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.