12 years old and in the middle of a rant - my mother asked if I could form a sentence that did not include the following, “I want, I need, I’ve got to have”.
At 12 - I wanted Shawn Kroop to be my boyfriend, I needed a ride to the Sherman Oaks Galleria and like every other student in the 7th grade at Cal Prep, I had to own a pair of Guess jeans, which I had to pay for out of my allowance because of my parents reluctance to understand the cost of “cool” (which by the way was $100).
Last year, at 35 - I found myself head over heels in a new relationship where everything was on target. Good communication, thoughtful and insightful conversations, he was sensitive but not overly, my parents liked him, his parents liked me, we liked each other’s friends, things were good in and out of the bedroom, for all intents and purposes it was a healthy relationship.
In the beginning we saw each other a lot and usually spent most of the weekend together. Cut to two months later, we seemed to be spending less time together. Everything else in the relationship seemed to be as solid as it had always been, although our full weekends together had dwindled to Saturday nights and early Sunday mornings with maybe one other day during week. The emails and phone calls seemed to die down as well. Maybe that’s natural after the “honeymoon period”, but still… so suddenly?
Aside from this issue I felt happy and when we were together we always had a great time. No matter how many conversations we had about this subject, at the end of the day, he required less time and I required more. That’s just the way I am built.
In the throes of our breakup he said something about my stubbornness, my obstinance. It sounded familiar, maybe a little too familiar… like my mother’s refrain so long ago - I want, I need, I’ve got to have.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Sundanceland
Walking down Main Street in Park City, my friend Cookie pointed out that Sundance is like Disneyland except the celebrities are the rides.
Having been to only the more laid-back Telluride Festival, I wasn’t quite prepared for the complete transplant of a microcosm of the elitist LA movie biz transplanted to the snowy hills of Utah. Despite its high profile pedigree what I thought I was in for was a larger scaled version of what I had experienced in Colorado: Familiar faces free to walk down the street without being hounded, a ticket actually assuring me a seat in a theatre, restaurants and bars without velvet ropes and exorbitant cover charges, small and necessary conveniences available without having to take a $12.00 cab ride to buy tampons. In Telluride, there was a cohesive feeling between the film festival and the town, with a sense of community, it felt like summer camp for film lovers.
At Sundance there is a rigid and noticeable class difference between the Hollywood insiders (which, as a casting director, I have always considered myself somewhat a part of) and the locals who are treated like bumpkins. That Utah mountain air is very rarefied, indeed.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s great once you pierce the five layers of assistants, festival guardians, thuggish bouncers and unnecessary red tape to get to the people who we had all traveled there to see and to the screenings you came for in the first place.
My fondest memories from Sundance are of spending time with the people that actually made the films. At the after party for Shrinks, I saw Kevin Spacey and couldn't help but ask him about working with the legendary Burt Lancaster in Rocket Gibraltar, which I had seen when I was a kid. After politely tolerating a slew of backslappers asking him for his autograph and giving him the generic compliment, "I like your work", he was thrilled that someone asked him about something different and immediately launched into a dead-on Lancaster impression which had everyone laughing hysterically.
Another night, while trying to get into the exclusive Tao, 3:10 to Yuma actor Ben Foster, seeing that I had been rebuffed by the stone-faced security guard, claimed that I was with his party even though we had barely met. Thanks, Ben!
If you have sharp elbows, a take-no-prisoners attitude and are up to the challenge of circumventing the system, you can get the full Sundance experience. But if you’re not up for the Hollywood theme park, might I suggest Disneyland: The rides are the rides.
Having been to only the more laid-back Telluride Festival, I wasn’t quite prepared for the complete transplant of a microcosm of the elitist LA movie biz transplanted to the snowy hills of Utah. Despite its high profile pedigree what I thought I was in for was a larger scaled version of what I had experienced in Colorado: Familiar faces free to walk down the street without being hounded, a ticket actually assuring me a seat in a theatre, restaurants and bars without velvet ropes and exorbitant cover charges, small and necessary conveniences available without having to take a $12.00 cab ride to buy tampons. In Telluride, there was a cohesive feeling between the film festival and the town, with a sense of community, it felt like summer camp for film lovers.
At Sundance there is a rigid and noticeable class difference between the Hollywood insiders (which, as a casting director, I have always considered myself somewhat a part of) and the locals who are treated like bumpkins. That Utah mountain air is very rarefied, indeed.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s great once you pierce the five layers of assistants, festival guardians, thuggish bouncers and unnecessary red tape to get to the people who we had all traveled there to see and to the screenings you came for in the first place.
My fondest memories from Sundance are of spending time with the people that actually made the films. At the after party for Shrinks, I saw Kevin Spacey and couldn't help but ask him about working with the legendary Burt Lancaster in Rocket Gibraltar, which I had seen when I was a kid. After politely tolerating a slew of backslappers asking him for his autograph and giving him the generic compliment, "I like your work", he was thrilled that someone asked him about something different and immediately launched into a dead-on Lancaster impression which had everyone laughing hysterically.
Another night, while trying to get into the exclusive Tao, 3:10 to Yuma actor Ben Foster, seeing that I had been rebuffed by the stone-faced security guard, claimed that I was with his party even though we had barely met. Thanks, Ben!
If you have sharp elbows, a take-no-prisoners attitude and are up to the challenge of circumventing the system, you can get the full Sundance experience. But if you’re not up for the Hollywood theme park, might I suggest Disneyland: The rides are the rides.
Friday, January 9, 2009
New Media, Same Hollywood
In early 2008, during the Writers Strike, my dad took me to a meeting at the WGA theater in Beverly Hills. A new online network was being formed called StrikeTV. My dad decided to develop a show for this network and wanted me to not only cast it but to be an associate producer!
One of the episodes called for “2 hot girls in bathing suits”. It was a mock porn. Anyway, believe it or not I had trouble finding two girls that looked good in bathing suits that could also act. On audition day, I found two but they were both blondes and it was originally suggested that I find two girls with completely different looks.
A family friend, also an actress who appears in another episode of our show, recommended a young Canadian actress, a brunette. She sent me her pictures, resume and some links to some of her work. She looked like she would be perfect next to the girl I had already chosen. I sent her the script and she called me and said she was in!
Day of the shoot: Two hours after call time, she has yet to show up. My father had assembled a top notch crew, but time was a luxury we didn’t have with six episodes being shot in one weekend. With the clock ticking, I call her and she says, “I just can’t do this, I didn’t come to Los Angeles to do porn.”
I did my very best to explain to this girl that it was not actually porn, it was a faux porn. a spoof, a send-up. I said, “My father is here directing this, do you think he would have me here while shooting a porn! My dad has written huge Hollywood blockbuster movies, he doesn’t do porn!”
She seemed to understand and calmed down a bit and agreed to come. Another two hours passed by and still a no-show. I called her once again, this time she told me that her manager was against it and she just could not do it, then she begged me not to hold it against her and to keep her in mind for future projects. Because THAT was going to happen!
Luckily the other actress that I had auditioned was available and drove over immediately and saved the day.
I guess some things in Hollywood don’t change, strike, or no strike, big production, little production, what can go wrong usually does.
One of the episodes called for “2 hot girls in bathing suits”. It was a mock porn. Anyway, believe it or not I had trouble finding two girls that looked good in bathing suits that could also act. On audition day, I found two but they were both blondes and it was originally suggested that I find two girls with completely different looks.
A family friend, also an actress who appears in another episode of our show, recommended a young Canadian actress, a brunette. She sent me her pictures, resume and some links to some of her work. She looked like she would be perfect next to the girl I had already chosen. I sent her the script and she called me and said she was in!
Day of the shoot: Two hours after call time, she has yet to show up. My father had assembled a top notch crew, but time was a luxury we didn’t have with six episodes being shot in one weekend. With the clock ticking, I call her and she says, “I just can’t do this, I didn’t come to Los Angeles to do porn.”
I did my very best to explain to this girl that it was not actually porn, it was a faux porn. a spoof, a send-up. I said, “My father is here directing this, do you think he would have me here while shooting a porn! My dad has written huge Hollywood blockbuster movies, he doesn’t do porn!”
She seemed to understand and calmed down a bit and agreed to come. Another two hours passed by and still a no-show. I called her once again, this time she told me that her manager was against it and she just could not do it, then she begged me not to hold it against her and to keep her in mind for future projects. Because THAT was going to happen!
Luckily the other actress that I had auditioned was available and drove over immediately and saved the day.
I guess some things in Hollywood don’t change, strike, or no strike, big production, little production, what can go wrong usually does.
The Kid in that Commerical
Growing up in L.A., the daughter of parents in (as much as I hate this expression) “The Biz”, naturally I wanted in. From as far back as I can remember I wanted to act and had plenty of opportunities to do so growing up in this town.
When I was 7, my mom and I went to visit my dad on the set of one of the TV shows he was working on. The casting director suggested that I audition for a role she thought I would be perfect for. I went up against some seasoned 7 year olds (that’s right, kids that had been working for years, including the little tap dancing girl that was in all the Tang commercials). I booked the part (tap dancing Tang girl ended up as my understudy) and from that point on I was certain that I wanted to be an actor. My parents did not encourage me to pursue this career. They had their concerns. Nonetheless, they allowed me to pursue it on occasion.
By the time I was in college, still thinking I wanted to be an actor. I signed up for a course called Acting For The Camera. Literally within the first 15 minutes of class I saw myself on camera and that was it, my dreams were forever crushed. As an adult I had way too much self-awareness to even feel remotely comfortable anymore.
So, where do you go from here? Well, hell - managing actors!
I starting working for a small, start-up management company and I really liked it for a while. With all the acting classes I had taken throughout my childhood and with my love of it all, I could certainly recognize and scout talent.
The only problem was that nobody had heard of our little company and my best client was a former sitcom star, whose latest role was that of an alcoholic. When she wasn’t hung over and could rise to the occasion and book the job it was profitable, but more often then not, it was a disaster.
One afternoon while on a lunch break I met my friend Leni for a quick shopping trip at a local thrift store. We saw Drew Barrymore buying bags and bags of stuff. When I returned to the office I mentioned it to my boss and she said, “I hope you gave her your card, she doesn’t have a manager you know? “ I thought, ummm she has CAA and her own production company, why would she need us? Yeah, I was pretty much over that company from that point on, finished up the contract I had signed and got out as fast as I could.
Where to now? Casting! Paycheck every week (when working) whether or not the actor booked the job. Casting is what I have been doing since 2002. I love it!
When I was 7, my mom and I went to visit my dad on the set of one of the TV shows he was working on. The casting director suggested that I audition for a role she thought I would be perfect for. I went up against some seasoned 7 year olds (that’s right, kids that had been working for years, including the little tap dancing girl that was in all the Tang commercials). I booked the part (tap dancing Tang girl ended up as my understudy) and from that point on I was certain that I wanted to be an actor. My parents did not encourage me to pursue this career. They had their concerns. Nonetheless, they allowed me to pursue it on occasion.
By the time I was in college, still thinking I wanted to be an actor. I signed up for a course called Acting For The Camera. Literally within the first 15 minutes of class I saw myself on camera and that was it, my dreams were forever crushed. As an adult I had way too much self-awareness to even feel remotely comfortable anymore.
So, where do you go from here? Well, hell - managing actors!
I starting working for a small, start-up management company and I really liked it for a while. With all the acting classes I had taken throughout my childhood and with my love of it all, I could certainly recognize and scout talent.
The only problem was that nobody had heard of our little company and my best client was a former sitcom star, whose latest role was that of an alcoholic. When she wasn’t hung over and could rise to the occasion and book the job it was profitable, but more often then not, it was a disaster.
One afternoon while on a lunch break I met my friend Leni for a quick shopping trip at a local thrift store. We saw Drew Barrymore buying bags and bags of stuff. When I returned to the office I mentioned it to my boss and she said, “I hope you gave her your card, she doesn’t have a manager you know? “ I thought, ummm she has CAA and her own production company, why would she need us? Yeah, I was pretty much over that company from that point on, finished up the contract I had signed and got out as fast as I could.
Where to now? Casting! Paycheck every week (when working) whether or not the actor booked the job. Casting is what I have been doing since 2002. I love it!
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Urban Camping
So, I actually enjoy camping. Well at least I did when I was a kid and into my early 20’s (that was the last time I camped). These days I may feel differently now that I have the most comfortable bed on the planet and go to Dr. Ken Gee Ehrlich the most amazing Chiropractor in the world. I am not sure how my body would take it, but if I took an air mattress and had running water nearby (always a requirement) I might still be up for a camping trip.
But camping in my apartment - every day? Now that is another story all together! The thing is, I bought a refrigerator from Sears a few years back and it has been nothing but trouble. It has stopped working over 17 times and Sears sunk over $3,500 in parts, which includes 6 compressors, and who knows about the cost of labor.
Finally, just before the New Years, Sears approved a replacement. It took lucky number 17 repairman to decide that it was not worth it for them to keep replacing parts. What is truly amazing is that I have actually grown accustomed to not having a refrigerator! I know how to survive on fresh fruits, vegetables and “just add water” foods.
Last spring, Josh (my ex-boyfriend) banished my microwave claiming that it caused cancer. And when the weather changed a few weeks back and I tried to put the heat on it failed to work. The gas company came out and turned off the gas, as it was a hazard to my health. I am waiting on my landlord to get someone out to repair it.
Basically, I have been camping in my own home.
If the water stops working I am heading into the yard, at least there I have a fire pit and a fountain.
But camping in my apartment - every day? Now that is another story all together! The thing is, I bought a refrigerator from Sears a few years back and it has been nothing but trouble. It has stopped working over 17 times and Sears sunk over $3,500 in parts, which includes 6 compressors, and who knows about the cost of labor.
Finally, just before the New Years, Sears approved a replacement. It took lucky number 17 repairman to decide that it was not worth it for them to keep replacing parts. What is truly amazing is that I have actually grown accustomed to not having a refrigerator! I know how to survive on fresh fruits, vegetables and “just add water” foods.
Last spring, Josh (my ex-boyfriend) banished my microwave claiming that it caused cancer. And when the weather changed a few weeks back and I tried to put the heat on it failed to work. The gas company came out and turned off the gas, as it was a hazard to my health. I am waiting on my landlord to get someone out to repair it.
Basically, I have been camping in my own home.
If the water stops working I am heading into the yard, at least there I have a fire pit and a fountain.
Friday, December 12, 2008
GOT ANXIETY?
At the ripe old age of thirty-one I decided to live alone for the first time.
At eighteen years old, I moved out of the house I had grown up in and began a cycle of living with boyfriends and roommates that continued into my early thirties. After a bad break-up I decided to step-out, and face the world, solo at last.
I found an apartment on Cherokee Ave. in Hollywood. A small one bedroom / one bath that allowed dogs, I had a Lab Retriever and a Chihuahua at the time. The neighborhood was brimming with transient addicts and tranny hookers that would wander the streets at all hours looking for some depraved action.
Although it was supposed to be a secured building, the front gate didn’t latch and often there were sketchy ganged-out teens loitering around the garage. A freaked-out friend had given me a small bottle of mace that she suggested I carry when walking the dogs. I took that mace everywhere - to the laundry room, to the mailbox, down to my car, I even slept with that bottle of mace on my nightstand.
A few weeks into my solo girl-power sojourn I started to feel more anxious than usual. I had been battling anxiety forever, taking Celexa since I was twenty-five. One late night I was in my bedroom with the door locked (as if the pin bolt would somehow protect me from home invaders) worrying about earning some much-needed extra cash. I was a casting assistant’s assistant who now needed to buy a larger bottle of mace and maybe even a taser gun. It was fun living alone, right?
Anyway, I needed a second job, so I prowled Craigslist and immediately stumbled upon an ad that seemed to speak directly to me.
It read: Anxious, Need Extra Money?
The advertisement turned out to be for a clinical trial for people who suffered from anxiety. Perfect! I called the center first thing in the morning. They explained that I would have to stop taking my current medication, then they would give me a physical along with a full blood panel to ensure that I was healthy enough to participate. This was amazing! A physical, talk therapy, new meds and a paycheck? What a win, win situation!
Two weeks later I had the physical and with a clean bill of health they sent me home with a week's worth of pills that may or may not be Gabitril (it was a double blind study) so I was either getting the Gabitril or the placebo (sugar pills). I was told that the medication must always be taken with food. A few times when in a rush to get to work, I slipped up but didn’t notice a difference.
About 3 weeks into the study I began suffering from acute anxiety, it was worse than ever and I was slipping into insomnia. Leni, (one of my closet friends who also suffers from anxiety) and I were spending the day together thrift store shopping. I told her that I was convinced I was on the sugar pills and was feeling awful and thinking about quitting the trial, finding a new doctor and getting some real medication.
She said that her brother, Theo – who we were meeting later for dinner - had recently started taking Gabitril and found it very helpful. Theo told me the drug was helping, his only complaint was when he took it on an empty stomach, it made him feel as if, “my head is floating off my body". Well, I never had that feeling and now I was certain I had been taking sugar pills. I asked Theo for his Psychiatrists number.
On my drive home it started raining. By the time I got home it was pissing down. Lying in bed, locked in my room, staring at the bottle of mace on my nightstand, I started to feel like I couldn’t breathe. I needed air, I tried to open the window but it wouldn’t open. In fact not one of my six windows would open. I called a friend who lived nearby, hearing the panic in my voice he offered to come over with some WD-40 and pry these ancient bitches open. Success! Finally fresh air, I managed to get a few hours of sleep.
I called Theo’s doctor at 8:00am sharp. Luckily he had an opening at the end of the day. Yes! Tired from only getting a few hours of rest, stressed out from an exhausting day of work, dredging across town in rain soaked rush hour traffic and trying to find parking in Beverly Hills… I burst into tears as soon as the doctor asked what was wrong.
I told him the whole story and he agreed that I was most likely on the sugar pills. Not only did he think Gabitril could be beneficial for me but he also prescribed two types of Xanax (the regular kind along with the XR time-release which would hopefully prevent the panic feeling) and he gave me a prescription for sleeping pills.
He then offered me two options for treatment. #1. I could see him weekly for talk therapy along with taking medication, or #2, I could see him every other month to check in about the meds. He told me to think it over and we made a phone appointment for the following week. I left his office and headed straight for the nearest pharmacy where I filled all four prescriptions.
That night I started the Gabitril, and I took a sleeping pill.
The next day I felt better than I had in weeks. Over the next week on all my new meds I was feeling pretty good. I was back to my pre, post, late-anxiety self.
The morning of my phone appointment I was feeling great, hell I had been sedated for a week! I went into work early that day to call the doctor before anyone came in. I rang him at 8:30 as I was asked. When he answered the phone it seemed obvious that I had woke him. He sounded groggy and asked me to hold a moment. I heard shuffling and coughing and when he returned I told him that I had decided to continue with the option #2. His response was beyond odd, he replied, "I have to be honest with you, I am not sure how the jury will feel about this. Jury's are more sympathetic when the patient is seeking therapy." WHAT? What the hell was this man talking about?
I said, “Excuse me?” He said, “Wait, who is this?” I told him who it was and once again he asked me to hold on. Again with the shuffling, I could hear drawers opening and closing. He said,” Oh, I had the wrong paper work in front of me, yes that's fine, let's get together next month. Call my office and make an appointment.”
Even though I was high as a ten-year old’s fuckin’ frisbee, I knew this guy was off… way off.
But the thought of finding another plan to curtail my anxiety, was, well, anxiety inducing. So I tried to stick it out, but when I went to the pharmacy to pick up the good doctor’s refills there was a second medication, something for depression. I told the pharmacist I never asked for that medication, but he seemed surprised and suggested I contact my physician. When I saw the doctor next, I asked him about it and he said he thought I wanted something for depression. When I told him that never happened he just said, “Well that’s fine, don’t take it then.”
The good doctor continued to fill my prescription, without seeing me, for the next year!
At eighteen years old, I moved out of the house I had grown up in and began a cycle of living with boyfriends and roommates that continued into my early thirties. After a bad break-up I decided to step-out, and face the world, solo at last.
I found an apartment on Cherokee Ave. in Hollywood. A small one bedroom / one bath that allowed dogs, I had a Lab Retriever and a Chihuahua at the time. The neighborhood was brimming with transient addicts and tranny hookers that would wander the streets at all hours looking for some depraved action.
Although it was supposed to be a secured building, the front gate didn’t latch and often there were sketchy ganged-out teens loitering around the garage. A freaked-out friend had given me a small bottle of mace that she suggested I carry when walking the dogs. I took that mace everywhere - to the laundry room, to the mailbox, down to my car, I even slept with that bottle of mace on my nightstand.
A few weeks into my solo girl-power sojourn I started to feel more anxious than usual. I had been battling anxiety forever, taking Celexa since I was twenty-five. One late night I was in my bedroom with the door locked (as if the pin bolt would somehow protect me from home invaders) worrying about earning some much-needed extra cash. I was a casting assistant’s assistant who now needed to buy a larger bottle of mace and maybe even a taser gun. It was fun living alone, right?
Anyway, I needed a second job, so I prowled Craigslist and immediately stumbled upon an ad that seemed to speak directly to me.
It read: Anxious, Need Extra Money?
The advertisement turned out to be for a clinical trial for people who suffered from anxiety. Perfect! I called the center first thing in the morning. They explained that I would have to stop taking my current medication, then they would give me a physical along with a full blood panel to ensure that I was healthy enough to participate. This was amazing! A physical, talk therapy, new meds and a paycheck? What a win, win situation!
Two weeks later I had the physical and with a clean bill of health they sent me home with a week's worth of pills that may or may not be Gabitril (it was a double blind study) so I was either getting the Gabitril or the placebo (sugar pills). I was told that the medication must always be taken with food. A few times when in a rush to get to work, I slipped up but didn’t notice a difference.
About 3 weeks into the study I began suffering from acute anxiety, it was worse than ever and I was slipping into insomnia. Leni, (one of my closet friends who also suffers from anxiety) and I were spending the day together thrift store shopping. I told her that I was convinced I was on the sugar pills and was feeling awful and thinking about quitting the trial, finding a new doctor and getting some real medication.
She said that her brother, Theo – who we were meeting later for dinner - had recently started taking Gabitril and found it very helpful. Theo told me the drug was helping, his only complaint was when he took it on an empty stomach, it made him feel as if, “my head is floating off my body". Well, I never had that feeling and now I was certain I had been taking sugar pills. I asked Theo for his Psychiatrists number.
On my drive home it started raining. By the time I got home it was pissing down. Lying in bed, locked in my room, staring at the bottle of mace on my nightstand, I started to feel like I couldn’t breathe. I needed air, I tried to open the window but it wouldn’t open. In fact not one of my six windows would open. I called a friend who lived nearby, hearing the panic in my voice he offered to come over with some WD-40 and pry these ancient bitches open. Success! Finally fresh air, I managed to get a few hours of sleep.
I called Theo’s doctor at 8:00am sharp. Luckily he had an opening at the end of the day. Yes! Tired from only getting a few hours of rest, stressed out from an exhausting day of work, dredging across town in rain soaked rush hour traffic and trying to find parking in Beverly Hills… I burst into tears as soon as the doctor asked what was wrong.
I told him the whole story and he agreed that I was most likely on the sugar pills. Not only did he think Gabitril could be beneficial for me but he also prescribed two types of Xanax (the regular kind along with the XR time-release which would hopefully prevent the panic feeling) and he gave me a prescription for sleeping pills.
He then offered me two options for treatment. #1. I could see him weekly for talk therapy along with taking medication, or #2, I could see him every other month to check in about the meds. He told me to think it over and we made a phone appointment for the following week. I left his office and headed straight for the nearest pharmacy where I filled all four prescriptions.
That night I started the Gabitril, and I took a sleeping pill.
The next day I felt better than I had in weeks. Over the next week on all my new meds I was feeling pretty good. I was back to my pre, post, late-anxiety self.
The morning of my phone appointment I was feeling great, hell I had been sedated for a week! I went into work early that day to call the doctor before anyone came in. I rang him at 8:30 as I was asked. When he answered the phone it seemed obvious that I had woke him. He sounded groggy and asked me to hold a moment. I heard shuffling and coughing and when he returned I told him that I had decided to continue with the option #2. His response was beyond odd, he replied, "I have to be honest with you, I am not sure how the jury will feel about this. Jury's are more sympathetic when the patient is seeking therapy." WHAT? What the hell was this man talking about?
I said, “Excuse me?” He said, “Wait, who is this?” I told him who it was and once again he asked me to hold on. Again with the shuffling, I could hear drawers opening and closing. He said,” Oh, I had the wrong paper work in front of me, yes that's fine, let's get together next month. Call my office and make an appointment.”
Even though I was high as a ten-year old’s fuckin’ frisbee, I knew this guy was off… way off.
But the thought of finding another plan to curtail my anxiety, was, well, anxiety inducing. So I tried to stick it out, but when I went to the pharmacy to pick up the good doctor’s refills there was a second medication, something for depression. I told the pharmacist I never asked for that medication, but he seemed surprised and suggested I contact my physician. When I saw the doctor next, I asked him about it and he said he thought I wanted something for depression. When I told him that never happened he just said, “Well that’s fine, don’t take it then.”
The good doctor continued to fill my prescription, without seeing me, for the next year!
Monday, December 8, 2008
My Man, Shua
Last year I was dating this guy named Joshua. We had been living together for a few months when he invited me to go to Ojai to visit some old friends. The plan was for us to stay with his friend, Astrid, and her much younger live-in boyfriend, Sage.
Upon arriving at Astrid’s house, she came rushing down the driveway in her Stevie Nicks hippie-witch finest and threw her arms around my boyfriend and screeched “Shua! It’s so good to see you!” Sage ambled out in his wooden clogs to greet us and gave a brotherly shout-out to… “Shua!”
Whoa? What? Who? I turned around to see this mystery man. Maybe someone was standing behind us in the patchouli? No, they were indeed talking about my boyfriend. Funny, I’d met his parents, sister, grandmother, friends, business associates, and his neighbors… “Shua”? Nope, never heard it.
When we settled in and had a moment alone, I plopped down in the comfy hemp beanbag chair and asked Josh why they were calling him by this “Shua” name, as it seemed odd to me. He said, “That’s what they call me here in Ojai.” As if that answer made any kind of sense.
Getting to know Astrid was interesting to say the least. She suggested that Josh and Sage bike over to the local farmer’s market to pick up some ingredients for dinner. She opened a bottle of organic, sulfite free Pinot Gris and began to grill me. She asked for details about my life, about how Josh and I had met and then about - big surprise - our sex life. I couldn’t tell if you she genuinely was interested or jealous. When the men returned, she abruptly changed the subject and the four of us prepared some sort of raw vegan meal that ended up making me feel a little queasy.
While lying in bed under a suffocating cloud of sandalwood incense, Josh told me that Astrid had basically slept with everyone she knew. He told me she had some kind of crazy sex drive and couldn't really control herself and that's why her marriage had failed years earlier. How comforting. I wondered aloud why he was telling me this, when it occurred to me that maybe she had in fact slept with him. I asked, "When you say she has slept with everyone, does that include you?" He simply answered, "You say that like it’s bad.”
Um, let me think.
Well, this one time in college I slept with this skinny Goth guy named Blue-haired Gary. For the record, I wish I hadn’t, but that’s a different story - anyway, we all have a past, the point is, I didn’t invite Blue-haired Gary to shack-up with us in our apartment! And if I ever would’ve suggested such a thing, I’d have fucking cleared it first with my boyfriend.
So yeah, a little heads-up would have been nice.
The next few days were more than awkward. Here I was staying in this woman's house, who had at one time been my boyfriend’s lover and all over town people were calling this man a weird name I’d never heard before. Ojai is a small and precious upwardly mobile community northeast of LA that attracts comfortable shoe wearing hippie millionaires, disaffected rich kids, and wanna-be artisans. It’s filled with crystal shops, metaphysical healers, massage gurus and even pet psychics, “Honey, do you think the hamster needs a shrink?” I couldn’t help but wonder, who was this guy I had fallen in love with and why did it take this life-coach infested place to make me realize how different we really were?
I later found out that Schua <ə> is actually something in the dictionary; it's a kind of non-vowel, a neutral sound between two consonants that kind of sounds like a flat "e". When I told Josh this, he became excited at the thought that maybe he should just use this unpronounceable, strange and confusing <ə> as his signature.
When he asked me what I thought, I watched him for a long moment.
“Perfect.”
Upon arriving at Astrid’s house, she came rushing down the driveway in her Stevie Nicks hippie-witch finest and threw her arms around my boyfriend and screeched “Shua! It’s so good to see you!” Sage ambled out in his wooden clogs to greet us and gave a brotherly shout-out to… “Shua!”
Whoa? What? Who? I turned around to see this mystery man. Maybe someone was standing behind us in the patchouli? No, they were indeed talking about my boyfriend. Funny, I’d met his parents, sister, grandmother, friends, business associates, and his neighbors… “Shua”? Nope, never heard it.
When we settled in and had a moment alone, I plopped down in the comfy hemp beanbag chair and asked Josh why they were calling him by this “Shua” name, as it seemed odd to me. He said, “That’s what they call me here in Ojai.” As if that answer made any kind of sense.
Getting to know Astrid was interesting to say the least. She suggested that Josh and Sage bike over to the local farmer’s market to pick up some ingredients for dinner. She opened a bottle of organic, sulfite free Pinot Gris and began to grill me. She asked for details about my life, about how Josh and I had met and then about - big surprise - our sex life. I couldn’t tell if you she genuinely was interested or jealous. When the men returned, she abruptly changed the subject and the four of us prepared some sort of raw vegan meal that ended up making me feel a little queasy.
While lying in bed under a suffocating cloud of sandalwood incense, Josh told me that Astrid had basically slept with everyone she knew. He told me she had some kind of crazy sex drive and couldn't really control herself and that's why her marriage had failed years earlier. How comforting. I wondered aloud why he was telling me this, when it occurred to me that maybe she had in fact slept with him. I asked, "When you say she has slept with everyone, does that include you?" He simply answered, "You say that like it’s bad.”
Um, let me think.
Well, this one time in college I slept with this skinny Goth guy named Blue-haired Gary. For the record, I wish I hadn’t, but that’s a different story - anyway, we all have a past, the point is, I didn’t invite Blue-haired Gary to shack-up with us in our apartment! And if I ever would’ve suggested such a thing, I’d have fucking cleared it first with my boyfriend.
So yeah, a little heads-up would have been nice.
The next few days were more than awkward. Here I was staying in this woman's house, who had at one time been my boyfriend’s lover and all over town people were calling this man a weird name I’d never heard before. Ojai is a small and precious upwardly mobile community northeast of LA that attracts comfortable shoe wearing hippie millionaires, disaffected rich kids, and wanna-be artisans. It’s filled with crystal shops, metaphysical healers, massage gurus and even pet psychics, “Honey, do you think the hamster needs a shrink?” I couldn’t help but wonder, who was this guy I had fallen in love with and why did it take this life-coach infested place to make me realize how different we really were?
I later found out that Schua <ə> is actually something in the dictionary; it's a kind of non-vowel, a neutral sound between two consonants that kind of sounds like a flat "e". When I told Josh this, he became excited at the thought that maybe he should just use this unpronounceable, strange and confusing <ə> as his signature.
When he asked me what I thought, I watched him for a long moment.
“Perfect.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
