Sloane + Ashley = BFFs Forever

Sloane Crosley is my new favorite person in this world. No big deal. She is the author of I Was Told There'd Be Cake, if you're a dork like me, you're sold after just reading the title. In fact, I would even say that I wouldn't blame Eric if he wanted to leave me for her. It would make total sense. She's pretty, thin, well-dressed, smart, hilarious, a great writer, and most importantly, she's a big drinker. God love her heart. She and I embarked upon our lifelong friendship today as I requested her friendship on Myspace and Facebook. She even wrote me back a message on Facebook after I apologized for stalking her. She SO likes me as much as I like her. She feels the connection.

In other news, it was brought to my attention that my blog is basically a depressfest, well, as far as my feelings on SLC go. So I shall attempt to talk about the good parts of Salt Lake.
1. It has only truly rained ONCE since the beginning of June.
2. I pay very cheap rent on a lovely 2-bedroom apartment. Extra space, people!
3. The mountains, when covered in snow, and when green - right before they turn brown for the summer, are quite lovely.
4. Westminster was blind enough to accept me into their MS in Counseling Psychology program.
Aaaand SCENE.
I will just let these positives marinate and not go down the path of giving each point's counter-argument. Let's just enjoy this generous moment I am sharing.

Timothy Hutton - A Dream Dashed

Over dinner with Julie last weekend, we were discussing people we'd worked for in the entertainment biz. I was reminded of one working relationship that turned quite sour - resulting in me getting fired (unfortunately, not the last time I would be given the boot.) I shall tell you the story.

I wasn't always the accomplished, successful, ball-busting business lady you know now. I too was once a young, bright-eyed, talent agent-wannabe in New York City. I had to intern at a talent agency to have any chance of getting an actual paying gig. (I really had no idea how to handle myself as an intern, but that's a story for another time.) To pay for my sad room in a lovely old apartment on the Upper West Side and my drinking, I had to take some random jobs.

One of my four roommates was a very successful nanny (she was also slightly rotund, which is what I believe to be a requirement for a good nanny), and she lovingly handed over some of her excess work to me. One day she called me saying, "Hey, I can't take care of Milo this Saturday - would you be interested in helping me out?" I didn't mind, so she said she'd discuss it with Milo's mother Aurore to make sure a substitute would be OK. Aurore Giscard D'Estaing probably hadn't eaten her only meal of the day (her daily breakfast of bread and Nutella) quite yet and therefore wasn't running on all cylinders - that's really the only explanation for allowing a strange young woman who, let's be honest, had what might even be called "disdain" for children at that point in her life, to substitute-sit for your 1-year old child. My roommate called me back and told me I was in that it was an actor that I'd be working for - "His name is Timothy Hutton" - and then she gave me the number for me to call to talk to his wife, Aurore. She gave me this info as if she were telling me about stock prices. Meanwhile, I was thinking, "SERIOUSLY?! My man from Beautiful Girls, whom I've referred to in intimate circles as, 'my future husband'?!" I played it cool, of course - I didn't want my roommate to take back this opportunity out of fear that I may be found watching Tim sleep at night (which may or may not have been an astute guess. Bygones.)

Their apartment was very spacious and very UWS - imagine Charlotte York's apartment, just a lot less pristine and more edgy. Aurore was beautiful, warm, and welcoming. I was aghast. I expected her to be French and snobby right away, but in truth, she was quite lovely. I imagine her time spent being the former French President's (Valery Giscard D'Estaing) niece taught her a great deal about manners. We talked for a while about her expectations, and she asked me a lot of questions about myself. I'm not entirely sure she listened to the answers, but I am used to being found boring, so that's OK. I had no clue how to behave with Milo, but I didn't let that stop me from forging ahead. We got along well enough, but definitely not well enough for Aurore to offer me a job as his nanny. To this day I have no idea what could possibly have made her think I'd be a great nanny for him - It certainly wasn't due to any obvious penchant I possessed for baby whispering. I am left with one guess - though she hid her snobbery well, I know that ol' Frenchie liked that I was white and educated.

We worked out a schedule that allowed me to intern at the talent agency a few days out of the week. During my time with Milo, I was to feed him, play with him, and I took it upon my hard-working self to nap with him as well. Aurore also insisted that I take him out in the 10-degree weather for walks and visits to Central Park. Yes, it was those moments I cherished most as I walked Milo in his cozy fleece-filled stroller, equipped with three wheels capable of scaling mountains, and watched as my hands turned an exquisite shade of purple as I simultaneously held on to the stroller and umbrella that was fighting the snow attacking me from all directions. Mayhaps you won't be surprised that instead of taking him to the "park", I'd take him to "my apartment" where we could both avoid certain death, and he could play with my roommate's dirty cats. Aurore would use this time to do what she referred to as "work", which was allegedly illustrating children's books, but your average American would call it, "online shopping."

I shall be the first to admit that my nannying skills could've used some work in those days, but that maternal instinct just hadn't kicked in yet. And it didn't help that Milo also only spoke French and seemed to have only slight understanding of English. My time spent studying developmental psychology wasn't for naught - what that teaches us, ladies and germs, is that Milo clearly had very little interaction with his English-speaking father. This will come as no surprise after I tell you that it turns out my future husband didn't behave very husbandly. He had his own "office" equipped with a phone and a couch and a tv, and he stayed in his bathrobe in this "office" most of the day. He, like Aurore, wasn't big on eating. You should've seen Aurore during the rare occasions when he'd emerge from his honeycomb hideout. She would leap up from her immersion in "work" and into his arms. It was obvious that she ached for his attention. They would both completely ignore Milo during these brief moments. It's also worth noting that if Tim were to talk to me, I admit, I lost all abilities to speak like an intelligent human and instead preferred to speak like a high school girl from the universal "valley." And I smiled a lot. And laughed at everything he said. I believe Aurore once told my roommate that I acted "different" when Tim was around - she was being kind.

Time went on, and Milo and I came to an understanding. He would leap for me when I'd walk through the door, impressing his mother, and in return I'd not allow him to freeze in the tundra. One day I arrived ready to take Milo out, and Aurore, Tim's assistant, and I got to chatting. She pointed out the bump on Milo's head and told us how it got there, adding playfully that she didn't want Tim to find out.

She wasn't being quite as playful as I'd perceived.

I returned to their apartment after our play time in Siberia, and Aurore and I noticed that the bump on Milo's head had gotten slightly larger. We pondered over it for a bit, but we decided it was normal.

Later that evening Tim gives me a call and wants to know about the bump on Milo's head. It was clear he assumed I had caused it. Aurore was on the line. She didn't back up my explanation of events, instead she chose to let me take the fall for the bump on his head. I then got defensive, and I most likely descended into the worst self-defending argument ever uttered by a human. All I know is that the conversation ended with Tim saying, "I don't trust you with Milo ever again." Look, I am well aware that I wasn't the most Mary Poppinsest of nannies, but I didn't deserve to be fired for that.

I analyze the situation this way: Aurore and Tim have a pretty shitty relationship, one that doesn't even allow Aurore to tell Tim when she's had an accident with Milo. It was clear she felt awe, lust, fear, and maybe even love for Tim, but she didn't trust him or trust herself with him. For Tim Aurore was a prize - she was beautiful and French and had a powerful lineage behind her. He didn't love her like a husband should, or I would've seen a lot more of him. And he didn't love Milo like a father should, or I would've seen a lot more of him. He knows that about himself. He knows he's a bad father, and he knows he's not a great actor - two things that make for one very insecure person. So, unfortunately, when he saw an opportunity to prove he was a good father, he took it out on me. And when Aurore saw a chance to be close to her husband and unite behind a cause, she wouldn't ruin it by telling the truth. I don't know that I blame her for that.

But I do still hold out hope for them to send me a check for the last week of services I provided - they have consistently refused, but I'm pretty sure after this they'll lovingly send out a check to me tout de suite. Meanwhile, go rent Beautiful Girls. You'll see why I was so devastated to realize we would not be a great match after all.

Friday Musings

Compliments
A good compliment is rare but so very very fulfilling. Last night my boo gave me a compliment that reminded me of why I'm marrying him, not that I needed reminding.

As I sit here 14 hours later basking in the glory of the great compliment, I recall a time in my adolescence when I was forced to go on a Youth Retreat with the teens at my church. Let me start by saying that pretty much since birth, church functions have made me about as comfortable as watching a dog get beat by its owner. At this stage in my life, they serve as reminders of how upon taking my last breath, I shall take my seat in between George Bush and Tommy Lee on the Straight To Hell Express. However, up until about 21 years of age, the reason for my discomfort was different. At the time of the youth retreat, church functions meant one thing: I was going to have to speak about personal things in front of a large group. I couldn't understand why that had to be the case, and I still don't. Usually our youth meetings went as such: the youth pastor would tell us some story from the Bible and would try to relate it to us in a meaningful way...then usually we'd have to go around the room and give some sort of personal reflection. As I sat there waiting for it to be my turn with a scowl on my face, I was usually thinking three things:
How freakin' dumb is this youth pastor.
This is preposterous.
What humorous one-liner can I give to distract the group from the fact that I won't be saying anything real?

I don't know why I continued with that plan of attack - I was usually subsequently begged to say something substantive...to which I would roll my eyes and say something brilliant like, "I don't know." I was the epitome of eloquence even then, it's true.

Going on a youth retreat meant we go to go to St. Simons and stay in a lovely dilapidated cabin on the beach. Much to my indignant 12-year-old self's chagrin, we would have daily meetings of the sort described above. So, as I'm sure I don't have to tell you, it was a RIOT. Anywhore, this brings me to the point of the story - on our final night there, things finally got interesting...mainly because there was some focus on my awesomeness...FINALLY. We sat around this little campfire on the beach and had what the ridiculous but well-meaning youth pastor called an "Affirmations" session. In this particular version of an affirmations session, we were to go around and give compliments to everyone in the circle. My compliments given to others were totally lame, yet somehow tear-filled (what is wrong with me?) And the compliments given by my fellow teens weren't much better - we mainly repeated the compliments given by others. But hey, being told 7 times that I had a lot of spunk turned my world upside down. So my official point is this: let's not be stingy with our compliments - if you have something positive to say, SAY IT. Lately I've been frustrated by people close to me from whom I only seem to hear negative things. I don't believe it's because they don't think positive things, but I do think there's a certain vulnerability involved in complimenting (I refer back to the difficulty I felt during the affirmations sessions). So I say to them - Be strong! Compliment me, damnit! We humans aren't mind readers, and if we aren't reminded that we have likable qualities, we will forget and only focus on the negative ones. Let's remember to be kind, people.

Meanwhile, Denise Richards is currently lighting up my life in a Lifetime "Original" movie. I quote "Original" because they are using the term quite loosely - this 2004 movie is a blatant rip-off of The Wedding Planner - don't act like you don't know it - the one with J-Lo and Matt Mac'. They even go so far as to have her involved in an accident where she hurts her ankle, and Superman, aka Dean Cain, leaps to save her. So, for those interested in knowing what B-list celebs get paid to star in Lifetime movies, their fees combined are apparently less than what it would've cost Lifetime to just friggin' pony up the dough to buy the rights to air the original. You're welcome for the info.