Desires, and saying Yes

"If in your heart you’ve wanted it, then God put that desire there, and He intends to fulfill it."

I’ve heard people tell me that over the years, when I was suffering through some career disappointment, or more likely, some romantic Hiroshima.

"If you’ve prayed that God would take the desire away if it’s not from Him, and you still have that desire, God probably is going to fufill it."

All my adult life I wanted to be an actor; to write and do comedy. Just make a living at it. And I have. In the past. But the fact is, the market has changed, I’ve gotten older, and well, shit happens. Were my desires wrong? Or did God fail to come through? I don’t know the answer.

I recently got cast in a national network commercial for Expedia.com. Finally! I thought. It had been way too long since my last national network spot. Finally. Thank you Lord.

Four hours later my agent called. "Susan, this has happened to me twice in my 15 years as an agent .... " I had been removed. Un-cast. Fired before I'd worked.
It wasn't the Lord's will.
So the Lord's will was to mess with my emotions? What was the real answer?
Sometimes, Sometimes the right answer, is "that sucks.

Well, some good did come out of this career death. I decided. Okay, if I'm not going to make a living at this: do I really want to do with my acting and writing talent? So I started to write essays and work on a solo show. And I’ve loved it. I’ve gotten some writing gigs out of it. I feel more joy and satisfaction about my talents than I ever did. But you know, God would it have been so wrong just to let the Excpedia commercial stay in?

Or it came to the guy and marriage. I figured, there isn’t really anyone right for me. So if I’m going to live the rest of my life as a single person, what do I need to do to make that life a good one? Who’s my tribe, my family? Where can I give back and not get stuck being a selfish old woman with cats? What’s going to bring me joy and happiness?

SO I started a writers’ group, I did more reading, I got involved in a church, I volunteered. And you know, my life is really rich. I have a lot going on and it’s wonderful.

And lo and behold, He shows up. No, not some guy. THE guy. The guy who's beyond perfect for me. Our lives fit in a way I could never have imagined.

However, God DID NOT actually grant me the desire of my heart. Beucase my heart hade stopped desiring. God did not give what I wanted. He gave me more than I ever dared want. And that’s where I’m blown away. I feel sad that I didn't meet him sooner. But if I had, maybe I wouldn't have been able to recognize him.

Whether or not all this heartache was meant to be, it is. It was.


My wonderful man sent me this yesterday. Author Dave Eggers, quoted from the Harvard Advocate: What matters is that you do good work. What matters is that you produce things that are true and will stand. … What matters is not the perception, nor the fashion, not who's up and who's down, but what someone has done and if they meant it. What matters is that you want to see and make and do, on as grand a scale as you want, regardless of what the tiny voices of tiny people say. Do not be critics, you people, I beg you. I was a critic and I wish I could take it all back because it came from a smelly and ignorant place in me, and spoke with a voice that was all rage and envy. Do not dismiss a book until you have written one, and do not dismiss a movie until you have made one, and do not dismiss a person until you have met them. It is a f__load of work to be open-minded and generous and understanding and forgiving and accepting, but Christ, that is what matters. What matters is saying yes.

My cynical heart is learning to say yes.
Go out and say yes to the life in front of you. When it sucks, say Yes, this part sucks. And when it's glorious say yes to that as well.

Rejected by eHarmony!

How do you get rejected by eharmony? Start by telling the truth

Two and a half years ago, I decided I needed to get over my ex. It had been five months since we broke up, and he managed to meet someone the following week. So I did something I swore I would never do. I tried internet dating.

Five years ago, internet dating felt like a realm reserved for the desperate. Mail-order brides, ex-nuns with facial hair, obese IT nerds who live alternate lives online as robo-cut Japanese animé heroes.

But today we do so much over the internet: banking, shopping, heck these days I prefer email to talking on the phone. So, I caved. Why not just try internet dating? At least I'll be able to see who's out there.
Or not.

I started by taking the eHarmony personality profile which matches you to, as they put it: a highly select group with whom you share things like character, intellect, passion ... and up to 24 other dimensions. Dimensions being a new way to market the human character. And eHarmony has discovered 24 of 'em!

So I took the test. There were hundreds of questions. Some were hard to answer. Like, I had to choose between:
I like spending week nights alone OR
I'm attracted to black men.
What if I'd like to spend a week night alone with a black man?

So, 45 minutes and 100s of questions later, identified my 24-dimensional personality. And they rejected me. eHarmony REJECTED ME! Come on, I didn't get even ONE of the 24 dimensions right?

That's because you're unique, a friend comforted me. As if being 41 and still single didn't tell me that already?

My roommate said eHarmony rejected a percentage to weed out "crazy people."
I wondered how she knew this.

Alright, so maybe it was the way I answered some of the questions.
Like, do you go through mood swings?
I'm a woman. We do that every month.
Or, Does life sometimes seem meaningless?
Yeah, I'm over thirty.
Even if you're not going through a heart-wrenching breakup ... which I was ... If you're honest, you'd be a liar NOT to answer yes. A liar or incredibly shallow. Now, whenever I see those perky couples on eHarmony ads? I think to myself, they're shallow. Shallow liars.

Then I tried this internet dating site another friend told me about, called Christian Café.
Who emailed me? Men in drag, magician outfits, a guy who looked like Santa Claus on a bender. Then a woman instant-messaged me because she was going through a crisis and needed a "Christian sister" to talk to. She begged to talk to me on the phone. I gave her my work number. My office gave her my cell number. I still get calls from Iowa. I just don't answer them.

I tried Match.com. Lots of interesting, successful, men with mojo. But none of them shared my religious faith. I already tried dating men outside my faith. At best, the guy says, "that's great for you." And doing the spiritual life alone got really lonely. So, I knew I needed a man with my faith. But all the church boys had NO mojo WHATSOEVER. I was screwed. Finally I got matched with this Christian man who owned a vending machine company. Five seconds into our first phone call, puts his 8-year-old son on the line. "Hi I'm Skippy, do you like iguanas?" I had to hold a conversation with the kid for seven minutes.

Then I got an email from some church boy who worked in film. He seemed fun, but in our first phone call, he talked about his friends like I already knew them.
Film: Charlie's having a hard time because Thelma just died.
Me: Who's Thelma?
Film: Charlie's Mom.
Me: Who's Charlie?
Film: My college roommate. He worked at the White Castle on I-85? Hey, can I read you my screenplay?

I let my membership to match.com expire.

Several month later, Christian Café sent me ten free days to try to get me to come back. In those ten free days I saw the same guys on line. Not only the men from months before, I recognized men I'd seen them at every singles group in Southern California for the last 15 years. Men with handles like ShiningArmor, Heart4JesusNYou, MisterRight. I know Mister Right. He went to my church in the 1980s. I never got more than four words out of him. And there he is, Mister Right. He's been on Christian Café for 2 years. How sad is that, to flip back every few months and see that no one wants Mister Right?

I took the eharmony profile again. And, I got rejected, again. This time I asked my roommate how she knew they rejected people they thought were “crazy.”
Roommate: They rejected me. They said some of my answers were contradictory.
Susan: That’s not because you’re crazy, that’s because you’re an artist.
Roommate: Well, to eharmony, crazy and artist are the same thing.
Susan: Fine. I’d rather crazy and interesting, than sane and dull.
Roommate: I'd rather be crazy and interesting. And married.

Several months later, I tried match.com again. I saw this one guy's profile, said he was 43, a Christian and worked in the arts. We emailed. He was hot to meet me, but kept having to go out of the country on business. He seemed cool, but some of his pictures looked a little narcissistic. I saw him at a distance at this wealthy church on Mulholland Drive. A friend dragged me there, I swear. But there he was, the guy from the profile. He kept flipping his hair and checking out the high school aged 'babes.' He never emailed me back. Maybe he'd seen me at a distance too, and decided I was too old, since I was out of high school.

Christian Café kept stalking me, luring me in with ten free days, then five. Then four. Every time, I saw the same men. Two years later, Mister Right was still up for grabs.

Third time I took the eHarmony profile, I passed. But had just had an endoscopy and was drugged on Percoset. I got matched with Percoset addicts. I let that expire.

Christian café sent me three free days. While online some "Christian brother" in Arkansas instant messaged me, "if you were a hot dog, would you eat yourself?"

I tried eHarmony again. This time I lied, and said I always thought life was full of meaning. I got matched with nice Christian mojo-free men who worked in the air force or computer sales. Men who were never brave enough to admit that, sometimes life sucks and doesn't make sense.

A 45-year old Indian physics professor named Sanjee wanted to fast track me. That means, skip the multiple choice questions and go right to the dowry requirements. I said no, I wanted to go through the multiple choice first. He didn't have his picture posted, but all his must haves/can't stands were about beauty: must have a woman who is considered very attractive. Must have a woman who is in excellent physical shape. Can't stand a woman who is overweight. Can't stand a woman who is not extremely attractive. Finally we got to the open questions, but before he could ask me about the size of my dowry, I asked him why it was so important that his partner be so attractive but he didn't have his picture posted. So, he posted his picture. It was a long shot of a man sitting on top of a Coleman cooler in a weedy back yard. He looked about 60. He stared off in a strange direction, like a Civil War daguerreotype. Maybe he was legally blind.

The others I got matched with looked into the camera but had creepy vacant eyes, like the church had stolen their spontaneity. So, that was it for me and eHarmony. I figured this kind of matching works for people in the fly-over states who chose their jobs because a college counselor told them they'd like it. People whose answers will always be the same at any given moment. Not us crazy artist types who see life as full of contradictions. And anyway, I couldn’t look for a mate like I was shopping for a car: at the end of the day you’re supposed to pick one. No thanks, I’d rather walk than drive the wrong car.

Right before Christmas, Christian Café offered me two free days. Nothing like making the holidays even more depressing than trying to find a guy on a Christian website that guarantees men with no 'nads. It found a profile of a guy who was a writer. On a lark I emailed him, gave him my real email address. In the two days I was online for free, never heard from him. But I did get an email from this other cute guy. But he was 26. My last boyfriend taught me never to date someone so young I could have been his babysitter.

About a week or so later, Writer Guy emailed me at my real email address. Over the next four days we emailed each other back and forth a lot. He was my kind of spiritual, he was smart, and mature. He’d even worked as a journalist for Christian magazines.

Susan: How was it working for Christians?
Writer Guy: Think “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.” I’d like to have most of it erased.
Ooh, he was funny too.
Susan: So are you not into church at all?
Writer Guy: I don’t often recognize God there. But I do find Him in simple things, with people who get what love and grace are all about.

I'd never heard my own thoughts articulated so well. When he said it, I was sure I was hearing an echo of something I hadn't yet said.
Writer: Susan. I’d like to meet you.
Wow. A guy who actually asks you out.
Susan: I'm free after Friday.
Writer Guy: Shit, I leave for Seattle on Thursday, for two weeks.

He said "shit." I was smitten.

In those two weeks, my lizard brain emerged from its sleep and spoke: Susan, this is The One. He's The One. And I knew it was true.

But then I met him. He was SO NOT The One. He was smaller and skinner and nervous. He wore clogs and had longish wild hair, which he kept running his fingers through. He slouched down into the café sofa as he talked. I admit I liked what he was talking about. He my attention for two hours.

The next time he asked me out, he was less guarded, more fun. He seemed taller, sexier. The third date, I noticed the earring in his ear looked good against his "not so wild hair." It turned out he liked Monty Python and Emma Thompson. He had watched the Dylan documentary five times. And he let it slip out that he owned a vinyl copy of the Beatles Bootleg Christmas album. I started to recognize the smart, funny, mature guy I'd met in emails. It was like watching someone's face emerge in a Polaroid. I started to feel all squishy inside. Butterflies under my belt buckle. If he continued to "show up" he might end up being, you know, The One. But I once thought that about my last two boyfriends. And BOY was I wrong on both counts.

I saw Writer Guy for several months, and he got smarter, funnier, sexier, and more like Jesus every day. He was also full of contradictions. But they passed him on eHarmony the first go. They have way more women on eharmony than men. Maybe they lower the bar for the guys.

Eight months later, Writer Guy and I got married. My lizard brain was right. He's The One. When my friends ask how we met, I tell them: on website I wouldn't recommend to any crazy, creative woman I cared about. Unless she’s looking for "Mister Right."

PS: February 4, 2009 Update. I appeared on a Fox morning show, "Mornings with Mike And Juliet," which you can watch here. When I said on camera that I was rejected by eHarmony three times, the official eHarmony psychologist asked me if I was a complex thinker and saw the grays, and the nuances in life.
Of course I did. Creative artists probably see too much nuance and complexity.
He told me that was why i got rejected. eHarmony's core belief is that people get along if they think alike. They match people based on statistical probability that they'll think or act alike in any given situation.

So people, if eHarmony rejects you, chances are you are complex, artistic, flexible and interesting. Or schizophrenic.

Talk amongst yourself.

WDJG: Where Did Jesus Go?

My mom has this biography of the President entitled: The Faith of George Bush. The cover jacket features a photo of Dubya, his eyes cast down in a pious, contemplative moment. I'm guessing the book was published during his reelection campaign. I'm also guessing his faith is real. I mean, who am I to judge? But I'm also baffled how a man who's running his government like the Billionaire Bullies Club, believes in the same Jesus I believe in; the same Jesus whom Bono and Mother Theresa and Jimmy Carter believe in. I just thought Jesus was for the poor and the defenseless, not Halliburton.

I was surfing cable TV and stopped at TBN, the religious channel that inherited Liberace's interior decorator and Barnum and Bailey's makeup artist. A garish stained glass window overpowers the back wall. Everything else on the set is shiny. Host Paul Crouch sits in an overstuffed comfy chair, too-tight double knit slacks, legs splayed open. His gut busts under the polyester, and below that I'm forced to notice he didn't commit to one side. Mortified, I look at the only other thing on camera: his wife Jan. She looks like a watercolor of Tammy Faye left out in the rain. I don't know what Jesus' personal style was, but I doubt he went in for big makeup.

I surfed a bit further and found a Sunday service: the newest celebrity-pastor Joel Osteen in his shiny hair, giving his coliseum-sized congregation various tips on wealth and success. I imagine his biggest problem must be finding two parking spaces together so he can park his Lexus SUV. I doubt his show plays well in, say, the Sudan or Guatemala.

I used to call myself an "evangelical" Christian, back when the word "evangelical" meant you'd come to your faith with a clear and sober mind, as opposed to jumping on the feel-good 1980s bandwagon of Ronald Regan and Debbie Boone. Today, the worst a Born-Again could do to you would be sing “Kumbaya." But Evangelicals are joyless bullies. They’re angry and pushy and they want the rest of the world to obey their laws. Look, I believe faith has a place in the public forum. Everything does. But I never remember Jesus trying to change Roman law. Evangelicals co-opted Fundamentalism, only none of the FUN and all of the MENTAL. Now when people ask me what I am, I just say, I'm Lutheran. It sounds jaunty and nonthreatening, like a tuna hot dish in a Garrison Keillor monologue.

I find more authentic spiritual searching in my writers group and my yoga class. Don't worry, I don't chant "om" or call down Shiva, Goddess of Destruction. Their greeting is "namaste," which means, "I see the light in you" or "the god in me salutes the god in you." I just say, "the god in me can crush the god in you." No seriously, I just say, God bless you. But the point is, why is I find more real quest there than at church? Am I at the wrong place? Is my heart cold and hard?

So why don't I walk away? Why can't I just accept the fact that, even if I love Jesus, I’ll never get along with his friends, and leave it at that? Because for one, we're out there. We're not pro-gun racists. We just want to know Jesus. Or God. Or maybe we've just gotten as far as knowing we want to find the Source of love and beauty and redemption.

I also can't walk away because I remember too much. I remember being 8 years old, watching my brother fly a kite in the March sky. The clouds were so high you could see them hug the curvature of the earth. Suddenly God felt so big, and so close. Then I felt his Presence falling on me like a blanket. Like the way your arm gets its feeling back when it's gone to sleep on you. I knew I was not alone. I knew I was loved and loved by a Person. Ever since then, I've being running toward or away from that knowing.

A year ago I woke up from a dreamless sleep: I had heard something deafening, like all the notes of the audio spectrum had been swept up into one whispered word: My name. I heard my name. It was terrifying. And it was over too soon.

That's why I can't let go. I want to free Jesus in my mind from all the tasteless, loveless culture that's attached itself to Him like a parasite. I want to get back to that moment of knowing Him in the March sky. I want to hear all the sound of the world whisper my name.

And I'm not the only one.

On Fire For Jesus

It was October 1996, and I was in Irwindale, California, at a Speaking in Tongues Conference. I looked out at the people talking to Jesus in their special language. I saw the light in their eyes, the passion on their faces, and I thought to myself, what the f#$ am I doing here? How did I start on a path of wanting to know God, and end up with a bunch of white-trashers shouting “Shambala”?

It was because of the fire.

Growing up my Lutheran Pastor, Torvald Ingebretsen, talked about the fire of God like it was this deep, powerful mystery, like Harry Potter magic. Fire was a sign of God's presence. He appeared to Moses in a burning bush; He led the Israelites out of Egypt in a pillar of fire. And at Pentecost when the apostles got the Holy Spirit, tongues of fire rested on them and they started talking other languages. Like being in a yoga trance, only not as cool. I was six: I didn't want to be cool; I just wanted that fire.

However, by the time I was 16, the only thing I was on fire for was John Lennon and my boyfriend. I asked my sister for The White Album for Christmas. She gave me a Holly Hobbie Study bible. You know, Susie, she glared, when all your actor friends have dropped out of school or gotten thrown in jail, you might want to read it. And then I got dumped, John Lennon got shot, and I got lost. Sitting alone in my room, I thought of what my sister had said. Actually I thought, That self-righteous bitch! Where's that Holly Hobby Bible ?

So I read it, about how God loved me and he had good plans for my life. I thought back about the fire. So I asked God, and Jesus, and the Holy … – OK all three of them -- into my life. And you know what? I felt peace. I felt loved. It was like God was saying: I'm here. You're going to be okay. Life is going to be an adventure!

I started going to a surfer church that met in a circus tent. It was there that Pastor Craig asked us, Are you on fire for Jesus? Are you like, so in love with Jesus, that you just want to spend all your time with him, knowing what his will is for your life, letting him love on you? Because that's your love story, Man!

And if this was a love story, then I was in the infatuation stage. I'd wake up full of expectation and pray: Jesus, I just want to be with you. I just want to know your what your will is for me, man! Every moment! I don't want to do anything, make any decision, without your will! Like this morning: Should I eat frosted flakes or eggs? Just show me, man!

Sometimes it took a long time to get out of the room. But that's how it is when you're in love. Everything changes: the way you look at the world, the future. Even your senses are heightened. I'd smell a gardenia, or see the stars, and I'd think, Wow, God, that is so You! You are such an artist! Even my angry music had new meaning. I mean, what WAS so funny about peace, love and understanding?

Which brings up music at church. It was like Metallica got religion. And we tranced out to Jesus power ballads every Sunday:

All Consuming Fire (pronounced Fye-Yuhhhhh);
You're my heart's desire (dee-ZYE-yuhh) …

I love yew Lorrd-h.
And I love my life with yeeew, Lorrd-hhh
And I'm soooo in love with me, loving ... yeeeeeeew-h

Well, after a few years of trancing out to Jesus music, the infatuation wore off. So I went to see Pastor Craig.

Pastor Craig? Look gardenias are great, and I love the stars. But what are we doing here? What those plans God had for my life?

You just gotta wait on God, he said. Just gotta wait on God.

But Pastor Craig, I have waited on God. And I've gone to the conferences: Inner Healing, Healing the Father Wound, Fathering your Wounded Healer. I've been washed in the blood, slain in the spirit, zapped. You know what I haven't done? I haven't LIVED! – not outside this circus tent! No one at this church has time to date or get a real job!

Well, Suz, I'd rather be on fire for Jesus in the unemployment line, than working at some cush job for Satan!

That made me turn for the door.

Wait up, Suze, Craig called me back. Have you told God how you really feel? You should check out this Speaking in Tongue Conference in Irwindale. Blow your doors off man!

You know that bad boyfriend you know you shouldn't give another chance?

I prayed, Okay God. I want what you have for me, I swear I do. And if this is it, show me.

I drove out to Irwindale, a landlocked town an hour east of Los Angeles, home of the largest rock quarry west of Pittsburgh. The 1993 Malibu fires had been raging. The skies were red, and smoke had blown east all the way to Barstow.

The church was in a concrete warehouse in an industrial park right off the freeway. It felt like Costco for Christ. The place made miss the circus tent.

The pastor was an ex-WWF wrestler. Maybe he found Jesus during a steroid blackout. He looked like the Incredible Hulk, ready to explode. He got up on the stage, flexed his arms and shouted to the crowd: Have you been shredding the scriptures for Jesus?

Woo Hoo! The crowd replied, amped on adrenaline and Jesus.

And that's when I heard it, behind me: the first Shambala.
I was compelled to turn and look. It was a woman in a perm mullet. Her eyes were closed and her body writhed like an eel. She stood up to speak. Thankfully, in English.

I see a film of gold dust in the air, she cried. the Shekinah Glory of the Lord!
(Never mind it was sunset and we were downwind from a rock quarry).
The gold! The Lord is turning our silver fillings into gold!

The warehouse went nuts. All sorts of people came forward, compact mirrors hanging out of their mouths, claiming that their silver fillings had been turned to gold.

I couldn’t take any more. I stood up and raised my hand.

Praise Jesus, the Mullet Prophetess cried. More gold!

Sorry, I don't have cavities – Look, Pastor (Hulk?) I believe God can do whatever he wants, and I came today because I want whatever He has for me. But this doesn’t seem authentic.

The Hulk pastor smirked. How do you explain the silver fillings turning into gold? He flexed his muscles. Unless it was The LORD?! The crowd whooped it up.

If it WAS the Lord, I reasoned, Why didn't he turn the silver filling into TOOTH?

Pastor Hulk smashed his eyes closed. Lord! I pray for my sister here. I pray you would cast out the demons of pride and arrogance from her!

I heard a few Amens mumbled through mirror-stuffed mouths, and that was it. I stood up, calmly ran through out the door, got into my car, got onto the freeway, cranked up K-Rock on the radio, and screamed at the top of my lungs, That's it! I HATE YOU GOD. I hate you and all your side show freaks. Get your hands OFF OF ME! Get out of my life!

What was more terrifying than my anger was the feeling I'd been violated. And not by the Hulk or the Mullet, but by God. I had gone in trusting my vulnerability to him, and I was met with something dark and sinister. And there was no bottom to it.

If this was a love story, then this was the breakup. But you can't break up with God. Not really. Once you've had an experience of God, you can't go back and pretend that experience never happened. I remember too much. I remember being 8 years old, watching my brother fly a kite in the March sky. The clouds were so high you could see them hug the curvature of the earth. Suddenly God felt so big, and so close. I was not alone. I knew I was loved, and that I was loved by a Person. Ever since then, I've being running either toward – or away from – that knowing.

I've come back to church since then. Never with the same level faith or trust, but I'm back. I've tried the Lutherans with their Jello salads, the Episcopalian champagne communions; the Presbyterians with their intellectually cogent sermons… As we unpack the theological of God's sacrificial love or "agape" in the Greek, as that love is transmuted to us, it is then experience the phenomenon of joy, or "falapalos."

It's like going to a lecture about Beethoven, and not hearing a single note of music.

What happens in a relationship when the fire dwindles? Or maybe you still love the other person, you just can't stand his friends.

I know there are freaks and geeks everywhere. And there's not that much difference between Shambala and chanting a mantra … except for the yoga pants.

That night I told God off, I drove down to the beach to watch the Malibu fires. Have you ever seen fire at that magnitude, out of control? I'll never forget it. It was stunning, beyond good or evil. It was pure Nature. It was God. And God was beyond my control. As if He were saying, I'm not a circus monkey here to entertain you with gold teeth or your personal fulfillment. I am that I am. Get over it.

A while ago I woke up from a dreamless sleep: I had heard a deafening sound, like all the notes of the audio spectrum had been swept up into one whispered word: my name. I heard my own name. It was terrifying. And it was over too soon.

I don't miss those days, waiting on God to tell me what cereal to eat. I don't miss the gold fillings. But I kinda miss being on fire.

It's the little things in Life

I'm sure I heard Michael Caine say it in a film somehwere. I can hear him in his cockney accent: It's da littuhl fings in loife, aint it?

I have been a malcontent a good portion of my life. Looking forward with angst and back with regret. If only, if only ... when I get this, when I get that. Why don't I have this? Why did I ever do that? And here's a bad idea: asking yourself big life questions after 11pm. This is when the TV runs ads for fast food and cars and sleep aids. When we want to avoid, stuff, forget. When we want to gather round the good stuff.

After a couple years of heartache, shame, embarrassment and disappointment, I had nothing to count but those little things. A good long sleep. A room clean from dust. Good coffee. Getting regular. The calm after 90 minutes of kick ass yoga. And then the other things. My apartment. After two years of gypsy living I'm now in a spectacular guest house. Paying rent to a couple much younger than I. I have one of those cats that is friendly and likes to be around people. And speaking of people. I have amazing friends. A group of casual friends I feel proud to know, and a smaller handful of close friends I feel blessed to be loved by.

My sister just called to remind me that turkeys are really cheap at the grocery store right now. They lure you in with free turkeys to get you to buy the stuffing and the baster. I just want the turkey. A 12 pound turkey for five bucks in my freezer is a simple pleasure. So is the blessing of having a sister who calls me on tips.

Here's a few other things I've come to respect: Half-decaf coffee. Cheese made with goat's milk (my allergies are less). And here's one you might not know. Bring your car to the brand dealership, show them your VIN number and proof of ID, and they look up the code and cut you a brand new original key. No more OSH knockoffs that can't even open your glove box.

One last thing. Winter light in the morning. Love that.

All of these little things add up to one really big thing: a glimpse at contentment.

Peter Jennings, Sex Symbol

Autumn is on its way. I know because of the light in August. The sun sits just a little lower in the sky, a little dimmer. A little sadder. It's for real, too. The earth orbits the sun on an ellipsis, so days don't shorten by the same amount every day. We hit a sharp curve in August and the light leaves even faste. But before I knew that science, I knew it was true because the summer was tipping away from me, I felt some strange nostalgia.

Autums is my favorite season. There's something about noting the passing of time, that is good for the soul. Sobering and beautiful. Maybe we don't know it that well in LA, the pasage of time, because the seasons seem too much the same. That, and everyone gets Botox. But no, it's good for the soul, to mourn and honor the dead, even if it's just the death of a summer.

I cried when I heard that Peter Jennings died. Just a little. Then last night I watched a TV special on him, and I cried again. A lot. He was sooo sexy. Smart, urbane, refined, the way he trudged through the middle east with his cravat and fatigues, talking about the Middle East like he was undressing you. But he was more than just James Bond with a microphone. He did some amazing things as a journalist; after a miserable try at anchoring (at 25) he went abroad to become a journalist. He became a Middle East expert; he insisted on covering Bosnia in the early 1990s when no one wanted to admit what was going on. He was down to earth. and there were those amazing specials he did on The Search for Jesus, the Search for Faith. He engaged the person in the room who seemed to be a nobody. He got into coversations with people who started out cursing him.

One thing that made me cry watching the show last night, was to find out women loved him, and he was a ladies man. I thought I was the only one, lusting after him in an urbane, respectable way. He cheated on me!

In April 2000, I was doing production coordinating for TV Guide/News Corporation. I got roped into coordinating for this live event for Fox News, held at the Regent Wall Street Hotel. It was nothing but talking heads for four hours. Which is too bad, since we had some heavy hitters show up to talk: Colin Powell, Madeline Albright, Gorbachev, Kissinger. I wrote an opening speech for Rupert Murdoch. It was ridiculous. I got a temp job wrapping Christmas gifts for TV Guide Special Events; and four months later I was writing an opening statement for Rupert Murdoch. I didn't know news, and I sure as hell didn't know who Bill O'Reilly was, because we had to book hotel rooms for O'Reilly (in case he wanted to stay the night at the hotel before, maybe to have some lurid phone sex with a resistant assistant) he'd have the freedom to do it on Fox News' dime. Anyway, this O'Reilly character who acted like he was Murdoch, didn't end up taking the room. So my production supervisor gave the rooms to those of us who'd been at the hotel for three days straight on about four hours' sleep.

The morning of the event had to go out and give a kind welcome blurb to tell people to shut their fucking blackberries off), but right before show time, I had to use the unisex bathroom backstage. As I was walking in, Gorbie walked by. And afterward, as I was walking back out, Kissinger's walking in. "Vat arr yoo dooink in da men's room?"

But for me, the high point was later, the news reporters were mingling, eating and sipping coffee. Michael Bolton was there. Guess he knew the days of long haired singer/non songwriters was over and he best be getting his extensions removed and do something serious. Just as I was staring at the close-cropped Bolton, the crowd parted and there he was. The James Bond of news reporting. Peter Jennings. He was stirring his coffee and looking for cream in an empty pitcher. I sashayed over. "Looks like you need something."
He smiled, this charming, dashing, Rex Harrison naughty gentleman smile. My wobbly knees managed to convey me far enough to find him a full pitcher of cream and bring it back.

He winked again.

I'd had just enough sleep deprivation that, had he looked at me a moment longer, maybe I would have said it. "So, what are you doing after? I have a suite upstairs that Bill O'Reilly never slept in. The other roadie stole all the Bulgari soaps but we could order room service."

But just as his pursed lips parted, someone called him away. My chance was gone. I'll never forget that wink.

Oh gosh what a man, he did so much for the world. He was filled with ambition and discipline, he knew what he wanted, he loved doing what he did. He had cojones, masculinity, that drive you so seldom see anymore. Testosterone. Wild at heart, in a cravat. God he floated my boat.

Last night, watching the special on his life, I saw it again. In some old footage, he turned to someone and gave them that wink. I cried.

And now, a moment of silence for each woman in the TV news audience who thought Mister Jennings was whispering sweet news nothings only to her ...