On the Waterfront

Tomorrow I go back to school. I went with my twin and her husband and baby to a place along the waterfront, down in Jersey City.

It doesn't seem real, my old life now. I am such a different person. I pick up my pen, and think of writing, but this is the first thing I have in a year.

There was a storm. I was in it.

There was an accident. I was in it.

The WTC is now the Freedom Tower.

It is so much to put in a five word sentence.

I have almost graduated.

These are things you will never realize when I walk in a room, shake your hand, smile, and say, "Hi, I'm Jessica."

Or maybe you will, because you read this.

Memorial Day

I live with a soldier. He doesn't wear war on his face, but it's there with him. It's in his silence, the normal conversation civilians have discussing the news. I woke up today,dreaming of Eric, my friend who died in Iraq.I missed his funeral. My friend Allison was an Arabic linguist. I have war all around, but remember my dad telling me about Vietnam,about his entire fraternity enlisting,drunk. His friends died in an unpopular war. Then-I remember him telling me I was lucky,our generation had had nothing happen,nothing to challenge us, nothing to make us aware. Then,the WTC happened. Then, Iraq. Then the Recession. I go to Hunter,I go to a school where every student has fought for an education. I deal with teachers who believe students are entitled. I don't see that. I see resilience,and hunger. My life changed when I was 26. I will never take anything I have for granted ever again. People die for the right to learn, the right to be free, the right to pursue happiness. I think of that every time I walk into my school now. 

One Year Ago Today-Sandy

I am over jokes about hurricane parties.I am over traveling.I am over people telling me I am "Stronger Than The Storm." Most people who say these things mean well, but really-I am not a true navelgazer, and adding several years on rebuilding after a decade of recovery after injuries is,well, really insulting. I do not want people telling me to  "let my feelings wash over me". I am over my walkabout.I am over being inspirational.I just want to go home. I know there isn't one, though, and that stings. I miss my city,I miss my waterfront,I miss my coffee-I even mis things that were gone from before,like my cat,Gizmo. I have grown up,yes-in ways that I had no idea needed to happen, and I have formed new friendships, as well as realized who my real friends are. I had to bow out of being a bridesmaid with virtually no notice for the bride.I became my own family, the person I needed to rely on, and my invitation to all had to be ,"This is my ride.Stay if you want.Leave if you don't." I took no mercy.I learned that the men I will date fall into two categories-the ones who understand, and the ones that have no idea that even if I am not talking incessantly about Sandy,I still am a refugee. I changed my major from psychology, because-well-I have no business treating patients when I am perilously close.I am adamant in my need to take care of myself,because I am my own home. That may not make sense to anyone, but it's been a year of sporadic apartments, and,while I have lived with roommates and friends-this was my sadness to bear. I spent a lot of time alone-wanting to just reaquaint myself with my new life.And,believe me-it's new.It's like running up a flight of stairs and coming back down to a whole new landscape.
     The day of the storm,the day I didn't leave wasn't because I was being a hero, or trying to outwit nature-I had a headache. So that headache made me stay in bed and not really look at my phone.My sister left to go to her friends.I had no idea there was an evacuation.My architect called-he invited me to his place.I said no-then,when I changed my mind,the Path was taken out of service-I couldn't go. I sent him pictures of me cooking.He laughed and said he had no idea I was so domestic.I stayed dressed. My apartment flooded strangely,with 12 feet in the front, but the back being dry-and that was how I managed to get my door open.I grabbed my laptop-the one I am typing on, and my purse-and waded into water up to my waist.I had a staircase in front of that door-and held on,feeling the water grab me, and managed to jump onto the stairs going up to my landlady's place.I knocked on her door, soaking wet and freaked out.She was,too. There were 4 of us, me, her, her boyfriend, her very sick brother, and her brother's home aide. I became roommates with her brother, and we watched the water.As soon as Artie's pick up was covered,we started wondering if we should get everyone upstairs.The water was over my head.We fell asleep,finally.No lights, but cards, and my twitter. After the water went down...two days later-I volunteered to go see what was out there. I went to get cigarettes. The deli had no lights, but they had cigarettes.I found a charging station. And then-I started going through my apartment. I found my mom's photos.I tossed the rest of my life.

Special thanks:
Pat Rubino
Artie
Shirley
Richard
Richard
Ron
Subin
Maura
Sascha
Stephanie

And every single person who told me it would all be ok in the end.

Gulf Sunset

I wonder sometimes what I will remember this year, what will remain,what will become blurry. I think of the rocky month getting to know my dad and his fiancee,which may be the hardest situation I have ever been in-which is saying quite a lot actually. I still look at my father and see the man he was,underneath the new life. I see the man who didn't know how to talk to children,so he brought me up to his level as a girl.I talked politics, and law before art,actually.I was pretty happy to.I remember refusing to sit at the kiddie table at a friends, much to the other mother's dismay.I remember Mrs.Bontecou telling me it was adult time. I had no idea what "adult time" meant. I won, I think and ended up sitting with my parent's at dinner. I still think I was a terrible child, and never learned many of the games my friends played. I loved my mom-and the more I meet other people in this world, the more I realize how great a person she was. But as a kid-my father was infinitely more interesting. He'd buckle me in-and off we'd go.Alone. I loved that time.My friends loved him,too. I remember a game of "Let's get lost" in his car filled with little girls, all going on a wild adventure, we knew not where. (This game was a favorite.We'd get in my dad's car and say "left" or "right" randomly. We usually ended up about 40 miles away from our house. We would sing Willie Nelson or Air Supply, with some Julio Iglesias. It was great. ) My father also has a faith in me that sometimes feels unearned. It is daunting and touching. He's a kind man -he picks up strays.He is getting a scooter for the beach and a dog. He's excited.
     We went for Mexican once. We looked at the Gulf.He tells me his life is different now. There's silence.He says he misses her. I nod.

Rearview Mirror

I have avoided writing about my family out of sadness.Sadness because so much has changed since my mom died, and since I had my two accidents, which happened the December after my mom died. I think the worst part is my dad. He couldn't cope-he couldn't cope with me being hurt, and while he handled some of my legal stuff, I never felt understood-or like he was able to be supportive.I understand, as my therapists have pointed out, that many people can't cope with someone who is hurt the way I was hurt. I know that the memory stuff lost, and the pain were not visible-but I see my father doting on every stray animal, and asking waiters how they feel, and...it hurts. I am tired of explaining, and tired of trying to bring him into the world I have now-the one where I think about how to rebuild my life.And I get really angry sometimes, because he preaches that family is the most important thing ever.And doesn't seem to understand..I am family. I am staying here and trying to sort out my post Sandy life-and all I can think is-my mom would never have let this happen. It has destroyed us. I no longer feel like his daughter.I feel like an afterthought. Think of it like this-if someone were sick or in pain, don't you think they would will themselves out of it if it were possible?I come from a very difficult family, but knowing this and experiencing it is two different things. All I would tell him-if he would listen, is that it isn't my fault I got hurt. And I don't think we will ever be ok again.It's a mess.

What happened to me

They say that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. I don't know about that, being alive, and all-but... I will say this. When I was hit by the car, right before it struck me, I heard a voice say "up". And I jumped. As the car made impact-I saw flashes of what I hadn't done yet. I was holding a very small baby, a girl. I was taking a bow on a big stage-bigger than any I had ever performed on. I kept flashing on everything I wanted and hadn't done. I never say anything to anyone, for fear of seeming crazy.But it feels like I am meant for more. Seven years later, I still haven't done those things-although I have since performed on stage and held babies. I just keep going because I feel not done yet. It reminds me of all the WTC policemen who kept in touch with me. We wouldn't talk for months, and then out of the blue, I'd get a call from the guys. We would talk a little, but mainly we told each other what we still had left to do. Tattoos were popular. Broadway was my thing. It felt good to talk about the future. I have since lost track of everyone.I will remember them forever.

Today Could Have Been Better

I am still rootless, pulling along my little suitcase. I am in nice places, true, but they are not mine.And I feel that.I feel that acutely. I am feeling like a nomad-which is funny-I am not really nomadic, but this feels a lot like my early twenties, when I was sleeping everywhere. I had jobs all over, was acting, commuting from Long Island...there is a crucial difference though. My family was here. My mother, my father, everyone.My twin.My younger sister. Now...it's just me. My twin-who was my roommate is settled with my old friend. My dad has his girlfriend, and my younger sister is married. That leaves me. My friends have always been my chosen family, but i really don't remember being this alone. And I wish that I had family to depend on. But the fact is-I don't. Rebuilding my life will include all new people. I am using this as an opportunity to get rid of everything that doesn't make me happy. Minimalism. While I wish I had a normal family, one that got together on holidays, and wished each other happy birthday, and celebrated.I don't. And I am glad I am self reliant.I just wish the price wasn't so high.

Home

In Jane Austen, home is a running theme. The heroines are always in danger of losing their status and becoming the dreaded maiden aunt-or worse-the fallen woman. I am waiting to hear about an apartment, one to replace the one I lost in Sandy. the pretty little place I lived in for a decade. I still sometimes walk in the direction of my old home, forgetting that I am in a room about ten blocks from where I lived, a full lifetime away. It's been six months. Six months of couches, and unfamiliar beds, and roommates I don't know. Living out of a suitcase. I still smell mold everywhere. I can't escape it. I am not sure what is next. I dream of running away-to another city, another state. Another place. And this isn't like me. NYC is my favorite place in the world. Except...it's not. I was talking to the architect, and he was getting irritated with me. Finally....I was like...would you be happy living like this? He didn't answer, although he has aid he wishes he were me and could just start over. Of course, that's before he got a new commission and girlfriend, and hey...I am glad one of us is happy. I just want to go home. 

Insomnia

I try not to feel bad. I work hard at optimism.I am a grateful girl, don't ever mistake that. I do, however, at this moment, hate everyone who tells me how much harder it is for them. Or about the starving children in Africa. Or the people who are less intelligent or less blessed or whatever someone has going on in their head about me and my life. I am a very private girl.I value my solitude.I appreciate those who come tiptoeing gently into my life, and even some of the ones who bulldoze their way in. But tonight I am sad. It's late, and I can't sleep.I stopped the migraine, but know tomorrow is going to be long, no matter how much I love school. It is true that you find out who your real friends are during a crisis. And-yes-I feel guilty for being a bad friend myself .For how can I be a good one if every day seems like a disaster? I think of my life-the one I built brick by brick, the acting craft I was so obsessed with. I miss that obsession. I miss feeling the adrenaline of excitement over getting into the head of someone else, finding the window into the world that each character gave me. I still slip into people's heads rather easily, and it's a favorite game. But I miss....before. I miss when my mother was around to talk to, and my main regret is that I didn't appreciate it. I miss my father, although he has moved on. Now-my twin is gone. Megan. I will probably never live with her again. Why didn't we appreciate it? It's amazing what the upside down life makes you realize. I was crying today for the first time out of homesickness. My home was my haven, the place I felt safe. I had a whole life there for twelve years. Grief-just rears up sometimes. Grieving for my health, my mother, my acting....it seems unfair. And in this world-people think you're  not taking responsibility if you don't make the choice that they think you should have. I stand by mine.I did what I had to do-and mainly-it works.I am content, if not deliriously happy-but it feels like my youth slipped away and I had no chance to enjoy it. Actually-the fact is-I did. But I have definately never taken the easy route. And now-perhaps, just for a moment-I wish I had. True-I have had so many adventures-but this is one of the nights where I think of my legacy and my place in the world. And-more simply. I want to go home. And I want to know I am on the right path.Because this is so hard.

Sitting in my room

It's been something like 68 days since Hurricane Sandy. That is a mind boggling reality. It feels like so much longer. I knew when the storm crashed into my apartment that I would never go back-but it's definately an adjustment. I have slept on friends couches, stayed in hotels, and collected bits and pieces of my belongings-which mainly consist of cotton. Or H&M. H&M is amazingly sturdy. I am definately going to make a note of that. I actually landed in an apartment a mere six blocks from where I lived. And yet-it's WORLDS away. I rarely even go down to my waterfront anymore-although that's probably because it's too cold, and I have developed a severe aversion to being chilly. I veer between being grateful I am ok, and resenting everyone's questions about FEMA-which annoys me as much as being asked how much money I got for my car accidents. Not enough. In my case, yeah-it will help. But I still am living in a strange place with people I don't know, and, to me? It's a mixed adventure. I want to see the future and embrace the new beginnings, but it still feels like I live in the tail end of a disater movie. I am not even totally sure I am the heroine. I guess technically I am. I am a little amused by what survived my Tsunami. A Kindle-which is a godsend. My perfume collection-well, mostly. My teddy bear-which survived a washing in horribly hot water. And skinny jeans. Out of all my clothes???? I never liked skinny jeans. It's so petty to be like-but, but...THEY'RE SKINNY. But I feel like that. Although they go with my boots, so what else does a girl need? I can't believe it's only been 68 days.

Disaster Girl

Today I am sitting in a cafe near what is left of my pretty Jersey City apartment. I am staying with my friend on his couch, and am quickly grabbing what I can out of my place. I found some treasures like my mom's photo album, and have done laundry. LOTS of laundry. I am not nearly as traumatized as someone caught in a flash flood in her own apartment should be. I have no cell service.No internet. But-I am here. And if nothing else-I have learned-rebuild once, you can rebuild again. Anything else isn't even an option really. School went back friday. I am still here. Ok. More later. Off to do paperwork.

Life goes on

It's 9/11. And I don't have much to say-except in the past decade, I saw the Towers fall, was down at Ground Zero, lost my mother after a decade of cancer, and had two utterly lifechanging accidents. I have never considered any part of my life as a tragedy, although others have. I think that watching my mother fight so hard to live, showed me how much life means. It's beautiful. Every single day that a person chooses to get up and fight and find the daisy in the sidewalk is a triumph. Any time a person says hello on the street, every smile given, any friendships formed, any babies born, anyone falling in love, anyone taking a leap...these are the reasons I watch in wonder. I am no Pollyanna, but the people I admire most are the ones who get up everyday and experience it. I am not acting right now, I am writing. A few years ago I never would have thought. Because most little girls want to be actresses. I always wanted to be a writer and go to college. Which in no way negates my love of acting. But after the Towers fell, I had a cop stay in touch for several years. And at the end of every call we would enumerate the things we still needed to do. He wanted a tattoo. I wanted Broadway. And in each consecutive call we would tell each other what we'd done that we hadn't before. A beautiful ritual. 

To Amandita

     I rarely answer the question directly, the question that people really want to know. My mother's death, of course, devastated me, but, I am asked constantly..."what happened?" Sometimes people's reaction to my story...isn't good. I am asked outright about lawyers and money, because, everyone has a case. Or I "look so good", which I do. Or "how was I before." That one hurts. Because my philosophy is that anything that happens to me becomes a part of me. And also, because I remember "before." My mother died four months before I was hurt. Her death gave me a lot of excuses to grieve. But what I am only now grasping is how much I grieve for the girl who ran for miles with her ponytail flying. The light girl who found the ridiculousness of every situation. I remember being pain free. And I trusted myself wholeheartedly, because there was just physical fearlessness. There was no fear that I wasn't valuable. Or fear of not being able to work. I remember when being touched was so easy. Life just seems more complicated when you have to reason out how much you can do in a day. I am not a role model, I am not hurt to help people. But if I do, if I can help you see where you can go.... then I will tell my story.
     One night, I was coming home from a party I was working. An event I had done hundreds if not thousands of times. I was coming home on a sleety december day, and was dropped off on 33rd and 3rd. The train was on 34th and Broadway. I was wearing a baby blue peacoat over my tuxedo pants, and was walking. I made it to 34th and Park, right in front of my parents apartment, my old apartment. I may have been hurrying, because of the sleet and because I still couldn't walk by my parents place. It's a bad intersection, really bad. I had seen someone killed there before. I waited in front of the deli, waited for the light. I waited, and looked both ways. As I crossed, I glanced over at the cars waiting for the light. I noticed lights in the row changing. Then I realized it was a car hurtling right at me, a white SUV. In a split second, I heard a voice in my head say "jump". A voice that I listened to. As I jumped straight up, I was tossed over the hood of the car. I still feel it hitting me on the right hip. The car stopped. I was not knocked out. Oddly. But I was furious, angrier than I can ever remember. Pure rage. I yelled at the guy, told him he almost killed me, pull over. He pretended to, then started pulling away. I grabbed my cell and called my voicemail and read the licence plate number, and he saw me. And pulled to the side almost half a block away. I clearly chased him, because I remember sitting there arguing with the woman in the front seat, who told me I was making way too big a fuss and they were late for the babysitter. I told her I was calling the police. You know, all I wanted was for him to get a ticket? Standing there, in the pouring sleet, calling 911 myself. The ambulance didn't come. I saw it where I reported the accident and walked over. Cops were there. I was terrified of the lights, and finally a cop picked me up and carried me to the ambulance. He interviewed the guy who hit me before me. The paramedics were shocked, but told me I protected my head and wasn't sucked under the car. I declined the emergency room. I didn't feel hurt. The next day I felt weird. I went to my regualar doctor. He told me that if I had internal injuries, I wouldn't have made it to his office. I asked about my back. He said rest, it would be fine. Two weeks later, I was back. I couldn't move, literally. He put his hand on my back and immediately sent me for an x-ray. It felt broken. The x rays showed no fracture. But I refused to stop my life, until my entire body had locked up. I started physical therapy. It was the beginning. I did everything I was supposed to do. I worked. I ate well, drank water. And threw up almost everyday. But I kept going because I knew that once the muscles weakened, that would be it. I kept acting. I did about nine plays. My biggest accomplishment was that you couldn't tell I limped. I worked constantly on not appearing hurt. I mean, what parts are there for a girl who can't walk? About a year later, I was working another party at Avery Fisher Hall. I had the head table for a party of a thousand people. I noticed a screen set up badly, but was going to fix it on my way back. I turned to go to my table, when a felt a crack and everything went black. I remember the pain. A waiter caught me. I thank god everyday I didn't hit my head again on the marble. I remember his face and how his ams felt about me. I have no idea what his name is. He apparently sent for my captain who never checked on me. I remember the chefs laughing because it was funny. I remember calling my father and sister who tried to convince me to leave, just leave. I didn't. I couldn't figure out where I was. I talked rationally enough to file an accident report. But I got lost on my way home. I went to sleep. And when I woke up, I couldn't see. At the ER, I was told I was lucky I woke up. I knew I was in trouble. I don't remember much. I don't remember much for several years actually. I was on autopilot. As time went on, I rationalized everything to make it seem like I wasn't devastated. To make my pain invisible. I never limped. At parties, I learned that if you smile, nod, and don't speak, no one realizes you don't know what's going on around you. I cannot say that I was anyone's inspiration. My goal was to just get through each day. About a year after I hit my head, I was switched to my beloved Dr.Lim. He took one look at me, and sent me to Kessler, which is a Rehab hospital in NJ. It is the best of it's kind. I hated every minute. From the second I was greeted by a woman with no legs asking for a cigarrette to each time I was asked if I was a therapist. But that place left me determined. I met patients and I swore to myself I was not going to be one of them. I went to every therapy session. I was eventually switched out of my group and treated separately-which is actually kind've funny. Who gets kicked out of Rehab? But I refused to say in Group that I was a different person than before. Just wouldn't do it. When the therapist asked why, I told him I was the same, just add everything to my collection. After that session, and after every successful rehearsal, my therapists started lighting up every time I walked in. The other patients wondered how they could get better. I eventually gave a presentation to the therapists on modifying my life, because they had never had a patient who could break down her own plan. I never gave up. I never stopped acting, working. I never left the regular world. I wasn't brave enough to invite my fellow patients to my play... I was worried my failure would set them back. And I was right. I gave bad performances. Several. Many. But I knew if I didn't do it, I never would again. And that has been my rule. Just do it. Because I have lost everything....and gained more back. I am a deeper person. I am a more compassionate person. I maintained my presence everywhere. And I was an actress by night, patient by day at Kessler. I wish everyone could have my advantages of will, of drive, of "fuck you". Because right now, I am exactly where I should be. I will never be that girl that doesn't appreciate anything. I won't be. I have too much, and, for the first time, I am not afraid of my future, and my past is behind me. Dr.Lim, who was my confessor for every thing I did, moved to Oregon.On my last visit, he looked at me, and said that I wouldn't have recovered without my personality. I smiled. And cried my entire way home.

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.