Delusions of Grandeur No More

I had a moment today. A moment where my past and my future, which I have held separate for so long, collided and it gave me a glimpse of what is possible. A moment that was 30 years in the making but it was worth it.

I have a new job, a job where I’m passionate about the product and I feel proud to go to work every day. Finally, I made it to the big leagues, to television where everything is shiny and nice, to the crème de la crème of all networks, the one that people salivate over, the cool kids club that everyone aspires to get into. I keep thinking that they let me in by accident, that sooner or later they will discover what they’ve done but today, today I realized that I do belong and they don’t even know what I’m gonna bring them next.

We all know that I used to do tricks on horses, I know that it gave me the experience of a lifetime, that there are so many things that I learned by traveling the world, that I have a competitive spirit and that I can apply all of these skills to the real world. But I never feel like my experiences matter, I have delusions of grandeur that I was a “someone” and that I can’t find my place in the real world because of it. But today I did. On the new project that I’m working on the producer asked me to a script review meeting. I did my “job” assessed the scripts from the clients point of view, made sure we had delivered on everything promised. But the creatives weren’t satisfied, they wanted to push the limits, show the real world a believable character, an elite athlete torn between her career and a social life. I spoke up, I said I know what that’s like, and I can speak from experience. And so I told my story and the producer loved it, not as some fairytale fable but as a REAL LIFE EXPERIENCE, one that many women face and that should be told by our character. Today my experiences shaped something that is going on our network and I am proud. I used my past life to shape my future and I realized that it’s possible. It’s possible to feel the joy as I used to performing in the arena for a big crowd, I was proud that I was able to help shape something that I believe in so strongly and I’m going to continue shaping everything I work on..

So I dedicate this blog to all of the strong women that have helped shape my life. My mentors: my mom, Emma, Stacey, Peggy and the ones still to come. To all my girlfriends that have stuck with my through thick and thin, listening to my delusions of grandeur: Kristi, Jaime, Kim, Kelly, Shannon, Elina and last but not least my boys: the ones that keep me on my toes and in the real world: Vern, Will and my love, Eliott.

I'm Destined To Be A Copywriter

Oh to be paid to write snarky copy like this... A girl can dream can't she??

For extra fun click play dumb, good times, good times.

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But even though you can now chuck your mugger-attracting fanny pack, you still may be a target, because you're ugly. If you're accosted, pat your pockets, play dumb, and crap your pants to distract them from your sandals.

I'm A Reliable Pirate

Wow, reliable pirate huh? That is NOT exciting. I need to work on that.

My pirate name is:

Dread Pirate Kidd

Like the famous Dread Pirate Roberts, you have a keen head for how to make a profit. Even though you're not always the traditional swaggering gallant, your steadiness and planning make you a fine, reliable pirate. Arr!

Get your own pirate name from fidius.org.

PS. I know I am a loser for not writing lately, more to come soon I promise.

Technology Is GREAT!

Check it out! I can put songs on my blog... which reminds me. Is there no originality left in the world?

Dani California


Last Dance with Mary Jane

Aujourd'hui Il Pleut

Today it is raining; the kind of grey, cold rain that keeps people indoors, cozied up on the couch with a good book and some hot chocolate. But, I am not one of these people. I see rain and I want to go out. I feel trapped, desperate, unable to accomplish anything in my own four walls that I call an apartment. On days like these, the apartment gets much smaller, much more cluttered with small things to do, and I can do none of them.

I awoke at 7:30am and immediately opened my shades to watch the tiny droplets of water sprinkle on the rooftops below my window. I watched as people scurry around with grand, large umbrellas to keep them dry. I proceed to scrounge the “world wide web” or the “internets” as our friend George W calls it (um there is ONE internet buddy, just ONE, no “S”) for a way to move to France, what papers do I need, how am I going to get a job, how can I escape this place? Finally, I tire of lying down, tire of typing on my lap. You know what I long for the most on days like these? On these grey, cold days trapped in my apartment, I long for a kitchen table; a large one where you can spread out your things and not clean them up, where you can make stacks and stacks of things to do and accomplish them one by one, where you can eat and write and keep your stacks all at the same time, where you can stare out the window for minutes on end at the rain coming down, comforted by the warmth from inside your house. I long for that. A table. A kitchen table says to me that you have a home and that it’s a real home. Instead I find myself suiting up for a rainy day quest to find “a table,” a place where I can spread out my stuff and think.

I head up the street to my favorite “plain old good food” establishment, 7A. Always the best food there, mediocre service and endless chatter, it’s so loud that you can do nothing but climb inside your head and think. It’s the kind of static noise that forces you to focus in and really THINK. I never understood that till recently. It’s too quiet to think people would say. It didn’t make sense to me. If it’s quiet then you have nothing to do but think. No, you have EVERYTHING to do but think, you can wait for the next sound, you can wonder what that intermittent clicking is, when it’s so noisy that you can’t distinguish one noise from the next then you have nothing to do but focus in and get your shit done.

Upon my arrival I find that everyone else had my same idea, they were all searching for a place to get out. Since when are New Yorkers early birds? Its only 11:15am, shouldn’t they be lying with their head in a toilet after a night of debaucher like all normal people? I install myself at the bar, but, a bar is not, in fact, a table. I eat my ham and cheese omelet surrounded by noise, pay the bartender and continue my quest for “a table.”

Next stop Café Pick Me Up, they have there very nice table, a good ambiance for getting things done, windows where I can see the rain and COOKIES! Also very good for getting things done. (We won’t discuss my need for a diet till tomorrow; lord knows you can’t start a diet on a SUNDAY!!) My quest seems futile at this point. All the tables are taken, is it impossible in this city to find a damn table? At this rate it would be easier to find a BOYFRIEND than a table. Alors, I must move on.

Finally my last ditch effort, Alt Coffee, a vegan coffee house that doesn’t have cookies, isn’t warm cause they leave the door open AND smells of wet dog, wait that’s me, the fur on the hood of my coat is wet. But, they do in fact have a few tables and I manage to snag a seat at a communal table where I am now sitting across from a young, blemished, red head that seems to be working on a term paper. Oh to be young again.

So, I found a table and I am writing, but I am somehow disappointed. Kind of like bad sex with a really hot guy; you think that you finally found what you were looking for but somehow it wasn’t as good as you expected.

To Sum It All Up

How do you know when its over? Is it when you no longer laugh at the difficulties that you found so amusing in the beginning? Is it when you fancy going to bed at an early hour rather than hitting the town? Is it when twenty bucks suddenly seems an absurd price to pay for a hamburger? And when you know its over how do you go about breaking it off with one of the most glorious cities in the world? (oh geez this is a BLATANT rip off of Sex In The City...I heart NY...Get a life!!)

Ok so, in my quest to decide what do to with the rest of my life... (Not any better)

I just arrived back from Paris and though I never want to leave that place somehow, this year is worst than ever. I wander the wintery streets of New York thinking about what I am going to do next and trying to find solace in what I have accomplished while I was here in New York over the past four years. Here goes, the dreaded list.

I have accomplished a long list of failed attempts at relationships, some near, some far, all excellent (ok some horrific) memories. Let's revisit shall we?

THE NEW JERSEY BOY - Timing is everything isn't it? And this one, the timing was always off. We hit it off at a horseshow before I decided to move to New York and upon my arrival in the "Big Apple" he promised to show me around. Great kisser, fun all-around guy, liked outdoor activities. In my months of unemployment he kept me occupied with days at his Jersey Shore beach house surfing, trips upstate to see the leaves, an overnighter on Block Island. Boy did we have fun till he left for Utah for the winter. Then it was an on again off again disaster that resulted in him snooping through my room to read my journal to see if I was "sexual" to find out the answer of why I wasn't having sex with him.

FERRIS BUELER - What an adorable boy. Too bad he was too nice for me. The spitting image of Matthew Broderick and he had domestic skills to match. Understanding of my quest to conquer the world, supportive and patient - it was far too much for me to take.

THE FRENCH BAR OWNER - Who knew a midnight quest to find a location for a New Years Party with my friend Dave would find me making out with the owner in the basement of the bar? But what fun ensued; unabashedly French, suave and "bad," he was perfectly wrong for me. I enjoyed evenings of drinking and eating, discussing the world, travel and avoiding talking about politics at all costs. Cutting work for fake doctors appointments so that I could "nap" with him when he had time, midnight rendezvous and fantastic "dates", I couldn't get enough. And just when you want more, they want less.

THE BOY FROM SON CUBANO - On a daring evening out with my favorite Italian princess from queens, in a fit of superiority I left my number for the bartender. And yes, he called right away. Months of not sleeping the whole night through left me tired and wanting a boy to hang out with during normal hours, too bad I had to find a new favorite restaurant too.

THE CEO - Suave, rich and handsome but tres cliche. He fancied himself "Mr. Big" so much that he called immediately after the finale of SITC and told me that he had the same name as "Mr. Big." Car service, fancy dinners, long chats on the phone are things I enjoyed but along with that came his excessive drinking, his penchant for "toys" (which I discovered while snooping the ONE time I stayed over) and his 3 children that he forgot to tell me about for 6 months (found also on same "sleep over" night). Unfortunately he never stayed sober long enough to warrant any nookie, I finally had to break up with him over email.

THE MIAMI BOY TOY - Ahhhh, my no muss no fuss perfect relationship. So nice to have someone you can "depend on."

THE ACTOR MAN - You know it can never be a good thing when you relationship starts with "I'm very busy" but to this day, I will never forget the time he did have for me. AND I have one notch on my belt that gives me some celebrity status!

THE DETECTIVE - Who knew that getting mugged could turn out so well? And it never hurts to have the law on your side right? Always dependable in a pinch, changes a mean lightbulb and gives new meaning to "lights and sirens." Too bad he occasionally forgets to take his WEDDING RING off when he comes to see me. Only one of "New York's" finest!

THE FRENCH WAITER - I know, I know I have a problem with the French. I think I was born in the wrong country. Well apparently so was this guy, he wanted a green card.

THE RECORD LABEL EXEC - His business cards are what make him cool, entry to any venue in the city, too bad he never wanted to take me with. And somehow all that music rendered his hearing useless to my explanations that I wasn't interested in sleeping with him. The only thing I enjoy is the morning laugh when I receive the monthly attempt at a booty call.

THE VEGAS BOY - I find it ironic that the one to take me off the market would live in "sin city," he charmed me from the moment I met him. I became a girlfriend, worked day and night so that I could go and see him a few weekends a month. Passed on dates with others, waited dutifully for his phone calls and loved every minute of our hour long conversations. We balanced each other out: encouraging, loving, supporting, or did we? I was in love but couldn't make it work.

MY BROTHERS FRIEND - I'm officially the "older woman." But its fun, I have no desire to grow up and he makes me feel young and silly. From Jaeger shots, to kitchen parties and cheap beers this does the trick when you are wallowing in self pity cause you just turned 30. And boy does he know how to kiss.

If you can make it here you can make it anywhere. Isn't that what they say? Did I make it? How do you know if you made it? And where do you go after you do? Where is life going to take me next?

I'm Huge In France

I’m huge in France; it’s really where my primary fan base is. Hoards of children flock to me asking for my autograph, screaming fans, paparazzi everywhere. Not quite, but wouldn’t that be funny if it did? But back to my original comment, I am better in France - my stock rises, I am automatically an individual apart from everyone else because I’m not French but I speak French. Its like I am honorary French. I relax easily into the lifestyle here, the chatting, the coffees, cadence that the language rolls off the tongue.

I arrived here yesterday and didn’t even blink an eye as I scurried around trying to get enough “epece” to buy my metro ticket. When I fly into New York and something goes wrong, I get flustered, ANGRY even but not here in France. I am surrounded by a sense of calm that I can only attribute to the reason that I adore the French, I discovered it yesterday. The Reason being? The French don’t apologize for anything. The just are. It is what it is so deal with it. Time after time I get asked why I love France so much, after all they are impossibly arrogant, difficult and smelly. Well, I love that they are impossibly arrogant, difficult, well ok maybe I don’t love that they are smelly but that is what brought it to my attention that they don’t apologize for anything. Don’t have a smart chip on your credit card, too bad, you can’t buy a metro card. Not oh we are so sorry… just too bad. You don’t speak the language? Too bad. I love that! I have spent my ENTIRE life apologizing for different things. Oh I’m sorry that I worked really hard and won the competition. Oh I’m sorry I want to take a moment for myself and treat myself to something nice. What, isn't that the American way? I’m sorry our president sucks, what else do you want me to say?

Which leads me to love coming here. I can do whatever I want and not apologize, I can be flamboyant and irritating and demanding and everyone finds that endearing. They love me, they love that I have a goofy accent when I speak. They ADORE ME. Je suis une star!

Ok enough of the love for myself… Yesterday I spent the day in the least enjoyable manner. Hanging out with other American’s in Paris. I hate that. I like to lose myself here, blend in. Even if I never speak to anyone the entire time, I just like to fade into the background and eavesdrop on another way of life. So today I have begun my real adventure. I am on a train on my way to Saumur. I will spend the weekend with my French friends watching crazy people do tricks on horses. This is a slight bit tough for me to sit and watch as I’m delusional and think that I can still do it, you know, if I had enough time. Of course I could. I don’t see that much progression in the sport, I could still catch up. I could pull a Katarina Witt and make a comeback? Or could I?

Delusions of Grandeur Part Deux

So, we all know that I fancy myself something of a celebrity. Maybe a “Q” list celebrity, well maybe I don't even make that list but in my own head I'm a celebrity none the less. We also know that anything ordinary just won’t do, I continue to dwell on the past when I was a star in the strangest sport on earth.

Recently, I received a call from my gym urging me to take advantage of the free personal training session that I received upon signing up for the uptown Health and Racquet Club. I tried my best to shrug it off with no avail. Man, the guy on the other end of the phone was persistent; basically talking about anything he could think of so that I would eventually have to sign up for the session just to get him off my phone. He counseled me about the benefits of owning your own place rather than renting, he told me how to get a mortgage, he begged for me to be his new friend since he works so much and really only hangs out with his dog. My final effort to refuse was flat, dry and to the point, “Ok here’s the deal. I am an ex-world champion (slight lie, just a smidge, I was only second in the world, a point that is going to rest on my shoulder till the day I die) of equestrian vaulting. I have been training since I was seven with some of the best trainers in the world. I will consider taking one of your personal training sessions if you truly think that they can teach me something new. I don’t like to be patronized or treated like a “girl” when I am working out.”

There wasn’t even a pause, this guy should get an award for his sales techniques, “well if you don’t want to be patronized then you should stop calling yourself a girl.’

I returned, “I prefer to be called a girl, I don’t want to be a woman, I am never going to grow up.”

“Fine,” he replies, “I am going to have my best trainer call you, he trains all our trainers, and he will show some new stuff.”

Fine I reply. I have to work now; I am hanging up on you.

A day later, “Eddie” calls me, the first question out of his mouth was “have you ever trained before” seriously people, is this how you run your business? Did I not explain myself clearly yesterday? He sets my appointment and says he will see me the next day. Just as I am considering not showing up for my dreaded patronizing experience he calls again. "Um, I double booked myself but I really want to train you so I have left a message for the other lady to move her appointment."explains the fabulous Eddie. Once again, is this a good way to run a business? Somehow I manage to not cancel my appointment.

The next day I show up at the gym early to get some cardio in before my session. At 7:30 on the dot I am joined by the wonderful Eddie. He starts out as all trainers do by wanting to put me on the treadmill. I love how they want to waste 10 minutes of your training session by putting you on the treadmill where they don’t have to attend to you. Wait, I do the same thing with my students, it’s the easiest way to make money, sit and do nothing but you seem like you are doing something. So bad! I explain that I am completely ready to go, warmed up and stretched. He proceeds to take me over to do some exercises, no questions asked just going jump in with both feet. I explain once again that I have trained since I was seven and also that I prefer to have a strong core and not do too many heavy lifting exercises because I bulk up really fast. He tells me that, “a lot has changed since you were seven.”

Hello, simple grammar, SINCE I was seven not WHEN I was seven. I try to tell him about my training from before, he is completely uninterested. Is he blowing off my life’s work? This is the kind of thing that I can’t deal with. I am an ATHLETE, I deserve to be fawned over and revered. No, he just keeps putting me through exercise after exercise. And, to tell you the truth, I am winded. In fact after one series he tries to ask me a question and I can’t breathe. Wait, I am an athlete, how embarrassing, he is kicking my ass. I suffer through the rest of the session with him urging me to sign up for three sessions a week at the low special only for me price of $78 per session. Are you kidding me, pay for this torture of being a nobody at the gym for nearly $300 a week? Not possible. At last we get to the saving grace, abdominal exercises, I kill at these. He was very impressed, finally, the respect I deserve.

The New Male Escort

The other day I enjoyed quite an interesting debate with a few male friends about male and female strip clubs. They were trying to convince me that male and female strip clubs are no different, that women just as men want to see the "goods," or the "junk"(this is my new favorite word for the penis). Quick side note that one of these men had the occasion to attend a male strip club when I took my best friend to one in Las Vegas for her birthday (ok, he is my ex and I made him go with me). Now I am sure that you are all wondering if this was the end of our relationship when I found out he was willing to go to a male strip club and ogle his own kind. In fact, it was not, we went because a friend of mine is a dancer there and offered us free drinks. Yes, once again the lure of free goods, see how compelling it is? And people wonder why marketing just isn't working these days. One only has to promise free alcohol and it will sell like hotcakes.

Ok back to the strip club.

I myself had never been to one with men on parade so I didn't quite know what to expect. I envisioned women in their forties drooling like ravenous dogs trying to get at some fresh meat; I also envisioned impeccably groomed toned pecks and a banana hammock. All of which, by the way, didn't really appeal to me. Give me a toned tanned body on a surfboard any day, I can seriously do without the banana hammock. But anyway, sad to say that it was exactly as I imagine Cliche batchelorette parties, women yes, ravenous for fresh meat. But the thing that amazed me the most was that these women weren't content to just look, they wanted to touch, rub and gyrate with the said performers. Now this was interesting to me. In a female strip club it's look, don't touch. In the male strip club it was all about the TOUCHING!! In fact my lucky friend who was celebrating her birthday actually confirmed said touching and digital penetration even! Armed with these facts, the ex tried to pass it off as a big win for all mankind, saying that women too enjoy the strip club and that it is now an equal playing field, it's a free pass of sorts for men to keep going to the strip clubs because see, he witnessed it, women enjoy it too. But this leads me to argue that it takes a certain kind of woman to go to this place. Men are titillated (yes I said tit) by looking at just about anything but women on the other hand (as observed in person) need that contact to get off, and only a certain kind of woman would in fact frequent a place like that.

This led me to wonder, where are all the other women going? I happened to be jogging on the treadmill at my posh uptown health and racquet club while I was pondering this when I began to notice something. I was surrounded by HOT, TONED male trainers who were training ONLY WOMEN. Maybe I am onto something here. I watched carefully as the trainer explained each movement that the ladies were to do by gently touching their backs, legs and buttocks. Squeeze here, lift here, do the movement like this he says as he wraps an arm around her stomach to help her tilt her pelvis into the perfect anatomical position. And the best comes for those who last through the grueling yes sensual exercise regimen. Then comes ten minutes saved for stretching. Here you are placed on a massage table and contorted into various positions that are only best achieved by the trainer lying directly atop the you. A light bulb came on over my head. Here is where the women go. They come in for their personal training sessions. Personal trainers are the new male escorts. Here women can come to a socially acceptable location to be touched and fawned over for a complete hour. They then can proceed to the nearest shower to finish off armed with the images and sensations of the last hours training session. After all we know that men are visually stimulated, simple creatures that they are. Women however are advanced enough that all it takes is her creative mind to create a fantasy that can last for weeks.

Neither Here Nor There

So… A Russian man fell on me today in the subway. No beating around the bush on this one, I’m going to get straight to it. He fell; not in that oops the subway jerked and I accidentally bumped you kind of way, you know, the kind where an over the shoulder glance and a gentle shoulder shrug will suffice for an apology. And no, he didn’t fall in that oh the subway swayed so I’m going to take this opportunity to grope you and blame public transportation for it, the kind where the bump is usually followed by a sideways glance checking to see if a grind might be acceptable to follow? No, he fell in an all out body slam fall and I totally saw it coming. I heard some loud Russian being spoken, now who am I to say if it was actually Russian I heard, last time I checked I didn’t speak a word of the language, nope, nada, niet - well ok so I know one word. But anyway, the Russian men, the two of them get on the subway and start progressing toward the two empty seats next to me. Now if you are familiar with the New York subway system you will know that the “F” train has the type of seating that is a combination of sideways bench seats as well as forward and backward facing bus type seating. I was sitting on the sideways bench seat and they were aiming for the bus seats facing me. They were maneuvering their way into the seats and just as they started the decent to place their buttocks in the seats, hence their center of gravity was already pitched forward, I got a whiff of vodka on the breath when subway lurched forward. In slow motion the Russian man starts the fall onto me, his friend reaches out to try to catch him and pull him back but nothing is going to stop this guy. He goes down and down and down, right across my lap. If I hadn't been so stunned I would have realized that he was in the perfect position for me to deliver quite a spanking to this man. But, I missed my chance, plus, he wasn’t cute. So then, as if getting fallen on wasn’t enough then I had to then endure six stops of trying not to: number one, laugh cause a man just fell on me, number two, politely smile as if everything is ok while the two Russian men offered me thumbs up and number three, keep my eyes directed straight ahead. I mean how long can one stare at the awful advertisements that they have posted on the subway. I now know that channel 6 has news at 6, 8, 10 and 11. Can anyone really watch that much news?

So… in other exciting New York happenings that you really would be better off not knowing about. Today on this tremendously fun filled fifth day of April it snowed. Yes, people, it actually snowed, not for a few minutes either, but for a good solid hour. I woke up this morning and it had just rained, then it got sunny and next thing you know, it’s snowing!! When are we going to stop the charade and admit that this is GLOBAL WARMING! We have officially fucked up the weather patterns!

So… last on the agenda tonight, I am playing every New Yorkers favorite game. It’s called - let’s see what is in the fridge tonight. This evening I had a delicious meal that included: a half portion of pasta, 9 Original Club Crackers with some week old brie cheese (yea threw that out after a bite), a grapefruit and a bowl of plain yogurt. No, I’m not still in college and yea, I just turned 30. Wow, if that isn’t the best testimonial for my domestic skills I don’t know what is. Hmmmm and I often wonder why the men aren’t flocking to me? But, on that note, when are these cooking channels going to get a clue! Start a cooking show called 4X4 cooking where some snazzy chef comes into your miniscule apartment and shows you how to cook amazing things in a kitchen that is four feet by four feet with only eggs, canned corn, parsnips and some garlic pepper. Um, what?? who has parsnips in their fridge??