My book, "Craving Normal," available on Amazon.
As writer Cynthia Heimel said, “When in doubt, make a fool of yourself. There is a microscopically thin line between being brilliantly creative and acting like the most gigantic idiot on earth. So what the hell, leap.”
To find out what I mean, you can read my book, Craving Normal. Buy it on Amazon.
Now that my book, Craving Normal, is finally published, here comes the real work: promoting my nonfiction story collection. 
In one step, I created an author page on Goodreads.com. One question I answered: What inspired you to write this book?
This isn’t what I wrote, but I now remember sitting down, years ago, with writer Kevin Starr (my mom’s cousin, American historian, California’s State Librarian, and prolific writer). I’d invited him to my home in Tarzana, for my special spaghetti dinner.
I told him my idea: to interview people raised in non-conformist families–kids of punks, hippies, political revolutionaries, artists, etc. Having my own quirky childhood and always feeling like I didn’t fit in, I wondered how other people grew up, what they experienced. Did they rebel? Or did they gravitate to how they were raised? Anyway, I found those questions intriguing.
Kevin didn’t. “Write your own stories.”
And so I began to write those, along with other experiences. My book isn’t only about my childhood, but my lifelong quest to fit in, to find my own place in the world, and how I stumble along the way.
I’m now thinking I need to update my acknowledgement page to include Kevin. I was honored to have his support. He’d write me supportive emails after seeing my essays in LA newspapers and reading my old blog about my life in California. I’d send Kevin a copy of my book, but he passed away two years ago.
For that reason, I wish I put this book out sooner. But, really, it wasn’t ready then. My stories still needed to be crafted and thought through. I knew I didn’t have the right book cover idea.
Photo: One of a few ideas I had for my book cover, to use this painting I created. Maybe for my next book, “How to Become Broke and Influence Nobody.” Considering the hours I spent sunbathing, instead of looking for a job, it just may work.
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I thought of my next book’s title: “How to Become Broke and Influence Nobody.” Yep, last night while making dinner (okay, heating up leftover chili cheese fries), I realized I’ve had so many crappy jobs, all while making absolutely no money, I could fill an entire book.
I’ve been an awful waitress (After spilling a tray of filled beer mugs on customers, they returned another night wearing yellow raincoats), a bad showroom model (I accidentally insulted a designer), a terrible receptionist… a not-so-great aerobics instructor.
Well, here’s an excerpt from my book, Craving Normal.
While working as a movie extra, I got a second job as an aerobics instructor. I figured, why not get paid and get in shape? But I could only bounce my way to a tighter butt and shin splints at minimum wage for so long.
A few months after working at Holiday Spa in Torrance, I called in to let my manager know my car overheated and broke down. Since I was living in Hollywood—nearly an hour drive away from work—I wouldn’t be able to make it that day without a car. That’s the way I figured it, anyway. But my manager “helped me out.” She said, “No problem. Kimmy lives in your area and can pick you up on her way to work.”
I yelped a fake, “Great,” and shuffled off to get ready for Kimmy, a cute blonde aerobics instructor, to pick me up.
Wearing my aerobics outfit—nothing more than a tiny shirt, tights under black French-cut bikini bottoms, big, poufy socks, and white bouncy shoes—I waited on the sidewalk in front of my apartment. Kimmy pulled up to the curb, and I jumped in. Right away, we bonded. Not only were we both out in public wearing little clothing, but after talking, we learned we were both burned out from being bubbly every work day. We agreed we were tired of cheering people on to tighter thighs. “Come on, ladies! One, two, three, four, keep it up—just a little more! Five, six, seven, eight. Keep going. Doing great!”
We drove through the palm tree-lined streets and headed south toward the Torrance Holiday Spa via PCH, parallel to the ocean. It was a stunning summer day. As we passed the sparkling blue water of the Pacific and tanned guys carrying their surfboards, Kimmy said, “Wow, the sky’s so blue. Beautiful day.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, looking toward the beach and the tanned guys, “and . . . so hot.”
We looked at each other. I knew what she was thinking. She knew what I was thinking. The beach was way too tempting. Kimmy stopped at a pay phone and called in to the spa. “You won’t believe our luck. My darn car overheated. Can you believe it?”
Somehow, I don’t think they did.
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While reading former Rolling Stone magazine writer Jancee Dunn’s book, But Enough About Me, she mentioned Scritti Politti playing on her date’s car radio. I put down my book and went to remind myself of Scritti Politti’s songs. Below the video of “Perfect Way,” a guy commented, “Hot Tub Time Machine brought me here.” So that’s why I watched Hot Tub Machine, last night.
Goofy as it is, the movie Hot Tub Time Machine got me thinking about things I did in the past that changed my destiny, resulting in my present day life. Many of those moments were silly. I began thinking: What if I didn’t do (fill in the blank)? Would I be where I am today?
One of my “What ifs” involved John Cusack, in 1987. In Hot Tub Time Machine, John Cusack gets blasted back to 1986.
So, without any explanation, here are some of my sillier what ifs. To find out what they mean you’ll have to read my book Craving Normal and the chapter, “What the Hell Just Happened?”
*What if I never annoyed John Cusack as we sat together in a red booth at Damiano’s Pizza on Fairfax?
*What if my roommate’s boyfriend didn’t eat all my kung pao shrimp?
*What if I never became an aerobics instructor?
*What if I allowed that car thief to move into my Reseda apartment?
Answer: Nothing about my life would be the same.
Little did I know my goofy antics with John Cusack in that red booth at Damiano’s Pizza changed what I would do that following week, which brought me where I am today. That pizza booth was my destiny-changing time machine, catapulting me to the future.
King Cotton, doing Roscoe’s wrap from John Cusack’s movie “Tapeheads,” then set my future into an entirely different direction.
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I’m at my computer, fingers flying on the keyboard. It’s a good writing day. I’m in the zone–the writing zone.
What’s that? Oh crap! I hear a light tap at my door. I stiffen, sit up-right, tip-toe away from my window and plan to wait out the knocker until they walk away. 
But wait! What if it’s someone important? I don’t know, like someone wanting to give me a big check or maybe it’s UPS delivering a really late birthday present. 
Or it could be someone coming to tell me my roof is on fire. I don’t know. So, damn it, I open the door.
Argh. Just as I feared. A sales guy. Yeah, I’m interested in solar, but I’ll do my own research. Plus, I’m in a great writing groove. I’m in the zone. Doesn’t this guy know about the zone?
Me: Well, I’m in the middle of writing. Just give me a card, literature, or a website (Dude, I want you to go away and now). Okay?
Solar sales guy: Okay, I’ll walk around the neighborhood and come back.
Me: (As I’m closing the door). Sure, fine. (I realize he said he’ll come back) No! No! (holding up my pen and waving it at him). Not today. I’m writing.
He backs away, like: Okay, crazy lady with the pen. Just don’t hurt me.
And now for an educational “How to Deal with Door Sales” video:
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Here’s an excerpt from my book Craving Normal:
Some days I wondered if I was cut out for movies, considering background work was hardly challenging. Though, for me, it often seemed to be. One of those questionable moments happened while working on a television movie of the week called When the Bough Breaks, starring Ted Danson. During a scene filmed in a Studio City bar called Residuals, the director yelled to me, “Hey, you. What’s your name?”
“Michele.”
“Okay, Melissa.”
Actor Richard Masur was sitting at the bar, and in a slow, calm manner, corrected the director. “Her name is Michele, not Melissa.”
“Whatever!” The director continued pointing at me. “I want you to play a cocktail waitress.”
Someone handed me a tray of highball glasses filled with amber-colored drinks and ice.
“Okay,” the director continued. “Ted is going to storm out in a rage, and while he’s leaving, he’ll bump into you.”
I nodded and didn’t move until I heard, “Background! And action!”
Ted Danson stormed my way. Trying to be helpful, I threw a bit of my shoulder in as he swiped me, causing the entire tray of drinks I held to tip and spill all over the front of his shirt.
Dripping wet, Ted apologized to me—not once, but twice. “Oh wow, I’m sorry. So sorry,” he said, patting me on the back.
But why? It was my fault. My shoulder move caused the accident.
I didn’t say a thing because the director wasn’t pleased. I knew he wouldn’t yell at Ted Danson, but I was sure he would yell at a lowly extra named Melissa.
That damned Melissa. What a klutz!
***
Turns out, Ted Danson is truly a good guy. In retrospect, considering Ted’s drink-handling skills, he must’ve pitied me.
I can relate to Jennifer Aniston. Not because of her beauty, fame or wealth. Because I lacked flair–TGI Friday flair.
In order to save money so I could move to LA from the Bay Area, back in the mid-1980s, I worked two jobs while going to school: weekends I worked at Mills Memorial Hospital in San Mateo as a Radiology Assistant, and at night I worked as a waitress (If that’s what you can call screwing up orders, upsetting old women, and shattering glasses) at TGI Friday’s in San Bruno.
(Photos below are from the San Bruno TGI Fridays I worked at, during the same era, taken from this link about TGI Fridays).
What I remember:
*One night a drunk guy, while outside TGI Fridays, took out his penis and rubbed it along the length of the long, front window. For weeks my friends and I would point out the thirty foot, snake-like smear to people. For weeks! How were those windows not washed before then? (Photo #1, window on left is where the penis smear stayed for weeks.)
*We were trained on the menu (basically, stuffed potato skins and fruity cocktails) for two weeks, until we could spew the fried food fare we offered at bullet speed.
*If, while training, we didn’t call out our bar orders correctly (the most time consuming cocktails first, i.e., daiquiris, etc.,), the bartender would pour bottles of booze and mixers directly onto the bar and bark out, “What was that again?” What a waste!
*Before our shifts we would have to line up for inspection. My big-haired manager, Julie, would tap my exposed upper thighs with a ruler. “Your skirts are always too short!”
*People used to make out in the phone booth near the bar. (Photo #2)
*(See photo #3) That last table, farthest away, is where I upset a group of senior women I was serving because I forgot to bring the birthday “girl” some balloons. That’s also the same table a bunch of twenty-something guys sat at for hours one Saturday, while I ran back and forth serving them, running a tab of a couple hundred dollars. They didn’t tip me. Maybe one of them was that birthday girl’s grandson. Pay back!
*Any time glasses shattered, the entire TGIF staff would call out, “Michele!”
*This is where I served a woman and her boyfriend. From the death grip which she held on to her boyfriend’s hand and the sneer she gave me, I don’t think that woman liked me. Plus, she left me a penny tip on her credit card print out. Sweet!
*TGIF is where I was working when my doppelganger, Rita, (a girl from college I was always mixed up with), sat drinking cocktails with her friends, confusing my TGIF waiter friend. Who said to me, “Michele? I thought I saw you in a booth, having drinks?” Nah, as Rita laughed, I wore my silly, stained white and red striped shirt, covered in sticky cocktails and oil from potato skins, trying to act cheery while being absolutely miserable.
After only a few months, I quit and moved to LA.
In the video clip of Jennifer Aniston from “Office Space,” not only can I relate to her flair flare-up (I didn’t wear kooky buttons or suspenders), but I did leave my answering service job this exact same way–middle finger waving.
Leave a CommentLesson From Last Night: An American Woman (a bit of a hint from last night’s show) canNOT out sorry a Canadian. Any American canNOT out sorry a Canadian. Believe me, I tried. I lost that Sorry Off in a big way.
Backstage (or whatever you call that narrow room with a window looking onto the floor below) at The Troubadour, last night.
Talented Musician Who Happens to be Canadian (extending his hand toward me): I’m sorry, have we met?
Me (extending my hand toward TMWHTBC): Ah yeah, millions of times. (Okay, that may have been a slight exaggeration. About five times, quite a few years ago.)
TMWHTBC: I’m sorry? We have?
Me (seeing he felt awful for not remembering): Oh yeah, but don’t worry.
TMWHTBC: Really, we have? I’m so sorry.
Me: No, I’m sorry for saying that. I didn’t mean to… uh haaa, you know… make you feel badly for not…
TMWHTBC: I’m sorry.
Me: No. No. I.. I’m sorry.
TMWHTBC (with his right hand on his chest to convey his deepest apologies): Really, I am. So sorry.
I couldn’t top the sincerity of his sorry, so I just grabbed my foot and began lifting it toward my mouth. Then I slunked down The Troubadour’s kooky carnival stairs, feeling really, really sorry.
If you ever need to apologize to a Canadian just know you’re going to lose. Simply stick your foot in your mouth and skulk away, admitting defeat. Much quicker.
*As I often say, I make mistakes so you don’t have to.
Formula: 1 sorry Canadian + 1 sorry American = American skulking away in defeat.
(Note: My husband’s Canadian, so I poke fun with love. He used to play bass with Burton Cummings of the Guess Who. I took the below video of Randy Bachman–an old friend of my husband’s–and his band, last night after the sorry off.)
UPDATE!
Well, the planets must be aligned in some kooky new way, because this Canadian “Apology Act” just came to me via Instagram (I wasn’t even looking). Read it here: https://www.ontario.ca/laws/statute/09a03
Excerpted from the Ontario law site:
Apology Act, 2009
S.O. 2009, CHAPTER 3
Consolidation Period: From April 23, 2009 to the e-Laws currency date.
No Amendments.
Definition
1. In this Act,
“apology” means an expression of sympathy or regret, a statement that a person is sorry or any other words or actions indicating contrition or commiseration, whether or not the words or actions admit fault or liability or imply an admission of fault or liability in connection with the matter to which the words or actions relate. 2009, c. 3, s. 1.
Effect of apology on liability
2. (1) An apology made by or on behalf of a person in connection with any matter,
(a) does not, in law, constitute an express or implied admission of fault or liability by the person in connection with that matter;
Yeesh, I go to the market so often you’d think I’d have this routine down: Put food in my cart, pay and walk out. Is that so hard?
Okay, so this time I didn’t leave my perfect mango in my cart and accidentally take another person’s cart, like last time. Today, I’m at the register with my all my own food choices. I hear a lady allow a dad and his son to go ahead of her, one line over. As I’m getting prepared for a swift pay and go–getting my debit card out and my grocery app up on my phone, so the cashier can scan it–the lady walks over and stands behind me, holding only two peaches.
Me: Please go ahead of me.
Lady: Really?
Me: Yes, please.
She pays, thanks me again and leaves.
My turn at the register. I hold my phone up to the cashier for the grocery app to be scanned, with my left hand, while putting my debit card in with my right.
Cashier: Umm… she’s very pretty.
Me: Hmmm?
Cashier: But I don’t want to scan her face.
I turn my phone toward me and see that I’m holding a photo of my daughter up to the check out lady, the grocery app had disappeared. D’Oh!
Me: Yeah, you know, just thought I’d show off my daughter… as I often do at the check out.
We both started howling.
As if I didn’t feel like an idiot already, as I’m leaving, I hold my car key fob, point it to the grocery store doors and click it. When they slide open, on command, as automatic doors will do, it takes me a beat too long to realize what I did.
Sometimes I wonder how I’m still here.
