De Ce Monde Secret de l’ Amelie Americaine

Reaching out from lovely Paris is my great online friend Barbara Joly who sent me this excellent reminder yesterday. Back at ya girlfriend!

I’m supposed to send this to FIVE BEAUTIFULWOMEN, but I know more than 5 beautiful women - and you’re one of them!

Below is a wonderful poem Audrey Hepburn wrote
when asked to share her ‘beauty tips.’
It was read at her funeral years later.

For attractive lips, speak words of kindness…

For lovely eyes, seek out the good in people.

For a slim figure, share your food with the hungry.

For beautiful hair, let a child run his/her fingers through it once a day.

For poise, walk with the knowledge that you never walk alone…

People, even more than things, have to be restored,
renewed, revived, reclaimed, and redeemed;
never throw anyone out.

Remember, if you ever need a helping hand,
you will find one at the end of each of your arms.

As you grow older, you will discover that you have two hands; one for helping yourself and the other for helping others.

If you share this with another woman, something good will happen. You will boost another woman’s self esteem,
and she will know that you care about her.
It’s BEAUTIFUL Women Month
TAG YOU’RE IT!
Dance On, Sister

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It’s now time to get back to reality. Mr. Republican Hair Part and I have exchanged emails, admitting that there has been a certain malaise about our lives since his departure last week. I missed a phone call from him this morning. Still I have to remind myself to not focus all my attention on one person. Especially someone who seems to be focused on someone else.

Feeling the pain, the fear, the potential vulnerability, and finding the grace to not cave in on myself and hide away from the world like a little girl. This is my challenge to myself. I don’t have to enjoy it. I just have to show up for the opportunities.

When my financial adviser called to invite me to a short cocktail party, I decided to go. Not because this is my social crowd of choice, but because I have to acknowledge that my opportunities to meet men and date might improve, if I expand my circle beyond work, beyond, the French classes (which are predominantly filled with women), beyond, the circle of friends who are already married, settled, and otherwise not prone to putting themselves “out there.”

This week I have purposely crammed my schedule with new friends, classes and social events.

My “to do” list.

Arrange times to hang out with acquaintances who live in Westchester. Expand my social circle. Stop hiding in my apartment. Even if it is a fabulous apartment.

Educate myself about a potential second source of income so I can more easily afford the new house. Stop taking the path of least resistance, work wise.

Attend wine tasting for this year’s release of Beaujolais Nouveau at the Alliance Francais. I am going alone. It doesn’t get more uncomfortable than that.

Make a dentist appointment, and get two cavities filled. It doesn’t get more potentially painful than that.

And, finally buy my airline ticket for the holidays. Even though I love love love my chosen family, every holiday I am usually the only single person, kissing no one under the mistletoe. It doesn’t get more lonely than that. I remind myself continuously that,”You are lovable, you are safe. You life is what you have made it.”

Everything happens in it’s own time, even if for the moment you have to feel the pain, and do it anyway.

“New York is a great city,” I wrote in an email to Mr. Republican Hair Part. “Determined and creative spirits thrive here because it forces you to know yourself, know what you want, what you don’t want, and be focused about getting it.”

I think it is time I start to listening to my own words.

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Like a rejected lover, Brooklyn made sure to say his own set of “f-you’s”, today, as it is my last day in Borough.

“You don’t want me anymore. Fine.” He stated, unemotionally, while passive aggressively making my life as difficult as possible.

There was the last romantic walk down 7th avenue one more time for my morning ice latte and croissant.  Neither of which were remotely as good as I am use to.

Walking home, my dog was nearly jumped by a rottweiler, whose owner, a cantankerous old man, proceeded to yell at me for over-reacting to his dog’s behavior.

I couldn’t find my car, or remember where I had parked it the day before.  Secretly I think Brooklyn moved it to waste yet another hour of my time.

I am running on empty and running against the clock, as the painting, cleaning, and packing are still not done in my apartment.   Every time I settled down to focus on yet another undone chore, I find that I still to not have all the tools I need to complete the job.   Nothing is getting done.

Then my blackberry was  lost at a U-haul store. When I returned to retrieve  it, the sales clerk proceeded to tell me that he had never found it.  Although, I know that was where I left it. My blackberry along with all of my personal information is probably being sold on Fulton Street as I write this entry.

Brooklyn knows I live and breathe by my blackberry, and thought of all of the countless people who will be calling me to coordinate this move tomorrow would send me into a spiraling panic.  He wanted me cut off from the world, but he failed to grab my lifeline. I plunked down my credit card, and $500 dollars and two hours later, walked out of the cell phone store with a new one.

Secretly, he was grinning.  I know it.

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He stood in front of his kitchen window, peering at me in my apartment, five brownstones away. Someone who had thrown me out of his life, as a friend, when I could not give him what he wanted.  We were friends a year ago, photography buddies, who took pictures together of a Brooklyn parade, and headshots of his niece for her modeling portfolio.  He held me when I cried about the violent death of  a relative, and the subsequent conviction of the one responsible.

I did not understand him. He did not understand me.  We were different…opposites, my small blond frame set against his looming six foot plus, dark one.   Yet we told each other truths that you do not tell acquaintances or friends with whom your reputation relies.  For a brief time, we reached across the heavy burden of our conditioning, and were friends.

____

Today I told Jackie that I was moving.   I stopped to say hello as I always did, as she sat on her stoop in front of her brownstone.  Jackie, always says hello whenever I passed her on the sidewalk.  “How are you doing baby-doll, she says in her casual, authentic tone. When the drunk witch became too much to deal with… I found myself in Jackie’s apartment, pouring my righteous heart out. She played mediator, and confidant.  The drunk witch and I were able to stand down from our positions on the battlefield, because Jackie intervened.  Jackie understood, “You gotta do, what you gotta do, ” when the drunk witch resumed her reign of terror, and I had to take actions to protect myself.

____

“The best tenant in the building is leaving, yet we couldn’t get rid of the worst one” stated my building’s super, named Mickey, referring, of course, to the drunk witch.  This was in fact the biggest, most open display of affection I had ever received, from her.  Although, I had always sought to maintain good relations with my neighbors, most of them looked at me, with an observed distance.  We were different.  For a time, the drunk witch and I were the only two caucasian tenants in the building.  I knew what their experience had been with her. I had hoped that the Halloween candy I put out for the kids, and the chocolate I bought back from Paris would be enough to soften the distance between us.  Mickey was always there, however professionally detached, to help me with my apartment or babysit my pets. I knew I could always rely on her, yet I never really knew her.  Was never invited to share a meal with her family, many of whom, live in various apartments in our building.  Yet I held back from moving sooner because there was always comfort knowing that she was there.

___

Like Brooklyn, the drunk witch is fundamentally unchanged,  yet esoterically altered, like a highlight in your hair, or the type  of wine you might choose to order with dinner.   She finally kicked out the boyfriend of eight years who broke her arm, and fought in the hallway with her mentally unstable son.  She didn’t kick him out for the violence, or the infidelity.  She kicked him out when she found out that he was stealing her money.   Like Brooklyn itself, the girl’s got her priorities, however skewed and screwed up.

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Here’s the new Leann Rime’s single

A line from chorus “I am allowed to let go of what I can not change.”

Another line…” I am allowed to love the one that I can not change.”

I, American Amelie, am allowing myself to move on with my life.  I will forgive myself for being true to myself.  For protecting myself, for saying no. I will acknowledge that despite being fundamentally judged for these actions, that I am still lovable.  I will have faith, that true love will acknowledge these rights without hesitation…and that is one of the basics.

And without the basics, can true love thrive?  American Amelie is making room for a new life.  She is making choices that put her out of her comfort zone. She is taking a risk. She knows that she might fail, but if she doesn’t try, she might always be comfortable, but she won’t know love.

American Amelie wants love.  She wants a life.

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There are dirty corners of dust, pet hair, and shredded paper every where.  It is too cluttered to sweep and haphazardly strewn possessions have no home or resting place.  Boxes are stacked against a bare living room wall. My voice is beginning to echo, there are fewer curtains, pillows and soft paper back books to absorb the sound.   Every object in my junior one bedroom seems to clash with the object next to it, their energy screaming they must move outward, like my life, they need room to expand.

Insomnia took hold last night. I woke up at 2 a.m. and didn’t fall back asleep. I took my dog for a walk. Picked up an ice latte at Dunken Donuts and paced uphill two avenues to forget my nerves.  I wanted to say that the reason I couldn’t sleep was due to a somewhat confusing love life.   The truth is,  calm set in when I thought about going back to pack more boxes.  I stepped over a chunk of jagged sidewalk. Someone had written, “Bye, Brooklyn” in light pink chalk.

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“Maybe it is  a television thing.” I wrote to a friend in a recent letter. “The men are very friendly and flirtatious, but rarely does it mean anything. They try to come in through the side door and out the back.”

As if G_d himself was listening and was ready to show me once again, what an idiot I was, a guy I work with, who we shall call Mr. Motorcycle, came over to my desk last weekend, and started to be very attentive.

Now Mr. Motorcycle had made passes in the past, but I had brushed them off with a friendly, non-judgmental but slightly detached “thank you.” that has become a staple response I use to relate to men on the job.  No harm, no foul.

Suddenly last week, Mr. Motorcycle kicked it up a notch.   Maybe it was the fact that I  couldn’t  speak because I  had a severe sore throat,  but he became very caring and attentive, making me hot tea, hanging out at my desk, to the point where other women on set were beginning to notice.

Rose, a very lovable, no nonsense stage manager met me in the ladies room, after I had blushed one too many times on set. “He really likes you.” She stated flatly.

“Do you think?” I responded, “Men in our field are generally very…”

“Friendly.” She completed my sentence. “No, he really likes you.”

“Do you think he is a player?”

“No…I’ve known him for awhile and he’s very stable and up front. I’ve never seen him flirt with other women on the job. You guys would be cute together”

“Uh”…I was speechless.  A fundamentally decent guy was flirting with me. Hurrah!

After the show there is mandatory half hour waiting period before we are released for the night.   After packing up my belongings, I found Rose in the fishbowl and sat with my back turned away from the door.

Rose smiled, “He just stopped, looked in the window, and looked right at you.”

“Really!” I didn’t turn around.

It was time to go home. I walked to my car, and headed back to Brooklyn.   When I got home, the following message was on my voice-mail.

“Hey it’s Rose. Just wanted to let you know that after you left he came looking for you. I told him that you left already, and he went running after you.”

Feeling like queen princess of the universe, I started the following work week, feeling very confident and happy. I sat upon my throne, ready for him to walk over and ask me out.

He never did.  Instead he became detached, casual and cool.

I have to say it was a bit of a confidence buster.  There is something to be said for any guy who has a strong enough sense of self that he willing to walk through the front door and ask a girl out, even if he fears that he will be rejected.  As a woman I appreciate that quality far more.

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