Million Dollar Baby

*Eddie Vedder Voice* I’m still alive. I just broke another computer (my new laptop replacing the last one I broke, natch) - it’s a fun side effect of stress. Ask my friends what my go-to accessory is and they’ll all say a broken iPhone. Not just broken, but so broken that you get bits of glass shards in your fingers every time you attempt to use the damn thing. Blood dripping down your hand while you text, broken. In my lifetime, I’ve destroyed 17 iPhones. Not an exaggeration.What I’m saying is, I have a LOT of pent up tension.

*My emotional state while at my last job* 

When I moved to NY to work for a notorious producer, I hadn’t fully recovered from past positions working for difficult people. Life is fun that way! So, I picked up and moved to New York on short notice, and was immediately thrown feet first into the hellfire. I then went from that producer to more insanity - I realized while dealing with more of the same, despite the position or city or age I was, I had begun to build up so much pent up residual rage that my hair began falling out and my doctor warned me that I needed to find an outlet or get ready for a stroke. Radical!! That lead me to do what any normal woman would - I decided to take up boxing. And not like, kickboxing or that sexy boxing that models do in Soho. Nope, I found a former Olympic boxer from Guyana who would train me at a proper boxing gym in Brooklyn. One where Tyson and Ali had trained and that smelled like stale blood and balls. 

The first day I went into the gym, I assumed Big John (my coach) would take it easy on me. I had specifically picked him because he said he liked training kids and I figured that was my skill level. I was woefully wrong. If I remember correctly, I had come off a night of stress-drinking with a coworker while connecting conference calls at a local watering hole. Because multitasking when you have no life is very important. It was 7am and already sticky hot and smelling like hot garbage outside, and truth be told, I was not operating on all cylinders. So when Big John explained it would be two hours of heavy boxing rotations, I asked God to rapture me right then and there. During my 30 min treadmill warm up (while pumping my weighted hands in the air like a fucking monster) I remember reciting a mantra of, “This such a fucking bad idea” over and over again. After the treadmill I got my hands wrapped and shadow boxed for the first time. There is nothing and I mean nothing more embarrassing than shadow boxing. Especially in a packed gym full of professional fighters. It’s the equivalent of watching an adult white male try and learn how to pop & lock. It’s mortifying and should not be done in public. Full stop. The end. After shadow boxing, I sparred with John and threw my first punch. Have you ever punched anything? My God it feels so good. I’m an only child and never knew the joy of beating the snot out of someone, so that first hit unleashed something inside of me that had laid dormant for 36 years. Every punch landed harder than the next. Each strike was a boss or a critique or a personal event I had to miss due to work. My coach started calling me ‘Champ’. I loved it. I went nuts. I was a 90’s era Marky Mark going postal on the streets of Boston, baby. It was scrappy and ugly and it felt amazing. I moved on to the heavy bag and then the speed bag. I destroyed them. Despite being hungover and a meat sack filled with garbage, I somehow made it the entire two hours and had found an outlet to process all of my rage to boot! The boxing coaches expressed awe that my woefully out of shape ass could last that long, and I explained to them that they grossly underestimated my anger. It’s a helluva thing, anger. You know those stories of mothers lifting cars off of their children? When I get a text message complaining about something so little it shoudln’t even register, after getting 3 hours of sleep for a solid 6 months, I have the rage and power of a woman who sees her children underneath an Amtrak, and given the chance I could life that fucker off the tracks barehanded. When I walked out of the ring that day I felt a renewed sense of purpose. And my purpose was to beat the every loving shit out of a heavy bag/my coach daily. I was going to Million Dollar Baby myself into a better headspace. Sure, I know that movie ends in a not so great way, but I’ve never assumed my life would necessarily have a happy ending.

Cute pic of me. 

Of course, training had its downsides. I couldn’t box while my boss was awake, so I’d be at the gym starting at 5am. Which is tough given I would work until at least 12am. Also, my coach, bless his heart, had what I lovingly refer to as “Scrambled Egg Head”. Too many years in the ring had scrambled his noggin so he was prone to repeating the same few sentences over and over and over again. It was like boxing Groundhog Day. He was also convinced my asthma could be solved by me eating an entire clove of garlic and washing it down with some grapefruit juice. I tried to explain that if it was so easily solved, a medical doctor would have stumbled onto it by now, but he wasn’t buying it. Also, scrambled egg head. And because he was from Guyana, all I wanted to hear about was Jonestown and Jim Jones. Instead he only wanted to tell me about the time he took a machete to the head fighting off local thugs. But we fell into a sort of rhythm and the two hours each morning allowed me to burn off just enough rage to make it through the day without me flinging myself or my boss into the East River.

Now I’m in Vermont. A state not known for it’s hardcore fighting. Most people here would prefer to “shred some fresh pow & let you taste my homebrew” (that was taken directly from someone’s Tinder profile, by the way...a story for another day) or just freebase maple syrup. What I’m saying is these are a gentle, peaceful people. And I thought my days in the ring were behind me...then life happened. My past jobs were thrown sadly into the spotlight and everything I had come here to escape bubbled back up. And while it’s incredibly idyllic here, I’ve still not met a handsome vet or perfected my artisan applesauce. Being and adult is hard. And then I started breaking shit again. Two computers to be exact.  So, I did a little research and found a lovely boxing coach with a lovely, clean and very Vermont gym. It’s not dark and gritty like Million Dollar Baby. It’s the Hallmark Channel version of a boxing gym. My coach lets me choose the music (you haven’t lived until you’ve boxed to the Newsie’s soundtrack, my friend). We laugh. I leave content and feeling lighter - not like I want to curb stomp someone. It’s different. Better. Healthier. And IF someone ever does want to fight me, I’ll still be ready to rumble.

Yay, Life! (Also, that sweatshirt does not need to be tucked in, Mr Balboa) 

Ya Wanna Freak Out?

What came first? The Music or the Misery?

Our lives are movies - each individual day just ends up being our own, mostly terrible, collection of snippets that make up the bigger film that ends up being our life. Some people live Oscar winning lives, deserving of campaign trails and press junkets - the kind you want to watch again and again....and others, well they lead a straight to DVD existence, baby. 

So if the cumulation of our time on earth is a movie of sorts, then its imperative to have a good soundtrack to accompany it. Each act of your life needs a song - something to inform the viewer as to the overall mood. It can be loving, or foreboding, or euphoric. Think of John Cusak with the boom-box blasting "In Your Eyes". Think of the "Jaws" theme. Think a coked out dude in a robe while "Sister Christian" blasts. . Our life's soundtrack has all the hits - the songs that remind you of "the biggies" -  the ones that remind you of your first kiss, first heart-break, getting the dream-job, wanting to murder/suicide everyone at said dream job, etc., etc., etc. Those are the power-ballads. The "My Heart Will Go Ons", if you will. However, there are other, smaller, songs that make up your daily mood - maybe they won't make the CD - but folks would be stupid to ignore them. These are the songs that are the canary in the proverbial coal mine. You can tell a lot about friends/co-workers/lovers by what music they're listening to at any given point.

For me, I have what many would call an eclectic musical palate. I listen to it all, loudly and on repeat. I'm either very passionate or have an obsessive compulsive disorder. Regardless, I almost lost a friend over the fact I wouldn't stop listening to Billy Joel's "Matter of Trust". It's just so fucking good. So, when I find myself getting a crush on someone, coming up against a deadline, deciding to move - there's always a song that accompanies those feelings and decisions. When it comes to the last few years, due to the fact I had no life outside of work, my musical taste took a decidedly darker and more angry turn. I used to be able to turn on Steve Winwood's "Finer Things" and it would ground me. It was my own, very smooth, version of meditation. I could listen to the words "while there is time, lets go out and feel everything" and it brought a calmness over me. I'm not even exaggerating. That song was my own personal Xanax. But, as things became more and more stressful, Steve just couldn't cut it anymore. He couldn't bring me down from the constant anxiety and rage that I felt at all times. So I changed to a new drug - instead of Xanax, I wanted something that validated my hate and anger. I wanted meth. I wanted bath salts. I wanted to really own the anger I was feeling. And that kids, is how I ended up listening to Rob Zombie's DRAGULA on repeat for two weeks. And I didn't stop with that - I listened to Ozzy, Nine Inch Nails, Metallica, the works. I developed the same musical taste as the dude who runs the Gravitron at the busted carnival two towns over. 

But it helped. Truly. It was like boxing. The music absolutely beat shit out me and I loved it. My coworkers could tell how the day would go depending on how early I put on Rage Against The Machine. If it was 8am or earlier, it was necessary to clear a wide berth when encountering me. And I fed off that music and anger for YEARS. And then I quit. I quit work. I quit life as I knew it. And when I quit, I was fucking A D R I F T. The only songs that felt like they resonated with me are what I call "Divorce Rock". Songs written by people of a certain age dealing with some SHIT. Do you know what its like to find yourself convulsing in sobs because Bonnie Raitt's "Nick of Time" hit you where you lived? When you listen to John Mellencamp's "Check It Out" and just fucking GET IT? Don't get me started on Paul Simon's "Graceland". I could write a dissertation on "I know what I know". But I was divorcing my former life. Divorcing myself from reality. And those middle-aged crooners spoke to my soul. And when I drove to Vermont to go house-hunting, I put on Willie Nelson's version of "Moonlight In Vermont" and everything felt right. I challenge anyone not to move to Vermont if you listen to that while driving past quaint New England churches and apple orchards.

And then I relocated to small town Vermont. And things were great at first - riding the high of the move and the changes I had been brave enough to make - I was really living LIFE. My soundtrack was great. It was upbeat. It was fun. It was the soundtrack of woman who was a sister doing it for herself.

And then this week happened. 

I had two of my very best friends visiting. Friends who have known me for almost 20 years. Who know where all the bodies are buried. Friends whom I love dearly and never get to see and who traveled across the country to be with me in this new venture. And it was lovely and bittersweet and much needed. And then they left. And I was hit with a feeling of loneliness and isolation that I could feel in my bones. Every single fiber of my being was asking me, "Why are you doing this. The foliage won't keep you warm at night. The maple syrup can't make you feel complete". And for the first time in a long while, I felt true anxiety. The kind that stops you in your tracks. And it was at that moment my soundtrack shifted. I needed freak-out tunes and I needed them NOW. 

This was inevitable. At some point, I was going to have to come down from the high and face reality. So now this act in my movie is the one where the girl who is trying to figure it all out feels like she took about twenty steps backwards.  This is the part where she has to come to terms with what happens when you implode your life. Eventually it will be a new act, but for right now, melancholy in bones is the song I'm listening to on repeat.

An Insomniac's guide to the Witching Hour

It Me.

Are you sitting down? Sit down. Seriously. Because I'm about to blow your fucking mind, my friend. Ok, sooo get this - apparently being forced to answer emails/calls in real-time, over the course of a decade, 24/7,  for men who have extreme boundary issues, can completely destroy your sleep cycle. Bananas, right? Well, it's true. And I'm in a living Hell.

I wasn't always a night-dwelling, bitter goblin. No, no. It took a while to reach this level of awful, but if I had to pinpoint the beginning of this transformation, I think I have my second job in Hollywood is to blame. My boss was lovely, truly, but we were shooting four tent-pole films back to back, on different continents and I was in charge of "him" and he was in charge of everything. So that meant I not only had to schedule and control every single second of his day, but also what information he was giving and receiving. It was a great learning experience, but intense. Very intense. This job is when my life ceased being my own. This is when I stopped having days off.  I had to be on call at my own colonoscopy. True story. Before this job, I was able to still have a bit of a social life. I did UCB, played kick-ball, took vacations - after the job started, I didn't have another vacation for 11 years. That's not an exaggeration. When you're working in this world, you're expected to field calls/emails/texts as they come to you. Doesn't matter if it's 2am or 2pm - you handle it. And I did. In fact, I came up with tricks just to make sure I would wake up - which, as a light sleeper already, wasn't all that difficult. I kept my phone on the loudest setting with the vibrate on, too - then I'd stuff it under my pillow. The sound/vibration combo would be right under my ear and it always provided a terrifying jolt to wake me from my slumber. I'd also double up and keep my laptop open in the space next to me. You know the space normally reserved for a warm body that provides companionship? Yeah, well that space was where my laptop sat open and whose email pings would also shock me awake at 3am. Gotta double up.  And I'm sure you're wondering what could possibly be so important that I'd have to respond to it at 3am... It could be anything. It ranged from changing the schedule for the next day, to travel coordination, setting up a conference call for right that second with some other poor soul, to asking me to confirm if I had indeed picked up the dry cleaning and if so, "Where the fuck did you put it, Morgan?" - totally normal, super important shit. And if you say, "just don't answer " -  let me tell you, the hell that came from NOT responding to those emails/calls/texts would result in days worth of stress. Sleep would cause me to lose my job, or worse, to get yelled at for days on end over the same thing. 

So, here I am in Vermont with no responsibilities other than keeping myself and my dogs alive, and you'd think with the stress gone, I'd be Rip Van Winkle-in' it for the next year. Instead, my insomnia is worse than ever. I'm so conditioned to only sleep for short spurts (normally an hour and then wake up, hour then wake up) and at odd times, that I'm now barely sleeping at all. I'm hitting Mariah Carey on TRL levels of sleep deprivation. It's not pretty. But given that I'm now basically an honorary opossum, I figured I'd give others some things they can do if they find themselves unable to sleep. So here's my guide to the Witching Hour:

1) Hit 'em up on the mobile! 

The majority of my friends are West Coast based from my days in LA and Oregon. Sure it may be 1am in Vermont, but its only 10pm in LA, baby. The night is still young. It's the perfect time to call your old friends and catch up on life events. Or like me, you can just spend some time casually talking about how the industrial revolution was the catalyst for society's inevitable downfall. Your friends will talk about how thoughtful you are - how its so kind that you call them weekly to check in and just say hi. You're gonna come away with a glowing reputation AND having killed at least 30min of your never-ending night. Everyone wins. The only thing you need to remember is to spread out the calls. They'll start to think something is fishy and not genuine if you call them every night. Throw your insomnia around like a fucking hot potato. Let all your friends benefit from your misery. 

2) Conspiracy Theories

Can't sleep? Take it from me, nothing passes the time like going down the conspiracy theory rabbit hole. Sure there are the biggies like 9/11, JFK and Roswell - but if you really want to lose a few hours, check out the Denver Airport or those adorable Flat-Earthers. In my opinion, the kookier the better. Anyway, once you're done learning about Saddam Hussain's STARGATE, you'll have knocked a couple hours out and will be plum  tuckered out!

2.5) Cult Leaders

Much like Conspiracy Theories, reading up on Cults and Cult leaders can be informational and a great way to pass the time. Start with L-Ron and the gang, then move on to Jonestown, Heavens Gate, The Rajneeshees, Polygamists - there's a great big world of weirdos out there just waiting for you to find. The only thing I'd caution is that if you go too deep into this for too long, its easy to come away thinking that sure, while David Koresh was a monster, he did have extremely kissable lips. Life is fucked up like that. 

3) Binge, Baby. Binge!

This is a given - you can't sleep and need to pass the time until its light outside - the easiest thing to do is lay in your bed and watch the hell outta a tv-show. The good news is, while binging a tv show is the most slovenly thing I can think of, its also incredibly en vogue. You'll be able to tell your millennial friends that you Netflix and Chilled. They don't need to know it was just you and a half-feral rescue dog. Keep that to yourself.

Honestly, the closest thing I've had to a relationship in the past year has been with Dr. Frasier Crane. Watching all 11 seasons really brought us closer than ever. So instead of counting sheep, take a trip to Seattle and the high-stakes world of radio psychiatry! You'll eventually drift to sleep and awake to crave tossed salads and scrambled eggs...they're calling again. 

4) Stress Crafts

This one is more for the nights you're not only awake but also have a bit more energy than normal. Get some iron-on letters, felt letters, pom-poms, sequins, pepperoni slices, whatever you have handy and decorate a tote bag or t-shirt.  The thing about this task is that its not about the end result. Who cares if your tote bag is unusable because you hot glued bic razors and cotton balls all over it? It's about the process. Take your time. Start small and work your way up to creating real monstrosities! Soon you'll be as skilled as me at creating nightmare art that eventually wears you out enough that you can grab an hour or two of sleep.

But a disclaimer, be wary of operating glue-guns while sleep deprived. I one time ended up with the letter "P" hot glued to my bare thigh and don't recommend it. 

And finally

5) Anxiety Attacks

So you can't sleep and you've exhausted all other options. You've rehashed Trish's boyfriend woes for the umpteenth time (Dump him, Girl!!), now have VERY strong opinions on Chemtrails, wrote an erotic short story about Jim Jones of Jonestown, because you have a thing for crazy men in aviators, and have watched every fucking episode of WINGS. Now what? Well, I'm sorry to tell you - there's really only one thing left, and I guarantee it will wear you down enough that you eventually sleep. Give yourself an anxiety attack. You're probably thinking, "its not like you can control those kinds of things"...WRONG. 

I dare you NOT to have one at 3am, after you've been laying awake for six hours, staring at the ceiling and thinking about all the little things that have added up to get you HERE. Pour over every decision and every relationship and every misstep. Why did you never get promoted? Why have your relationships never worked out. Maybe you actually *don't* deserve happiness. Did you ever think of that? Compare yourself to your friends. Realize your best years are behind you. Think about all the things you didn't have the guts to do. While you're at it - contemplate the after-life. Really dig into how trivial and short this life will be. Before you know it, you'll be sweating and freaking out. It's an awful way to pass the time - but its effective in exhausting you to the point you'll happily drift off into a fitful few hours of sleep. Sure, you'll probably end up having anxiety attacks all the time, but it's not like you have anything else to do anyway, right?

So, I'll spend today like I do most days - walking around in a sleep-deprived haze and dreading the coming night. This is the payment I've received for ten years of dedication and hard work....my payment is looking like Nosferatu and having an encyclopedic knowledge of Guthy-Renker's late night infomercial offerings. Which is something, I suppose.

The Worst Witch

 

When I decided to let Nancy Meyers be my Northen Star, I knew part of the deal had to be that I took some time off before finding my next job. I needed to just "be" and reconnect with all of the parts of me I'd lost over the years. Because it's a truly strange feeling to go from being beholden to someone's schedule and whims to a, albeit needed and comforting, screeching halt. The time off would be for me to create. To sculpt and draw and write down all the stories that had been bouncing around in my head for years and that I never had the time or energy to put to paper. You'd be amazed how tiring it can be, to constantly be on edge, on the line for every aspect of someone's life and livelihood. It zaps the creative desire clean out of you.

After the Paris travel debacle, I ended up leaving that position and moving back to LA. That was a particularly hard job for me (tho, it pales in comparison to recent events) and when I got back to LA, I felt this incredible, almost manic, need to purge out those last two years. I'm not a runner, but it reminds me of the way my friends talk about the all consuming need to put their feet to the pavement. That running is the only way to exorcise their demons. It's meditative. I had the exact same need - but instead of doing something healthy, I went to the craft store, bought five tubs of kids air-dry clay and sculpted a giant Rocky Dennis head.

And then the next day I sculpted another head and another and through every hideous, huge, monster head, I felt myself coming back to the land of the living.

So I know I have the ability to create again, I just need to ignite the spark. And being a completely logical person, I figured the best way to jump-start this mission would be to purchase some crystals and a magical candle with a spell connected to it that's meant to help harness your creative potential. Totally normal shit.

So for the candle, you set up a sacred space, sage, announce intentions and then light the candle...and in order for the spell to work correctly, the said candle must burn completely out, uninterrupted, for about four days. Which, sure, and those people dabbling in magic and whose house didn't burn down as a child, I'm sure that doesn't phase them at all. Me? Not so much.

(Photo of candle after it went out. Also, RIP, Littlefinger)

Look, I know I'm not super proficient in witchcraft and the like, but I've seen THE CRAFT numerous times and let me tell you, there is no fucking way I'm going to throw a magic spell off course by blowing out that candle. The last thing I need is to be known as the asshole to accidentally summoned MANON to Central Vermont.

So I did what any aspiring witch needing a creative boost but also not interested in dying a fiery death would do - I set up a four day basecamp in close proximity to the candle in order to monitor its progress and safety. I realize this sounds super paranoid - but you have to understand how far I've come. I was the girl who ran screaming from First United Methodist Church because they had asked me to be an acolyte. I wouldn't let my mom turn on the heater because I was afraid of the pilot light /gas combo. In college I took my paranoia to a place of authority - becoming the risk manager for my sorority and lecturing super hungover girls about the perils of leaving curling irons plugged in and reminding them to always (ALWAYS!!) clean the damn lint trap after you use the dryers. I feel like I've made progress, but when it comes to leaving a candle unattended for multiple days, I'm just not comfortable.

So I camped downstairs, wouldn't leave the house for more than a few minutes at a time and overall settled into a pretty decent routine. I'd scribble some new pictures or work on my outline, all the while my little magical pal would be there. Slowing melting down to nothing, flickering with a hint of danger and the anticipation of the magic to come. I also had a theory that being so close to the candle while the spell was working had to make the spell more potent, right? I was on the front line and was ready for it's magical D-Day. I mean, I wasn't expecting a TEEN WITCH situation to happen - I didn't want to become the most popular 37-yr old in Vermont or be subjected to rap battles as foreplay - but I did expect the candle to help me finish a draft of my story.

What happened when the candle went out yesterday you might ask? Well, I heard a faint pop, looked over and saw that the flame had been smothered by the last little bit of wax. I got so excited to dig out the crystal they planted at the bottom, a super charged crystal!!, that I jumped up from the couch and knocked my laptop onto the fucking floor.

KINDA HARD TO BE CREATIVE AND FINISH THAT DRAFT WHEN YOUR LAPTOP IS BROKEN!!

The moral of this story - aside from, ya know, using your own capabilities to channel your creativity and not expecting someone or something to do that for you - no, the moral is - Magic is a tricky little bitch. Never assume you're Robin Tunney because more than likely you're Skeet Ulrich and life will deal you a nasty fate at the hands of magical forces.

Memory Lane

I had the luxury of sitting on my back porch this morning, watching my dogs sniff around the yard and the birds feast on the fresh suet I left for them in the feeder. There are no pings from my phone in the morning, no email alerts - it’s just me, coffee and the dogs. It’s quiet. I can sleep in if I want, but more often than not, I’m up around 6:30am and sitting on the porch, just being still. It’s heavenly.

Last night, while cleaning out my computer files, I stumbled across this image that perfectly sums up my former life as an assistant.

This blurry selfie was taken at the airport in Paris, midway through an insane, multi-country excursion that took years off my life. 

As it always seemed to happen, I was tasked with planning a very, very short notice, very intricate trip to Europe. It involved multiple countries, multiple planes/hotels/helicopters/contingency plans in case the weather was terrible (which of course it was). I had worked day and night to get the trip in place, then flew to France to advance the group and make sure everything was settled on the ground. While they explored and dined at Chateaus on special menus I had planned for them to allow for dietary restrictions and picky eating, I was straightening hotel rooms, frantically calling the next venue to make sure everything was prepared for their arrival. I’d be constantly on the phone with security, pilots, drivers, hotel concierge, the office back in the states. I had camped out in the lobby of the luxury hotel where the guests were staying (I was around the corner in a budget motel) and earned a LOT of side-eyed glances from the well-heeled guests due my remote office set-up. But pride goes out the window when you’re doing this kind of work. Who cares if people stare at your backpack AND a  giant diaper bag that doubled as your bosses toiletry kit/computer bag- you gotta do what you gotta do to make shit happen. The hotel staff were incredibly nice and would let me go to the staff area to get a fresh espresso at 4:30am since nothing else was open. I felt equal parts mortified and proud of the amount of work I was putting in to make this trip successful. It was also my job - what they paid me to do.

At the point when that photo was taken, I had been operating on about 5 hours of sleep over the 3 days I was in France. The weather had taken a turn and I had a contingency plan in place, but of course somehow the pissing rain and wind had become my fault. Like I had used my witchcraft to make the trip a little less fun for them all, just to be a pain in their ass. The weather became my failure and from that point on, everything was wrong. Up was down and black was white. Everyone else had taken the jet to the next destination, but I was stuck hauling the extra luggage on a commercial flight (payment for my weather snafu). It was late, I was beyond tired and trying to prep for the next leg of the trip, knowing now they would hate whatever was planned, when my boss texted saying he wanted to change the entire itinerary. The itinerary that was 10 pages long and look a team of people to pull off due to all the logistics. I had  zero cell reception in the terminal and I was trying to handle this all via patchy texting through a shitty wifi hot-spot. Everyone was angry at me. Everyone. I was working my ass off and nothing seemed to matter and at that point I was seriously considering missing my flight and just living in that terminal forever. I’d fucking eat macaroons, befriend the bartenders and shower in the sink of the ladies room. It sounded so much better than facing my reality upon landing at the next destination. I realized my family had no idea where I currently was or what flight I was taking - I assumed the plane would go down and they’d never ID my body after it was charred beyond recognition. I remember this night so clearly because the stress I felt in that moment felt like it would never, ever go away. Every angry ping from my phone caused my blood pressure to spike and me to question all the life choices that had lead me to that moment. 

Of course the trip and all of the stress did eventually resolve itself (though I must admit, with quite a bit of drama and some Waiting to Exhale-esque behavior on my part). But if you asked anyone who was on that excursion, I guarantee they’d say it was a great time. Because all the stress and drama was squarely on my shoulders. It was a Hell of my own making. 

But shouldn't that have been my ‘a-ha’ moment - the exact point in time when I realized that this shit was for the birds and I had talent and experience that was better than melting down in various airports all over Europe? It should have been, but how could it when I was confronted with situations like that over and over and over again. The thing about being an assistant (at least in my experience) - is that these kinds of crises happened EVERY SINGLE DAY. Be it intricate travel, scheduling issues, scripts being bound incorrectly, the wrong coffee or clothes not back from the cleaners - every day presented some sort of issue that was deemed a crisis by either your boss, or the production, or the household staff, or the agent, and on and on and on and on. Whatever “it” was became THE most important thing that had ever happened and that nothing would ever be right in the world again until it was resolved. Every stressful day blurs into the next and before you know it, years have passed. And that was the job - my job. And because I took pride in being able to fix things, and didn't want to look like a quitter, I soldiered on, waaaaay past the point of no return. And that’s on me. Not my bosses. Not my coworkers. Me.

So, when I woke up this morning feeling a little overwhelmed with the fact I imploded my life - looking at this photo reminds me of why I’m here. That person in the photo never had the luxury to sit on the porch listening to the leaves fall from the trees. To watch her dogs get to finally play in a backyard and bask in the fall sunshine. Or to let her cell battery die and not care. 

Sure, last night I heard a Fisher Cat scream and almost had a stroke. And I’m scared my house might be haunted. And I worry I won’t make any friends here that aren’t strange hill-people who want to use my skin for a suit. But that just comes with the territory, I suppose. I’m just very, very thankful to be on my porch instead of in an airport having a meltdown right now. I’m thankful I figured out my worth. And I’m thankful I told my former life to fuck off. 

Operation Meltdown

In the movie “Baby Boom”, Diane Keaton’s character, J.C. Wiatt is a high-powered business woman at the peak of her career…until she inherits a baby cousin she never knew existed (don’t ask man, the 80s had some questionable rules about childcare). After deciding to keep the kid, losing her job and ditching her wet-rag boyfriend (Ladies, never trust a man who likes Asian-modern furniture and wears silky bathrobes - they’re incapable of love) - she hightails it to Vermont where hi-jinx and romance ensue.

While I do not have an inherited child, an ex who likes uncomfortable furniture or a career that saw me at the top of my game - unless said “game” was hauling Nespresso machines in my backpack & crying in various production offices across this great nation - then yeah, I was fucking Warren Buffet, man - I did however have a similar “ah-ha” moment in New York. One where I realized I’m done with the rat race. So, like J.C., I bought a Jeep and moved myself and my two dogs to a small town in Vermont.

But, like all good stories, once J.C. gets to Vermont - her house becomes a money pit and she ends up having a nervous breakdown, which requires her being treated by the local Vet, the dashing Sam Shephard. As one does. Since I’m modeling my entire new life after this movie, which I realize when written out sounds absolutely fucking bonkers, it’s only fair that I too would have everything start to crumble around me. 

I’m renting an incredibly adorable little house up on a quiet hill, with a little backyard and a little garden and a little office space where I can make questionable art and attempt to write. It’s quaint, quiet and also has a murder basement that a week after I moved in decided to fill with water and raw sewage. I hate going into the basement in the first place (it definitely looks like the cave where the Gmork lived in the “Neverending Story” ) and I really hate going into the basement when I’m up to my ankles sewage. For whatever reason, having pipes backup/explode is my thing, and why I thought it would be different here, I’m not sure. 

So I freak, call the landlord, who then calls the local plumber who said he’ll be happy to make a house call even though its a Sunday evening. And then, BAM!!! I realized this *IS* “Baby Boom”-the house falling apart is phase 1, baby. All I need now is to have a mental breakdown and soon enough I’ll be rolling in apple sauce and making sweet, sweet love to a handsome vet. Once I realized that in order to get to HERE: 

I’d just need to go down HERE:


It made the whole ordeal not just tolerable, but exciting. In fact, I thought - what if it’s not a Vet I end up with but a handsome, salt of the earth local handyman (kinda like the fella from Newhart but, ya know, bangable)? The idea of living a simple life with my craftsmen partner and a gaggle of animals and really lovely maple Adirondack chairs seemed beyond dreamy. I put on makeup. I attempted to clean some of the mess up, just to be polite. Then my future paramour arrived and he was incredibly nice and very good at cleaning out the roots that had taken up residence in my pipes, but as far as a romantic connection goes. He was exactly like the fella from Newhart. I tried to keep my chin up and laugh and be thankful my house wasn’t about to be swallowed up by sewage - and I was doing a good job, too - until the plumber informed me that to sop up the standing water/sewage in the basement, I would need to go and get kitty litter to absorb it all.

Do you know how much fucking kitty litter is required to absorb about 1 ½ inches of sewage? Let me tell you - 11 of the extra large boxes. You want to know what almost brought on my inevitable mental break? It was standing at the grocery store with a bottle of wine and 11 boxes of Fresh Step kitty litter, looking like the worlds most insane cat lady. Like I had a Grey Gardens-style situation with hundreds of feral cats crawling all over me. I tried to preempt the situation by telling the cashier not to worry, I just had sewage back-up and was using the litter to sop up the waste. Wouldn’t you know it, that only made everything weirder and grosser. Nothing like being know as the insane lady in town. So, I went home, sopped up the shit, pounded the bottle of wine and cursed Nancy Meyers for making me think this Vermont life would be easy.

Aside from falling down the stairs, the raw sewage and accidentally inhaling ½ a can of Deep Woods Off! due to seeing what I thought was a tick (it was lint) and having to call the Poison Control Center - its been relatively smooth sailing. I thought maybe I’m just on a different track from my girl, J.C. Maybe I just have to find my own way in Vermont….that was until I went out this morning and saw THIS:




I’M BACK IN ACTION, BABY! I’m gonna learn how to make artisan baby food and soon enough will find my Sam Shephard (RIP). I’ve never been more stoked for a flat-tire. Of course I don’t know how to change a tire, so thats fun. But who cares, I’m back on track and thats all that matters!

Baby Boomin'

It was there, alone, splayed out at the base of the staircase, in the kind of pain that makes your vagina inexplicably hurt, trying to grab at the phone that had been flung from my hands as I tumbled down a flight of stairs, that I googled “Life Alert” bracelets and realized that this is NOT the way I want to die. And if my life were a movie, one of those rom-coms where the quirky girl finds her bliss after a lifetime of mishaps, this would be the part where David Byrne’s voice would kick in with, “And you may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?“... and then the music swells and the camera pans back to reveal my crumbled form at the base of the stairs, while my dogs circle my pathetic body ready to eat its sad, stubby, little limbs. The audience would break out into a raucous laughter - because they know this is the point where she ends up definitely getting her shit together, because how could she not? She just tumbled down a fucking flight of stairs! That would be of course IF my life were a movie, which it’s not. So instead, I just wallowed and whimpered alone for about twenty minutes and contemplated life as a floor-ridden paraplegic.

And to be frank, imagining my life as a movie is one of the reasons I’ve found myself in this mess in the first place. Since I was a little kid, I’ve always thought that the trials, tribulations and overall hi-jinx I get into had to be some sort of cosmic joke - like a movie where all the ridiculousness eventually ends up as some sort of redemption story. The girl finally ends up achieving happiness, gets the decently handsome guy who appreciates her quirks and glum outlook and most importantly all that hard work and bullshit that was the accumulation of her career ends up paying off with a overall deal at a moderately successful studio. Basically I fancied myself as a Janeane Garofalo starring in the “Morgan Cline Story” (limited release, critically acclaimed, and it would be one of those rollers like “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” that would not only rake in the dough but also be a fan favorite amongst your average woman)...you know, the usual shit.

So that’s probably how I ended up working in the film industry for almost 15 years. I lucked out with my first job - got hired by the nicest people in the biz and worked there for years before needing to get more experience. Anytime I moved jobs, I bounced to another A-List, super established company. While I had to do bullshit work - it was bullshit work for a very, very successful known person. Which felt like it legitimized whatever task they asked of me - not the best pattern, but hindsight and all. What started out as a passion for art and escape, eventually became the thing that caused me to be on the verge of a mental breakdown at 37. I looked really successful on the outside - hobnobbing with celebrities, travel, all that jazz. Instead, I was a chubby Dorothy on the dark side of 30 that got a peek behind the curtain and saw the Great and Powerful Oz...and then Oz saw me, demanded that I get him a very, very specific coffee order and to always (ALWAYS!!) be accessible by phone and email, kiss my already non existent personal life goodbye and hunker down into a life of constant stress and woe. And I sucked that up for a looooooong time. And then, one day, after 15 years, while living in Brooklyn, miserable, alone and so stressed out that my Doctor told me I was at risk for a stroke, It hit me. I had spent my entire career making every facet of other peoples lives awesome... at the expense of my own. So I did what any normal woman would do - I clicked my Birkenstocks, quit my job, stress-watched “Baby Boom”, drove to Vermont the next day and threw down enough cash to rent a house for a year upfront.

Do I know anyone in Vermont? Nope - what I know about this lovely state is based solely on episodes of “Newhart” and “Baby Boom”. I’ve never dealt with a proper winter and I’m kinda concerned that I’ll end up like Jack Nicholson in the Shining after a few months. Probably a good thing I’m too skittish to own an axe. My therapist is worried about me - but she’s also never seen “Baby Boom”, which is honestly bullshit, so I can’t really take her word on anything now!

So yeah….I’m here in Vermont, in a small town with no job and no friends but I’ve got “Baby Boom” on DVD and enough flannels to make 1992 Eddie Vedder jealous...so I feel pretty fucking good. Really good! Of course that warm and fuzzy feeling could be a concussion from the fall, I suppose? Time will only tell - but at least it will be an adventure.