I Still Have It. . . I Just Can't Remember Where I Put It (10 page)

A few years later, Martin and I bought a vacation house in Palm Desert on a golf course. People don’t go into retirement and then decide to play golf; golf takes so long to play you have to go into retirement to play it. We went into semi-retirement in our forties and only played nine holes. It was a modest yet idyllic house. It looked out on a lake and a mountain that were so perfect it was as if someone came out each day and polished them. It was lovely, but we still harbored a secret desire to have a house on the ocean. And Beverly, bless her masochistic heart, was still sending us brochures for beach-frontish property.

When Martin and I moved to Las Vegas, the house in Palm Desert stopped making sense. In the summer when it was 110 degrees in Vegas, it was 120 degrees in Palm Desert.

“Rita,” Martin said one day, “it occurs to me that we have two houses in places that are hotter than the sun.”

We had officially come out of semi-retirement anyway, and with a steady job in Las Vegas and a baby on the way, smacking a tiny white ball into a hole for five hours at a time was no longer a priority.

Beverly had some new properties to show us. The first was the inside-out house. The bedroom was on the first floor and the living room was upstairs. It had a beautiful view from the living room and the bedroom looked at a wall.

The second house was so far up a mountain I thought we might be eaten by bears. The third was perfect. Recently renovated and Tuscan in feel, it overlooked the ocean and boasted a backyard with a fire pit and barbecue.

Dan, the real estate agent representing the seller of the house that Beverly had found for us, was adamant that Martin and I should buy it.

“If not now, when?” he said.

“Maybe when we can afford it,” I replied.

“When you can afford it, it will be out of your price range,” he stated wisely.

We had learned from our first mistake when we didn’t buy the land next to the Ritz-Carlton. Oceanfront property tends to go up in value. We agreed to meet Dan later with an offer. Over drinks at a swanky hotel, Dan began going over some minor details associated with the property.

“The thing about this house that I really like,” he said, smiling, “is that in 2020, you’ll be able to buy the land at only sixty percent of its value.”

“Could you please repeat that?” asked Martin.

“The land is owned by a trust and comes up for sale in 2020,” Dan repeated.

“So this property is already out of our price range, and if we buy it, we don’t own the land,” Martin stated.

“Exactly!”

“So, where don’t I sign?” I said, handing the paperwork back to Dan.

We returned to Las Vegas, resolving never to try to buy property in Dana Point again.

Beverly waited a few years until we calmed down and then gave us a call.

“I think I’ve found something for you. It’s not on the market yet. It’s a renovation and you could get it before they decide on materials. You could get it exactly the way you want.”

We couldn’t resist. We met Beverly at her office and reminisced about all that had occurred since we first entered her life. I had become a mother, she had become a grandmother. She had remarried, and Martin and I were now celebrating our fourteenth anniversary. We followed her to the house where we could help choose the materials.

The house required a complete renovation. It would take years for the planning permission and requisite architectural approval, and my gray hair was already becoming dye-resistant. The beach was within walking distance and an easy journey if you were a mountain goat. We felt bad for Beverly, but it was a no.

Beverly had another house up her sleeve. It was in the area we’d first seen sixteen years before. It was within walking distance of a beach and it was something we could afford. It was a starter house with an ocean peek.

“See the ocean through that vacant lot? There is very little chance anyone would ever build on that lot and block your view,” Beverly promised.

Martin and I shook our heads.

“I’ve got one more,” she said.

“Beverly, you have to stop now. I can’t torture you any longer.”

“Rita, at this point it’s not even a job anymore. I’m on a mission. I will not rest until I find you and Martin a house.”

We followed Beverly into a beautiful neighborhood and pulled up in front of an understated contemporary house that was exactly what Martin and I were looking for.

“This house fell out of escrow yesterday,” Beverly explained. “I think it’s meant to be.”

Martin and I wandered into the living room. The sliding glass doors opened up into the walls and the breeze wafted through the living room. It had everything we were looking for. It was big enough but not too big, and easy walking distance to the beach.

Martin and I looked at each other and said, “If not now, when?”

We made an offer on the house that afternoon, and it was accepted. We went out with Beverly and bought her a well-deserved drink.

It had taken seventeen years, but Martin and I had finally bought our dream house. It’s the house we always wanted and never thought we could find. There is only one problem…we don’t own the land.

I really wanted a child. I didn’t want to be old and sick and not have someone to drain financially.

It’s My Daughter’s Party and I’ll Cry if I Want To

T
YPICAL
V
EGAS PARTIES USUALLY FEATURE NAMES
like Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan and always occur at the hippest hangouts in town. Don’t think Martin and I haven’t checked out these nightclubs, because we have…but only during the day. Being the proud parents of a toddler and a dog on diuretics leaves us roughly six hours of interrupted sleep a night, so clubbing with the beautiful people is quite simply a nonstarter. That’s not to say we’re not party people. We are.

When Martin and I adopted our baby girl everybody warned me about no sleep, tantrums, and potty training; nobody warned me about birthday parties. It seems that each child my daughter knows has at least three birthday parties a year. We have been to bouncing parties, ice-skating parties, Build-a-Bear parties, dress-up parties, cookie-making parties, and horseback-riding parties, and that was just last week. This is the story of my daughter’s party and why after it was over I needed a drink.

Celebrating birthdays one through three had been a breeze. At these ages children’s frames of reference are rather narrow; they don’t have many friends and haven’t really experienced a full-blown celebration. We got off easily. We bought a cake and hats and invited some strangers, and Molly was totally satisfied. At four everything changes.

“Mommy, Krystal had pony rides at her birthday party. What am I going to have?”

“Well, honey, we have a dog on diuretics. I’m pretty sure he’s available,” I replied.

That answer didn’t fly. Four was going to be a very different experience compared to one, two, and three.

The planning of a child’s birthday party becomes significantly more difficult when you live in an apartment. Ponies are out of the question, as are pigs, donkeys, and any other animal that has a relationship with hay. While our child’s bedroom is fair game for stickers, Play-Doh, and grape juice, our mohair living room sofa is not up to having a gaggle of four-year-olds partying on its pampered cushions.

Outside was calling and we were answering the phone. We would organize the party around the apartment complex’s pool. The catering department was happy to oblige and overcharge us. We had the hamburgers and hot dogs planned along with iced tea and lemonade, but what were the little darlings going to do all afternoon? Half of them didn’t know how to swim yet, so pushing them into the pool wasn’t really an option. Children seem to like to jump, so we rented a bouncy castle to tire them out. We hired a Cinderella look-alike to paint the children’s faces and twist balloons into unnatural positions.

Invitations were issued and I waited patiently by the phone for the RSVPs to fly in.

One day, two days, three days passed and no one bothered to respond. I could wait no longer. I tackled some of my daughter’s friends’ mothers in the playground. There was a slight problem in that I didn’t know any of their names.

“Excuse me, Krystal’s mother,” I said. “Is Krystal going to be able to come to Molly’s birthday party?”

“Sure, Molly’s mother,” she said. “Krystal is going to come with Dixie. We’re looking forward to it.”

I did the same with Tess’s mother and Bella’s mother. They were all coming; they just hadn’t responded yet. Maybe I shouldn’t have sent out the invitations a month in advance. I just wanted the first birthday party that my daughter would remember to be special, and special it was.

I don’t know whether it was something she ate or a bug she picked up at school, but the morning of the party began with my daughter vomiting copiously all over the house (don’t worry, the mohair sofa was not hit). The every-ten-minutes vomiting was not our only problem. The hottest day of the year was forecast, and for once the forecast was correct. At noon, we took our ailing daughter downstairs to greet seven friends and 110 degrees.

I have never been prouder of Molly. Pausing only to throw up in the lobby downstairs, she got through the entire party like a trouper. I hesitate to say this in Las Vegas, but Cinderella’s balloons were magnificent. The bouncy house was a triumph, even though my daughter only ventured inside for the benefit of a single photo op. The food was great, although perhaps we didn’t need the barbecue—we could have let the meat cook in the sun. The piñata ended the party with a flourish and everyone went home happy and on a sugar high.

My husband and I woke up the next morning as though we had both been beaten with sticks. Our daughter bounced into our room, completely recovered.

“Are we having another party today?” she asked brightly.

“Not today, but soon.”

“How soon?”

“As soon as you’re eighteen.”

I was a very introverted child. I only had two friends. And they were imaginary. And they would only play with each other.

The Knee-Jerk No

W
HEN
I
WAS FIRST STUDYING COMEDY, ONE OF
the most important things I learned was in an improv class. Ironically, it helped me even more in my life than in my act. The thing that I learned was simple and obvious, but I’m going to tell it to you anyway because I see so many people not doing it.

Here it is…drumroll, please…Saying yes gets you further than saying no.

Sure, saying yes can get you into trouble. I’m not advocating saying yes to drugs, to promiscuous sex, or to infomercials. I’m advocating saying yes to change and possibilities.

The knee-jerk no is definitely something to avoid. Whenever I’m inclined to say no, I ask myself, “Do I have a reason that I’m saying no to this or is it just out of habit?”

I have a very good friend whose life has not progressed in the way she would have liked. Whenever I’ve tried to help her redirect her life toward a different path, she says no and continues along the same well-beaten route. I have heard
insanity
defined as “repeating the same behavior and expecting a different result.” I know that having the courage to change something is more productive than staying the course. I firmly believe that if you want your situation to change, you have to change your situation. When I review my life thus far, I can see that’s one of the things I did right. Changing careers, houses, cities—all of these have gotten me to a place that I love but which I know will eventually change once again.

Switching from dancing to comedy was a rational decision. I noticed that George Burns was still working, while Gene Kelly hadn’t had a gig in quite some time. As a dancer, you have a few choices you can make as you age. You can go back to school, you can teach dancing, you can marry someone who has a job where they don’t have to jump around, or you can insist on loitering in a profession that is meant for young people, make no money, and eat cat food.

I was a confirmed New Yorker. I never thought I would leave. When I got a call from a comedy producer to play the Edinburgh Festival in Scotland, I was very tempted to say no. I was steeped in a routine that could not be altered. How could I possibly not swim a hundred laps four mornings a week and not attend ballet class every morning at 10:00
A.M
.? How would I survive?

Luckily, two of my comedy friends were also asked to be in the show, and they talked me into it. I reasoned it would only be for three weeks, we would have fun, and I wouldn’t turn to complete flab in twenty-one days. Just in case, I had the producer of the show (who later became my husband) scout out an Olympic-sized pool and a local ballet class before I would give them a definite yes.

Edinburgh is one of the most beautiful cities on earth, part medieval and part Georgian, with a castle perched above the town and flower boxes seemingly decorating every window. I swam twice and took a few ballet classes before I abandoned rigid discipline and opted for sightseeing and socializing. After the three weeks were up, I returned to New York culturally richer and none the flabbier.

Most important, I met the man who would later become my husband. For all you women out there who are looking for someone to share your life with, the first thing I would suggest is to throw away the list of things you require from a potential mate. I once dated a man who was walking perfection. He had everything on the list—he was handsome, smart, athletic, personable, heterosexual, and single. One problem: he was the most selfish individual I’ve ever known. If he wanted to do something, he would do it. If he wanted to go somewhere, he was gone. Most of all, if he wanted to sleep with another woman, you would just have to deal with it. I don’t know if he ever married, but I always said, “He is going to make some lucky girl very unhappy.”

When the producer of the Edinburgh show called and asked me to perform in Australia, I said yes. Australia was a bit scarier; it was so far away I had to buy an extension for my map. However, I’d had such a good time in Scotland, I figured what was the worst that could happen? Even if the show bombed, I’d still accrue a huge amount of frequent-flyer miles. The show did in fact bomb, but I didn’t care. I got engaged and stayed in Australia a month longer than I originally planned. I’d never thought I would marry someone who lived on another continent, who was in show business, and who was younger than I was. But we’re celebrating our nineteenth anniversary all because I said yes instead of the dreaded knee-jerk no.