What Happened When I Became Rich and Famous

Sounds great, I know. You may have even dreamed it for yourself, but let me tell you people, it's not all it's cracked up to be. I would've been quite content to just be able to support myself with my writing. To write what I like and what readers like to read. I had no idea where this was all headed when I wrote my first little book.
It was great at first. Surprising and wonderful. Having money to do whatever you want is fabulous. I spent a lot of money those first few years. I bought a few homes, a new car (nothing fancy and I still own it), traveled, paid off debts for myself and those closest to me. But, soon I started noticing that too many people wanted too many things. People I thought were my friends, and people I thought loved me for who I was, not what I could buy them. And then there were the book signing tours for months on end and the movie deals I had to be a part of. I hated being forced to do all of that crap. I had every day planned for me for years. I couldn't go to the grocery store without being bombarded by people wanting autographs, or taking pictures, or asking if I remembered them and could I please do (fill in the favor) for them, when all I wanted to do was run in, get a case of Diet Coke and go home. It got to be too much. I never needed or wanted all of that stuff. I just wanted to be able to write for a living.
So, here I am all these years later. I am still rich and I still write. The difference is, now I write from my little cottage. I write a new book about every year or two, and because they have my name on them, they automatically become bestsellers. Most of my money goes into savings accounts for my kids once they have proven they can make it on their own (I don't want them to be cheated out of their own experiences...and struggling a little bit is a very valuable experience), or anonymous donations to schools and libraries.
I am still famous, but mostly for being a recluse. People seem to take great interest in that, and I'm positive that it is one of the main reasons that my books still sell so well. Every few months there is a tabloid headline with a picture of someone who isn't me stating that it is me. Oh, they've spotted me all over the world! Sometimes I'm obese and sometimes too skinny. Sometimes I've had so much plastic surgery that I am totally unrecognizable. None of the stories have ever been true. Silly isn't it? The truth is, I still look very much like I always have. I still change my hair color all of the time out of boredom and I have had a few nips and tucks over the years because I have to look myself in the mirror and not be horrified, but I am no Joan Rivers for sure. My neighbors have no idea who I am and I'm almost certain that the children in the neighborhood have made up plenty of stories about the lady in the little white house that nobody has seen for at least a decade. Only about six people know where I live. I cannot tell you where it is, but it is not out in the middle of nowhere. I like the sounds of the city. And I do go out sometimes. Mostly I go out at night, when the world is asleep.
 Don't feel sorry for me. I am completely happy and satisfied with the life that I lead. It is what I always wanted and I love it here. And no, I do not have a bunch of cats and I am not a weird germaphobe or a hoarder. I just like my quiet house where I can sit in peace and create my worlds on paper, and where nobody hears me talking to my characters.

Vanity

I am not a pretty woman. Not naturally. I consider myself an artist when it comes to makeup application though, so I pass for somewhat attractive. What I look like when I leave the house is drastically different from what I really look like. I believe I am extremely vain and it is becoming more and more important to me that I look good as time goes on. I don't apologize for it and I'm not ashamed. I like when people tell me I don't look old enough to have a son that age, or when I get glances on the street. Maybe they tell me that to be nice, or look at me because I look funny, but I like to think it's because I'm hot. I don't mind my age at all, but I don't want to look my age. I see Valerie Bertanelli who looks great at 50, and Kirstie Alley who I was recently astonished to find out is 60, and I am hopeful that I can look as good when that time comes. My mother has aged well, and so did my grandmother, even though they both worshiped the sun most of their lives, so there is hope. I keep out of the sun mostly, and wear sunscreen and moisturizer to make up for the abuse that I've done to the inside of my body throughout my life (although my brother, the doctor, says there is formaldehyde in Diet Coke, which I consider a great preservative. With the amount that I've consumed in my life, I should look good forever). I'm not against paying for a bit of help along the way either. Nothing wrong with Botox, and a few other minor adjustments, in my book. Being a bit fake on the outside is okay as long as I keep the inside real, right? Besides, I don't want to embarrass my kids by being the mom who has let herself go. I once told my son that if he didn't straighten up in school I would use my sub days to go to all his classes with him until he did. This didn't faze him. Then I told him I wouldn't wear makeup if I had to go to class with him. His eyes widened in horror. I never had to go to school with him.

2109 N Forest

Dear House I Grew Up In,
I dont know if you remember me, but after all these years, I still find myself thinking about you and your neighborhood often. I remember the first time I saw you when I was four, before you were mine. I remember the trees in the backyard that seemed to touch the sky and the old couple who was selling you and how I thought they were going to leave that house and walk directly off to heaven. I remember walking to school on sidewalks littered with purplish-blue jacaranda flowers, and how if you stepped on them just right, they would make a snapping sound. And when Amy moved in next door with her long, blond, braided ponytails, I remember feeling that you had to be the best house, in the best neighborhood, in the entire world. It was in your backyard, right after playing basketball, and right before the boy shoved my brother's face in dog poop, that I kissed a boy for the first time. I could go on and on about my times with you. Of course, not all the times were good. I choose not to think about the bad things though. I know, all of the memories and all of the experiences, good and bad, shaped me and led me to who I have become.
I still see you sometimes. I drive by and hardly recognize you or the street that has been almost completely stripped of the giant trees that once lined and canopied it. I'm sure you wouldn't recognize me after all this time either. I'm not even close to being the same girl I once was. I think about the children who live there now, and if whoever has my bedroom also stares out the window every night making imaginary pictures in the trees, or hides under the covers with a flashlight and a book long after bedtime.
Some houses have a heart. Some houses have a personality. I have lived in many houses, but few have felt like home. Thank you for being a home.
Love,
Jodi