“Yes,” I say.
“Oh good,” she responds. “Let’s use that.”
I’m thinking, Hmm, really? Why didn’t we use the iPhone in the first place? But again I don’t question The Right Honourable Mrs. Yoda.
“Do you have a mic on the phone?” Althea asks.
“I think so.”
“Is there an app for recording?”
“Oh boy, Althea, I don’t know.” How does this woman even know the word “app”?
“Well, let me see it.”
I hand her the phone. She stares at it like she has never seen a phone before, like she would stare at a can of Comet. Buzzy is quiet because she is now on my lap. I picked up Buzzy when Althea wasn’t looking, to keep her from barking and to keep Althea from yelling commands. All that exertion can’t be good for Althea’s delicate brain.
Althea finds the Record button on my iPhone. She presses it. She speaks into the phone as a test. It works. She gets my chart out. She lays it on her master astrology chart so that my planets line up with the universe’s planets. She commands Buzzy once again to get down. Buzzy retrieves her pet lobster and quietly goes to her crate and lies down. Althea presses Record and with a reassuring smile asks, finally, after twenty minutes of my session has now elapsed, “Are you ready for some good news?”
“Yes, yes,” I say. “I am really eager to hear some good news, Althea. It’s only been four months since my last appointment. But I have a very specific question to ask you today. Thank you for seeing me. What do you see in my chart?”
A famous fashion designer introduced me to Althea. He had been seeing her for years. He made all his decisions, personal and career, based on her readings. He swore by her. From what I could tell, he was successful, happy, financially secure, ambitious, and thriving. How could I go wrong?
When I booked my first appointment with her, I did not know what I was going to hear, but I knew I was open to receiving what Althea saw. I wanted to put my total trust in her, because I had to. I needed positive reinforcement and direction in my life, which was fraught with anxiety and indecision. I needed to know what day to sign a contract, what agent to leave, what job to take, why I wasn’t in a relationship, and how I could be a better parent. Althea answered all my questions with conviction. In fact, she has never been wrong. She is not afraid to tell me the truth, even if it is difficult to hear, but she always ends with good news. When she was learning astrology as a young girl, her teacher, renowned in the field, told her to always find something positive in a chart, and if she couldn’t find anything positive, to look at Kronos, the planet of power, success, and recognition. Kronos always made a person feel good.
Well, today all eyes are on you, Kronos. Today I am here with Althea to ask if the pilot I just shot for CBS will be picked up.
Today I would like the misery of uncertainty to stop. I’ve been in the dark for months as CBS decides what it will order. Without this knowledge, my life is on hold. My agent and manager and industry websites—Variety, Hollywood Reporter, Deadlinehollywood.com—are just speculating. No one except the network executives behind closed doors know anything, and they’re not talking … yet.
The stakes are high. Althea knows this. I came to her four months ago. I had been offered a Broadway musical and I was unsure about taking it because I wanted to get back to television, something I had stayed away from for the last nine years. I had been living in New York, working on the stage, on Broadway. I wanted to go to Los Angeles again for pilot season, even though I knew I was off the radar of TV casting directors, writers, and producers. I would have to reintroduce myself to Hollywood and basically start all over again. It was now or never. What was I waiting for? I had to get back on the horse. I was scared. I was stuck. So, four months ago, I booked an appointment with Althea. I asked her what I should do. I brought two ninety-minute cassette tapes, a pad of paper, and a couple of pencils and pens. I didn’t want to miss a word. I wanted to get everything down: predictions from Althea, and words of encouragement and reinforcement from my buddy Kronos.
It was December. Pilot season was about to begin. Althea looked at my chart. She hesitated. “This is interesting. Do not take the Broadway play. Go to Los Angeles. I see a contract for a TV show, but it will be difficult along the way. Try not to get discouraged. There will be a lot of rejection. Do not take it personally. Do not let it affect your self-esteem. Persevere. You are going to get what you want. Work for it. Be patient. It will happen.”
Well, I’m here to say, everything Althea predicted did happen. I went to Los Angeles. It was difficult. I had to put my ego aside and audition like I was a newcomer. There was a lot of rejection, but I persevered because I kept remembering what Althea had predicted.
Just when I was about to give up at the end of my two months in Los Angeles, I got a pilot. A good one, one I was proud of. Melissa McCarthy was the executive producer, and her husband, Ben Falcone, wrote and starred in it. Judd Hirsch and I played his parents. I loved the show, the part, the cast, the experience, and being in Los Angeles. I loved hanging out with my sons, who live there, and loved feeling visible again in an industry I had shied away from for so long.
I returned to Toronto. I waited. Nothing. Not a peep from the creators, the director, the studio, the network. I flew to New York. I called Althea. Usually it took weeks to get an appointment, but Althea heard the urgency in my voice and scheduled me in for the next day.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Althea asked.
“No, thank you, Althea.” Today I was not feeling patient or polite. Just read my damn chart!
“What do you think, Althea? Is my show going to get picked up for a series?” I am literally on the edge of my seat. The iPhone is on. I’m writing on a pad of paper for backup. I’m repeating everything she says.
I let her know the day that CBS is going to announce its fall lineup. May 16. “How does May 16 look in my chart?” I ask.
Althea rummages through her books and looks for my day aspects for May 16. “Ah,” she says. “This is funny.” Oh boy. “Funny” isn’t necessarily the word I wanted to hear regarding a series pickup. She continues. “May 16 on your chart is showing me success, expansion, and recognition. It’s almost impossible for the show not to go. But if for some reason it doesn’t, and I think it will, but if it doesn’t, it means something better out there hasn’t shown up yet. I see a lot of success here. Ongoing success. You can never know for sure, but it looks good. I think it will go.”
I’m elated. I don’t ask her to elaborate. I don’t want to tempt fate. I don’t want the gods to be angry by further questioning. What she said is good enough for me. She covered it all. The series will probably go, but if it doesn’t, there is something better just waiting for me. I have good reason to believe her.
This is Althea’s track record with me so far:
1. She told me I was going to buy a home by the water, in Canada. I had been looking to buy a house for four years in the Hamptons, Provincetown, Maine, and Pennsylvania, but I ended up buying a beautiful little cottage on a pond in High Park in Toronto. I wasn’t looking to buy a house in Canada. I just fell in love with it when I saw a For Sale sign out front, when I was visiting my sister. It wasn’t until a year after the purchase that I remembered what Althea had predicted.
2. She told me I had a low-grade infection in my digestive tract. Five months later I was hospitalized for diverticulitis.
3. She told me I was going to write a book. Six months later, I had a contract with HarperCollins Canada.
4. She told me I was not going to retire. I have never had the intention of retiring. Now I have no choice.
I don’t ever remember Althea being wrong. Sometimes her readings are general: You are coming on a financially lucrative few years. There is a person you know who will be offering you a job. Your self-esteem issues are holding you back. You don’t really want to meet a man. You need to let your children live their own lives; stop enabling them, they will be fine. Sh
e has been correct on all counts.
Other times she has been freakishly specific. I hope she is freakishly correct this time. I would love to do a TV series. I would love to be nearer my sons.
Before I thanked Althea for her insight and encouragement, just as our session was ending, I asked her what I should do while I was waiting to hear.
“Go out and have fun. Have a good time.”
I am trying to. I’m staying off the industry websites. No one knows anything. It’s all buzz and hype. Only “the woman behind the curtain” knows for sure, and I’m betting on her.
Astrology Follow-Up
Well, Althea, my dear astrologer, got it wrong. At least one part of her prediction. CBS announced the series it was picking up for 2012, and my pilot was not one of them.
I was disappointed and sad. The stakes were high for this one. A lot was resting on it. I wanted very badly for this series to go. And I found out on Mother’s Day. As I was about to go on for my Mother’s Day matinee of my one-woman show in Chicago, my agent called. He, of course, didn’t know I was about to go out to entertain for an hour and a half. One minute later, my sons called to wish me a happy Mother’s Day. And then I hear “places” and the montage of my opening is running, and I try to pull myself together, my emotions all over the place. Disappointment that the show is not going, sadness that I am not with my sons, dismay that the theatre is not more full, and fear that I won’t be able to get through my fifth performance in three days. I don’t want to do my show. I’m not feeling confident, or energetic, or funny.
It’s not about me, I tell myself. It’s for all the people who paid, who want to laugh. All the moms who brought their children, all the children who brought their moms. My going out there today is about something bigger. Someone out there, someone you don’t know, has gotten much worse news than you, Andrea. His or her plight in life is much more difficult than a series not being picked up. If you can make just that one person happy, if you can make them laugh and forget their troubles today, then do it. You owe it to them.
So I go out on stage. The house is half full. But they are by far the best audience I’ve had in five shows. Exuberant, appreciative, laughing at every joke. Smiles on all their faces. The show goes great. I get through it, though I am very hoarse and Seth, my pianist (and aforementioned writing coach) has had to lower all the keys. I thank the audience from the bottom of my heart. I wish them all a happy Mother’s Day. I go backstage and begin to gather and pack up all my things. The stage manager asks if I will see a fan. He has been waiting patiently in the theatre. It’s been forty minutes since my show ended and long after all the audience has left. I don’t recognize the gentleman’s name, but I say, of course I’ll see him. He is escorted backstage. He stands looking at me. He is shy and hesitant. He tells me that he is a huge fan and how important it was for him to attend the show today. He tells me that his partner of thirty years, who died of AIDS ten years ago, watched SCTV while he was ill. It was the only thing that got him through his terrible suffering. “And you, Andrea, were his favourite. I wanted you to know what a difference you made in his life. How much joy you brought him before he died.”
He hugged me. “Thank you for meeting me,” he said. I held his hand.
“No, my friend, thank you for sharing your beautiful story with me. Thank you for making this Mother’s Day so special for me.”
The second half of Althea’s prediction was this: If the series isn’t picked up, there will be something better out there.
She was right. Althea, my astrologer, is always right.
Part Three
Old Lady Parts #1 *
Let’s get this out of the way.
I turned sixty-five recently. I know, I know, I don’t look my age. At least, that’s what you’ll say to my face. Don’t get me wrong, I love hearing it, even if I know you are blowing smoke up my sixty-five-year-old sagging ass.
I am now officially a senior citizen, which means I am entitled to a few perks, the most delicious being $4 off a regular-priced movie ticket.
In New York, you don’t have to wait until you turn sixty-five to get old-age fringe benefits. Sixty-two is considered a senior citizen, so for the last three years, whenever I went to the movies in New York, I approached the box office and whispered so no one else could hear, “One senior ticket, please.” Then, with the hope and naïveté of a chorus girl newly off the bus from Omaha, I waited for the response I longed for: stunned silence, followed by incredulous scrutiny, followed by You can’t be a senior, you don’t look like you’re a senior. You look so much younger. Sadly, this never happened. Every time I had asked for a senior ticket, I was given one without hesitation, without a second look. Since it was so damn humiliating saying my age out loud to a self-involved, uncaring, insensitive, heartless twenty-year-old loser who one day would be sixty-five herself—and I just hope I’m alive to be there to see the devastating look on her mug when her age is met with no resistance—I went back to asking for an adult ticket, even though I had to pay $4 more.
But when I turned sixty-five, everything changed. It became startlingly clear how much time I had wasted in my life by indulging in fear and negativity. Now that I was sixty-five, I hopped on the yes train. What am I waiting for? became my mantra. Instead of comparing myself to others, I was grateful for my success, my health, all I had in my life, and I now accepted and surrendered to the number sixty-five. After all, I told myself, it was just a number.
So, four days after I turned sixty-five, I went to the movies to see The Iron Lady, starring Meryl Streep, at my favourite theatre in New York, the Lincoln Plaza Cinemas, where the average age of the paying customer is eighty. This time I walked up proudly to the box office and said loudly for all of Manhattan to hear, “A SENIOR TICKET, PLEASE.” And then the unthinkable happened. I was asked for my ID. “I’m sixty-five, honey,” I said, laughing and looking around to see if anyone else had heard the young man. “I didn’t bring any proof of my age with me, but I love that you think I’m younger.”
“Oh yes, absolutely, you do not look sixty-five. I can’t believe it. You’re sixty-five? No, really? You look (he paused as he searched for a number) fifty-four at the oldest.”
“Okay, I’ll take it,” I said. “Julianne Moore’s age! Yay, I love her,” I continued. “She’s so pretty with her long red hair and alabaster skin.” By then I had lost him. But I continued. “My goodness,” I said, now sounding like Mary Poppins, “you were brought up very well, young man, and your mother would be proud of you.” Proud of him for what, making an old person feel better? Or maybe, God bless him, he thought I looked younger, and maybe I did, with my hair freshly blown out. Whatever the reason, I had not expected this attention, this lovely turn of events.
I immediately called my girlfriend. Giggling, I said, “You won’t believe what just happened. The fellow who sold me my movie ticket didn’t believe I was sixty-five. He asked for my ID.”
“Congratulations, honey,” my friend replied excitedly.
“Yeah, I’m stunned, I can’t believe it. I couldn’t be more thrilled,” I said, sounding like I’d just been cast in a Scorsese film. Or my mammogram came back clean.
Turning sixty-five is a huge milestone, and let’s be honest, even with its perks, it brings baggage: short skirts are out, dyed platinum blonde hair is out unless you live on the street or in New Jersey, being cast as the wacky girl next door is out, loud restaurants are out, loud music is out, talking about your health and sickness and death are in, old-age pension cheques are in, retirement and golf courses are in, and who cares, ‘cause I hate golf, you make less money, there’s less work, less sex, less fun … holy shit, I gotta stop. I’m depressing myself.
I hate this ageism thing. I hate feeling that everything that I have accomplished in my life is outdated, that I’m no longer viable. This is going to be my life’s mission, to disprove the notion that at sixty-five it’s all over.
But first, a reality check, ladies, and an hone
st look at the challenges of the mature woman’s body.
Spanx: These are foundation garments that are supposed to give the wearer a slimmer appearance. They don’t work. If you think you need Spanx, what you really need is a bigger size of outerwear. Don’t waste your money on Spanx when you get to be my age. The fat has to go somewhere; it doesn’t magically disappear underneath the Lycra material. The fat pops up above the waistband, or below the thigh band, giving you the appearance of the Elephant Man. Take the Spanx off. Your body looks unnatural in Spanx, and you still look fat.
Eyebrows: I wish I had appreciated my eyebrows more. They were bushy and Armenian and framed my big eyes perfectly. Now I have five hairs that make up my eyebrows, all growing at different angles. I don’t know what happened to my eyebrows. Yes, I plucked them, but in so doing, did I destroy all the follicles? This is another body part that changes as you get older. Ears get bigger, noses get bigger, feet get bigger, and eyebrows get thinner. I guess all hair on your body gets thinner. Even my “adorkable” bangs can’t conceal my straggly brows.
Hair: I regret not loving the curls on my head more. I was born with lovely naturally curly hair, kind of like Bernadette Peters’s curl, soft, the silhouette almost angelic. But I wanted, like every other ethnic girl, straight Farrah Fawcett hair. And so for years I have had my hair blown out. Which at my age makes me look like Janet Reno. If I let my hair dry naturally, my curls would now look like Fran Lebowitz’s, or Margaret Atwood’s. Not that there’s anything wrong with their curls, and they seem perfectly content with their heads of hair, but I’m more vain. And I guess more ungrateful. The older you get, the more wiry your curls, the grey roots wanting to aggressively spread to your entire head, making the texture of your hair coarser and dryer, giving you the silhouette of an angelic hedgehog.
Skin tags: Somebody has to talk about skin tags. Someone other than your dermatologist. So I will. They are ugly little things. Brown bits of skin that grow out of your neck or chest or face. On me, they pop up right above my breasts. So if a man were to rub his hand around that area, he could slice his palm in two with the brittleness of my skin tags. I have had them surgically removed. And then they grow back again. That’s a lovely trade-off. Skin tags or the smell of your own flesh burning.
Lady Parts Page 11
