Endeavor flying by my balcony.
Friday, September 21, 2012
Thursday, September 13, 2012
When It's Too Painful To Talk About
My sister Lindy got up at 7 a.m., like she does every day. She walked into the living room and opened the curtains then slowly made her way to the dining room to open those curtains.
A pair of doves nest in a fern my sister has hanging on her balcony. A bright green and beautifully lush fern. Twice a year the female lays eggs in it. She sits on them and waits for the male to return with food. If the male thinks she's in any danger, he flies quickly to the balcony railing to stand guard. I've seen him come zooming in from out of the blue if I stare too long up at the nest. They know my sister. They don't know me.
The doves have been coming to her balcony for many, many years. Lindy thinks they bring her good luck and is always excited when they finally appear. One year they didn't come, they'd gone to a nearby apartment instead. Lindy spent that year waiting for bad luck to strike. It didn't. But she held vigil anyway. The doves always have two or three babies and they hop around the balcony before they finally take flight as young adults.
The doves aren't perturbed by my sister watering her plants. They even tolerate her dog Yoshi, who is so fat he'd have a hard time lifting his head to locate them.
When Lindy opened the dining room curtains on Friday morning she saw a man lying on the terrace outside her third floor condo and thought, “How weird that Mel is trying to get some sun this early in the morning.”
And then she saw the blood.
She was in such shock she called the front desk instead of 911.
They called 911.
Mel had thrown himself off his 10th floor balcony and landed in front of Lindy's dining room windows.
Two days before National Suicide Prevention Week.
Lindy cried and cried and when the police came, and spent four hours at the scene, they suggested tenants talk to counselors. Others, as it turned out, also saw Mel lying on the terrace.
This happened last Friday. I didn’t hear about it until yesterday. My sister is like my late father, and my mother. They are not divulgers of painful feelings. For them, it happens and then you move on. For me, it happens and then you dwell on it for years.
A therapist who lives in her building opened her doors to all the residents. Lindy went. The therapist diagnosed her with PTSD. A tenant gave her some Klonopin. She's been on it since the suicide.
Lindy told me this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to her. That she discovered the body of a friend who died violently. I believe her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
"Mel wasn't liked in the building. He made trouble for the condo association. They called him a dissident. I liked him and everyone knew that."
Lindy likes everyone.
“People are avoiding me; I ended up not wanting to tell everyone else.”
“I’m not everyone else. I’m your sister.”
Silence.
Like I said, everyone in my family leans towards taciturn in events of the heart.
Mel left a suicide note. He was bipolar. He was 77. He was divorced. His wife lived in the same building, but in a different apartment.
The day that Mel jumped the doves left their nest. Three days went by and they didn’t return. Lindy anxiously checked the fern for signs of their slim grey tail feathers, which stuck out from the fern when they were in residence.
Nothing.
On Tuesday Lindy got up on a stool to look inside the nest. That's how convinced she was they were still there. There was a lone egg in the fern. Cracked open. The baby dove lay in the jaws of the broken shell.
Dead.
A pair of doves nest in a fern my sister has hanging on her balcony. A bright green and beautifully lush fern. Twice a year the female lays eggs in it. She sits on them and waits for the male to return with food. If the male thinks she's in any danger, he flies quickly to the balcony railing to stand guard. I've seen him come zooming in from out of the blue if I stare too long up at the nest. They know my sister. They don't know me.
The doves have been coming to her balcony for many, many years. Lindy thinks they bring her good luck and is always excited when they finally appear. One year they didn't come, they'd gone to a nearby apartment instead. Lindy spent that year waiting for bad luck to strike. It didn't. But she held vigil anyway. The doves always have two or three babies and they hop around the balcony before they finally take flight as young adults.
The doves aren't perturbed by my sister watering her plants. They even tolerate her dog Yoshi, who is so fat he'd have a hard time lifting his head to locate them.
When Lindy opened the dining room curtains on Friday morning she saw a man lying on the terrace outside her third floor condo and thought, “How weird that Mel is trying to get some sun this early in the morning.”
And then she saw the blood.
She was in such shock she called the front desk instead of 911.
They called 911.
Mel had thrown himself off his 10th floor balcony and landed in front of Lindy's dining room windows.
Two days before National Suicide Prevention Week.
Lindy cried and cried and when the police came, and spent four hours at the scene, they suggested tenants talk to counselors. Others, as it turned out, also saw Mel lying on the terrace.
This happened last Friday. I didn’t hear about it until yesterday. My sister is like my late father, and my mother. They are not divulgers of painful feelings. For them, it happens and then you move on. For me, it happens and then you dwell on it for years.
A therapist who lives in her building opened her doors to all the residents. Lindy went. The therapist diagnosed her with PTSD. A tenant gave her some Klonopin. She's been on it since the suicide.
Lindy told me this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to her. That she discovered the body of a friend who died violently. I believe her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
"Mel wasn't liked in the building. He made trouble for the condo association. They called him a dissident. I liked him and everyone knew that."
Lindy likes everyone.
“People are avoiding me; I ended up not wanting to tell everyone else.”
“I’m not everyone else. I’m your sister.”
Silence.
Like I said, everyone in my family leans towards taciturn in events of the heart.
Mel left a suicide note. He was bipolar. He was 77. He was divorced. His wife lived in the same building, but in a different apartment.
The day that Mel jumped the doves left their nest. Three days went by and they didn’t return. Lindy anxiously checked the fern for signs of their slim grey tail feathers, which stuck out from the fern when they were in residence.
Nothing.
On Tuesday Lindy got up on a stool to look inside the nest. That's how convinced she was they were still there. There was a lone egg in the fern. Cracked open. The baby dove lay in the jaws of the broken shell.
Dead.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Sunday, August 12, 2012
I Got A Book Deal!
I'm on deadline as the book is due in 6 weeks.
I won't be posting much.
You can thank me later.
I won't be posting much.
You can thank me later.
Tuesday, August 07, 2012
Thursday, August 02, 2012
Getting Another Ganesh
Ganesh 2.0 came in the mail today. I heard from lots of people who emailed to say they also had a Ganesh stashed either in their home or outside it. Never underestimate the power of the Hindu Gods. Or any other Gods. Or Cheetos.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Giving Away Ganesh
This little statue of Ganesh is 3 inches high. I should say WAS 3 inches high because I gave him away. I bought him in the lobby of the Best Western in Mumbai, India in 2006 and have kept him in my car since then. Ganesh is a Hindu God known for *removing obstacles* and seeing him riding in my ashtray always made me feel safe. Whenever I had my car washed I put him in my purse until I got my car back. He was made of wood and garishly painted, probably cost me about 35 rupees. Tops. At the time 110 rupees was worth $1.10. Life in India is cheap, even in the gift shops.
I took this picture of him and then gave him to Mimi's daughter when Mimi lay dying in the hospital. At that point I felt so helpless it was all I could do.
I drove home from Santa Monica the weekend of July 9th as Mimi was being prepared for organ donation. In West Hollywood I was rear-ended by a car. No one was hurt so I let the young driver off the hook since my car had minimal damage. It's a 1998 Ford so I didn't think an extra ding on the bumper was going to bring down its current Blue Book value of $8.96.
I went to Mimi's memorial last Monday, the 23rd. I changed from the pair of Keen's I normally wear, unattractive, backless scary looking shoes I bought after my ankle surgery four years ago, to a pair of lovely Steve Madden pony skin loafers. Flats!! I drove to Santa Monica, about forty five minutes away, walked the five minutes from the garage to the memorial site, sat for two hours, walked back to my car, drove home.
The next morning I woke up and my right foot hurt. The right foot that was cut to bits by Dr. Cruel and his house of pain back in 2008.
Don't fuck with my foot because my foot's hardware can kick your foot's ass:
I went to Urgent Care over the weekend and I have a stress fracture on my 3rd distal, the bony part of the foot's skeleton that connects my third toe to the rest of my foot. I'm in a black walking boot, no pony skin. Definitely not Chanel.
Which brings me back to Ganesh. When I gave him away I had a few twinges of Uh-oh, Ganesh Is Gone. Will I be safe or more importantly will I FEEL safe? I dismissed the thoughts immediately because I know how powerful thoughts are.
Thoughts become things. BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU THINK.
I hope Ganesh wasn't paying me back for riding in my ashtray all those years.
I took this picture of him and then gave him to Mimi's daughter when Mimi lay dying in the hospital. At that point I felt so helpless it was all I could do.I drove home from Santa Monica the weekend of July 9th as Mimi was being prepared for organ donation. In West Hollywood I was rear-ended by a car. No one was hurt so I let the young driver off the hook since my car had minimal damage. It's a 1998 Ford so I didn't think an extra ding on the bumper was going to bring down its current Blue Book value of $8.96.
I went to Mimi's memorial last Monday, the 23rd. I changed from the pair of Keen's I normally wear, unattractive, backless scary looking shoes I bought after my ankle surgery four years ago, to a pair of lovely Steve Madden pony skin loafers. Flats!! I drove to Santa Monica, about forty five minutes away, walked the five minutes from the garage to the memorial site, sat for two hours, walked back to my car, drove home.
The next morning I woke up and my right foot hurt. The right foot that was cut to bits by Dr. Cruel and his house of pain back in 2008.
Don't fuck with my foot because my foot's hardware can kick your foot's ass:
I went to Urgent Care over the weekend and I have a stress fracture on my 3rd distal, the bony part of the foot's skeleton that connects my third toe to the rest of my foot. I'm in a black walking boot, no pony skin. Definitely not Chanel.Which brings me back to Ganesh. When I gave him away I had a few twinges of Uh-oh, Ganesh Is Gone. Will I be safe or more importantly will I FEEL safe? I dismissed the thoughts immediately because I know how powerful thoughts are.
Thoughts become things. BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU THINK.
I hope Ganesh wasn't paying me back for riding in my ashtray all those years.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Working Out Means Never Having To Say No Dessert For Me
Before I bought a scale I used to walk to the gym, weigh myself and then hike, and I use the word hike loosely here, the three blocks home. In my defense, the walk back was uphill. So a few years ago I decided to get serious and hire a trainer, or rather hire the one that Bally’s Gym assigned to me. He'd been Mr. Bulgaria twice, Mr. Northern California in the early 90’s and had written three fitness books, which was three more than I'd written. I felt sorry for him; his business card was an unevenly scissored piece of Xerox paper. He was earnest and committed and I knew he had a family waiting in a cramped one-bedroom apartment somewhere in Koreatown expecting him to put borscht on the table. He had that sad, vacant look that people who do not ever expect to catch up with life have.
I hate working out but I hate eating even more. I don’t like food. Hand me a pill called LUNCH and leave me alone. I refuse to cook. If you don’t want to impress me, invite me out for dinner and then ask me where we should go, what we should eat and what we should order. Then as we’re eating, ask me how my Sea Bass is, or if I want to try your Carpaccio or split a dessert. Just so we’re clear, I don’t like to discuss food, shop for food or try out new food at the trendy new restaurant in Who Cares, New Jersey. I can hardly wait until I’m rich enough to have Ina Garten move in. It’s the only reason I’m still breathing in and out.
I only kept going to the gym because there were cute guys there. But sometime in the last two years my gym became a meeting place for old Chinese women. Mr. Bulgaria deftly escorted me through them as if he was afraid I'd stop and spontaneously break into a mah-jongg game.
The gym rat in our family is my sister, who once graced the cover of Muscle & Fitness Magazine. She goes around spewing communist propaganda like, “I’m really craving an apple.” Please, Johnny Appleseed didn’t crave an apple. If you’re at her house and want something fattening to eat, you have to lick the grease off her stove. She’s the kind of person who you'll ask, “How do I look in this bathing suit?” and she’ll say, “You look fabulous.” Then ten days later she sees you in shorts and says, “Gee, you really look great; not like you did in that bathing suit.” She got so addicted to exercise that she had to join a 12-step program. I don’t think it worked because now she’s up to 27 steps. As for the rest of our family, we would rather die with a stent in our hearts than a deltoid on our wherever-the-fuck the deltoid goes.
I went to World Gym in Venice with her one day many years ago. Arnold Schwarzenegger owned it then and Stallone hung out there a lot. I was having a rough time in the business and my sister, who was friendly with both Arnold and Sly, had told them about my struggle. Sly was there that day and when she introduced me to him, he had that crooked half-smile going on and came towards me with his arms outstretched. “Aaaayyy, somebody needs a hug.” His bodyguards surrounded us and Sly hugged me like I owed him money. I knew he had had a rough ride in Hollywood before Rocky hit and I knew he understood where I was in my slide into artistic hell.
“Aaaayyy, don’t give up, it can happen to you,” Sly said. I’ve never given up because of that.
Sly and his body guards left and my sister and I began to work out in earnest. She did anyway, I was staring into space and wondering if Sly noticed that I hadn’t plucked my eyebrows. I watched as she admired her calves. Inspected them as if they had USDA stamped on them and were going to market in a refrigerated truck. A line formed. Now other people were inspecting her calves. Suddenly one of these voyeurs took time out from his busy schedule of ogling her and eyed me suspiciously.
“What’s that on the back of your arm?” he asked.
“A triceps?”
“Well,” he continued, “have a doctor look at it; it might be cancer.”
This was a repost from 2006. It was my 11th post! But it has a Sly Stallone anecdote that endeared me to the man for life. I'm so sad for him and Sasha and everyone who knew and loved Sage.
I hate working out but I hate eating even more. I don’t like food. Hand me a pill called LUNCH and leave me alone. I refuse to cook. If you don’t want to impress me, invite me out for dinner and then ask me where we should go, what we should eat and what we should order. Then as we’re eating, ask me how my Sea Bass is, or if I want to try your Carpaccio or split a dessert. Just so we’re clear, I don’t like to discuss food, shop for food or try out new food at the trendy new restaurant in Who Cares, New Jersey. I can hardly wait until I’m rich enough to have Ina Garten move in. It’s the only reason I’m still breathing in and out.
I only kept going to the gym because there were cute guys there. But sometime in the last two years my gym became a meeting place for old Chinese women. Mr. Bulgaria deftly escorted me through them as if he was afraid I'd stop and spontaneously break into a mah-jongg game.
The gym rat in our family is my sister, who once graced the cover of Muscle & Fitness Magazine. She goes around spewing communist propaganda like, “I’m really craving an apple.” Please, Johnny Appleseed didn’t crave an apple. If you’re at her house and want something fattening to eat, you have to lick the grease off her stove. She’s the kind of person who you'll ask, “How do I look in this bathing suit?” and she’ll say, “You look fabulous.” Then ten days later she sees you in shorts and says, “Gee, you really look great; not like you did in that bathing suit.” She got so addicted to exercise that she had to join a 12-step program. I don’t think it worked because now she’s up to 27 steps. As for the rest of our family, we would rather die with a stent in our hearts than a deltoid on our wherever-the-fuck the deltoid goes.
I went to World Gym in Venice with her one day many years ago. Arnold Schwarzenegger owned it then and Stallone hung out there a lot. I was having a rough time in the business and my sister, who was friendly with both Arnold and Sly, had told them about my struggle. Sly was there that day and when she introduced me to him, he had that crooked half-smile going on and came towards me with his arms outstretched. “Aaaayyy, somebody needs a hug.” His bodyguards surrounded us and Sly hugged me like I owed him money. I knew he had had a rough ride in Hollywood before Rocky hit and I knew he understood where I was in my slide into artistic hell.
“Aaaayyy, don’t give up, it can happen to you,” Sly said. I’ve never given up because of that.
Sly and his body guards left and my sister and I began to work out in earnest. She did anyway, I was staring into space and wondering if Sly noticed that I hadn’t plucked my eyebrows. I watched as she admired her calves. Inspected them as if they had USDA stamped on them and were going to market in a refrigerated truck. A line formed. Now other people were inspecting her calves. Suddenly one of these voyeurs took time out from his busy schedule of ogling her and eyed me suspiciously.
“What’s that on the back of your arm?” he asked.
“A triceps?”
“Well,” he continued, “have a doctor look at it; it might be cancer.”
This was a repost from 2006. It was my 11th post! But it has a Sly Stallone anecdote that endeared me to the man for life. I'm so sad for him and Sasha and everyone who knew and loved Sage.
Friday, July 13, 2012
Yet One More Blog I Love
As much as I love all things fashion, I equally love all things style. So continuing with my Most Favorite Blogs Ever, I give you the fabulous style gurus the Junk Gypsies. They meet all my criteria of extreme creativity, brazen confidence and off the wall originality. They shop for a living. In vintage shops and junkyards and flea markets. Since more than half of my apartment is filled with items from those three places, I was a devotee from the moment I saw them.
Amie and Jolie and a stranger in the middle. (my crack research team is on vacation) (also non-existent)
I'll admit to being late to the Junk Gypsy party but I've made up for it with ardent stalking on Twitter, @junkgypsy, and watching every video of theirs on HGTV.com. When my finances fell into hell, I cut off my cable so can't watch their wildly popular HGTV show. But when I house sit in Santa Monica, I do watch while praying for cash flow at the altar of my rich friends.
Sidebar: You know how you follow people on Twitter and shout them out with a compliment? I'm not talking about regular bloggers, I'm talking about people more in the public eye, with lots of followers. And you know how they couldn't be bothered to tweet you back? There are even a few big bloggers who couldn't be bothered. But not Amie and Jolie. Maybe because they're down home girls from Texas, but they're very quick draw with a response.
One of my favorite designs of theirs was for the Miranda Lambert and Blake Shelton wedding. OH MY GOD. I've never been a fan of those white weddings where everything looks exactly like the wedding down the street. No sameness here. No beige people need apply.
Here they are with some of their treasures on The Today Show with Hoda and KLG:
While you're visiting their site, check out their store and buy me something, like for example THIS:
**All photos stolen off their site. All the real information, like who that stranger is in the picture at the top, is on their site. Also, all photo attributions. Apologies to the Gypsies for my extreme laziness this morning.
Amie and Jolie and a stranger in the middle. (my crack research team is on vacation) (also non-existent)
I'll admit to being late to the Junk Gypsy party but I've made up for it with ardent stalking on Twitter, @junkgypsy, and watching every video of theirs on HGTV.com. When my finances fell into hell, I cut off my cable so can't watch their wildly popular HGTV show. But when I house sit in Santa Monica, I do watch while praying for cash flow at the altar of my rich friends.Sidebar: You know how you follow people on Twitter and shout them out with a compliment? I'm not talking about regular bloggers, I'm talking about people more in the public eye, with lots of followers. And you know how they couldn't be bothered to tweet you back? There are even a few big bloggers who couldn't be bothered. But not Amie and Jolie. Maybe because they're down home girls from Texas, but they're very quick draw with a response.
One of my favorite designs of theirs was for the Miranda Lambert and Blake Shelton wedding. OH MY GOD. I've never been a fan of those white weddings where everything looks exactly like the wedding down the street. No sameness here. No beige people need apply.
Here they are with some of their treasures on The Today Show with Hoda and KLG:
While you're visiting their site, check out their store and buy me something, like for example THIS:**All photos stolen off their site. All the real information, like who that stranger is in the picture at the top, is on their site. Also, all photo attributions. Apologies to the Gypsies for my extreme laziness this morning.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
What Really Happened To Mimi?
By all eyewitness accounts it was a horrible accident. Mimi was putting her gym bag in the back seat of her car. She wasn't on the sidewalk, but in the street, on the driver's side. Whether she saw the car or not, no one is sure. But he slammed into her going about 35 miles per hour and she became airborne. Later, the doctors would say she was dead the moment she landed on her head. But those of us who knew her thought she'd really died long before; this was just the physical death.
They'd divorced 5 years earlier. Unhappy, Mimi became more distraught when her ex-husband remarried. As her unhappiness grew, her son went to live with his father while the daughter stayed with her. Then her ex stopped paying alimony 2 years ago, adding to her anguish. Her own mother told her she was tired of hearing her complain about her problems.
Mimi started telling everyone that she'd be better off dead. And that "they" would pay for it.
As I regularly updated the story on Twitter, Mimi was declared brain dead and her body was MRI'd in preparation for organ donation. Her parents lost a son in a terrible accident years ago, and now a daughter was dying from another tragic accident. Doctors waited to terminate Mimi's life until her parents arrived from Iran. I can't imagine what that conversation was like.
The last time I saw Mimi was at the big surprise birthday party my sister threw for our mom back in December. When she found out about the party she asked Lindy what she could do to help and to give her a list of errands she'd be happy to run for her. She gave mom a lovely crystal bowl.
The point of this post is me harping on something I warn people about all the time. BE CAREFUL OF YOUR WORDS. "Thoughts become things" and "what you think about you bring about" are mantras for me. People who say they have bad luck? Usually do. People who say they get a cold every winter? Get a cold every winter.
Mimi said she'd be better off dead. And as to the second part of her sentence, "they will pay for it" Mimi's ex-husband will now have to take financial care of their two children, both in their 20's, for the rest of their lives. We don't know for sure but there will probably be a massive lawsuit against the man who hit her. And what was his profession?
Doctor.
They'd divorced 5 years earlier. Unhappy, Mimi became more distraught when her ex-husband remarried. As her unhappiness grew, her son went to live with his father while the daughter stayed with her. Then her ex stopped paying alimony 2 years ago, adding to her anguish. Her own mother told her she was tired of hearing her complain about her problems.
Mimi started telling everyone that she'd be better off dead. And that "they" would pay for it.
As I regularly updated the story on Twitter, Mimi was declared brain dead and her body was MRI'd in preparation for organ donation. Her parents lost a son in a terrible accident years ago, and now a daughter was dying from another tragic accident. Doctors waited to terminate Mimi's life until her parents arrived from Iran. I can't imagine what that conversation was like.
The last time I saw Mimi was at the big surprise birthday party my sister threw for our mom back in December. When she found out about the party she asked Lindy what she could do to help and to give her a list of errands she'd be happy to run for her. She gave mom a lovely crystal bowl.
The point of this post is me harping on something I warn people about all the time. BE CAREFUL OF YOUR WORDS. "Thoughts become things" and "what you think about you bring about" are mantras for me. People who say they have bad luck? Usually do. People who say they get a cold every winter? Get a cold every winter.
Mimi said she'd be better off dead. And as to the second part of her sentence, "they will pay for it" Mimi's ex-husband will now have to take financial care of their two children, both in their 20's, for the rest of their lives. We don't know for sure but there will probably be a massive lawsuit against the man who hit her. And what was his profession?
Doctor.
Monday, July 09, 2012
Ah, The Good Old Days
I house sit for fabulous friends of mine and they have a book called Hollywood Life. Every time I look through it I wish those days weren't over. No Kardashians and trashy movie stars!! No Real Housewives of anywhere!! These are some of the pictures from the book:
Charlton Heston, the guy who is all about owning guns. And being naked, apparently. Also? BEING CREEPY.
This is (was) Gypsy Rose Lee's toilet:
How much would you pay to see Bethenny Frankel's toilet? If your answer is Nothing then congratulations, you're not a moron.
Charlton Heston, the guy who is all about owning guns. And being naked, apparently. Also? BEING CREEPY.
This is (was) Gypsy Rose Lee's toilet:
How much would you pay to see Bethenny Frankel's toilet? If your answer is Nothing then congratulations, you're not a moron. Sunday, July 08, 2012
L.A. Sign Of The Times #102
On Ocean Avenue, in Santa Monica, I always look forward to seeing this tree. Trees?
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