarrieLand. My mind is so filled with my To Do List that it seems that's all I can think about. (Even with a really laid-back wedding, there is a lot of stuff to think about!) I don't want to blog about my wedding. Can you say snoozefest? And I certainly don't want to blog about all that other stuff I've been doing--my job and my improv/comedy stuff. Zzzzz...

So I would like to take this opportunity to reach out to you--the 2 or so of my monthly readers and the 3 or so random South Americans who wander here by googling "Denise Richards"--and ask you for ideas of stuff to write about.

All ideas are welcome, within the realm of decency. Inspire me. Get creative, and I'll try to too.

I may not use your idea. It might be stupid. But at least I'll laugh at you and your brainless ideas. Kidding. Sort of. As amazing as sexy story about a racy love affair between Christopher Walken and Drew Barrymore sounds, I will probably not write that. I'll leave that to the kid who lived on my brother's hall his freshman year of college.

In all seriousness, it may take me a while to get to your idea or find a way to make it work, but I'd love to hear it nonetheless. So, on the count of three use the comments feature of this blog to give me an assignment.

1...
2...
3!

The Christian Science Reading Room

One morning about 2 years ago, while cabbing it to work, I struck up casual conversation with the driver.

"I used to live in Marina City Towers. We had a balcony with a great view of the Christian Science Reading Room. In the five years that I lived there, can you believe that I never once saw anyone enter or exit that building?" he told me when we drove by the monolithic stone building. "Not once!" he incredulously exclaimed. "And I drive by it all the time now. Still haven't seen anyone. Kinda strange if you ask me."

Ever since then, I have paid careful attention to the building, about a block from my office, with its dark and shadowy entrances. And like him, I have not once seen anyone come or go.

Not once! Kinda strange if you ask me.

The Love Affair of Egg and Sperm

From the College Vault:

Worms

The sunflower that was given to me as a birthday present and that sits on my desk beside my computer, it has worms. When I received the flower from my coworker last week, I nuzzled my nose in its soft brown center and breathed in its sweet perfume. The next day, I saw a few flies swirling around its gold petals and a little green bug manically hopping around from leaf to leaf. A few days after that there were worms; tiny spring-green guys inching around the petals, snacking on microscopic goodies at the flower’s center.

At first, I was fascinated by this sudden infestation. Where were these little fellas when I was inhaling the flowers fragrance? How curious that they had waited until after my birthday to surface. How interesting that an entire microcosm of insects and other squirmy little things was living in a flower that was sitting in a vase in a fluorescently lit office; a flower surrounded by paper, plastic and electricity and that was hanging on to the illusion of life several days, possibly a week, after it had been cut from its stalk and taken from its home in nature.

I sat next to this infested flower for a few days after that. Every day, I’d monitor the progress of the little zoo. Each day, as the golden petals browned around the edges, the worms got a little bigger. After a few days had passed, I could barely discern their little mouths, always eating, perceptibly smiling. The way they’d stand, balanced on their one little leg, they started to remind me of Richard Scarry’s Lowly Worm. In my comfortable office without predators--birds and spiders and Mother Nature--and with the abundant feast of an enormous sunflower, they were growing exponentially and multiplying all the while.

I am generally squeamish of all things creepy crawly, but it didn’t occur to me to be grossed out by these little worms and bugs. Until yesterday, that is--when I looked up and wondered where they suddenly had all gone. The brown center, their favorite chomping grounds, had been deserted. Then, I noticed the ten or so worms were stop the petals at the crown of the flower reaching, stretching their quarter-inch bodies up to the sun of my desk lamp doing what looked like a belly dance in unison. It was a worm ritual of sorts and it creeped me out.

I sat beside this squirming spectacle for about 30 minutes. Each time I looked over, the worms seemed to get more assertive and my stomach soured a little more. I tried to put mind over matter, to enjoy the last days of this beautiful flower, but I just couldn’t so I made an impulsive decision to lay to rest the drooping sunflower.

As I picked up the flower with its large sunny face and walked to the office kitchen, I felt conflicted. But then I noticed a few of the tiny worms were now dangling in the air down from silky threads they were somehow making with their bodies. I immediately pictured other such expeditions on my desk and, worse, my person. I high-tailed it to the kitchen holding the vase and flower far from me like a peeing baby and dumped the flower in the trashcan without hesitation. I spent the rest of the day swatting invisible bugs from my body.

Today at the Farmer’s Market, a farm stand was selling sunflowers for $1/bunch. I picked up 3 bunches and arranged them on my desk, in the same place as the old one. We’ll see what happens.

SneezeFest

It is a beautiful day. The sun is shining and the sky is cornflower blue. While I am sitting under the umbrella of a table in the Thompson Center Plaza, at least 6 people walk by and sneeze. Usually multiple times. Always in the same spot. Weird.

Success

The elation of success, especially creative success, is such a fleeting feeling. It’s a hunger, much like that for food. You may go a long time feeling hungry, with an heated pit in your stomach. Then one day, you find it; you gobble it up; you are warm and sated in the moment and for some time after. But no matter how much you devour, how full you feel, you always end up hungry again. Unless you are grounded and are at peace with yourself, with a steady stream of mind and body nourishment, you will always end up feeling empty inside. And the search for food can take you farther and farther away from home, through rough and rocky terrain. The key is to making success last, is keeping home in your heart and making sacrifices for the things that really matter (things that pump blood) in a way that won't breed resentment, which can eat away at your stomach as much as hunger. It’s a hard balance to strike.

Don’t come to breakfast at my house...

If I hear his fake laugh one more time—that slanted cascade of cackle paired with wild eyes and a gum-exposing joker smile; those booming guffaws; the come-and-go-lightly hoot that is habitually preceded by some lame comment and stalked by a sharply punctuating sigh-moan—I will rip my intestines out, twist them at intervals of 4 inches, hang them in a smokehouse for a week, brown them on a sizzling skillet and serve them with eggs and pancakes.

Laughter should never be forged.

You are what you eat...

From what I can tell its mostly crap.

Crap that pickles organs and corrodes pipes like rust.
Cancer-causing, memory-deflating, a second cousin to plastic, third-arm growing crap.

Frozen dinners that have a huge sub ingredient list for Chicken.
Shouldn’t it just say chicken?
Why does “Chicken” need 25 other ingredients, mostly chemicals, to make it Chicken? At least list it as “Chikin” so there can be no mistake.

My lawyer friend says that KFC is called KFC because it’s not technically chicken and to call it such would be false advertising.

Our food should be made in kitchens--not factories and labs.

Can’t a girl get a good tomato without having to take out a loan?

I’m about this close to selling my possessions and moving to The Farm.
Hell, I’ll drink the organic Kool-Aid, although my vendor can’t afford the organic label.

Call me granola.
(Make me some granola—with homegrown fruit and homemade yogurt.)

Play me some Yanni.
(He’ll be the most synthetic thing I’d love.)

Give me a turban.
(I’ll use any excuse to wear a turban.)

I yearn for the simple life.

I just love the city too much.

Furrowed Brow

She sort of regrets shaving off her eyebrows. It seemed like a pretty good idea at the time. Her eyebrows were thin and scraggly. No amount of plucking would give her the plush sexy arched brow she so desired. So in a fit of frustration she swiped a pink Lady Bic over the right one. She looked at her face in the mirror. Her face looked eerie and lopsided. The razor took care of the left one too. She felt liberated. The skin was so smooth and sensitive. And she looked so much younger—like a baby, almost. She was free to create the brow of her dreams.

But she failed to anticipate the amount of effort involved in the daily brow draw. Often, she had to try several times before they’d look symmetrical. For many weeks she looked confused, angry, sad, astonished because of slight deviations of the drawn eyebrow’s curve. Before she invested in waterproof brow pencil (which wasn’t truly waterproof) her drawn brow would run down into her eye on a rainy or sweaty day, leaving her looking run down and crazy. Forget ever going on a swim. That’d be a disaster!

But growing them in is a test in patience and humility. Patches of dark hair will pop up unevenly in undesired places—off the beaten brow. Her decision to make friends with her razor had sealed her own fate: Either she will have to endure the embarrassment of a scrappy looking halfbrow for a good couple of months weeks while she waits for her hair to completely grow back or she’ll have to resign herself to getting up earlier to pencil in that damn brow.

McSorley's Old Ale House

This past weekend, I was in NYC to perform a little long form improv. For a large part of my short 48 hours visit, I was alone. Not in a lonely, sad way; I'm fairly independent and not afraid of being alone. But I lacked the funds and complete knowledge to know what to do for a random hour, so there were times, I'll admit, I was a little bored. Not to mention more than a little hot. With temperatures in the high 90's, New York was a sweltering, sweaty and smelly mess. I lost my desire to move. But, excuses aside: boredom is a sin--especially while on vacation.

I'm very comfortable in Manhattan. I know my way around on the subway and, with the exception of Harlem, I'm pretty well-travelled on the island. So on Sunday afternoon, with 3 hours to spare before my last show, I wandered off to Astor Place in search of McSorelys Old Ale House. Established in 1854, its the oldest continuously operating bar in NYC. And it really hasn't changed a bit.

I first read about it in Joseph Mitchell's "Up in the Old Hotel," a compilation of essays and articles, many of which he wrote for the New Yorker in the 1930's and '40s. Even in the article, Mitchell alludes to a feeling of stepping back in time in McSorely's tavern. I promised myself to stop in, so on Sunday afternoon, with no one to sip an ale with, I went down to SoHo to see what it was all about.

I walked in, looked around. The sawdust floor was soft under my feet. The smell was uniquely 150 years of spilt ale and tobacco smoke. In the bright afternoon, the room was dark and filled with quietly talking patrons. The air was dusty, and though smoking is no longer legal in NYC bars, I could almost imagine it thick with pipe smoke. I took it in for a few short moments and then walked out.

On my way out, a drunk regular asked me where I was going so fast, "Grab a beer and stay a while." Caught off guard I replied, "I'm looking for a friend."

He grandly waved his hand to the large black dog tied to the bar, "Your friends are here."

"Hi, Dog" I said, not wanting to be rude. His dog, like its owner, had sad, friendly eyes. Then I smiled and said goodbye.

I truly regret that I didn't pull up a stool and start talking with this nice man. Instead, I put on this whole, "One shouldn't drink by onesself at a bar". I should have been more fearless. For someone who loves people (and reading stories about people) I'm so shy sometimes. I probably would have brought home with me some interesting stories--tales of strangers, like those I love to read in the Joseph Mitchell book. But intead, I came home with a lesson learned: put yourself out there. You only live once. You will be rewarded as long as you aren't wreckless about it.


Check out this link

I am here, you just can't see me.

I am working on several projects that are taking up much of my time. But I am still here, lurking in the shadows. More to come soon.

Thank you for stopping in!

A Realization

Her mother never dreamed she would see her daughter drunk in a hot tub, engaged in foreplay to a house orgy, but ever "The Real World" season started her mother began to realize her daughter wasn’t who she appeared to be during family dinners at the kitchen table.