Leaving Home

Now, comes the time when I start talking about my life. The deeper stuff, the more painful stuff. Lessons that actually change people are not little. And for me to be the compassionate woman I am today, well, it was a long journey. I had a very,very happy childhood. Magical, really, the childhood people dream of. a beautiful house in the country with pets, and gardens, and passages, and books. But there are always say,three days, in your whole life that change your course utterly. Mine was a day when I was a senior in high school. I was sick that year. For the ENTIRE year. Lyme Disease. My mom had been diagnosed with cancer, but at that time, there was hope. For us kids anyway. Our parents, in retrospect, knew better. One day, my mother woke me up from my nap. She was absolutely ashen, but calm. And she told me I "needed to start packing." She didn't specify what. I didn't understand. So, while she went to pick up my sisters at school, I looked around....and thought about what I should pack. I decided on an overnight bag, with a small photo album, and only a few days worth of my clothes. I sat and waited. My mom came home and was upset. She had meant the whole house. I have no idea where my father was-I found out later he was unreachable in court. This was the house I grew up in, spent my whole life in. And we walked out with my cat, my dog, and overnight bags. My parents put everything in storage, which we ended up never retrieving. My last memory of my house was clutching my cat and looking over my shoulder at the house getting farther and farther away. After a moment, I looked forward. I would be lying if I said I didn't know life as I knew it was over. 

Dare

On tuesday early, early in the morning....6 am early-I checked my facebook. It may have been tuesday-I can't remember. And knew something was wrong. I had chills as I scrolled-looking at memorial posts for a friend of mine. I had just spoken to him-he was the first birthday wish I had. He checked in regularly-I knew something was wrong, and I texted him everyday. He always got back to me. Always, and fast. Until wednesday. I think....last wednesday...he never ever, complained. He told me about his neighborhood in NYC, his friends who were so close to him, much closer than his parents. He told me to get a passport because I was the kind've girl who needed one for my adventures, and knew I was afraid of flying-which he started to remedy by telling me about his duct taped adventures in Thailand. I was shocked, but it worked. If Anthony-aka Dare- was ok, well, wouldn't I be? He was so funny, went to Columbia, loved clothes. I started texting him pics of dresses I liked immediately, and he was like-"yes" or "no". So funny. I do that. No one's ever done it for me. He was proud.  He made sure that I knew he was a safe place to be, even if he was a big, fighter guy. We laughed about a satire on  "booty dancing" that was one of the dirtiest, funniest, non-pc threads I have ever loved. Both text and Facebook. It went on for an entire day-and was made even funnier because I was sitting, working, and looked up and "Save the Last Dance" was on...the scene where Julia Stiles is being taught to grind. I started cracking up-because he was so smart with his humor, so on target. I joked that he needed to teach me to dance. He was going to, I totally swear. He was going to meet me, I swear. Just, not today. He wasn't good company. "But are you ok?" So like him, I've since found out from his old friends, his childhood friends. Apparently, I was inducted into a very special club. A funny, big-hearted club. And -yes-a club of really beautiful women. I'm not joking. You should see them .You should all talk to them,too. Amazing. And looking- I realized-if these women and men in his life, who were so there, on it, couldn't save him-no one could. Here's what I knew, and thought Dare did. Whenever someone asked him about Bacon-they were saying "I love you." Whenever someone teased him about his email habits and work and coffee, they were say "I love you".  Every text, every message, every phone call. I looked at the threads written, and realized he had talked of every single person. My heart breaks a little more with every, single brutal detail that comes out. I can't read anymore. I can't. But if he saw how people treated Bacon, he would know how much he will be missed. Because he was Ant's. I can't think of him as a news article. He is just too full of life for that. 

Birthday girl

Today-it's my birthday. I made no plans except dinner with Meg. It's so funny to see where I am now-a little worried about where I'm going. When I was in first grade, I finished the entire Nancy Drew series. The WHOLE thing. All 63 books. The grown ups were impressed by my skills, but I loved her world. She was 18, had a car, a lawyer dad, and went around solving mysteries. She had two partners in crime, and a boyfriend. No mention of college. Or a job. But I never realized this at 6. She reminded me of my mom, who  knew how to dress for dinner, and knew how to be very ladylike. Perhaps she reminded me of me a little-since I was obsessed with information. Meg and I grew up in this old,old house that had more secrets than you can imagine. We found tunnels and secret rooms, turns out the house was listed as being in the Underground Railroad. So mysteries, secrets,stories, and history were all very, very real and human to me. We had the run of the place, and I remember riptailing down a huge hill to ride my bike through a stream to splash myself. Meg,too. We really had a great childhood.On our birthdays-Mom went all out. We had ponies, and clowns, and it was really funny-Meg and I were incapable of sharing friends. So-following the rules of invitation, I ended up with the boys in my party, and Meg the girls. This was a super small town, so we all knew each other so well, none of us objected, and we had one friend who was particularly good at shuttling between all the fun-Molly-who was officially Meg's friend. She brought us Strawberry Shortcake trays one time. Identical ones. So funny. Whenever we got gifts, it was always two identical things. So funny now, but when your six? We also have always had our own cakes and people sing separately. Last night, I hugged Meg, which I rarely do, and pinky swore she'd miss me. She asked where I was going. I told her we wouldn't be together forever, and we should enjoy our day. So tonight,we're having dinner, and I'm getting cupcakes-which will be different flavors. And we will toast each other. I love you, Meg. We still are partners in crime.

Titanic

I am sitting in my aunt and uncle's beautiful brownstone in Cobble Hill. I sit here writing, and I know I'm surrounded by history-this was the brownstone where  Thomas Wolfe wrote "Look Homeward Angel". 40 Verandah Place. There's a pretty little park out front,.and Bob the dog is my little buddy at this point, sitting with me on the couch. I forgot how much I missed having a dog. He's awesome. On the television, there is a documentary on the Titanic. The Titanic was my childhood ghost story. I went to the Episcopal church in Rhinebeck-where the Tiffany stained glass windows were all dedicated to men who went down with the ship-Astors....my mom told us the story, and I was so fascinated. It was a beautifully tragic story. Watching the documentary is making me go back in time, when it was just a story. And now that I'm older -perhaps the tragedy isn't so beautiful. This Easter was a bit tough-I just still mourn the family I remember. I have started to go back in history, my history to try and make sense of things. My father's family is very difficult, and filled with mysteries and miscommunications. My aunt, who has been with my uncle more than two decades has heard half truths about her husbands family, my family, and I get upset-because these people are real to me. My great grandma, Nana, who represented the devotion and warmth that was missing from my distant grandmother-who was a cigarrette and martini kind've woman. I never met my enigmatic grandfather who seems to have led a truly remarkable life of utter self sufficiency after being put on the streets as a child, during the Depression. He spun coal into gold. Drank like a fish. And died on the NY Subway. I am still unraveling them-I remember feeling a bit like they were glamorous villains as a kid, and now I wonder where that came from. I do know that Dad's family is as WASP-y as you can get, with a stiff upper lip. It wasn't until I became an actor and put the Depression in perspective that I was able to put my extended family in a place that I was able to cope with. I really don't think my father and mother realized the stories kids put together in their heads-and both of mine had serious issues with theirs. My grandmother was a divorced single mother from a blue collar background-a flirty, good time girl, which mortified my mother-who had exquisite taste and "passed" as a wealthy girl. My father, on the other hand was the more well off son of an Irish Street kid who grew up to start and launch cosmetics companies, and to market perfumes. As a matter of fact-if you walk into a drugstore, you still see his products, which he helped design. I think everyone has seen the retro bottle of Jean Nate Afterbath Splash. And the beautiful Chanel packaging. Both his.Estee Lauder Youth Dew is one of his, too, and the one my grandmother always wore. My dad's mother, to me, is the biggest enigma. I remember her asking me one morning when I was very small if she could make me scrambled eggs. I was shocked. She knew how to cook? I remember thinking she didn't like me as a little girl. In retrospect, I think she was a deeply unhappy woman who was not particularly open. She drank martinis and smoked two packs a day. I remember she stayed in her rather elegant bedroom, where I was allowed to play with her tchotchkes. There was a family of china ducks that had broken crayons in them. I spent hours trying to get them out. She also taught me to make banana slippers by crocheting. Mine were yellow. I learned to embroider, too. I never realized my grandparents were Irish. I knew we were "Irish", but not actually from Ireland. So now- I am putting the pieces together from family stories. It helps me make sense of things. 

True Love

I grew up in a family where my parents were not only fascinating, but madly, passionately in love. To an extent that occasionally embarrassed me-I mean-who wants to see their parents being all romantic all the time? I was a BIT young to fully appreciate the nature of their relationship-this was a couple who met on a blind date as basically teenagers, and were joined at the hip until my mom died at 50. For ten of those years, my mom was so sick-but? My dad never made it an issue. I would watch....and I'm not even ever sure how much my mom knew I saw of what was happening-but my dad loved her with a depth I can't even fathom. I'm not joking. I have seen all my friends play musical partners, and I've done the same. It's not a judgement, it's just the way we are. But? At the same time? My friends and I yearn for that true love, soulmate experience. It's so funny-I read a lot on "how to date" in magazines, and listen to bad dating stories, and-it seems to me that we just can't figure out just being ourselves and honest is the way to be.In my mind, that's the only way to find your lid, so to speak. My girlfriends obsess over dating sites, and the surprising thing is that the guys are just as longing. Sometimes I just wish I could grab two people's hands and say, here-you guys are perfect for each other. I find it endearing, and a little shocking that my guy friends are just as sensitive to the idea of true love. I have to say-my dating life has been a series of bad online dates, mixed with some more serious "are we or aren't we gonna try this?" relationships. I have to say- I am definately not one of those girls that dates just for company-I wish it were a little easier that way for me. I usually am hoping to fall, and to have the guy fall back. And? It's hard feeling like all your friends have surpassed you, and to wonder why you're still waiting. I have offers-and in a way-that's WORSE. Because I am starting to feel like I am the problem, despite evidence to the contrary. I mean- this week alone, I went out with a very moody Finance guy who waited til we were seated to start complaining about American women. I smiled and nodded, and drank my martini. Didn't say much, which is quickly becoming my litmus test. I have realized if I don't feel like talking, I probably don't like the guy a lot. I do have to say, at least I'm not starting every conversation with "I was hit by a car" or "You know-I hit my head really hard." Trust me-that is a true conversation killer. Yeah-note to self-learn to know what my personal business is. I mean-being an open book only goes so far.....

Frustration

Today sucked.It was one of those days where my life could not feel any more wrong. It was really- a bad day. it was a day where my money issues collided with my family issues, which collided with my work issues.Yeah-I have issues. I remember when I had a life I created, and where I was happy, and today? Just highlighted it. It was one of those days where-I just wanted to go back to where I was-just slide right on back. I'm tired of fighting with my lawyer,aka Daddy over every little crumb of treatment I can get. I'm tired of going through the motions of being a professional patient. I am tired of my own positivity. Seriously. I can only be like that sometimes. Our regularly scheduled Jessa will be back tomorrow, Hopefully. I am so frustrated.

Nirvana

I was just reading an article on home decorating. And in it the author describes an Indian Restaurant located next to Bergdorf's and above the Paris movie theatre. As I read the description, I recognized it. The restaurant was named Nirvana, and we used to go there whenever we saw a show or just wanted a beautiful place to eat. It was a restaurant that was decorated like a tent, with colors like red, and green, and blue, and the hangings were spangled with little round mirrors. It was a penthouse and you could see all the views of Central Park all around the dining area.Elephants were everywhere, and the waiters wore Nehru jackets. I always ordered the Tandoori chicken and poori bread. Meg would get chicken Vindaloo, and mom saag paneer. And we'd share. Oh-and the walls had murals. In retrospect, I laugh, because the elevator doors were scenes from the Kama Sutra. That sort've went over my head. Probably my mom's,too. I suspect my dad just didn't direct attention to them. I spent my 21st birthday there, with Meg, and my mom. This was definately a good birthday-because after Nirvana, we went to see Arcadia, which was by far one of my favorite plays ever to see. And trust me, I have plenty. It was very funny at dinner, just Meg, Mom, and I. My mom wanted me to order a drink, and for some reason, I felt too self conscious. Meg and Mom took full advantage, though, and in the pictures, you can see me with  a ginger ale, while Meg has,like, a vodka tonic. That was probably my favorite birthday celebration. After that evening, mom never ever went to a show without getting me a ticket.