My Fifteen Minutes of Writing About Fame

During my fleeting gig as an editor for a Hollywood industry publication, I realized how much my self-image and creative satisfaction derived from wordsmithing.

“Last month Hollywood mourned the death of screen legend Gene Kelly, who died February 2 in his sleep at the age of 83. . . ”

I was engrossed in writing an obituary of the legendary Kelly for a Hollywood industry publication when my office phone rang.

“Judy? The kids have been waiting for you to pick them up,” the school secretary said. “They said it was your day for carpool. Did you forget?”

What kind of mother forgets to pick up her own children? Apparently, I was that kind of mother.

A frisson of shock went through me. Sitting in my sixth-floor office in midtown Los Angeles, I realized that I had completely, totally, and without precedent forgotten to pick up my children and the two others in my carpool. The school was in Venice, a two-minute drive from our home but at least a thirty-five to forty-minute drive away from the office. I apologized profusely to both the school secretary and my carpool partner, who was fortuitously available to dash out and collect our collective children. I had a wonderful housekeeper at home who was already in charge of my two-year-old and four-year-old and would capably deal with the six- and eight-year-olds as well until I got home. I looked at the clock—how had it gotten so late?

I felt slightly ashamed of myself. What kind of mother forgets to pick up her own children? Fathers sometimes did, I realized. Jeff once returned home on a Friday night after synagogue services one child short of the two he had taken with him an hour and a half earlier. As he walked up to the front porch, I looked behind him into the dark night. “Where’s Yael?” I asked. His face blanched. Then mine blanched, too. He pivoted on his heel and began running as fast as he had once done on the high school track team and was tearing down the sidewalk when our good friend Alan, a neighbor and the father of one of Yael’s little friends, returned her to us. Yes, it takes a village to raise—and not lose track of—children. “Don’t worry,” Alan said reassuringly. “I’ve done it too. But you can only do it once.” He smiled knowingly and walked home with his daughters.

Working at the magazine was a temporary gig, but I became possessive of the role mighty fast. I’d been freelancing for eight years, feeling blessed and satisfied to juggle motherhood and work. I couldn’t have done it without fulltime household help, and I couldn’t have afforded that without Jeff’s hard work and success in running a small signage business. Many of my women friends had jobs that didn’t translate well to part-time or freelance work, and I considered myself fortunate.

My friend Sonia was the editor-in-chief of the magazine, and when she found herself short-staffed, asked me if I wanted to fill in as an editor for one of the departments. I didn’t follow Hollywood news much, but this would be fun and a novelty for a short while. The prospect excited me; I wanted to prove to myself that I could still blend in seamlessly in an office environment and capably manage the editorial flow. Normally, I worked at a tiny computer desk in a corner of my living room, frequently interrupted by the urgent need to help build Duplo structures, mediate arguments, or cut up apple slices and bananas on command. At an office I would be free of these distractions, and possible embarrassments. Once, I was on the phone, trying to close a sale of my editing services to a new client. Unbeknownst to the client, I held a six-month-old baby on my left hip, who had been blissfully silent until, suddenly, the infant belched loudly into the receiver. I offered a nervous explanation of the circumstances, hoping the prospect didn’t think I was a lush. Well, I failed to close that deal.

I blew the cobwebs off my professional wardrobe and hoped that my clothing would not mark me as some dowdy momma in Tinseltown.

Preparing to return to the land of real live office workers, I blew the cobwebs off my professional wardrobe, shoved into the hinterlands of my closet. I hoped I could still zip up my skirts and breathe at the same time. After four pregnancies, there were only so many weekly sessions of aerobics and Pilates I was willing to endure for the futile goal of recapturing my long-lost waist. I worried that everyone else at the magazine would be dressed with cool, Hollywood flair, while my old work outfits, languishing for years unworn and unappreciated, had not magically kept up with fashion trends. I hoped that my clothing would not mark me as some dowdy momma in Tinseltown.

This was not my only concern. What if someone in the break room asked my opinion of some of the latest movies, such as “Leaving Las Vegas” or “The Quick and the Dead?” Most of the films I saw those days starred talking animals, so in case of such an emergency, I’d have to pour my coffee fast and race back to my office. However, if anyone wanted my opinion about “Babe,” “Toy Story” or “Lion King,” I’d be on it like whipped cream on a sundae.

That afternoon when I forgot about my kids, I was jolted into realizing how much of my sense of self, and even my sense of worth, was connected to my writing. That’s why I could so easily become engrossed in my writing, even forgetting I had children while I was lost ruminating over word choices: Should it be “dismayed” or “distraught?” How about “perturbed?” Would “discomposed” sound too Victorian? Time really flies when luxuriating over the 1,300+ pages of my Roget’s Thesaurus. When one of my sons had first heard me mention the name of this beloved writing accessory, he asked, “Is that a kind of dinosaur?”

In general, I made no apologies for my intensity at work, but as my friend Denise pointed out, “Your dinners are paying the ultimate price.” I burned endless pots of rice while riveted to my computer screen, recrafting sentences, rebuilding the architecture of paragraphs, and trying to find the right balance between professionalism (AKA meeting a deadline) and self-absorbed perfectionism. Why hadn’t anyone told me about the marvelous invention of the rice cooker years earlier, especially my next-door neighbors, who undoubtedly smelled the charred rice at least once a week?

My replacement–a churlish interloper–looked at me as if I were a lost tourist and asked, “Can I help you?”

My tenure as a department editor was short–shorter even than some Hollywood marriages. I enjoyed the interviewing, the writing, the editing of copy that came in from other contributors. I was in the groove until one morning, I showed up to work and discovered that my services were no longer required. Walking into my office, I saw unfamiliar and creepy magazines fanned out along my little coffee table next to my couch. In those days, my magazine taste ran to Parents, Woman’s Day, and the Washington Post Book Review. The magazines sullying my coffee table featured Goth-inspired models with hairstyles with pointy edges, black lipstick, and tight leather pants, accessorized by chains. Eww, I thought. Who had done this?

The magazine mystery was solved within minutes when a young woman sashayed into the office that I suspected was no longer mine. She was several years younger than me and dressed as if she had tracked down the exact outfit worn on the cover of the January issue of Creepster Magazine.

She looked at me as if I were a lost tourist and asked, “Can I help you?”

“This is my office,” I tried to say with conviction.

“Oh, didn’t Sonia tell you? I’m the new editor.” She stood facing me with a hard look. I noticed that her hair was a shade of black that does not exist in the natural world. Before she had poured her first cup of coffee on the job, she had become more territorial than I had.

I hated how much younger she was, how arrogantly she presented herself. And who chooses black nail polish? Is that supposed to be attractive?

So much for a seamless reentry into the formal work world; my skirt was unraveling and so was I.

“Well, this job must have been a real feather in your cap,” she said condescendingly. I worked my jaw hard to keep it from dropping to the floor and balled my hands into tight fists. I didn’t need my Roget’s Thesaurus to summon a whole slew of salty words I wanted to spew at this interloper. Who did she think she was? Why did she assume I was playing dress-up editor?

And then it hit me. I considered the outfit I was wearing that day and what it must have telegraphed to her. She was dressed all Melrose Ave. But my ensemble, even though it was relatively new, had not been one of my better purchases; I was dressed like I was running a subscription drive for the Saturday Evening Post, and my shoes were more sensible than sexy. But why did I score no points for my chic beret? I was well-stocked in designer chapeaux as a way to make the mitzvah of covering my hair easier. I know they did me proud. I also felt something tickling my leg and glanced down to discover that part of the hem of my skirt had come undone. So much for a seamless reentry into the formal work world; my skirt was unraveling and so was I.

“Actually, I have many years’ experience in journalism and publications management,” I parried, hoping she didn’t see the falling hem. “I’m going to find Sonia,” I said, turning away from my insufferable replacement.

But first I stopped at the secretary’s desk, where I whispered a request for Scotch tape. Seeing my mortified expression, she handed it to me with a sympathetic nod. In the ladies’ room, I taped the hem on my drab skirt, which I would hurl into the Goodwill bag as soon as I got home.

I found Sonia and told her casually that I had just met my replacement. She looked abashed and apologized. “Oh no! Judy, I can’t believe I forgot to tell you. I am so sorry, please forgive me. You know how crazy it’s been around here with awards season and all.”

Jack Lemmon’s actual Rolls-Royce.

I assured her it was all right, but I was thinking: Good luck. If you need another fill-in when this civility-challenged chick implodes, you’ve got my number. Down in the parking lot, I headed toward my money pit of an old minivan while at the same time, spying Jack Lemmon exiting his Rolls Royce, parked in a row reserved for cars that screamed, I’m obscenely rich!

My temp job ended with a crash landing, but I was still grateful to Sonia for the opportunity. I had fun dipping my toe into Tinseltown, knowing as I always did that my writing center of gravity lay outside that world. And I’d return to it now, thinking of ideas while waiting in the carpool lane.