When exactly did my journal turn into a diary of my health woes? Has it been this way since the beginning? I guess so, although then it was probably more about my recovering from a torn up, confused, and broken heart. Anyway I'm slowly edging my way back towards my baseline of miserable and didn't feel like doing much of anything yesterday so I picked up my two favorite pillows and moved into Beau's room with him. I figured, as long as he was going to sit there playing Star Wars, I might as well try to join him somehow. So he hooked up his Game Cube for me and I actually spent three whopping hours playing Animal Crossing. At least we were together. So there I was walking my cute little pixie characters around my town, plucking weeds, shaking fruit off trees, fake fishing, catching red dragonflies, mailing letters to grumpy fellow animal citizens, and decorating my houses. And there Beau was blowing up people in some distant galaxy, far, far...oh you know the drill
I wanted to spend some time with Beau before going out with Scott, or staying in with Scott, later in the evening. Frankly I wasn't sure if I was even going to get to see Scott, but I wanted to leave his option open. Then when that didn't pan out I made the great mistake of agreeing to take Beau and Steven to see Jackass Two. If you like shit, then this is the movie for you. Oh Lord. Now, I actually like these guys for some perverse, in-your-face, sadomasochistic, homoerotic kind of reason, God knows I love acting out, but that was way too much shit, piss, puke, blood, pubic hair, ass beer, and horse semen for me.
I would much rather tell you to go see Helen Mirren in The Queen. It is fabulous and she is simply stunning. If she doesn't get at least an Oscar nod out of this then I won't watch them any more, and that is saying something. You know, I think I've seen everything she's done since Oh Lucky Man, anyone remember that, anyone? Is this thing on? But I kind of think you have to have a wee bit of a thing for the monarchy, at least some curiosity about it, and the late Princess of Wales, or at least be the kind of person who appreciates terrific acting, strong women over fifty, (God bless them, tick tock), and beautiful views of the Scottish country side. I loved it; loved, loved, loved it. Can't say enough about it, I'll take this over shit and bees any day.
I'm a sucker for good PR, especially when it comes in the form of Oprah Winfrey, AND Martha Stewart, so naturally I bought Nora Ephron's, I Feel Bad About My Neck, and several other books meant to make me feel, if not better, then at least somewhat settled about aging in this MotherF$@&ing youth-obsessed city. Hopefully this should make up for the really depressing run of autobiographical reading I was on about LA based women using and being used by men with money and power, yuck. Not that I wouldn't want a man with money and power, mind you, he'd just have to have a heart of gold to go along with it, and be philanthropic, faithful, love children, animals, travel, theatre, and fat aging women. I guess I'm just upset that in order to land a paunchy, balding, eighty-something-year-old billionaire, I would have to have a beyond perfect body, a face to stop traffic, or men's hearts, (Hey, wait, what's this on top of my two-hundred-plus pound body?) surgically implanted breasts, an appetitive for sex that coincides perfectly with this man's own, the ability to look the other way when he hooks up with other women, or drools like a baby when he gets his frequent and expensive lap dances from lesbians who hate him. You know, come to think of it, I'll stick with my paunchy, semi-impoverished, non-balding, fifty-plus-year-old man, who wants my sex drive to coincide perfectly with his, and the expensive lap dances from lesbians who hate him, but who doesn't expect me to be unreasonably perfect in return.
Oh, and I forgot to add that the best book I've read recently was recommended to me by my friend Mary. When Mary recommends a book I hop right on my Amazon pony, hit the Overnight 1-Click button and dive right in. The Good Pig: The Extraordinary Life of Christopher Hogwood; a very good love story about a woman and her rescued pig. Buy it, seriously, please? I couldn't do it justice by trying to describe it.
When I woke up this morning I was deep in a dream about a haunted garden, or more precisely a haunted back yard. A man had asked me to broker a kind of peace with the spirits who were haunting his yard and didn't want him there AT ALL. I was trying to get these spirits to be reasonable. I couldn't see them but I could feel them, sense them, and I could definitely communicate with them. They would communicate with me by using their energy to move things to indicate answers, and they would put images in my mind.
The sad thing about dreams is that they tend to be wispy, like ghosts, and if I don't write them down immediately upon waking, I lose some of the best details. In my room, waiting for me to wake up every morning, are several, hungry, four-legged, solid creatures who will use their paws, teeth, voices, and whatever other naughty and super intelligent things occur to them, to rouse me if I take too long. That's how this dream was interrupted, with a very insistent paw, Harry Houdini's to be exact. This is also why I am having a hard time remembering this dream, because there is a small fur person sitting on my lap insistently tugging on the one remaining button on my nightshirt. She can tug all she likes as long as she stays off my keyboard.
So I was dreaming about these funny, naughty, childlike ghosts; I was trying to get them to be reasonable, to work out some sort of back yard schedule with me in order to appease them and keep them from haunting this poor family. I told them that the man and his family were staying and that they were going to have to work something out about the back yard. The angry little spirits showed me a numbered tile, they slid it out from beneath a box, it was a six. In the dream this made perfect sense. It indicated that they wanted the man to stay out of the yard for either six minutes, or before six, something to do with six in the morning. Now, of course, I don't remember, but I knew what it meant in the dream. I told the man their request, he agreed to it, and I communicated this to the ghosties.
Buoyed by this concession they very imperiously went on to make further demands. They told me that after they had finished breakfasting, or whatever it was that they did as a ghostly group-of-earth-bound spirits at six, they would need some further solitary time -- time uninterrupted by human interference -- because they, wait for it, wanted to play chess. They showed me their chess board. And that's when I lost it. I just flat out told them that I wasn't stupid and that I knew precisely how long a bunch of naughty ghosts could drag out a game of chess. No, the chess game was definitely "off the board." And that was my dream, or one tiny fraction of a great big constellation of dreams that I seem to have every single night. Frankly, I find them entertaining, but if I took the time to write them down here every day, I wouldn't have too much time left for a waking life, and I have a recovered brown spotted dove to set free, some bunnies to place in a new home, cats to take to the vet, boxes of junk to take to Mom's to exchange for boxes of Halloween junk to bring back here. The annual neighborhood Halloween decorating race is on, kids are already starting to come by, and I am definitely feeling the pressure.
Okay off I go to try to get at least something done.
Oh and PS: I need comedic material for Beau. My shy son who has up until now never displayed one tiny drop of his parent's passion for theatre that we were certain would come blasting out of him at some point like some powerful pent up dramatic geyser has suddenly decided that he wants to pursue stand up comedy. Hey what? That's my out. I always thought, well, hell, if I can't be; (I'll do this in ascending order of childhood through adult worship,) Barbra Stresisand, Glenda Jackson, Vanessa Redgrave, Katherine Hepburn, Greta Garbo, Sally Kellerman, Meryl Streep, Bette Davis, insert many more good contemporary actors in here, Peter O'Toole, (drunk though he may have been,) or Cate Blanchett, then I'll join the Fucking Groundlings, become a comedy star there, land a sitcom deal, and do it all that way. (Can you believe the chutzpah of this girl? You've gotta at least give it to me for hanging on to a dream while I sit on my ass though.) Now Beau wants to do this, oh and have a career as a musician on the side. You know what? God bless him. I never wanted to push him in our direction, and it was hard to hold myself back. Do you have any idea how badly I wanted to drag him down to the little Santa Monica Neighborhood Playhouse and sign him up for classes, or how hard it was to resist getting him an agent when he was so cute, little and blonde, and everyone who saw him said, "Wow, he's really cute, and with that personality, Jacqui, you should get him some work."
But that was my dream, and I didn't want to foist it on him. I sure didn't want to be a stage mother, and frankly I thought children pulled in the opposite direction. I assumed, that he would be turn out to be a mathematician or something, and I was all set to buy him protractors and things, (Come to think of it, he is kind of a math geek, and I do buy him protractors), and now here he is, my shy kid, asking me for help writing some stand up. More power to him. If he wants to do this I am going to be the parent who gives him every opportunity to follow his dreams. For every one time someone told my parents, "Dear Lord Jeannette, or Jack, do you realize what you have here? People stand and applaud the moment she comes on stage. You have to do something to help her." And they said, "But what about her figure?" or "Hollywood is full of whores and degenerates, her life will be filled with disappointment. We would rather she join The Club, play golf and tennis, join a sorority, get pinned, and marry a future Republican leader," I am going to say, "Honey, the word Fuck sounds better if you really let it crack, use it sparingly but give it some oomph, and with jokes if you set them up well, it'll should be like a one two punch, always wait for the laugh, it'll come, and remember that people love a call back, like this, 'Shit and bees.' It always works."
Okay, so anyone want to toss some humorous ideas my way about Attention Deficit Disorder, have at it. That's Beau's topic. I'm thinking there's plenty of room here for jokes about forgetting things, being scatterbrained, having too many things going on at one time, and juggling cats, lots and lots of cats.