Lucky

I met a man at the post office today who said, “You have a lucky face.”

I thanked him nicely and began to walk away.

He called out, “Your star isn’t shining!”, so I stopped and asked him what he meant.

He said, “You have a happy face but not always a happy heart.”

He said, “You have great things coming but you think too much.”

He said, “You are always in a hurry and you need to slow down. Your focus is straight but your thoughts make you move to the right and the left.”

When he took my palm he said, “In late July and early August your three lines would have great fortune: Your love, your life and your head.”

He said, “I can tell you how these will come about.”

I told him I didn’t want to know; that it would spoil the surprise.

He said, “Everything is aligned in your chakras but your body is not strong.”

He said, “You lost a love and two men now think of you.”

“I can tell you more for twenty dollars.”

I said I had to get to work and I didn’t have any cash on me.

He’d walk to the ATM with me if I were willing to give him 5 minutes of my time and on the way he’d tell me more.

So I shrugged my shoulders and started walking to the bank on the corner.

He told me, “Your heart is open and this is bad.”

That, “You tell people your plans too soon and you should keep things to yourself.”

“Your open heart will get you in trouble.”

“Your open heart is the reason there’s a woman in your family who is jealous of you.”

“I can tell you more and change your life.”

The ATM was out of service.

He said, “I’ll walk across the street to the gas station where there’s a sign.”

I said I’m sorry but I have to get back, thank you for your time.

He said, “It’s your decision. You will ruin your life.”

I shook his hand and walked away and I tried to walk a little slower.

PART 1

I knew the guy was a hack and said this to everyone. But the words kept buzzing around in my head, so for the past 13 years I’ve chewed on his words and how I might interpret them to be real. How can one random encounter with another soul affect you for 13 years? Especially one who so obviously was just trying to make a buck. What is it about these phrases that impels us to interpret them to be real to our lives? I do go too fast and need to slow down, but then again, don’t we all? I do share too much too soon, but don’t we all?

According to a 2019 article on Cleo.com, there are 4 ways to tell if you have a “lucky face.” You have a wide “life palace” or you can put at least two fingers in the gap between your eyebrows . The skin in your life palace is “radiant,” or it shines brighter than the rest of your face in natural light . Bright or alert eyes. You have a high forehead, at least 4 or 5 fingers wide between the top of your eyebrows to your hairline.

It seems many (or most) people you see on the street will most likely fit this description, so “you have a lucky face” could be the oldest trick in the book to get someone’s attention, who is desperately looking for someone to give them value. At 28, I probably fit that full bill.

I’ve always had big bushy eyebrows which, in the 80’s was great, thanks to Brooke Shields, but then throughout the 90’s & early 2000’s, I tried really hard to pluck, wax, & thread them down to the more pencil thin eyebrows resembling Joan Crawford’s powerful brow power from the 30’s and 40’s. My mother always warned me that I’d regret all that plucking, as my eyebrows would eventually start to thin out. Now in my 40’s, as the culture harkens back to the bushy eyebrow trends of my early youth, I find myself filling in the bald spots that my mom so wisely warned me of. Thanks, Mommy Dearest. My life palace is still wide and often shiny, but I usually try to fix that with concealer and powder, my eyes might be a bit dimmer from too much wine & coffee and my forehead continues to grow closer to the 5 finger mark as I age, though now sporting a few more worry lines.

At 28, however, I was looking for someone to validate my decisions. I had made a few big ones in the few years leading up to that fateful poem-inducing experience in the parking lot.

I guess I had been somewhat lucky up to that point; as much as most. After moving to LA with my ex a few years prior, I had managed to make my way through a crazy divorce, an excommunication, an eviction, loads of debt, a workers comp fiasco, and probably luckiest of all, multiple nights out as a single woman in LA unscathed…for the most part.

I’m just one of a hundred, thousand, million, billion girls in Hollywood

wearing a hat for everybody to see

I’m just one of a hundred, thousand, million, billion girls in Hollywood

trying to make it in the city by the sea

but now I’m caught in a circus, a round-about, lost in the lights of Hollywood

dating again, so I can find my next meal

aren’t my fingernails pretty

and my conversation witty

aren’t my high heels sexy

and my brown eyes fetching

So I’ll give up acting and buy a guitar, write a few songs about Hollywood

maybe I can can get a coffee shop gig.

After my 9-5 I’ll play my songs and feel I’m part of Hollywood

Maybe sell a CD and get a gig at a bar.

then I’ll be one of a hundred, thousand, million, billion girls in Hollywood

singing about the jerk who broke my heart

aren’t my fingernails pretty

and my song lyrics gritty

aren’t my high heels sexy

and my poetry vexing

I’m just one of a hundred, thousand, million, billion girls in Hollywood

wearing a hat for everybody to see

I’m just one of a hundred, thousand million, billion girls in Hollywood

thinking world still revolves around me

I’ll have you know

the world revolves around me.

aren’t my fingernails pretty

and my conversation witty

aren’t my high heels sexy

and my brown eyes fetching

I’m just one of a hundred, thousand, million, billion girls in Hollywood.

PART 2

My star isn’t shining?! Well, if not now, then when? I mean come on. I was young, I was hot and I was in L.A. The first apartment I lived in when I moved to Los Angeles, was on Tower Drive. The last street in what was officially Beverly Hills with the 90210-zip code. As a 90’s kid that was pretty cool. I used to write letters back to my friends in Texas about absolutely nothing just so that I could write 90210 on my return address. Weezer had just come out with the hit, “Beverly Hills” which took on a sort-of theme song for the first few months of our time there. My not-ex-yet and I shared a tiny one bedroom in a small complex around the corner from a Coffee Bean & Tea leaf, the quintessential LA coffee shop. It was attached to a small strip mall that had a flower shop, beauty salon, pharmacy and sushi joint. Upstairs was a French-Canadian couple who fought a lot. Across the hall was a French couple from Paris, who didn’t fight at all. Down the hall was a Persian musician & film maker. Upstairs and down the hall was a kick ass Canadian ex-pat film producer who was working on building her brand and her roommate, a young east-coast transplant boarding school drop-out, trust fund barely not a teen musician experimenting with trance music. We were the apartment on the ground floor, off the parking lot, with the male model philosopher-poet and the singer.

Just before my ex and I split, I had 6 jobs or means of income. When I wasn’t teaching voice and piano lessons, gigging with my 5-part jazz harmony group, singing in my Sunday morning church gigs, working at the flower-shop around the corner or in my other PT job in the education department at the LA Opera, and my soon to be ex wasn’t writing poetry, or going on modeling calls, we worked as extras in TV & film.

Extra work was a 12-18 hour non-union day of sitting and waiting and walking this way or standing here for about $50 pre-tax per day. From day to day I went from being a party girl on the OC, to a by-stander watching magic happen on Charmed, a nurse swiping for viruses in the air-vents on House, a nurse carrying a chart on Grey’s Anatomy, a restaurant patron on the Gilmore Girls, an agent on CSI, an airport traveler walking behind Jennifer Aniston in Rumer Has It or a nurse in the field on American Dreams. Extras don’t get listed in the credits. If they’re not union they sometimes get a bag of Cheetos to share during breaks, (if they're lucky).

The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf on our corner was also a popular stop-off on the way to or from one of the most prestigious talent agencies in Beverly Hills, so if my star wasn’t shining then I was at least catching the glare from those around me. I had more than my share of hob-knobbing and shoulder rubbing with the stars, especially after my ex and I split. I even had drinks alongside Jack Nicholson in the LA Laker VIP room during half-time on one of my many post-divorce dates. I regularly did morning crosswords at the coffee shop with Norm MacDonald of SNL fame where he’d regale me with stories of the poker games the night before with Adam Sandler and Larry Flint. I was regularly seeing so many “stars” in everyday settings that I, as most who live in LA do, got numb to it. There was a point when I couldn’t tell if I was waiting in line next to someone I saw on TV or someone I had hung out with at the bar the night before. Everyone was beautiful. Stars became just people and the sheen of Hollywood started to rust.

I went on two particular auditions, among many, that made me rethink my own future in performance. One was a call-back for a touring version of Wicked. I was so nervous I botched the timing and was immediately knocked out of the running. The second was a call-back for a touring version of Light at the Piazza. I was so nervous I could barely project the sound. That’s when I called it quits with auditions. My star wasn’t shining. In fact I was pretty deflated. I had peaked in regional theater in Texas and got bad reviews even then. I was starting to question my basic musicality in my choir gig. Constantly second guessing my pitch, my tone and losing confidence in my voice. Now, let’s be honest. I was still sight reading Stravinsky flawlessly for auditions and had just landed a substitute gig with the LA Master Chorale where I was singing at the Disney Concert Hall and the Hollywood Bowl, but at 28, my confidence was almost completely eroded. Had my parking-lot soothsayer noticed?

Maybe what was eating away at me, was something else. Another insecurity that the palm reader resurrected from deep within.

I couldn’t afford the lessons I needed to get better. All the money I made went to pay bills, debts, taxes & food and I didn’t have enough to pay for the regular voice lessons I needed to maintain both my voice but also my confidence. If I did, it was few and far between and each lesson or new teacher never had the time to dig deeper, or the available lesson times conflicted with my jobs, and I was floundering and on my own. I had lost my support system. My hometown, close proximity to my family, my greatest fan: My husband. OR was I mourning the loss of that initial dream? Was my old dream dying inside me while a new one grew? Was it grief of so many losses? Was this the point in the woods where the two roads merged and the one I was on was now blocked? What I do know is that I was all alone, broke and broken in a big city full of millions of beautiful stars.

Sittin’ here in Beverly Hills

Starin’ at my overdue bills

Willin’ the next paycheck to come

with my positive speech and a bottle of rum.

I’m just chillin’ in Beverly Hills

Sittin’ here in Beverly Hills

Wiping dust off the window sills.

Car broke down the other day,

Heaven knows how I’m gonna pay.

I’m just slummin’ in Beverly Hills

Oh it’s the Shabby Chic life for me, yeah, yeah

Oh it’s the Shabby Chic life for me, oh, oh,

Oh it’s the Shabby Chic life for me yeah, yeah,

Oh it’s the Shabby Chic life for me, oh, oh,

Livin’ well beyond my means

Where the bums are wearin’ Hilfiger jeans.

How the hell did I get here?

Is there someone who can make it all clear?

I’m just slumming in Beverly Hills.

I’m just chillin’ in Beverly Hills.

I’m just livin’ in Beverly Hills.

Oh it’s the Shabby Chic life for me, yeah, yeah

Oh it’s the Shabby Chic life for me, oh, oh,

Oh it’s the Shabby Chic life for me yeah, yeah,

Oh it’s the Shabby Chic life for me, oh, oh,oh

PART 3

It was my ex who suggested it first. We could barely make ends meet and then credit card debt was mounting to a ridiculous level. “We could make as much as $10K a pop!” he said. So I looked into it. I sold, ahem, donated my eggs. I eventually “donated” my eggs 5 times, the last time bringing in the full $10K paycheck. Each of the other rounds had brought in from $5K to $8K. I was married for at least the first round.

During my formative years, my parents were on the board of directors for a place called the Crisis Pregnancy Center, a pro-life bastion and alternative to Planned Parenthood for young, desperate women in the panhandle of Texas. The intent was to give support to girls who chose to keep their babies and deter women from abortions during a huge rise in teen pregnancies in the area. As a part of the pro-life movement, my parents took me and my siblings out on multiple marches and fun-runs where we carried signs with baby seals holding Save the Baby Human signs, making light of the environmental imperative to save animals on the brink of extinction.

I preached abstinence with fervor along with my other “pro-life” friends and even spoke at the Texas House of Representatives on behalf of abstinence education at the age of 13. As far as I knew or had been taught, my bleeding every month was part of the curse of Eve from the garden of Eden that indicated that I was now able to produce and bear children. Only now it would hurt because of Eve’s sin.

Anyway, back to the egg donation. I signed up with an agency, which I researched as best as I could sans the easy access to Google that I have now. Though they paid less than other agencies, they were far more reputable, were connected with well respected doctors and medical centers that also had good reputations, and possessed some of the nostalgic hearkening back to the safety of the Crisis Pregnancy Centers of my youth.

To first be considered, I had to undergo multiple tests for STDs, ultrasounds to measure my fertility, and I had to share as much of my family medical history as possible. The recipients of my eggs were going to be paying top dollar and rightfully so, wanted to make sure the eggs weren’t rotten. Of course, the ones who had access to my family medical history were my parents, with whom I was very hesitant to share my new venture. My sister had, in the past, frequented Planned Parenthood for their free & low-cost access to birth control, and I remember my parents not initially taking kindly to that action of rebellion, however eventually knowing it to be more of an act of financial desperation and access I’m sure never would hold it against her. Thankfully, my family loves family trees and talking about medical conditions, so I had very little trouble asking the right questions to get a better understanding of what kind of inherited defects my egg recipients might be purchasing. Very little. In fact, I quickly became one of the agency’s “golden egg” donors so to say.

After the tests came back clean and I was worthy to create progeny, I was asked to choose between staying anonymous or allowing the families to maintain contact with me after a child was born. I chose anonymity.

Each time I was chosen to be a donor, I received a heart-felt, handwritten letter from the couple explaining what had made them choose me from the picture book and usually a long story of what had brought them to this decision to utilize invitro-fertilization as a last ditch effort to have a family. A different Doctor’s office would reach out each time, to set up an appointment. Each time I would receive a new packet or folder of information which included a strict calendar of medication that I had to follow and detailed directions for each dose. I had to pause any birth control I was taking, I had to abstain from any sexual activities for about 2 months and I had to give myself anywhere from 1 to 3 shots every day in my abdomen or upper thigh. Every few weeks I would go into the office to see how my ovaries were producing and get an ultrasound lesson in the female reproductive system. Once I had to travel during the process to visit my family at a hotel. I took a refrigerated soft cooler with me full of the needles and medication on the plane and told the flight attendants that I had a medical condition which required me to bring them with me. I had to hide the needles in a mini-fridge in the hotel room from my family which thankfully wasn’t too hard. The hormones would make me have horrible breakouts and I had a fantastic cystic pimple on my cheek that weekend. Thankfully, my family suffers from acne and no-one took any notice, nor did they notice the random bathroom breaks to my room for the timed injections either.

The doctors were always awed by my amazing egg producing abilities. On the day of the extraction I had to make sure I had someone available to pick me up and take me home. That was the hardest thing, especially after the divorce.

For the extraction, I was completely put under and then they would suction out all the eggs. I would wake up woozy after a few hours, get picked up and depending on the skill of the surgeon, go out for sushi, pancakes or back home to sleep and nurse the cramps.

When my ex and I split, I was hounded by debt collectors. We had a combined credit card debt of over $25K, which, for a couple who was bringing in less than $20K/year, was tremendous. I can’t say I wasn’t guilty in the build-up of the debt, but rather thought of my-self as more complicit. Purchases were made that I didn’t deem necessary or smart but I wouldn’t fight it, beyond a simple voicing of concern and the addition of another job to my schedule to pay the mounting bills. We had split some of the debt so that one didn’t have to take it all on, but then he stopped paying his part, so it all landed on me. Now, even 15 years later, after all has been paid, I still get the occasional call from creditors looking for him. My credit was completely shot for at least 7 years. When we split I immediately cut up the cards I had, meaning all my expenses were from my earnings alone. I was also paying back taxes and was being hounded by medical debt collectors for hospital costs that were supposed to be paid by workers comp from a part time work mishap, when I was accidentally stabbed in the gut with a piece of protruding broken glass, while trying to hoist a heavy trash bag into the dumpster behind the flower shop I worked at. I had to prioritize the debt. The IRS was far more understanding than the relentless creditors, so when I would receive a pay out from the egg donations, I would pay the largest percentage to the credit cards to pay off the principle, put another towards the IRS payments and then split the rest to cover gaps in what my paychecks weren’t able to cover in bills and food costs. I had little time to myself and little understanding of law or access to lawyers and clearly no money for a lawyer. So, instead of trying to fight for my workers comp, I just paid it along with all my other debts, especially after they sent a collector to my home, banging on the door and falsely threatening jail-time; scaring the living daylights out of me. It took me 3 years to piece together all the papers and forms I needed to complete and notarize to finalize the divorce. Sometimes the money would allow $50 for a cheap ½ hour of legal counsel to make sure I wasn’t going to have to start the whole process over again. I wasn’t getting any help from my ex, but at least he signed the papers and showed up to the notary appointments.

Each time my eggs created viable pregnancies. Each time they produced a baby. Each time I would get tearfully-joyful hand written letters from the couples with gifts of jewelry, spa treatments and more. Each time they were boys. One time, someone broke the rules of anonymity. They sent me a picture. That was the last one. The $10k baby. That was the baby that got me out of debt. That was the last time I would ever respond to a call from the agency. That was the first time I cried.

PART 4

Once upon a time I had a fairy tale romance right out of a softcover book filled with stardust and a castle on a cloud.

My prince charming was perfect and I worshiped the ground he walked on and he worshiped me.

For 7 years I lived in his kingdom in the sky and we ruled as king and queen.

But there was an evil witch in the basement of our fortress and sometimes it was he and sometimes it was me.

One day he bit into a poisoned apple and I followed suit, or was it the other way around?

I looked into the mirror-mirror on the wall and I had lost my beauty and my prince had lost his charm.

Our kingdom crumbled below us and the walls of the castle shook.

We clung to each other as we fell towards the moat but the fall tore us apart.

When I woke from the dream I was alone on a yellow brick road surrounded by poppies

Have you ever heard of Grace Livingston Hill? No? Not surprised. However, she is, as the website that I found, dedicated to her says, “the originator of the Christian Romance genre.”

Between the ages of 12 and 18 I probably read her entire portfolio. During that time I had also read all of the Bronte sisters’ works (multiple times) as well as the full breadth of Jane Austin’s contributions and all that Alexandre Dumas had to offer. Luisa May Alcott was another favorite, as well as Lucy Maud Montgomery, the creator of “Anne of Green Gables,” and my personal favorite, “Emily of New Moon.” I also read all of the novels by another Scottish pastor and author, George MacDonald. By 18 I had read Vanity Fair, all of Edgar Allen Poe’s works, not to mention Charles Dickens and memorized much of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poems as well as a large majority of Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets. I still have my One Hundred and One Famous Poems on my bed stand where I sometimes find solace in my old poet friends like Tennyson and his “Daffodils,” become nostalgically “goth” as I contemplate the World War 1 soldiers, “I Have a Rendezvous with Death”, test my memory with Mary Howitt’s “The Spider and the Fly,” practice my Scottish accent on Alexander Anderson’s “Cuddle Doon” and worry that my historic perspective might have been manipulated falsely with Longfellow’s “Paul Revere’s Ride” and “Hiawatha’s Childhood.” I won 3rd place the Texas Poetry Society competition at 11 with my poem, “Wind Woman.” I share this with you both as a justification for my proclivity towards run on sentences and to share that I am and will always be a hopeless romantic with a very outdated vocabulary.

Anyway, back to Grace Livingston Hill. All of her books are set in the 1920’s, 30’s and 40’s and generally star a strong, godly (and sometimes not…until the end) young woman, who falls in love with a sensitive (and extremely handsome and godly) man who lives happily ever after. If you’ve seen a Hallmark Movie, just add a tiny bit more religion and you’ve got a Grace Livingston Hill novel. Within that mental state, is where my romance novel (or chapter, in this case) begins.

I met him at summer church camp. He was gorgeous, tall, strong jaw line, deep grayish green eyes, blonde hair, muscular and the brother of my best friend. My dad was an elder in my church in Texas, and his dad was the pastor of his church in Oklahoma. My best friend was always talking about her big brother, and how wonderful he was. He was her favorite brother. She told me all about how they would talk all the time and how he would treat her differently than her other sisters. (There were 7 of them; all with names that started with the letter J) I first saw him walking his camp banquet date down the hill to the meeting house. He was perfect. His sister also talked about how intelligent and pious he was too. He fit the perfect picture of what I imagined I wanted from the heroes in my Christian romance novels. He wanted to be a theologian when he grew up. I would dream about him falling in love with me, a dorky girl in braces and big red glasses and we would get married and have kids and he would be a pastor and I would be a pastor’s wife. That’s what everyone told me I should want and I hadn’t come up with a better plan. One summer when I was 14 and he was 17 or 18, I went to visit my friend and her family in Oklahoma over the 4th of July. It was unavoidable. We fell in love that summer. It was a perfect fit. I had grown out of my awkward, red glasses stage and was turning into a very pretty teenager. I was tall with long wavy hair and an air of shy confidence and youth. He was graduating from high school as the captain of the football team and top of his class. We seemed like the perfect couple. Everyone around us would mention what a great match we would be and even his little brother asked me if I was going to marry his brother someday. The chemistry was there too. We would find excuses like looking through old family albums on the living room couch so we could sit next to each other. It seemed that every time we would accidentally touch explosions inside of me would go off and I lost sense of time and the world as I used to know it. He would talk to me on the couch when everyone else was asleep about theology and religion. I tried so hard to follow what he was saying instead of just looking at how beautiful he was. His words all sounded so smart and well thought out, and he used such big ones, just like the characters in my books. He used so many when he could use just a few, but I thought the fact that he added bigger words and more of them to decorate his ideas meant he was enlightened intellectually. I liked listening to him talk. He had a smooth voice. Sometimes I would give an insight or ask a question and he would treat me like my thoughts were smart too. One night we took a walk together to a park near his parents’ house. We walked slowly and talked. We walked past couples leaning against trees, sitting on picnic blankets, and walking in the same romantic manner. Then we stopped on a bridge over a pond. The air was quiet on an Oklahoma evening and the breeze was a cool relief in the hot July weather. The moon was full and peeking over a weeping willow that seemed to be dipping the toes of it’s long branches into the cool water below. I always likened the scene to the one in Lady and the Tramp when the Italian chef was singing Bella Notte. I couldn’t think of anything more romantic.

We leaned against the railing on the bridge, still not touching. “Emily,” he started. His tone of voice made my ears ring so loud I almost couldn’t hear the rest. My head felt so hot and I could feel my knees shaking. I looked at him and said, “Yes?” as coolly as I could. (Crushes at 14 are the most intense.)

“I can tell you like me, and,” he started. My ears seemed to be filled with ocean water. What he said next sounded like a muffled fire cracker in the distance. “And I like you too.” He smiled at me and I smiled back. “But, you’re starting high school in Texas and I’m starting college in Georgia. I want to get to know you better and possibly someday we can have a romantic relationship, but I feel that due to circumstances, it would be best if we stay friends for now and write to each other.”

I agreed very solemnly as though it didn’t hurt just a little that he didn’t want to be my boyfriend just then. I knew he was making sense. Everything he said was well thought out and logical. He had explained to me his ideas of courtship and I saw the logic in the theology he based his theories on. “I understand,” I responded, “I completely agree.” My voice was breathy and I hoped he couldn’t tell I was having trouble breathing. I admired rational thought and never wanted to be one of those overly emotional girls. It was easy for me to take control of my feelings and show a stoic face at that time of my life. We stood a while longer looking at each other. When we walked home. Neither of our feet touched the ground.

Four years, and many long letters later, I spent New Years in Oklahoma City with my sister and my best friend. I knew he would be home from college and I wondered what it would be like. We had seen each other a few other awkward times since our night on the bridge, but I knew this New Years would be different. When we had seen each other before, I wasn’t sure if I still felt the same. Our letters were always other-worldly and full of deep conversations, but I couldn’t tell if they were really love letters. I pulled away when we saw each other and pretended not to care. I had been hurt by other boyfriends since our meeting on the bridge and had built up new walls. This time I knew it would be better. We spent the evening running around downtown Oklahoma City to the different musical events and acts and when we cut through the gardens near midnight to make it to the ball drop on time, he grabbed my hand. It fit just right and I smiled. I loved his hands. They were big and strong. We all ran, he never let go of my hand, to the center of town. The thousands in the plaza gathered around and counted in one magnificent voice, “Ten, Nine, Eight,” he put his arm around me in the crowd, “seven, six, five, four,” I was confused and didn’t know what to do so I looked away. I was confused, but felt as a good Christian girl I should hold back those silly physical urges. I didn’t always hold back with her boyfriends back home, but they weren’t the same. He was pious. He might not like me if I gave in to my urges. I counted along with everyone smiling, “three, two, one!” There were cheers all around and everyone grabbed the person next to them for a kiss, except for us. We looked at each other, said, “Happy New Year” then hugged, not ever wanting to let go. When the moment had passed, we made our way back to the car.

The next day I had to drive the 5, flat, boring hours back home to Amarillo and he offered to follow me to the truck stop outside of town to make sure I got my trip started right. When we got to where he was to let me continue and turn around to go back home, I pulled into the parking lot and he followed. I sat in my car for a minute wondering why I felt the need to stop until he came to my window. I got out and clumsily dropped my glasses on the ground and we giggled together at the silly picture it made when I squatted down to find them. When I stood up he put his hands on my shoulders and looked at me with tears in his eyes, “Emily,” he sighed and held back some tears, “I love you and someday I want to make you my wife.” My emotions took over. This was what I had wanted. I had been trained to want this. It was as if one of my romance novels was coming to life. He said some other things that I sort of heard. Things about how I was an amazing person, and how we should still keep things low key. Through sobs of joy I said, “I love you too,” and we kissed our first kiss. That kiss that could never be duplicated through years of conscious effort on both of our parts. I eventually got back in the car and drove alone sobbing tears of overwhelming joy the whole way. I called home to tell my parents I was engaged. I was 18.

The next year after New Years, he and I drove to Pennsylvania together, from Oklahoma, to visit where he was now pursuing his PhD in Philosophy, before he began his planned, second PhD in Theology. He was planning to be a great theologian and someday teach at seminary. He was sure he would be great. Everybody agreed that he was a genius. He had written a final paper at his Christian college that had been distributed to the churches. He was on his way to being a brilliant star in the Christian world.

We stayed at the home of a couple from his church who lived in a picturesque Victorian home on the main street in beautifully quaint Sewickley, PA. The evening of my 19th birthday, January 7, he got up from the couch where he was reading with me and asked me to come outside with him.

“No, it’s cold.” I had worked so hard to get myself warm after our walk earlier that I was a little perturbed that he assumed I’d just go out there. “Common, just for a minute. I just want to show you something.”

“I don’t have shoes on.” It was my birthday. I wanted to stay in the warm living room and was looking for excuses not to move. “My socks will get wet. I think it’s going to snow again.” I was comfortable where I was. It had taken me a while to be comfortable enough to sit in the downstairs living room with the couple we were staying with. I didn’t feel right and wanted to go home.

“Please. For me?” He was especially persistent, and I couldn’t reject that sweet smile and forced puppy-dog eyes.

I stomped up the stairs and put on some shoes and a jacket and made my way down to the front door. Then I stepped outside into a magical picture-book setting. There was a fresh coat of snow on the ground reflecting the moonlight and on the old fashioned street-lamp on the sidewalk past the little front yard. I imagined I had walked through the wardrobe and into Narnia. The twinkle lights on the trees along the street were trying hard to shine through the caked-on snow. I took his hand and noticed he was shaking. He bent down on one knee with tears streaming down his face. I gasped and started crying too. It was actually happening! Fairy tales do come true! He took out a small box he had been hiding in his pocket and opened it to show a beautiful, old-fashioned solitaire diamond ring. It started to snow big flakes of snow and he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. The words to the poem he read were muffled by the ringing in my ears and all I was really listening for were those pivotal words. “Will you marry me?” I got on my knees with him and we hugged as one big sobbing lump on the porch. I had found my prince charming.

We were married that May in Texas. I was 19 and he was 22. Everyone was so excited to see two such upstanding members of the church community join together. It was a romance story that everyone wanted to be living. The main thing I remembered from the wedding day was the overwhelming feeling that life couldn’t possibly be this perfect. Something was bound to go wrong. “What could possibly go wrong?” I asked myself and put the thought away far in the back of my mind. I thought, “Maybe we’re special. Maybe we will prove that true love can conquer all.”

PART 5

It was five years later. I was 24 and I had been married for 5 years. We had been living in Pittsburgh to pursue his PhD in Philosophy and I went to school, and eventually graduated with a Music degree in Vocal Performance. We were essentially run out of our church in Pittsburgh for questioning our faith and at this point, had made a full 180 turn away from religion. We moved back to Texas and I was making a living teaching voice & piano, getting singing and acting gigs as much as I could, and taking odd jobs here and there at a bakery and clearing yards. His older brother, who was married to my sister (Did I mention that before?), had spiraled into some crazy idealism that pulled my husband into the idea that as apes, we shouldn't be concerned with the construct of marriage. As animals we can fuck whomever we like. I was not happy with this turn of direction, but I still believed he was smarter than me, and I let him manipulate me into the same thinking. So I had an affair. He knew about it. He instigated it. He shared with others of his male friends that I was open game. Looking back, I was being pimped. I don't think he thought of it that way. But it felt like that. I was drinking a lot. He decided to go into male modeling. I was dying to get away from under the eye of my parents. So, we sold everything and moved to LA.

Red wine, white wine, blush wine and whiskey,

Vodka and Rum, but the SoCo's a little risky.

What's the perfect combination for a little party

To make me feel silly and a little foolhardy?

On shot, two shots, three shots, four

A little water break

Then a few shots more

My legs are a little bendy and my lips have lost feeling

I'm smiling and laughing as I stare at the ceiling.

Party, party, party, party

We've all been working hard

Party, party, party, party

It's time to drop your guard.

Now we pull out the bottle and we start spinning

We take our game places and we all start grinning.

Ones a peck, two's a tongue, three's a little racy

Four and five come along then it all gets hazy.

Soon the clothes are strewn about and we start to get sober.

Up jumps the host and yells, "It ain't over!"

and opens

Red wine, white wine, blush wine and whiskey,

vodka and rum now the SoCo's not so risky.

Party, party, party, party

We've all been working hard

Party, party, party, party

It's time to drop your guard.

The sun comes up and the room's a little messy.

There's a stranger sitting on the couch who says his name is Jesse.

Some of the guests are filing out and a few are lying down.

But no one's leaving yet without another round of

Red wine, white wine, blush wine and whiskey,

Vodka and Rum, but the SoCo's a little risky.

What's the perfect combination for a little party

To make me feel silly and a little fool hearty?

Party, party, party, party

We've all been working hard

Party, party, party, party

It's time to drop your guard.

PART 6

It all was a downward spiral starting long before, but most obviously after this one time Alison Eastwood invited us to a sex party in Reseda. Well, she invited the girl who I was giving voice lessons to, whose husband was a leader of the band she sang in, who was good friends with my husband. That girl was friends with Alison, because Alison would ask for her specifically at the strip club to give her lap dances. They bonded over their love of horses and then she got an invitation that she included me and my husband in. It was weird, but pretty much what you would expect of a sex party at a warehouse in Reseda. Not that most people wonder what that might look like. In case you're wondering now, there was a little dance area at the entrance and strict no alcohol rule past a certain door. Then, it was open room after open room of couples and groups going at it. In the main area, there was a huge round bed where people would go to do it for all to see. There were massage tables set up all around and pretty much everyone was on ecstasy. We sat in the side area and hung out with Alison while we watched others. One guy came up to me and said I was "super fuckable" and his wife offered to suck off my husband. It was surreal, like we weren't really there. I was detached. This was just a dream that would soon be over, right?

We were living a sort of classic story. Two young lovers come from the south or mid-west to LA to follow their dreams and break up a year later. I was working up to 4 jobs at a time, and he was writing poetry. I was practicing every day and he was trying out new drugs. We were both experiencing Los Angeles and all the light and darkness that came with it.

PART 7

I want to be alone whenever you're around me.

I crave society when you're nowhere to be found.

I used to want to always be near you.

You were my only friend.

but now I hardly like you

and your heart will be broken in the end

I want more than you can give

and have more than you can take

So send me back I was never yours

and you will never be mine.

I used to want to always be near you.

You were my only friend.

but now I hardly like you

and your heart will be broken in the end

My heart is already broken,

I broke it a long time ago

I used to want to always be near you.

You were my only friend.

but now I hardly like you

and your heart will be broken in the end

Eventually we went to one too many burning man parties and my husband brought home a girl after a party and went on our roof to "make love." It was not what I wanted. The next week, after a performance of my jazz group at the Catalina Jazz club on Sunset, I told him I wanted a divorce. It took forever for him to accept it. He eventually left for Seattle to work with his brother and left me behind in Beverly Hills. There was a point that he decided to come back, but I told him to stay away. He had convinced himself that I was just angry and he had gone to Seattle to make more money for us and would come home and everything would go back to how it was before. I couldn't understand how he could have misunderstood the words, "I want a divorce". So, we met at a Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf and talked. The most odd thing about this experience was that while we were discussing this very dark part of our life, my husband spotted Mandy Moore at the table next to us and we both decided to interrupt our conversation to go over and tell her how much we admired her work. Then back to business, and it was over. The divorce process had begun.

I wrote a new song for you

Don't stop me 'til I'm through.

Words don't come easily.

Give me time dear.

I'm sorting through feelings from all these years.

I thought you were the one that would last forever.

Forever is such a long time.

I was a child then

living life by a rhyme.

I wrote a new song for you

Do do do do do do

I don't want to hurt you but life is calling

Telling me that I should start brand new.

You'll be fine dear, a new life is waiting.

Take it and leave me behind.

I'm always yours dear.

You'll always be mine.

It took 3 years to complete the divorce piecing together documents and legal advice. Within months of announcing my split, my father visited me with a letter from the church I grew up in, where all my formative growth had come from, signed by him, that said I was now erased from the church roles. It was essentially a protestant excommunication, signed by my father. We were at an Irish bar in Santa Monica when he delivered the signed letter to me. Still processing the un-real separation from a man I thought had been my soul mate, the pressures of living alone in one of the most expensive cities in the world with piles of debt, working multiple jobs and existing entirely in survival mode, I didn't really respond to my dad. I think I said, "Thank you." I was told that he didn't agree with my actions, but he still loved me and prayed for me. "Thanks, dad." I kept that letter as a reminder of something. Of the horrible timing? The feeling of freedom from an oppressive faith? I'm not sure.

PART 8

When I met that man, in the strip mall on Ventura Blvd, it had been about 2 years since all of the shit hit the fan. Everything he said had a hint of truth in it.

So, when he told me, "You will ruin your life." I took it literally. It sat with me for years. Even after I remarried and had children. Maybe I would. If I continued making the same mistakes, maybe I would ruin my life. But then again, that would be my choice, and I chose not to.

I used to walk another way

Down a narrow, walled-in street.

I walked and walked and followed my feet

To where the End and the Beginning meet

I left the safety of my street

And the clouds grew thick with rhyme.

Though the breeze was warm

I was fragile

And I shivered and trembled in time.

And now I search for my land of Eden

And I search for my C'est la vie.

Where's the balance from my meditation?

I am grasping for a sense of me.

I left you standing all alone.

You held me back and I broke free.

I gained the burden of a new life

and lost a part of me.

And so I search for my land of Eden

And I search for my C'est la vie.

Where's the balance from my meditation?

I am grasping for a sense of me.

And I search for my land of Eden

And I search for my C'est la vie.

Where's the balance from my meditation?

I am grasping for a sense of me.

I'm lost in a sea of self-reflection,

Self-doubt, self-love, and self-hate.

There's no direction in this lake of tar

I cry for help

and I stand, and I wait.

And now I'm walking on my own

down a wild and dusty road

I see a light up ahead and I hurry my step

but i'm heavy under my load.

And I keep searching for my land of Eden

And I keep searching for my C'est la vie.

Where's the balance from my meditation?

I keep grasping for a sense of me.