bitter disappointment to her. Mom’s so…so sterile. So predictable. There’s no passion in her soul. I’m nothing like her, so I don’t know how Professor Gordon could categorically state that in a few years I’ll resemble her.
If anyone’s like Mom, it’s Victoria. To her, what people think and say is of ultimate importance. Social standing. Appearances. Money. None of that interests me. Well, maybe the money part, but only enough to get by. Unless I earn it doing what I love, and that’s acting. I guess I’m a woman who needs an audience. As a kid, my first word wasn’t Mom or Dad but look.
When Mom heard I’d tried out for a role in a toilet-brush commercial, she freaked. The very thought of her daughter appearing on national television and admitting she cleaned toilets would have mortified her. However, I was thrilled with the part and devastated when I learned it’d gone to someone else. But that’s all part of the business…And as Dad keeps saying, I’ve got a university degree to “fall back on.”
Liz, Clare and Julia are three surprises that came out of me finishing my credits to get my degree. I love these guys and I’m thrilled we’ve decided to keep meeting, just the four of us. Me and three smart, professional women. I don’t know what exactly I offer the group. My guess is comic relief.
The only reason I took that journal-writing class was because I needed an easy credit, and from the course description this was a simple way to raise my GPA. From the time I was a kid, I’ve kept a journal. There must be twenty spiral-bound notebooks tucked away in my bedroom closet, and they document my entire life. I signed up for the class, convinced I’d be bored out of my mind, and became friends with three of the most fascinating women I’ve ever met.
The English professor who taught the class was a real ditz. I knew more about keeping a journal than she did. But I didn’t miss a single session, and that’s only because of Liz and the others. They’ve kind of adopted me and I’m grateful. What I like is the perspective they give me, being older and all. Liz is the sort of person I wish my mother could be. Hey, if my mother wants to change me, then I should be granted the same privilege. If I’m a disappointment to her as a daughter, then she should know she’s not my picture of the ideal parent, either.
Unlike Mom, Liz has been nothing but encouraging about my acting career. I know what the chances are of actually making it, but I can’t allow unfavorable odds to dissuade me from trying. This is my dream. My life’s ambition. If I don’t go after it now, I never will. I honestly don’t understand why my mother can’t support my choices.
Enough already. This entire journal is turning out to be about my mother instead of me. I’d prefer not to deal with her today, or any day. Besides, Liz gave us an assignment.
I need a word before we meet next Thursday. We’re all selecting a personal word. It’s supposed to have special significance in our lives. Maybe I should use this as an acting exercise, do some free association.
Actually, I rather like that idea. Let’s see. Acting. Goal. Audition. Wouldn’t it be great to audition for a TV show like Friends? Friends. New friends. Liz, Clare and Julia. What I love about them is that they’re so accepting of me. I love that they laugh at my jokes and make me feel a real part of the group. If only my mother were half as accepting…
That’s it. I’ve got it! Acceptance. I want my parents to accept me for the person I am. I might not have turned out the way they envisioned, but I’m a good, decent, honest person. That should count for something. If my parents can welcome a twit like Roger into the family, they should be able to cope with a daughter who wants to act. And no, Mother, I don’t think performing in a toilet-brush commercial is beneath me. I was emotionally wiped out for a week when someone else got the role.
ACCEPTANCE. I’ve got to be me. Ol’ Blue Eyes really knew what he was talking about. Acceptance. I like it. My hope is that one day my mother will accept me for who I am and be just as proud of me as she is of Victoria.
Fresh from her first audition of the year, Karen excitedly wrote in her journal, sitting at her usual window table at Mocha Moments. The upscale coffee shop was bustling as customers moved in and out. She’d been the one to recommend the place to the breakfast group and felt good about the way they’d applauded her suggestion. Two summers ago she’d stood behind that counter, concocting lattes and serving up fiber-filled bran muffins. Despite being fired for repeated absences, she maintained a friendly relationship with the manager and often stopped by. She did almost all her journal-writing at this very table.
She was about to leave when Jeff slid into the chair across from her. “Whatssup?” he asked.
“Hey, Jeff.” It was great to see him. One advantage of teaching those fitness classes was that he looked positively buff. His shoulders were muscular and his chest had filled out. He wore a winter tan so rich, it must have come out of a booth.
“Thought I’d find you in here,” he said, flashing a smile. Oh, yeah, he was the California poster boy, all right, with his gorgeous white teeth, whiter than ever against the tan, and his sun-streaked blond hair.
“You were looking for me?” Her ego wasn’t immune to having this hunk seek her out, especially here, where everyone knew her. They’d been together some in high school, but nothing serious. Her mother’s generation called it dating, but all Karen and Jeff had really done was hang out together. They were part of the acting ensemble, and their commitment had been to that, which left little time for anything social.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said.” Jeff leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I’m impressed with your determination. You believe in yourself.”
“Jeff, you’ve got as much talent as I do. You can make it, I know you can.”
“Yeah, I know, but it takes more than talent.”
Talent was cheap, Karen knew that; she ran into it everywhere. And as Jeff said, it wasn’t enough. What made the difference was drive, determination and plain old-fashioned stubbornness.
A slim strawberry blonde with her hair tied back in a ponytail came into the coffee shop and walked up to the counter, where she placed her order. Jeff’s attention drifted from Karen to the blonde. She wore navy-blue spandex and a matching sports bra, her face glistening with sweat. It was obvious that she’d recently been at the gym.
“You know her?” Karen asked.
“She’s in one of my classes, along with her sugar daddy.”
Karen stared. It couldn’t be, could it? She’d once been at the mall with Clare, meeting for lunch, when a pert blond woman, younger than Karen, had emerged from Victoria’s Secret. Clare had pointed her out. Could this be the woman Clare’s husband had dumped her for? Miranda Something? Nah. The world got smaller all the time, but it wasn’t that small. “What’s the name?” she asked.
“Miranda.”
“No kidding! What about the sugar daddy?”
Jeff frowned as he mulled over the question. “I don’t remember.”
“It isn’t Michael, is it?”
His eyes widened. “I think it might be. Yeah, I think it is. You know him?”
“Of him,” she muttered, checking out the other woman. So this was Miranda. Clare had told her a bit of the story; Liz had told her more, and over the last few months, Karen had picked up a few of the nastier details.
