I'm watching Henry VIII on PBS while I write this. This is a new one with Helena Bonham Carter playing Anne Boleyn, the king's doomed second wife. I've been following her career since she starred in Room With a View and I'm fairly certain I've seen everything she's been in, including the awful Frankenstein Bride sequel and that one episode of Miami Vice she was on. I still love her, she is so lovely and she doesn't work enough for me. But that's how I feel about almost any actor I love.
The original BBC series and the one that followed, Elizabeth starring Glenda Jackson, (Ooooh Glenda Jackson -- always loved her, fascinating, powerful, sexy, and talented woman,) were two of my most favorite shows when I was about thirteen or fourteen I think. Watching them gave me something to do with my Father who was mostly removed and absent. Television was one of the very few things we were able to share, so I remember this series fondly and made it my mission to learn everything I could about British royalty to please my father. I thought that if I could recite the entire line of British succession that I could make him love me. I know more about the Kings and Queens of England than I do about our Presidents and First Women.
I'm sorry to belabor this mattress drama with Rosa but I use this journal as an emotional outlet -- in the same way that anyone who keeps a diary would write whatever is in their way, without having to worry about what someone else would think. That's the weird thing about keeping a journal on line -- it's hard to let go and be myself, let it all hang out, all my crap, all my drama, and trust that you won't use any of it to judge or hurt me.
I was a neurotic mess today -- freaked out about the situation with Mom and Rosa and my thin, wirey, used mattress. I spend a lot of time here in my bed. I read and write here, I sleep, rest and make love here and having Fibromyalgia and various other health challenges makes it particularly important for me to have a comfortable soft place to lay my body down. Yesterday Esther and her family went and picked up my Mom's old mattress to replace my old one, that while ruined by the cats and needing to be replaced, was at the very least comfortable.
I feel pretty certain that Rosa stole the one that Mom used to have, the one I was meant to have been given when she bought her new electric bed, and switched it out with some awful mattress she found on some street corner, or maybe she just switched it for her own, taking the better one that was meant for me and replacing it with her cheap thorny one. She had even asked Mom if she could have it because nothing of any value escapes her greedy eyes, but I had told her that Mom had promised it to me. We stored it in the basement until I could round up the help I would need to bring it over and take the old one away. This gave her plenty of time to switch them. We've tried to call her all day but interestingly she isn't answering her cell phone that on any other day you wouldn't be able to pry away from her ear.
Anna, who worked for my Mother before she worked for me, took one look at this scrawny, lumpy, hurting, and very well used mattress, and said immediately that it wasn't the one she used to make up for Mom. Beau said the same thing. I asked Mom's weekend housekeeper Martha, who I really like, if she would do me a huge favor and come take a look at it and tell me what she thinks. She came over and was aghast that Rosa would try to pass this off as Mom's mattress. She said that Mom's was much thicker and softer and that it was so high she had to kind of step up to sit on it. She said that this was some cheap mattress that had seen too much sex over the course of it's long life.
I'm telling you I feel as if I'm sitting on a network of weakened rusting springs with just the barest covering of fabric placed over it -- it hurts that much. My butt hurts just from sitting on it. I think I'll just pile some blankets on top of it and sleep on them and that'll be better than sleeping on the hard floor, well, maybe, because at least the floor is smooth.
I want to really give it to Rosa for pulling another, well, Rosa, on me. It's just that I'm always so overly cautious about accusing any one of anything, (even someone like Rosa who has proven herself to be untrustworthy time and time again), because I've been there myself and I know how very much it hurts to be wrongly accused of something you haven't done. I worry that there might be the slimmest chance that we are all wrong and that maybe Mom really did have this crappy bed all along, but I just know this can't be true. Martha suggested taking Polaroids of this bed so she could take them home to Mom in the hope that if we bent it in half like the skinny taco of a bed that it is, she would be able to clearly see that this isn't the mattress she had been sleeping on.
We easily bent it in half and took plenty of pictures of it doubled up so she could see how awful and thin it is, then we dragged my old mattress back in from the yard where it had spent the night in the rain and mud, and took pictures of that as well. As soon as Martha saw that mattress she said, "This is the kind of mattress your Mother had." This made perfect sense to me because to the best of my recollection I bought both of our mattresses at the same time and Mother's should have been of equal or better quality than mine was, not much, much lesser.
I was careful to make two copies of each shot we took because who knows what will happen to these pictures once they are out of my hands. Mom might just hand them to Rosa who will toss them out. Ever since the incident where Mom found two rusted nails in her water carafe I have been carefully taking notes to protect myself and my Mother against her just in case she is trying to build some kind of case against us or in the event that I might be able to use this documentation to rid ourselves of her. I was warned about this by her cousin who said she was talking with lawyers and trying to find ways to sue us. Poor Martha who sees all of this stuff up close is afraid to get involved because she is certain that Rosa is some kind of a Latina witch and will put a curse on her, great. And to top it all off I don't even really want to get rid of Rosa because sometimes I don't think we could find anyone else who would put up with Mother and how demanding, capricious and prejudiced she can be.
Lovely aint it, and there isn't a damned thing I can do about it because Mom is dependent on her and won't even think of letting her go. I honestly don't know what it would take for Mom to let go and allow us to try to find someone better suited for this job, someone more experienced, kind, honest, less greedy and desperate.
Oh well, at least I have my handy dandy red Kabbalah string bracelet to protect me. Now I just have to find some way to put one around my Mom's, Beau's, Scott's, Esther's , Anna's, their family's, and all of my animal's wrists.
OMG there is the most beautiful African American lesbian on TV right now on a show called In the Line of Fire. She's so proud and lovely with her hair all wild and natural, what presence. It's a really sad and tragic but helpful show about the bullying of GLBT teenagers, big sad sigh.
Here's an example of a good mother's advice to other parents on responding to their kids coming out, "The moment she told me that she was gay I knew that her job was done and that the work was now for me to do. Whatever you do don't stop loving and don't stop communicating."
Scott was so kind to me today. I was meant to have gone to visit him at his house but I wasn't up to it so he came our way and hung around while we dealt with the mattress drama, then we had dinner at Dolores' and saw Being Julia, which was terrific, but naturally stirred up all of my jittery frightened feelings about being an aging actress in LA and in this business as a whole.
The bright spot in my life these last few days apart from Beau, Scott and his music, and our many animal friends, of course, has been my knitting this fiery scarf. When I finish it I'll take a picture and share it with you. Obviously I have so much more to be grateful for -- to appreciate and take joy from than knitting this scarf -- I mean I'm alive for one and so are the people I love, and all I have to do is walk right out my front door and look at the gorgeous fall leaves on our street to feel a sense of joy. I think about how lucky we are to live on one of the few blocks in our neighborhood that has Maple trees, but being able to have a creative outlet that's portable, meditative, tactile and so colorful, is really working for me right now. The colors of this scarf remind me of the colors of the falling leaves that are piling up in our street, in the gutters and the on the sidewalks -- so beautiful and well, bright red and orange like fire.
What a miserable post -- should I compound the misery by mentioning that I can't cry for myself anymore but was able to cry easily during the movie previews tonight? There was one about a documentary called Paper Clips about a group of middle school kids in Tennessee who had never heard of the Klan or the Holocaust and in trying to understand what the number six million would look like choose to write to survivors all over the world asking them to send one paper clip for each family member or friend they had lost. The response was of course overwhelming and profoundly healing and educational.
Okay well now that I've either thoroughly bored or depressed everyone I think I'd better hunt up some entertaining photos to cheer you with.
The things people will do to sell things on eBay, Giganticest violent Violet tearDrop Sapphire 2063 Carat. "These that come from this guy are said to be a Russian synthetic called CZ or Cubic Zirconium." Sheesh.