The Comics Daughter Writes

STORIES/STUFF

WRITER BEWARE

~~~~~PREFACE~~~~~

Shortly after Donald J. Trump was elected president of the U.S. in 2016, famous pornographer, Larry Flynt, offered ten million dollars to anyone having information leading to Donald’s impeachment. So far, aside from Robert Mueller’s meticulous excavation, nobody has stepped forward. Larry is still in possession of ten million dollars but on November 7th, the House of Representatives flipped to a Democratic majority – a game changer for Mr. “T.”

And although, Larry Flynt’s public gesture is null and void, it brought back a personal experience and a cautionary tale that smacks of the  “me too” movement.  As a young, innocent writer, I was violated on paper, and a wild journey ensued.  When I first wrote “Writer Beware,” there were no “met too” conversations, although (as you’ll read), the same offensive behaviors persisted. That’s why this true story deserves telling, especially now.  Right now, in fact:

~~~~~MS. WRITER BEWARE~~~~~

A long time ago, women were guilty of saying the oft-used phrase, “men are pigs.” Although I had met some questionable men in my day, I never liked that sentiment. I thought it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. In retaliation, I wrote a freelance opinion piece entitled “Men Are Not Pigs” that was 1,000 words in length. The essay was positive, light and generally delightful. It contained no sexual references and no swear words.

Now however, times have altered inexorably. The current, and highly charged climate of sexual misconduct, Harvey Weinstein’s perp walk, and the “me too” movement, it turns out that “Men Are Not Pigs” was a questionable title. It still is.
As I look back to that era, the phrase, “men are pigs” was uttered casually all the time. And although I had encountered a good number of cheaters, sociopaths and scoundrels, it never sat well with me. Feeling like the phrase could create a self-fulfilling prophecy, and a path to romantic sabotage, I was moved to write an antidote to the questionable philosophy. The essence of my op-ed suggested that women should be careful about lamenting, “men are pigs” ad nauseam because these claims might create a self-fulfilling prophecy. As of today, it DID – become a self-fulfilling prophecy, that is. Oh snap.

Originally, the article came off as pithy, funny, positive, and very pro-male. Almost immediately, with beginner’s luck, I sold it for $400. When a brand new start-up magazine put out a call for essays on relationship issues, I submitted the piece. As a secretary to a television producer, I was a “wannabe” writer, which made selling this piece immediately, a living dream.

When the young (male) editor called me, he said, “Wow. You can really write. You write like a veteran. What else do you have?” His warm, friendly and encouraging call infused me with a tsunami of endorphins and dopamine. It was an enormous breakthrough. He wanted more articles!! The writer’s block spell seemed to have run its course, and I was reborn. I was ecstatic and relieved because it seemed as though my writing career was launched (or was it lynched?) There was cause for celebration. Uncork the Crystal.

I was CERTAIN that this sale signaled the launch of a career just like that of Carrie Bradshaw, Carrie Fisher or a funny Joan Didion. It didn’t. Without an agent or attorney, I naively signed a one-page agreement. When the $400 check cleared, I exhaled. In rarified territory, I was now a paid writer. Wahoo. Waiting for the premiere issue to debut, my plan was to purchase numerous copies of the new magazine and tell all my friends. Hallelujah.

There’s a twist to my literary fairytale, but you knew that.

As it turned out the magazine about “relationships,” was owned by Larry Flynt. The same Larry Flynt, who is both a successful pornographer, the subject of a motion picture, and heroic champion of our First Amendment rights. When the editor sent me a complimentary copy of the brand new, start-up magazine (which must remain nameless), I excitedly tore open the large brown envelope and quickly skimmed the contents – at which time, an electrical shock of tsunami proportions coursed through my entire torso. This was the moment when I discovered that the magazine was not about relationships. Instead, the rag-mag was 100% USDA pornography. And let me be clear. It was not soft porn – it was graphic and hard-core.

Every other page depicted spreads of coiffed designer vaginas and nuclear sized, erect cocks with bulging blue veins. In addition, my clever, PG-rated article, “Men Are Not Pigs,” preceded two pages of 1-800-955-3434 (thumbnail size) “come fuck me” advertisements.
This was my very first sale as an aspiring writer. And although I felt crushed, it actually got worse. The young, all male, crackerjack editorial staff rewrote my frothy essay and turned it into X-rated, pond scum. They transformed the article into lewd, violent images with racial insults. “Men are Not Pigs” went from being a light-hearted “romp” to first person, raunchy smut. Those boys changed everything, except my name.

The following excerpts are a few samples of their Pulitzer Prize-winning, re-write:
“Suddenly, I found myself facedown in another woman’s pussy.” (With no offense to the LGBT community, I have never found myself “face down” in another woman’s pussy. Many of my friends HAVE, however – found themselves there). Another fabrication: “They passed me around like day-old pizza.” (Inferring that I was a willing participant in a gang-bang).

When I decided to battle Larry Flynt Publications legally, it became a quintessential, David VS Goliath set up. Officially, it was considered an “intellectual property” case. That Larry Flynt’s name and “intellectual property” could end up in the same sentence was and IS another irony.

Through friends of friends, I wrangled a C-level lawyer on a contingency basis, which means if I didn’t receive a settlement, he would not receive a settlement. My C-level attorney, an unwashed version of Nick Nolte, was just as funky and low class as the situation itself. The dude’s Santa Monica office was decorated with a bicycle, basketballs, one skateboard, tennis balls, a desk, some socks in the corner, and some weird incense, it smelled like a gym. Essentially, it was a frat house, dorm room. This Nolte knockoff did have a law degree but most importantly, he was free. There were no charges. I suspect that he heard the name, “Larry Flynt,” and envisioned immediate payout.

When the day of legal reckoning arrived, I met Nolte downtown at the Los Angeles County Courthouse to hear the judge’s decision. The judge was a plump, middle-aged blond woman who looked like Betty White. She looked like a sweet woman, and I felt elated. Surely, she’d align with my case. With glasses halfway down her nose, she scanned our filing and responded quickly.

Judge Betty: “This is a very interesting case (pause). The plaintiff did sign a one-page agreement, and I could be wrong – I could, but I must side with the defendant.” Then she looked up at me, “You might consider filing an appeal. Good luck.”

Wait. It gets worse. Walking out of the courthouse, I reflected out loud to Nick.
Me: “I wonder just how they can turn PG-rated material into porn?”
Nolte: “It’s a good question. I don’t do appellate work. Best of luck.”

WHAT??? In a nano-second, a judge and my attorney dumped me on hot pavement and wished me luck. It was a whiplash moment.

Over the course of several weeks following my loss, I faxed several attorneys about filing an appeal. By this time, I was losing steam. It seemed insurmountable that anyone worth his or her salt professionally would take my case. When I did not hear back from any of the appellate attorneys, I decided to give up and chalk the whole thing up to experience. I took a deep breath and went about the business of living life again. I began to put Flynt in my rear-view mirror and move on.

And then one day, my phone rang. It was a high-profile law firm, interested in my case. They were enthusiastic about filing an appeal. An attorney left me a message that said, “Your case is very compelling. Please give me a call.” But by this time, I was exhausted, disheartened and turned off. Looking back, I wish I had persevered.

Within a month of the judge’s ruling, I received an invoice for $250 from one Flynt’s lawyers. Because I had lost to the billionaire, this letter requested reimbursement for his Mr. Flynt’s filing fees – perfectly legal. On a meager secretary’s salary, I was horrified. Without giving it much thought, and with great naïveté, I called the number on the invoice and was connected to one of Flynt’s lawyers on the phone immediately. Don’t ask me why the guy took my call, but he did. This is how it went:

Me: “Hi Mr. Blum. This is Carrie Freeman. I just lost the intellectual property case with your client, Mr. Flynt? You remember?”

Blum: “Oh yeah. How are you? What can I do for you?”

Me: “ It’s about the requested $250 in filing fees. May I be frank?”

Blum: “Of course.”

Me: Listen, you and I both know that two hundred and fifty dollars are pocket change to Mr. Flynt. You’re not REALLY going to make a secretary write you a check are you?”

This attorney either took pity on me or was shocked at my gall. Without any fanfare, he said, “That’s fine.”

Totally shocked, I thanked him. It was so easy. But since I had him on the phone, I went further.      Me: “Now that’s it’s over, may I ask you one question?”

Blum: “Sure.”

Me: “How do you figure that it’s OK for a PG-rated article to be turned into X-rated, violent and racially offensive material without the permission of the author?”

Silence. Blum finally replied, “Good question. You should go into law.”

After “Men Are Not Pigs” was bastardized, I did not write again for well over ten years. Eventually, I defrosted from the literary assault, however – wrote two books and set up a blog site.

“Writer Beware” is a cautionary tale. It posits that writers must beware and be aware. All writers know that every single event is fodder for a story, and this was no different. Although the experience was lousy and shocking, I also knew it was a darkly funny and ironic. I saw the humor then, and I see the humor now.

LOG LINE: Girl writes a fluff piece called Men Are Not Pigs and a male editor transforms it into pure porn.

                                                      ~~~~~EPILOGUE~~~~~

You would think that I dislike Larry Flynt, but I don’t. I like that Mr. Flynt is a self-made man who knows more about the First Amendment than our current president. And I really appreciate that Larry Flynt is on the blue side of politics. When the Democrats take the house on November 7, 2018, Flynt’s patriotic offer of ten million will be null. Instead, expect the Democratic Party and Bob Mueller to stalk Trump like the crocodile stalked Captain Hook in the tale of Peter Pan. Tick tock. Tick tock.

And even though my Writer Beware experience was exhausting and humiliating, I actually do not believe that all men are pigs – only some – like the ones who wear red ties and drink lots of beer. Writer Beware.

THE COMIC’S DAUGHTER – (the movie pitch © 2015)

LOG LINE

Based on a true-crime, coming-of-age memoir, The Comic’s Daughter: A Chicago

Tale begins in 1963. When the teenaged daughter of a talented, philandering

nightclub comic testifies at a Mafia murder trial, it launches her dramatic and

sometimes funny struggle to break free from the vice grip of her father’s suffocating

narcissism, her mother’s icy rejection, and dark secrets that threaten to annihilate

the family.

 

SYNOPSIS

The Comic’s Daughter centers on the conflicted and enmeshed relationship

between 13-year-old protagonist CATHY and her father DINK, THE COMIC, the

story’s charismatic antagonist.

 

CHICAGO, 1963: Cathy jumps into the front seat of her family’s Datsun, ready to cut

7th-grade volleyball. “Hi, Mom.” HELEN, The Comic’s Wife, stares straight ahead and

delivers the following with her cool, deadpan panache: “Plans have changed. We’re

not going to the dentist. Joni shot Johnny, and he’s dead.” This event informs the

next seven years of her life. Cathy is – was, their constant babysitter and the last

person to see Johnny alive.

 

(JOHNNY MANCUZZO is The Comic’s new agent. His wife JONI is a beautiful blonde

singer. When Cathy and her mother are subpoenaed to testify for the defense at The

People vs. Joni Jaden Mancuzzo trial, the FBI is unexpectedly stationed at their house

day and night. Because Johnny’s father is the “John Gotti” of Chicago, the Mafia

wants Joni and all witnesses in someone’s trunk. In the evenings, Cathy makes

covert, late-night visits to Joni’s safe house in the belly of downtown Chicago.

 

After the stunning and rapid 90-minute “not-guilty” verdict, Joni escapes to Florida

with her kids and leaves a vaporous trail, never to be filled. While the fog of trauma

sticks to Cathy like black tar, she enters high school grappling with an untreated

nervous disorder, a fondness for her dad’s pills, and a shoplifting arrest. With newly

sprouted breasts, she foils sexual advances by Murph the Surf (a jewel thief in

Miami), her lesbian counselor, and her Robert Redford look-alike senior drama

teacher. In each case, she replicates the artful dodger. Cathy has learned well from

cheaters, sociopaths, and wife-beaters like Johnny.

 

In 1969, Cathy embarks on a fleeting, impactful romance with David, a brilliant

young writer. Both lover and mentor, David challenges her with one question:

“What are you going to do with the rest of your life?” She shrugs. “You’re very

smart. You have a great brain. You should get an education.” CUT TO:

SOUTHERN ILLINOIS UNIVERSITY: Cathy earns stellar grades, trips on orange

sunshine, and swims naked in the local lakes. When the Symbionese Liberation

Army throws smoke bombs into her dormitory one night, she calls The Comic. “Dad

– I’m scared. Can you come get me?” He does.

 

On the five-hour drive, Dink tells Cathy that she has a secret sister, three years

younger. “I had an affair with a cocktail waitress in Kansas. I thought she was 18.

Your mom doesn’t know.” Cathy wants to jump from the speeding car, but the doors

are locked.

 

Back home and devastated, she cannot look at her mother. Within weeks, Cathy

lands a scholarship to UNLV. By this time, The Comic’s Wife has at last come to

adore and even bond with her daughter, however, it’s too late. Cathy must leave.

O’HARE AIRPORT, 1970: At the gate with Cathy, Dink suggests they take his old

flame to dinner when he visits Vegas. Cathy won’t have it. Summoning newfound

maturity, Cathy finally slaps him down. “No, Dad. You’ve been doing this to me my

whole life. I’m not your buddy. I’m your daughter. Normal fathers don’t tell their

daughters this stuff. I love you, but I’m done here.”

 

Without looking back, she boards the Pan Am jet for Las Vegas. The Comic stands at

the terminal window and watches her plane taxi down the runway as she embarks

on an entirely new life.

 

The Bad and The Beautiful

For what do we live,
but to make sport for our neighbors
and laugh at them in our turn?
—Jane Austen

Throughout my formative years, no two neighbors stand out more than Dotty and Irmgard, whom I have labeled The Bad and the Beautiful. Both women were opposites in every way. Dotty, the “bad,” was a sociopath, who tried to stab me, and Irmgard, the “beautiful,” was a sweet, mild-mannered German immigrant who baked jelly donuts and had clean, but hairy armpits.
***
When I was around nine years old, we moved into a two-story apartment building in Park Ridge, Illinois, a suburb of Chicago. It was situated on Northwest Highway, one-half mile from Maine East Township High School.

Dorothy, our landlady, was basically Cruella Deville on steroids. She and her husband lived downstairs with their two young children, whom Dorothy beat regularly with the metal end of a belt buckle. I observed the violence regularly. I watched her chase the kids down a long hall, and slash their flesh. Dorothy’s violent insanity appeared to be arbitrary because the children BEHAVED. In retrospect, she probably drank.

About five foot, ten inches tall, with dyed jet black, unruly hair and old, crusty makeup smeared under her eyes, “Dotty” hunted her children outside on the sidewalks like a neighborhood madwoman, usually wearing a sheer negligee. This woman’s regular costume was the pastel negligee – She even served cookies and milk in that nightgown and had no qualms about answering the door in that manner. More importantly, Dotty locked her two kids OUTSIDE, in sub-zero, Chicago temperatures with no provisions. On many occasion, my mother gave those kids food and brought them in out of the freezing cold. Looking back, The Comic’s Wife probably saved their lives.

When we moved into their building, Dorothy and her husband neglected to mention one little caveat: They were selling the apartment building BUT kept the impending sale a secret. In order to collect some money, they rented it to my parents under false pretenses. Dotty and her husband wanted stream income for a few months – once the two-story sold, the Freeman’s were supposed to move…again. The Comic and his wife didn’t like this one little bit and retained an attorney. In addition, we eventually found out that the couple upstairs, (of Polish descent), were bigots! They did not like Jews. Too late.

Without realizing it, the Polish anti-Semites rented their upstairs apartment to German/Ashkenazi Jews. Uh oh. Not good. Secretly, stealthily, living upstairs. The awful truth surfaced one day when Dorothy, and her extraordinarily unattractive, husband, Adolph, were sitting in our kitchen, drinking coffee. This was before things went “south” over the rent issue. Dorothy’s husband, who owned a tavern downtown, said something like “Those damn Jews” and he did so with a sneer. It was my first experience of discrimination – Of being a shameful, persecuted minority. As “those damn Jews” sunk in, an awkward moment ensued as I observed furtive glances shoot back and forth between my parents, almost like cartoon bubbles above their heads.

 

Helen’s bubble: “Oh shit.”
Dink’s bubble: “Oh, this could be fun.”
Helen’s bubble: “NO! Don’t.”
Dink’s bubble: “Oh come on, Helen…Get a sense of humor.”
Helen’s bubble: “Don’t! “Dink! I’m telling you…”
My mother’s last bubble: “DON’T”….

Her tone – her familiarly arched eyebrow. They both lit cigarettes. She, a Marlboro. He, a Pall Mall. Smoke billowed, as I watch with baited breath. The Comic wanted DESPERATELY to cause trouble and say something funny and awful. My mother continued giving him wifely warning glances, urging him to behave. Dink liked to dick around with ignorant people. He called it “putting them on”. It was a very British concept: “putting people on.” It meant kidding them in a way that’s confusing, passive but highly amusing to the individual doing the “putting on”. That particular day, my mother didn’t really give him a chance to do that. That day in the kitchen, my mother managed to quell The Comic’s comic impulses. She won. It was one of the rare occasions when Dink kept his mouth shut. It didn’t matter much because, within a month, World War III broke out over the rent and moving. To make matters more awkward, the Polish couple found out that the family upstairs were purebred YIDS.

One day, Dorothy scared the absolute crap out of me. She chased me up two flights of stairs with a butcher knife. With our families feuding like the Hatfields and the McCoy’s, Dorothy went insane when she saw me playing with her two children after school. Unfortunately for me, a shiny butcher knife was in her hand when she saw the “Jew girl” laughing with her children. With cutlery in hand, the outraged Slavic landlady came flying towards me, as I went AIRBORNE, and flew up those stairs. As Dorothy yelled, her one arm poised with the knife, like the shower scene in Psycho.
I yelled for my mother to open the fucking door. I was nine. “MOM, MOM. Open up. She’s got a knife. MOM. MOM”.

I had clearly seen what Dorothy could do with a belt buckle. I could only imagine what she was capable of with a knife. Our kitchen door flew open and I fell to the linoleum floor panting. Mom slammed it shut in Dorothy’s ravaged face. I heaved and hyperventilated while my mother called the police. Sirens blazed quickly and the cops showed up. They took her away and booked her. As usual, my mother was annoyed and my dad was out of town. On advice, we got a restraining order and moved within weeks. Like many bizarre incidences in my life, it was never discussed. I was left to assume that this kind of drama and violence was, well…. sort of normal.

A few days after the butcher knife incident, The Comic arrived at O’Hare airport from a club date in Ohio. When Dink gave the cab driver our address in Park Ridge, the cabby turned around and smiled broadly at my father. Showing some stained yellow teeth (according to my father), the driver said, “Ohhhh…you goin’ to Dotty’s place?” And then he winked.
Years later, Dorothy got killed in a tavern brawl.

Incredibly, Dorothy, our violent and insane landlady, inspired me to write. I suspect that writing emerged as a coping mechanism, much like art therapy provides emotional expression. It helps troubled children illustrate the inexpressible. At such a tender age, I tried to do the same – I tried to make sense of what evil I had experienced up close and personal. After the butcher knife “incident”, I sat at our dining room table on a cushion and cranked out dialogue on a Smith-Corona typewriter. And so it came to pass that Dotty, the drunken, violent, racist slut inspired me to become a writer.

***
Our next landlady, just down the street on Northwest Highway, inspired me to BAKE. Irmgard was a gentle, very plain German immigrant who was very clean but did not shave her legs, or armpits. Helmet, Irmgard’s serious husband, liked it that way. Body hair aside, she was easily forgiven because every Sunday morning, Irmgard made jelly donuts from scratch and delivered them to our door.

Our new German landlords were the polar opposite of Dorothy and her husband, Hitler. Irmgard and Helmut were sweet, gentle and quiet. Each and every Sunday in fact, our entire building smelled like a bakery. Unbelievable smells wafted into our apartment while 40 German immigrants piled into the upstairs apartment for celebration. I don’t know what they celebrated, but it happened weekly.

As her English improved, Irmgard became a welcome regular in our kitchen, along with their 3-year old daughter, Birgit. I played with Birgit, but I never understood a word she said. Birgit had the uncanny ability to speak in both German and English at the same time, making interpretation impossible. And she spoke fast – like in double time. Whenever we played, I simply nodded over and over, pretended to understand, but I did not grok a word she said. Nevertheless, Birgit was a sweet little girl, just like her mother. Pretending to understand Birgit is probably where I developed calcium deposits in my neck.

Within three months of our family moving into the new building, Irmgard began shaving her legs and armpits. Helmut became furious over the Americanization of his wife and stopped speaking to my mother. It was tense, but the donuts kept coming. By the time we moved to St. Louis, all hell had broken loose. Irmgard began wearing lipstick and mascara. Helmut thought my mother was the devil.

Welcome To Retail

Looking back on November 9, 2016, the day after the momentous presidential election in history, I should have known. I should have known that working in retail, especially over the holidays, was going to be challenging (cough). I should have known when the store manager, with the dreadful resting face, immediately messed up my schedule and blamed me for her error.

Princess Resting Face: “Oh, you walked away with the time off request form. I never saw it. It’s not in the binder.”

But I didn’t do that. I did not “walk off” with the document. I placed it in the binder exactly where it belonged. This time off request form simply stated that I could not work on Sunday mornings, before 2PM. So what did she do? She scheduled me on Sunday mornings! Within a second of her accusation that it was my fault, I found the form in question. It was inside the store binder – filed correctly. From there on, it got nuttier. I should have known.

This chain of women’s clothes is, for the most part, uninspired, and caters to middle-aged women. The clothes are quietly pleasant, but once in a while, amongst the garden-variety designs, there are a few really great pieces. I bought those.

What brought me there was clearly not the salary. So minuscule, the wage wasn’t even going to get me a “happy meal” at McDonald’s. No, I signed up for a part-time job over the holidays as a means to add more structure to my life; remind me of humility, and to make sure that I would not jump off the Griffith Park Observatory. It also seemed like a good “pattern interrupt” to my normal life as a clinical hypnotherapist and author. What I took home out of those four weeks were the following: Three tops, one pair of pants, two necklaces at fifty percent off, a partridge in a pear tree, and a few fun “retail” stories.

Here’s the thing. Living the life of a self-employed, entrepreneur, I had forgotten all about corporate America. Corporate American likes money (just like the current president, number 45) and as such, it wholeheartedly likes credit cards! Just to emphasize my point…one of the strongest pieces of advice I received from the veteran sales team was the utter importance of getting customers to open a store credit card. Unbeknownst to me initially, the “credit card push” was going to be vital to my future at the store (what future?). In turn, for the remarkable feat of getting Jane Doe to sign up for a store credit card, I would receive absolutely nothing. Nothing.

On the day that my very first customer signed up for a store credit card, the crack sales veterans treated me as though I had just scientifically reversed the aging process and solved world peace, all at once. It was astounding. Once the customer departed our mall shop, I got passionate high fives from everyone, even Princess Resting Face. Although I did not receive a text from the COO of this chain, my herculean achievement did earn me a blue star, on a two foot by three-foot poster board. And located next to each sales associate’s name, was a tiny, Picasso-like caricature of that person, created by one of the assistant managers (a pop artist). Being the new gal, my welcoming caricature was of a terribly distressed woman, next to a caption, “WTF am I doing here?”

Indeed. What WAS I doing there? I should have known…

It was unfortunate timing, but I began the regrettable job just a few days after Donald J. Trump was elected President (by the Electoral College, mind you). Like 2.8 million, it put me into a deep depression and left me with a sense of hopelessness. When I entered the dull but pleasant store on November 10th, the first thing I noticed was that nobody, and I mean nobody, was depressed. Their cavalier behaviors were cavalier at best, and suspicious. I waited all day for some kind of sign that one of these sales geniuses had voted for HC or Bernie, but no such confirmation appeared. In fact, over the course of four weeks, I never found out. One day, however, a lovely, white-haired woman came in and walked up to me without hesitation. Utterly charming, she spoke with a fantastic Australian accent. Blimey. She sounded like Meryl Streep in that Aussie movie where Meryl famously said, “The dingo stole my BABY!  Well, that lady sounded just like Meryl. After a moment of chitchat, she said, “Would you like to come live in Australia for the next four years?” “YES!” I exclaimed. Then, “How did you know?”

She said, “I could tell. You just have a look. “We, in Australia have been watching, and we are appalled by your election. We are appalled. I feel so bad for you.”   Me too, I thought.

This was the most bonding I did with anyone at that store, except Margaret, a deaf-mute. When Margaret walked in, I knew immediately that she was deaf. I’ve worked with a number of handicapped clients, and her condition was obvious. And better, she knew that I knew, so we had rapport immediately, and then I proceeded to help Margaret find lots of clothes for her pending trip to the UK. About 25 minutes into Margaret trying on clothes, another assistant manager (the place was crawling with assistant managers), named Misty, beckoned to me privately. But before I tell you what Misty said, I also must share that Misty looks like a fifty-year-old Britney Spears. Remember Britney in, the “Oops, I Did It Again” video? Well, Misty looks like she should be wearing plaid skirts and sucking on a cherry lollipop. In addition, she talks exactly like Georgia Engel, the child-woman character from the Mary Tyler Moore show. Remember her? She was Ted’s girlfriend, Georgette Franklin Baxter. Really sweet and really dumb.

With the sweetly stupid delivery of Georgette Baxter, Misty spoke to me like a kindergarten teacher. At this juncture, I had been working with Margaret for at least a half hour, when Misty pulled me off into a private corner.

Misty: “Now listen, that woman can’t hear, so you’ll have to make sure she can read your lips.”

Me: “REALLY? I hadn’t noticed.”

No, I thought it, but I didn’t say it. Margaret, my new best friend, bought a ton of clothes. She left the store very satisfied and thanked me warmly. The only wrench in this lovely novella was that although I sold her lots of clothes, I was unable to ring up Margaret’s sale and receive credit (not commission). The reason I could not ring up the sale was because the veteran sales women on the floor trained me for about fifteen minutes on a highly complicated computer system – a system that would give Edward Snowden a hernia and confuse the hell out of Bill Gates. The game amongst most of these women became, “Let’s watch Carrie TRY to ring up sales, without help.”

And that’s what they did for almost a month. They had a blast.

Princess Resting Face: “Cover the front of the store.” But she wouldn’t train me.

Then she ordered me to, “Spend the day in the fitting rooms, helping people.”   But she wouldn’t train me on the computer system.

When I stood behind an associate to watch the 90 plus steps to ringing up a pair of leggings, I was told, “Get back out onto the floor.”

Cue song: “Get back Jo Jo. Get back to where you belong.” Eventually, on my final day, when I could not recall ONE step to ringing up a sale, the manager unloaded on me, “You need to get this. Hypnotize yourself. Just hit enter. Get over it.”

It was a classic double bind and a recipe for failure.

This was not the only insufferable and patronizing experience. There were the answers I received to basic questions. As an example – when I asked Misty where a blouse belonged, she effectively condescended.

Misty: “Now Carrie, just think about that question for a second.”

In response, I said, “Just answer the fucking question.” No, I didn’t do that. I took it on the chin as the new kid. When I asked someone else a different question, the answer I received was similar in tone, “Silly girl,” she said, grinning. Ladies, retail geniuses – please answer the frigging question! “Silly girl” is not an answer. In fact, “Up your ass” would have been a much better answer. At least it would have given me a location.

I should have known.

Well…silly me was accurate. I did not realize that the mean girl mentality existed amongst middle-aged women (many, not all of course). Silly me. I thought bitchiness was relegated only to high school girls with tats. I did not know that an impossibly dull, retail store could be fertile ground for a sit-com, blog or my next movie: Welcome to Retail.

Further, I did not know that my sales IQ rested on being able to identify slim cut pants from boot cut; OR wide leg pants from palazzo pants. I did not know that my future rested on knowing where to restock a petite LARGE. Isn’t’ that an oxymoron?

Mostly, here’s what I want you to know. Whenever a salesperson signs you up for a new credit card, a retail angel gets their wings and a salesperson gets a blue star. Not only that, corporate America gets a big, fat BONER.

Welcome to retail.

 

Magic Mac

Except for sociopaths and spectacular narcissists, the experience of falling in love is holistically universal; and infinitely exciting. For me, it is also instantaneous. Always has been.

In my world, falling in love has never ever been about “becoming friends first,” “growing closer” or “letting the feelings develop.” (shoot me) It’s been more like the “Fast and Furious” franchise, i.e. fast and furious. Historically, when that cherub love arrow strikes, I quickly morph into a thunderstruck, puddle of limerance. And as mentioned, this rare and glorious phenomenon happens in a mere nano-second. In that quantum moment, I know. It just IS.

Strangely, that’s what occurred recently when I ate lunch at a famous, members-only club in Hollywood. I fell passionately in love, but not with a human being…

When a good friend Sandi, who is on the Board of Directors, of a members-only establishment, invited me to their Friday buffet lunch last May, I accepted. I had been declining her repeated invitations, and looking back, I should have said yes straight away – I should have said “yes,” because this is an enchanting place that has been in existence for over 40 years and not everyone gets entry. Its’ members rate in the thousands, and it’s known throughout the world. Sitting on top of a Hollywood hill, it is a striking, castle-like, mansion, converted to a club and decorated with turrets – a real stunner. In addition, everyone smiles a lot, including the valet. Also, guests and members are required to dress upscale. Men must wear a suit and tie. I once saw staff run around madly, looking for a tie for Dick Van Dyke.  Mr. Van Dyke was jovial (he’s always jovial!), but the establishment makes no exceptions.

My friend met me in the main lobby, and graciously guided me into the warm, old-world dining room which was already filled with veteran members, schmoozing, table-hopping and having a jolly good time. After a few introductions, we got seated, grabbed a large plate, piled them high, and “dove in.” Admittedly, Sandi had raved about the quality of food at this place, but for some reason, I doubted her. She was correct, and I had to cry foul because the buffet experience was totally excellent – not exotic, gourmet or unusual – just extremely good. The chopped Caesar salad was especially excellent because it was chopped. Out of respect for my vegetarian readers, I’ll not detail exactly what I personally ate – think of an Elk’s convention and that will suffice. I liked the food a lot. It reminded me a little of my mid-western roots.

The one dish, however, that caused a seismic shift in my taste buds, brought me to spasms of uncontrollable delight, and caused me many visits to the buffet line, was the creamy…(drum roll please) macaroni and cheese (heretofore abbreviated: “mac&chz”). Having eaten over 300 hundred versions of mac&chz in my lifetime, including Kraft, of course, this particular concoction was remarkable.  It was sinfully rich, irresistibly and even sexy. So scrumptious and perfect was the yellow pasta, it begged for a nickname. In an instant, my subconscious and the great Universe delivered it: Magic Mac. I labeled the mac&chz, Magic Mac  – here’s my point: If this recipe were a male stripper (which makes no sense), it would most certainly be Channing Tatum – i.e. Magic Mike. Trademark office, here I come: Magic Mac is a franchise!

Allow me to briefly describe my thrilling and romantic discovery. Fully expecting that the lunch buffet mac&chz would taste like it was shipped from the Veteran’s Hospital, I scooped a small spoonful onto my plate out of sheer habit. And except for the unusual, reddish brown crumble on top, it looked like any garden-variety side dish, at any Sunday church bizarre.

Much to my shock, it was not garden-variety. It was fantastic! It was brilliant. The long, slender, curly pasta, dripping with a myriad of unidentifiable cheesy flavors, and covered by some kind of baked, crispy topping, was a fucking revelation. A revelation I tell you. My taste buds flew into an altered state, causing the love hormone, oxytocin, to flood my entire system. And although I have never taken the love-drug, MDMA (also known as Ecstasy), I imagine my reaction to the mac&chz was akin to being high on MDMA. All in all, it tasted like falling in love.

I met my soul mate that day. Like a beautiful love song, it was a deeply visceral, life-altering experience. Without fully realizing it, I had been searching my whole life for Magic Mac, and now that I found him, there would never be another. My fidelity (and taste buds) were instantly locked and loaded.

As pleasurable as it all was, my intense attraction to Magic Mac presented a slight problem. Somehow, someway, I would have to obtain the recipe. I was not going to sleep well or catch a good breath unless this mission impossible was accomplished expediently. Just thinking about the way Mac tasted and smelled, sent pleasure hormones rushing through my torso, igniting feelings of passion, lust, and anticipation. Suddenly, all propriety went out the door. The day after lunch I asked my friend (on the Board of Directors) if she could please obtain the sacred, cheesy recipe from their talented chef. She graciously offered to ask the chef. She appeared confident.

It’s been a few days now. Haven’t heard a word. Anticipation mounts and my monkey mind is bouncing around the cage.

TIME has stopped. My heart is anxious. I cannot sleep, eat or concentrate. I have not heard anything yet about the Magic Mac recipe… The anticipation and insecurity are torture, as is always the case in matters of love. This reminds me of Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s 1958 epic poem, “I Am Waiting”  –  an eccentric and brilliant piece of writing that went on for pages and pages.  59 years later, it still stands up (and was my favorite poem in college).

Dear Lawrence, I too am waiting. I am waiting for my new lover to call. While I wait, there’s a both anticipation, and hope. And during this emotional limbo, I am left wondering if the affair with Magic Mac will continue. “Will I hear from him?” “Will there be a relationship?” “Will we commit?” “Will he love me tomorrow?” It was a cacophony of typical lovesick questions.

Well, sometimes, happy endings ensue. I did not have to wait long. My cracker-jack friend, always game for a challenge, obtained the coveted recipe. When Magic Mac finally arrived, via PDF format at precisely 3 PM on the following Monday, I stopped everything, downloaded the doc and hit “save.”

WHEW. Mac came back. He called. Thank you God! Without further adieu, and without any foreplay; and like an afternoon quickie, I thrust Magic Mac directly into my “in-box.” Ahhhh. With such relief and pleasure co-mingling, it felt like a non-chemical version MDMA had just flooded my body, mind and spirit…it was what I might describe as “organic ecstasy.”

The Power of Shoe Repair

They were the most expensive pair of sandals I had ever bought. After wearing them only once, the recession hit and my salary was promptly cut. As a result of this misfortune, I went directly into buyer’s remorse. During the checkout, I inquired if the shoes came with a warranty, but they did not.

In addition to being both pricey and exquisite, the Stuart Weitzman sandals were and are, infinitely wearable. I imagine one could traipse all over Italy on cobble stone streets in these shoes, and never get one blister. I’d love to try. Groupon, where are you?

Aside from the fact that the shoes were, and are, stellar; there was another reason that I spent almost $400.00 that particular day. My oldest friend from childhood, Karen, told me to buy them. She said, “You have to get them. They’re gorgeous. You’ll wear them forever.” Coming from a woman who was dying of cancer, the irony of her pitch was stunning.

I didn’t know it, but this would be our last girlfriend outing ever, in life. It was our final lunch at The Cheesecake Factory and, our final romp through a shopping mall, albeit slowly. K, as many called her, was smack dab in the middle of her second round of chemotherapy, but bless her heart – she walked proudly. Exhibiting amazing spunk, she defied the chemo-fog in her head and the weakness in her muscles. Despite the tumors in her lungs, brain, bones and breasts, we lived for the moment and had a blast that day. Clearly, my buying those shoes and going into debt made Karen very happy. And there was nothing I wanted more than to make Karen happy. As a result of our final outing, those Stuart Weitzman’s became “our sandals.” When Karen passed away 7 months later, I wore “our sandals” to her memorial.

But a few months after Karen died (and while still grieving mightily), something lousy happened. I put on the precious shoes, and noticed that the back of both heels, were gouged out. Wha??? It was crazy. Could not believe my eyes! It was as if someone had taken an ice pick and attacked the smooth and shiny wedge backs. The damages made me ill. I even got out of bed at 3 a.m. and looked at them again, just to see if the whole affair wasn’t my imagination. But no, the sandals were trashed. And now my grief was doubled. The shoes represented the last vestiges of my earthly connection Karen – before the final horrors of cancer kicked in.

K was my oldest and dearest friend. We had been whooping it up and making trouble since meeting at the age of 18. Throughout the years, she had been my “wingman” and my witness. Karen and I were Thelma and Louise; Oprah and Gayle; Kathie lee and Hoda… Our special shoes were ruined, and I had not even paid off the Nordstrom’s card.

After a few days of feeling sorry for myself, I remembered a quote by iconic folk singer, Joan Baez: “Action is the antidote to despair.” So I went into action.

My first plan of attack was driving to Luis, the most famous shoe repair in West Los Angeles. Luis was a landmark place and had been on Santa Monica Boulevard for over 30 years. Early, on a Saturday morning, I headed over Laurel Canyon Boulevard from the San Fernando Valley to Sunset Boulevard and hung a right. From Sunset, I made a left onto La Cienega and then another right onto Santa Monica Boulevard.Traffic wasn’t too bad. I was feeling lucky. After much circling the bustling neighborhood, I parked in front of The Palm restaurant (before it moved to Beverly Hills), and paid a million dollars to the parking fairy. Carrying the magic sandals in a plain brown bag, I headed out on foot towards Luis, the brilliant, one of a kind, shoe repair.

As I stood on the sidewalk, staring at Luis’ famous storefront, my eyes came into focus. When that happened, I quickly discovered that I was not staring at Luis at all. Luis was GONE. It had been replaced by yet another California cuisine restaurant. Wha???

Crushed but not daunted, I rushed home and cruised the Internet until I found four high-end repair shops, relatively nearby. Within an hour, I headed out again. Upon approach and systematically on cue, each repair “expert” shook their heads gravely and said, “No lady. I can’t fix them.” “No lady. I can’t fix them.” Exactly four times, I got “No lady.” With each dismissal, I became angrier and angrier. By the end of the day, I was just a little out of my mind. Frustrated, I drove to Hobby World with the insane notion that I could fill in those gouges with some kind of plaster, putty or filler material and then re-paint – just like cosmetic bodywork on my Elantra. It seemed genius, but once inside, I became dizzy and fled. All the choices overwhelmed me. DaVinci I am not. Before leaving however, I saw Kevin Nealon.

For the next few days, I continued to chew on the problem. Then, out of the blue, I remembered something. I remembered that my neighbor’s best friend, Mimi, a prop-maker, was well-known for creating bizarre and brilliant props, for films, television, commercials and music videos. I thought maybe, just maybe, if Mimi had time, she might see a creative solution.

I waited until 9 a.m. and called my neighbor, Debra. I inquired as to whether Mimi would be willing to take a look at the damaged shoes and advise… all the while, hoping not to insult her professional expertise and reduce her to a shoe repair service. Ever the artist and game for a good challenge, Mimi became intrigued by the challenge. She told Debra, “Let me have the shoes for a week, and I’ll see what I can do.” And when I sent the shoes to her, it felt a little like sending my kids to camp and not being able to call.

Within two weeks, the Stuart Weitzman shoes were returned to me perfectly restored. When I say “perfect,” I mean they looked BRAND NEW. It was miraculous. Mimi, the exquisite prop-maker, did not say “no lady.” She saw a challenge and went to work. And by the way, Mimi did not know the “back story” on Karen and the shoes, until after she had completed the job. And although she tried to refuse, I paid her.

This seemingly pointless story has a point.

A year following Karen’s death, I prepared for the gargantuan job of marketing, and selling my very first book; and this prospect gave me hives. Like my experience with all the shoe repair stores, I was terrified of being told “No lady.” But let’s get real please – massive rejection is an unpleasant experience that all authors endure. I knew that, and I know that. Just to name a few, the unparalleled Stephen King, and John Grisham experienced hundreds of rejections. It was also not lost on me that Karen had cancer and I had fear. Two different planets…

During this prep, I walked into my closet and saw the Howard Weitzman ruby slippers on the floor. I stared at them. I thought about Karen’s noble fight, always with humor and no complaints. Right there, right then, in the middle of my divine walk-in closet, it struck me that all I needed was the same true grit in regard to selling my book as I exhibited in getting “our shoes” perfectly restored. Like Dorothy in Oz, I clicked my heels and found courage. It wasn’t enough though. I also needed a strategy, a philosophy and most importantly, a football “cup.”

The old me would not have exhibited such fearlessness. Whenever I experienced rejection in the past, I ate dark chocolate, slept for days, and wept. This was no longer the case. Drawing on my great success in restoring the Stuart Weitzman sandals, I became more determined. With every literary rejection, my resolve becomes greater. Karen bequeathed me an invisible gift – the power of intention, aka, the power of shoe repair. to infect the quantum field of my dreams.

I wore the sandals the other day. No less than five people said, “God, I love those sandals!” Each and every time that happens, I am certain that Karen gets more wings.

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Someday, the Stuart Weitzman sandals will fall apart. When that sad day occurs I will take them to Aaron Brothers and have them framed in a Lucite box, affixed to a Tuscan orange background. I will hang “our shoes” in the warm and luxurious office of my Tuscan home – when I get that home – when I sell that book. One thing I know for sure: The divine is always present in the mundane. The power of shoe repair is really, and only, about the power of love.