celebrities

This would be funny if it weren’t so freaking sad.

Screw you 2016!

In just fourteen days you’ve taken two of our best and left us with…well, Donald Trump and that creepy Burger King with the plastic hair and psychotic smile.

Earlier this week I was shocked and a little pissed at the loss of David Bowie. I walked around the entire day in a fog, almost as if I could feel the creative void he left behind. I was just getting my groove back when this morning I woke up to the news that the delicious Alan Rickman had passed.

Wait. What?
Things have gotten out of hand, this has just got to stop!

Both were sixty-nine years old, which from over here at fifty-seven seems really young and waaaaaayyyy too close. (Uh, oh, now my own mortality chip has been activated), AND they both died from cancer.

Fuck you cancer!

So now we all know what happens—we wait for the third one to go. It’s some kind of weird numerological anomaly that always proves itself to be true: celebrities die in threes.

When Raphael came home from the gym this morning he was met with my sad-sack face which stopped him in his tracks. I’m sure for a second he assumed I was upset over the fact that my ticket had not won us the  1.5 billion dollars (which I was), or simply that I’d finished my coffee—but he asked me what was wrong anyway.

“Alan Rickman died,” I sort of half sobbed.

“The guy from Harry Potter? The guy with the voice?”

“Yes!” I exclaimed with genuine shock. You see, my husband is so bad at remembering names, movies, actors, and anything pop culture that this was like a fifth grader correctly answering a $1000 Jeopardy question about life on our planet before computers. (As he explains it, he doesn’t want to waste the brain space.) Ouch. That always makes me feel like I need Will Smith to put on his sunglasses and flash that light in my face to free me up some brain bandwidth. (See what I did there?)

“Yeah, yeah, he was in Harry Potter. But oh my gawd, what about Love Actually, and Truly, Madly, Deeply* and Die Hard; oh, and we just saw him in A Little Chaos, remember?”

“Not really”.

“Ohhhhhh, I loved him…and now he’ll never know. I always wanted to meet him so I could ask him to record the outgoing message on my phone.” (Sigh) That voice…I can’t even…”, I could feel a lump growing like a goiter in my throat.

“Oh man, you’ve had a rough week. All your favorites.”
Awwwww, that was nice, some real sympathy. Then he turned on me.

“You know they always go in threes—I hope the third one isn’t Jean-Luc Picard—that would suck.”
He had a slight grin on his face as he ran out of  left the room, “Uh oh, what if he’s six-nine?” he shouted from a safe distance.

Okay, now he was just fucking with me.

I had made a dark secret of mine public knowledge a couple of years back in a speech I made at Raphael’s 60th birthday “roast”— the fact that I had a mad crush on Jean-Luc Picard and had used him as a husband template. Not so much the actor Patrick Stewart, although don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t throw him back. No, more specifically I had the hots for the French, bald, serious, thoughtful, smart, capable, man-who-could-solve-any-problem that the Universe (literally) threw at him and dare I say sexy, Captain of the Starship Enterprise—Jean-Luc Picard.
And I came damn close with Raphael. Except for the Starship, I nailed it.

“Natalie Cole!” I screamed down the hall. “She was the first. Jean-Luc is safe!—Natalie Cooooooole!”

“That was New Years Eve. Doesn’t count. It was still 2015.”

Shit, Game on.

“What about the Motorhead guy?” I was grasping at straws, my brain was scrambling, Google! Google!
Fuck that, “Siri! How old is Patrick Stewart?”

“Motorhead guy was still 2015”.
How did he know this shit? He must have been Googling as fast as his fingers could type. I could hear in his voice that he was trying not to laugh. Jerk.

“Patrick Stewart is seventy-five!” I yelled, filled with genuine relief. “Oh, thank God, he’s safe,” I muttered to myself under my breath, not realizing, because of all of the brain space filled with useless trivia, that that only meant he was six years closer to the pearly gates.

“Why are you yelling? I’m right here,” he said, standing in the doorway wearing only a smirk. (Not really, he was wearing pants, but it makes for a better story.)

All of this to say: Why are all of the great ones dying? Sixty-nine is middle-aged, people play stupid guessing games about who’s died instead of crying, it’s starting to suck being a baby-boomer, death is not the end, and considering who joined the general population this week—Heaven is going to be a blast!

Its been one-hullava week—wanna weigh in?

Carry on,
xox

*”Truly, Madly, Deeply” which came out in 1991, is one of my all-time favorite films and so I went on Amazon to order a DVD so I could watch it this weekend and cry my eyes out—and there was only ONE copy—for $200! WTF?

Saturday I went against my better judgment, because I was gobsmacked, and I spoke up.

It’s not as if the Universe hadn’t given me a bazillion, (okay, four) chances to do it in the past. It just never felt right before and it’s not my nature.

Now, as you know, there’s not a lot that I would consider “against my nature”, but going up to a celebrity or public figure just isn’t my thing. Maybe because I dealt with celebrities when I was a jeweler and I’ve witnessed how even the most benign interaction can go off the rails.

Leave them alone, they know they’re awesome, keep walking, that’s it, look away.

Now, when I get famous and Meryl Steep is playing me in the movie of my life, PLEASE don’t hesitate to come up and tell me you love me. I’m someone who cannot hear that enough, let’s just get that straight right here and now.
Anyway…

There is a woman who works at the right hand of a major public figure.
As I watched a documentary series a few years back, about that public person and this woman, her Executive Everything, caught my eye. She really lit up for me. I watched how she conducted herself in meetings, her humor, creativity, smarts and general awesomeness really marked me. She was professional, yet approachable. She clearly adores said public figure, so she moves heaven and earth to make sure everything they want comes to pass.

She is a force to be reckoned with and I find her extraordinary.

Over the last few years it just so happens she has crossed my path, and into the orbit of my ordinary life.
Kind of feels like a Universal tease, right?

I see her in the airport, or in a restaurant, or get a seat a couple of rows behind her on a plane. Numerous times.

I always squeal when it happens and tug at my husband’s shirt.
There she is again, can you believe it!?
But I never approach her. I want to respect her privacy I suppose. Truthfully, I’m afraid I’ll get all tongue-tied and fan-girl stupid like I did with Liz Gilbert. AWKWARD…

So I relish the moment and then go on with my life without even a hello.

Saturday I went with a friend to see Abraham. I try to go whenever he/she/they’re in town. I have for over twenty years. Www.abrahamhicks.com

By the time we arrived all the prime real estate in the front by the stage was spoken for, so we literally walked the room until we decided two seats to the right of center would be just fine. As I arranged all my “stuff”, I looked to my left to see who I’d be sharing the next four hours with and…there she was, the extraordinary one!

“Oh my God, it’s you!” I blurted out loud.
Apparently my editing reflex shut down due to the close proximity of greatness. The look on her startled face said: Do I know you?
There she was, next to me at Abe, I couldn’t be stopped.

“You don’t understand – I see you everywhere, and I never say anything, because I don’t want to bother you, but look at this, here you are, right next to me – at Abraham of all places, ha, go figure!”

It was an avalanche of emotions too powerful to be held back any longer. I stuck out my hand, “I’m Janet, so great to finally get a chance to meet you.” Or at least I’m pretty sure that’s what I said. I could feel my mouth moving and I know words were coming out, but I was hovering out-of-body, somewhere up near the ceiling.

Her friend came back from his errand and interrupted our little meet and greet, THANKFULLY.
Otherwise, I think I’d still be there gushing away.
She was as gracious as can be,(of course she was) and I composed myself enough to come down off the ceiling and take my seat.

Let me just say this: I LOVE when famous people, or famous adjacent people (friend, spouse, etc.) are down to earth, and normal. Don’t you? She couldn’t have been kinder.

I LOVE that the Universe conspired to surprise me with a visit from “her” in the MOST unlikely of situations.

I LOVE that my authentic joy overrode my “cool”. FINALLY!

And most of all I love that I got to tell her at the end of the day, when I had recovered my wits enough to pull down my freak flag – that I felt she was extraordinary.

She took it in and we hugged.

Because honestly, what was I ever afraid of? Who doesn’t want to hear that? Even from some crazy lady at Abraham?

Carry on,
Xox