Dèji's RULE

I was jolted from deep slumber this morning by what sounded like an earthquake's aftershock. As it turned out it was just my cellular phone vibrating inside of my overstuffed purse.

I don't get out of bed until 10:00 AM or so my friends believe. I looked at the clock on my nightstand and it was barely 6:00 AM. It's Saturday December 29. I'm on Holiday and just about everyone I know is too. But, most importantly, what about Dèji's RULE!

All who know me must abide by THE Dèji RULE. It is as follows:

I do not talk on the phone, gab, shoot the breeze, talk smack, gossip, preach, inspire, catch-up, text, tweet, retweet, pin or un-pin my interests, like-unlike, post my status, email, skype or even meet for coffee before 10:AM Pacific Standard Time. I will handle business and work related matters via phone or web before 10 AM, but only if it's an absolute must. Simple, easy peasy RULE right?

Apparently NOT simple enough for those who share my genetic pool. My genetic pool is scattered about the globe. Some members are on the Eastern border of the United States, others are in Europe, Canada, Hawaii and The Caribbean. The conversion of time zone completely eludes them and the fact that I do not sound 'awake' at 5:30 (PST) in the morning disturbs them even more. They must have seen the advertisement claiming that "great cheese come from California" because "happy cows come from California". While the Ad may be true, I do not own, operate nor labor at a dairy farm, so rising before or with the sun is not my modus operandi.

(509) area code, the caller resides in one of the islands in the Atlantic ocean. My corpus callosum swiftly connects info from the right to the left hemisphere of my brain. It scans through a list of anyone who is at risk of being ill, aging or deteriorating. The anticipation of potentially devastating news forces me to inhale deeply.

What conversation, revelation, accusation, persuasion, bargain, rehashing of the past, joke or debate that will follow my sleepy "Hello" will impact the rest of my day. And if history informs me, no good ever comes out of a pre-dawn phone call. Will I have to spend the remaining twelve or more hours of my awake day trying to recover from picking up a vibrating phone? After all, I have THE RULE.
THE RULE helps me set the right tone for my day, and the right tone seldom involves a pre-dawn jolt.

As I relive this moment, I wish I had opted not to pick up the phone. I wish I had obeyed my own RULE. Rules are what keep my boundaries safe. RULES when broken have consequences. Some of the time they are positive but more often then not the result is negative, disturbing even.

A Holiday PAUSE for a CAUSE

The gluttonous season has been off to a healthy start! 

As I revisit my values, I can't help but feel a sense of pride. I must admit,  I've contributed healthily to an economy that needs its citizens to be in debt in order to thrive! We are, after all, on an upswing thanks to more consumer spending (read credit card use). 

I do, indeed, live in THE greatest nation on the planet!

I just got back from Aruba less than one week ago. I would have kissed the soil as I landed but because this is THE greatest nation on the planet, we do not walk on tarmacs. We get "taxied into" lovely ports that lead into warm carpeted structures where escalators await us. 

Do I support deforestation but bring joy to my olfactory senses with the smell of fresh pine for the next thirty days by purchasing a LIVE tree or simply wait until I have reproduced a litter of my progenies before such indulgence?

The disposing of said unearthed tree will surely pose a problem. So, I am foregoing that expense. 

Creativity dictates that I should actually "make something". I collect empty boxes of various sizes, purchase over forty feet of appropriately themed wrapping paper and twelve feet of fabric ribbon. Four hours later, I am left with what pro-recyclers could easily hail as the new "it"tree for the Holidays. Had I an 'entrepreu-negro' spirit, that is. No matter, the beauty of my arts and craft project brings a smile to my mug. 

I open my email and find a missive from an eleven year old boy scout who would like to collect one hundred blankets by december 24th to distribute to the homeless. I PAUSE! I am inspired! 

I want to give him all one hundred blankets, but I have not purchased one hundred items for myself therefore one hundred items for another is simply not fair to me. But, I will help!

I moved to my new home six months ago and I have had more repair men come through than guests. I have not had a house warming party, nor a cocktail hour. (with others in attendance that is)

LIGHTBULB!

I quickly shoot an Evite to thirty of my closest  friends, entertainers, lovers and spiritual warriors. I ask for them to bring their significant other, one unattached friend for the single people AND a brand new blanket for the homeless! I have a vineyard that will be providing the Tempranillo. I am the queen of bite sized foods and Brentwood Audio and video just finalized a 5 point surround sound system in my casa. A party with a cause is all that is missing!

The theme for my home getting its cherry popped and a box full of new blankets for a homeless shelter is: "A Holiday PAUSE for a CAUSE". 

My could be metro sexual friend Lenny, chimes in: "You are expecting too much from people, watch no one will come". 

Wait?  All one has to do is show up with a partner, or an "unattached/ single friend, AND bring a new blanket to donate to a homeless shelter. That is asking for too much? This time of year? 

The thought of that possibility is indeed pause or cause for reflection. 

I smile.

My "friends, entertainers, lovers, warriors of spirit"  make any effort on my end to be my brother's keeper seem banal. They will show up and deliver beyond my meager expectations. Whilst sweet Lenny will be out of town getting his eyebrows threaded, his nostrils plucked and his back waxed. 

Am I my brother's keeper? This time of year, "I sure am"! 

Sexy Rants & Raves aka Nadègeisms: REMATCH! Words With Friends "OYEZ!"

Sexy Rants & Raves aka Nadègeisms: REMATCH! Words With Friends "OYEZ!": 3:57 AM- I jolt up from deep slumber. "OYEZ"! Eureka! OYEZ is THE word from " Words with Friends " that can garner me a cool 57 points in ...

REMATCH! Words With Friends "OYEZ!"

3:57 AM- I jolt up from deep slumber.
"OYEZ"!
Eureka! OYEZ is THE word from "Words with Friends" that can garner me a cool 57 points in one felt swoop! I just might beat FabulousFun75's arse. Yippie! (Yippie =14 points)

I roll over onto my left to reach for my Ipad but there's an obstruction. A human obstacle on my body's languid and slithery journey to the nightstand. It's my, new-to-me, boyfriend! Yum! (Yum = 9 points)

A stimulating polyglot (Italian, French, German and English)  stuck in a  6'2" lean, long and solid frame of fun. (Polyglot = 17 points) Not too upsetting as far as obstacles go.
I should oscillate a little longer. (Oscillate = 14 points) Allow the years of belly dancing to dictate the possibilities... STOP! It is more important for me to win than to give in to carnal desire at 3:57 AM no less.

I need to kick FabulousFun's buttocks! It's a MUST!

I, shamefully but not regrettably JUST discovered, found and developed a new-to-me addiction: "Words with Friends"!

 "OYEZ" a four letter word which sounds like slang but in fact is simply an exclamation. A call to order in a courtroom of yesteryears.  My Y-E-Z tacked on to FabulousFun's fat O from the word
 h-O-l-y, would put me in the lead.

I got my derrière handed to me by "lovepurp" two days ago because "lovepurp" used up all his or her letters before me. That's it? Since when do you win just for finishing first? (uh-uh, I could easily alienate men with this last comment if taken out of context "finishing first" mmh)

 Jspells mopped the floor with me,  the Dejster,  by 100 hundred points EVEN four days ago.
I, the Dejster, had 302 points while Jspells had 402. Ah, the agony of defeat! Me -so- vexed. (Vexed=17 points)

My Ipad is a birthday present from my adopted momma in LALA land.
Mama Del presented me with this generous gift less than one month ago and I already need an intervention to pry it out of my fingertips.

I do not plan on inviting or challenging my FB acquaintances to bouts of Words with Friends because I fear knowing the face to the monicker. Discovering who the savvy yet kooky monickers belong to might prove to be way too traumatic.  Having a face to a name would be like running into ME as the ex-girlfriend of a new beau. I would not want to meet Nadège August as the ex to my current new man! YIKES! (That last remark is totally open to interpretation, so enjoy ;-))

But I digressed...again... (digress = 10 points)

Lovepurp,  if I may, what are you purporting Lovepurp?
Oh-oh,  must back off. I am clearly piqued by lovepurp's monicker! (Piqued =22 points)

Facebook...Friend or Foe?

My ex's current paramour is my colleague's most watched in living color video app. I know this, not because I am a particularly gifted detective, nor because I was interested in knowing something as futile as that,  but because of the phenomenon that is FACEBOOK.

With it's new timeline, one does not even have to dig deep to know who's doing what with whom and to whom. Any app you look into once is shared. Looked at twice or more- the app, video etc..-is displayed and dare I say, even advertised as one's favorite on your main page.

That gigantic social media tool has permanently ruined the meaning of the word "Friend" and made a verb out of it. "Will you friend me on facebook?" As if the English language needs anymore help in quickly becoming a linguistic paradox.

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me."~ American idiom 

WRONG! WRONG! WRONG!

• Facebook,  has facilitated public humiliation, derision and bullying. Kenneth Weishun, Jr., a 14 year old from Iowa committed suicide on April 17, 2012 after a Facebook hate group created a page targeting him because he'd come out earlier this year. An extreme example of a nefarious use of Facebook, that still haunts me. We've all seen the headlines.

• I remember after Haiti's earthquake in January 2010, a hate group created a page titled "F*ck Haiti, let those n*gg^rs die".  It had over 3,000 fans. Sure it was taken down after reports of abuse by many, but the words once seen are not easily forgotten. 

• Facebook helped a woman in Pierce County, Washington discover that her husband was married to someone else when it's algorithms suggested that wife #1 should friend wife #2. The husband being the common Foe, the tie that bound, or in Facebook's distorted world, common "Friend". 

"The keyboard is mightier than the sword" ~ Metonym inspired by ink ;-)

•  Lost relatives find each other on Facebook. Reunions are planned daily on facebook. The documentary "Google Me" www.snagfilms.com  is about a man named Jim Kileen who went around the world meeting people with his name. What he uncovers about the vibration of a name is simply delicious. He found most of them on Facebook. 

• The dissemination of any and all ideas spread at a rapid pace on Facebook. Positive ones catch momentum just as quickly. Most recently we had the Invisible children film project Kony 2012. If we can stop Kony, that would set a tremendous precedence for social justice and Facebook will have been used at one of its highest vibration. How many had any awareness of Kony before then?

"Facebook doesn't harm, people harm" ~Nadègeism (I hope)

I compare Facebook to a gun. 

A gun is a tool with the ability to intimidate, destroy lives and harm creatures physically. Facebook is a tool that has the ability to destroy moments in time, harm friendships, relationships, question allegiances, feed obsessions. Just as the slogan, "Guns don't kill, People Kill" summarizes, I can say  "Facebook doesn't harm, people harm".

A gun has a safety feature known as a lock, meant to prevent accidents. 

Facebook has a button that allow you to block, but after an injury occurs, or a presumed "friendship goes sour", or as I see it a "friendship gets put into it's proper perspective". 

Both can be Unlocked and Unblocked. 

Whether you unlock your glock or unblock a "friend", whatever got out of the pandora box during either process can never be put away, forgotten or undone. 

Boulevard of Broken Promises

Hollywood Boulevard is darkly referred to as the "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" or the "Boulevard of Broken Promises". The city of Los Angeles, which houses this Boulevard, as "The City of Lost Angels" or the "City of Lost Souls".

When I am asked by an aspiring "dreamer of dreams", who is toying with the possibility of making the trek to Tinseltown,  about what LIFE is really like, all of the aforementioned clichés used to describe this town, which I call my home, come to mind. These clichés have as much legs as a well-decanted bottle of wine does.

If you move here from another state or country and have no established support system or relatives, you are in for a psychological thrill ride that might send you back packing or at least develop an expensive and possibly illegal coping mechanism that force you into some kind of twelve step program. The upside of the twelve-step program is that you will at least be around people and you might swap battle wound stories with someone famous.
 Sidebar- I do know someone who ended up on a short lived television series because she and the casting director were in the same "group". They never offer that up in the books about show business as a possible entrée into the biz, do they? (Note to self- attend a meeting this week Nadège)

What is inspiring me to write about this issue of aloneness in Tinseltown is a combination of having spent the last three days in bed with what I know was a close brush with death and my still gullible belief that people will do what they promise and say with their own mouths. I assume that everyone lives by the tenet "Be impeccable with your word".

I took an eye opening stroll on the Boulevard of Broken Promises this week.


Day 1
My land line rings and it's  Rachel returning my week old phone call. I told her that I stopped my day abruptly at noon and just had to come home and take to my couch. She mentioned that her best friend was hanging out at her place and if I wanted she would come scoop me up and I could partake in their girlie time.

"I see",  perhaps she did not hear me, "I am not feeling well, everything is spinning...but thanks for returning my call."
"ok, well...Sorry... feel better".... "Call me if you need anything."
"Thank you, I... will?"

A few hours later, I  cancel a date that was supposed to happen the next night via text and since it was a blind date, it was impersonal enough that a follow up on my well-being from the "dude" would seem presumptuous. Besides, he probably thinks I am faking an illness. He could even be pissed that I took away his excuse. We'll try for next week.

Early evening, I get an invitation via text from a friend I haven't seen in over a year. He was going to fire up the barbecue grill and if I brought the wine, we'd have a perfect evening under the stars catching up. I text back that I would love to but was deathly ill and couldn't make it. Raincheck? I ask. No reply.

I get into my pajama's, bring a jug of water into my room, pop a combination of whatever medicine I have that seem appropriate for my symptoms, pretend that I am being held by loving safe strong arms and fall asleep. It's 7:30 pm.

Day 2-
Not much improvement, the room is still spinning. I should go to the doctor, but do not trust myself to operate machinery. I remembered how Lisa and I had a conversation at the Village Idiot one month ago. We were psychoanalyzing my existence and my penchant for the after-life. She made me pinkie swear that if I ever felt a calling for the after-life that I would call her first.

"Call?" I inquire, "we planned our meeting at the Village Idiot via text? Why would I call  when the after-life seems super tantalizing?"
Laughter!
" Nadège, you are too funny! Ok, fine, just text".
We agree on a code word. If Lisa ever gets a text from me with the word TANQUEREY, she will know that I am in serious crisis and she would take action. We were on our third blueberry mojito when we came up with this genius plan. We pinkie-promise again.

I text Lisa. TANQUEREY!!!
Lisa texts back, "Forgive my ignorance, but what is a TANQUEREY?"
Against my better judgement, I remind her of our pinkie promise at the Village Idiot.
"oh, right" she texts back, "do u wanna talk?"
"Well, I don't wanna b a burden" I reply.
"Actually, now is not a good time, but how about tomorrow, say between 3-4 pm? I'll call u then."

If only my crisis could wait until tomorrow between 3 and 4 pm. If only life worked on our own schedules.

Day 3
I think about who do I know that will show up for me at this time? Anyone can and always says they will but never quite state the convenience factor. Calling an ambulance comes to mind, but despite the accelerated heart rate I am experiencing, the city of LA might impose a fine on me for disturbing them. I am not bleeding nor is any part of my skeletal structure exposed. I probably took the wrong medication or the wrong dose.

My former service provider comes to mind. There was a time, not long ago when he would have dropped everything and acted in a capacity which had nothing to do with performing the horizontal samba. We were in-lust then. Lately however, his coping mechanism-the one I am aware of- has taken over. He has issues not with something chic like diet pills, but with honesty. The beginning of the end of our torrid affair started when he reported for duty with red lip prints all over his face and neck, and actually denied that they were there as he was wiping the evidence off. Then proceeded to act more indignant than I. I reminded him that we have a loving monogamous arrangement NOT a commitment built on exclusivity. ( I am a law school drop-out, and Bill Clinton is my secret hero.)

I often told him one of my preferred philosophies about honesty: "Hurt me because you are telling me the truth. Pain, I can take but lies..."
Because I honor my arrangements, I kept him on for tune-ups. I can only surmise based on his last two ho-hum deliveries and chronic absenteeism of late that he might have a return to the red lipstick wearing customer. The last time I saw him was a few days before I got sick. We were celebrating his birthday. As we were parting ways, he said the famous last words:"I love you and I'll call you tomorrow about the details for my show. Would love for you to come."
Haven't heard from him since. (He is an artist, the show went on and I did know better than to get entangled with a blactor) 
A call from me, to him, might be an inconvenience at this time.

Day 4-
It's 7:11 am and my phone rings. The raspy voice on the other end calls me "Franck!". I say: "wrong number", he politely points out that I "sound like shit" then hangs up. I end up laughing myself back into health thanks to this stranger! Another viable cliché, "laughter is the best medicine".

I do have plenty of uplifting stories of extraordinary human beings who've shown up when I've needed them most. But the point is, there are times such as this has been for me, where you have to pause and question whether living in a town built on self-absorption and self-masturbation is a place you can call home. Where honesty, even when requested, is not accorded. Where promising to do the right thing does not necessarily mean the right thing will get done. Is your dream worth it? I can't answer the latter for you, I can only share my own extreme experiences on this aspect of daily living here.


Life on and off The Boulevard of Broken Promises can be MAGICAL. How resourceful, self-sufficient and comfortable you are with your aloneness, are part of the fairy dust ingredients needed to help make your MAGIC happen...I think.

The Ring Collector or Disaster Escapist

My could be metrosexual friend, Lenny, was helping jog someone's memory of me last night.
He said: "You know, Nadège? The one who keeps getting engaged but never goes through with it? The ring collector !"

This new descriptive comes on the heel of my fourth broken engagement because I am still in possession of most of the rings. Not by choice, technically, but because the jilted parties have refused to take back their gift.

While my ego enjoys any title that sounds remotely empowering, I can't help but analyze the events that led up to this possibly accurate factoid. Here's how it all happened.

Collection 1:
This first one should not count because it was just as mediocre, unsatisfying and as fleeting as most first sexual encounters. We called it a "pre-engagement" ring. It was a very simple gold band with a speck of an emerald in the center surrounded by a cluster of diamond flecks. I basically would need to explain the purpose of that ring for anyone to be in- the -know.

Sergio's main objective in presenting me with this ring was to get through my chastity belt. I lived with the strictest Haitian grandparents in Buschwick, NY. Said chastity belt NEVER came off during Sergio's eight months tenure.  I outgrew him pretty rapidly too because I was planning on becoming a run away.  I got as far as Saratoga Springs, NY. Eighty dollars can only get you so far!

 By the time I made my way back to Brooklyn, Sergio had moved to Florida. Word was, I ruined New York for him so moving to a State where people tend to move to, to prepare for imminent death was the better option. I tried to locate him very unsuccessfully. I still have the ring but my intentions were to return it.

Collection 2:

I am now in Graduate school. My Johnny (yes, that was his name) is a lawyer, an attorney, a corporate sell-out. He challenges my intellect in ways that removed my very heavy chastity belt within weeks of courtship. How I got through four (4) years of dorm living in Undergraduate school with my belt intact is beyond my own comprehension.
It helped that Johnny was fifteen (15) years my senior. He owned a sailboat and he traveled extensively for work. I always had a companion ticket awaiting me at the United Airlines Counter.  During my two years of Grad school,  I would meet Johnny in Bermuda, The Bahamas, Martinique, Guadeloupe, Puerto Rico, St, Marteen...Just to name the few I remember. We had a great life until my Graduation Day. He presented me with the most expensive piece for my budding collection and insisted that we marry by summers' end and that I get "knocked up" -his words- "during the honeymoon". He'd like to "be a father by yesterday"!
Needless to say, I did what every sensible 23 year old actor would do. I packed up my Saturn and drove cross country to LA LA Land.
Peace out, catch you on the flip side Johnny!

Collection 3:

I am now living and loving month four in LA LA Land. The vegetation, the weather, the work...it's all here. Some guy named Guy (yes, truly his name) an East Coast transplant, stops me at a WiFi Coffee Shop named @ on Melrose Avenue.

"Hey, you gotta boyfriend?"
"Who wants to know?" I ask in Brooklynese.
"Not, me! I'm married, " Guy says- "but I gotta friend.."
So, in true New Yorker fashion, I decide to call his bluff.
"Do you? Yeah? Call him. Right now! In front of me, Guy- Call your guy, GUY!"

Fast Forward, six months into dating Ken, he gets on his knees, proposes on a crisp February Sunday morning poolside in Sherman Oaks. He did not have a ring pre-purchased, but the thought of me as his wife crossed his mind and on an impulse he proposed! Cool!
I respond in-like and we jump in the pool shouting victorious affirmatives!
I am now 24 years old! I look down at my ring-free hand and interrogate:
"Well, don't you gotta ring for me or something?"
"Not yet."
"How am I suppose to go around telling people I am TAKEN, SPOKEN FOR if there is nothing on it?" I wave my ring finger at him. We both agree, I look as if I'm giving him the business. I was!

We hop in his White Jeep Wrangler and off we go, hunting for a jewelry store. It was Sunday and none was open in Sherman Oaks! That was an omen. Nine months later, we part ways.
This time I knew where this one lived and mailed him back his impulse purchase. Cool!

Collection 4
I went from MEN to a boy in long pants. From class to crass. Collection 4, sent me a scathing email one fine July evening requesting every gift he'd ever given to me back, including gifts his mother gave to me, or $200US- Minus the ring!  From "decisive -take - charge men" to one who needs his friends to tell him what to do. He listened to them and now lives with them or next door to them.  Yet, he too refuses to take THE RING back.

Am I "The Ring Collector"? Or just a "Disaster Escapist"?

Nadège August is 'dròl'. Strange. Weird. Bizarre.

Dròl' is a Haitian Creole word inherited, adopted and bastardized from the French word, drôle. It means strange, weird, bizarre. 

Rumor has it that I  am labeled as 'dròl'  by my incredibly supportive Haitian 'compadres here in Los Angeles. This yet, unearned reputation disturbs me enough, that I vacillate between rueing the day I let the word out on this half of my ethnic makeup and embracing its etymological beginnings as a prophetic omen of what is to come. 

Uh-uh, the budding linguist in me is about to give a shellacking to them fools! 

It all started five years ago when my thrice removed farina- for- brains party-girl, hob-nobber extraordinaire- friend, who lives in Telehasse, Florida, saw it fit to offer up my phone number to a self-professed aggressive party-girl, who, at the tender age of 36 decided that it was time for her to drop everything, husband and children not excluded, to move to Los Angeles and become a, you guessed it, THESPIAN!  

I had no courteous warning of such a call and picked up the phone on a fine  Tuesday morning to hear a rather sugary sweet, faux-innocent, overly complimentary woman on the other end. She wanted to meet for lunch and pick my proverbial brain on how to get started in the entertainment business.  

She had me sold on her, until the over inflated flattery began. The petulant cynic in me urged me not to trust, while my ego gushed at the praises. I, foolishly, put the cynic to bed and allowed my ego to acquiesce. We met that day because I felt benevolent. Here was my opportunity to help guide what I thought was a fry or a smolt out of water. 

Imagine my shock when, in walks this woman, armed with a Birkin bag, hazel eye colored contacts and enough crows feet to make me feel that my mother had in fact flown in to Los Angeles just to play a cruel joke on me. 

I suddenly felt as if I should be the one asking tips on,  how to break into a Birkin store. I know of 1-800 CONTACT. Hazel eyes? Check! She identified herself and told me that she was Iranian-Haitian. I weakly suggested that if she was going to market herself as such, she ought to put the Haitian before the Iranian... for alliteration purposes. 

I began my spiel with the disclaimer that I can only share my path. It's a fairly simple and average one. 

I got into huge student loan debt by attending the Actors Studio Masters of Fine Arts program at The New School right out of Undergraduate school. Like any decent die hard New Yorker, I snubbed Los Angeles for the first two years post graduation because I wanted to do Broadway. My timing was such that Broadway at the time had become a kind of Mecca for Musical Theatre. My New York agents pointed out that I was a poor excuse of a singer and, while I move "extremely well",  I was definitely not a "trained" dancer and would starve. 

I booked a New York soap two months after that take-no-prisoners sit-down. That soap, "Another World" got canceled as soon as the limo dropped me off after my screen test. It was time to become a sell out, get the hell out of dodge as it were. I loved New York, but New York was not reciprocating the feeling. I made sure that I secured representation in Los Angeles, packed anything that could fit into my crappy three door champagne colored Saturn, donated everything else and drove cross country. 

Once I got to tinsel town, my LA reps sent me out and I booked. Period. I took a traditional safe route. One that a 22 year old, unsupported by family who did not understand what her passion or career choice was, would bravely take, I hope.

 "You?" I inquire.  For a second, her eyes got misty, a sure sign that there was an iota of a possible empathetic loving soul inhabiting that 'I have no -time- left to waste and I will stomp on your head if I have too, just to get there armor'. Then, just as quickly, she dismissed my pathetic plan. 

She had no formal training but had done one Jamaican film, set in Haiti, that made her realize her calling. Wonderful! Actually doing a film, is a darn good way to find out your potentiality. Kudos on this front! 

Her plan was to attend every major party, hit the award shows, hustle, hobnob, party with the big wigs. 

Wow! I hadn't thought of that as my entrée into this world of magic. I have been obsessed with the "gift", the "work".  I stupidly imagined that the focus on the ongoing development of the "gift" would somehow prevail. 

Darn it! Why didn't "they" just hand me the same book she read from? I feel cheated, I want my student loans forgiven! 'Maintenant! Ahora! Now! Presto!!!

We part ways. I still feel benevolent. At the end of the day, my advice is useless since her plan is probably the one that gets results in this town. Merit? What's that? Do I think Hollywood is a meritocracy? Where did I pick up this load of $575 per month for the next...?  Shit, I haven't checked in with Sallie Mae lately.  

I refrain from the party scene unless something I was in requests my appearance. Without an invite, it means, flirting with a thick- necked - willing to be an actor- bouncer or standing in a line trying to "sneak-in" in the freezing cold, scantily clad. I did that in College with a fake ID. Done! I am LEGAL now! 

 I would hate to show up at a friend's premiere and use that as an opportunity to "hustle". I should, but my strong sense of propriety won't let me. Besides, what do I say? "Hi, I am one of the other three hundred actors in this room, hire me, whose work you do not know!"

 Fact is, we are here to celebrate a project come to life. Someone's life's work and dream is on that screen. Let us celebrate "them". It's their night. Man, am I a quasi-fool? 

So, am I talking about a faux Kim Kardashian?

 No!!! I am talking about someone a decade older than I, spreading the good word on my character. Planting a bitter seed in the consciousness of those meeting me, Nadège August,  for the first time. Sadly, most people are sheep. They follow the lead of anyone who appears to have an original thought.

Nadège August is 'dròl'. Strange. Weird. Bizarre...

Another dreamer, member of her posse, YoungBlood, who had every opportunity to get training, has adopted her rogue trajectory. No training needed, but my partying with the movers and shakers will surely get me there! Besides, an editor worth his grain in salt can make anyones' performance look amazing. A broken clock is right at least twice in that world! 

I ran into YoungBlood at a casting office one year ago. He was not sent to this casting session but was crashing it à la red carpet style, I am guessing based on her brand of training et al. 

He was turned away because, well... you know what it's like to just show up for a job interview you weren't formally invited too. After a few short minutes of minor chitchat with him before his expulsion, I excused myself to go back to the "work".  I am there to "work". 

YoungBlood has since gone around announcing that, Nadège August is 'dròl'. Strange. Weird. Bizarre.

Apparently, not spending the entire time in chatter bug mode with him garnered me that label in his myopic world. YoungBlood's pronouncement of my 'dròl' character is only shared within this small incestuous Haitian community that I do my best to laugh at. If this reputation has spread beyond the community, all I can victoriously proclaim is: "Just because I don't behave the way you want me too, does NOT make me WEIRD!"   

To this darling woman who is probably crashing an award season party as you read this,  I offer the following etymological lesson. In the 17th Century, when one was described as a droll, it meant that they were an ENTERTAINER, a JESTER, an UNUSUAL person who offered dry amusement! A droll person actually has something to offer! Not just TAKE, USE but OFFER!

In keeping with my 2012 theme, if my farina- for- brains -thrice- removed sweet cousin reads this and forwards this to her aggressive decade older friend, I say: "BRING IT BITCHES!" 

Bring IT Britches!

I mean Bitches! As in "Yeah Bitches!", you know that saying. 

Just a word, a term "Bitches".  I used to hate it back when the 

English language was literal in my foreigner's brain. It seems though, under the influence of the poor man's wanna be Moet and a few ginger whiskey sours on an empty stomach that word just rolled off my tongue as if I was told that that offensive to some and incredibly playful and nuanced word would be eradicated from the English language permanently. 

I had to ring in the mystical catastrophic Mayan 2012 year shouting it in the comfort of my own home. With or without company, every statement is met with a "Yeah Bitches!" for certain. 

I plan on having a "Bitchin' time" this year. 

I resolve to, plot to, hope to and plan to "Bring IT BITCHES!"

My plan it seems has already brought me a Bitchin' dilemma. 

In december of 2010, I broke off a promise of holy matrimony. He would not take the ring back. That symbol of hope, of procreation, of togetherness, of... possibilities.  A promise to love, to cherish, to cooperate and compromise. A desire to build, to merge, to give parents the peace of mind that a piece of them will go on beyond you. 

I needed two complicated intangibles: a terrific provider and a protector. I have daddy issues coupled with a fear of intimacy. A wicked order. I am too, fiercely able, capable and independent. A wild horse who needs to be tamed but can not be. Willing to pretend that she is malleable, wants to be, but unable to maintain the farce for too long.  Yeah Bitches! It's complicated.

I stare at the red Cartier imitation box. Open it to see that adorable raised diamond solitaire in a princess setting. I still can't figure out what to do with this symbol of something that could have been. Get it cleaned? Appraised? traded? Unable to decide, I tuck it back away in the darkness of a wooden box. But, only after I slip it back on to see if it still fits. It does.

I find a framed photo. A freeze frame moment captured while in Cannes with him. We made love all afternoon and begrudgingly got dressed to attend an event at the Palaix Royale. Right before leaving, we decided to just lay, ear to ear at opposite ends of the bed. The angle was oddly unique. He took a snapshot. That photo became the "us". The one that our supportive Haitian and Italian families would proudly display in their homes. The "us" that would become the wedding invite.  The frame is now cracked and split. A mild earthquake aided the prediction of our demise. I'd like to trash it, but I can't. I worry that my memory will fail me. That I may not count on it should I need the memory of happier times. Evidence that I was once close, malleable, able and willing to surrender a part of my identity. Evidence that I could compromise, be an unadulterated adult. I tuck it away too. Maybe it will disintegrate, pulverize, disappear.

I need some fresh air. I walk to The Grove and there, Heaven sends me a message about my dilemma.  I need help deciphering it though. I am clear, it's been twelve months since the split and though he spent a great part of it harassing me in odd harmless ways, we knew of each other's lives. Tried to maintain the friendship part. We are after all orphans in this city and for three years, we had each other. I had my best friend, my plus one. I had my family, my emergency contact person. He, him, my fiance, my future partner for life, father of my unborn children. Home. In his arms, I had a home. He accepted me unconditionally and probably loved me too. 

There he is, holding hands with his new "someone". Yeah Bitches! Knowing that an ex has moved on is a palatable concept until you see it with your own eyes, SEE it. I smile at him, at them. Greet him as he tries to block the woman from my view. A dumb ass move by him. I did SEE it. What is he trying to spare me from?  I gently push him out of the way and warmly introduce myself to the woman. She is a bit startled but offers her name. It's inaudible, so he repeats it for me. It sounds like the name of the ex before me. She even looks like the ex before me. He went back to his "type". 

I remarked to him once that I was NOT his "type". I liked it very much that I was not his "type". It meant that he SAW me, Nadège, loved my soul, SAW Dadou as he called me to mimic the way my Haitian grandma lovingly sings my monicker. Yes, he is, was HOME. 

I watch him, them, walk away. He seems unsure about what to do with the hand she offers him. He hesitates. A few more steps, he takes the offer of her hand, but the distance between the two bodies is greater, the grip less organic and awkward. He must know, must feel my stare burn a hole through his yellow polo shirt. Time stood still, but only for me. My smile faded into a Mona Lisa grin.

In some way, I am relieved because I SAW. His Christmas day, 'Auguri' email to me, the tender hug that lingered a little too long when we last saw each other Thanksgiving week, he had someone all along.

I leave The Grove. I am suddenly in need of an analgesic, anything to numb, squelch this discomfort. I can't name what I am feeling, but I am feeling. I am certain, I do not want him back, but SEEING... "Do NOT bring this one Bitches!" 

Along with being fiercely able, capable and independent, I am at times dense. The question still remains, what do I do with these symbols of what was and the promise of what could have been?