0

Frauds & Old Broads

I’m too old for this bullshit”

At least that’s what I say

While muttering under my breath

Judging the other old broad

Who is simply clinging to dreams

Long since shattered by genes

and drugs

and other people’s opinions…

“I am too old for this bullshit”

I keep telling myself these lies

While I, too, am just as insecure

Aging not as fast as the other bird

But clinging fast to a pipedream

Fostered by hard work

and artifice

and expensive fucking fillers…

“We are both frauds, you and I”

I will say I’m almost 50

while I pop my heart meds

and stare at my smooth face

in the mirror

made deceptively young

while my insides rot away

like everybody else’s…

“We are both frauds, you and I”

Hiding your real birthday

popping your pills

photoshopping your wrinkles

in photos

made deceptively young

while your soul rots away

with your own delusions…

———————————————–

But the biggest truth this old bitch can spew:
I am still glad I am nothing quite like you

That, too, is fraudulent,

we’re both the same

The only difference

Lies in our pain.

0

Ode To The Rude

Ode To The Rude

Have a care, I must report
Think hard before you retort
For I am simply not the sort
To hold my tongue in vain

While trying not to analyze
The scads of perfect alibis
How shocking that they all tell lies!
But they always sound the same-

While again I try to reason
Something smells a lot like treason
I think it might be wabbit season
On the maniacally insane

Look to the bedbugs in your bed
Do roll your eyes at THEM instead
Bravado masks the social dread
Can one quiver with disdain?

The moral of this short discourse:
While others may display remorse
What separates an ass from a horse:
Horses don’t scheme & beg for pain…

 
©2018 JDA

2

In Which I write a screenplay for the Cannes Film Festival and get shockingly attacked in the process… theft and dishonesty in “the movie biz”

Jess Anderson & Christine-marie liwag dixon

So… I wrote a screenplay as a favor to a former admirer’s 50 yr old actress wife. I find out later that she was supposed to actually write it herself for Cannes, but she was too busy with her 27 yr old Dutch trailer park lover and his drugs/baby mama probs to write it.

Oh, and I was instructed to not let anyone know she’d been born in 1968, instead of 1970, as her IMBD indicates. Growing old is a blessing, but I digress…

By “admirer”, y’all know what I mean. He had been a good friend, as well. I must’ve had an impact on him, he named his children the names I chose 20 yrs ago-I had no idea he’d been saddled with such a scary problem until much, much later…

She’d been talking to me off and on for a few years, I had no idea she even knew who I was. We followed each other on IG. I was simply friendly and interested in keeping with the niceties. Well, one day she discloses that she knows WHO I am and basically pukes out all her marital and personal problems to me.

I feel SO SORRY for the poor thing and she asks me to write a script for the 2018 Cannes Film Festival because ‘she can’t deal’ with the drama in her life and convinces me that her husband has heinously abused her/never loved her, which is the reason why he allows her to philander.

She tells me ‘they are basically separated, but the hubs is her only source of income’- plus, he CANNOT KNOW I wrote this for her (did I mention it was just days before the Film Festival? MADNESS) and gushes about this director who will be filming it- at the same time, dissing him for lack of as many padded IMDB credits as she has.

Oh, so the ‘actress’ suggests the topic of this screenplay- it is largely a vanity piece. She plays the victim of a cruel husband (which I believed at first) in a loveless marriage- and says the only stipulation she has is that I write a great f*ck scene for her with a sweet, young thang (male)- and it be under 10 pages #shortfilm

She gushes that I am a GREAT writer, she is a super brown noser- but, lemme tell ya, this AIN’T my best writing. It’s what you get in 3 days before Cannes… but I try to deliver, because I have two things I later discover she doesn’t have: #integrity and #workethic

As I write this screenplay, I started out feeling very sad and sympathetic towards her, but as I get to talk to her more, I realize “Damn, this chick is wacky”. The real picture becomes glaringly clear when she tells me that she f*cked her young lover in her marital bed one day and that her hubs discovered a used condom- she then accused the hubs of planting the condom.

I knew her hubs, he is NOT nasty like that. She’s admitted to drug use and to her lover being a junkie. She is smoking cigs, she says, for the first time in her 50 yrs- a pack a day- who DOES THIS?! IDK anyone who suddenly acquires a nicotine addiction at HER age. EVERY story she tells me in the wee hours, typed out in FB msgr, keeps getting weirder and weirder…

I enlist the help of another professional writer to do the love scene. I had a basic idea of how I wanted her to be ‘handled’, but the idea of having this crazy lady nekkid in my mind’s eye after the cray stuff she spewed turned my stomach- the writer did a fantastic job blocking and creating the sex scene-

So, other writer and I happily work on this fluff, gratis, btw- for an IMBD writing credit and because it sounded like a light, fun thing to do- and the phone calls and bizarre msgs from this actress continue to arrive in my inbox.

She sends me photos of some 20-something bikini clad baby mama of her boyfriend’s – she is scattered and won’t work on the writing with me- and all she talks about is her very messed up extracurricular love life.


They also set up the casting call BEFORE WE EVEN FINISHED WRITING THE SCRIPT.

Cannes day arrives and she shows up, after giving up a yachting party, to the filming, per eye witnesses ‘strung out of her mind and wasted’- plus A GOOD 10-15 YRS OLDER than her IG and other pics, due to her recent sudden weight loss. She seriously reminded one of a “Faces of Meth” article- so much so, that I was immediately informed by those doing the shoot- who were also in shock.

Apparently, she didn’t look like that the year prior at Cannes-

I hear from her and the director that they had tentatively cast the roles with working actors- but after arriving in Canne she suddenly decides TO WALK THE STREETS LOOKING TO REPLACE THEM WITH NEW CO STARS, because she didn’t like who the director originally had suggested. WTF?! Everything was based on who she found, drunkenly, sexually attractive- per her disjointed texts to me.  

Fast forward to the end, it is shot in a record 7 HOURS, at which point she bombards IG and FB with excerpts from this ‘incredible epic film’… and she spends the rest of the film festival complaining  to me on fb messenger, when I’d check in to see if she was still alive- that her husband didn’t give her more than 250 euros for the trip, she had only 60 euros left, and couldn’t afford to eat- but was living off the free champagne and begging male friends (including the co stars ‘discovered’ on the streets) for lodgings.

At this point, things get blurry. The filmmaker (who doesn’t speak French) asks me to translate what the French husband was saying in the opening scene on the telephone- the dude was speaking gibberish, nothing salvageable for the film… he wanted to salvage it by either a voiceover (I felt like doing this would turn out like a bad 1960’s Godzilla dub) or a musical score to ‘set the tone’, since the male ‘actors’ were not actually professional actors at all.

The actress continues with her weirdness once she is back home in Belgium. She sends me msgs from ‘friends’ of hers who are accusing her of stealing their work. She is obviously strung out and not all there. She gets super paranoid. Once she finds out that I was assisting the filmmaker with post-production, she lost her MIND.

She keeps offering “if we don’t like it” to remove us from the writing credits, even though I told her again and again that we want our credits no matter how it turned out.  We send the script, as is, to the lawyers for copyright and published the Kindle version immediately. She was not pleased.

She twisted everything with the director, telling him WE WANTED to wrest control of this silly thing from them. She whined and gaslighted and manipulated. She would flatter, then cajole, then threaten me. That type of thing might work with other people, but Mama doesn’t play that.

Emotional terrorism is not cool.

I am currently going through a cancer health scare- and my sister currently has cancer as well.

A family member in CA was in a catastrophic motorcycle accident in December- I had been caring for them all winter in San Diego and am only back home in the midwest for my own health issues.

This writing project was supposed to simply be a nice little distraction, a way to create something positive and fun.

I did it for FREE. I DON’T need the money.

She had the nerve to infer that I was using my health issues as a way to take the spotlight from her and gain sympathy. I was shocked.

When I wrote today, in a group chat, that I forgave her for her transgressions and that an apology would be nice, or even that she should just come out and say what bugged her instead of twisting and turning people against each other, she flipped out.

She FINALLY OUTDID HERSELF TODAY:

S: “What’s your phone number?”

Me: “xxx-xxx-xxxx”

A screaming and slurring drunken French- speaking woman calls, not even the actress. She threatens me. I turn on the speaker phone so that the people in the room with me can hear as well.

CRAZY FRENCH CHICK (I believe her name is Marie- and she spoke in French accented English: “I am REEECH AND ‘AVE MONEEEY AND I WILL COME TO AMEREECA AND BEEEAT YOU UPPP, leave S alone”

Me (calmly and in French):Parle en français, madame- il y a un enfant ici et tu parles comme TRAILER TRASH”

(Translation:Speak English, madame, there is a child here and you sound like trailer trash)- I had a three year old in the room and these harpies couldn’t even do more than screech and hang up- it wasn’t even the actress, she used her friend to attack.

I tell the group chat with director and other writer what just transpired, and THEY CALL AGAIN, this time, I am able to video witnesses to this.

I tell the woman in French again to speak in French and they hang up when I do speak her language.

WHAT KIND OF CRAZY DOES THIS SH*T?!  

I tell the group again what transpired, the actress leaves the chat in a huff and blocks me.

END SCENE.

(Thank goodness)

Later, I discovered that a long time friend of hers also received the same shabby treatment. She had, apparently, a reputation for promising film credits for her little vanity films and would steal the material for herself.

No, what we wanted is fair treatment. You don’t steal from those who are there to help you. Karma is a b*tch. Play nice, especially to your writers. Don’t be a grabby, greedy, thirsty passive-aggressive little c*nt. THIS is why you have no real friends. This is why ugly from the soul is showing on your face.

If people didn’t do as she asked (or implied), she’d play a victim.

If you push back, she attacks.

I feel badly for her husband and kids and the other innocents she’s hurt.

I don’t feel badly for writing this.

Someone has to stand up to this anti-feminist, disempowered, passive-aggressive, drug addled pseudo-bully.

I told her once: “You are the polar opposite of Me”– and I am ok with that.

She must hurt a lot in her skin to hurt others like this.

I say this because I have been blessed with ways of dealing with MY aggressions.

I am a healthier person in my ‘old age’

Also, my non-white self is NOT SCARED OF YOU or your little friends, who can’t be THAT rich if they can’t even lend you money for a hotel in Cannes.

I can’t even imagine a world where I’d have to beg or have sex written into a scene in order to get a man to want to do me. That alone left me gobsmacked.

End rant.

Btw, here is the actual kindle link to the screenplay- I would not buy it, personally. Not our best work.

11

This Blog Saved Me & Social Isolation- Also, WHY I Overshare…

Today I spent the entire day in bed- something I don’t remember doing (except when I did bedrest during pregnancy) in EONS. The stress of the last day caused a massive and sudden flare up of my lupus, which is never fun.

I am SO glad that I had the luxury of doing this- and had people to help watch baby while I did.

I slept, mostly. I had nightmares- so many! A few of them involved my parents, but the details are faded.

I needed this. It helped. The rest was lovely.

The evening was spent playing with my new ‘toy’, the iPhone 6- and the Periscope app, which is a live streaming vlog thing from your phone. Sam showed me it this morning. It was a lot of fun and gave me something to take my mind off of my troubles.

I know a lot of people wonder why I am so transparent with me life.

I grew up in a household where we were ashamed to admit to things- or hid things- or whatever. Not always, but oftentimes. I refuse to do this now. If I don’t have the courage to speak up, who will? If I can inspire even one other person going through tough times (alone in their heads or otherwise), I feel like I will be doing my job.

Living in fear, in shame, in secrecy is not good at all, not ever. I overshare because I have to. If I don’t, the feelings and thoughts and memories inside of me threaten to eat away at my soul. I have to force myself to be honest with myself- and I can only seem to do this with the written word… as poorly written/edited as it may be.

Also, I am ‘landlocked’ in a house with a baby and males who aren’t the best conversationalists- this blog SAVED ME. I started this on the 1st of July of this year when my back went out again and have been pretty much faithful about posting ever since. I have a wee bit of social anxiety as well, which can translate to agoraphobia at times. If I don’t feel I look good, I don’t want people to see me-type-thing. Spending years in front of a camera and having to be photographed is often a shitty thing for the ego as one ages, believe me. It’s shallow and stupid, but it happens- it’s happened to me.

Though I have a TON of friends on my Facebook and Instagram, I really don’t in real life. People come to visit, they come to my dinner parties, they ask for readings… but I never seem to ‘connect’ fully. I also don’t know how to give my own problems a voice in Real Time. I feel guilt to even admit to them. Sure, I can bitch and moan like the best of ’em, but I have been so used to being the ‘ear’ to others, I can’t be vulnerable in person. It’s like I have an armor around me that is made of smiles and jokes and laughter- or anger. I try to avoid drama at all costs nowadays, even if I sometimes lose my goddamned mind and instigate it within my own family because I get sick of the same dynamic.

Our voices are formed within the familial unit(s). If we feel we don’t have a voice, or our opinions/thoughts don’t matter- this can be as bad as physical abuse. It can, like it has with me, translate into a lifetime of defensive hurt.

Writing it out is a solitary thing. There is no pressure. I can see what I think. I can read what I think. I can understand the whys of who I am. It’s non-sexual mental masturbation at it’s finest, really.

I talked to a friend in real life recently who says that she NEEDS people and has a problem being alone. I have none of that. I’ve always felt alone, even in crowds. I understand her, though.

Today, when I was going through one of the toughest times in recent history emotionally- not ONE SINGLE ‘CLOSE’ FRIEND OR FAMILY MEMBER REACHED OUT, at least no one I know in real time. The ones who did were folks I’d never met before, people from the Internet or FB or what have you and THIS HELPED ME SO MUCH. For the first time in years, I NEEDED to be ‘talked off the ledge’ and I am so grateful for those few kind words from virtual strangers.

I don’t habitually HAVE issues like these, so people are not used to me ‘venting’ per se. Maybe that’s it. I don’t know.
I just know that it hurts not to be able to have anyone to talk to in real life. It hurts to watch my children be depressed, too, and not be able to do anything about it. I cannot easily speak to my older sons, they’re men and have their own support systems.

When I posted the blog of the things that happened to my FB wall, for the most part it was met with UTTER SILENCE. I had one person whom I knew that was kind enough to speak up, but that was it.

I scrolled through my own FB feed and saw others venting about their own problems- and, as I usually am prone to do, I left messages and comments.

I hate seeing other people hurt. I hate hurting emotionally, too. It makes me sad that my ‘real life’ is the most unreal when it gets down to the brass tacks. It makes me sad that only the strangers and friends I never met were there for me.

So, yeah… this blog saved me. If I cannot talk to another human being, at least I have the comfort of knowing that I can talk to myself.

I have people coming to me, asking for readings all the time. I understand that they NEED me. I understand that they need someone to help sort out their problems. I have, for the most part, refused to do any readings (I am a professional psychic, btw) since becoming pregnant with Maisie. My job takes a lot out of me. I absorb too much. I want to be able to reserve my energy for my child/children/parents right now, because they NEED me.

My biggest question is: Where do I go when I need someone to talk to?

This blog is really the only answer. I can feel sorry for myself here and ‘let it go’.

I DID, however, have ONE PERSON call me and ask about the incident with my mother. It was my 2nd oldest sister.
She reprimanded me and yelled at me for not ‘standing up to my mom’- not realizing that our mother has dementia now and it really would not do a damned bit of good to go off her. It would just make it worse. My mother now TRULY has no control over her rages. At one time, when it was ‘just’ the bipolar, she should have been accountable.

It’s far too late now.

I can’t change anyone. I can only try to change myself… and ramble and type on until my fingers hurt and I am able to get this all spewed out so it no longer lives inside of my head.

Social isolation blows. Being frozen within yourself, ditto. I love my blog, though. I love that I have a voice, even if nobody reads/hears it. I love that I can remove the clutter from my brain and brush myself off and go on with my life.