Traffic Court Commerce by Kathryn Merrifield

Two traffic court appearances in two weeks: two totally different experiences.

Harrison Town Court with Judge Lust was bedlam – the water pipes had burst in the basement, the courtroom was packed with a line out one of its double doors to the entrance.  Those scheduled to contest tickets sat through a hearing between a landlord and tenant who did not pay her rent on time - the landlord also wanted her out for petty annoyances.  The next trial was between a woman who illegally sublet her home for the third time and who finally agreed to a guilty plea because it would cost her over $80,000 less to do so.  She had to go through the drama of not accepting a guilty plea, movie tables from their snug spots against the high judge bench, and trying, stubborn, Italian woman to wiggle her way out of guilt by pleading not-guilty.  She reminded me of my grandmother but was not a very good actress, claiming she knew nothing about her prior offenses or the law that prohibited subletting. 

Ultimately, because of the chaotic situation with the broken basement bathrooms, a woman took all of us with no prior traffic offenses into the lobby still filled with people blankly waiting, told us that we could agree to pay the $175 fee (mine was less because the offense occurred before sometime in September when the DMV add-on fee increased) without accruing the 2-3 points against our records.  We lined up to pay and that was done.

My second experience, just Tuesday, was in the Eastchester Town Court.  I reported to a woman on the other side of a counter window, was asked if my name was listed on the sheet hung by a tack on a cork board to my left, and was told to take a seat in one of the floor-mounted chairs inside the courtroom of thirty or so seated people.  Proceedings began on time at ten am sharp, the prosecutor explained to us in detail, a system that he has used for years for reducing the points penalty for violations, how to respond per already organized (by violation) piles of paper which his male assistant wearing a golg shirt too small for him, dutifully handed him.  He wasted no time and we were out of there by 11:30, after paying the fines.  I was lucky enough to live in the stack of no previous violations.  The prosecutor was so organized and clear when he called my name to query as to whether or not I would accept his plea that I said, “Thank you, yes.”

Thank you for allowing me to both witness and participate in the business of running a town.  It’s people like me who don’t to the efficacy or not, of the inner legal workings of the justice system as commerce.  It felt a bit more like bartering over goods.

Going forward, there will be no response to screaming children in the back seat of the van I drive for them (not me but perhaps us) or the honking at me and my California stickers affixed on either side of the back window by the driver behind me insisting, loudly, that I need to make a right turn on red even if I failed to get a clear view of the sign, always posted in my blind spot, and perhaps yours too.  I will also not fail to see a stop sign at a t-intersection during a crisis, even though there are far more legitimate places for posting proper traffic signage that would facilitate the safety and cohesion of driving patterns among New Yorkers everywhere.

Booby Lift by Kathryn Merrifield

A friend of mine asked me what my best day at work was.

I told her, well, I have a lot of best days.  Mostly because I work a lot because I love to work.  Compared to life, it’s the easy stuff.  Measured goals and that kind of thing.  Having children taught me that everything else is the easy stuff.  People told me just that at one point.  I didn’t believe them, but I do now.

Enough whining.  I never liked parental whining, but I also don't like the parenting alone thing either. Where it used to take a village, now it takes money.

That’s a little morose, so forget that, and let's get back to laughing at something that pokes fun and my neatly contained late twenties self where I rewind to my most embarrassing work moment, that moment where you realize, “Gee, you’re not as pretty and desperate as all of these Hollywood girls.  And, really.  Who cares?”

Embarrassment, I have found, is that thing that makes me human when I don’t want to be.  That thing that needs you to be flawed, when you don’t want to be.  But, when you need to be.  Because your head needs a real Linda Blair 180, or needs to be birthed out of your stupidity or your ego that sent it down the wrong-ass path.

Whoooops!

This is what happens when the only rudder you’ve got is what your parents gave you in he spare time of no spare time (see no village, above).

That is not whining.  That is the truth.

So, what we have is a grueling several months under the discretion of, essentially, Kevin Spacey as a bald woman with a disease that rendered her hairless, who represented the top talent in the United States of America in the myopia of Hollywood.  Not the highest-grossing talent, but the top.  For sure.  She shall remain nameless.  I signed a contract that bound me to secrecy.  And, even though I was beaten to a pulp using borderline torture methods via entertainment industry bootcamp, I am loyal.  And, I have a soft spot in my heart for her.  That place was a pressure cooker.  More pressure cooker than a cooker that could induce real humidity with a well-placed lid, and the promised... pressurization that makes good rice but not so good people.

I survived just under a full year before the agent found a real agent recruit – essentially a JD working in the mailroom that had thick enough skin and connections that could somehow show promise or connections to dear Agent who would abuse her outright while she endured and kept her eye on the prize.

Even Dear Agent, who addressed those training-to-be artist-representatives, told her minions, “You have to love it.”  Her way of saying, "Get out if you don't."

I didn’t.  Mostly, because I wasn’t much of a party girl.  I just was not there yet.  I wanted a family.  Kids.  A life that extended beyond living in the bubble of THE ENTERTAINMENT INDUSTRY. If you live in it, in LA, you know what I’m talking about.  Because there is nothing else.  People even forget about the beach and the ocean is pretty huge.

Myopia about as interesting to a writer as a being an author reading a book about a writer.  That’s like watching paint dry.  Or, like watching in real time, a real, mosquito-catching, target practice, spider web get made with eight tiny arms and legs.

Riveting?  Definitely not.  Reading a bout the entertainment industry except in reference and history is just dull.  No way around that.  Non-fiction about fiction.  Kill me.

So, my embarrassment occurred around a bit of a turning point.  I met Scott Lobdell, the writer for many, many of the X-Men comics published by Marvel.  When we met, I was finally off of high-powered talent agent’s desk and onto packaging – working with producers on ICM talent-centric packages for television.  Tom was new, and when Tom (my gay, Irish, actor boss) was new, he found many new clients.  When word gets out, that’s what happens.

So, in the time of Bryan Singer and the dawn of Marvel motion picture franchising, I made a friend in Scott Lobdell, mostly because he knew I was mostly a writer and he was a writer, and we were both starting out in a world that we knew nothing about and too much about.  He wanted to be a producer and ultimately got a deal that did not pan out.

As for me, my exit from ICM came one night, dressed in my favorite BCBG, fitted, short-sleeved sweater with the neutral stripes and pencil cut skirt and heals. 

When the doors of an elevator opened up to let me and Scott out – me, his stand-in date for his wife, Laura, who was ensconced in her art masters degree in New York and could not attend.  Me, going to a premiere that I was invited to because Scott had producer friends who had access to such things.  Me, who would have rather go to sleep early.

And, quite honestly, Scott was a little strange.  And, because I can be a little strange too with my broad range of tastes and peculiar fascination with super heroes and two brothers who made me a no bullshit girl, we got along quite well.  I found a friend in sea of the smoke screen.  Me, the girl from La Canada, dressed professionally, stood waiting for an elevator.

Scott asked me, “What’s that on the floor?”

I looked down to the garage, beige carpeted floor, and said, matter-of-fact, “That’s my bra pad.”

A white little teardrop of a pad on the floor defied any legitimate lie.  And, why bother?

It was funny.  And, it was mine.

And, that’s when I knew I’d never make it.  I could not lie to a client about my bra pad lying on the floor.  I supposed it could have been worse.  But, that was pretty bad for a twenty-something young woman, boarding a lift with an imbalanced lift.

It was the first step in a series of coming-into-oneself lessons.

And, learning what bra to buy and not.

Snow-Hell by Kathryn Merrifield

Snow.  A lot of it.  So much so, that the schools closed at noon today, truncating my office time and sending us all home to highly-saturated togetherness.  The library isn’t even open.  It’s that kind of snow.  It’s total shutdown.

And, in this kind of snow, I don’t do so well.  Cold-tolerance has always been a challenge for me.  I can blame my California upbringing all I want – and so can you – but the truth of the matter is that I’ve always been this way.  The kind of girl who is always cold.

I flippin’ hate snow…  I can’t swear enough to drive this point home.  The cold.  Chilly water.  Luke warm is cold to me.  Tepid…  Far, far worse.  And, I can dislike this aversion all I want.  But, it’s still there.

Three children later, I find I struggle with this even more.  The flakes barely start to  fall and I start pacing like a trapped animal.  Rain, I can do.  Rain is good mood lighting for a little deep writing riff.  It’s a little slide guitar to what can be a ukulele some days.

Quite honestly, I don’t know what to do with it.  My biological functions of sleep/awake cycles are screaming, “Sleep through it.  The bears do!”  But, my kids are screaming at the Wii - arguing and yelling at the computerized inhuman humans.  I want to get some work done but my internet connection is down.  I want to read, but the screaming won’t let me focus on the otherwise engaging text in front of me.  I can’t even pay attention to Malala’s story.  A great story rom what I can glean from chapter one.

It’s a back-and-forth – a dull one that drives me bat-wit crazy.

This confession comes with the realization that there’s a part of me that wishes to the moon and back that I was a snowbird, snowgirl, snowcat, snowperson.  The worst part of that is wishing to be something else.  It’s a bit like wishing away sadness.  The act of wishing it away causes depression and anger. I’m annoyed at myself because I just do better in the sun.  You will never hear me complain that it’s too hot. 

But, then again… I just saw my neighbor push one of her dogs out the door and into the snow and the little Min Pin stumbled right back inside.  The other one, the albino Jack Russel Terrior, peed and was instantly shepherded back inside with excessive and congratulatory patting.

Glorious vindication!  Even the dogs don’t want to go out.  The cat’s asleep.  And, me…  I’m doing this.  Being honest.  Mostly, because it’s the only thing that saves me from feeling like I’m the only one who misses the sand and sea and the left coast masquerade of freedom, neatly concealed until you get on the 405.

You and I can still be good parents even if we hate the barricade of this particular day.

And, look.  I’m dealing.  And so are you.  Reinforcements being called in for the balance of the week.  Perhaps forever.

It takes a village.

The Hearty Vegan Food Revue by Kathryn Merrifield

My gift of Friday, was an invitation by a friend, Greg Sotire - musician, dad, fine guitar salesman, and otherwise incredibly clean-living vegan – to dinner.  He suggested Veggie Heaven in New City.  And, me, not knowing any place in Westchester to get decent vegetarian food (apart from the fast-foodish offerings at Whole Foods), was wholly game, especially after I learned why Greg wasn’t a cafeteria vegan.

“I’ve stuck to this diet since I started it.”

The reason was heart disease, on heart attack at age 32 when he became a vegetarian, to no remarkable effect.  It did not resolve the artery blockage or his doctor’s warnings that there would be repeat arrests.  Two stints later, be became a full throttle vegan and cleaned out his arteries with a vegan diet, a diet that also excludes coffee, alcohol and anything that can be described as unnatural…  No nothing, to some. 

No nothing worked.  No nothing caused the miracle of clean arteries and no heart attacks.  No nothing is that he completely reversed heart disease, more a matter of genetics in this case.  Greg is forty now and smiles a lot and loves his food, music, son… food. 

More food.

The thing about people with food intolerances or strict diets is that food becomes even more important when it’s unavailable.  Most of the time, you have to eat “wilted lettuce,” Greg said, if you don’t make the effort, make the extra drive and get a little creative.

My diet is low gluten, much the result of having a child with special needs and seeing the good effects that diet manipulation can have on behavior, the gut, and general health.  Low gluten cured my tummy trouble.  I eat little bits of meat here and there and do eat some fish (mostly farm-raised salmon as I try to do my part to halt the imminent sadness of over-fishing) but it’s a really an issue of my once-titanium-lined (so I thought) stomach that children and life have considerable weakened.

Of course, exercise helps my tightly-wound self which also helps my stomach.  It seems that the stresses of the world convene there for me.  And I learned from Greg that acidity is also caused from anxiety and stress. 

“Doesn’t that suck?”  He laughed.  Alkaline, ph-balanced water (the new reverse osmosis trend that does help, by the way) may be able to reduce acidity but it can’t cure stress. 

Swim, bike, run, yoga…  Helps me.  Good fuel helps that.

I’ve never been to New City but it was worth it.  I can’t begin to describe how tasty the chefs made the vegan offerings.  Among them, spring rolls with mango, yummy shoots of something and a saucy cashew and almond paste wrapped in kale (gluten-free).  There was vegan pork, vegan (mushroom) beef and tofu chicken sautéed (“stir fry” doesn’t do it justice) called Bang Bang chicken with beef, cashews, asparagus, peppers, onions and a delish sauce that Greg resurrected from a special he once had and they made upon request.  Veggie Heaven makes their own faux (not fake) meat in house.  Then there are the brown rice dumplings, leftovers of which today I couldn’t wait for lunch to eat.  They covered breakfast and lunch even after sharing so that Greg’s son, Pete, could later enjoy.

Vegan Bang Bang Chicken with (Mushroom) Beef

Dessert bookended dinner with coconut cake.  Oh, and the jasmine tea – the best I’ve ever had - which would be a compliment if I’d ever previously tasted jasmine tea – sweeter than green.  There’s divinity in that.

The only thing that has ever come close to Veggie Heaven, defined by Wendy, the owner, as “Food for the Five Senses,” is the Ayurveda restaurant on the upper Westside of Manhattan that I used to frequent as a resident there.

Veggie Heaven makes vegetarian beef, pork and chicken taste better than the real deal.  Fresh-tasting is an understatement.

To say it is worth the drive…  Well, it’s worth the drive.  Even after I already had lunch at Andy’s Pure Food in Rye.  It was a Good Food Friday.  Ever day should be so good.

Let’s work together, my friends, to increase Veggie Heaven revenues… There’s talk of a location coming soon to Connecticut.

Veggie Heave Placement - Mission Statement

http://www.veggieheavennewcity.com/welcome.html