We went to the movies!!!! I’d never heard of this movie–Midnight in Paris–but that’s not hard to imagine. We rarely go to “the show” (do people say that anymore?) in RI, but we always have fun going to the Alama Drafthouse in Austin.
They serve dinner there. And beer and wine. And nachos. There are narrow counters that run in front of the seats and, even though you’d think the arrival of food and drinks would be disruptive, it’s not.
Anyway, back to the Northwest. My friend Janou and her hospitable husband planned to see “Midnight in Paris”, only in town for 3 nights. Would I like to go with them? Absolutely. Don’t care what it’s about, who wrote it or who’s in it. Just want to take off my yoga pants, find some clean clothes, fix my hair and go to town.
I’m not crazy about Woody Allen movies. I often felt that I was too naive or unsophisticated to get the jokes. Or understand the chic appeal of living in NYC. My agent, city born and bred, would arrange wonderful outings for us to entice me to “hop on the train” and head to New York. Over the years we ate at fabulous restaurants (I saw Charles Kuralt eat a salad), gawked at the Christmas window displays on Fifth Avenue, studied a costume display at the Met and drank vodka at the Russian Tea Room.
Once she persuaded me to try out for a writing job with a soap opera. The show wanted new perspective, new talent, new storylines. When I was invited by the producers to come to NY to discuss my ideas for the show, I was in a state of panic. My mother insisted I needed a real suit, so we went to Macy’s and I bought the cheapest “little black dress” with a jacket I could find. No suit. Where would I ever wear it again?
I made the mistake of looking up the “scale” writing wages for head writer on a soap opera. I think it was something around $36,000 a week. I then made the mistake of telling my husband that.
He thought I needed fancy jewelry. I said I didn’t. He thought I should be more nervous. I said I was too busy studying the 29 years of the show’s history and memorizing the characters.
He was already moving us to NY, kids, dogs and all.
The train arrived 3 hours before the meeting, so I went to Saks and bought Bobbie Brown lipstick. Then I just slogged around Rockefeller Center. Oh, and lusted after quilts in an antique quilts & textiles shop before meeting my agent in front of the building where the meeting was to be held.
Unfortunately the meeting went well. Too well. My agent wanted me to take a later train home and go out for celebratory drinks. I didn’t want to celebrate anything. I simply wanted to go home, so I made my excuses and caught a cab to the train station.
I sat in terror for four hours on that damn train. I was in a state of panic. I cried. I sniffled. I bit my fingernails. I stared at my neat, professional folder packed with ideas about character arcs and romantic conflict. I wanted to throw up.
My daughter picked me up at the station (my husband was working late, but was no doubt dreaming of retiring early and walking the dogs in Central Park and putting the kids through college without taking out loans) and I asked her to stop at a liquor store on the way home.
She was fairly shocked. I’m not much of a drinker, as most of you know. But when I got home–finally, home!!!–I put on my oldest flannel nightgown, poured myself some wine, got in bed with my little dog and vowed that I was going nowhere. No matter what my agent said, no matter what Glen said, no matter how much money was at stake, no one could make me leave my plain raised-ranch house in the woods, or my bed or my beloved dog.
Glen was a little disappointed. As was my agent.
But fortunately, I wasn’t offered the job. They hired someone “in house”, but they did buy ideas from a couple of romance writers. But not from me.
I was so happy.
Okay, where was I? Woody Allen. Movie last night.
Owen Wilson was charming. Paris was beautiful. The movie was adorable and sweet and funny. I will be quoting Hemingway and making myself laugh for at least a week.
Madame, all stories, if continued far enough, end in death, and 
he is no true-story teller who would keep that from you.
The actor who played him was hilarious.
Go see it if you can find it. Or rent it if you can find it.
You’ll watch it twice. Or thrice!
Mama Mia!
