The Space In Between

Chapter 18 - HELP WANTED: Tales of a Free- Spirit Professional Free Spirit

2012-02-10T15:17:00.000-08:00

PART 3 - Strippers and Clowns

It was official. I was no longer on unemployment. I received my last check yesterday and I wondered how life could be so cruel. I knew the end was coming, I just didn’t think it was this week. Being the handicapped mathematician that I was, I mistakenly calculated the weeks remaining and thought I had at least two more checks coming.

It sucked because, instead of basking in the glory of a successful gig, I now had to figure out a plan of action to make some money. I still couldn’t believe how many people came out to show their support. There were tons of people from the Madsen Group including Scott - who never goes out. My parents were there; along with both aunts and uncles. Even Tony showed up to hear a few songs.

The Cove had never seen so much business and the kitchen went down hard, falling behind upwards of thirty minutes and running out of almost everything. Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves despite the ineptitude of the restaurant. My regulars were especially rowdy – god bless ‘em – screaming for more each time I bid the crowd, good night. And like the kitchen, I ran out of stuff to sing, finally ending the show after three encores.

At first I was nervous and struggling to keep my legs from shaking. But there was so much love in that restaurant, my nerves quickly dissipated once I got the first song out of my system. It was such a thrill having so many people come together – like a funeral, without the dead person.

Albert manned the bar and told me later that the owner wanted me back once a month.

“Though, you gotta charge him next time, Liz. They made a killing tonight.”

Charging to sing? Now, there was a concept. That meant I could actually pay my musicians with someone else’s money. As ecstatic as I was about the gig’s success, I still had to come out of pocket to pay Kevin and Jerry. Getting paid next time seemed like a good plan.

Getting paid next week also seemed like a good plan and I had to figure out what to do to make up for my lost unemployment. Going back to corporate was completely out of the question. I would rather live on Tostito’s and Ramen noodles than set foot in an office. I was going to find something; I just wasn’t sure what.

“What about bartending?” Marla, my friend from the Madsen Group, asked when I called to break the news. “Why not get a job somewhere else that’s busier?”

I wasn’t ready to be a real bartender. The Cove was a great starting point and I did well with what I had, but I couldn’t handle a bar that had more than six people at a time. Not yet.

I picked up a copy of Backstage – the actor’s trade paper – and combed the Help Wanted Section. There were tons of catering jobs and calls for babysitters and dog walkers, but nothing appealed to me. Walking my own dog was enough of a challenge and I did enough grown-up babysitting at the Cove. I wanted to do something that was fun.

At the bottom of the page was an ad for a Children’s Party Performer. I could do that! Plus, the name of the company was Focus on FUN. It had to be a sign.

Without hesitation, I picked up the phone and dialed.

“Focus on Fun!” said the upbeat, women’s voice on the other end.

“Uh, hi. Yes, I’m calling about the ad in Backstage.”

“Oh!” she squealed with delight. “Are you a performer?”

This lady even sounded fun.

“Uh, yes, I am.”

“Great!” More squeals. “Why don’t come in for an interview on Monday? We can sit down and see where your strength’s are.” She paused. “Do you do balloon animals?”

“Yes, I do!” I lied. How hard could it be?

“Terrific! You can show me what you can do when I see you on Monday.”

And just like that, I had a job interview!

I had some work to do, though. How the hell do you make a balloon animal, anyway?

And, there ya have it.

2012-02-05T19:06:00.000-08:00

Memory Card Full - Excerpt

2012-01-30T07:37:00.000-08:00

picture: courtesy of www.restoredeleted.com

Hello!!

Check back later in the week for the next installment of HELP WANTED...In the meantime, here's an excerpt from my book, Memory Card Full.

Enjoy!

Chapter 1

Memory Card Full

Liz Weber

It was my last full day in

Mexico

and I was already missing the place. I drove through the sleepy town of Tulum as the late afternoon sun warmed my face through the open windows of my dusty, little rental car. I’d driven down the main drag so many times these last few weeks that instinctively, I knew when to slow down in preparation for the oncoming “topes” – random speed bumps every hundred feet or so, used to prevent drivers from speeding through the four short blocks known as the “Pueblo.”

I checked my rearview mirror as I rolled slowly over the first one, catching a glimpse of the handlebars peeking out of the trunk. Going over each of the bumps, I held my breath, as I did for pretty much the entire ride back from Playa del Carmen, a heavily populated town about forty-five minutes north of Tulum.

With a population somewhere around 10,000, Tulum sat in stark contrast to Playa where there was a Wal-Mart, Office Depot and thousands of high-rise resorts lining the beaches. Tulum was filled with small cafes and eco-resorts whose electricity shut down after 11pm each night to conserve energy.

“Hola!” I called to Manny through the passenger window as I made my way slowly over the last of the “topes.”

Manny ran the little store where I’d been buying eggs since my arrival and was nice enough to explain to me that asking in Spanish, “Tienes Huevos?” – The literal translation of “Do you have any eggs?” - was the way you’d ask someone if they had the balls to do something courageous.

He waved back and watched me pass smiling widely, saying something in Spanish and pointing to the trunk of my car with envy.

The bikes.

My friend Karen and I agreed that I would stay at her newly-built condo virtually rent-free in exchange for readying the apartment for prospective renters. The condo was just past the edge of town where the main road turned back into a two-lane highway and civilization thinned out into the surrounding jungle. I pulled into the dusty driveway and maneuvered around the unpaved dips and bumps with the ease of an expert, frequently checking to see that the bikes hadn’t fallen out of the trunk.

Buying the bikes was just another adventure to add to the list of many during my stay in

Mexico

. The couple who lived next door told me that Playa was the place to go for bikes, so me and my limited Spanish took a trip north early that morning.

The bike shop owner kept saying, “No problem, Lady. No problem,” as I watched three of his men work the bikes into the car for over an hour. They even tied a small red rag to one of the wheels - I suppose to indicate I was carrying some sort of “wide load.”

Pulling up to the condo, I now wondered how I’d get the bikes out of the car. Maybe Memo was still here, I thought as I opened the car door and reached back to find the flip-flops I’d happily tossed behind me for the journey south. Memo was the maintenance guy for the condo who’d do anything you asked as long as he understood what you were asking.

While looking for Memo, I decided it would be funny to have a picture of the bikes all tied up to the car to document my latest Mexican adventure. I ducked into the condo and grabbed my digital camera, happily distracted by this new task.

Outside again, I angled myself to the right of the rear of the car, making sure to get it all in – the red rag, the front wheel, handlebar and basket all sticking out of the trunk like something out of “Sanford and Son.” I pressed the button to take the picture, my camera beeped and across the screen the message read: Memory Card Full.

Shit. I knew why it was full. I still had his pictures on there. My mind started to race. Did I ever download them to my laptop in New York? No. I couldn’t have. It was too painful to look at them. They were the last photos I had of him before he died. The ones where he had to lie down while eating when the arthritis got so bad.

I swallowed hard and stood there looking at the bikes in the trunk. I had no USB cord with me so downloading the photos wasn’t an option. I felt like I was on a bridge. Should I delete the pictures of Rufus and erase the final memories I had of him? If I erased them, did it mean I was erasing him? And, if I kept them, what did that say about my desire to move forward?

“Next week marks a year since he’s gone, “I heard myself say to the camera.

It’d been such a great trip with so many new experiences and new friends and truly the first time since Rufus’ death that I had felt alive and really free. But did I have to let him go in order to embrace my present and ultimately my future?

My stomach tightened as I decided to compromise. I would erase all but three photos. I couldn’t let them all go, but I needed to make room for the new in my life. It was time. I stood in the parking lot scanning the pictures, trying to choose the best ones. In total, there were about ten photos, but when those are the last visual connection to someone you love, the stakes are much higher in the choice.

Erasing the first picture, I noticed I was holding my breath. It felt like I was betraying him; somehow casting him aside to embark on a new life. I tried to focus on my breath and as I did, I considered another perspective.

Maybe I should celebrate. I was finally moving on and ready to create the space for something new. I knew Rufus would dig that – in fact, I’m pretty sure that was the reason why he finally let go in the end.

HELP WANTED will be back next week!! See you then.

2012-01-26T20:46:00.000-08:00

Are you READY to make this a year to REMEMBER?

2012-01-23T13:23:00.001-08:00

courtesy of www.planetwaves.net

Revolution. Revelation. Reality Check.

How’s that for a gripping title to the highly anticipated 2012 annual astrology edition of Planetwaves. Eric Francis, a dear friend and colleague has just finished his take on what’s to come in 2012. Not the usual predictive, “on this day, that will happen,” generalizations, Eric’s work digs in and maintains a wonderful balance between the spiritual and the practical.

Too busy to read about what’s in store for this year? No problem. Eric’s also included an audio version dedicated to each sign, so you can sit back and hear all about 2012 on your way to work.

I recommend purchasing (at least) your sun sign and rising as reading both will give you a solid grasp on what to expect and how to prepare for some truly amazing astrology. I’ve already read mine and am working on the rest of the zodiac so I can understand what the people around me are experiencing as well.

Not into astrology? Buy just one sign – your Sun (that means where the sun was when you were born) – and I promise you’ll be hooked. You see, Eric’s work is not just a bunch of astro-babble, it’s more like a sharing of information; a conversation in which he inspires you to think about what he’s saying and encourages you take appropriate action.

It’s truly amazing work and you’ll also have access to the resource area with tons of well, “resources” to equip you for the upcoming year. One of my favorites is Eric’s e-book “Light Bridge – The 25 Year Span” a compilation of articles going back to 1987 − as he puts it – “describing an awakening process that is linked to preparation for the changes of our phase in history…”

For more information click here.

Check it out! It really is worth it. ALL of it.

Chapter 17 - HELP WANTED: Tales of a Free- Spirit Professional Free Spirit

2012-01-20T14:03:00.000-08:00

There was a considerable buzz building at the Cove and it was all due to my upcoming show. The bar was like a small town and me singing in a few weeks was the most excitement they’d seen in a long time. It got to a point where I wondered what we’d talk about after the gig as everyone was all about the “big night.”

I began to realize that being a bartender, you needed stories. While it was true that a large part of the job was listening, you had to be ready with something witty and interesting at the drop of a hat. People liked to be entertained. At least these people did. My stories fed them just the escape they needed and the more I made them laugh, the more money I made.

They were beginning to feel like family – these random people, who drank entirely too much on an alarmingly regular basis. I knew their habits and their ticks. Robbie liked his rum and diet coke in a wine glass and he’d always go home after six of them – never before. He was quiet and kind of sad. I wondered what life was like at home since he had to liquor up each night before going there.

Seth and Kerry were a lot of fun. He was in town for some sort of fast-track law program and she, well, she just hung out waiting for him to get out class. I think they were my favorite as we’d spend hours talking about a wide range of topics. Kerry was a happy drunk and easy to serve. Seth was cool too – as long he didn’t drink scotch. Macallan 12 on the rocks would snatch away his usually, sunny demeanor, replacing it with a darker, more prickish version.

The key to being a successful and sane bartender was to never get caught up in the lives of my customers. It was a delicate balance, but I couldn’t think about what they did outside of the bar. The truth was that for as much as they drank, none of them could be very happy. I so wanted to help them, but after Jake Bukowski, I’d learned my lesson.

Jake was a regular who came in on Sunday nights. He gave me a hard time when I first started, calling me “Rook” every time he ordered a drink.

“Hey Rook! Get me another beer would’ya?” And then to the others, “How long’s this kid a bartender – a minute. Pfft! I may have to find myself another bar with more experienced people.”

He made me nervous in the beginning. Like anxiety-ridden, nervous. I’d be on edge the whole night hoping that he’d make good on his promise and go over to Foxhounds, the dirty pub down the street. But, no, Jake would show up at 8pm sharp every Sunday already half-sauced, ready to rumble.

One night, he was particularly ornery and I was PMSing, which meant limited patience, even for the nicest person.

“Hey Rook! Rook!” he slurred. “Can I get some damn service here?”

The bar was not large and his yelling at me was almost comical. That is, if I were in a different mood. I decided to ignore him hoping to teach him a lesson. When he finally got so infuriated that I thought he was going to have a heart attack, I calmly walked over to him and said, “Jake. If you can’t act like a civilized human being, I’m going to have to cut you off.”

He blinked and stumbled back a step.

It was like a silent showdown and I could smell him sizing up the situation in his mind as he processed what I was telling him. And then something strange happened.

Jake started to cry.

I don’t know what freaked me out more – his crying or the fact that I had my first experience with cutting someone off. But I wasn’t an asshole and I soothed him and listened for the next three hours about his pathetic life of misery.

After that, Jake knew his place and gave me no lip when he came in on Sundays. He’d even started tipping more. The only problem was that he thought I was his new shrink coming in each week with a laundry list of problems to share. That’s when I learned to keep it light and on the surface with the customers – otherwise, I’d develop my own drinking problem.

Leap First....Think Later.

2012-01-18T15:26:00.000-08:00

courtesy of www.sylviebranch.com

When I was a kid, I loved my birthday, though not for the reason you’d think. Sure, I was thrilled to have a party with all my friends and family gathered around the table as I’d rip through present after present sailing high above it all with crazy excitement. But unlike other kids, I didn’t get sad once the day passed. You see, my birthday fell on, or right before the Memorial Day holiday which meant the community pool would be opening for the summer season.

How I loved going to the pool and splashing around, playing endless games of Marco Polo! The pool was a vast playground and my friends and I would venture into deeper parts, breathlessly treading water and dunking ourselves as far down as possible, hoping to touch bottom.

The pool held around 250 people at a time with a smaller, separate pool off to the side, with two diving boards. We appropriately called that “The Diving Pool” deeming the shorter diving board, the “Low Dive” and the much taller one, the “High Dive,” of course.

Thanks to swimming lessons, I’d conquered the low dive at a very young age, happily lining up for my turn as the lifeguards chased us from the main pool when it was time for Adult Swim. I loved the low dive and got quite good and running fearlessly to the end, taking a profound jump and allowing the board to catapult my body in its diving glory, up and out into the water.

The high dive was another story.

For starters, it wasn’t for kids. The house rule was that no one under twelve years old and a certain height was allowed to use it. The fact that I had to wait made the high dive all the more appealing and each year, as my friends and I eagerly awaited the start of pool season, the talk amongst us was all about who would be “going off” the high dive that year.

My twelfth birthday held major significance, not only because I was one year away from being a full-fledged teenager, but I was finally eligible for the high dive. I told my friends that I was ready, but secretly, I was terrified. That’s the thing about desire – it’s much safer when you dream about what you want, than when you actually have to do something about it.

Take my writing for instance. For years, I’ve dreamt of becoming a successful writer. I’ve kept a journal since 1992, taken a trillion classes and have written a book. I’ve been walking around with that book for almost a year now, nestled in the safety of fantasy about its success and how it will change my life.

The problem is that each time I get closer to putting it out there – pitching it to weary agents whom, some of which have actually told me, “I’m always hoping I don’t like the book.” − I chicken out and go back to the low dive and the place that’s familiar. Familiar and safe pretty much equals fear and the fear is a wonderful ally when it comes to making excuses and providing distractions. I’ve got several whoppers like, “I’ll wait for the new moon to send out my pitches” or “I know! Forget the book. I’m going to write a screenplay!”

It’s a tricky business this fear thing and I can’t help but think about my days at the public pool. I’d stood on line three times only to excuse myself at the last minute, mumbling about having to go to the bathroom. Everywhere I turned, that damn diving board was in my view, taunting me like a hungry matador, waiting for his bull. I dreamt about that thing and finally, when I couldn’t stand the pressure any more, I got up from my towel – the one with cans of Fresca all over it – and walked quietly over to the board.

I stood in line, as usual and thought about getting off. But something in me was determined this time and as the diver in front of me leapt off the board, I reached out and grabbed the rail to hoist myself up the ladder.

It was a long climb as one could only imagine. The heat of the sun didn’t help my already sweaty palms and it took everything I had not to fall off the ladder, as my slippery hands clutched the stainless steel railing. When I got to the top, time seemed to freeze along with my legs and I stood there paralyzed with fear.

“Forget it! Just climb back down,” the hecklers in my head pleaded. “You don’t have to do this.”

I was so scared that I couldn’t climb down even if I really wanted to.

“Holy cow! It’s Liz! It’s Liz! She’s up on the high dive,” I heard someone say over my pounding heart and heavy breathing. “Woo hoo! Go get ‘em Liz! You can do it!”

People were suddenly watching which made it worse. Or so I thought. The fact that my friends and family were out there cheering for me and urging my success reminded me that they would be there once I jumped. That gave me comfort and a little strength, as I shuffled slowly out to the edge.

“Don’t look down,” I murmured as I got closer to end of the board.

It was shaky – the board − and the unsteadiness yanked my courage away for a second. I stood there, settling myself and took a deep breath. This was it. After this moment, I would no longer be afraid of the high dive. I could check it off my list and throw it away. The exhilaration in being so close to accomplishment made me a little dizzy as I shut my eyes, took one last breath and basically stepped off the diving board.

And just like that, I was flying through the air, downward. I’d like to tell you that I remember every second of it, but I don’t. The only thing I remember was how hard the water smacked my cheeks when I hit it and how far down into the twelve foot pool I plunged.

When I came up for air and swam over to the ladder, I heard whoops of celebration and claps of appreciation coming from my little corner of the sitting area. Climbing up and out of the water, I walked back to my towel with shaky legs waiting to feel something.

Was I different somehow? Did it change me?

I suppose it did because all I said to my best friend who was standing and waiting for me with my towel in hand was, “I’m going up again tomorrow. But this time, I’m going to take a running start.”

At the end of the day, it’s all a high-dive. Some boards are springy and require a little extra care and concentration when walking to the edge. Others are more solid and require a stronger sense of purpose and intention. Either way, once you leap, you’ve set something in motion and as you fly through the air, don’t be tense waiting for the smack of the water against your body. Smile and relax, because once you do hit that water, things won’t ever be the same again. That high dive you just jumped off – just got a little shorter.

Are you ready to make this a year to remember?

2012-01-17T13:44:00.000-08:00

courtesy of www.planetwaves.net

Revolution. Revelation. Reality Check.

Too busy to read about what’s in store for this year? No problem. Eric’s also included an audio version dedicated to each sign, so you can sit back and hear all about 2012 on your way to work.

For more information click here.

Check it out! It really is worth it. ALL of it.

Chapter 16 - HELP WANTED: Tales of a Free- Spirit Professional Free Spirit

2012-01-12T12:56:00.000-08:00

A warm welcome to visitors - old and new! Please click on the right side of the page in the archives to follow this post from the beginning. It ALL starts in June 2011, so take a look and follow along. As always, thanks for reading and enjoy.

Finding musicians was easier than I thought. Six months before I left the Madsen Group, in a fit of I-hate-my-day-job frustration, I started answering every ad I could find looking for a singer. I needed to do something and I was too chicken to plan my own show, so being a part of someone else’s band seemed like a great idea.

With no demo to offer up, the majority of my ad responses went unanswered. I got one call back from a guy – the drummer in the band – asking me to come in for an audition at 11pm on a Thursday night.

“11pm?” I asked, trying to sound like a cool, nonchalant singer who wasn’t really thinking it was a little odd to hold auditions so late at night.

“Yeah,” the guy side, his thick Long Island accent elongated the “eah.” “I have a day job and it’s the only time we can rehearse.”

The fact that he had a day job put me at ease instantly. Real musicians intimidated me; especially the ones who ate, slept and breathed music. Me, I dreamed music, mostly.

But on Thursday, I showed up promptly at 11pm to the music building - a dingy eleven-story building on

Eighth Avenue

, filled with small rehearsal spaces for rent. Just a few blocks from Port Authority, the neighborhood, normally a little sketchy, was even more so late at night. But I didn’t care. I was excited about my audition.

Kevin, the drummer, greeted me at the door. He was a little shorter than me, around 5’6” with an athletic body that showed he was no stranger to the gym.

“Hi, hi,” he said pumping my hand with excitement. “I’m so psyched you came.”

I liked him immediately. He had a warm, no-nonsense energy that matched his non-threatening and fair-skinned, Irish looks.

Kevin led me inside and introduced me to the guitar player, a tall, lanky guy with thin, shoulder-length hair in need of a good washing. The lead singer was female and a cross between Avril Lavigne (waif) and Katy Perry (big, brown eyes). She seemed nice, albeit a little introverted for a lead singer, but she played the bass which immediately earned her cool points in my book.

“Did you bring your congas?” the guitarist asked.

I looked at Kevin, who immediately jumped in and said, “Nah, man. The other girl plays the congas. Liz just sings.”

He didn’t mean to make me feel less-than, but I’m a competitive person and I didn’t like being up against someone who sang and played an instrument.

Uncomfortable, I went for the humor.

“Ohhhh…congas!! Yeah, I brought my congas.”

With that, I gave my large breasts a provocative shake for effect as the joke hit the ground like a bag of wet sand.

The audition didn’t get much better. The music was heavy-metal and a complete mismatch for my sweet, almost ethereal voice. The lead singer seemed lost in the music and offered me no musical direction while Kevin and the guitar player – who was also the lead singer’s boyfriend - bickered throughout. It was awkward, at best – me standing there, trying to follow along and not blow my vocal chords trying to be heard above the angry music.

When it was done, Kevin followed me out, apologizing profusely for wasting my time.

“It’s cool,” I said. “It was nice to do a little singing.”

“I think you should do a LOT of singing,” he said, pulling out a business card from his pocket. “Call me at work tomorrow. Maybe we can do our own thing. I know a great piano player / producer.”

Walking down the street, I hardly noticed the drunk guy peeing in the garbage can on the corner or the old, homeless lady whining about needing some “CAW-fee.” I was floating and excited to have made a musical connection.

In the months that followed, Kevin pushed me to make a demo with his friend, Jerry – a legally blind, piano-playing-producer who lived in Astoria. We’d talked about doing a show, but fear side-tracked me, as usual.

But now, it was time – especially with Albert on my ass. Things were set: Me, Kevin, Jerry at The Cove in just three short weeks.

Chapter 15 - HELP WANTED: Tales of a Free- Spirit Professional Free Spirit

2012-01-05T12:04:00.000-08:00

I was so nervous on my first day that I forgot what Albert told me about placing one finger on the base of the wine glass when pouring and to never, EVER lean the bottle on the rim of the glass. I, of course, did both and there went the glass, the wine and my dignity, splashing all over George – one of the many regulars.

“Whoa!! Easy there, girl!” He laughed as he sprang up from his bar stool, hands up, like someone just yelled, “Stop! Police. Get your hands up!”

I was mortified and when I get embarrassed, I go to the jokes. It’s a nervous habit of mine that usually works well and thankfully, in this case, it did.

“George! I’m so sorry,” I said, leaning down and going into my purse which was stored on a shelf below the bar. “Here ya go,” I smiled, pulling out an umbrella. “Use this until I get a little more comfortable behind the bar.”

George roared with laughter, his pot belly bouncing up and down.

“I like this girl,” he announced, pointing my way, looking around at the others as if he’d just discovered a rising star.

Thank GOD this guy had a sense of humor and thank GOD, it was raining and I happen to have an umbrella in my purse.

“Next one’s on me,” I said, wiping up the wine, which white – another gift.

“Then, I guess you’ll need this,” he said, handing the umbrella back to me, his belly dancing as he and the others all cracked up at my expense.

The night went more smoothly after that and the more I poured, the more comfortable I felt. The Cove was a great starting point because being busy there meant five people max all needing a drink at once. The restaurant never filled up beyond three or four tables at a time, which would eventually get boring. But in those first weeks and months, I was happy to have my little crowd at the bar.

A month into my tenure, Albert needed Tuesday nights off and offered the shift to me. I was thrilled as it made me feel more like a real bartender. And the truth was, I was beginning to like how it felt behind the bar. There was something powerful in it – standing there, entertaining people.

There was still that small item of the promise I’d made to Albert and each time I saw him, he’d remind me.

“But I don’t have a place to perform,” I told him one night when he stopped in for a drink.

Albert was a good looking guy. He was Latin – Puerto Rican, I think – and tall; very tall. His dark eyes were always warm and he talked with a thick Queens accent which just made him sound so real.

“Why not have it here?” he said, sweeping his hands across the room like those ladies on The Price is Right. “You could use the piano!”

“Piano?”

“Yeah. It’s in the back. They used to have music here on Sundays, but no one ever came, so they rolled it off the floor to make more room for…..” he trailed off.

“The fake plants??!!”

We both had a good laugh over that, but once I recovered, I began to think about it as a real possibility.

“Ya got musicians?” Albert asked, draining the last of his drink with a small slurp.

“I could find some.”

2011 - Growing Pains

2011-12-30T11:11:00.000-08:00

Dedicated to those who turn towards the growth and not away from it.

On Christmas Day, I hosted seven of my friends for dinner and before we dug into the collective effort of delicious food, there was some wonder as to what we would toast to. I, of course, already had an idea. Passing around a ceramic bowl filled with Angel Cards, (if you don’t know what they are, click here – everyone needs a deck in their life!) I asked everyone to pick a card and wait for further instruction.

The room was abuzz with curiosity as some people had never even seen Angel Cards, let alone understood their purpose. “Do we look at it?” “Should we hide it from everyone else?” I laughed at the easy discomfort amongst everyone as they all wondered what was next.

I asked each person to take a minute, look at their card and see what came up for them. Did the word resonate? Did it make them feel anything? What could they relate the card to in their life?

I worried about this as often times, at family functions – namely Thanksgiving – I recommend each person offer up – aloud - something for which they are grateful. The suggestion was usually met with resistance and the feeling that I was bringing the mood down. I didn’t want this for Christmas, but I felt so excited and grateful to be surrounded by such special people in my home, that I wanted to seal the deal with something that would connect us forever.

Ironically, I drew Purpose, which I took as a sign, to stick to mine.

As we went around the table, it became clear that my friends were on the same page of reflection and reception. There was Delight, Support, Gratitude, Truth, Tenderness, Sisterhood/Brotherhood and Faith. Everyone boldly shared their individual thoughts ranging from the need for more gratitude in their life to being ready to welcome tenderness into their workspace once again.

It was uplifting and as the conversation began with the group commiserating on what a crap year 2011 was, I started to see that perhaps this year and all its struggle had strong significance.

When I was nine, I remember whining to my father about the aches in my shins and feet.

“Those are growing pains,” he said, kindly, offering to massage away the pain.

“Growing pains?” I asked, happily stretching out my aching legs toward him.

“Your body is growing and sometimes, things don’t all grow at the same time. You’re getting taller, but your legs are still used to supporting someone smaller. Don’t worry, it will catch up at some point and the pain will go away. You’ll see.”

Looking around the table, I saw each person, myself included, in the midst of their own growing pains. Some needed to be more receptive in their lives. Others needed to be more assertive in their truth and purpose. It hadn’t been easy, but 2011 asked us all to push past our so-called limitations, create new boundaries and adapt accordingly.

I saw a lot of things change this past year – in my life and for those around me. There was death, break-ups, job loss and a boat-load of personal growth. As we approach the New Year, it would be naïve to think that on January 1^st, everything resets, completely wiping away any trace of 2011. Instead, we can take the year soon to be behind us and use it as a launching point. Accept the pain that goes along with growth and don’t let it stop you. If you do, well, then the pain was really for naught.

What was that silly saying in the 80’s?

“No Pain No Gain.”

It’s time to focus on the gain, my friends, and as we go into 2012, be clear on what you’re leaving behind, but also know – I mean, really know – that it is just as important to recognize all the space you have in your life for possibility and potential.

As for me and my growing pains, I never went back to the shoes that no longer fit or the pants that became too short, because I grew. I didn’t have a choice either way. And when I finally hit full height, I forgot all about those growing pains because everything caught up. Let the growth of 2011 catch up to you and when it does, you’ll be just fine.

Happy New Year.

Chapter 14 - HELP WANTED: Tales of a Free- Spirit Professional Free Spirit

2011-12-28T12:28:00.000-08:00

Tony and I had had a short affair. It was typical: guy pursues girl heavily and gets her. Guy tells girl he’s not looking for anything serious. Girl says okay, but secretly vows to make him love her. Guy tires of girl always being available and tells her they need a break.

It wasn’t unique nor did it go on for very long. In fact, I think it took me longer to get over him than the time we actually spent together. But I learned a very important lesson - don’t POOP where you eat. Dating someone in my building seemed perfectly normal when things were going well, but once it ended, coming home was tortuous as I held my breath from the front door all the way to my apartment.

Tony lived on the ground floor and because of that, he never opened the window shade. At first, I would walk my dog, passing by and wondering what was going on inside. Oh the life I imagined that guy was leading! Had it gone the way I’d imagined, he’d be getting laid around the clock by beautiful women taller and skinnier than me; all of whom he’d be madly in love with.

Instead, Tony was busy at work on Hunkmania.

My friends thought I was crazy to get involved in anything Tony, but I felt differently. Sometimes, it’s best to get close to the very thing you need to get past. Being back in Tony’s life took the mystique out of walking by his apartment and wondering what he was up to. My newfound freedom from the corporate life had me feeling good about myself and I was ready to face Tony and make a little money at the same time.

Money. My new obsession. I guessed this was how retired people felt as they watched their savings dwindle with no promise of income on the horizon. I, of course, wasn’t retired, but being on unemployment had its drawbacks. I could only get a job that paid cash or “under the table.” If I got paid in a check, I’d have to report the income to unemployment and once they saw I was making money, bye, bye unemployment.

The extra money from Hunk was decent, but I was also getting bored. Arthur, a guy I knew through Tony, bartended in my neighborhood at a small restaurant called The Cove. He was a sweetheart and everyone loved him. I’d stop by once in awhile to see him for a drink or two.

“Ya ever think about bartending?” he asked one night when I popped in for a glass of wine.

The bar at The Cove was small with just six seats. The décor looked like something out of south Florida with grey tones and pink accents. The owners were Asian with three other restaurants in the neighborhood – one Chinese and two Japanese. The Cove was supposed to be their attempt at upscale, but it ended up looking more cheesy than elegant with fake potted palm trees lurking in the corner and mediocre food.

Despite all that, the energy was always good with Albert behind the bar as people who lived in the neighborhood would stop in for a few drinks and a bite to eat before retiring to their respective apartments.

“I’ve thought about it,” I said. “But it’s practically impossible to get a good bar gig without any experience.”

“You could learn here.”

And so it went. I came in on the nights Albert worked, for two weeks and he taught me how to bartend. He was a great teacher – patient and knowledgeable. And I was a good student, studying the flashcards I’d made with every drink recipe imaginable.

I liked being behind the bar. That was immediate. It felt like a stage and being a performer afraid of actually performing, the bar was a perfect place to get my stage on. When the two weeks were up, Albert announced he was giving up Sundays and the owners okay’d my taking his place.

And just like that, I was bartender! I was so excited at the notion of my very own bartending gig, not to mention the fact that there was a shift pay and tips, of course. Life was providing everything I needed to be happy and make the rent.

“There’s just one condition,” Albert said after I practically tackled him gratitude. “If I let you bartend here, you have to promise to do something about the singing.”

Chapter 13 - HELP WANTED: Tales of a Free-Spirit Professional

2011-12-21T11:49:00.000-08:00

********

Photo courtesy of www.photobucket.com

I tried to keep in touch with my friends from the Madsen Group, but as my father wisely put it, “Work friends are because of work. Once you lose that common thread, there’s not much else left.”

Harsh words from a normally gentle man, but he was right. Two months after my departure, I’d only stayed close with two people; one of whom had left the company shortly after me. My other friends all had jobs so my life of freedom and leisure slowly turned into a monotonous routine of, “What will I do to fill up my day today?”

Music wasn’t really happening. I think I was better at dreaming about being a famous singer than actually becoming one. I had a lot of ideas, but I was too afraid to try any of them. Plus, I was slightly disappointed that Puff Daddy (I refuse to call him that other nonsense) and Clive Davis weren’t waiting for me in the lobby the day I quit my job. Hadn’t they heard I was ready to take the music industry by storm?

I was a rock star in my head and keeping the dream alive inside, meant it would never die. It also meant it would never thrive. I couldn’t think about that, because If I did, I’d have to do something and it was just plain safer to sit on my couch.

Plus, I had money to worry about. A convenient distraction and harsh reality as my finances were starting to tighten. And while I was still getting unemployment, I needed to come up with something else to do for cash.

Enter Hunkmania.

One morning, as I sat in the car doing my usual street cleaning/writing thing, I ran into Tony. Tony was an entrepreneur in every sense of the word with several different businesses going at once. One venture, Hunkmaina, was a male strip show for women he had launched eight months ago. It was doing well and he was taking things to the next level by going into full advertisement mode.

“I’ve got these postcards that need to be mailed out,” he told me as he leaned his large frame against my car. A former male stripper himself, Tony had arms like an orangutan and the presence of sleeping giant. He was a guy from Queens who had a head for business and a thirst for a good party. “I need someone to put labels and stamps on the cards and send them out,” he continued.

“How many are we talking?” I asked, sitting up in my seat and resting my chin on the open window.

“A lot.”

“A lot” turned out to be over 5,000 and at ten cents per card, I’d found my much-needed extra income.

It was a decent gig in that I didn’t have to get up early and I never had to leave my apartment building (Tony lived downstairs.) It didn’t really help my loneliness, though it gave me something new to talk about. Since that common thread of work was gone, I’d have to come up with things to talk about with my friends from the Madsen Group.

They were counting on me, after all! You don’t know how many people wished me well and patted my back with envy as they admitted they didn’t have the balls to do what I was doing. It was a lot of pressure to show those people that I would succeed.

“You’re pursuing your DREAM, Liz,” my friend, Marla had said when I’d called my first week out to complain about being lonely. “You don’t get to be lonely! Get out there, girl! DO it!”

I was doing it alright – exchanging numbers with my new parking buddies and working for the guy who broke my heart a little over a year ago.

Oh yeah, did I mention that I used to be in love with Tony?

Chapter 12 - HELP WANTED: Tales of a Free-Spirit Professional

2011-12-16T11:30:00.001-08:00

photo courtesy of www.photobucket.com

Part 2 - Free at Last

I loved being out of work; especially the mornings where I could wake up when I wanted; no alarm; no mad dash to the subway. I’d never been a late sleeper, so it wasn’t like I was getting up at noon or anything; it was just more civilized waking up naturally.

I fell into a routine rather quickly which consisted of walking the dog, grabbing an iced coffee and dealing with alternate side of the street parking. Now that the Madsen Group was behind me (along with the hefty paycheck), I decided to cancel the garage and park my car on the street. Who cared about being a slave to Daily Street Cleaning? I had all the time in the world!

At first, I liked sitting in my car for an hour and a half on some days, with the windows and sunroof open, driver’s seat slightly reclined, writing in my journal. I especially enjoyed watching people as they hurried to get to work as I sat there thinking how lucky I was not to have anywhere to go.

I made friends with the other parking people and quickly realized that they were a close-knit bunch, always looking out for one another.

My first week in, I met the entire cast of characters. There was Sayjil – a software programmer who worked from home and took care of his young daughter. Carmella was a retired crossing guard and had lived in the neighborhood for years; and then there was Al who scared me a little at first with his gruff ways and unexpressive tendencies.

“You new?” he asked one morning, when I pulled into a prime Tue/Fri spot in front of my building.

“I’m sorry,” I said, not quite sure what he meant or if he was even talking to me since he pretty much looked over my shoulder when he talked.

“Haven’t seen you before,” he said giving me the once over. “I’ve been parking my car here for years and you don’t look familiar.”

His demeanor unnerved me and I fought the urge to apologize and ask if it was okay to park there. Instead, I chatted away, pretending like I didn’t notice his lack of warmth or manners for that matter.

Eventually, Al warmed up and asked for my number. Not for a date, though. No…..Al was in his seventies and more interested in not having to move his car.

“Gimme your number,” he grumbled one day – though it was a warm grumble; I’d started to notice the difference. “If I get a good spot, I’ll call you and let you know.”

Besides my alternate side of the street parking friends, life was a little light on the social front. I never realized how much I relied on work to feed that part of my life. Working in an office, there were always people to talk to. Whether you wanted to chat or not, it didn’t matter – you could if you wanted to. I missed people.

Brady's December 2011

2011-12-15T13:09:00.000-08:00

This past Sunday, I had the pleasure of sitting in with the talented boys from NO CALL NO SHOW at Brady's on the Upper East Side. Check out some of the pics courtesy of Rodrigo Nardoni.

And....don't forget to check out my latest article, "Straighten Up!" on CityPath.com!

Frank Gabbianelli - vocals, Frank Nardi - percussion,
Johnny Keys - pretty much everything else!

A little help from Shawn Matzke

My loyal fans from near and far

Daph and Matty

Rodrgio Nardoni sitting in for a few tunes

What a great crowd!

Hoolia with her lens

Aaaaand....we're BACK!

2011-12-14T15:03:00.000-08:00

photo courtesy of www.guardian.co.uk

Hello!

It's hard to believe that it's been over TWO months since I last posted. I've been busier than ever with lots of exciting stuff and I thank you for all your inquiries as to when Help Wanted would be back. I'm happy to say that Help Wanted - Tales of a Free-Spirt Professional will be back on Friday. Be sure to read the last post here so you'll be up to speed.

WHILE you're eagerly awaiting its return, please check out my latest article on citypath.com - it will blow you away!

Come on back tomorrow afternoon and check out the photos from a fun night with my favorite band No Call No Show.

Phew! It's been quite a ride!!

STAY tuned...........

2011-12-06T11:00:00.001-08:00

Help Wanted will be back very soon!

In the meantime, check out some of my oldies but goodies:

Citypath.com

TheStir.com

apartmenttherapy.com

The Fat White Guy

2011-10-05T20:21:00.000-07:00

HELP WANTED is taking a short break.......see you in a couple of weeks!

Chapter 11 -HELP WANTED: Tales of a Free-Spirit Professional

2011-09-28T20:03:00.000-07:00

My final month at the firm was great. I had over $8,000 coming to me after taxes, a new laptop and six months worth of unemployment! The choice to say good-bye to the corporate life and hello to being a full-time artist was looking pretty good.

I had to find a new assistant for Bikram which was my least favorite thing to do. It’s hard to sell a position that you deeply despised. Luckily, I’d had some experience doing so when I hired my replacement for Scott. Lucy was a Marisol’s friend - one of the women who worked across from my desk. She had schooled Lucy on Bikram and she’d still wanted the job.

“I’ve got two kids and jerky ex-husband,” she’d told me in the interview. “I’ll work for anyone as long as the money’s good.”

I admired her ability to just show up for the paycheck. I suppose I did that for the majority of my time there, but it was time to move on and get started on a music career. If Lucy wanted to endure Bikram and his faux-coolness, so be it.

All the girls in the office were sad to see me go, but the nine-to-five world loves a good going away party and mine was an all-day affair. It started with a “Yard Sale” where people were asked to come by and take their pick of the various knick-knacks I’d acquired over the past four years. Apparently, I’d had a reputation for having the best stuff to play with and people showed up in droves to get their hands on everything from my overgrown Chia Pet to the Mr. Potato Head Gina had gotten me for Christmas.

People kept asking if I was sad to go and I kept thinking, “HELL no!” but saying instead, “I’m mixed. I’ll miss the people here.”

After cake and a champagne toast in the conference room, my time at the company formerly known as The Madsen Group was finished and though I didn’t dance in the fountain outside, I threw a penny in it and made a wish towards my new life and all it would bring.

Chapter 10 - Help Wanted: Tales of a Free-Spirit Professional

2011-09-20T07:27:00.000-07:00

In the end, it all worked out perfectly. With Scott’s help, I was able to get “fired” which made me eligible for unemployment. The guys in Tech Support had all been given notice that the new company would be taking over their department and a hefty restructuring would soon follow.

“They’re not even interested in our current inventory,” Damon, the guy in charge of assigning company laptops said when he told me the news. “You’re lucky to get out of here, Liz. Shit, just take that laptop with you. They won’t miss it.”

Damon and I had a history. When I first started working for Bikram, I was in his office looking for a document when I noticed an email from the new Head of Human Resources sitting in his inbox. The subject line read, “Hi SEXY.”

I couldn’t believe it. Bikram and Susan Sherwin? Ugh! She was like sixty years old and he was married! Staring at the screen with my mouth hanging open, I fought the urge to read the email. I came from a household where privacy was so thoroughly respected, my mother would call to tell me she received a bill from my doctor and she didn’t want to open it without my permission.

“Mom!! You’re paying for it! Who cares if you open it?”

But she was adamant – never read anything that isn’t addressed to you.

I repeated this to myself as I double-clicked on the email to open it.

Sorry Mom!

It was short and simple and said,

I thought you’d like the attached picture of me…..see you soon sexy!

This was too much! I had to see that picture. Pushing myself back from his desk, I leaned to the right and looked through the glass window to see if anyone was coming. With the coast clear, I walked myself and the chair back towards his computer and clicked on the picture.

The screen flashed and went dark for a second while the computer made a strange burping sound. There would be no naked picture of our HR Director. Instead, a nasty virus was launched due to me and my nosiness.

I called Damon and gulped into the phone. “You have to get down here – NOW!”

Damon was awesome, cleaning up the virus and lying to Bikram who came back and wanted to know why we were both hovering over his computer.

“I noticed some strange stuff on your desktop, Bikram when I was installing some updates to the firewall,” he said, never taking his eyes off the now dancing screen. “Looks like you’ve got a little virus here. It’ll just take a few minutes to clean it up.”

If Damon were my type, I probably would’ve asked him to marry me that day. Instead, I promised to dedicate a song to him at my next show.

We Will Always Have September 11th

2011-09-11T18:12:00.000-07:00

A letter to a friend..........

In 2 days it will be Sept 11 - a day forever etched in our souls and embedded in our minds. Our ways have gone separate since then, but it is a day, a moment - a lifetime we will always share. It seems ridiculous... to me not to reach out to u during this time.

And I'll admit, kind of selfish in that you are the only person in my life that will ever know and understand what it felt like to be there that day.

It's been 10 years and life has gone on as it should have, but as much as it has, I can't forget and on the days I don't want to, I find myself lost. Do you feel that way?

You stood next to me at one of the most profound moments in my life - that I will never forget.
It is not my desire to dwell on the sadness of that day. The media does that for me. But, I just couldn't let the day go by without letting you know that I am thinking of you while I am remembering the day and wishing you only good things.

September 11, 2011

2011-09-07T19:22:00.000-07:00

The healing that can grow out of the simple act of telling our stories is quite remarkable.

- Susan Witting Albert

It always happens the same way.

Towards the end of August, a quiet awareness starts to creep towards me. The end of the summer and its reminders inevitably pull me back towards the memories I promise myself I won’t buy into each year. But then, September arrives and with that, so does the media frenzy. I spend a large part of my time avoiding all “Remembering 9/11” segments at all costs and feeling a mixture of anger and guilt. The anger is because I want to forget and I wish the world would let me. The guilt, well that too comes from the fact that I want to forget and as the day gets closer and the buzz gets louder, I feel a mounting pressure to immerse myself in the pain and sadness along with everyone else.

Instead, I flip into creative mode because that’s what I do when I feel out of control. I walk around conjuring up ideas of what I’ll write about in relationship to my experiences; maybe there’s a lesson in it somewhere. And if I can find it and share, somehow, it will help myself and others heal. But, I never find the lesson and the day comes and goes and I’m sad because yet again, I was unable to make sense of such a tragic moment in my life and our history.

It’s been ten years and I’m still searching for answers. As usual, I’ve got something I’m working on, but I’m not sure I’ll be ready to share it. In the meantime, I’ve decided to post an account of my experience ten years ago. I wrote it a few years after and have never shared it in this space. It feels like the right thing to do and I encourage you all to share your stories here as well. Maybe there is no lesson; but the least we could do is honor the day that tore so many people apart and brought just as many together all at once.

In honor of that, I wish you all love, light and a peaceful heart as we all remember September 11th in our own way.

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

Tuesday, September 11, 2001.

I woke up around my usual time, 8am. Mondays and Tuesdays are my days off from working with Thomas. I did my usual thing - got out of bed, turned off the A/C in both the living room and bedroom. It was a beautiful, crisp morning. The kind of morning that makes you realize the Summer is over and Fall is on its way. I opened all the windows in the apartment to let the fresh air inside. I had to move my car by 9am, so I put some clothes on  nylon breakaway pants, a white tank top and sneakers. It was too cold to wear flip-flops.

I came back upstairs from walking the dog and began to check my email with one eye on the clock because I had to move the car at 9am today for street cleaning. In the midst of this, I heard or felt on odd thing, that later would be described as a sonic blast. It was on odd feeling; the building felt like it shook for a second and I immediately felt a change in energy on the street below. I could actually hear exclamations of “oh my god” outside. Something had happened.

I’m not one to look out my window to see what’s going on if I hear sirens or screaming. It’s just not a very New York thing to do. Not because it’s uncool, but more because until that day, as a New Yorker, I’d pretty much seen it all so not much surprised me.

In spite of this, I felt compelled to get and look out the window and onto the street. There was a group of people standing outside looking up to the north at what I thought, was the building next to mine. The energy was so intense that my immediate thought was, “oh my god, someone must have jumped from the building next door.” I’m not a TV person, so the TV wasn’t on and I was winding down my daily computer log-on, so I had no clue what was going on. I just knew I had to go and move my car.

I went to grab coffee at the deli. Inside, people were talking about there being a fire at the World Trade Center. That’s all they said. From our side, nobody could see the plane flying into the tower as it came from the north. I got my coffee and ran into a neighbor. He was in the “alternate side of the street parking club”; one of those people that is out of work and able to sit in the car while the street is being cleaned. He told me about the fire and I said I’d run and get my car and park near him and we could see what’s going on.

Walking to my car, I had to pass the group of people that I’d seen gathered below on the street earlier from my window. I asked casually what was happening and someone said just as casually, “the Trade Center’s on fire”. I turned to look expecting to see what I always see when there’s a fire in a building in Manhattan  smoke coming out of a couple of windows. Instead I saw a giant, gaping whole with flames coming out from the higher floors of the tower. I was momentarily shocked as I’d never really seen a fire up that close. But, again, at that moment, all it was to me was a fire. I spent a few minutes standing there and then was on my way.

I got into my car and wondered if street cleaning would be cancelled. Nonetheless, I wanted a spot closer to my building. I started the car and opened the sunroof. Just as I was putting the car into gear, I heard a loud noise that sounded like a plane coming in for a landing. It was loud and getting louder. I did the natural thing and looked up and there it was, the second plane above my head, so low that I swear I saw numbers on the belly of the plane. I followed that plane with my mouth open and eyes wide and watched it fly right into the second tower. All the while, I was thinking, “Holy shit, what the hell is going on with the radar?” I never once thought about terrorism. Until that day, I lived in a bubble. I liked it that way. It kept me innocent.

From that point on, all hell broke loose. I didn’t even bother moving my car. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. People were running all over my neighborhood toward the buildings. I parked it and got out and made my way back to my building. I remember seeing someone from the neighborhood running towards the World Trade Center. He looked terrified.

I’ve lived in Battery Park City, 2 blocks south of the World Trade Center since 1996. Over the years, I’d see people; ones that I’d never talk to you, but I still felt like I knew them. This one guy in particular that was running was one of those people that I’d never spoken to, but I knew him. I remembered the first time I saw him a few years back, walking a dog; then came the girlfriend; then came the stroller. On that day, as was he running towards the Trade Center, I was sickened by the thought that his wife might be in that building and how I was sure he was desperately trying to get to her. All I remember is the sick feeling I had watching him.

On my way back to the building, I saw my friend and neighbor, Renee. She had her dog, Prince, a rather large Golden Retriever whose been known to have a temper. She was hysterical and running with one shoe, a flip-flop. She was going on and on about how she saw the plane and how we were getting attacked. She asked me to run upstairs to get her some sneakers, just in case we had to run. I obliged thinking that she was totally overreacting. It was just the radars, how could we be getting attacked?

On my way upstairs, I ran into another friend from my floor. Stephanie was the mother of an 18 month old, Melissa. Her husband worked for the Electrician’s Union and was working way up in the Bronx in the Subway near Dykman Street. She was beside herself packing a diaper bag and getting stuff together for fear that we were going to have to run. Again, I was calm and perhaps in denial, but I was telling her it would all be fine. There was no reason to worry about running. What would we have to run from??

I went back downstairs to give Renee her shoes. We stood outside our building and watched the burning towers. And it was then, for the first time, I found out what people were saying had happened. I had my cell phone and I called my sister uptown at her office. She and her colleagues were watching it on TV. It was at that moment, I heard the name, “Osama Bin Laden” for the very first time. My sister was saying he was the guy Clinton okayed a bombing attack against in Afghanistan. All of it was news to me as I stood there watching the fire.

At some point during my conversation with my sister, I began to see things dropping out of the building. There were papers and small confetti-like items that had been coming down from the get-go, but these items were much larger in size and they were dropping as if they had some weight to them. At first, I thought it was furniture. I was telling my sister this and at the same time, I realized it was not furniture falling from the buildings. It was people jumping out of the windows.

There are so many things that I will never forget about that day. This is probably the deepest and most cutting memory of all. I remember cursing aloud to my sister that, “Oh fuck, there are people jumping from the building. I have to go.” I hung up abruptly and watched. I couldn’t tear myself from the painful sight of these people sailing through the air with their ties flapping in the wind. I just kept thinking, “My god, how horrible it must be up there to force them to jump from the 100th floor.”

I went upstairs to my apartment to see if my mother had called. I kept trying to call her, but I couldn’t get through on my cell phone. I got upstairs and still couldn’t reach her. There was a message from a friend of mine who lives in Atlanta wanting to know “what the hell was going on down there”. I remembered being annoyed because it sounded to me like she was trying to bank in on the sensationalistic vibe of the morning.

My phone rang and it was Tino. He and I had just broken up the week before. He worked in Rockefeller Center and wanted to know what was going on. I remember crying and telling him about seeing people jump out of the buildings. He told me to turn on the TV. That was when the Pentagon got hit. He was watching TV and saying, “OH my GOD, they hit the Pentagon. What the hell is going on?? I should get out of here (Rockefeller Center). What if they hit this next??” He hung up abruptly. I went back downstairs still trying to reach my mother.

I remembered Thomas, my friend and boss, who also lived in my building, at some point and I think I even tried to call him. I didn’t’ even think he’d be back from dropping his son off at school on the Upper East Side. I couldn’t’ get through to him either.

When I got downstairs, I found Renee and later Thomas and we all just stood there watching, in awe. It was bizarre at how difficult it was to tear ourselves away from it. There was still so much chaos on the street. The sirens, the running, it was so surreal.

The first tower fell while we were standing on the street. This is the second thing I will never forget. The sound of the building beginning to fall was like nothing I’d ever heard before. Like the sound the ocean waves make when they hit the shoreline, but louder and more powerful. A rumbling and then a crash. I felt the rumbling move up from my toes to my stomach. And then it was like slow motion, the tower fell, just like that. And for maybe a split second, there was total silence. The silence felt like death.

Within seconds, a huge cloud of what I thought was fire, came around the corner just 2 blocks south of us. It was moving in our direction at a rapid pace. People began to run toward us away from the “fire” and all I remember is seeing Thomas put up his hands to say, “Don’t run. Stay calm.” But then we realized we had to run too.

Renee and I grabbed one another’s hand and ran like hell. I remember running and thinking, “This is like a movie.” I kept waiting for the fire and the heat to touch the back of my neck. And for the first time that day, I truly thought I was going to die. I kept thinking about my poor dog, Rufus up in my apartment all alone and how nobody should have to die alone.

As we ran south, it became clear that it was not fire. It was smoke and debris from the tower. However, it was so thick that it was impossible to see in front of us. Renee was running right next to me, no more than a foot away, and I couldn’t even see her. I dropped her hand at some point and tried to turn around and run back to get Rufus. I was afraid he would suffocate from all of the stuff in the air. I couldn’t even see, though, and some random security guy wouldn’t’ let me go back. I remember thinking I would go to my car and get in there to get out of the smoke, but I couldn’t even see which direction to go towards.

The further South we ran, the better the air quality became. By this time, it had passed us by and we were still running, but we could see in front of us. At one point, I was able to take in the whole scene for a moment and I remember thinking, “I can’t believe this is happening. This doesn’t happen here. It happens in the movies or in other countries.” People were covered in gray dust. They looked like ghosts.

EMS was all over the place and the sirens were deafening. It was total chaos. We slowed down to a walk and a man walked up to me and told me I should keep my face covered as most people were doing so as not to breathe in the debris in the air. I looked at him and pointed to my tank top and said, “I can’t really take off my shirt to cover my mouth. What am I going to do, walk around in my bra??” And there it was: the first of many random acts of kindness that day. He removed his shirt and gave it to me to cover my mouth.

At the same time, I saw Stephanie running and struggling with Melissa and her stroller. I ran from the guy to Stephanie and she was saying how she couldn’t get Melissa to cover her mouth. I saw an EMS van that appeared to be taking people into an ambulance for shelter. I ran over to the guy and told him about Stephanie. He motioned for her to get into the van. He gave me four wet towels to cover my mouth. I didn’t’ even say good-bye to Stephanie.

Next, the most bizarre thing happened. We had settled down by the water near where people get on the boats to see the Statue of Liberty. The vendors were already out there as they get an early start. Apparently, one of the vendors tried to sell someone a bottle of water. One guy was outraged by this. He began yelling at the guy and I think he tried to push him into the Hudson River. The vendor was Muslim and had people known more about what was happening, this guy would have been killed. I’m sure of it. But we were all so in it; there was no time to put it all together. A cop broke it up and announced that nobody would pay for water.

From that point on, Thomas, Renee and I just stood there, waiting. There was speculation milling around us about the second tower falling and sure enough, it fell shortly after. We were told to get on the ground to avoid the thick smoke and debris from which we ran from earlier. We were coughing and covering our mouths. At the same time, the fighter jets began circling the city. Every other minute, one would fly by. It was eerie and definitely not a comfort.

We began to make our way back towards the neighborhood at some point. And, I swear every time I thought I’d seen the worst of the worst that day, it just kept getting worse. We ran into our friend Anthony who gave us those masks that painters wear to protect themselves from the fumes. And as we reached the edge of the neighborhood, there was a cop telling everyone to get on the boats for evacuation.

It turned out that there was a gas leak and my neighborhood was going to blow up. No one was allowed back into the neighborhood. I made my way up to the front of the crowd and told the cop that I had to go and get my dog. He wasn’t having it. He said, “Ma’am you CAN NOT get your dog. “ To which I replied, “But I have to get my dog.” To which he replied, “Ma’am. THE NEIGHBORHOOD IS GOING TO BLOW UP, YOU CAN NOT GO BACK AND GET YOUR DOG. NOW, GET ON THE BOAT.” To which I replied, “Fuck you.” I threw down my mask and water and ran probably the fastest I’d ever run in my entire life.

He, of course didn’t follow me. He had much bigger fish to fry. I heard Renee behind me telling me to wait. (Her dog was in the building as well) I yelled back at her to hurry up. When we reached our building, the outside doors were locked. We began pounding on the doors and Hector; our maintenance man wouldn’t open the door. He was motioning and yelling something that made me think he was ordered not to let anyone back in the building. At that point, I was starting to think about breaking the glass, when some woman, whom to this day, I still can’t recall, opened the door and let us inside.

The building was being evacuated as people were coming down the stairwell and exiting through the back door. Our Super, Luis, was standing at the bottom of the stairs with a flashlight since all electricity was out. We ran up the stairs against the others coming down and I vaguely remember Luis yelling up that he had to go. Suddenly, the light was gone and we were in the stairwell in complete darkness.

I’d forgotten to pay attention to which floor we were on and there was no way of knowing how much further up the stairs we had to go. I told Renee, who was behind me to stand by the door and keep it open while I looked to see what floor we were one. Of course, the only emergency light that was working was way down at the end of the hallway. I felt like I was racing against time as I ran down the hall to look at one of the apartment doors to see what floor we were on. 4H. Two more floors to go.

Back in the stairwell, Renee started to unravel. She was behind me saying that she just couldn’t go on any further. I stopped and began to coax her calmly to come closer to me and grab my waist and we would take the stairs together, one at a time. Of course in my head I was screaming, “Hurry up bitch, we are going to die!!” While I was saying aloud, “it’s okay. Good girl, we’re almost there.”

That was the second time that day I was sure I would die.

We got upstairs and agreed to get our dogs and meet right back at the stairs. I ran down the hall and opened the door expecting to find Rufus, lying there, dead. I don’t know why, but that’s what I expected. Of course, he was there wagging his tail. I didn’t really take in the whole scene inside my apartment. There wasn’t enough time. All I knew is that the place was covered with dust. I ran into my room and got my baseball hat, which oddly enough happened to be an “FDNY” hat.

I grabbed a flashlight from the closet, mentally thanking my parents for insisting that I always have one. I grabbed my cash out of the closet, the dog’s leash, the dog and that was it. I was leaving the apartment when I’d heard a distinct voice in my head say the following words, “Take your journal. You’re going to have a lot to write about”. I turned around and grabbed it along with my purse and ran down the hallway and back to the stairs.

I had my period that day. First day – heavy flow. I didn’t even think to take a tampon.

Renee was not at the stairs yet. I yelled for her to hurry and she came soon after. With my flashlight in hand, I began to run down the stairs with the dog as fast as I could. Renee was calling out to me and I stopped. Her dog, Prince wouldn’t go down the stairs.

Another moment I will never won’t forget.

It was as if there was an angel on one of my shoulders and a devil on the other. The angel, of course, was telling me to go back and help her, while the devil was telling me to save myself and forget her. I went back. That was the third time that day I thought I would die.

I gave her the flashlight and Rufus and told her to “GO!” and I would take care of Prince. I ended up giving him a big push down the first flight of stairs which thankfully, got him going. We reached the end of the stairs and switched dogs and ran out the back door to the boats to evacuate. It was like what I’d always imagined nuclear fallout to look like. The neighborhood was practically deserted. There was about 4 inches of ash on the street, burnt up papers and who knows what else everywhere, and the silence mixed with the constant scream of sirens.

We got to the water and were directed to get on a Police tugboat. The deck was extremely narrow and I had to carry Rufus, who weighs about 40 pounds. I was sure he would get freaked out and wriggle out of my arms and into the water, making me the reason we didn’t’ get out of there alive. Thankfully, he was still and we got onto the boat. Renee had to stay outside because Prince was too big to be inside the boat.

The cabin was small and people kept piling in. I wondered if the boat would sink and we’d all die anyway. But I made my way as far into the boat as I could. I sat on a bench that surrounded a table, with Rufus on my lap. It was total madness. People were screaming and crying. One couple was going on and on about how they had no insurance on their stuff. Their dog was barking and pissing people off. A heated argument ensued between the couple and another guy. A toddler was screaming and crying for her mother and I remember wondering if her mother had been in the World Trade Center.

I had Rufus on my lap and I just put my head down on him and tuned it all out. I went completely inside myself and began rocking back and forth and saying to him as well as to myself, “We’re okay. We’re okay.” I said this over and over again until we got across the river to New Jersey. As we left my neighborhood, I think the reality had begun to settle into my mind and I started to realize what I’d just been through. It was really all that I could do from losing it right then and there. The adrenaline rush was over and all I had left was the realization of my experience leading up to that moment.

As we reached Liberty State Park, I let everyone get off the boat. I was never one to push my way to the front and today was no different. As I was trying to get off the boat, a fireman reached out and asked if I’d needed help. This gesture of kindness did it for me. I began to shake and cry and just basically, lose it. He and some others helped me off the boat and I think they thought I was injured at first. Renee was there and thankfully strong enough o take care of me. We found a spot on the grass under a tree that, on any other day, would provide a peaceful and glorious view of lower Manhattan. But today, it was front seat to the burning remains of the World Trade Center and our homes.

We just sat there under that tree for a good two hours. Both of our phones had no cell service, so we couldn’t get in contact with anyone from our families. I went to see if I could find a pay phone at one point. I saw a guy whose boat was docked in the Marina and he was outside talking on a cordless landline. I was so desperate to talk to my parents that I walked over to him and basically begged him to let make a call. He obliged and I called my Dad’s office.

There was so much confusion that we really hadn’t even thought of what to do next. It was so sad. There must have been thousands of ambulances that had come from ALL over lined up and waiting to transport victims for treatment. But no one came. We watched the boats come and everyone anxiously stood there and waited as each boat came and went. It was truly heartbreaking.

Renee and I also looked for people from the building and our neighborhood.

We saw a few familiar faces, but no one that we really knew. It was eerie to sit there and wonder about our friends and neighbors and not know where they had ended up. I had gotten split up from Thomas earlier when I’d decided to run back for the dog, I remember looking back at him, meeting his eyes, each of us knowing that we may never see one another again. Later I had found out that he’d gotten up to the GW Bridge somehow and walked back into Manhattan to go and get his son at school.

At some point, our cell phone service returned and Renee and I started thinking about a plan. I spoke with my mother finally and found out that all main roads had been closed. A couple of firemen told us that people were being shuttled to Bayonne, NJ to stay overnight at a school that had been set up as a shelter. The thought of that made me sick. All I wanted was my mother and the reality that I couldn’t get to her was devastating.

Renee and I began to weigh our options. I knew nobody in New Jersey, although friends of my friends had all put out offers for us to stay with them. I really needed something familiar. The only option was Renee’s brother. He lived in Weehawken and had been trying for hours to get to us to pick us up, but all roads leading to where we were had been closed. Renee suggested walking. It was pretty far but I was more worried about finding the way than how long it would take.

We began to walk. Liberty Island is in Jersey City, so we had to walk through Jersey City to Hoboken to Weehawken. We had stopped to get a sandwich and water at some World Foods place on the way. I think that was my loneliest moment. I was sitting there while Renee was inside and I began to think about the harsh reality of my having no place to go. I was so tired and I felt so lost. My world had been completely shattered and I was sitting outside of some random store in New Jersey with nothing but my dog and the clothes on my back. I couldn’t get to my parents’ house. I had no idea what had become of my own home. It was too overwhelming to think about all at once.

We’d gotten the road towards Renee’s brother’s house around 2pm. We finally arrived at his place around 8:30pm. It never felt like 6.5 hours. We stopped a few times to give the dogs water. Our cell phone batteries were almost dead, so contact became limited. The plan was that I would call my parents when I got to Renee’s brother’s house and we’d see if the roads would be open by then. Of course, they weren’t, so I stayed the night.

I remember walking into his apartment and asking if we could turn on the television to see what had happened to us that day. We couldn’t leave the apartment complex, so we ended up making white rice for the dogs to eat. None of us were hungry, so we just sat there. Andy washed our clothes which I had no idea were so filthy. I had a slight rash from the stuff that had been all over me. I was able to recharge my phone with his charger and I spent a lot of time on the phone talking with friends and returning phone calls.

I didn’t sleep that night. I was exhausted, but I still I couldn’t sleep. The bed was unfamiliar, Rufus was antsy. There was just way too much to process and I think it was all milling around in my head.

The next morning, Renee and I took Rufus and Prince for their walks. I remember standing there on the Promenade, with Renee, just looking over at the cloud of smoke emanating from the place where the World Trade Center once stood. It’s hard to explain and understand unless you actually lived in that neighborhood. The World Trade Center had its own meaning to just about everyone in the World. For me and for Renee, it wasn’t a landmark or a pair of buildings that stood tall in the sky.

For us and our neighbors, it was home. It was my subway stop. It was the place I walked through at least 4 times a day. I did my banking there. It was the place I’d constantly complain about because it was always so damn cold with the A/C and all. It was where Christmas decorations would go up WAY too early, in my opinion. And finally, it was the thing I looked for to make sure I was traveling in the right direction towards home. I couldn’t believe it was gone.

Renee and I talked about what we were going to do. She thought about staying on with her brother or going upstate to her parents’ summer place. I was going to go and stay with my parents. We had arranged to meet somewhere in New Jersey later on that day. My mother and sister were going to meet us at Andy’s office to pick me up and take me back home. I have never in my life wanted my mother so much as I did on September 11th and the day to follow.

We stopped at Target to get some things. It’s funny how we had absolutely nothing. Putting my clothes back on after they were washed felt odd. At the time, I was sure that once I got some other clothes, I’d never wear that stuff again. Renee needed stuff to wear. I needed toiletries.

We arrived first to Andy’s office parking lot. I think my mom had gotten lost and he was on the phone trying to direct her. The anticipation was killing me. I just kept thinking that once I saw her I could let it all go completely. I could just cry and cry and I’d feel better. It wasn’t like I didn’t know Andy and of course, Renee. It was just the need to be in a place that was familiar and comfortable after so much struggle and discomfort.

They pulled into the parking lot and my heart leapt into my throat. The next moments are a complete blur to me. My sister and mother getting out of the car, I can recall. But, after that - nothing. The next thing I remember is sitting in the back of the car with the dog on my way back to my parents’ house. My sister was telling me that she’d packed a bag with some stuff for me to wear. My mom was saying something about food and me needing to eat. We established that Rufus needed dog food. I found out that my friend from college was coming over with clothes and stuff for me, later on.

I guess I was in shock. I don’t’ really know what being “in shock” is. I always thought that if you were in shock, you froze up and didn’t move. I was obviously moving, so in my mind I wasn’t in shock. Looking back, I’m sure that’s what it was coupled with exhaustion and an overwhelming need for silence. Though, silence in the months to follow, was the thing that kept bringing me back to that day.

Chapter 9 - HELP WANTED: Tales of a Free-Spirit Professional

2011-08-31T17:31:00.000-07:00

Because we weren’t fully merged yet, the accounting department from the Madsen Group was still overseeing all expenses on the Consulting side of the firm. On my way there, I ran into Betsy, the assistant to one of the soon-to-be-former partners.

Her boss had come in a couple of years ago when they were trying to build the advertising side of the consulting firm. Donny Horowitz, a legend in the ad world was eighty years old and in my opinion, a few breaths away from a nursing home.

His assistant was a spunky woman in her seventies. With wavy red hair fixed in a neat bun and jewelry always well-coordinated, Betsy was old school, wearing a suit even though the office had gone business casual several years ago.

I’d gotten to know her better during the transition and she became a regular stop on my roaming route in the days before Bikram.

She was in the kitchen making a cup of tea.

“Donny are I done,” she announced dipping a tea bag into a dainty little teacup that looked like it had been stolen from a fancy tea service in England.

“Oh noooo! That’s terrible!”

“Not really,” she said, her arthritic hands wrapping the teabag around a spoon to wring out the excess liquid. “I’ve got my retirement from working for Donny all these years. Plus, I’ve got the matching fund from the Madsen Group which should be a nice, little chunk of change.”

“Matching fund? Do we all get that?”

“Oh sure,” she said, explaining to me that when someone started at the Madsen Group, they were given a retirement fund that the company matched each year.

“But, I can’t touch that until I retire,” I asked, reaching into the refrigerator for a bottle of water.

“You can cash it in whenever you want. No penalty. You’ll just get taxed on it at a higher rate.”

Later that night, I searched and searched for the last statement I received and didn’t pay any attention to. It was for retirement and pretty much irrelevant I figured, until I was over 65. When I finally found it between a stack of paid bills, unopened, I held my breath as I opened the envelope and hopefully the key to my freedom. Scanning the numbers and pie charts of investments made on my behalf, I looked for the total.

“$16, 772.68,” I almost screamed.

I was finally free!!

Chapter 8 - HELP WANTED: Tales of a Free-Spirit Professional

2011-08-23T18:30:00.000-07:00

A warm welcome to visitors - old and new! Please click on the right side of the page in the archives to follow this post from the beginning. It ALL starts in June, so take a look and follow along. As always, thanks for reading and enjoy.

If this were a movie, I would’ve stood up and told Scott that I was through with being an assistant; through working in a job I hated, denying myself of the creative aspirations burning inside me. And then I’d walk out; kick my shoes off in the elevator and jump into the fountain outside our building in front of the Plaza Hotel, squealing with delight, “I’m free! I’m free!”

Instead, I made a spreadsheet.

I couldn’t just walk out – not with a mortgage, credit card bills and no savings. I spent hours on that spreadsheet, figuring out just how much money I would need to survive. It wasn’t pretty and until I figured out a way to make it work, I’d have to stick around and do my best not to throw up in my mouth every time Bikram asked me to do something for him.

Bikram, like all of the partners – remaining and departed – was given stock options. I had no clue about the stock market, let alone what it meant to have fifty or fifteen hundred stock options, but what I did know was that he was obsessed - spending most of his days pacing around his large new office located on the twentieth floor, watching the stocks go up and down. He’d come out of his office to let me know every move the stocks made. Thumbs up meant things were going well. Head down and hands stuffed into his khaki’s, not so good.

Bikram wasn’t a tall man. It wasn’t as much about height as it was about confidence. At least Scott was kind of out loud about his awkwardness. Bikram tried so hard to be the cool, confident guy with hid rimless glasses, expensive loafers and faux-touseled hair. Unfortunately, he just appeared to be playing the cool, confident guy. Nobody took him seriously and I wondered why on earth he was being groomed to be the CEO.

It all became clear about a month into my working for him. I’d still made my usual rounds to Scott’s office and upon returning from a quick visit with him and a check-in with our in-house graphics department, Bikram was waiting for me.

Summoning me into his office like a teenage girl dying to tell her BFF the latest piece of gossip, he ushered me in quickly and closed the door.

“Did you talk to graphics?”

I’d played this game many times when I used to sit in Scott and Tim’s corner. I called it the “Warm Up” – the game where people try to get you to give them information without appearing like they’re trying to do so. Bikram was an amateur and I’d seen this in him when he was a lowly Junior Partner a couple of years back. It pained me to have to play along.

“Yep. The document will be ready by noon.”

“Good, good,” he said, clasping his hands as he sat at his desk. “Sit down, sit down,” he said, trying to appear all warm.

I declined. I just couldn’t do it. I’d played gatekeeper for too long to pretend like I hadn’t a clue as to what was coming next.

“Nah, I’m good,” I said, fully aware of the silent stance I was taking against his authority.

“Hey, yeah, so I know you’re all tight with Scott and everything. I was wondering if you, uh, ya know, heard anything while you were upstairs talking to him.”

He cleared his throat nervously as I took my time to answer. I wasn’t trying to play games with this guy – okay, well maybe a little. But the truth was, I couldn’t tell him what Scott and I talked about because it would crush him.

When Scott had asked me earlier how things were going with Bikram, I didn’t hold back. I was so done with it all – ordering lunch, doing expenses and worst of all – pretending that I really cared about what I was doing. Maybe it was because he used to by my boss or maybe it was the fact that he’d confessed to me weeks ago that he really didn’t have any power.

“They’re just keeping me around to show them ropes,” he’d said with an air of nonchalance. “I don’t mind. I like being needed.”

It was his sheer honesty in that moment that allowed me to abandon any lingering professional airs with Scott. We were finally and ironically on common ground.

“He’s kind of an idiot, Scott,” I almost whispered today, feeling just a little guilty about being so blunt. “He doesn’t really do anything all day long except check his stocks.”

Oh, the irony – my complaining to Scott about a boss who did nothing.

“You realize they chose Bikram because he’s the quintessential yes-man, right?”

And still, more irony.

“The plan is to get the core Madsen Group people out completely. They’re just biding their time. I know it. They know; I know it. But it’s fine.”

Scott was so matter-of-fact about it all that I felt fine for him. I’d underestimated him. He knew what was going on from the get-go and had worked every moment of it. It was on that day when I think finally found my respect for Scott.

It was Bikram I was worried about. The poor sap really had no clue. He actually thought they were going to make him CEO because he was good.

Sitting in front him, I was overwhelmed with a mixture of emotions ranging from utter disdain to extreme empathy. What could I tell him? That he was just a puppet and as long as he remained that way, he’d “succeed?”

Hell no. I wasn’t going to serve him up a pitcher of company Kool-Aid. But, what could I do? This was the biggest chance this guy had gotten in all his career – who was I to ruin it?

I decided to do what I did best and play dumb and irritated.

“Heard anything? Like, what would I hear?” I said with just enough edge and apathy to make him feel stupid.

“No, no,” he said squirming in his chair slightly, “I just thought that since you guys are close……”

I pushed myself off the wall I’d been leaning against and stood up straight to indicate the conversation was over, shrugging off my conversation with Scott as just “normal catch-up stuff.”

Back at my desk, I remembered I had forgotten to turn in Bikram’s expenses.

“I’m running up to accounting!” I called out, grabbing a large envelope stuffed with receipts.

Stay TUNED for more HELP WANTED: Tales of a Free-Spirit Professional

2011-08-18T19:35:00.000-07:00

In the meantime, check out my fun, little article:

Best Pet Shops in Brooklyn - CityPath

A Little Slice of My World

2011-08-11T16:31:00.000-07:00

For those of you who still believe in happy endings.......

2011-07-31T07:13:00.000-07:00

Check out the first four pages of a my friend's soon-to-be-released book, "The Last Blind Date." Click here to read.

If you like what you read then please pre-order it at this link. (It makes her look really good and that makes me happy.)

Great job Linda!

Chapter 7 - HELP WANTED: Tales of a Free-Spirit Professional

2011-07-28T19:28:00.000-07:00

The merger was swift and steady. In just three months, I was without a boss and relegated to the 20th floor. The important people were housed on the 21st floor and for the last four years, I was one of them.

I still had a job and technically, a boss. The new owners of the company had shipped George off to run the London office. The plan was that he’d come to New York once a month, but I’d only seen him once since everything went down. Thrilled with his new role, he’d even asked if I wanted to join him, but I declined, mostly because of the quarantine laws that meant my dog would have to live in a kennel for several months.

Being relegated to the 20th floor and away from the endless closed-door meetings where the fate of Madsen Group partners were decided, afforded me the privilege of operating mostly off the map. George rarely called and with London being five hours ahead, I had most afternoons free to wander around the office trying to appear busy.

No one really understood what the new company was about, though once the announcement was made, we all got fancy t-shirts and key chains with the new logo. The idea was to create a super power of consultants and internet specialists all under one roof. At least that’s what they told us over coffee and bagels one gray morning in March. From where I was sitting or shall I say, sat – it looked like a bunch of new faces pushing out the old faces.

Those who remained scrambled around like eager children trying to impress the popular kids on the playground. In the end, George’s non-ivy league attitude secured his future whereas Tim left quietly the Friday before the merger and never returned.

Scott was a different story. He’d always been the logistics guy and with Tim’s departure and my lack of anything to do, we forged a strange friendship. The office, from which I fought so hard to depart, became a regular stop on my daily rounds of time wasting.

I noticed a gradual change in Scott. Without Tim beckoning him to do his grunt work, Scott seemed, well, lighter. The new powers that be relied heavily on Scott’s knowledge and for the first time in all the years I’d known him, I smelled confidence on his breath.

He and his office stayed put and Claire, my replacement, was the only assistant who remained. Gina had finally been blessed with a baby as we were equally blessed with her departure. I hadn’t bothered to introduce myself to the new assistants. To them, I was just another leftover from the Madsen Group.

“How goes it on the 20th floor?” Scott asked during one of my frequent visits.

“Eh, ya know,” I said, flopping into one of the comfy, leather chairs opposite his desk. "How ‘bout you?”

“Good, good. Things are moving along nicely.”

In spite of the noticeable changes in Scott, I still found it hard not to do a double take when I’d hear him answer with such a positive slant.

“I asked to be the one to tell you this,” he said, getting up from his desk and shutting the door.

Oh shit. There it was. I was getting the, “In light of the current circumstances, we feel your services are no longer needed” speech.

I wasn’t prepared for this. I had no savings. What was I going to do?

My mind was racing so fast that I barely heard a word Scott said until, “putting Bikram on your desk.”

I scooched forward in the chair and sat up straight. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“They want to put Bikram on your desk.”

I don’t know which was worse – being fired or having to assist Bikram - a once, very junior partner, whose transparent, kiss-ass ways bought him a brief seat at the big boys table when Tim was still around.

“Bikram?” I gulped. “But, Scott…….” I didn’t even finish. Scott’s face said it all. There was really no choice in the matter, unless, of course, I wanted to add my name to the termination file.

And so it was done. I was going to be Bikram’s assistant. Apparently, he was being groomed to be the CEO which made no sense to me as I thought the new head guy who handed out shirts and pumped his fist with enthusiasm at the merger announcement was the CEO.

“He’s the Managing Partner,” Scott informed me. “He’s in charge of everything. Bikram will lead the consulting side of the business.”

It’s funny how things turn out because in that moment, I was surprisingly tempted to plead with Scott to take me back on his desk. But, I didn’t want to go back. In fact, I’d spent the last three months thinking my time on the 20th floor had made me an outsider. The truth was that I’d made me an outsider. I didn’t want to do this anymore and it was time to start planning my exit.

Chapter 6 - HELP WANTED: Tales of a Free-Spirit Professional

2011-07-12T19:03:00.000-07:00

Getting off of Scott’s desk was a done deal except he insisted that I hire his new assistant. It was ridiculous and a little cruel on his part. How was I to hire an assistant for someone who didn’t need one? What would I tell her? “Um, yeah, your days will mostly consist of listening to Scott talk about how busy he is and could you order him a tuna fish sandwich; which, by the way, will sit on his desk untouched for hours, along with all of his supposed work.”

The strongest contender was an English woman who seemed competent, even-keeled and unfazed by the notion she’d be working in the CEO’s corner. I felt compelled to explain Gina and the intricacies of working with her, but I didn’t know where to start. I considered asking if she could do a cartwheel, but instead I told her the truth.

“Gina isn’t easy,” I said, closing the door to Scott’s office. “She can be really nice and really mean all in the course of five minutes. I tell you this because it would be unfair not to. She’s manageable, but you’ll save yourself a lot of grief knowing this in advance.”

The woman, Claire, nodded and told me she was used to working with difficult people and that she could handle Gina just fine. I wasn’t sure she was the best fit for Scott, but I was so desperate to get out of there, I lied and told him she was perfect.

Life on the other side of the office was much better for me. I enjoyed the relaxed atmosphere of working around the lesser partners and their assistants. It was like moving from a pressure cooker to a toaster oven where you either made toast or small things, like English Muffin Pizza’s. George was great and always in a good mood which strangely took some getting used to. I loved that he had a life outside the office with a wife and grandchildren whom he adored.

His thick skin made him an easy target for my sarcastic sense of humor. One time, he’d left me a voice mail in between chews of a ham and cheese sandwich. “Liz,” he’d said, smacking his lips. “Can you,” lip smack, lip smack, “make a reservation for, swallow, chew, lip smack. “London, next week?”

I hated when people ate and talked on the phone. It was disgusting.

I saved his voicemail and forwarded it back to him adding a sharp little preamble.

“Hey George. Attached to this message is your earlier voicemail. I just wanted you to hear what I had to hear. In the future, would you mind not eating and talking into my ear? Thanks. Oh, and your tickets to London are on your desk.”

George could take it and in fact, he took it further, always calling me into his office with his mouth full of food just to annoy me.

The good times didn’t last very long, though. Six months after the move, rumors were flying around that The Madsen Group was being bought out. It was the only time I’d missed being on Scott’s desk. Sitting in that corner, I was always privy to information long before the others. Gina liked to talk or more accurately, she liked to throw in my face how in-the-know she really was and I’d play along doing my best to make her feel important. I didn’t care as long as I found out the important stuff.

I had distanced myself from the corner and going back now to sniff around for information was too transparent. Plus, I couldn’t stomach the idea of Gina lording her “power” over me as I’d seen her do with others. I would just have to wait it out with the rest of the non-essential players.

Chapter 5 - HELP WANTED: Tales of a Free Spirit Professional

2011-07-05T19:42:00.000-07:00

By the time I hit my four year mark, I was miserable. Scott refused to let me go and work for George arguing that George didn’t generate enough work to warrant having me all to himself. And since Scott had Tim’s ear on everything, nobody ever messed with him. It was frustrating to watch that little man assert his power when I knew he really didn’t have any. At the end of the day, he was Tim’s lackey. We all knew it; yet no one could do a damn thing about it.

It was no secret that I wanted to get out of that corner altogether. This didn’t help my relationship with Gina who had cooled toward me considerably. I knew it was jealousy. She too, was miserable but didn’t have the balls to ask for a transfer. Plus, she was too tied to being Queen Bee of the office and as much as she despised working for Tim, she loved being the one whose butt everyone had to kiss.

My misery put me in a different vibe and I no longer cared about pleasing her. There were no more cartwheels or dramatic imitations. It was business as usual and as each day passed, I tried hard to keep my mouth shut and do my job.

The upside of being so unhappy at work was I had more interest in life outside of the office. When we were kids, my sister and I used to play “pretend.” She always opted for being someone glamorous where I was strangely attracted to playing a bank teller. It seemed so adult and I longed to wear a blue suit and high heels. Working in an office, I suppose, fed that fantasy, though my suits weren’t blue and we’d thankfully gone business casual after my first year.

Taking a job as an assistant made me feel like an adult and as I was actually becoming one, the novelty had started to wear off. As a kid, being a bank teller fascinated me, but it was singing I felt most passionate about. Another long held dream of mine, music was where everything made sense. Working in an office was where I got the paycheck.

During that time, I spent a lot of time dreaming about leaving the corporate world to pursue my music. The tension between me and Gina encouraged me not to stay a minute past five leaving time to focus on singing. I frequented open mic’s around the East Village singing Sarah MacLachlin and Sheryl Crow covers which eventually led to some shows of my own.

When Scott finally decided to let me go, I could barely hide my excitement as he beckoned me to his office to share the news.

“I’ve decided to let you work for Walker,” he sniffed. “I’m just too busy to share an assistant and I think it would be better to get someone in here who….” he paused, pretending to choose his words carefully. “….actually likes being an assistant.”

In the three and a half years I worked for Scott, I’d hung up on him – lying that his cell phone was breaking up when I just didn’t want to deal anymore; made fun of him and I’d even been a downright bitch. But, never, until now, did I laugh in his face.

I couldn’t help it. I wanted to but his arrogance and prick-like behavior was downright comical. My laughter was inappropriate and Scott’s pomp turned into discomfort as he quickly adjourned the meeting.

I stumbled out of his office, dizzy from my outburst and giddy with excitement.

I was finally free.

Chapter 4 - HELP WANTED: Tales of a Free Spirit Professional

2011-06-23T19:26:00.000-07:00

The partnership was growing fast and some of us were forced to take on additional people to support. I was assigned to George Walker, a new partner who was brought in to build our SmartCard business – whatever that meant. While Scott was like a dreary winter day in England, George was a bright, fun day at the beach. He wasn't Ivy League like the rest of the partners which made him less pretentious and more productive.

George was there to work and after years of listening to Scott whine about all the work he had to do – but never did – I was happy to put more energy into the new addition to my desk. Scott of course, didn’t like that and things between us became rather tense.

Something was shifting in me and the desire to keep the peace with people was overshadowed by the respect and interesting work George was providing. While I still managed to keep Gina laughing long enough not to stab me in the back, I needed a new shtick.

With the firm rapidly expanding, Gina’s boss, Tim, was traveling a lot to visit our newly opened offices in Europe with Scott in tow – of course. I loved when they were gone. We all did. The mornings were filled with phone calls and video conferences, but because of the time difference, we basically had the afternoons to ourselves.

Our corner, normally strained, jumped to life with activity and laughter as we’d sit around and bullshit with the other assistants. Gina was always nicest when Tim was away and it felt good to relax around her and be myself.

Three days before he was supposed to come home, Tim called Gina at home and told her wanted to leave London that day. I’d seen him do it so many times before – create havoc for the sheer purpose of satisfying a whim. I thought it was more ego than whim, but my opinion didn’t really matter.

If Tim was coming home early, so was Scott. However, I didn’t get a 6am phone call at home. While traveling, Tim and Scott were a package deal and Gina bore the brunt of scrambling to find them flights home in First Class, seated together – no small feat when you’re working with a time difference that put you behind five hours.

But Gina was good and stupid enough to answer her phone at six in the morning. I knew better. Plus, I had call waiting.

Unfortunately, I had to deal with her resentment when I got to the office. That was one of the many tricky things about Gina. She wanted to be a part of everything, but she resented the hell out of those of us who weren’t and didn’t want to be.

Tim and Scott were successfully en route back to the states and I had endured a morning full of her martyrdom and snappy “I’m handling it,” retorts.

I couldn’t take it anymore and I knew a Scott imitation wasn’t going to cut it.

“Do you think it would be bad if I did a cartwheel in front of Tim’s office?” I asked, the mischief dripping from my voice.

“I dare you,” Gina said, spinning around in her chair and cracking a smile for the first time all day.

And there it was – a new shtick had been born. When things got really bad, all I had to do was a couple of cartwheels down the hall and all would be right in the world at The Madsen Group.

Chapter 3 - HELP WANTED: Tales of a Free Spirit Professional

2011-06-17T07:10:00.000-07:00

The only way to get on Gina’s good side was if you could make her laugh. I learned this one day, when out of frustration, I imitated Scott - hunching shoulders and pinching my nose to replicate his nasal and whiny voice. Gina loved this, clapping her hands like a five year old with delight.

“Do it again! Do it again!
And so it went. I became the sideshow in our tense little corner, imitating the partners and making private, inappropriate comments at their expense just to keep the peace with Gina. Her reaction was a little odd and it made me wonder if there was much laughter in her own home. She’d become almost giddy to the point I thought she might shed tears of joy if I took my antics too far. Still, she was a good audience, laughing right on cue which only encouraged me to go further.

I didn’t mind. Life at The Madsen Group was losing its luster. Two years in and I was bored out of my mind. Scott didn’t really want to get organized. He liked to keep his desk piled high with papers to make it look like he was busy. The respect I’d had for him in the beginning had dwindled down to almost nothing.

The irony was that the crappier I treated him, the nicer he was to me. Go figure. I sure didn’t. I just went with it, rolling my eyes when he asked me to make copies and pleading, “Do I have to?” It wasn’t right but Scott ate it up and shuffled off to the copy machine.

I’d always had an innate respect for my superiors, but I wasn’t a kiss-ass. I never cowered either. Gina’s boss sent many-a-partners into an uncomfortable squirm with a soft pat on the shoulder and a “Have ya got those numbers for me, Kevin?”

I never understood that. He was just a person too. He was also a bit of an asshole, but I never minded him. Several times, he’d call out from his office for Gina and in her absence, I’d appear at his door because if I didn’t, he’d go on screaming until somebody went to him.

I had dreadlocks at the time which was often the topic of conversation around the office slating me as the “cool assistant.” Tim, though, didn’t quite know how to take me. Whenever he had to address me, he’d scrunch up his face and look over the reading glasses that sat on the tip of his nose with confusion as if to say, “How the hell did you get into my corner?”

He was equally miffed when he’d ask me for something and I’d get it to him quickly and efficiently, looking at me with uncertainty and mumbling, “Uh, thanks” under his breath.

I wasn’t a bad assistant. I was a bored assistant.

Chapter 2 - HELP WANTED: Tales of a Free Spirit Professional

2011-06-09T09:35:00.000-07:00

Faye was right. The something great turned out to be just that – at least for awhile. I was going to work at The Madsen Group, a hot new onsulting firm with a concentration in Financial Services.

“What kind of company is that?” my friend in California asked when I told her.

“Dunno. But they have beer night on Thursdays.”

The pay was good and I could tell people about it without reference to war. I was the Executive Assistant to Scott Rivkin, a short, rail-thin man whose waist was smaller than mine.

“They tell me I should have someone organize me,” he sighed, his head barely clearing the pile of papers on his desk. “I guess you’ll do.”

Scott was in his forties, single and in desperate need of a good haircut. He had unruly, dark hair that, with the proper hair product, might have had some hope, but Scott wasn’t into the kind of stuff. His frameless, square glasses were something out of a bad 80’s geek movie and his suits were always navy.

The office was being renovated when I started and my desk was down the hall from Scott’s office. There was a reception area just beyond my desk separated by large, wooden doors. We had two receptionists out front and they had to buzz you through to get to the actual offices.

I was in the “hello cube” – though, I didn’t have a cube; just a desk. Sitting just inside those doors, every time someone entered, I felt compelled to say, “Hello!” At first, I didn’t mind it because it was a nice way of getting to know people. But, after awhile, getting any work done became difficult.

My desk became the stomping ground for anyone who was bored or passing by and felt like making some completely uninteresting conversation. I quickly tired of being the hello cube girl and when the renovation was finally complete, I insisted on being moved elsewhere.

Elsewhere turned out to be hell. Tim Sherman, the CEO needed to have “Scotty” as he liked to call him, close by at all times. The new layout had Scott’s office sitting about twenty feet from Tim’s. Their assistants sat in an open are in-between.

It was in this bullpen like setting where I met Gina – Tim’s assistant. Gina was there since the beginning and loved to remind people of that every chance she got. She was from Iowa and lived in New Jersey with her landscaper husband.

Gina was good at what she did and I’d hoped to learn a lot from her. She was the quintessential secretary. She knew everything about Tim. His wife. His kids. EVERYthing. She took her job very seriously and I was impressed by the level of respect she had.

At first, I wanted to be just like her. I wanted to know everything about Scott, so that he couldn’t do a thing without my help. I wanted to be the smart, efficient gatekeeper she was, coolly maneuvering people away from my boss’ office until he was ready to see them.

Unfortunately, there some major problems with my plan. Gina was a bitch and Scott was a control freak.

“Don’t pick up Tim’s phone,” she snapped at me one afternoon when she was tied up with another call and the other line was ringing off the hook.

I thought I was doing her a favor as I envisioned the two of us working as a team. But Gina liked to keep things under close watch. I later realized it was severe insecurity on her part, but at the time, I was afraid of her and spent a lot of time tiptoeing around her.

Aesthetically, I had no desire to be like her. She was nice looking woman with dark blonde hair that was always styled perfectly in a neat bob. She wore perfectly matched suits in various colors which always made me wonder if she shopped at Dress Barn. And the white sneakers for commuting and ornate pins made her seem much older than her early thirties.

She and Scott got along well mostly because he was her boss’ whipping boy and their commiseration on being treated like crap made for a strong bond.

Scott was a miserable person. Period. He had no life. This I learned very quickly when, about month into my new job, I greeted him with a cheery, “How was your weekend?”

He stopped, slumping his shoulders even more than usual and let out a long, dramatic sigh. “It was,” he said, staring into space.

It took me about six months to stop asking as I finally realized that he’d never have a good weekend.

Life in the corporate world was a mix of monotony and challenge. Scott wasn’t the most respectful boss in the world as his waves of dismissal when I walked into a meeting to pass him a note sometimes sent me to the bathroom to have a little cry. Gina was mean and if she was in a bad mood it was best to keep my head down and stay out of the way.

I’d made some friends with the other assistants which made my time there bearable and sometimes fun. The perks were the best part of all. There were many partners in the firm and Scott was one of them. He was a founding partner and as his assistant, I was in charge of things like the company Holiday Party and annual Partner Off-sites in places like Paris and Jamaica.

My expense account was ridiculous. I took cars everywhere, ordered breakfast, lunch and dinner on the company and even got to buy a few things for myself when shopping for Scott. It wasn’t right, but everybody did it, so why shouldn’t I?

One night, I was having too much fun at my friend’s apartment to go home and walk my dog. Instead, I sent a car for him.

Yep. Perks.

Introduction - HELP WANTED: Tales of a Free Spirit Professional

2011-06-01T10:11:00.000-07:00

photo courtesy of www.photobucket.com

When I was a kid, my father used to have “Private Talk” with each of the three children in my family. Our household was a busy one and my Dad worked a lot, so having him all to myself for an hour every so often was better than ice cream or any shiny new toy.

As the youngest, I didn’t have much going on in my five year old life, so I chose to ponder the unusual predicament of getting butter stuck under my fingernails. While I wasn’t losing any sleep over this greasy situation, I’d milk that hour for all I could even if it meant discussing the finer points of butter.

Often times, my father would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I’d rattle off a plethora of things from famous gymnast to waitress to “robber.” I loved this question and I could go on forever dreaming up all the things I’d be as an adult. My guess is that this enormous list of potential career paths was more of an attempt to keep the conversation going and less of an indication of my wide ranging vision of the future.

Or so I thought.

Fast forward thirty years and I’m still proud to say, when people ask, “What do you do?” that I’ve narrowed it down to four things. It’s no small feat to pay your bills and follow your dreams.

Welcome to “Help Wanted – Tales of a Free Spirit Professional ” – the story of creative desire and fiscal responsibility.

To be continued……..

Chapter 1 - HELP WANTED: Tales of a Free Spirit Professional

2011-06-01T10:05:00.000-07:00

Part 1 - The Corporate Challenge

I was 26 years old and sick of being broke. After a short stint in Atlanta as a waitress, a Fitness Manager and an office assistant, I was ready to make some money. I’d answered an ad for Executive Assistant and met Faye, my upbeat and very persuasive recruiter.

She was in her forties with brown curly hair, a great tan and a sparkly diamond wedding band that screamed, “I don’t really need this job, ‘cuz I’ve got a rich husband.” Faye was awesome and made me feel like I could do anything. She sent me on tons of interviews urging me to, “Go get ‘em tiger!” each time I’d check in beforehand.

She also taught me that positions in fashion, sports and entertainment all paid less because they were the “fun jobs” and Financial Services was where it was at. When she mentioned I could make as much as $80K in some jobs, I got over my fear of working in a stuffy environment and started dreaming about all the clothes I could buy with that money.

My sister, who was already in the corporate world told me that $80K for an assistant job was “combat pay” and that I should be prepared to work long hours and be treated like crap. I, of course, thought I knew everything and decided my sister didn’t know what she was talking about. I was going to be rich, dammit!

The combat pay job was for the CEO at Ernst and Young, a major accounting firm in midtown. I wore my best navy blue suit for the interview feeling a little like the classier version of Melanie Griffith in Working Girl as I showed up ten minutes early to make a good impression.

The elderly assistant interviewed me first and I assumed she was getting ready to retire simply because she looked to be around 70 with her light gray hair pulled back into a neat bun.

“Have they told you about Mr. Casey’s,” she paused. “….particular ways?”

I nodded enthusiastically and delivered the lines I’d practiced with Faye about loving a challenge and not being afraid of difficult people.

The assistant nodded, sizing me up as she went over the job duties and hours. After some time, she leaned in and asked, “Will it bother you if Mr. Casey comes out of the office and hangs up on whomever you’re speaking with because he wants your attention? Are you okay with yelling? He likes to yell. He also likes his food to be hot. If it’s not hot, he’ll throw it away and insist on something else.”

She was so calm and matter-of-fact in her delivery, it sounded like the easiest job in the world. But, thankfully, my sister’s words kept ringing in my head, “Combat pay. Combat pay.”

As I sat there listening, the honey-stained walls and plush leather couches no longer seemed as inviting as when I first arrived. The warm, study-like energy transformed quickly and I felt like I was in a stodgy men’s club where enthusiasm and individuality was met with sharp looks and icy stares.

I was too young and afraid to stop the interview right then and say, “No thanks.” Instead, I nodded and smiled going through the motions wishing the minutes away.

Afterward and on the street, I called Faye.

“How’d it go?” she breathed with excitement.

I wanted to please her, but I didn’t think $80K was worth getting beat up on everyday.

“I don’t think so,” was all I could say.

And, Faye - because she had that sparkly ring, I’m sure – was unfazed. “No problem!” she sang. “I’ve got something really great for you on Friday.”

2011-05-22T19:35:00.000-07:00

"Real birthdays are not annual affairs. Real birthdays are the days when we have a new birth."

- Ralph Parlette

This time last year, I was probably on my tenth Ketel One and soda praying that my boobs would stay put in my fun, new party dress and that my fake eyelashes would last the night so I wouldn’t end up looking like some washed up old starlet whose good days were long since behind her.

No, I wasn’t living out a Carrie Bradshaw fantasy - It was my 40th birthday party.

The lead up to 40 was ridiculously stressful. Talk about reflection! Whoa. The last milestone birthday I’d had was 30 and that was a completely different time. I was grateful to be out of the drama and confusion of my twenties and ready to take my life by storm. Turning 40, however, loomed like a long put-off dentist appointment – I could no longer avoid it and hoped that it wouldn’t hurt too much.

My party was incredible; so many people showed up and I spent a large part of the night greeting people with my signature greeting - long arms up and outstretched and my mouth open wide with excitement..

It felt like my wedding and as each time someone arrived, we’d sing in unison, “Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!”

It was an odd night, however. Though I was thrilled to see so many people I knew and loved, I couldn’t help but cringe every time they gushed, “Happy Birthday!!” The truth was, I loved the party – I just wished we didn’t have to talk about the birthday.

In a few short hours, I’ll be 41. There is no party this year. No party dress. I’ll get back to you on whether there will be any vodka. Somehow, after 40, it seems silly to celebrate anything that follows. I’m not going all maudlin on you here, I’m just saying that 40 is a tough act to follow.

Still, it seems odd not to celebrate something.

This year, I’ve decided to celebrate my life and the people in it. Maybe that’s what aging is all about – getting away from the “me” and focusing on the people around me. It may sound corny, but who cares, it’s my birthday, right? Why focus on what’s bad about it when there’s so much good stuff to be had.

So, here’s to all of you – may we all have an incredible day.

Excerpt from my book, Memory Card Full

2011-05-14T09:47:00.000-07:00

Today was to be my last day at Maxie’s, the bar I worked at for the last 3 1/2 years. With new ownership in place and too many changes afoot, I decided it was time to move on. Saying good-bye has been bittersweet as the relationships created and cultivated made my time there very special.

I dedicate this blog post to all of my “regulars” who were the bright spot of each and every shift. Thank you and don’t worry….none of you are “Creepy Guy.” =)

Here is an excerpt from my book, Memory Card Full. I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 25

Memory Card Full

The following week, I was working my usual Wednesday night shift which was shaping up to be a pretty decent shift. The restaurant seemed to be getting consistently busier and I’d actually built up a small following of customers who came in on Wednesdays just to see me.

Creepy Guy, one of my regulars, had just arrived. I gave him a nod and placed a beverage napkin on the bar where he sat. Creepy Guy liked to settle in before being served so I hung back while he set himself up; Blackberry on the bar. Ipod and headphones neatly tucked into his bag and always a wipe of the napkin before he put is elbows up on the bar . Once he’d do the wipe, I knew he was ready. I saw this guy three times a week every week and he’d always start out with a draft beer and then move onto a Bombay Sapphire martini with olives in a chilled glass. And even though I knew it, I’d never assume. Not with Creepy Guy. I think the attention made him uncomfortable. Though he didn’t want to be ignored either. I’d dote on Creepy Guy just enough to make him feel good. .

I walked over, giving him a smile and another napkin. “Bass?” .

He nodded with a sheepish grin. I poured his beer, set it down and then left him alone.

He liked to watch, though I’d only been told this by the other bartenders. I wasn’t really one to assume people were looking at me and when you worked at a bar, you were pretty much fair game for looks and stares. But they were all convinced he had a crush on me because he only came in on my shifts. He’d steal glances at me the whole time and the drunker he got, the more loving the glances became. Hence the name, Creepy Guy.

The first time he came to Maxie’s, was on Valentine’s Day. He was pretty non-descript in terms of his looks – brown hair, pale skin, brown eyes- maybe in his early forties. He did his usual Bass draft and then moved onto martinis. It was hard to judge a person’s capacity for alcohol when you didn’t know them. Plus Creepy Guy wasn’t a rambunctious drunk. Nope, Creepy Guy liked to mutter to himself when he’d had too much. That first evening, I realized after his third martini, that I should probably limit him to two. He confirmed this as he rolled his head back a few times and burst out laughing – silently. He really hit it home when he signed the credit card slip at the very bottom way below the signature line.

He was a great tipper, though. Not always a redeeming quality, but it certainly helped. I usually charged him just for his martini’s. And if he ate, his bill is usually around $30. He left me $70 every single time. .

His name was Kevin, though he’d never actually introduced himself. He’d just leave his business card in random places every once in awhile. Sometimes, it was under his plate or in the check presenter. Once, he stuck it in between the row of pint glasses stacked up on the bar.

Tonight, he downed his Bass pretty quickly and gave me the nod to start his martini. As I was pouring Creepy Guy’s martini, Scott called me over to the service bar. Since Chris left, Scott had been covering Wednesday. It was actually been kind of nice working with him. I felt like we had more of an opportunity to get to know each other.

“What’s up?” I said, dumping the metal shaker, full of ice, into the sink closest to the service bar.

“Judy’s going to be joining you on Thursday nights from now on.”

Joining me? What the fuck? They’re adding another bartender again? I took a breath and tried not to show my anger. “So,” I said gingerly. “There’ll be three of us?”

Scott didn’t seem to notice my angst and simply said, “No. Just you two.” He paused for a moment and said casually, “Oh and I’m going try and go with just one bartender on Friday nights for the summer. We’ll see how that goes.”

Things were starting to become clear to me. Thursday and Friday nights were the shifts I worked with Amie.

“What happened to Rachel?” I asked, a lump forming in my throat.

“Rachel’s no longer with us,” Scott said with what seemed to be indifference. Though I guess you kinda had to be detached when you’re a manager.

“What?” I said, my mouth open and eyebrows up. “Why????” I breathed.

Just as Scott was about to answer, Danny, Freddie and Doc arrived.

“Lizzy-Liz!” Doc called out as they sidled up to the bar.

Damn. Now, I had to wait until later to find out about Rachel.

“Hey boys!” I called out, grabbing some beverage napkins and doing my best not to let on that Scott just dropped a small bomb.

“What’s up lady?” Danny said, placing his palms on the bar. “How you doin’?”

“I’m great!” I lied.

“Danny and Freddie are family,” Chris had told me when we first opened and all the regulars from the Steakhouse were coming over to our side to check us out. .

The “family” regular was in a whole other class. Those people didn’t just come in on an almost daily basis, they were part of the backdrop of the restaurant. I had had a few of these in past jobs. They were the ones I might see outside of the restaurant. When I was bartending in Midtown and singing each month, my regulars would come and show their support – always. The line between personal and professional with a family regular got a bit blurred and at times, I felt strange about taking their money.

Danny and Freddie came in a lot when I worked with Noora. I liked them just fine, but I got the sense that they liked Noora better so I didn’t interact with them as much. Now that she was only working during the day, I saw them a lot more. .

Danny was the “cool cat” of the bunch; always dressed in a suit with a perfectly coordinated tie to match his vibrantly colored shirt. When I first met Danny, I thought he was a player, but since he’d been coming in more often, I started to realize he was actually pretty shy. I used to think Freddie was just one of those good-looking guys – with his salt and pepper hair and smooth Latino skin – who didn’t say much, but the past few times he’d been in, I realized he was more reserved and a surprisingly deep guy.

Doc usually came in separately and was more gregarious than the other two. When I first met him, I thought it was a nickname, but when Lara got sick and needed some antibiotics, he took care of it.

Doc’s booming voice betrayed his physique and if my back was turned and I heard him talking, I’d spin around expecting to see a six feet tall, 300 pound dude instead of a 5’7”, bald black man. Doc liked to talk and tonight, I was grateful because in light of the news about Rachel, I could barely concentrate .

Once the guys were settled in with their drinks and happily talking amongst themselves, I scanned the restaurant looking to see if there was anyone who might have information about Rachel. I’d hoped Scott would fill me in later, but he was a man of few words, so perhaps, that was all I was going to get. The confusing part was that if Rachel got fired or even quit, why didn’t she tell me? We weren’t just co-workers – we were friends. Or at least, she was my friend.

I could’ve asked Jimmy, the chef, but I wasn’t the kind of person who got into gossip. When Chris first told me about his decision to leave Maxie’s, he asked me not to say anything. I secretly resented that thinking, “Oh sure, you feel better now ‘cuz you got it off your chest and dumped it onto me. Now I’ve gotta carry it around and suffer in silence?”

In the end, Chris told everyone. I should’ve known he would. Chris could never keep his mouth shut.

I decided to send Rachel a text. We weren’t even supposed to have our cell phones behind the bar, but all the bartenders kept them there anyway. I rarely sent texts from behind the bar because it was too easy to get caught. But reading texts was much easier and it gave me a sense of being connected to the outside world. Tonight, though, I was willing to take a chance and find out just exactly what had happened.

With my back to the main part of the bar, I stood at the register and slid out the mesh wire basket situated between the top of the refrigerator and the bottom of the shelf that held the computer. Pretending like I was looking for something in the basket, I quickly composed a text to Rachel that said, “WTF?”

A couple of hours later, she and said simply, “Long story. Will tell you when I see you.”

Confused and slightly annoyed by all the mystery, I stood there trying to decide whether to leave it alone or push for more information.

“Everything alright over there?” Jimmy called out, leaning his elbows on the service bar. “You look confused.”

I threw my phone back in the wire basket and walked towards him. “Nah….just trying to figure something out,” I said deciding to keep the whole Rachel thing to myself. “You wanna drink?” I asked, folding my arms and leaning against the refrigerators next to him.

Jimmy shook his head. “Naw, I’m good.” He tilted his chin towards Creepy Guy. “Looks like Creepy Guy’s on his third martini tonight.”

“No,” I said, “He’s only allowed to have two.” Jimmy snorted as I turned and saw Creepy Guy laughing and muttering to himself the way he did when he’d had way too much to drink. “Fuck!” I said under my breath.

“Yeah,” Jimmy laughed. “He’s gone.” .

We stood there watching Creepy Guy, who threw his head back so hard, laughing silently, I wondered if he would fall off the bar stool.

“You hear about Rachel?” Jimmy asked.

“Yeah, what the hell?” I said, pushing myself off the refrigerators and turning to face him. I was so relieved that someone else actually knew.

“Yeah, it’s fucked up. All I know is that she walked in, gave Scott her notice and walked out.”

“What?” I said tilting my head. “I don’t get it. That’s so unlike her to just up and quit like that.”

“I know, but that’s all Scott said. Maybe her husband doesn’t want her working here anymore, I don’t know. Alls I know is that she’s gone, man.”

Now, I was really confused. I knew Rachel pretty well and for her to basically just walk out, something major must have happened. I doubted Scott would tell me anything more, so I was going to have to wait until she told me.

Glancing back at Creepy Guy, I sighed, “I gotta cut this guy off.”

It was a challenge to cut anyone off really, but regulars were especially tricky. They thought they were beyond the rules as they’d ask the kitchen to make special stuff sometimes, or assume they could keep drinking even when the bartender had called last call.

There was always the risk that they’d get really pissed off and never come back and in Creepy Guy’s case that would be a shame considering he contributed $120 each week towards my income.

Still, had to go.

“Here ya go, hun,” I said, placing a pint glass of water on the bar and sliding it towards him.

Creepy Guy jerked his head upward and smiled at me. He knew he had enough. I saw it in his eyes. The one thing I liked about him was that he was a quiet drunk and that made it easier to cut him off gently.

He took the glass of water and mumbled, “Thanks.”

“Should I take this?” I asked, reaching for the half-full martini glass.

Creepy Guy nodded like a five-year old who just got caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“How are you guys doing over here?” I asked Doc and company as I put the dirty martini glass in the dishwasher at their end of the bar.

“We’re good, Lizzy-Liz!” Doc sang.

My assumptions about Scott not giving me any more information were right and at the end of the night, it was business as usual – me counting money, him running reports and my grabbing a cab home.

As I rode back to Brooklyn in a cab, my mind ran through all the possibilities that may have contributed to Rachel’s departure. And as I did, it really sunk in that she was gone. I couldn’t believe it. She’d really been my rock at Maxie’s – especially through all the Rufus stuff.

First Chris, now Rachel. It was hard to roll with the winds of change, when your own life was still very much the same. .

I leaned back in the cab and watched Broadway pass before my eyes. Broadway had changed since I first moved to Manhattan in 1990. My first apartment was on 8th Street and Mercer, when Unique Boutique was the place to get cheap, used jeans – now it was a Wendy’s. .

There’d been so much change lately, I felt like the Universe was calling out to me, gesturing with its hand, to join in. And I wanted to. But my feet were heavy and I didn’t have the strength to lift them up and step forward. Maybe this writing class would loosen my feet from the miserable foundation in which I felt so rooted.

Crossing the Manhattan Bridge, I rolled down the window in the back of the cab, and let the wind blow on my face, hoping that somehow, it would sweep me up and transport me into a new and better life.

2011-05-04T15:38:00.000-07:00

In the days that followed September 11th, I remember seeing a picture of Osama Bin Laden on the front page of the Daily News with a caption that read, “America’s Most Wanted.” Displaced from my apartment in Battery Park City and still reeling from the shock of watching people jump out of buildings after planes flew into them, I joined the rest of the nation and perhaps the world in hating and blaming that man for taking so much from us.

Almost ten years later, I have moved away from the reminders – literally and figuratively. I now live in Brooklyn far from Ground Zero and each year on the anniversary of that day, I try to do something that will keep me looking forward not back.

For the past two days, the news has been flooded with accounts of Bin Laden’s “final hours” and photos of all the key White House players tensely observing what is said to be live video of the raid in Pakistan.

I thought I would be happy and share in the joy that so many others were feeling as loops of people rejoicing in the streets endlessly played on all the news channels.

But, I am not.

And while I feel satisfied that the United States prevailed in an incredibly important mission, I refuse to rejoice in death as it is the purest form of hatred imaginable to me. And isn’t hatred what got us here in the first place? I want to be the country that stands taller. I want to be the nation that takes the high road and rejoices in the dedication of our government to keep us safe and not in the demise of another.

As Martin Luther King so eloquently put it:

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”

I’m not proposing love for Osama Bin Laden, but I am asking you to focus your energy on what you love and not what you hate. We could all use a little more love in our lives.

Matz-OH, I really don't feel like writing.....

2011-04-19T21:25:00.000-07:00

Well, folks it's a holiday week which means I've got a great excuse not to write.

Pardon me while I take a few days off and tend to some rewrites for the book. Happy Holidays! See you next week.

Oh Mercury.....I hate....er um, I mean, HEART you!

2011-04-13T07:58:00.000-07:00

While it’s true that a lot of annoying things happen when Mercury is retrograde like subway problems, miscommunication, lost checks in the mail, delays in any type of correspondence, etc., it’s important to focus on the deeper meaning of such challenges. An astrology teacher once told me, “Mercury in retrograde reminds us not to lose our sense of humor.” At the time, I scoffed at this because all I really wanted was a little sympathy for all of the bullshit happening in my life. But, as I deepened my astrological studies, I realized the wisdom of his words.

During a retrograde, things slow down on purpose! It is a time to revisit, reevaluate and rework any kind of plan, issue or situation that is significant in your life. It gives us the chance to check our work and make sure the t’s are crossed and the i’s are dotted. If we embrace that energy, it can be a really useful time.

What are you experiencing? Email me at yogemelli@gmail.com

A Shoulder and Some Lip

2011-04-09T09:07:00.000-07:00

Need some dating or relationship advice? Check out my latest post on The Fat White Guy.

I'm looking for questions for the next few installments - if you have one, please email me at yogemelli@gmail.com. All information will be kept strictrly confidential. The more questions I receive, the longer I get to keep coming back to The Fat White Guy, so spread the word!!

Sex, the Ex and Some Pizza

2011-03-25T21:16:00.000-07:00

photo courtesy of www.photobuxket.com

Earlier this week, I was in Los Angeles for a close friend’s birthday party. I hadn’t been back since 2006 and though it took me a minute to get my bearings, everything started to come back - the best roads to take to avoid traffic; places I frequented and hadn’t thought about in years; and Rob.

Rob and I had a brief but steamy affair when I first moved to L.A. back in 2004. We’d met at the same close friend’s birthday party back then and the attraction was instant. He with his milky skin and ice blue eyes framed with lashes so long, even Maybelline would be jealous. There was something so approachable and gentle about him and yet, he had this dude vibe that unnerved me just enough to peak my interest. His blue convertible Porsche didn’t hurt either.

There was a short attempt at dating.

"I’m going to walk down to the Santa Monica Pier later, if you’re around, maybe you’d like to join,” was his way of asking me out and back then, that was enough for me, so I went. The date was fun, but all I could think about was kissing him and when that finally happened a few hours later, it was on! The next few weeks were less about dating and more about sex. He was an attentive lover and an excellent kisser, but there was a certain remoteness to him and eventually, things just fizzled out.

We remained friends and with the advent of Facebook, we’ve been able to stay plugged into each other’s lives. So much so, that when I saw him at the party earlier this week, it was like no time had passed – socially and sexually. Gone were the old feelings of, “Yeah, Rob’s a nice guy, but totally unavailable.” Instead, as he talked to me about his latest obsession – architecture – all I could think of was how much I wanted to kiss him.

Hours passed and after several delicious, tequila-based drinks, the desire to make out with this guy made it hard to concentrate on anything else. At the end of the night, the ride we expected to share – I was staying two blocks from his place – fell through and at his suggestion, we walked home. Walking in Los Angeles?The things a girl will do for a kiss, though it was only six or seven long blocks away.

The cool evening air felt good, sobering me up slightly and as we made our way towards our respective homes, I began to seriously consider the pros and cons of taking it from the sidewalk to the bedroom.

It would be so easy. We’ve been there and done it before. And I know he was flirting with me earlier! What’s the big deal, right?

For me, there is no big deal. I’m an expert at revisiting the beds of my exes, getting up the next day and continuing on with my life, unscathed and without regret. Sleeping with an ex-boyfriend from time to time was like an afternoon at the movies – a momentary escape into a world completely different than my own. The sex would rejuvenate me – and my ego. And that night, as I tried very hard to pay attention to the finer points of art-deco design, I was ripe for an escape.

Or so I thought.

The closer we got to where I was staying, the more conflicted I was about taking it to the bedroom.

“Do you really want to do this?” the voice of reason asked again and again, hijacking my thoughts like the hook to an annoying Katy Perry song.

Sure, it had been awhile since I’d been with a man and yes, the attention felt oh so good, but you can’t be hungry for pizza and expect to be satisfied with a tuna sandwich. I was hungry for pizza and Rob was a tuna fish sandwich. The only reason hooking up with my exes in the past worked was because I was clear about my expectations and committed to them.

I was lonely but loneliness has no place between the sheets. What tipped me off to it all was the moment I began thinking things might be different this time around and maybe we could make it work.

And if you think loneliness has no place in the bedroom, try fantasy and see where that gets you.

For all these years, I’d been able to compartmentalize the emotions from the past and enjoy the physical pleasure without getting wrapped up in any expectation of a future with each ex. Once expectation creeps into the mix, the playing field is no longer level and that makes for some pretty shaky ground.

I don’t want a relationship with Rob, but I want a relationship. As I got into bed that evening after a sweet and lingering hug on the street, I realized that had I slept with Rob, I’d be settling. And while I was horny, I was totally empowered by the fact that in spite of the alcohol-induced nostalgia I felt, I stayed true to my needs and decided to work a little harder to find some pizza.

More from the FAT WHITE GUY!!

2011-03-19T13:44:00.000-07:00

Photo courtesy of www.thefatwhiteguy.com

It looks like I've got a weekly gig on The Fat White Guy!! Check out my latest article on the Do's and Do Not's of Dating.

Feature on The Fat White Guy!!

2011-03-12T11:51:00.000-08:00

photo: courtesy of www.thefatwhiteguy.com

Check out my article, "First and Long....Very Long" at http://www.thefatwhiteguy.com/ for my take on dating and sports bars. Scroll down the first page until you see it. ENJOY!

Ophiuchus is the new 20!

2011-01-15T08:48:00.000-08:00

From the Minneapolis Tribune.....

Eric Francis, who is based in New York, said he’s weary of the endless skirmish between astronomy and astrology. “When astronomers make fun of us, they’re making fun of the human suffering that leads people to seek answers,” he said. “People do get comfort and wisdom from astrology — and science gives us Prozac.”

– Associated Press with Bill Ward

There's been a lot of talk these last few days about Parke Kunkle's claim that the zodiac wheel as we know it, has shifted and as a result, we've got a "new" sign, Ophiuchus. (Like they couldn't come up with a better name?? Really?)

Below is an article from The Daily Beast, which, I think, explains the basics and puts to rest the notion that your sign has mysteriously changed. Check it out:

http://www.thedailybeast.com/blogs-and-stories/2011-01-14/zodiac-signs-change-no-astrologists-say/

In the end, what's most important is this: a random astronomer from Minneapolis can NOT change who you know yourself to be. In fact, no one can, really. It's important to know yourself - inside and out and not let anyone tell you differently. Unless, of course, you'd rather be an Ophiuchus.....I hear they're pretty cool cats.

Feel free to comment or email me with any questions or concerns.

Something's cookin'............STAY tuned!

2011-01-13T07:58:00.000-08:00

photo courtesy of www.fotosearch.com

Happy Holidays!! See you in the New Year!

2010-12-28T07:49:00.000-08:00

photo courtesy of www.photobucket.com

Moped Madness

2010-11-22T10:44:00.000-08:00

photo by Julia Aron

Another one from the archives........

Kim, Sheldon and the boys from Saskatoon drop me off at the moped place after a nice lunch at Pollo Bronco. They wish me well as I bid them adios and step up to the Hertz counter to claim my moped.

The whole process is fairly simple and while I fill out the paper work, I realize my nerves have turned into excitement as I’m ready to have more mobility and most importantly - face my fears. The agent gives me a 30 second tutorial on the workings of the moped. There’s no clutch or gear shifts, so it’s pretty much a stop and go situation – this I can work with!

With the papers out of the way and the shiny blue helmet fastened tightly to my head, I get onto the moped and start it up. My heart is pounding with the excitement of a six year old whose about to take her bike out for its first spin sans training wheels. The moped is parked alongside the main road and in order to get onto the street, I have to get it up and over the curb. I give it some gas and it lurches forward with more power than I expect. The momentum lurches me forward which, in turn, makes me give it more gas. Suddenly it's all happening at once, the moped leaping onto the road, me squeezing the brakes with no success of stopping and finally, driving full speed straight into the souvenir stand directly across from the rental place.

With blankets whipping me in the face and artisan purses flying through the air, I'm finally knocked off the moped as I run right into a 14 year-old girl who’s standing in the rear of the stand and happens to be the souvenir stand owner’s daughter. The bike continues forward and down into a ditch behind the stand while me and the girl are a tangled mess on the ground above.

This is no bueno.

Chaos ensues....everyone is screaming. I'm completely freaked out and not sure if I'm hurt or if the girl's hurt. She's on top of my leg screaming and crying.

Nobody speaks English thus far and um I'm the minority here, ya know? I can't help but worry just a little that the whole scene might turn all Rodney King Mexican style on me at any moment.

A bunch of people pull the moped up and out of the ditch while the mother is screaming and the little sister is hysterical. Finally, an American woman comes up from behind and offers me some coke - as in coca cola. I'm crying uncontrollably nearing the point of hyperventilation while thank goodness, the nice woman with the soda is trying to calm me down.

I keep saying over and over again as if I’m chanting, “I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry,” which of course, nobody understands. And I’m holding the girl, her head in my lap, stroking her head, trying to keep her from moving, just in case she has a spinal injury. Her toe is bleeding, but that’s all that seems to be wrong from where I’m sitting. Fingers crossed.

The ambulance comes and the nice lady who I now know is from Arizona is scrambling around looking for my shoes which apparently came off when I flew off the moped.

The ambulance people lift the girl off me and as they do, I wonder if my leg is broken because it hurts like a mutha! The father of the girl speaks English and is nice enough to say something about my leg being possibly broken as they put me on a stiff board-like stretcher. Once on the board, they strap my leg up to keep it straight and then fasten my head to the board with one of those squishy collar things like on freakin' TV! Nobody's saying much except the nice lady who’s speaking to me in hushed tones telling me, “You’re leg looks okay. It’s going to be okay. Can you feel me scratching your shin?”

She gets my purse and finds only one of my shoes and lays them on my stomach as they're putting me into the ambulance. I lie there, clutching my purse and shoe waiting and crying - I'm so scared. It's awful.

My newfound angel from Arizona comes back, climbs into the ambulance and says, "I'm breaking the rules, but you need to have your other shoe." As she places the dusty Birkenstock on my stomach along side the other one, all I can manage is a desperate whisper between sobs.

"Thank you,” I gulp.

She wishes me well and because I can't move my head, I’m stuck there, waiting - unable to see what’s happening and the worst part is the girl that I ran over is right there next to me in the ambulance.

More waiting and silence and the finally we start moving. My mind is racing and I’m worried that I'm going to end up in a dumpster somewhere clinging to my purse and dusty shoes.

Luckily, we go to the hospital. Though, I use that term lightly. It’s more like an infirmary with stark white walls, antiquated beds and those old-school cloth dividers on wheels – like the ones in M*A*S*H. As they lift me out of the ambulance and onto a gurney, a bunch of people are gathered around the entrance taking pictures of me. I feel like a criminal.

None of the doctors speak English and the panic I’m feeling makes my limited Spanish a dim memory. Shit, I’m so scared I can barely remember English.

They start to hook some bag of something up to me and I manage to ask, “Que est a?" They answer, but I don't understand. All I'm thinking is they're going to drug me and take me to some gringo whorehouse in the middle of nowhere and leave me to die.

Eventually, I find out that it's saline (thanks to the girl’s father) so I say okay. But when they try to give me some medicine and I say, “NO WAY!”

I don't care if I’m bleeding from the head - there is no way I'm taking any medication from this place.

After about four and a half hours, the girl gets stitches in her foot as the doctor motions for me to try and walk. Though it's hard, I can do it and we now know my leg isn’t broken. I’m relieved, but I can’t help feel a little guilty that I, the cause of the accident, am going to limp away with minor scrapes and bruises while the poor girl has to endure stitches in her big toe.

The worst part is that I'm sharing the "emergency room" with her which is kind of uncomfortable. Between the myriad of family members showing up every ten minutes to the dirty looks the mother continues to shoot at me, I’m really grateful that the father is nice enough to try and help with the translation between myself and the doctors. He keeps asking me where I’m staying which, for some reason strikes me odd. He’s a taxi driver and I just ran his daughter over. How do I know he’s not going to come and find me later or worse, send his taxi driver friends after me?

The father steps outside just as the insurance guy comes. He doesn't speak English – shocker. I end up signing a bunch of papers. Fuck if I know what I'm signing and I can't argue because who's going to explain it to me or even know that I'm arguing?

Plus, I'm still waiting for the cops to come and take me away.

The father comes back and explains to me that they're ruling it an accident and insurance will cover the medical stuff. Unfortunately, the mother doesn’t buy the accident part as she continues to stare me down from the other side of the room while the rest of the family happily munches on chicken.

It’s decided that the girl will go to Playa del Carmen and get checked out. When asked, I opt not to go because my leg is feeling better – just stiff. My hand hurts a lot, but I think it’s from the IV. Plus, I just want to get out of there, get some wine, lock myself in the condo and cry.

I finally get to leave and basically walk out of the hospital onto the street. I had no idea where I was and am surprised to find out that I’m fairly close to the apartment.

I take a taxi home, hoping my driver doesn’t know the father.

As I shuffle past the entrance, I’m thrilled to see that my little family here are all sitting around in one of the apartments. Sheldon sees me and calls through the screen door, “How’d the moped go? Did ya kill anyone?”

I limp into the kitchen where they’re all seated and before I can think about holding back the tears, they start to fall with complete abandon.

The horrible events of my day tumble out and everyone is very sweet, feeding me beer and potato ships, while I sniff and sob through the story. Brian tells me he'll take me to Hertz the following day to straighten out the damages. Everyone agrees that I shouldn’t go alone. Once again, I am grateful for these nice people and their kindness.

We say good night and I’m finally back inside Karen’s apartment – sore and exhausted. There’s way too much to process and as I drift off to sleep, I’m torn between the guilt of being the cause of such a terrible accident and the sheer relief I feel for being safe, sound and in one piece.

Hunkmania

2010-11-15T07:58:00.000-08:00

Here's an oldie, but goodie from my days working at Hunkmania - a male strip club for women. This essay was chosen for the Staten Island Arts Festival last Summer.

photo courtesy of Hunkmania Male Strippers

I’m late. I’m always late. It’s no accident. It’s this little game I play with myself week after week. I know I’m supposed to be there by 7:15, but hell, I don’t even want to be there at all. Maybe there’s a part of me that hopes I’ll just miraculously miss it altogether.

It’s 7:30, when I finally arrive. Bubbs sees me and his face lights up as a noticeable hush falls over the crowd of at least 50 women lined up to one side of the entrance. He lets me through the ropes and I know they’re wondering how I got inside with no hassle or question.

Inside, it’s business as usual. The bartender is cutting lemons and limes, the DJ is setting up the music and the waiters are checking their supplies.

I make my way down the long pathway toward the back. The bar runs the whole length of the room and opens up into a large square area which is the dance floor. There are three tiers of carpeted bleacher-type seats surrounding 75% of the dance floor. With the lights up, this place reminds me of an old starlet whose glory days have long since passed –weathered and worn.

Downstairs, there’s another bar that we only use for the second show along with the office and a supply area that doubles as a dressing room for the guys. Inside, some of the guys are getting ready which means greasing up and primping in front of the mirror. Cocoa butter for K.C.. Baby oil for Joey. Tony likes almond oil. Shawn doesn’t use anything – he’s too busy practicing out in the empty bar area. Given the different scented oils, the room always smells like a cross between old alcohol and Hawaiian Tropic.

Heading towards the office, I maneuver past a handful of half-dressed and half-greased guys who talk easily amongst themselves. I give a general “hello” to everyone and Tony comes over to give me hug.

“Nooooo. You’re already oily, “ I say, holding my hands up.

Tony smiles and grabs my hand. “Okay, baby. But anytime you want some of this,” he points to himself with pride, “I’m here.”

The office door is open. I cross my fingers hoping Danny’s working tonight, because he’s my favorite.

“Hello Luv!” Danny says looking up from a pile of money he is counting. “The list hasn’t come through yet. I’ll bring it up when it does.”

“They’re already lining up outside.” I say.

“Ah, fer fuck’s sake. Don’t these women have a life?” he mutters rolling his eyes.

I take the cash box and clipboard from the desk and make my way back upstairs. At the top of the stairs, Bubbs, who’s real name is Michael, is waiting for me. He’s about 6’5” and at least 275 pounds.

“They’re asking how much longer they have to wait outside,” he says, taking my cash box and clipboard from me. “One girl keeps asking to be let in. She says she has to pee.”

We both roll our eyes, silently acknowledging the fact that we hear this same thing every week as the line of drunken girls increases and their bladders start to waiver.

“Five minutes, Bubbs. I don’t have a list yet.”

“What about the girl?”

Here it is. The first moment of a very long night. I want to be nice, but I’ve seen it before. We let one girl in and then suddenly, everyone has to pee. Before you know it, half the line is already inside asking the bartender if they can order a drink, while the rest of the people waiting outside want to know why they can’t come in too.

This is my reality - This is Hunkmania.

Hunkmania is a male strip show for women that was started back in 1999 by an ex- Chippendale dancer.

I work the door. I collect money and check people in to make sure they have paid for their tickets in advance. Most of the time, I end up dealing with stuff a Manager would deal with. But I never say that I’m the Manager. Ever.

During the busy season, we have two shows. We always sell out quickly which means all 225 tickets have been purchased (for each show) in advance of the show date.

A guest list is generated for each show and then faxed to the club. This list goes to me and I have the pleasure of checking people in, making sure the number of people in their party matches the number of tickets paid for in advance. There have been times where women have tried to sneak in an extra person or two. Some of these women can be very clever. One will ask to be let in earlier because she has to “pee”. She stays in the bathroom waiting for the rest of her party to come inside hoping that I’ll forget that I’ve already let one person from the whole party inside. This is one reason I have a bouncer.

The other reason being that I’ve seen women get ugly in this place. Breaking-bottles-over-someone’s-head-ugly, but that’s later, after the show has actually started. Right now, it’s all about getting them inside and seated.

Tonight, the line has extended down to the corner of 14th Street with most of the women decked out in veils, blinking penis head bands, penis lollipops, penis necklaces, t-shirts unifying certain parties with slogans like, “We’re all getting FUCKED up for Heather’s Bachelorette Party!!” as well as the token 4 foot tall, inflatable penis. The inflatable penis is not common, but once in awhile we get one and everyone loves it.

Settling onto my stool behind a podium, Bubbs and I take a minute to bullshit about the past week. He sits down on the stool just opposite the podium – a comical site, given his size and proportion to the stool.

Danny bursts through the doors into the vestibule with the lists. “Looks like it’s gonna be a helluva of a night.” He says, handing me four pages worth of names

Two shows. Both sold out. This means twice the headaches and twice the hassles.

I take a deep breath and turn to Bubbs, “Are you ready?”

“Are you ready?”

And the games begin.

photo courtesy of Hunkmania Male Strippers

Most of the time, the girls have been out drinking prior to coming to Hunkmania, so getting them inside can be a little tricky. There are endless questions about things that are clearly stated on the website, which I have to answer each time, every week, as if I’m hearing it for the very first time. There’s also the matter of making sure they don’t bring alcohol into the club from outside – usually in the from of a penis sippy cup. One girl is not happy about giving up her penis cup. She adamantly refuses yelling out in a drunken stupor, “Nobody is taking my dick. This is MY dick!” Another job for my faithful bouncer, Bubbs.

The next bunch of ladies are a group of ten celebrating a bachelorette party. Most of the women appear to be in their mid-twenties. They’re decked out in minimal clothing, lots of sequins, strappy, metallic shoes and of course, penis paraphernalia.

The leader of the pack charges up to the podium and without missing a beat announces in full long-island accented fashion, “We’re here for a bachelorette party.”

She comes around the podium to my side, leans in way too closely and says in a ridiculously overdone whisper, “Uh. Who do I talk to about getting our bride on stage? The website said we can put her up on stage and embarrass the shit out of her. Does D’Angelo still work here? Oooooooh, he’s HOT. Can she be on stage with D’Angelo?”

Between her disgusting alcohol breath and her nasal voice, I’m not feeling very good about my evening. I try my hardest not to sound condescending, “Okay, first off, do you think you could step back behind the podium?” Luckily, she backs up a few inches, but continues to rant. “But we want Deeee--Ange-AH----looooooooo.”

I’m trying to be patient but, this is the first group of close to 200 women and I’m thinking ahead. If each group takes this long to get checked in, we’ll be here all night.

By this time, the chanting has begun. Bubbs comes inside and says, “You hear it, right?”

Outside, on 14th street, there are at least 100 girls chanting in unison, “We want the Hunks! We want the Hunks!” The inflatable penis is being passed amongst the line and an inflatable doll complete with genitalia and pubic hair, has now joined the mix. Doc, the neighborhood drunk, is doing a drunken tango with the doll up and down the line while the women are tirelessly chanting, “We want the Hunks!”

At this point, Lance, the MC of the show arrives. He’s the main man. He took D’Angelo’s place. Where I run the door, he runs the show. He’s the host. The guy who keeps everyone pumped up and happy.

Lance is a Funeral Director by day and male stripper by night. With his blue eyes and deep tan – no matter what season, he loves to remind people he’s in charge. Me, I’m happy to hand it all off to him whenever I can. Though, once the show starts, I’m the one people come to. If I were on a power trip, I’d love it. .

Thankfully, things calm down a bit once Rinaldo, one of the massage guys goes outside to hand out magnets and flirt with the girls keeping them occupied. The next several groups of women are hassle-free and actually very polite and funny, so I’m feeling better about the evening.

Lance comes out with his wireless microphone in hand. A sign that he’s ready to start the show.

“How many are left, Liz?”

“We’re still waiting on a party of 18. Give it 5 more minutes and we’ll see if this big party shows up.”

Bubbs comes in from outside, sits back down on his stool and sighs, “Damn. Sometimes this place makes me feel like such a hater.”

I smile, completely feeling his pain, hop off my stool and head inside get us some drinks.

Inside, the energy is amping up. The first batch of women are most likely two drinks into their night. The waiters are running around like crazy. The music is pumping. The bartender has her head down as she’s making a batch of Apple Martini’s and Cosmopolitan’s. Seeing me, she nods hello, stops what she’s doing and makes a drink for me and Bubbs. I love this girl!

As she’s handing me the drinks, someone taps me on the shoulder from behind. It’s Bubbs.

“The party of 18 is here and one of them doesn’t have ID. You better come out.”

Outside, in front of the club is the biggest limousine I have ever seen. It looks like someone took one end of a Hummer and stretched it as far as they could, making it at least 20 feet in length. It’s white, of course, with tinted windows and besides the thumping bass coming from inside, there are flashing purple strobe lights and a disco ball hanging from the center of the ceiling.

Twenty or so girls are all hovering around the ropes outside the club. They are all outfitted in typical Hunkmania garb along with hot pink feather boas around their necks.

The leader of the pack is clearly wasted as the stumbles up to the ropes.

“We’re celebrating a bachelorette party and we’re from New Jersey and we want to make sure we get good seats and we want to get our girl up on stage with the dancers. They said we could do that when I spoke to someone on the phone. ‘Ter!! Ter!! TER---RY. Get ova here.’ Can we go inside already?”

Bubbs steps up and says, “Yeah. I just need that one girl’s ID.”

The leader puts her long, french manicured nails through her hair for effect and leans in closer to Bubbs and myself.

“Yeah, well ya see, one of us, the bride’s sister, forgot her ID at the hotel. She’s definitely 21. Shit, she’s got two kids. JenniFAH! Show her your kids.”

I jump in. “Uh, no that’s not really necessary, thanks.” I scan the group, “Which one is she?”

The leader yells which is totally unnecessary as we’re all pretty close to one another. “JenniFAH! Come up here. Come on.”

JenniFAH makes her way up towards me and Bubbs. Bubbs looks at me and already I know what he’s thinking. This girl is NOT 21. I start shaking my head because I know this is going to get ugly.

I address JennFAH matter of factly, “So, you don’t have ID?”

“No. I think I left it at the hotel.”

“Where’s the hotel?” I ask.

The leader interrupts, again at the top of her lungs. “Come on, she’s got kids. She’s married. JenniFAH! Show her your rings.”

JenniFAH obeys like a small child and holds up her rings.

Shrugging my shoulders, I drop the bomb. “I’m sorry I can’t let you in without ID.”

The protests begin and suddenly, I’ve got 18 girls all talking at once – “this is crazy.” “she’s 21.” “she doesn’t even drink” “that woman is just being an asshole”

Bubbs steps in. “Ladies! Ladies! Listen. She’s right. You can’t come in without ID. It’s not up to us. It’s the law.”

The leader speaks to me and the rest of her group, “So what the hell are we going to do?”

There are so many opportunities in my night to be a complete asshole. As much as I despise the whole bachelorette party thing, I respect that this is a big night for people. I wish I were the type to look the other way. But, I’m not.

“Listen,” I say to Mary with compassion, “I can’t let you in without ID. I just can’t. Here’s what I suggest you do. Let the rest of the party go inside. Have your limo driver shoot you back up to your hotel. It’s in Times Square, right? You’ll be back here in 30 minutes tops. When you bring back your ID, I’ll get all of you a round of drinks on me and you’ll have a good time. Does that sound fair?”

The leader goes ballistic. “This is BULLSHIT. YOU (pointing with her manicured finger) are a BITCH. You’re just giving us a hard time. I should kick your ass. You’re RUINING our night. SCREW you.”

Sensing things have reached a whole new level, Bubbs sees tells me to get inside.

Bubbs handles the situation and I head inside where the show is just getting started. “Ladies! Welcome to Hunkmania!” Lance bellows into the wireless microphone as he makes his way out to the center of the dance floor. He’s got women on either side of him stacked up in the carpeted bleachers, screaming, cheering and waving their arms with enthusiasm.

“And don’t forget - WHAT HAPPENS AT HUNKMANIA STAYS AT HUNKMANIA!” The crowd erupts as Lance exits center stage and the lights go out. This sends the crowd into a frenzy as the women start stamping their feet, alternating between screams of “Woooooooooo” and “Yeah Babeeeee!”

“Right now, making his debut at Hunkmania from Boston, let’s give it up for AWWWWW---S--TINNNNNN!!”

I walk back towards the door and Bubbs is standing just inside the club at the far end of the bar, with a drink for me in one hand and a drink for himself in the other.

He hands me my drink and the lockbox full of hunk bucks – our version of “funny money” like in Vegas. “Jimmy says people need to buy hunk bucks.”

I make my way back towards the main event with drink and hunk bucks in hand. I notice all the guys are standing around watching Austin’s routine. This strikes me odd as they usually wait downstairs until it’s their turn to perform. But the guys are like mesmerized. Craning their necks, standing in obscure corners completely entranced by Austin’ performance. Now, I’m curious. I assume my hunk buck position and turn my attention to the show.

And what a show it is. Austin, a new guy, whose real name I don’t even know, is wearing a silver glittered tuxedo jacket – complete with top hat and tails. He’s wearing a mask that looks like something out of Cirque du Soleil and the best part of all – he’s like 5 feet tall!

“He’s really good isn’t he?” an envious voice says behind me. “I hear he used to be a Chippendale.”

It’s Joey talking, but his eyes are on Austin. I can’t believe how enamored he is by this guy. In fact, ALL the dancers appear to be just as impressed.

I’m not impressed and decide to leave this alone. I can’t engage in stripper envy. Though it’s worth noting that there hasn’t been stripper envy of this magnitude for a long time. The last time the guys were falling all over themselves with envy was when one of the dancers, a legend in the business, joined Hunkmania. He had an assistant.

Austin finishes his routine and Lance continues to keep the party going. “Ladies! It’s time for a new set of Hot Seats! If I call your name it means that someone has purchased a hot seat for you. YOU are coming up here to get up close and personal with our next Hunk.” The crowd erupts yet again, into enthusiastic cheers as the anticipation is palpable.

photo courtesy of Hunkmania Male Strippers

A hot seat is something extra that is advertised as a way of giving the guest of honor, “special attention” as she is seated with three other women in the center of the dance floor while the dancer performs his set.

The key to getting the most attention possible, of course, is about how many hunk bucks and/or dollar bills the person has attached to them.

“Doris. Can I get Doris up here on center stage, please?” Lance is arranging each of the women in their respective hot seats while their friends flock around them affixing hunk bucks and dollar bills to every place they can.

As I’m handing out hunk bucks, Lance walks over to me. “Uh, hey just so you know. We’ve got a really drunk girl in the house. I told Jimmy not to serve her any more alcohol.”

“Okay. Tell him though, if she looks like she’s gonna be sick, to have Bubbs get her out of here.”

Next up is K.C. He’s beautiful. 6’7”, lean, but muscular, very dark skin, bald head. Unfortunately, he knows it and this contributes to his lack of personality. Although, I’ve actually had some decent conversation with him over the years, he mostly keeps to himself. Lately however, he seems to be too cool, even for himself – walking into the club and not saying hello to anyone. His mystique is all bullshit to me. K.C. and I had a moment years ago and after that, I realized this is a guy who’s always gotten by on his looks.

Now, he and I play this little game week after week. I’ll be packing up my stuff getting ready to leave while K.C. is changing back into his street clothes.

K.C. will nod his chin in my direction in lieu of addressing me directly. “So, uh, you goin’ out after this?”

Some nights I play along, just for the ego factor. “Um. I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”

He’ll then start to shuffle around uncomfortably and say something like, “We could get a beer.” Translation: “We could drink a beer upstairs for free and then go back to my place where I can use you to help me release all of this pent up sexual energy that has built up all night long from being rubbed and touched by strange women.”

No thanks.

Back out on the dance floor, Doris is having a blast. She’s completely into the special attention she’s getting from K.C. as she continues to replenish the hunk bucks he takes out of her cleavage. Each time he goes in to get the money, she tilts her head back, closes her eyes in sheer ecstasy and grabs the back of his head shoving it into her breasts.

The vodka has kicked in and I’m feeling a bit more relaxed. I’m almost enjoying myself while Doris and the rest of her clan high-five one another as K.C. finishes his set and she goes back to her regular seat.

After another round of hot seat assignments and more hunk buck sales, it’s Joey’s turn. The lights go out and the theme from military boot camp cues up. “Yo left. Yo left. Yo left, right, left.” Joey comes out wearing army fatigues. He has presence. With a shaved head and piercing green eyes that go beautifully with his olive skin tone, he’s the best dancer of the bunch.

The crowd responds to him as per usual tonight as he takes one of the hot seat girls out of her chair and eases her onto the floor so she’s lying on her back. Standing over her, perfectly timed to the music, there’s a dramatic pause and he chooses this moment to rip his pants off - which are held together with Velcro seams - in one full swoop. The crowd is on their feet yelling as Joey stands over the woman on the floor and slowly squats down so his groin is directly over her face and again, in perfect time to the music he gyrates up and down dramatically making it appear like he’s sitting on her face.

In spite of myself, I’m smiling, slightly amused. Or maybe I’m just getting drunk.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see K.C. approaching. He’s wearing nothing but a red g-string and motorcycle boots. Great. Here we go.

He comes over to me and leans in close to my ear. “Some girl is passed out in the bathroom.”

Oh. Well that’s not what I was expecting. I follow him to the bathroom. And there it is – a dose of Hunkmania reality. A woman, mid-twenties is lying face down on the bathroom floor completely still.

I put my hand on her back, which is sweaty and sticky, to see if she’s breathing.

“K.C., go get Bubbs and Danny. Take my phone and call 911. Where are her friends?” I demand. K.C. steps aside and the passed out girl’s friend steps up and into the bathroom.

“Do you know how much she had to drink?” I say to her friend who looks less worried and more like she wants to run out of the bathroom run as fast as she can.

“I don’t know. We had some tequila at dinner and then we drank champagne in the limo. I think she had a couple of cosmos during the show.”

Jesus. Danny and Bubbs show up in the doorway.

“Ah, fer fuck’s sake. She breathing down there, right Liz?” Danny looks more annoyed than worried.

“Yeah. Did K.C. call 911?”

K.C. squeezes through the door with my cell phone in hand. “Yeah. Somebody needs to wait outside for them, though.”

Danny goes outside to wait for the paramedics and Bubbs peeks his head into the room. “Yo, Liz. Isn’t that the girl who was yelling at you earlier outside? “He continues, “Yeah. She’s the one whose friend didn’t have id.”

He’s right. This is the girl that was calling me all sorts of nasty things not more than a couple of hours ago. Now, I’m taking care of her. Perfect.

photo courtesy of Hunkmania Male Strippers

By this time, a small crowd is forming in the very narrow hallway right outside of the bathroom.

Annoyed, I tell Bubbs to get them out of there. As I’m barking orders, the girl begins to stir like she just got jolted out of a deep sleep because she suddenly rolls over and starts moving her head back and forth along with her arms as if she’s fighting something.

“What’s her name?” I ask her friend.

Backing up closer to the door, her friend replies, “Rosemary.”

K.C. and I try to control Rosemary’s movement while I’m trying to be all calm in my voice, “Whoa. Whoa. Rosemary. Easy girl. Don’t try and stand up. Let’s try sitting..”

Someone reaches into the bathroom with a bottle of water and there I am squatting down next to Rosemary with K.C. who’s in his red g-string, trying to coax her to drink some water.

Her blond, highlighted hair is matted against her face. Her eyes are barely open. I think she’s got vomit on her chin and left shoulder. She picks her hand up to wave away the water and I notice 3 of her perfectly manicured fingernails are broken.

I tell the friend to get Rosemary’s things and let the other girls know what’s happening.

She turns to leave the bathroom just as Jimmy pokes his head inside the bathroom. “Everything okay here?” He looks at the girl. “Oh shit. That’s the girl who we were thinking about kicking out. She’s wasted, man.”

Finally, after what seems like an hour, the EMS guys show up. Two guys barge their way into the small, smelly bathroom.

“Okay. Everyone. We’ve got it from here. Let’s get everyone OUTside of the bathroom.

To me, “Ma’m. You can go too.”

“No. I think I’ll stay here.” I squat over to one side of Rosemary surprising myself that I’d want to stay. But hell, it’s my job, or is it? Right on cue, Rosemary leans her head over and rests it on my shoulder. She exhales deeply.

“You’re sho nishe to me. Shank you. Shank you. I’m shorry I cawled you a bitsh.”

And there it is. The very person threatening to kick my ass two hours ago, is leaning her head on my shoulder thanking me care and concern. Priceless.

The shorter of the two EMS guys bends down, makes a fist and starts rubbing Rosemary’s chest area right over her heart. I’m a little taken aback because he’s rubbing really hard – so hard that she falls over, head into my lap.

He’s unfazed. “What’s her name?”

“Rosemary”, I say. Suddenly I feel like her only friend.

“Rosemary. Rosemary. Can you hear me? We have to stand up. Get up. Can you stand up?”

This, to me, is useless as Rosemary’s head is in my lap and clearly not getting up anytime soon. The EMS guy maneuvers himself so that he’s able to pick her up from under her arms. He stands her up. I follow suit.

“Rosemary. Can you stand up on your own? How much did you have to drink tonight?”

Trying to be helpful I give him the long list of various drinks she’s supposedly had.

While the first guy is holding Rosemary steady, the other one wants to know who will be accompanying her to the hospital. Both guys look at me. This is where I draw the line.

Standing her up, the EMS guys start to walk her out of the bathroom. As she’s “walking” out, I notice that she’s got a glob of soap on her forehead.

“Wait!” I say to the EMS guys. Grabbing a paper towel, I wipe the soap off her face.

The EMS guys look at me like I’m crazy.

“Come on guys. I can’t let her walk out of here with that on her face.”

The shorter guy looks at me deadpan and says, “Yeah. We wouldn’t want her to be embarrassed or anything.”

And off they go.

I’m exhausted. K.C. walks over to me and hands me my phone.

“That was intense.” He says.

I nod in agreement.

Pause. “So, what are you doing later?”

Perfect.

At the same time, Bubbs appears. “Liz. You ready to start checking in people for the next show? They’re already lined up outside.”

I walk back into the main area. The theme from the show “Cops” starts as the show is still going on in full force. This is Lance’s music. His cop thing. He’s the last dancer of the evening. Looking out at the crowd of women who are drunk, still screaming and waving their hunk bucks in the air, you’d never know there was any drama in the bathroom just a few moments ago. Bubbs taps me on the shoulder from behind.

“Ya ready?” He smiles.

“Are you ready?” I shoot back. And off we go back to the front of the club to do it all over again.

“Give it up for OFFICER LANCE!”

Sad and sometimes true.....

2010-11-13T22:10:00.000-08:00

photo taken by Matthew Wells 11/9/10

Letting Go............

2010-11-12T09:56:00.000-08:00

Photo: Sunset in Tulum 2009

True mastery can be gained by letting things go their own way. It can't be gained by interfering.

- Lao-tzu

NOW what??

2010-11-10T08:47:00.000-08:00

It’s been a week since I sat at Birch Coffee in the Flatiron District and wrote the last line of my book. With each sentence, my heart began to beat faster, the noise in my head got louder and the finish line so close that it took everything I had to stay focused and push forward.

“Oh my GOD! You’re close! You’re almost there! Girl! You’re going to finish this book!” screamed the voices in my head.

I felt drunk with excitement overload – kind of like a first date when you know he (or she) is going to kiss you and things slow down and speed up all at once.

Straightening my back, I edged closer to my laptop in the hopes that by shifting my weight, I would give myself that final push needed to get to the end.

And it worked.

I did it. I finished and when I did, I wanted to jump up and scream to all the people in the café, “HOLY SHIT! I just finished my first book!”

Instead, I sat back in my chair and did a little silent “Woo hoo!” clenching my fists in victory.

That was seven days ago.

Today, I am plagued with the “Now what?” Sure, I’ve got a ways to go with the book, but until it comes back from my editor, I’ll have a lot of time on my hands and what better way to spend it, than to be obsessed with the next thing?

My friend Daphne, who’s always good for a kind kick in the ass called me out on it last night.

“You never sit in the space of the accomplishment. A year ago, Liz, you didn’t even know what this book was about and now look at you – you finished it. Why isn’t that enough for the moment?”

So, why isn’t it enough? I know I’m not the only one with this affliction. Why are we always looking ahead of where we’re at? If we keep waiting for something, how will we ever know it has arrived? It’s like being on a perpetual bus ride to nowhere.

Ram Dass, the famous Yogi, wrote a book in the seventies called “Be Here Now”. He wrote:

“Reflect on the thought that if you are truly Here and Now
(a) it is ENOUGH, and
(b) you will have optimum power and understanding to do the best thing at the given moment. Thus when 'then' (the future) becomes Now — if you have learned this discipline — you will then be in an ideal position to do the best thing. So you need not spend your time now worrying about then.”

Huh?

Why are so many people, including myself, obsessed with, “If that then this….”

“When I get my book deal, then I’ll be happy.” Or “When things slow down in my life, then we can be in a relationship.” Or “If I could just make enough money, then I’ll be happy.”

What about the now? What is great about the now?

What, in your life, is standing in front of you asking to be appreciated?

I don’t know about you, but I’m going to give this being-here-now thing a shot. I’ll let you know how it goes when the “then” becomes now.

Until then, I am here.......now.

2010-11-04T07:10:00.000-07:00

“If one is out of touch with oneself, then one cannot touch others.”

-Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Head Up....Arms Wide....Heart Open

2010-11-01T07:49:00.000-07:00

photo courtesy of www.photobucket.com

My friend Kristina is moving tomorrow. She decided a few months ago that it was time to leave New York and as her moving date edged closer, naturally, the doubts started to creep in.

She wondered if her motivation to make a “fresh start” in California had been a rash decision. After all, life in New York seemed to be improving and perhaps the very thing that prompted her decision to move was just a phase.

But Kristina decided to stick to the plan.

In the end, I believe, she moved because she made a choice. Kristina made a choice to try for something better in her life. And, if you think about it – really think about it – how many of us have the courage to do that very thing? How many of us hate our jobs; our lives; our decisions to play it safe rather than taking a step, or shall I say a leap towards something we want in our lives?

Maybe Kristina doesn’t know exactly what it is she wants in her life. But at least she knows what she doesn’t want.

In the last couple of weeks, I’ve dedicated the majority of my blog space to perseverance, faith and courage. I believe this post fits right into it. Kristina decided life was not working for her here in NYC and had the courage to get out of her comfort zone – the place we stay even if it’s miserable.

Who knows if life in Cali will prove to be better for her? In my eyes, it’s irrelevant. I believe that when you want something, you should go for it – in spite of the fear; in spite of the apprehension. In spite of the odds. No matter what the outcome, you will always know that you went for it and to me, that’s the essence of courage.

To Kristina – may your courage carry you towards you destiny. Keep your head up, arms wide and heart open.

Speak the Unspeakable.....

2010-10-28T10:18:00.000-07:00

It's been awhile since I've posted anything about astrology and today, though I won't go into major detail, I'd like to alert you to a very powerful planetary aspect taking place. Later on this evening, Venus, the planet of love, desire and beauty will join up with the Sun in Scorpio. The Sun is expression at its purest and Scorpio, well, did you ever meet a Scorpio who wasn't a deep thinker? Mercury, the planet of communication is also hanging out in Scorpio, so this matchup is all about expressing ourselves on the deepest level possible. Pluto, the used-to-be-planet rules Scorpio and Pluto likes to uncover all that is hidden. Are ya starting to understand your super curious Scorpion friends now?

It's a fast moving aspect and won't be around tomorrow, so today, get centered, breathe deep and speak the unspeakable. Whether it's an email to a friend you've been meaning to let know how important they are to you; or the conversation you've wanted to have with a lover about your true feelings. Perhaps it's just an honest expression of what you need and want in your life. And mind you, it doesn't have to be spoken to someone. It could just be a few pages in your journal of very honest dialogue with yourself. Whatever it is, today is the day to be bold and clear.

Eric Francis, an amazing astrologer who's also my good friend and teacher does this aspect way more justice than I do. Here is an excerpt from his Podcast yesterday. It's just under two minutes and very informative.

Download Eric Francis - Podcast

I also highly recommend his website http://www.planetwaves.net/ as it is not just a blog - it's a community.

As some of you may know, I'm pretty shy about my singing. I'm not one who sings on command for people. I usually need a stage and a microphone, but today, in honor of Venus, I thought I'd share one of my favorite songs to sing, "Ready For Love" by India.Arie, recorded in a rehearsal with Johnny Keys on the guitar.

Download lweber - Readyforlove

However this day ends up for you, I hope that by tomorrow, you feel a little more free and a lot more confident about expressing your truest desires.

Fate

2010-10-27T07:48:00.000-07:00

More Prospect Park 10/25/10

Fate, is an excuse for why we end up where we do. Our actions predetermine our destiny, our reactions seal that fate.

-Carl Stoynoff (Poet, philosopher)

Possibility

2010-10-26T16:19:00.000-07:00

Prospect Park 10/25/10

Man often becomes what he believes himself to be. If I keep on saying to myself that I cannot do a certain thing, it is possible that I may end by really becoming incapable of doing it. On the contrary, if I have the belief that I can do it, I shall surely acquire the capacity to do it even if I may not have it at the beginning.

— Mahatma Gandhi

Courage

2010-10-25T07:11:00.000-07:00

Courage only comes after you've done something you fear most.

-Unknown

Discipline......

2010-10-22T11:06:00.000-07:00

The deadline has been set and I am now in the thick of rewrites. It's funny how many other ideas I come up with when I'm focusing on something else. Ah, the art of distraction. I'd rather clean my apartment than sit down to rewrite Chapter 6, ya know? I do have a blog post milling around in my head, however and I'm hoping I'll get to work on it over the weekend. Until then, here's what I needed to hear today:

Discipline is the bridge between goals and accomplishment.

- Jim Rohn

Friendship

2010-10-20T13:18:00.000-07:00

Me and KJ at the Playoffs

Do not protect yourself by a fence, but rather by your friends.

- Czech Proverb

Effort

2010-10-18T15:30:00.000-07:00

Some make it happen, some watch it happen, and some say, "What happened?"

- Anonymous

Change These Numbers: Sign the Petition

2010-10-15T07:16:00.000-07:00

I recently recorded a commercial for a very good cause. Check out the spot and add your name to the petition to fight for the rights of the child.

Faith

2010-10-14T12:24:00.000-07:00

Luis Urúza, the last miner to be rescued, celebrated with President Sebastián Piñera of Chile
Photo: courtesy of NY Times

Like the rest of the world, I spent the last few days glued to the TV watching with baited breath as each of the 33 miners were pulled to safety. Standing at work last night watching, as the 33rd miner was on his way up to the surface, I could barely contain my excitement.

“I’m going to put the sound on when the last one comes out,” I said to no one in particular.

I had a full bar and one of my patrons made a face.

“Aww really?” he said, clearly appalled by my show of sentimentality.

“Absolutely!” I told him. “It’s a happy ending! We hardly ever see them these days.”

He pondered my words for a moment and slowly nodded his head in resignation. “Yeah,” he finally sighed. “That’s true.”

It is true. Happy endings (and not the kind at the massage parlor) are hard to come by. I, for one, was inspired by the efforts of the World to get these guys out safely and back to their families. But I was also moved by the tenacity of their faith. As my own faith ebbs and flows, I am humbled by the strength of these men and their loved ones who held their faith steady and strong.

Today’s quote sums it up:

Take the first step in faith. You don't have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step.

- Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

As for my patron, he led everyone at the bar in singing the Chilean National Anthem.

Go figure.

Dare to Trust

2010-10-13T07:56:00.000-07:00

Some moving words from my dear friend Giovanni Cucullo whose blogging these days on everything from poetry to food to restaurants. Thanks GIO!!

"One thing I continue to learn and know on my path is that everything in this life is balance, and the wisdom of nature will balance us out – whether we like it or not – nothing is punishment, but growth requires pain and those who are chosen, somehow must find the courage to honor that journey, within ourselves, drawing upon our full attention in each moment; expanding our hope, faith and trust in our hearts true intuitions and deep knowing that there is always a reason to keep going, even when it is unseen."

Gio's favorite quote from Teddy Roosevelt:

"It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself for a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat."

Letting go......

2010-10-11T21:15:00.000-07:00

Courtesy of Julia - aka "Hoolia"

“If we let go of things, our life is going to change. And the reality is that we are actually more afraid of change than we are of death.” ~ Caroline Myss

Finish Line Syndrome

2010-10-11T09:34:00.000-07:00

photo courtesy of photobucket

You cannot dream yourself into a character: you must hammer and forge yourself into one.

---Henry D. Thoreau

It’s been a long time since I’ve been to the blog and I really miss it. As most of you know, I’m writing a book, so this summer was all about sitting in a chair and writing for a two hours a day, five to six days a week. As I watched the book grow to well over three hundred pages, I was motivated by the fact that I was doing it – the very thing I said I wanted to do my whole life - I was writing a book! And so, there I was or here I am – writing, writing, writing. At some point, my life began to shrink as I spent the majority of my time immersed in the book, whether it was the actual writing or thinking about what I wanted to write.

“It’s like constantly walking around and packing for a trip in my head,” I told my mother. "Ya know, like 'hmmmm. maybe I should take that shirt or those shoes, oh yes - definitely those shoes!' "

“Ohhhh…..” she sighed. “That’s hard.”

Yep. It is hard and exhilarating and terrifying and sometimes fulfilling. I took month off at the end of August to let the story marinate before coming back tto write the ending. Now that I’m just one chapter away from finishing the first draft in its entirety, I find myself with finish line syndrome.

I once ran a tiny marathon in Central Park – something like three miles. Not really a runner, I remember struggling the most when I knew I was almost at the end of the race. Knowing the finish line was near, though I couldn’t quite see it, I wanted to give up. My legs hurt, my mind was flailing around like a two-year-old having a meltdown urging me to give up. “This is bullshit!” my hecklers screamed. “It’s too hard. I can’t make it. I’ve gone as far as I can. Somebody PLEASE tell me I don’t have to finish.”

But because I’m a prideful son-of-a-bitch (or would that be daughter?), I soldiered on. I’d be damned if anyone saw me quit. And then it happened. I rounded the corner and actually saw the finish line. People I didn’t know were cheering me on with such enthusiasm, I completely forgot about myself and let their faith and excitement carry me to the end.

It is now time to listen for the cheers and I’ve decided to look for that encouragement in words to inspire me to keep moving forward.

I’d also love to hear from you. What inspires you? If you’ve got a quote or a mantra or even a prayer that reminds you to stay the course and not give up, email it to me and I’ll post it to the blog.

We all have our finish lines and why not grab for whatever we can to help us through the tape?

email me at gari47@gmail.com with your thoughts.

And.....here's what HE said:

2010-06-22T07:48:00.000-07:00

Check out his side of the story - the unedited version of an article appearing in the "He Said/She Said" column on The Stir, to which my friend, Matthew Wells and I were contributors.

If you missed HER (my) side of the story, check out yesterday's post!!

photo: courtesy of www.photobucket.com

Sorry; a question? Sure. Shoot.

What's that, you say? “Who should pick up the check on a first date?”

Hmm. Let me give this absolutely no thought at all. My automatic answer: if it’s a date, the guy picks up the check, because that’s how you know it’s a date in the first place. Or at least that’s how you know the guy thinks it’s a date in the first place, or wants it to be. Picking up the check is a signal of intention and interest. It’s the guy saying, “I’m not just looking at you as a friend.”

But it’s also a sign of respect, in a way that has nothing to do with romance. When I say, “Do you want to go out to dinner?” and you say, “Yes,” then that means I’m paying. Why? It’s all part of the package. We wouldn’t be sitting across from each other sharing a meal if I hadn’t popped the question, and picking up the check is understood as a given the moment I hear your “Yes.” It’s not even an option. Think chivalry.

Of course, chivalry may seem quaint and even sexist in our courtesy-challenged society, but again, it’s a sign of something. All first dates take place in a Signals Bar. Everything I do and say will be interpreted a hundred different ways, like a speech at the United Nations. If I pick up the check, it says a couple of interesting (and hopefully interest-related) things about me. (Like, y’know, “Look out, girls--he’s a man with a job.”) If on the other hand I say, “Let’s split it,” that says something, oh, half-interesting at best (which implies half-uninteresting, and lemme tell ya--if you’re more than 40% uninteresting on a first date, it’s the kiss of death). And then, if I’m stupid enough to say, “Your treat, right?” or, “You had the $30 dollar special which means you owe me--wait--hang on a second while I pull up the calculator app,” or, “So is it okay if I leave the tip?” then that is what most women politely call a deal-breaker and profanely call something else entirely.

Another deal-breaker is the guy who goes into a first date saying to himself, “I will only pick up this check if there’s a spark,” or, “I’ll pay if I think this is going somewhere other than two separate cab rides home.” This guy you do not need, ladies--any hint of quid pro ho is a sign that you are having dinner with someone who is totally prepared to dump you for somebody younger or prettier at the first available opportunity. Since his feeling is that a date is like a high-risk investment, that means he orders the wine believing that he’s owed something in return, and if he doesn’t get it, then he’ll put his money somewhere else. (This probably also means that he’s involved in insider trading, and treats his secretary like crap. Run; don’t walk.)

The point is, dating is not an investment. In reality, dating is a gamble. It’s like a game of poker--you raise, you call, and you always pony up to see the other player’s cards. And once that game starts? That’s when it gets really interesting. Once I raise the stakes, it is then up to the woman to decide whether she calls or raises back. The call would be by saying, “No, let’s split it.” The raise would be by either making a half-hearted attempt to pay and then backing down, or by saying, “If I had known you were pickin’ up the tab, I would have ordered that Johnny Blue.”

And, like poker, if you raise? The game continues. But if you call? The hand is over. If a woman insists on paying half, then there is no date. As a guy, if someone I’m interested in throws down a couple of 20’s and says, “No, I insist, this is for my half,” that translates in my brain as, “I am not interested in you romantically.” And I’m fine with that; in fact, I’d rather hear that than the actual words, “I am not interested in you romantically,” because the actual words hurt like hell. That’s why, when a woman says she wants to pick up half the dinner tab, it’s the rejection equivalent of French: a really nice way to say something that in reality sounds like a slap in the face.

But--and I cannot say this strongly enough--it is also a heart with a line drawn through it, which is the universal symbol for NOT INTERESTED. So if I do continue seeing this woman, it will have to be as friends, unless I want to delude myself into thinking that through the liberal application of persistence and three-course dinners, I can get her emotional barometer to swing from COLD AND DISTANT to HOT AND HEAVY. And don’t think I haven’t spent years paving a road through that emotional jungle, okay?

Oh. You too? Really?

Iteresting. Want to talk about it over dinner?

Comments are welcome!

Who Pays?? A commentary from BOTH sides of the table.

2010-06-21T12:57:00.000-07:00

Here's the unedited version of an article appearing in the "He Said/She Said" column on The Stir, to which my friend, Matthew Wells and I were contributors.

Here's what SHE said........

“I’m having an amazing time,” Drew said, his big, brown eyes smiling with delight.

“Me too,” I almost giggled as I took another sip of wine.

It had been a great first date – one of the best I can remember. We laughed and talked with the ease of a couple dating for months, not hours. He was scoring high on the first-date-checklist: Good conversationalist – check. Great table manners – check. Polite and Courteous – check.

So when the bill arrived and he gently pushed it toward me saying simply, “You got this, right?” I was speechless.

The shock of it all prevented me from doing anything other than paying the bill. My disappointment was palpable. The night was going so well! It was as if someone just pulled the plug on one of those old record players, the needle scraping against the vinyl with a horrible screech.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” My friend demanded the next day when I told her what happened. “He invited you out, didn’t he?”

“Well, technically he suggested we go out, but it was more of a mutual thing,” I countered.

“That’s crazy!” My friend snorted. “The guy should always pay on the first date.”

This got me thinking. Why should the guy pay on the first date? It’s the new millennium after all. Isn’t it a little antiquated to expect such chivalry?

All of my friends said, emphatically, that they prefer the guy to always pick up the tab – especially on the first date. I wasn’t convinced, so I took it to my blog, asking all my female readers to weigh in on the subject.

The comments varied from women in their twenties to those in their mid-forties, but most agreed that whoever does the asking should most definitely do the paying. The reasons behind their opinions were more interesting though, varying from not having to “owe” anything at the end of the date to maintaining the masculine/feminine polarity. Take a look:

“The guy should always pick up the tab on the first date, especially if he asked the girl out in the first place.” –B, 23

“The person who requests the date should pay for the date. If a woman asks a man out, she should expect to pay. This lends itself to the notion that if things are going well, keep it goin-with the counter offer. Dinner was great and thank you, now let me buy you a drink, a coffee a piece of cake.....” –F, early 40’s

“…I insisted on going dutch the first date; unless the date was precipitated by him asking: "Can I take you out to dinner," in which case, he paid…..I kept the dutch rule because, firstly, I've always been proud when it comes to money (perhaps a character flaw); and, secondly, because I believe that equality between men and women begins with treating each other as equals in everyday circumstances. If I depend upon a man to buy dinner, that dependence could stretch into other categories as well.” –A, 33

“The guy should definitely pay on the first date. I think for the masculinity/femininity balance to work out, the man has to be the provider, especially at the beginning. He has to show that he can look after her. She’ll then feel safe and be able to open up to him…We all have both masculinity and femininity within us, and to keep the chemistry alive in a relationship, you need to be mostly in the opposing trait to your mate.” K, 41

A week later, he called to ask me out on a second date. I thought about my own relationship to how I feel about the guy picking up the tab. I’m an independent woman. I own a home and make a decent living, so why would I need a guy to pay my way? In doing so, wouldn’t I be defeating the very purpose of being a strong and capable woman?

But here’s the thing. The very reason that I would like the man to pay is because I’m an independent woman. I work so hard at taking care of myself and holding it all down that it’s nice to have a man who wants to take you out, show you a good time and insist on paying the bill. For me, it’s like a mini vacation or more importantly, it gives me the chance to relax a little and let someone else be in charge for a change.

Just because I’m a strong woman doesn’t mean that letting someone else take charge will threaten my ability to take care of myself. If a person is truly comfortable in her personal power, allowing the guy to pick up the bill isn’t anything more than a nice gesture. It is just as much an act of power to receive as much as it is to give.

I say, keep it simple. If you’re interested in a second date, let him pay and offer to take him out the next time. Otherwise, politely decline and offer to split the bill.

Either way, always remember, you’re just as much a part of the date as he is and however you feel about him, you still get to choose what’s best for you.

I thought about it and Drew really did ask me out on that first date and my reason for declining a second one was simple. Dating, especially the first few, is all about putting your best foot forward and I’m not ashamed to say that I expect the very best from a man who’s interested in me. Drew didn’t deliver and put his best toe forward and in the end it’s not about the money – it’s about the effort.

For the Ladies.................

2010-06-19T09:29:00.000-07:00

photo: courtesy of photobucket

I want to hear from the females out there!!

Ladies, on the first date, who should pick up the tab???

email your thoughts to gari47@gmail.com

Looking forward to hearing your thoughts!

Worker Bee

2010-06-01T08:00:00.000-07:00

photo courtesy of www.photobucket.com

Thanks to everyone who's emailed me over the last couple of months wondering, "When will you start posting again?" and "Is that book finished yet, or what?"

It's been an intense couple of months and I'm happy to report that I'm in the homestretch. Bear with me as I put the final touches on my first draft - good thoughts and energy sent my way are always welcome!!

I'll be back soon and when I return, stay tuned for some exciting news!

All the best and as always, thank you for reading.

On Love and Surfing........

2010-03-26T12:43:00.000-07:00

photo: courtesy of photobucket

I’m a control freak. Make that a self-control freak. Okay, an emotional control freak. Some people prefer to control others unleashing a litany of passive-aggressive behavior in order to get their way. Me? I’m more of an eyes-on-your-own-paper kind of girl. When things get too sticky- code for “You’re getting too close to my emotional edges” - I shut down and head for the hills taking my vulnerability with me.

I’m not a coward, though. I push my limits in all other areas of life. I’m the girl, who travels to Mexico for a month, knowing not a soul. I’m the one who left a lucrative job in the corporate world to pursue my creative passions.

So, signing up for Surf School in Costa Rica was right up my alley. It was Winter; I was pale; and I always wanted to learn how to surf. For five days, I stuck close to my adorable, South American Surfing Instructor, Rodrigo, whose shouts of “P-AH-ddle! P-AH-ddle! Get Up!” rang in my ears long after school was over.

On the third day, I had a revelation. As I paddled out to Rodrigo, who was straddled on his board, sitting upright, feet dangling in the water, he gave me the usual, “You ready?” I was exhausted. The muscles in my arms were on fire, my nose running like a five-year old, and the waves seemed bigger that day than they had all week. But, I’m no slouch. I nodded and got into position.

As I lay there on the board, Rodrigo offered some last minute reminders. “Fit W-EYE-d. Bock foot fearst. Then front. Okay? Let’s go. P-AH-ddle! P-AH-ddle! Hard!”

Determination kicked in and I focused on everything he told me. As I waited on the board, face down and ready to paddle, I thought about how bizarre the whole experience was. I couldn’t see the waves coming and I was completely reliant upon Rodrigo’s judgment and direction. It was a total loss of control.

I thought of Rob. Tall, dark and beautifully chiseled Rob, whose deep voice alone could drive a woman to orgasm. We dated for almost a year. He was a Personal Trainer who liked his weed and his workouts – pretty simple. He loved my spirit and the fact that I spoke my mind. He was also a great listener.

“I have a fear of losing myself in relationship,” I told him early on. “I’m not sure I know how to be independent and committed.”

“I don’t want anything from you, Liz,” he said quietly, deep voice soothing my mental chatter. “Just, do you.”

Unfortunately, “doing me” consisted of bobbing and weaving like Muhammad Ali

And Rob was a good opponent, dipping left, when I went right, never doing that hug-thing boxers do when they want to stop the fight.

I tried, but I was terrified. What if I really let him in and actually got used to it? Then, what? What if he leaves? What if I couldn’t function without him?

I give him a lot of credit because he never pushed. Though, sometimes, I wonder if he had pushed a little harder, if we’d still be together, but, alas, we aren’t.

I just couldn’t let go – of myself.

In Costa Rica, I realized that learning to surf is a lot like love. Sitting there on my surfboard, I had to put myself in someone else’s hands. I had to let go and not only trust my instructor, but I had to trust the fact that when the time came for me to ride that wave, I could do it. I wondered how I could lay there, my back to the waves, with no idea of the height or the timing of the oncoming wave, waiting for that moment every surfer feels when the swell of the wave takes hold and challenges you to ride along with it.

Love is just like a wave – it swells, takes hold and the rest is just a ride. All you can do is remember to keep your feet planted properly and your focus on what’s in front of you. Sometimes, you fall – hard. Other times, you find that wave and everything slows down, as you truly feel like you are one with the ocean.

For me, I decided if I can ride the wave of Mother Nature, I can certainly give love a try.

As for Rob, he’s got a new girlfriend. I hear she’s teaching him how to surf.

Rinse and Spin

2010-03-19T09:34:00.000-07:00

photos by julia aron

This morning, I said my final “Adios” to LAOra as today is the last day of school. Julia is finished with her classes for the day and has agreed to join me and my surfing peeps on the beach. She’s bringing her camera which is exciting to all as we’re all anxious to document our surfing progress.

I’ve got cramps, a condition not conducive to surfing; It takes almost half my energy to tolerate them – not a good thing, considering I need as much strength as possible to get my surf on.

At the beach, the waves are looking a lot like they did yesterday in Hermosa – a fact that still excites me today – in spite of my cramps. I’m ready to make my last day of surfing here, a memorable one. We do the usual splitting off – Ben, Mike and me with Rodriguo and the others with their respective Surf Instructors. Julia’s on the beach, camera in-hand, excited to take pictures of me riding the waves.

I give her a small wave as I make my way into the water and out to sea. Getting out proves to be fairly simple because the waves have died down for the moment. I paddle over to Rodriguo who’s already sitting on his board, legs straddled, dangling in the water. “You ready, Leez?” he asks, flashing me that sheepish smile I’ve come to appreciate over the past week. I want to tell him that I’m feeling less than 100% and that I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep up, but that’s not really my style. Fake it ‘til ya make it, right? “I’m ready Rodriguo!” I say, mimicking his seated position on my board.

And then, we wait.

There’s a lot of waiting in surfing. Some of this has to do with the fact that I’m still an amateur and not ready to take every wave that comes. But, even the others who’ve been here much longer, don’t necessarily take every wave that comes. So, we spend the first hour waiting a lot. I try to catch a few waves, but they don’t really pan out. I imagine it looks like I’m descending down a flight of stairs from afar as I sink slowly down into the water, atop of my board.

Finally, Rodriguo calls out to me to get ready. I paddle closer to him and get into position. He reminds me to keep my “fit wEYEd” as he yells for me to “P-AH-ttle! P-AH-ttle!” With that, I can feel the wave coming up behind me, I try to steady my breath and focus on getting my feet wide on the board.

I’ve got good position and as I stand up to full height on the board, I instantly realize something – this wave is freakin’ HUGE! I am way the fuck up here! Maybe I’m not really cut out to surf, ‘cuz this doesn’t excite me – THIS SCARES ME! And with that, I panic, pretty much jumping right off my board and into the water. Doh!

I don’t even bother to look back at Rodriguo because I know he’s going to give me that familiar shrug of his shoulders, a silent gesture of “What happened?”

But, I’m not off the hook because Ricardo, the Head Instructor, calls out to me, “Why you jump off yer board?” I don’t even bother with an answer. I’m sure it would go over real well if I yelled back at him, “Because I got spooked!”

And like a chorus of hecklers, Carlos, Surf Instructor/Photography teacher calls over to me. “How beeg you think tha’ wave wuz?”

With my palms on the board and my feet still in the water, I lean forward and yell, “I dunno. 20 feet?”

This sends Carlos into a fit of laughter and I ignore him, getting back on my board to paddle back out to the others.

He calls out to me, “Four feet!” And I hear the laughter behind me as I make my way back to Rodriguo.

“You okay, Leez?” He asks, pulling my board closer to his.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. I just got a little scared.”

He tells me not to be scared, which, of course, is easy for him. He’s only been surfing a million times in his life.

After some more waiting, I try to take another wave. My footing is off and I barely get past a kneeling position, finally slipping off the board completely. The only problem is there are a few larger waves behind me and for what seems like an eternity, I am thrown around in the undertow like a rag doll, swallowing a ton of salt water. The good thing about having a leash is that you’ll never lose your board. The bad thing, that I quickly learn today is that while I’m being thrown around, it is too – pulling my right leg practically out of its socket.

I finally reemerge from the water and get my bearings. I’m a lot further in than I expected. I grab the leash and pull on the rubber tubing to retrieve my board. Mike’s about ten feet away from me and we shoot each other a quick, “Holy Shit, that was intense!” look before we begin the long paddle back out to the others.

As I paddle out, I take stock of my physical condition. I didn’t hurt myself on that last one, but I am completely exhausted. I think I’ll just chill for a bit when I get back out to Rodriguo. My arms are sore and tired from paddling and I feel like I’m not really getting anywhere.

The waves have picked up and they seem to be coming faster and harder than before. If I can just get past the point where they are breaking, I’ll be fine. The only problem is that I can’t. The wave coming toward me is a doozy and I know that I’m going to have to get under my board for this one. I just hope I can hold onto my board once the wave breaks.

I paddle vigorously towards it and as it breaks about five feet in front of me, I grasp my board, flip over and under the water, hugging it close to the front of my body. The wave is so strong that my board lurches upwards, pulling my arms and the rest of me with it. I learn later that, in this case, I should just let the board go, but right now, I hold on as if my life depends on it. Unfortunately, once the wave passes, the board comes back at me with a WHAP! - hitting me in the forehead. More swallowed salt water. Much more pain my body; and the sinking feeling that I’m not even close to reaching the others.

I pull myself together, get back on the board, and do it all over again. This time, I know what to expect and unfortunately, it creates more fear rather than less. As I see the next wave coming towards me, two things cross my mind – the first is the fear that I won’t be able to handle this and that I’m going to get seriously hurt. The second is to Carlos: Four feet my ass!

As expected, it’s more of the same, me flipping the board and getting whipped around like Raggedy Ann. Finally, I get back out to the others and Rodriguo tells me to “Take it EE-see for awhile.” No arguments here.

I must be feeling better because while I’m taking a timeout, the frustration starts to build. I don’t want to go out like this! I want my last day of surfing to be a success. I have to get up at least one more time. And with that, I tell Rodriguo I’m ready to get back in the game.

After more waiting, I’m finally ready to go. With my board facing the shore and my arms paddling as hard as they can, I feel the swell of the wave lurch me forward indicating the point at which I’m supposed to get up. I pull myself up and plant my feet on the board. It’s not a perfect plant, but I’m up and I try to cheat my feet outward a bit. Unfortunately, this screws up my balance and I go down – hard!

After more spinning and lurching, I get above water only to find that the entire left side of my body has gone numb. This can’t be good. I can barely hold onto my board as the waves continue to throw me around. It’s not like the ocean’s going to wait until I feel better. I look out to Rodriguo so I can let him know that I’m done, but he beats me to it and gives me the fingers across the neck sign, calling it a day.

The numbness in my body overtakes the disappointment of ending on not-such-a-great note and as I make my way to shore, I’m not sure what to do. Ben’s already on shore, wrapping the leash around his board. “You okay?” He calls out to me, as I stumble out of the water. “I don’t know. My whole left side is numb.” I say, struggling to hold the board while I unhook my leg from the leash.

I want to cry – mostly ‘cuz I’m scared. But, the numbness is now accompanied by a general pain in my left arm. I do my best to pack my board up, wrapping the leash around the back fins and dipping the front-end into the water to get the sand off.

Julia has no idea what’s going on and while I’m doing my best not to throw myself onto the sand screaming, “Ow! Ow! Help me!” she’s all about taking my picture. The sun is setting behind me and in spite of my pain, I know it’s a great shot. So, I move closer to the water to give her a better shot and give her a phony smile.

When I reach her, she’s all excited. “How was it? You looked great out there!”

I tell her about my pain and numbness.

“Oh shit, girl. Are you okay?”

“I’m not sure.” And I mean it.

Ben’s sweet and offers to load my board onto the van for me. Rodriguo and I pose for a picture and we all pile into the van and head back to school.

So, my last day of surfing wasn’t what I’d hoped it would be, but I loved the experience. And…call me crazy – but I’d do it again.

St. Paddy's Day & Mutlitasking

2010-03-18T09:52:00.000-07:00

photo courtesy of http://www.acclaimimages.com/

Check out my friend, Matthew's blog about the madness of St. Patrick's Day. He's a great friend and an even better writer. ENJOY!!

http://matthewslikelystory.blogspot.com/2010/03/100-proof-amateur-night.html

Hermosa Beach

2010-03-14T11:44:00.000-07:00

photos by julia aron

Hermosa Beach is more of the same – black sand and the greenery of the jungle at the shore’s edge. The big difference between here and Herradura is a couple of beach bars that sit on the near side of the beach as opposed to the ones in Herradura that sit on the far side of the dusty beach road.

I’m definitely feeling short-tempered today, so parking myself on the beach for a few hours, is a perfect remedy to my crankiness. We lay our towels on the hot, black sand about twenty feet our so from the tide line. Julia takes off for the water as I settle down onto my towel. The Sun is really hot as per usual and within ten minutes, I’m ready for a dip myself.

I like this beach. It feels a bit livelier, though we’re pretty much the only ones out here. Perhaps it’s the reggae coming from one of the beach bars. The waves are pretty big today and I can’t decide if I’m bummed out or relieved that I won’t be surfing this afternoon.

We spend a few hours on the beach, occasionally moving our towels further away from the water as the tide continues to creep towards us. The third time we move our stuff, Julia laughs, “We’ll probably have to move again in ten minutes.” I think we have a little more time, but true to her prediction, the tide comes in right up to our knees, catching us by surprise and soaking our towels! I’m sure we’re a sight as we both squeal out loud, leaping up to get our things out of the way, holding our untied bikini tops to our bodies as we drag our wet, heavy towels away from the water.

“I’m ready for a drink.” I say, wringing out the bottom half of my towel.

We head up to the Beach Bar with the reggae music. As we do, we’re followed by an adorable chocolate Lab, whose owner is out surfing. We’re not sure if he’s allowed in the bar however, he leads the way as if it’s his place. We order some nachos and margaritas and I’m pleased that the prices are fairly reasonable. Happy Hour doesn’t start for another 45 minutes and we agree that, if the margaritas are good, we’ll have some more.

It’s great, just sitting there, watching the ocean, the surfers and the sun sink slowly into the horizon. I feel a million miles away from Spanish and surfing and my earlier edginess, happy to be with Julia, sipping frozen margaritas.

Early on, we notice there’s an abundance of Americans in the place. Though, they don’t all seem to be tourists. Somehow or another we strike up a conversation with a very nice woman, Rochelle, who’s a transplant from San Francisco. She’s a little thing, probably in her thirties and it surprises me to hear that she’s a big surfer. If her tiny self can do it, I surely can! She tells us about her move to Costa Rica and how much she loves it. Finally! Julia and I have been looking to talk to people who live here and as we spend a few hours drinking and snacking, meeting a few others who’ve moved from the States.

One of the guys, Jason, is a transplant from Seattle. He runs Las Olas, a beachfront hotel just up the road. He invites us to have dinner at the hotel, offering a ride back to Jaco, since he and his buddies are heading that way to buy alcohol for the night. We’re game and looking forward to learning more about life as a local. As we wait for our change, Jason and his people leave the bar. “I guess we just lost our ride,” I point out to Julia, putting the change back into my purse.

Jason comes back into the restaurant as we’re gathering our stuff. “I thought you girls were already outside!” We follow him out and he’s in the lead, then Julia and then me. He’s walking pretty fast and he says something to Julia like, “Ya gotta keep up.” It feels kind of New York to me, but hey, a ride’s a ride, right?

On the way to Jaco, Jason’s friend, who’s visiting from Florida, is driving. We chat easily with him about his plans to move to Costa Rica and start a small construction business. Jason, who was so talkative at the Bar, is completely quiet up front. I don’t mind, but I do find it a little odd. As we enter Jaco, he finally speaks up asking where we’d like to be dropped. “You can just take us as far as your going,” I say. Rule number one about traveling as a female: NEVER let anyone know where you’re staying. We say our goodbyes at the Liquor Store and after the ride, I’m not so sure I want to hang out with these guys after all.

“That was a strange ride,” I say to Julia as we walk through town back towards the School. “I don’t know if I’m really interested in hanging out with them anymore.”

Julia laughs, “I know, right? He was all like, ‘So, where are you girls going tonight?’ And I’m thinking, ‘uh…weren’t we all hanging out together?’ In the end, I told him we might see him out later.”

Whatever. We decide to stay in, cook some dinner and make it an early night. Tomorrow is the last day of school and I want to be ready for my final showdown with the Pacific.

HAPPY Birthday to a truly wonderful soul!

2010-03-12T13:35:00.000-08:00

My friend, Todd, is celebrating the big 4-0 today. He’s been a fixture in my life for more than ten years – as a chiropractor, boss, friend and confidante. Though he’s still the only guy I know who can put his hands on me without asking, the best part of knowing him is his friendship. Todd is the ultimate Giving Tree, no lie. He’s more than just a guy who runs a successful Wellness Center in midtown Manhattan, where, on any given day, when you visit the office, everyone is in a good mood. A complete extension of his innate positive energy.

I came to know Todd in the late 90’s, when my voice teacher recommended I see his father, Sheldon, for some bodywork. Sheldon Sinett was a legend of sorts. This guy could pretty much tell what was wrong just by looking at you. And the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree because Todd’s got the same gift. Only his gift goes beyond the physical. Over the years, I started seeing him regularly and he’d always know when I walked in the door whether I was having a good day or a bad one. A true gift to someone like me, who always chooses to pretend everything’s fine so as not to make others uncomfortable.

Todd’s seen me through some rough stuff and not once, did he ever judge, criticize or try to talk me out of whatever I was feeling. For that, I will always be grateful. He’s the epitome of a good soul and today, I want to recognize him and wish him the Happiest Birthday ever! It’s his love and support and sheer goodness that touches so many people’s lives – I can attest to that, personally.

Most of you don’t know him, but in honor of his birthday, why not reach out to one of your friends and let them know just how special they are?