Of course would love to go to baseball game with you. I’d fly right over. Don’t get too baseballed out – you have Wrigley Field to look forward to, missey.
Rugby’s not my thing, but I have watched England a few times, as you do. It must have been cool at the World Cup. That is the game you watched, is it not?
Must head to the airport. I’ll keep in contact whenever I find a computer or get reception on my iPhone in Africa.
Très bien many kisses pur vous, (Can you tell I’m crap at French?)
Guy x
CLEANSING
I was tempted to call my ex and apologize, but that might be taking two steps forward and three steps back. I went through the rest of the week a bit uneasy. I knew I had ended this in my mind, but my heart wasn’t completely convinced. I needed a full therapeutic cleansing of him.
So, I did what anyone would do when they felt the air was thick with the dirt and grime of a long toxic relationship, and I gave it even more of a scrub. (Of course, this was only after I stayed curled in a fetal position on the carpet until noon on Saturday.) I opened all my windows, broke out my cheap vacuum cleaner that had only been used the day I moved in, put on my yellow Martha Stewart rubber gloves, and got to cleaning.
For a studio apartment, it took me two long and hard, misty-eyed days to complete. Well, one and a half if you don’t count the time I spent on the floor in the fetal position. I stopped multiple times to blow my nose, partly because there was a lot of dust, but also because of the uncontrollable emotional response that the soul-disinfecting was causing. I could almost feel the aura becoming whiter.
I washed my sheets, picked up all the snotty tissues around the apartment, swept the pale, yellow-tiled kitchen floor, dusted the bookshelf, threw away an old picture of him and me that had fallen behind a book, and wiped the blinds clean. I vacuumed the Berber carpet, fluffed my stuffed tiger, spot- cleaned the shag rug, emptied the mounting trash, and organized my closet by color and length of clothing. I emptied all my makeup from my makeup bag, turned the bag inside out and ran water through it until it ran clear. I put my gold jewelry in one compartment and my silver in another. I laid out a clean bandana on the vanity area for my makeup and aligned my blush, lipsticks, foundations and eye shadows in rows, based on order of application.
Friday, April 4th, 2008
G,
Welcome to Africa!! I just got your text, but unfortunately only got a part of it. Can you send it again? I got up to the part where you woke up at one thirty this afternoon.
How is it? I’m so happy for you. Are you starting some exploring this afternoon? When are you climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro?
Life here is pretty good - had that pampering night yesterday and went to bed early, I needed it. You absolutely would have needed a cold shower. It was sexy! If you’re good, I might have to practice some moves on you.
One thing is not so good.
I got fired from those stupid webisodes. Argh! I’m so mad. It is no fun being a woman in this town sometimes. You work your ass off for little to no money in the hopes that it will help you in the long run. And then these male French chauvinistic pigs come along.
This isn’t pretty, but I am working with the Screen Actors Guild - the actor’s union - to get a sexual harassment case on him. I would never do this unless I felt completely used and mistreated. I also want to make sure other women aren’t put in this same position. Since I got fired, two of the other girls have quit for similar reasons.
He is a French director who doesn’t know when lines are crossed. I have proof of emails he wrote to me declaring his undying love for me - and proof that I asked him to stop writing those things, asked him to be professional, etc. I never once responded in jest or made him feel like it was OK to make such advances towards me.
He kept agreeing that he would stop, but then would go ahead and make me uncomfortable all over again. I won’t go into details, but some of the comments he said to me made me truly miserable.
He claimed he fired me because I wasn’t putting enough effort into the show. How could he say such a thing? I dyed my hair blonde for it; I gave up every weekend this month with no pay. I was the only one who ever showed up on time; I brought snacks for everyone because he never had food for us, I bought new clothes for the character’s wardrobe and I even worked after hours with him to help build my character’s arc.
Anyway, enough about that. I’m sure it’s the last thing you want to be reading while you’re away on safari. Thanks for listening - I needed to vent.
I want to know you more. So more questions for yours truly.
1. If you could pick only one place to live for the rest of your life, where would it be? (Mine would be Paris - based on places I’ve been. I am madly in love with that city, despite some of the arrogant men that come from there, and really wish I was there right now…if I couldn’t be in Africa, that is.)
2. What’s your favorite movie? (Hook - yes, the one with Robin Williams about Peter Pan. I can watch it over and over again, cry every time and wish I could fight, fly and crow. And my second favorite is An Affair to Remember - can’t beat Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr kissing on the stairwell, only showing their legs and the nuances of the sexuality. I want to be her when I grow up.)
3. What is your best childhood memory? (First thing that comes to mind is running through my backyard at 5 or 6 years old in Baltimore, naked during a rainstorm - so free and without inhibitions. Do you see a pattern here with Peter Pan and childhood memories? (God, AND I’m an actress. I must sound like a real joke.)
xoxo,
Adele
P.S. Hope Africa is treating you well!!
P.P.S. Yes, you are crap at French, but at this point, I’m grateful for that!
Sunday 6 April, 2008
Dear Del,
You’re better than those stupid webisodes anyway. Their loss. Hot Baltimore chicks deserve loads more. In Lockhart Productions you are the queen, princess, heroine, and leading lady (and the fit one). Always remember how good you are.
Men who use that kind of power in that way disgust me. Ah, well. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you.
Having a stinker. I forgot to bring the adapter for my iPhone and iPod chargers. No music, no phone. Crap. So, in short, I can’t send the text message again or call you until I get it sorted. Soz!! Nightmare. And, I didn’t bring a book.
Otherwise, all good here - ish. Had an 8-hour bus journey from hell. Long story, but here goes. Up at 7:30 a.m. for a planned coach (bus) journey to Tanzania to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro. 8:15 a.m., I’m still sat there like a Muppet. Someone has cocked up badly. Man at desk says, “Don’t worry, I can get you there.”
I rarely do public transport, so when I learn that my air-conditioned coach has left without me, and a man says I can hop on his cousin’s local bus to pick me up, I begin to sweat (yeah, I said local bus, and yes, I meant cold sweat).
Actually, when I say bus, I mean tin-can-on-wheels. Wheels that are way too small for this bus. I get told its $40, I suggest $10, he says ‘No, $30,’ I say ‘No, $25.’ He says, ‘Deal.’ I give him $30, and, of course, he doesn’t have change. I get on the bus, smile, say hello and get ignored. It’s packed. I notice the entire back row is free. Job done.
Now, there’s a reason people don’t sit on the back row. The roads in Kenya are like those you’d encounter on a building site. When I say potholes, I mean actual holes in the ground you could fit the largest pot you’ve ever seen in. After cracking my head on the ceiling umpteen times, our driver – Gasper (yes, Gasper) smiles and politely waves.
When I say our driver Gasper, I mean our Formula One racing driver Gasper Schumacher. Some of the moves he is pulling would be deemed illegal at an indoor go-cart track. We stop to pick up a woman and her kid. There are no spaces left for them to sit together, so being the gentleman I am, I offer my seat and sit in the last remaining single seat.
There’s a reason people weren’t sitting on that seat. It’s the one ov
er the wheel arch. Vibration central we’ll call it, and after your lingerie and champagne night, I’m sure you would have loved it. As I would have loved to have seen it. For me, not so good.
At the Tanzanian border, having passed up the opportunity to purchase a fake passport, I get my Visa sorted – that is, before being the only person in the queue who has to have his hand luggage searched.
8 hours later, yes, 8, I am here safe and sound. If I wasn’t laughing at how shocking that journey was, I would without a doubt be crying. So, I know you’ve had a bad couple of days, but doesn’t it make you feel better knowing how shitty mine was? (I’ll admit it; I’m loving it really.)
Off for food in a bit before early night and early start. Climbing 5,895 meters of hell tomorrow. Will be freezing my nuts off on top of a mountain for the next five days so might be out of action, email wise. Looking forward to the climb though, and I’ll be sure to email you when I finish.
Hey, I’ll write as often as I can. Regardless of where I am, I want to know how you’re getting on, and that all is good in fit bird land.
Feel a bit crazy at the mo, my mind’s all over the shop. At least for the next five days, I have to follow the fella in front of me and try not to be sick from the altitude.
Oh, and of course, the answers!
1. Place to live - no idea, love the States obviously but can’t beat the UK either, let’s say anywhere you are…if you’ll have me.
2. Movie - Hook, really? I’m not a big movie buff, but Hook, really?! I feel better about my choice now. I love comedies and action stuff (what a boy) so maybe, There’s Something About Mary – that still cracks me up, and all the “Bourne” movies. But like I said, not a big movie buff. I’m sure you’ll teach me.
3. Memory - playing football after school, whether with my bro or up against the wall of our house. Loved it.
Questions for you:
1. Motto by which you live your life? (Do unto others as you would have them to do to you)
2. Are you religious or have major beliefs? (I believe in karma and fate)
3. Favourite cheese? (I love cheese – a good strong Irish cheddar for me!)
Do you have your Blackberry yet? Good luck with the harassment case. He deserves whatever comes his way. Hope you enjoyed the much deserved pampering.
Wish me luck!
Talk as soon as I can.
G x
REFLECTION
Being alone was overrated. I resisted the urge to text my ex, and picked up my Samsung phone that had seen better days. It was a flip phone. I liked the sound it made when a call was finished, emphasizing the end of a call. In West Hollywood, Samantha Burns, my best friend from high school, was sitting in her one bedroom apartment lighting some candles and about to take a sip of a Malbec – her Sunday ceremony. Saturdays she went to synagogue, Sundays she went to the wine.
She was exactly who I needed to speak to, a fellow actress and commonly man- obsessed woman, but with the added bonus of genuine rubies of wisdom. I could already see her curling up on her sofa, tapping her wine glass, and twirling her curls around her finger as she always did when she was listening and processing. I never had to fully explain what I meant. She just got it.
“Hi. What are we doing with our lives?” I said when she answered. My face wanted me to be happy, but I had some other things to talk about first.
“Del - I don’t know,” she said, almost a bit too quickly for my liking. “I’m scared.” Uh oh, if Samantha is scared, then I am definitely screwed. “They said this would happen. They said we would enter our mid twenties and have some sort of fucking crazy crisis, and I didn’t want to believe it, but here we are.” She was also having major doubts about finding love and continuing her quest to be an ‘aspiring actress’ - she hated that phrase more than anything in life. ‘Aspiring’ was such a euphemism for so many things – it meant that we hadn’t actually achieved the status of Actress just yet, and that our only hope of becoming an Actress was if we booked a major motion picture.
“Can I come over?” I said.
“Please,” she said. We hung up.
On the way to her place, I drove off the 10 freeway and onto Fairfax Avenue past his house. I shuddered, and ducked my head down just enough so that I could still see over the steering wheel.
I drove the fifteen minutes to her apartment and looked for parking for another fifteen minutes. Eventually, I knocked on her third-floor apartment door; she opened it with a fresh glass of wine in her hand for me. A natural bright redhead with hair so crunchy and curly, you could hear her coming before you saw her.
“Why do I go for the wrong men?” I said. “Do I have some type of genetic disease passed down from generation to generation? My ancestors must dictate some of my make up.” I sunk into the second-hand sofa in her living room. I didn’t bother her or myself with small talk.
She grabbed a cigarette and opened the balcony door. “Come sit outside with me first.” I got up.
“You know, I’m trying to quit,” I said.
“I know. You don’t have to smoke.”
“Give me one,” I said. We lit up.
“You don’t ‘go’ for the wrong ones.” Her mother was a social worker. “Just because you picked one sour grape doesn’t mean that you’re destined to always pick the sour one or that you always have before. It’s all a learning process.” She inhaled another puff. “And I seriously wouldn’t be that hard on yourself. It’s not like we’re encoded with the right laser beams that will attract exactly the right men. We learn as we live like everyone else, and that’s really the only way we can learn.”
“Laser beams?” I said.
“Or magnets, or whatever. You know what I mean.” She crossed her legs in her chair and leaned forward. “You have to figure out for yourself what it is you want and lay it out on the table. Do you remember in theatre class that saying: ‘‘in general’ is the enemy of art’? I think it’s the same in life too. Don’t be general about what you want – be specific and you’ll find that right person.”
“Doesn’t that kind of take away the romance of it? The mystery? And what if I get so specific that he becomes impossible to find? Aren’t I just setting myself up for failure?” I said.
“If you believe you are.” It rolled off her tongue so effortlessly that I almost didn’t catch the depth to what she was saying.
“But I’ve always picked the wrong ones in the past. My mother has, my sister has. How do you know that’s not my destiny?”
“I know because I don’t believe that any of us has a destiny to be with a bad man. We all have choices. One bad man doesn’t equal two bad men.”
“Hmmm, that’s true,” I said. I could understand that equation simply enough. “Where do you get this stuff? You should seriously start charging,” I flicked the ash off my cigarette and into her blue vintage ashtray.
“So, what are you so scared about?”
“Sometimes I wish we could go back to just chilling and smoking up in the back stairwell of Baltimore School for the Arts, talking about how big we were gonna be after all these years training as kids. That’s all I want. Is that too much to ask?” Sam said.
“Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“It’s just that we’ve defined ourselves as actors for so long, and we believed so strongly we could be it. I think we’re actors, you think we’re actors. Do we make money at it?”
“No,” I said.
“Have we trained for over fifteen years to be it?”
“Yes,” I said. Her cat crawled through the small hole in the balcony door and rubbed its back on her chair.
“Society defines us by what we do, and what we make money at. But does it mean that we have to?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” I shifted in my seat and breathed in. “It’s like we continue onward in the hope that things will get better, carrying on with the idea that this is what we’re supposed to do. But we were supposed to be the lucky ones who knew what we wanted to do all alo
ng, and now that knowledge is the bane of my existence,” I picked up for her, our words probably interchangeable at this point.
“I know, I know. We gotta re-evaluate.”
“I know we have to, but I’m not ready,” I said.
“I’m not ready to give up either. It’s like turning against something that you’ve been your entire life.” Sam grabbed a few strands of her hair and put them in her mouth, then twirled them around her free hand.
I felt the wine sinking down into my nerve-endings. “Even just answering that one little question,” I said, “that one little question that lurks in every social situational corner, waiting for you to approach someone new - ‘So, what do you do?’ How am I supposed to say, ‘Oh, I’m a personal assistant, or I’m a waitress?’ I can’t say that. That’s not who I am.”
“I guess it goes back to how others define us – and that’s by what you make money at doing,” Sam said. She pulled her lips into a frown.
“So, by that definition, we are not actors. That’s too depressing to think about,” I said.
“Definitely not uplifting.” Sam shook her head.
“But our parents told us all along, everyone did, they said that if we believe something enough, we can make it happen; that if we will ourselves to be actors, then we can become them. That’s the American way. They filled us with this intense self-belief that we are special and unique and if we believe it and set out to do it, we can. Then our mid-twenties strike,” I said.
“Out of nowhere,” she added.
“Completely out of the blue,” I agreed. “I swear we were 18 just yesterday. Mid-twenties means we’re almost too old. ‘Almost’ is just as bad as being too old. But then, oh but then, they do something even worse which is to tell us the unlikely tales of the actors in their forties who all of a sudden make it big. But that’s the question - what do you do in the meantime? Wait around for a career that may never happen? Spend most of your life miserable on the off chance that you’ll be discovered? I can’t do that.”
Three Questions Page 3