This is My Now

What is every writer’s dream? It’s to be contacted by an editor at a major publication who has read your work and likes it and wants to do something with you.

This has happened to me.

I received an e-mail from an editor at a very well-known prestigious magazine. She’s been reading my blog! She wants to speak to me!

Does she want to syndicate me for a monthly column “Tara Talks Turkey,” a Nora Ephronesque collection of witty observations about daily life?

No.

Does she want to assign me to an article, subject of her choosing, where my wry sense of humor and witty way with words can reach millions of readers?

No.

Does she want to talk to me about some possible future freelance assignments, to which I will no doubt apply my own particular slightly skewed yet generally appealing sensibilities?

No.

She wants to interview me as part of an article they are putting together. I don’t want to give it away, but roughly, it’s about finding yourself in a place in your life where you didn’t expect to be. And not in a good way.

She wants to know about my new life as a non-contributing member of society, a worthless lay about with nothing to offer, a useless sloth dragging through each day with no purpose and little hope for the future.

I may be slightly exaggerating. She didn’t actually call me a sloth.

But I’m not one to look at the negative side. (Okay, I totally am.) But still - I’m finally getting recognition! This could be my big opportunity! Maybe my story of confusion and despair can help someone else get their life together. It’s too late for me! Save yourselves!

I am your humble servant, and I will do whatever I can.

Extraction

Happy Toothday. Ha ha. Get it? Toothday? Tuesday?

I know - lame. It’s the Tylenol with codeine talking. I had a wisdom tooth extracted yesterday.

The dentist was excellent. At first he scared me, because he said my roots were growing in divergent directions from each other, and he predicted it would be a difficult extraction. He recommended I get put to sleep. But getting put to sleep costs a lot of money, and I’m a tough New Yorker, so I said “Bring on the local anesthetic!”

As it turns out, it wasn’t horrible. The tooth did break off from the root, as he had feared, and he did have to use the drill, but it only took a few minutes and it was done. Quick and painless and not as bad as I had feared.

And not a moment too soon. Yesterday was the last day of my insurance coverage.

You see, I have lost my medical insurance. I didn’t misplace it somewhere. I know exactly where it is - back at the job I was just laid off from.

As many people do, I’ve been working two jobs. While Rick and I build up our company, I have also been working at another job that provided us with health insurance and other benefits. With the day to day security that job provided, we were able to take some risks and build our own company in a much less secure industry. Sometimes it felt that I myself had been going in two divergent directions - one toward creativity and autonomy and one toward security and benefits. But ultimately the security gave us the freedom.

But - budget cut-backs, economic slow-down, the dreaded “R” word - whatever the reason, I was laid off. Extracted from the job.

Everyone tells me it’s a Blessing in Disguise, and now I can pursue my Dream Job. Great! I wasn’t aware that sitting home in my pajamas and reading entertainment gossip all day came with full medical benefits and a 401(k), but sign me up.

Dream job. I don’t even know what that is anymore. Time to find out again, I guess.

I just hope this time it’s quick and painless and not as bad as I had feared. And I hope those two divergent roots don’t give me any problems.

Vampire Party

Last weekend Rick and went to a party. I’m not a big party girl. To me, Saturday night is all about Netflix and the couch and hopefully some cake. But we hadn’t been out in a while and we thought it might be fun, so we went to a party.

The best party I ever went to was in college, New Year’s eve. I was in a four year drama program and we were all very dramatic and there was a lot of very creative dancing happening at the party. It was the first time I ever got drunk and I woke up the next morning on my best friend Cas’ couch and we ate cold Spaghetti-O’s for breakfast and then I took the bus home wearing my London Constable’s cape. (It was DRAMA school!) Great party.

The worst party was New Year’s again, many many years later. Actually, I never made it in to the party. I arrived at the door and looked in through a large front window to see a small group of people sitting in a circle and silently eating chips and dip. It was like that scene in the Woody Allen movie where he looks into the one train and everything is somber and gray, while across the track the other train is all lively and colorful. I knew I was heading onto the wrong train, so I crouched down hoping that no one had spotted me at the window and I crawled to my car and drove away from the somber gray party.

The party we went to this weekend was called a “Spring Soirée.” We received the invitation from a music industry associate, so we were excited to maybe meet some interesting music people. We arrived at the location, which turned out to be a big, new McMansion, gave our names to the keeper of the list (Rick was “Rick” and I was “plus one”) and walked up the big, new driveway. We were greeted by someone who immediately told us “The house is for sale! And it comes with the Maserati.” We glanced at the gleaming red sports car and nodded approvingly. We certainly would enjoy driving that Maserati if we bought that mansion.

We entered the house and walked through the huge dining room out to the back yard, past the pool in which, I’m certain, no one has ever swum. The water was illuminated with lights from below and slowly changed colors from light blue to deep sapphire to amethyst. A pretty young woman dressed in black floated by and offered us cold bottles of a name brand water. We walked a few more steps to the pool house where a hip young bartender offered us a choice of several drinks, all made with a name brand vodka. (We chose the pear and rosemary martini, which was delicious.) Then we walked over to a young man in a pure white chef’s outfit who was grilling skewers of porcini mushrooms and beef and as we ate a few skewers, the man standing next to us told us all the food at the party had been prepared by the executive chef of a fabulous new restaurant that was opening soon on Hollywood Boulevard, after a fabulous renovation of the fabulous old building, where the decor was to be “Chinoiserie with deco elements.” He handed us his card - turns out he was the general manager - and said we should stop by sometime for a tour. Fabulous!

As we walked back to the house, we began to notice brochures everywhere. Literature about the house. Literature about the car. Literature about the restaurant, the liquor, the water. We saw several real estate agents guiding clients through the mansion, pointing out the Brazilian mahogany floors, and the huge woman’s walk-in closet, which was filled with clothing from a big name designer, available for purchase, we knew, because the literature told us so. The posters that hung in the den, featuring exclusive images of famous musicians, were also for sale. We knew because the literature told us so. And more pretty girls in black dresses floated through the party, scanning the crowd for empty hands, hands waiting for name brand cocktails. They moved silently, stealthily, vacant smiles and vacant eyes, offering their goods, silently sending their hidden telepathic signals of name brand and delicious cocktail and go home and tell your friends.

We began to wonder if we were the only actual guests at the party. Everyone else seemed to be selling something, offering something, marketing something. We started to feel a little guilty because we were not going to buy the mansion ($8.5 million) and don’t really drink vodka, and rarely go out to eat at fabulous trendy restaurants. The pretty girls in the black dresses didn’t seem to know this, or didn’t care. They kept offering us drinks and food as we wandered through the huge mansion where everything was available for a price, even us, maybe. As the vampire girls circulated with their free drinks and silent telepathy, we decided it was not a really fun party and it was time to go home.

We did not make an offer on the mansion, but if you’re interested, I can send you some literature.

Retail Therapy

I love the mall. It’s big and safe and full of possibilities. I grew up in a family that was very intellectual and artsy and anti-materialistic. My mother was totally opposed to anything that looked like it was part of a “set.” Sheets, towels, dishes - she was almost compulsive in her hatred of things that matched. It was as if these things represented, in a very deep way, everything that was banal and bourgeoisie. Which, okay, maybe, but when you’re eight years old life is chaotic enough, and sometimes a little matchy-matchy can help calm the mind, is all I’m saying.

While I can appreciate certain aspects of my mother’s artistic leanings, I do feel I was the unintended victim of a mild form of child abuse. I never learned the basics of putting together an “outfit.” I never even knew that people wore “outfits.” I thought you just had a random assortment of clothing, and as long as there was a shirt on the top and pants on the bottom, you were good to go. I still wake in the middle of the night, gasping for breath, remembering a certain polka dot shirt worn with purple pants with little flowers. Cute shoes weren’t even part of the equation. Shoes existed only as an afterthought. You had one pair, and as long as they sort of fit, what more was there to say about shoes?

The damage was deep, and sometimes I fear, irrevocable. The injustice of it makes me weep, still. And sends me running to the loving arms of the mall, where I wander for hours, searching for more than a great outfit. I’m searching for my lost youth, where there is calmness in the chaos. Where things make sense. Where some things belong together. And, if I happen to end up with a nice outfit and some cute shoes that match, well, that’s a price I am willing to pay.

Talking About Writing About Writing, and Jacob

Most writers hate to write. It’s fantastic to have written something, but the actual writing itself is really hard. I try to avoid doing it as much as possible.  However, I love talking about writing. I especially like talking about other people’s writing, because I’m twice removed from any actual writing. First, I didn’t write it, and second, I’m talking about it. 

Writing about writing is almost as good as talking about writing, with the exception that you actually have to write. But at least you don’t have to do the really hard stuff, like come up with ideas from nothing. There’s nothing worse than staring at that blank page. It’s so much easier to stare at someone else’s filled up page and write about that. They’ve already done the heavy lifting. I merely have to jabber on about it. Which I can do, no problem.

For instance, I recently jabbered on when I was hired to critique a screenplay. I told the writer I thought he had written a really great screenplay, and that he needed to change everything in it. I always try to be helpful like this when critiquing, although I am very aware of how hard it is to be on the receiving end of a critique.  I lost a friend once as a result of giving a “helpful” critique, so I take nothing for granted anymore.  My “helpful” was apparently her “get the hell out of my face with your critique.”  It’s a fine line.

Much more enjoyable is reading other people’s critiques.  Currently, I’m much enamored of a writer named Jacob who writes about the TV show AMERICAN IDOL at the fantastic blog TELEVISION WITHOUT PITY.  Jacob critiques the show, the judges, the contestants, Ryan Seacrest, the audience, and me, even though he doesn’t even know who I am.  He has a writing style that is very bold, and he often goes on these incredible tangential descriptions that I don’t quite understand in a logical way, but I do understand in an emotional way.  He has a definite point of view.  He forms opinions, and he’s not afraid to tell you what they are.  I don’t always agree with him, but I know that he believes what he is writing, and his writing is beautiful. He tells little stories about every little thing, and then he connects all the little  stories into one big story about the show, except it’s about so much more than the show.  The big story is about life, and me.  Somehow he writes about me! About what I might be thinking and feeling, and why it’s okay or not okay, according to Jacob, and I don’t mind that he’s telling me it’s not okay, because he believes what he’s writing and I believe what he’s writing.  Even if I disagree.

I hope one day I can write like Jacob, with truth and conviction and a point of view.  But for now, I will just write about writing about writing.  Which is my truth at this moment.  I know that Jacob would understand, and even if he doesn’t, he would understand that I understand.  And even if he doesn’t, it would be okay, because I understand.  And Jacob would understand that that’s a start.

Internet News

“Reported Tornado Hits National Guard - Destroys Barracks

They immediately called themselves for help, but were unavailable … due to a tornado that had destroyed their barracks.”

 My head hurts.

Internet Headline of the Day

It’s a tie:

“Robbers in Israel steal chocolate spread”  

or

“Boy George denies imprisoning Norwegian man at his home” 

Thank you, Yahoo news.

A Fun Writing Game That Is Also Fashionable

Here’s a really fun game for writers that you play with your shoes!

First, you have to imagine a little story. (This story is one I totally made up, just so you don’t think this actually happened to me or anything.) Okay, imagine that you have two pairs of shoes that look almost exactly alike, except that they are slightly different. For example, let’s pretend that you have two pairs of black boots with the same heel height, except one pair has (let’s just say) a buckle and the other pair is (I’m just imagining) a more nubby leather. Other than that they are very, very similar. (And again, I’m just making up these details. You can have fun making details for up your own similar yet different shoes.)

Then let’s pretend that you are getting dressed very early in the morning and you don’t want to wake up your husband who is busy sleeping so you get dressed with only a very dim light on.

And then we will pretend (because I am still just making this up) that you walk around ALL DAY, meeting with people, going to lots of different places, doing many things. Isn’t this a fun game?

And then - and here’s the REALLY fun part - let’s pretend you get home at night after walking around for a WHOLE DAY and you start to take your boots off and then, and only then - AFTER AN ENTIRE DAY of walking around and being seen by MANY MANY people - do you notice that you are wearing TWO DIFFERENT BOOTS! And you never even realized it ALL DAY!

So now, the next fun part comes when you start to imagine all the various people who noticed that you were wearing two completely different yet somewhat similar boots. You can think up lots and lots of people you interacted with, all day long. Maybe some of the people are really important and even might be thinking of hiring you! Challenge yourself to really raise the stakes here, because that is what will make your writing come alive.

And then you can make a funny little list of all the things that they might have been thinking! Things like “What’s her deal?” and “Did she get dressed in the dark?” On the list, you can also write down what they might have been feeling. Were they amused? Did they pity you? You can imagine all sorts of fun reactions by the people who saw your two different boots!

And then, another really fun part of the game, and where more of the fun writing part comes in, is to now come up with another list of words to describe how you feel. Words like “idiot” and “loser” and “idiotic loser.” I’m sure you can think up many more wonderful and fun descriptive words for this totally made-up game!

Of course, this would not be so much fun if it actually happened in real life, which it totally did not. Happen. To me. Not at all.

Why Daniel Day-Lewis Should Win The Oscar

Before I saw the movie THERE WILL BE BLOOD, I saw a commercial for it, where Daniel Day-Lewis said the line “I drink your milkshake! I drink it up!”

I couldn’t imagine what this line meant. The line seemed absurd. The word “milkshake” is such a sweet, innocent word. It brings to mind a couple of teens hanging out at the corner diner, maybe sharing a straw and a vanilla shake. From the little I knew of the movie, my sense was that Day-Lewis played a very dark character and probably would not be hanging out at any corner diners sharing a straw with anyone.

When I actually saw the movie, and the line came up - almost at the end - I was blown away by it, and by Day-Lewis’ delivery of it. It was the most disturbing use of the word milkshake I could ever imagine. And it was perfect. This was a man with such darkness inside him, and his use of that word made him very disturbing and very real.

And that is why Daniel Day-Lewis should win the Academy award. Because if an actor can take such a ridiculous line and make it work, well, that’s the stuff of Oscar.

So here’s a toast to Daniel Day-Lewis. I drink to you! I drink it up!

Fenestration

I’ve been dealing with a “situation” lately, and while I can’t go into specifics, I can say that it has to do with career and it’s one of those times when you have to take a long hard look at your choices and examine your life and make a Big Decision.

Boy, do I hate that.

Do you know that old saying “When God closes a door, He opens a window?”

Well, it’s sort of ticking me off. Does God really want me jumping out the window right now? Because that just seems so dramatic. I mean, I totally will. You know - for God and all. It’s just that I tend to not be that athletic, so I’m thinking the landing is going to not be an enjoyable thing. I might break something is what I’m thinking.  (NOTE TO SELF:  CHECK HEALTH INSURANCE POLICY REGARDING EMERGENCY CARE)

I don’t see why He can’t just make another door. When we renovated our house we hired a contractor who moved the bathroom door over about five feet, and it worked out really well. I’m thinking God could make a new door with His eyes closed.

Or - why can’t He just keep the door closed for a while, and be like “Okay, you stay in there and think about this situation.” And then, later, He can open the door and I can be like, “Wow, now that I’ve had a few hours to think about things I know what to do!”

Listen, if God wants me to jump out the window I’ll jump.  But what happens after that?  Most of what I know about jumping out of widows comes from cop shows like THE SHIELD. On that show people are constantly jumping out of windows and running away from Vic and the other members of the Strike Team.  Does God want me to run like that? Wildly, through narrow alleys, jumping over backyard fences, dodging snarly dogs with the PoPo* after me? And what if I do hurt myself from the fall? How can I run away with a broken leg? And while I’m running, or limping away, am I supposed to be making this Big Decision? This just does not seem like a good plan.

But whatever. Who am I to tell God how to do things? 

I’ll let you know how it all works out.

 * PoPo = the police.