hollywood housewife

rita ortloff art

Technically, I've known Rita Ortloff for a really long time. I grew up with her husband in our super small Oklahoma town where our parents are very good friends. But I didn't really meet and get to know Rita much until our paths crossed through blogging. And then we just hit it off like gangbusters. She is delightful!

I followed her blog Motherhood Is My Cardio as she wrote so many funny family stories. I read with interest when they decided to take a non-traditional education method with their kids. And then out of the clear blue sky, this woman who had never so much as mentioned a paintbrush online was an overnight artist sensation. I saw some of her stuff on Instagram and I clicked "order" right away. Soon she had an Etsy shop. She had pieces in a gallery show in like two months. It was amazing! 

I've asked her to share a little bit about her sudden artistic trajectory. I think the whole thing is really interesting and that we should all sit up and take note that "dabbling" in something or having a fun little hobby can take you down avenues you never even knew existed. Not that it should all end in a side business - creativity for creativity's sake is the sometimes the most fulfilling of all - but that it's never too late to discover something new about yourself. And to share it.

Hollywood Housewife: Have you always been an artist, or did this come out of nowhere?

Oh it came completely out of nowhere.  Like, imagine someone tripping and falling over some paints and an easel.  It was *that* kind of out-of-nowhere.  If not for Instagram and a supremely random set of events, I would still be the regular old middle-aged suburban housewife I was a year ago! 

HH: Were you working as this all unfolded?

I was! I had a Real Job PLUS my kids (ages 10 and 6) go to a special kind of school where they’re educated two days per week in a traditional environment and then schooled at home the other days.  So I worked from home part time (Marketing Manager for a local company), and I homeschool my kiddos part time.  I had so much free time for painting! (Not.) (Am crazy.)

HH: How did you make your first sale and then how did you gain traction?

Oh Laura, I made my first sale completely by accident.  I decided to paint something for my oldest friend on the occasion of her 40^th birthday.  I wanted her to have Something Meaningful.  Bear in mind, I’d never painting anything. Ever.  I bought a 5-pack of cheap canvases and some craft paint and went to town.  My first try resulted in what can only be described as An Abomination.  But my second attempt was a little better so I posted it on Instagram. 

And here’s where it got weird: people went crazy over it.  Within minutes a friend asked if I’d do one for her.  Only she wanted it to be (literally) five times bigger.  She said “I’ll pay”, and I (in what was clearly a moment of insanity) said “Sure!”.  Then a friend asked if I’d do several pieces for an in-home party she was hosting.  And I agreed again! Because apparently I was keen on pretending to be an artist for a day! That show was on December 1^st, 2013 and I sold almost everything.  By the 26^th of December I’d opened my own etsy shop.  And now, 120ish paintings later, I’m still busy! And still wondering how in the world this all happened.

HH: What does your family think of this?

My kids are nonplussed.  They assume all moms paint things in their spare time.  My husband, on the other hand, is adorably supportive.  I often joke that he shows more people photos of my paintings than photos of our children.  He bought me my first easel and has no trouble calling me an artist.  I still struggle with feeling like a fraud.

HH: When in your day do you paint? At this point are you doing it during business hours or is it something you do at night after everyone’s in bed?

I have no schedule at all.  I find that I get inspired and paint several over the course of just a day or two (during which time the dishes pile up and the laundry goes undone), then I may take a few days off because I’m just not “feeling it” (whatever *it* is). So far my job and the kids haven’t suffered, but boy oh boy is the housework piling up.  I keep telling myself that no one ever wishes they’d folded more clothes while on their deathbed.

Isn't that inspiring?! I have absolutely no skills in the paint department, but I love so many other creative endeavors that I never do because I convince myself it's a waste of time or that I won't be good at it or that I might look foolish. Rita has made me rethink all that.

Because she's amazing, Rita is offering 25% off any completed original painting through 12/19/14 with the coupon code HOLLYWOOD25. Check out the Rita Ortloff Etsy shop to browse!*

*coupon code not valid on prints or custom commissions.

carrie ann, miracle girl

As you read this story, I want you to know it has a happy ending. These photos are all from this summer.

It defies belief that just 18 months ago our family sat in a gray hospital room, quiet except for the steady whir and beeping of machines, keeping vigil over our beautiful Carrie Ann as she lay in a coma.

It was December 2012, and I thought it was going to be my first Christmas in California. Instead, when my sister Dawn called unable to speak the news the doctor had relayed, the kids and I dropped everything and hopped a flight to Oklahoma that day. Six-year-old Carrie Ann - my sister’s youngest of four - was strapped to machines that kept her breathing. We spent a week that way, Dawn and I taking turns sleeping in chairs and ordering all of our holiday gifts from our phones.

A friend brought lunch, others came to pray, and each time I met the visitors in the lobby, I had to blink hard into the sunlight. A childhood friend was a nurse on another floor of the Oklahoma City hospital, and one of my best friends who is a surgeon made the late night drive just to speak to the local doctors and put the information to us plainly. We saw it then and know it now, that even in this very scary time we were personally well taken care of.

commerce

For many years when I came back to Oklahoma, I would torture myself by driving around to sentimental spots and letting waves of emotion wash over me.  I would let the car idle in front of places I’ve lived.  I would purposefully play songs that brought back a certain summer.  I would lose myself in my thoughts and cry big, wet, tears.  I would, over and over, wring out the soft places of my heart.

And after a few days of this exhaustive behavior, both self-inflicted and habitual, I would become smug with the life that I had built elsewhere.  I would write in my journal that I felt I was suffocating in my home state, that I just don’t belong there anymore.  I would board the plane back to California with relief.

Over time, slowly, these trips got less grievous and I looked forward to revisiting the tender memories, some scarred over.  There were certain streets I would still avoid, certain songs that never made it from the mixed tape to my iPod.  But on the whole, I matured enough to appreciate my roots on a deeper level. 

Last week, nearly eleven years after I fled, was the first time that I can ever remember where there was none of this private melodrama.  I spent short days in my hometown, surprised and thrilled by the new places to shop and eat that have sprouted up.  I drove through my college town four different times, and when it crossed my mind to drive quickly by something that was meaningful to me, I decided I would rather get back to my babies.  

I didn’t itch to pack every minute of the visit with old friends, although as it happened I did get some quality time with people I haven’t seen in way too long.  I did make a point to visit my old church, now housed in a beautiful new building, and I didn’t for one moment wish myself back in time. 

I think there’s residual post-birth fog, and I think that sad events of the past couple of years have made me more realistic, and I think that I am more content than I have ever been.  But more than any of these things, I think Time Marches On. 

I think people my age are running for office and running households.  I think people I know are platinum level donors and authors and land owners.  I am, strangely, no longer a child.  But the place where I was a child is thriving.

And so am I.

dear drew

My very oldest friend is moving next week from our humble home state to the Big Apple.  Together we have shared the innocence of elementary school, the angst of high school, the guilt of church youth group, the particular pride of sequined music numbers. 

We weathered completely different college experiences while at the same university, anchored by a daily Latin class.  While I moved to California and pursued my shallow goals, he soldiered on through a successful life of academia, earning multiple masters degrees and his PhD. 

Together, from thousands of miles away, we stumbled blindly through our twenties, grimacing at each others mistakes and smiling broadly when one or the other of us declared something we'd both known all along.  

He may be older than I am, but moving from a small town to the big city is my area of expertise.  So, not for the first time this month or even this week, here is my unsolicited advice.

Dear Drew,

All of your steps before have led to this moment, this life-changing move that will affirm for you what the rest of us have always known: You are strong enough, in fact meant for, a big world on a big stage.  

The first several months may feel like a scene from Hinds Feet on High Places, but I hope that you let yourself stumble, that you're able to laugh wisely at the transition period instead of forcing a bravado that makes changes so painful.

A few Do's and Don'ts:

Do spend some time arranging your new apartment, but not too much time and not too much money.  You're going to be suprised how much your style and taste will change over the next year.  Not because it's a new city, but because it's a new you.

Do Not ask the cab driver where he's from.  They hate that.  I learned this one recently.

Do give the homeless guy a dollar sometimes, and other times Do Not.  You'll know which is which. 

Do Not, under any circumstances, invite someone you just met back to your apartment.  Even if they seem perfectly nice and harmless.

Do Not, under any circumstances, accept an invitation back to anyone else's apartment, especially if they seem perfectly nice and harmless.  You're not in Kansas anymore, Toto.     

Do try to find a healthy balance between trusting everyone and believing everyone is a serial killer.  This takes time.  And there's more to it than just instinct.  Although

Do trust your instincts.  On people, on transit, on impulse purchases.

Do not give in to the impulse to stay inside and decorate and re-decorate your apartment or fiddle on the computer for hours on end.  The only way to learn the city is to navigate the city.  Force yourself to find a grocery store you like, a bookstore that's close, a gym with a decent membership fee.  Find all of these places without using the maps feature on your phone.

Do try to meet a neighbor or two.  Make friends with your doormen.  Establish people in your life who you could call if you needed local help in the middle of the night.

Do not lose your accent.  You have letters behind your name, you've proven your intellect.  Some will find it charming, others will find it thankfully familiar.  You will find it shameful and then later grounding.

Do all the tourist-y things, even though this feels very, very uncool at first.  Still, resist the tempation to pretend that you're a native New Yorker.  It will only make you feel like a fraud.  Actually, it will make you a fraud.  So

Do see an impromptu musical matinee.

Do stroll through Central Park with a goofy midwestern grin.

Do visit Ground Zero and cry for your home country and your new city. 

Do not take a second of this for granted, even the hardest parts.  One day you will look back and proclaim Spring 2011 as a pivotal moment in your life.  You'll want to be there when it happens.

I love you, my friend.  I love how your story is unfolding.

Laura

*

photo of a sunglasses-wearing Drew staring directly at the camera while rehearsing his groomsman role in my wedding.  photo by Rob Garland.

i did not throw up or faint on the pioneer woman. but almost.

I live in Los Angeles.  I've seen Renee Zellweger at the dry cleaners and Meryl Streep at a cocktail party.

But I have never fanned out on someone quite so much as I did tonight. 

Part of it is that I feel a kinship with Ree Drummond, The Pioneer Woman.  We're both from a similar upbringing in Oklahoma.  We both moved to Los Angeles when we were young.  Only one of us went back home and found some sanity, and the other one stayed on the west coast sinking deeper and deeper into insanity.  (That would be me, in case you're unclear.) 

The other part of it is that she's an amazing blogger.  And I wanted to tell her that.  She's been a major, major influence on me.  Not just for blogging.  For life.

I was (literally) first in line.  This involved an early morning trip to Barnes & Noble to secure a wristband.  Still, when I realized I was (literally) first in line, I got the giggles.  I mean I really guffawed.  I sat on the floor and marveled at my line placement for many minutes.

You can ask Elizabeth, my new friend who was next in line.  (Elizabeth, I wish I had taken of picture of you.  Why didn't I?!)  Elizabeth will tell you how I was really quite hysterical over the whole "first" thing.

Then my friend Anna showed up, and she helped me ditch the Nervous Maniacal Laughter.  (You might remember Anna from my F+C party.)  She also gave dirty looks to the VIPs who actually got to go first.  But she didn't mean it.  Anna's bark is worse than her bite.  (Anna, am I blowing your street cred if I say that?) 

Newly pregnant Anna was glad that we were at the front.  This meant that we didn't have to wait in the line that wound through the third floor, then stretched down to the second floor.

Instead it meant that we could eat a long dinner, with loads of cheese and french fries. 

And I could forget about my cheeks shaking, and hands fumbling.

The night I met Ree Drummond, The Pioneer Woman.

*

most photos courtesy of Anna, ABDPBT

i do believe i'll find myself a new place

I had big dreams outside of my small town.

Laziness and school spirit kept me from applying to any other college besides my state university, so by the time I was twenty I was itching for any experience outside of the plains of Oklahoma.

The summer before my senior year of college, I studied abroad in England and fell in love with London. More than anywhere in my life, I felt I belonged there in the rain, among dusty books and thick history.

I returned from that summer in Europe determined to broaden my worldview. After very little research led to the conclusion that I couldn’t swing the cost of an American living abroad, I began to look for opportunities domestically. The sparkle of New York and Los Angeles were the only options I considered.

I had never been to either city, and a pre-move visit seemed like a costly waste of time. I’m glad I didn’t test the waters, I feel sure that I would have chickened out from moving at all. New York intimidated me – still intimidates me – so by process of elimination I started telling everyone within earshot that I would be heading west after spring graduation. 

I doubt anyone believed me. Until the day I pulled out of Oklahoma, I’m not even sure I believed me. But, in what has become my pattern, if I say it out loud enough then I will it to be true. I have gone to great lengths to follow through on my proclamations, even – or especially – when foolish.

And foolish it was. I had no plans upon my arrival except a vague idea that I wanted to “write,” even though I wasn’t sure what that meant. I had read that Starbucks offered health insurance, so for a time I believed that I was making a monumental move to work part-time in a corporate coffee chain.

But really, it wasn’t about how I would pay my rent. It was about the adventure, about shedding my skin, about pursuing a life worth writing about.

*

Title from the lyrics of Everclear's Santa Monica, a song I would sing at the top of my lungs in the car by myself. 

This week I'm toasting to my decision to move to Los Angeles - where I ended up a Hollywood Housewife - nine years ago this week.  Check back later today for the next installment, Beauty Mark.

furniture in my yard

I was a senior in high school, but I had been reading Stephen King since the 4th grade. Maybe that’s why I always looked at the furniture prank as scary and not funny.

It was the fall and I was deeply involved with the school musical that required me to be at rehearsals every night at 6pm. In between drill team after school and play practice in the evening, I usually beat a path home in my little brown Mazda for a snack and a break.

As usual, I picked up the phone as soon as I walked in the door. I never dropped the habit of calling my mom when I got home, even though I was long past the age that she worried about me after school. I was telling her every detail of my uneventful day as I strolled through the front hall and glanced out at the yard that slopes up towards our street. I lost all train of thought.

“Mom.” I said, flummoxed. “There are recliners in the yard.”

“What? What are talking about?” She was used to my dramatics.

In the large yard directly in front of our home, there were two old leather recliners facing each other about 10 yards apart. Less than fifteen minutes earlier, I had driven down the driveway and past this yard, then empty.

I tried to describe the scene to mom, who was sitting at her office and still on the phone. I didn’t know what to think. It was so strange. I hadn’t heard a thing and yet someone had deposited and arranged the chairs within minutes of my arriving home and looking out the window.

My parents weren’t home from work when I left for music practice, still confused. I didn’t tell anyone at rehearsal about the chairs, only because my churning teenage mind was otherwise occupied by the time I reached the stage.

Later that night, as I came around the curve of my street, I could see the silhouette of the recliners against the moon and suddenly remembered the mystery. So strange. Stranger still that my dad hadn’t moved them.

The next afternoon was reminiscent of the one before. Only this time when I looked out the window, a long black couch was facing the house in between the two leather recliners. The third day, a large busted television joined the party.

The television had appeared while no one was home, the culprit possibly worried that I was now watching. Our yard looked ridiculous, and I had already heard a few snickers at school even though I wasn’t saying a word.

dear dad, thank you for the things you never said. love, laura

Usually, Mondays are all about Mommies.  But yesterday was Father's Day, so I thought I'd honor my dad instead.

I wrote this for Father's Day last summer, and when I read back over it I couldn't think of anything more true than these words about my father.  So here they are again.  Originally published on June 21, 2009.

I have rarely spent a Father's Day with my dad.  As a kid, I was always away in the summer.  As an adult, I live 1,500 miles away in either direction.  But I always think of him, and am so grateful that I came from him.

There are so many things I could say about my daddy.  And, yes, I still call him daddy.  So does my sister.  It doesn't feel inappropriate.  It's just his name.

I could say how he is the one who instilled in me a love of reading and British history.  I could say how he taught me never to write anything down that I wouldn't want to be read someday.  I could say that his political activism took me to places, literally and figuratively, that I might never have gone.

I could say the way he feeds his friendships has been a model for the most important relationships in my life.  I could say that his subscription to People magazine and general love of entertainment made me curious about Los Angeles. 

I could say that the gentle way he parents and grandparents melts my heart.  How he always has a kid in his arms, and how I'm jealous that my nieces and nephews get all that love on a weekly basis.

I could say, and want to say, that two of my favorite memories with him are watching Gwyneth accept the Oscar for Shakespeare in Love (he seemed to understand why I was crying), and walking down the aisle on his arm, both of us so proud.

 All of these things are true, and all of them I am thankful for on this Father's Day.  But thing stands about the rest, and I'm not sure I've ever told him this.

My dad had a difficult childhood.  It was difficult for numerous reasons, and never let up.  Eventually he made his own path, and his own family, and is successful on all fronts.

It would have been so easy to play the sympathy card, the You-Don't-Know-How-Well-You-Have-It card, and he never has.  Not once.  Any bitterness or sadness he holds onto is his alone.  I find this remarkable.  I didn't even realize how remarkable I found it until last night, when I was thinking about him, and it dawned on me that we always just sort of gloss over the early part of dad's life.  A smaller man would have put this burden on us, made us constantly aware and grateful for all that he has overcome.

Oh, I'm sure he must have thought it.  When we were teenagers and complaining about this, that, or the other thing, I'm sure that must have touched some kind of nerve.  But he never brought it up.  "See what I've given you," has never come out of his mouth.  My parents were both so natural at parenting, I thought everyone just did it, and did it right.  You grow up, you have kids, you love 'em, it's just life. 

They made it look so easy. 

I have married a man who really isn't much like my father.  More than once I have thought to myself, "That is not how my dad would dock the boat/load the car/answer the question."  It's a high standard for The Gorilla, but it's the only standard I have.  The bar has been set by a very special man. 

Happy Father's Day, daddy.

top picture of Pigtail and her grandfather, Christmas 2009

bottom picture of me and my father at my high school graduation, May 1997

small town

Until we moved to the big town twenty miles over (pop. 25,000), we lived in the one-stoplight oklahoma town where I spent most of my childhood (pop. 3,500).  

My father's law office was in a large brick building with a rickety red-carpeted elevator just a block from the town square.  We lived in a ranch style home painted a soft yellow that sat on 40 acres off a dusty dirt road.

From Hollywood, it is 2,000 miles and one left turn.

I think about this map dot - if it even makes it on the map - every day.  The small town gossip, the annual fish festival, the way everyone in town knew my last name and where my momma worked and which van was ours.  

I think about the hundreds of thousands of towns across the country just like it, full of good people and suspect people and crying babies and mangy dogs.  I think about how I wish I were there and some of them probably wish they were here.  

I think about what it was like to grow up without a drive-thru in my zip code, or an airport within 200 miles.  But how my sister could get gas at the local Country Store and forget to pay, and it was okay because they would just call the brick building that bore my daddy's name and tell him that the van drove off again.  

I think about all that, and I get a lump in my throat.  My daughter will never know a life like that.  The town now has more than one stoplight and multiple drive-thrus, even though the population hasn't changed much.  The pace of life is still slower there than in Hollywood, but only by their drawls.  They all have tivo and wifi in their living rooms, just like I do.  

So in a way, all our technology shrinks the world.  But I've never felt so far away.  

photo by clinton steeds

F street

 It was big.  And old.  Crumbling even then.

I dreamed of growing up to be more Miss Havisham, less Estella.  Not that I wanted to be alone, or a jilted bride, or with rotting cake on my table.  I just pictured myself as an eccentric old lady.  In an elaborate dress.  In a big old house.

This old house.  

It had been abandoned for years and was just a few blocks from my elementary school.  One of my neighborhood friends shared my obsession.  We tried to break in and we stole tiles from the porch.  There was a tree in the front yard that was large enough to command the street.  I memorized every eroding detail.  

We got in just once.  I remember a grand staircase and rows of built-in bookshelves.  I thought that my life would feel complete if I could ever live in such a house.

When I was in my hometown last week, I took an hour or so to drive around and reminisce and think those heavy thoughts that show up like puddle reflections when you're in the place of your childhood.  

I make that drive at least once a year.  Sometimes it helps me clear a few cobwebs away.  Other times it brings buried memories to the surface.  It's like mental roulette. 

My route usually takes me down F Street, and not by accident.  I like to look at it, my first dream house.  I like to see that the tree in the front yard isn't as big as I always thought it was.  I like to feel irritated by the current owner's choice of cheap siding.  I allow myself, for just a few moments, to wonder what it would be like to move back to Oklahoma and live in the house of my childhood fantasy.

It's a useless drive, mainly.  A waste of time and emotional space.  Only it's not.  To revisit your very earliest dreams reminds you of your current ones.  

Just no lingering.