Friday night was my date to the Chateau Marmont with my Manager. I rushed home from work quickly to feed my girls and bring them in, pop in my contacts and get fabulous before jetting off to Beverly Hills in under 40 minutes.
Once I found my stellar street parking spot on La Cienega and plopped my expired tags ticket on my windshield, my manager picked me up in a taxi. She apologized but her other friend couldn't be there because its the super moon, there was an earthquake predicted for Saturday and the radiation fumes from Japan were supposed to arrive with the weekend rain. So her friend went to Arizona instead.
We arrived to the Chateau after a clumsy time finding the entrance, but a handsome, tall stranger followed us in with a smile. Turns out at the Chateau, there are nothing but tall, handsome strangers. It was surreal.
We were escorted outside to the patio where we ordered drinks. She already put her hand on my lap and said, "I am buying. Don't worry." I was worried. I was -$224 in my checking and pushing the few dollars left on my credit card. So, in this situation, I always order what the other person is ordering so they never pay more for my drink. In this case, it was vodka and grapefruit juice.
It was delicious. Ice cold. Bitter sweet.
She wanted to sit facing the dining room so she could see who was there. I just wanted to be directly under the heat lamp.
I said, "You know, Britney Spears was blacklisted from this restaurant for wiping her dinner all over her face. It upset the other patrons, so they asked her to leave." Poor Britney.
My Manager said, "They always pick on the girls. They are the first ones to be discussed, photographed, gossiped about and then they are torn apart." It's true.
We had a fairly balanced conversation about our relationships. We discussed how we gravitate to psychotics and how men are perpetual adolescents. Nothing new. She and I have a lot in common, as it turns out.
When the bill came, it was $90 for four drinks between us.
Manager, "$90!!!! We only ordered four drinks!"
The Waitress said, "Yes, but we squeeze our grapefruits fresh to order."
Manager, "No wonder it tasted so good." She gave her credit card. Shortly thereafter, the waitress returned.
The Waitress, "Do you have another card?"
Manager, "Was it declined?"
The Waitress nodded and stuttered a "Yes."
My manager went through all the things we say. "But I just went to the bank today." "There should be plenty of room." "This is funny, isn't it?"
I said, "I wish I could help you out but I only have $6."
The Manager came over and asked if there was a problem. Repeat the above blubberings and then we sat there. She said, "Should I call my bank or my ex-boyfriend?"
I said, "Call your ex-boyfriend. Your bank isn't going to help you right now."
She said, "Thank you for telling me what to do."
Her ex-boyfriend picked up, got his credit card and paid over the phone. My Manager kept repeating, "This is just hilarious, isn't it?" I knew she was embarrassed, but I am never embarrassed in these situations. Its old hat for me. I just always give a little speech before handing over my card, make it as entertaining as possible so everyone feels at ease when my card is eventually declined.
I couldn't see much of the hotel from the patio or hallway, which was a little disappointing. I wanted to see where John Belushi died. I wanted to see the chandelier Jim Morrison fell from. At least SEE Lindsay Lohan, who lived there for a few years.
We used the restroom which was wallpapered with something vintage I liked. I could feel the ego of the place in the bathroom. I could sense the presence of cocaine, rich . . . bitches.
She said, "Do you want to go to the bar now?"
I said, "I am up for it but I only have $6."
She said, "Oh its much cheaper over there and I know there will be room on my card for that."
So I said, "Ok."
We passed the paparazzi, and walked into a bar. I have been there before, a few years ago. Its very small but people were mingling, the energy was better. Immediately, I spotted a tall, handsome, bearded stranger at the end of the bar smiling at me. My ovaries were on fire.
I told her, "There are a lot of bearded, tall twenty-somethings in here. That's my type."
She laughed. I walked us up to the bar, ordered a Pacifico and told the bartender it was her birthday. While waiting for drinks, I looked to my left and saw a tall, bearded twenty-something with thick glasses on, blue eyes and one of those beanie hats that hang heavily off the top, like Heath Ledger . . . or one of the seven dwarfs. He smiled at me. I smiled at him. And we struck up a mild conversation.
I can't recall what it was about, but I was feeling dizzy from the attention. He guessed our ages- 22, 23? Har har har. I included my Manager in the conversation, and she hit it off with Thick Glasses.
Everywhere I looked, there were clusters of men eyeing me. It got to my head faster than the vodka and freshly squeezed grapefruit. Thick Glasses had a friend, also tall, also twenty something, also wearing one of those beany hats. His name was Will.
We briefly spoke about his education in Law and my life as an actress. I really didn't find him all that interesting, but I could see Thick Glasses had this arm around my Manager now so I was locked into conversation with the BF. Of course, Law Degree wasn't working hard in the conversation because I doubt he has had to work hard for anything his whole life. So I leaned against the wall and sipped my beer.
Three East Indian men behind him lifted their glasses to me, and I reciprocated.
Will, "Do you know them?"
I said, "Nope."
Will said, "Do you want to talk to them?"
I said, "Nope."
I said, "The male to female ratio in this bar is really imbalanced."
Will said, "Yes it is."
He went to the bathroom when a British stranger, a little shorter than me, approached.
He said, "Maybe you could help me out. I am looking to buy a house. I am looking at one on Canon Drive (Beverly Hills) or closer to PCH (Pacific Coast Highway in Santa Monica). What do you recommend?"
Nice to meet you, Rich. I must be shallow.
I said, "Those are both expensive areas. I recommend cutting your overhead and moving somewhere higher in elevation where a natural disaster won't wipe you out."
He laughed. We had a fairly adult conversation after that. He composes music but does Business Development for income. I thought, these are the type of men I should be trying to date at my age.
Will came back, saw I was talking to another man and pouted behind the bar.
When Biz Dev asked me out, I felt a moment of nausea. Abe. God Damn It. Why am I so fucking loyal? I swayed a little bit, closed my eyes and nodded. He smiled and I gave him my card.
Here you may wonder, why would I agree to go out on a date with someone when my wounds are still raw? I don't want to feel like I am on hold. Abe hasn't tried to communicate with me since our last GChat and I had this nagging feeling he thought I am going to chain a celibacy belt on and wait in Pasadena with a stack of books and my Scrabble until he's ready.
I am not. And I resent that feeling. A lot.
Biz Dev left when another young man came forward. Also ethnic, I couldn't say what exactly. Light brown skin, huge blue eyes and thick black curls. His name was Ash.
He said he was an assistant at Paramount for the Creative Director, and, low and behold, they are looking for new scripts. That is probably the BEST come on line for me. I nodded, dug my toe into the ground and said, "You know . . . I have a script."
He sobered up and stood straight, "Really? Tell me about it."
He said, "I would love to read it. Maybe over coffee or lunch?"
I said, "Ok." I handed him my card and said, "But I am a good girl. You know what I mean."
He nodded and lead me out of the main room. The bouncer was clearing us out now and I was searching for my Manager. The alcohol was in my head, and I felt Ash's hand in mine as he tried to negotiate with the bouncer. "Its raining out and she's cold, could you let her wait inside?"
The bouncer apologized but said no. I looked up at his African magnificence. Tall, black, strong. I said, "I understand. You are very handsome."
Outside, my Manager still had Thick Glasses and Will. She said, "THERE you are!? I was worried. They are going to drive us back to my hotel."
Oy. I had a shoot the next morning, well . . . my dogs were cast in Lana's film and after that I had to valet a private party in Beverly Hills in a French Maid costume. Now its after 2am so its just a count down til I have to be up and going again.
I said, "Ok, let's go." I said goodbye to Ash and we walked over to the parking lot where Will's car was. He said to me, "Now, my car is old, ok? There. I said it."
I walked fast, "I don't give a fuck about anything but being warm right now."
We got in. My Manager and Thick Glasses were in the back seat. She said, "Do you know how handsome he is without these glasses? LOOK!"
I said, "I thought he was handsome with the glasses." It made him quirky. It is a disappointment he jumped on my Manager so fast. He was easy. That doesn't really impress me.
My Manager turned to him, "Have you ever thought about becoming an actor?"
I rolled my eyes. They started making out.
Will drove us to my car and I said, "Ok, I have to give the obligatory speech here. [Manager], are you ok if I leave now? Do you feel comfortable? Are you sober enough right now? Will you text me when you get to your hotel room?"
She got very sober and said, "Trust me, I AM FINE." I believed her.
I said to Will, "Can I trust you with my friend? Will you text me when you drop her off at her hotel room?"
Will said, "You can trust me. I am in law school. I should be freaking out over a DUI right now because I would have no chance in making the bar." I believed him.
I turned to Thick Glasses, "Are you going to rape my friend?"
He said, "No."
I said, "Have you raped anyone?" He shook his head.
Me, "Children?" He shook his head.
Me, "Animals?" He shook his head. Everyone else laughed.
He said, "I feel like you are mad at me."
I said, "I'm not mad. I just need to make sure my friend is safe and I can make it to my shoot tomorrow morning. That's really all I care about."
Thick Glasses, "Whoa, YOU'RE an actress?" Yes, Genius. Thanks for listening.
I got out of the car and called Will's phone to make sure I had his number.
When I got home, I texted Will. He said they were out at Denny's.
I sent off one last text . . . to Abe saying, "I am concerned you think I am putting myself on "hold" while you wrap your head around forever."
I slept for 5 hours before waking up and getting the girls ready for their shoot.
When I woke up, Will had texted that they dropped her off at her hotel room. No text from her. Not a surprise.
I rushed downtown and watched Lana direct a little girl and my babies in a scene. Time was ticking and Em was driving down to take my girls home so I could immediately rush to the party in Beverly Hills and do the valet gig.
It was the Super Moon. My tits were hurting and I felt a headache coming on. Em's truck was giving her trouble. My cell phone wasn't working. Stresssssss!
Everything worked out and I actually made it to the party on time.
The French Maid costume I had to wear was ridiculously small. I said I was a size 6 and they gave me a costume that said, "Teen: Size 2-6."
When I arrived at the fitting the day before, the chick with the costume made me change on her street corner close to an abandoned couch. Why NOT in her apartment? I should have asked, but I didn't.
It didn't fit over my ta tas, so I had to take my bra off, as she shoved the zipper up my back (cue slow moving van with a Hispanic man waving at me).
Saturday, I changed in my car and ran over to the mansion. The Team Captain is a 50 something, English woman with a horrific cigarette addiction and the face of a discarded lunch bag. Sorry, don't mean to be cruel, but she is also a bitch.
The party was a French theme, but outside. It was cold and windy. Thankfully there was no rain yet, but it was around 60 degrees and we weren't allowed to wear coats. My headache was spreading from the bump over my right eye to the back of my head. It was becoming a migraine.
There were only a few girls working this party, and as I have already mentioned, they are mostly all bitches. They do the things I came to ignore in Middle School, you know, turning you back on you when having a conversation with the group or standing in front of you and looking through you as if the most fascinating thing in the world is happening right behind you but they can't be bothered to acknowledge that you are standing right there. (All while chewing gum with their mouths open)
When a girl had an excuse for being late, Lunch Bag Face refused to respond but looked at the other girls and smiled like, "Isn't she full of shit, girls?"
One girl said to me, "I would have worn that style of costume, but when you have boobs you have to go with something more open on top."
Hey, LABIA NECK- I have tits ok? They are just flattened like pancakes right now. Jesus.
I was wearing my coat in between cars and a girl said, "What's all over your coat?"
I looked down. It was dog hair mostly, mixed in with some dirt and twigs. Before I could answer, she was walking away from me.
They pulled shit like that all afternoon. I hate those cunts.
You know what I hate more? The tips on these fucking jobs. I GOT NO TIPS for the 3 hours I worked this party.
NO ONE did. We all complained, as we usually do. But I seriously think I would make more if I worked a Mexican restaurant in East Hollywood than I would driving these fuckers cars after they gawk at my costumed body and smile with a "That Sean really knows how to throw a party, ha ha." HA HA!
You get the idea. The gig sucked.
The migraine was now over my forehead, down the back of my neck and moving to the right side of my throat. It felt like someone was gripping that side of my neck. I was now struck by waves of nausea. Lunch Bag asked me if I was ok. I told her I had a migraine.
She said, "Do you want to go home?"
I said, "If you can sacrifice me."
She said, "We have to. You look like you're about to throw up. Go home now. Take care of yourself. We will send you the tips."
I went home and only got as far as the base of Mulholland Drive before I had to pull over. I knew if I kept driving I would throw up. So in my pre-teen French Maid costume, I crawled up in my seat and fell asleep.
Forty minutes later, I woke up and drove the rest of the way home. When I got there, I sucked down a bunch of THC, took 2 Tylenol PMs, drank 2 pints of water and fell asleep with a hot pack on my head.
There is something bittersweet about my migraines. In the moment of total physical debilitation, you can't do anything. You have to surrender to rest. I couldn't worry about Abe, or bills, or the dogs, or my career. The only thing I can do is sit there and wait to slip away from the pain.
I suddenly missed Eric (Not-forProfit). Being together for 5 years has its perks, one of which is having someone know your ritual and help you. He would lower the lights, microwave my heating pad to the perfect temperature. He would bring water to my bedside. Then cook dinner when I woke up from the first few hours of sleep. He would take care of the animals and watch the television on mute so I wouldn't be disturbed.
Once, he put me on speaker phone at work and talked me through the initial pains of my migraine until I fell asleep. I remember he kept saying, "I am here. I am here." Followed by the click click click of his keyboard like rain on my porch steps. Then, I slipped into darkness.
Damn it, Eric. I loved you.
I woke up alone this time. Took the girls out. Fed all the animals. Found something to eat and watched The Soup. Then I retreated back to my bed for more dark silence.
I never heard from Abe. Why do I fucking care? Why did I think he learned some kind of lesson? How can I be so stupid over and over again?
The Comic once asked me why I am so loyal to "these guys?" I don't know how to break my heart like glass, in one clean swipe. I have seen other people do it. Its just not something I am capable of. My heart is more like the long, clumsy rip of a velcro strap. All those little hoops caught in their corresponding loops, screaming when pulled away. Sometimes it takes a few tugs before it pulls free. Never quite fitting as tightly the second or third time around. That's my heart.
Outside of Doggie Daycare on a break, I was having a smoke with Ocean when she said, "I think people have it backwards. I think men are more like cats than dogs. You know, they like being independent, stay out all night long and don't feel like they have to tell you where they've been. They choose when to be close to you and when they need space. Women are like dogs. You don't have to tell them how you feel, they know and love you no matter what. They don't care what you've done or how you treat them, they just want to be close to you."
I said, "I am not so sure about that. Men didn't used to be like roaming street cats. It must be generational. A few generations ago they wanted families and wives. Now they just want to be teenagers for as long as possible." Not ALL men, but you know . . .
I do like the comparison to loving like a dog.
There has been no greater gift the last few months than my job at Doggie Daycare.
We aren't allowed to give the dogs any food or treats, so let me just remove the Pavlovian theory from the equation. The only thing we give these dogs is love, attention and discipline. One my worst days, they will climb my lap, press their cheek against mine and just sit there like they know that is exactly what I need.
Some will board for days and cry for their owners until their voices are hoarse and they pass blood. Some will wait by the gate closest to the parking lot until they pick up their owners scent, whether it be 5 hours or 5 days. Some will be have a blast, play ball until they can barely run anymore, wrestle each other like pups, splash through the pools until sunset, but once they hear their name on the loud speaker- they will hit the front gates to the lobby so hard, a piece of the door will break.
That's the way I love.