A Dog's Couch

As I prepare to maybe watch the Oscars tonight, I see I am going to have to fight the dogs for the couch.

This is the only furniture they are allowed on (as if that means anything - as soon as I'm out of the room they do whatever they want) but in spite of their diminutive size, they take it up. Worse, if you do sit down on it, they immediately start climbing all over you begging to be pet and rubbed.

And I'm a gal who needs her space.

I am not the huggie, cuddly, snugly kind of person that likes to be licked. And when dogs come up and roll onto their backs waiting to be rubbed, while most people revert to baby talk and say: "Aaaaaaawh - do you wantum some loveys?", I instead think: "Oh please - you should put on some pants!"

So if the dogs are on the couch, I'm on the less comfortable chair. And if I'm looking at some marathon TV (like the Oscars will surely be), I want the couch. They're only dogs after all.

By the way, for those who read about Toby, he's going to be fine.

At War with "Nature"

I had to get permission from my daughter to write about this but she's a good sport.

Last week, I viewed a web show called "Lipstick and Laundry" that a friend of mine co-hosts. They interviewed a pediatrician about the taboo subject of lice. This doctor acted like it was no big deal and that they were relatively easy to get rid of with the products currently on the market.

He's a liar.

Over the course of my career as a mom, with four daughters going through school for a total of 19 continuous years (so far), I have come face to face with the devil himself - in the form that he frequently takes here on earth - a louse.

My first encounter with these creatures from hell came when I took my three older daughters (then in elementary school), to the local "SuperCuts" for a much needed trim. They all sat in the chairs and before I could even pick up a "People" magazine to read during the wait, the plastic capes came off of them and an employee came up to me and notified me that all of them had lice.

I nearly died. This was impossible. My kids were not dirty! I was a good mom! I made them bathe every day (okay, nearly), I took my kids to church! They were all Girl Scouts! I paid my taxes! I worked for Disney for god's sake! I hadn't done anything wrong. And yet, in spite of that, it appeared to be true. I hurried them to the car, filled with shame. Naturally then, my next thought: "What had they done?" And so, the rant began.

When I got home, my housekeeper (ah remember when I had a housekeeper? That was grand. But I digress...) my housekeeper happened to be there and she smiled calmly and had the girls sit on the floor in front of her while she proceeded to pull the nits from their hair. "Oh c'mon", I thought. That seemed a little overboard. Why don't we just get a comb? Ooooooh -what an idiot, I! I learned a lot that afternoon. I learned the phrase "nit picking" had a real origin. And that this was only the first of a gazillion different processes we needed to go through to resume our normal lives. So I sent Bob out for a box of RID and we commenced the weekend long treatment and washing and treating of all sheets, clothes, toys, house, universe - and that was that. The end...

...for many, many years, until about 6 months ago when Grace started bugging me for dandruff shampoo because her scalp itched. I impatiently blew her off. She couldn't possibly have dandruff at her age. She was just making a big deal out of a little dry skin. About two weeks later, she discovered she had lice. Of course I could not believe this - because we had already been through lice. Surely we had immunity now. She couldn't possibly know what she was talking about - such a drama queen - until she produced one. And then I was forced to confront the devil - again.

Let me just tell you (in case you missed the point earlier) that while it is absolutely true that ANY kid (or adult for that matter) can contract lice - regardless of how tidy and clean you keep your home and your family - they are the grossest, most insidious, vile, formidable army of creatures this side of bed bugs. And if you see one of them scurrying around the scalp of someone in your home - you have two choices: a) go to war, or b) kick the infected one out of the house. I will tell you that the later is easily the least trouble but Child Protective Services will likely come knocking so you need to really think before you act. I chose the former. I went to war. And war includes the treatment of pesticides that you pour directly onto the head of the infected person, hours upon hours of searching every single strand of hair on the infected's head for nits (and I mean this quite literally) for weeks following the treatment and then, pulling them off the hair to which they have literally stuck themselves, vacuuming every surface of your house, spraying pesticides on furniture, washing in hot water every item of clothing or bedding or towels that the infected may have come in contact with, throwing any unwashables into the dryer on high heat for hours, bagging beloved stuffed animals to hang in the garage for a month, throwing out brushes, hair clips, combs, etc., and finally, calling the school and friends whose children may have been in contact with the infected. And this is really horrible because the school is reluctant to ever let your child return to the classroom and your friends will hate you.

So I endured the look of fear in the eye of her teacher and the politely concealed but certainly felt hostility of friends, and after a time of caution and anxiety, we all moved on.

But then, recently, she asked me to follow her into her room for private conversation and she began to cry as she told me they were "back". I looked at her scalp. Not only were they back, they were back with a vengeance. How the hell was this possible? Oh right, they are from hell. While my child cried, I fought a nervous breakdown. I had done everything right! I was diligent. I was aggressive. I was merciless. I had conquered. The only thing I had not done was call an exorcist. **

So when the room stopped spinning I went to Google to look it up and found that these little vermin have begun to develop a resistance to the products on the market. Therefore, they are becoming more prevalent and harder to get rid of. So I looked up what they used to do in the old days. Well, shaving her head was an option - but I'd have to sleep with one eye open thereafter. And then I saw this thing about mayonnaise. We slathered her hair with gobs of mayonnaise and put it under a plastic cap for 2 hours. And it suffocated the little demons. And then my cousin Richard told me to apply vegetable oil to her hair and wrap in in saran wrap for 10 minutes. And then I rinsed with vinegar. Many times. And then I did 48 hours of non-stop laundry. And I cleaned and treated her room again and wouldn't let her sleep in it for a week. And I wouldn't let her put her clean laundry back in her room for a week. And I checked for nits every day. And I followed up the next week with more mayonnaise. And I think they are gone.

So yes, I did all that - again. Because I am a mom. And in my heart I knew that in spite of this horror my own child delivered to my doorstep and the ordeal it put us all through, I would one day love her again.

And I'm almost there.

**In extreme cases, an exorcist may not out of the question. Note the woman in the painting above. Her eyeballs have clearly rolled back into her head.

PROOF!!

At last, proof arrived this morning - albeit wet from rain. We are - with this single, soggy document - validated and proven legal in all our marital obligations and benefits, such as they are 20 years later.

Now we just have to fax this over to the Screen Actors Guild Pension and Health offices so that they can include me in the family medical insurance package at which time I will be free again to indulge in unnecessary doctor appointments to satisfy my need to know that every hangnail is not a symptom of some deadly, too-late-to-cure disease. And of course there are the real doctor appointments too.

It is interesting to note however, that some of the information on this long awaited document is erroneous. For example, it lists the reason for termination of Bob's first marriage to be divorce - not death. And they list the dissolution of his marriage to have taken place on June 25, 1990, 4 months prior to Anne's passing. This mistake seems disrespectful to me and I can tell you that neither of us gave them that information. So I am led to believe that some clerk somewhere, maybe in a hurry to leave for a hot date, decided to just fill-in-the-blank as push it through without carefully looking at forms. But if this kind of sloppiness is okay with the State of California, it is okay for me - at least for now. Once I have my medical insurance though, I think I will go make them make the changes for accuracy. This in respect for Anne. Otherwise, I'm too old to care anymore.

So the saga is over. I still need to verify my divorce, but that can wait too. Let's not muddy the waters just yet.

Damn. I wanted that bridal registry.

Getting Tight with Cookie

I have to come clean and admit to a long held prejudice. Regardless of what I may have ever said to the contrary, I have to admit that I looked down upon and had a distaste for the home based retail industry as a whole. I am a complete retail snob. If someone was selling Avon, Mary Kay, Pampered Chef, Tastefully Simple, et al, I immediately assumed an inferiority of product. For unknown reasons, I strongly held the belief that if someone came to your home to demonstrate and sell a product, the quality of the product was on par with dime store junk you use to fill take-home goodie bags at little girls' birthday parties. Regardless of the cost. Because if they couldn't get it into Nordstrom's (or at least Macy's), there was "a reason". And I wondered as to the discernment of any person who engaged in this kind of career.

I imagine I can blame my mother for this. I remember the Avon lady coming to the house when we were kids and my mom buying lipsticks and perfumes and the like but once the Avon lady left, my sisters and I would get most of it to play with. When I asked her why she didn't keep it she said something about it not really being for grownups or something. I used to love getting the hot rose pink lipsticks though - and the samples. And the perfumes in fancy looking bottles with french sounding names.

As an adult, I have hosted home parties for my friends who, sadly (I believed), invested their time and money into such "retail pyramid scams", and I would buy a couple of products from them that I invariably never used. But I walked away from the experience feeling puffed up for having been so supportive. Oh, aren't I such a good and benevolent person?

Yes, I was a horrible "home show" snob and once again, shame on me. I was also an idiot.

So here, if you care to overlook my shallowness and read on, is my story of a new found friend. Her name is Cookie.

Two years ago, when I lost my job at Disney, one of the moms from Grace's school approached me at the "drop off" and mentioned that she had heard I was unemployed. She suggested that I consider a business that helped her out at a difficult time and has since been a good source of income for her. The product was Cookie Lee jewelry. I was familiar with Cookie Lee. I knew people who sold it. I attended a couple of parties and held my nose as I bought a couple of pieces that I immediately threw into the junk drawer. Yes, of course I would consider selling Cookie Lee. Just as soon as pigs could fly.

I begged off politely and moved on. But Janet was persistent. She had me hold a couple of parties for her. I carefully invited friends whom I thought would be agreeable to such an experience. They came, they ate, they laughed. Aaaaaaand they bought! (But then again, they were doing me a favor, right?) But I started to wear down. After all, I was on a mission to pay off the rest of the debt that we have spent the last year getting out of and, over time, Cookie Lee seemed like it might be a way to go. Janet made money from it. I could do it in my own time, and once my debt was paid off, I could get out of Cookie Lee altogether. SO - after two years of nudging, I attended a Cookie Lee convention in Anaheim in early January.

Ahem.

Amid a thousand screaming Cookie Lee fanatics (all consultants) wearing so much bling it was blinding, I found myself (with my tasteful post earrings and single strand necklace) watching it all in a sedate, respectable manner that made me feel like the the lone pinto in a plate full of jumping beans. I wondered, as I sat there with my complimentary coffee and danish, how I could possibly fit in. Out on the runway comes Mr. Lee in a pink (yes, pink) one-piece jump suit to introduce the 2011 theme "Women Helping Women". He appeared to be a popular cheerleader for the brand and was met by thunderous applause. The new line of jewelry was there to peruse and order - the lines around the tables to see it were 8 bodies thick. As I felt myself slipping into a claustrophobically induced case of hyperventilation, I sat myself down on the floor of the hotel lobby and beckoned my friend to come save me. "Okay, Janet - I am going to sign up. Just take my check and order for me and then I am going to go". She did. So I was now officially a Cookie Lee consultant and I got out of there before someone handed me a glass of Kool-Aide.

Three days later I was laid off from my job. Uh, seriously? So because I had no choice, I started getting excited about getting my jewelry that was due in the mail. When it did finally arrive, I opened it quickly and didn't know how to respond to it. I had never seen such a cacophony of crystals, glass beads, wood beads, bead beads, shells, chains, faux pearls, faux jade, faux turquoise, faux onyx, faus silver, faux gold - and it all seemed big! Big jewelry. If it could talk, it would be screaming. And it all came with this hideous carry bag that had see-through plastic pockets on the outside to display the jewelry. I was told that I needed to "get over" the bag and take it with me where ever I went. I was told I needed to wear at least 10 pieces of Cookie Lee jewelry everywhere I went. And you need to understand, outside of a plain gold wedding band and the occasional understated pair of earrings, I did not wear any jewelry. At all. Unless I was dressing up. And then it was always the tasteful and conservative strand of pearls. Real ones. Clearly, I had signed up for the wrong business. But I had nothing else. So I put on what felt like a ton of "big" jewelry, I filled the ugly bag, and I went out into the world - feeling like a complete freak.

Except it worked.

People stopped me. They liked what I had on. They asked to see what I had in my bag. Aaaaand - they bought! And these were smart people. People who had style and taste. People I wouldn't have thought "Cookie Lee" when thinking about. I started looking at this jewelry and myself in a new light. Cookie Lee actually had some really nice stuff. It really was comparable to what they sold in department stores. (This, I couldn't believe!) And it looked good on me. In fact, it improved my overall appearance. SO I started to wear more of it. And I started making phone calls to friends to ask them to host parties for me. And let me tell you, "thar's gold in them thar Cookie Hills". And I'm not talking "faux".

So I have been mixing and matching and layering and accessorizing and I suddenly feel like an expert. And I like it. And so I feel very equipped to show it at as many home parties as I can get booked. And my wonderful girlfriends have stepped up to the plate for me. I have 6 shows booked already. The challenge, however, is winning over a room full of "former me's" - people who have come to the party as a favor to their friend, people who have a preconceived notion as to the quality and style of the product, people who plan to buy one small, unoffensive thing that won't break the bank, that will likely find a home in a junk drawer. Ah, what goes around...

But I'll tell you what, if you want to look at it, go to www.cookielee.biz/valrismith and feel free to contact me or order directly. I'd be happy to make you a much beloved client. (So much for a subtle plug...) This certainly won't make up for a full time salary but in the face of a second uncomfortable date with unemployment, a dying print industry, and a depressed economy, my new mantra is: "Streams of income, streams of income streams of income..."

Now, if someone would only pay me to write this blog...

Marriage License Hunting Season

Well, we finally got a big enough window in our calendars to drive to Van Nuys on Friday in search of the elusive marriage license. But let me tell you - they don't make it easy.

Try to google Van Nuys City Hall. You will not get an address. Try to phone Van Nuys City Hall. You will get a recording, if it picks up at all and the recording will not give you the information you need. Like, the address. So we got in the car and just sort of drove toward the general area. We did have an address for the police department which we believed would be in the complex so we put it into GPS and it took us somewhere else. So we drove toward the "big buildings", parked the car and hoped for the best. The picture above shows the complex from the sky. Being on the ground was just as useless.

Immediately after we got out of the car and paid the meter with all the spare change we had in return for an hour, I was pleased to see a map. But the map failed to post the standard "You Are Here" location point and so all we saw were colored blocks for buildings we didn't need, located on streets we couldn't find (Uh - a street sign anyone?) with no idea of where we were in relation to any of it. And NONE of the buildings on the map were labeled "Hall of Records" or even "City Hall". We located Superior Court buildings but every other building name gave not even a hint of what its function was. Except for the library. And I didn't need that. So naturally, I started to lose my mind. Bob had just finished telling me that I was "getting embarrassing" when a nice man (apparently seeing Bob's distress) came up and tried to help us - but as nice as he was, he was as useless as the map. So we just started walking. We walked into a few buildings asking security personnel present in the lobbies where we could find the Hall of Records but no one seemed to have anything other than a vague idea of kind-of-sort-of where it was. Most of them just looked at us as if we were stupid for having asks them. As if to say: "I work in this building. Why would I know anything about any other building? You are interrupting my standing here!" And then I really started to to lose my cool. I began ranting as we walked through the pathways of the complex wondering out loud (out VERY loud) how anyone with a brain could possibly ask why this state is bankrupt. At this point Bob - who started walking a distance away from me mentioned something about the possibility of investigating medical marijuana and then it was over. I was in full nut job mode. Expressing my anger at his very un-funny comment all the way, we decided to go to the tall old building. I looked at it with hope. Maybe, (I hoped) because it was old, old people worked there. Old people know things. We had to walk all four sides of the building before we could find a door that would open to us but sure enough, there was an old guy there. Very pleasant, sitting in an old chair behind an old desk. He knew exactly where to send us, with exact directions. He also knew the physical address of the building and the name on the building: "Los Angeles County Community Services". And he knew this off the top of his head. And he smiled. I love old people.

We got to the one-story brick building and saw a very long line that ran out the door of young people with babies. Security asked us what we were looking for and we said that we needed to get a copy of our marriage certificate. We were directed to the end of the line. Once we moved inside the building and saw that we were in a line for marriage, death, and birth licenses, I started to get irritated that the building was not then, more aptly named freaking "HALL OF RECORDS". "Los Angeles Community Services" seemed to be hiding that fact. And based on the line of people needing various licenses' and the extremely limited number of employees on hand to serve them, I suppose they were.

It became apparent almost immediately that this long line of young people with babies were there to get married. I started to stare at the couples to get a feel of the circumstances. Truthfully, not a joyous observation. The girls were for the most part excited, in a pretty dress and talkative. You got the sense they were relieved - that this was the final element they needed to complete their story-book. The guys looked nervous and anxious. I counted 4 of them who stood waiting with their hands in their pockets as if resigned to what life had just dished out to them. None of them seemed truly unhappy - but none of them looked as if they were gettingtheir storybook ending. I imagined them all to have thought that they had, at some point, found the girl of their dreams only to find that facing a judge with a marriage license gave them an altered view. They seemed to be looking at their soon-to -be wives and thinking: "Oh, I thoughtyou were something else". I felt terribly sorry for all of them.

Of course, who am I? Maybe these were fairy-tale romances. But seeing giddy, under 20, young girls wearing off-white, jersey dresses in well worn heels holding a marriage license in one hand and a screaming baby in the other, standing on line at the Los Angeles County Community Services building at 11:30 a.m. next to a guy staring at the floor doesn't feel right. I found myself praying for them. I took great heart in the one couple - albeit too young - who were there in a wedding gown and tux. No baby in sight. They were singularly out of place but they were clearly both very excited and happy. I wished I had rice.

In line we chatted with a Ukranian woman holding her baby daughter. She was there to get a birth certificate. Seeing Bob must have prompted her conversation about the baby's father being bald. She worried that her daughter might go bald too. I told her this was highly unlikely.

Finally we got to the window. We were separated from a petite Asian woman by a window of thick plexi-glass. The microphone was intermittent and so she spoke very loudly - so loudly that when it did work, I nearly went deaf. I had to keep stepping back and forth from the window in an awkward dance timed around trying to avoid an ear-splitting spasm of sound coming from her end. And invariably I had to ask her to repeat which caused more anxiety knowing that at any second I might be blown out of the room with mind-numbing clatter. But I did learn, with a kind nod of her head - that she was, in fact, able to verify that the wedding license did exist. At this point my blood pressure started to go down. Of course there was a fee involved in getting this information (because hearing loss, I guess was not enough) but trying to make out what she was telling me while trying to be polite ended with me writing three different checks before I got the figure right. I managed to finish my business before my ears started to bleed and all I need to do now is wait 10 business days to receive a copy. And that, by the way, is the expedited service, for which I paid an additional $18.00. The regular wait is 3 to 4 weeks. I am guessing that this license must be buried halfway to hell.

As for the divorce papers? I didn't even go there. If somehow those papers are messed up and I am technically married to two people - I don't want to know. Ignorance is bliss. At least for today. One adventure at government offices at a time please.

Betty

When I was about 13 years old, I was grounded for breaking some rule or back talk or some other thing and was sentenced to staying in for the weekend. I was miserable. All the kids in the neighborhood were hanging out out on the street and I was stuck indoors with my mom. I was in my room, sulking when my mom came in and asked me if I would like to come out and watch an old movie with her. It was called "The Gay Divorcee" and it starred Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. I thought the idea was horrible and boring but it beat sitting in my bedroom all night so I begrudgingly joined her in the living room to watch some black and white movie on TV.

The next 90 minutes changed my life forever. That movie - filled with glamour and sophisticated wealthy, witty characters who broke in to song and dreamy, romantic dancing - lit a flame in me so intense that I became obsessed with American musicals. I wanted to be a part of it. So I set about to become a great actress. I had found my purpose in the world. And I mean that literally. I read every book I could get my hands on about the early days of Hollywood, the evolution of musicals and the people who made them. I spent my weekends watching every old movie that I could find on television. I studied performances and assumed "personalities" and tried to create my own acting style.

Favorites of mine were the musicals from MGM's glory days. I saw them all and knew them all. One of the most delightlful, free-sprited, funny, and talented movie stars from that great and important time in the history of American film was Betty Garrett. She was so wonderful in "My Sister Eileen" and "Wonderful Town". I had seen all her movies and knew her roles on television's "All in the Family" and "Laverne and Shirley". She was a star of Broadway as well. She did it all. And I loved her ability to be silly and funny and over-the-top and truly make it work. Her performances were genuine and fun.

In 1987 I was cast in a production of Stephen Sondheim's "A Little Night Music" being produced by Theatre West, the oldest membership theatre company in Los Angeles - a company founded years earlier by a small group of actors, among them Betty Garrett. Betty was in the cast as well and I cannot tell you how thrilled to be on a "bill" with her. (The photo above is of the cast. Betty is in the wicker chair. I am sitting with a white ruffle on my dress). She was marvelous to watch. The part required she spend the entire show in a wheelchair and I have to tell you that had to have been a challenge as she was so completely full of energy. But she was gracious, giving and warm and incredibly funny.

Once during rehearsals we were staging the opening of the play and the director was trying on a number of ideas. I had been cast as one of the "Quintet", the "greek chorus" of the show, and as we sang the overture - a sort of light opera aria - he asked us to lead, one by one, all the principle characters to the stage and set them in place where they would "freeze" until the first scene. But his idea also included that they would all be blindfolded with pastel scarves illustrating their "blindness" to themselves. On the final note of the overture, we were to pull the blindfolds off the players and they would begin the scene. Once we finished blocking that portion of the show, had run it for flow and were ready to move on to the next scene, Betty, who had been following directions and doing what the director asked, stood from the wheelchair and said: "Good. Now in the second act, we'll all be deaf!" I almost wet my pants. Needless to say, the blindfolds were scrapped. And it was a wonderful, successful, long running production. And every one of us loved being in that show.

I was voted into the membership after that production and had the thrill of being part of Betty's musical comedy workshop. Every Thursday night a group of us from the company would come with our music charts to work out musical performance. I loved being a part of this class. I loved to get up and give my all for Betty - hoping she would approve but anxious for her advice - as she was always right. She knew how to cut to the core of it - she knew instantly what was missing or off. But if you ever gave a performance that completely won her over it was heaven. She was a master at giving you power and confidence and self-esteem. But she was honest. If she didn't like something - you'd hear it but never in a way that was painful. I remember one night an actor who finished a particularly self indulgent performance stood waiting for praise. Instead, Betty said with her sweet laugh: "David, you are in love with the smell of your own perfume!" (Again, I nearly wet my pants.) Occasionally she would get up on the stage and sing and dance and kick her lithe leg high above her head - well into her 70's. And I felt so thrilled to be in the presence of this tour de force - to share the stage with her - this woman who had left an indelible mark in stage and film.

I attended a few parties or gatherings at her wonderful, big, comfortable home filled with mementos from her career. They were lively and smart and festive. This was the home in Laurel Canyon that she shared with her husband, Larry Parks - an enormously talented actor whose film career was cut short and abruptly by Joseph McCarthy and the House of Un-American Activities back in the 50's. They survived that nightmare, with their two sons, and were together until his death in the mid-70s. I had known this about her life from all the reading I had done about film history back when I was a teenager but she told this story in a one-woman show I saw her perform about 20 years ago. She told it with tenderness and humor. And she moved on.

Betty died today. She was 91. Grace came to tell my my friend Cyndy was on the phone with the message that she had sad and important news. I imagined many who might have died as I walked to the phone, but I was shocked when she told me it was Betty. It never occurred to me that Betty could die. She was such a large presence that it was shocking again to realize that it had been about 12 years since I had seen her.

About 20 years ago, Betty sent me the music to a song she had written with a note saying: "Valri, I would love to hear you sing this". I was overwhelmed by such a compliment. But I was in midst of taking on a new life, with three babies and a new husband and I never made it back to Betty's musical comedy workshop. I regret that I never got around to singing her song. Right now, I regret it more than I can say.

I knew Betty for only a short time but she was a fascinating person to talk to. She led an eventful and interesting life. I will always remember her in her comfortably stylish clothes, a long scarf around her neck, her shock of white hair as she sat in the dark theatre, notebook in her lap and feet on the chair in front of her - taking notes and giving from her wealth of talent.

But most of all, the miracle of Betty is that she truly never grew old. Never. Betty lived all 91 youthful years fully. She has moved on but I have no doubt she is still living fully.

Much love and gratitude to you Betty. I am going to find that song.

Valri Jay Jackson Schwartz Jackson Smith - Schwartz?

This beats EVERY stupid, frustrating or unbelievable thing that has ever happened to me before . This goes down in the "Are You Sure You're Not Making This Whole Thing Up?" file. And while I don't drink anymore, I have been given a compelling and justifiable reason to start again.

After being laid off last month and losing my insurance, we were in the process of rolling over onto the Screen Actors Guild health plan through Bob. I was so excited - the insurance is excellent - better than what I had with my company - and all we had to do to get enrolled is provide birth certificates for the girls to prove them as dependents and a marriage certificate for me and Bob. Getting all the documents together was easy due to the fact that I had set up files a few years back. All birth certificates were right where they should be - but missing was a marriage certificate.

Bob and I got married at San Francisco City Hall on August 2, 1991. My mother-in-law and brother-in-law signed as witnesses, and my friend Cyndy was there to witness as well. It is my belief that we obtained the license in Los Angeles County. In fact, I am fairly sure of it because there were three babies at home in Van Nuys (where we lived) and we couldn't take a real honeymoon so we decided to take advantage of a really short business trip I had coming up in San Francisco. I could write off the trip and then make a little "wedding weekend" of it. And we wouldn't have had time to get a license in San Francisco. We would have needed to get it here. But I can't be certain of that. We arranged for our friend Charles to stay with the girls, and once my business trip was scheduled, we flew up north, rented a car, I did a little business in the city on Thursday, we got married on Friday (having made an appointment to do so with the San Francisco City Hall), spent two nights in Napa, and flew back home on Sunday. All of this is recorded on video - our trip up there, the ceremony, our honeymoon - to say nothing of photographs, etc. There is even a photograph of Bob and me signing the certificate. But where that certificate is - I have no idea - and this isn't the kind of document one typically "misplaces". Or one wouldn't think. But then, "one" isn't me.

"One" would also think, though, that obtaining a record like this is relatively simple. Not so. At least not in this household. I went through Vitalcheck - an online service that will facilitate getting what we need and I filled out the online form but of course, we have to get a notarized form to accompany the online portion. Oh, and it will take a bloody month! Okay - that's a headache but I suppose I can wait. But gnawing at me was the possibility that I was going to the wrong Hall of Records because I cannot say for absolute certain where the license was actually purchased. And it would be a real drag to wait a month only to hear "we cannot locate the license you are looking for out of this location". I mean, I've got the ring. I've got the photos. I've got the mortgage. Isn't that enough? Apparently not.

So I start paying $6.95 here and $7.90 there to online records services that tell me they can locate any birth, death, divorce or marriage record on file for anyone and so, I figure, they can identify the Hall of Records our license is buried at. And guess what? After several service fees I have learned that NO ONE has our license! I finally get through to one of the services and this guy and I are on the phone and he starts checking.

"What name were you married under?", he asks.

"Valri Jackson", I tell him.

"I'm not finding anything there. What did you say your husband's name was?"

"Robert Smith"

"No, I don't have anything here for you and Robert Smith"

"Did you check San Francisco?"

"Let me see. Can you hold for a moment.... No, nothing there. Were you ever married to a Barry Schwartz?"

"Yes, yes, that's me. I had thought I had gone back to my maiden name after the divorce but maybe the license is registered under that name!"

"No. But I do show your marriage license to Mr. Schwartz. But I don't show a record of divorce. You said you divorced Mr. Schwartz?"

"YES OF COURSE! I couldn't have gotten a new marriage license without a legal divorce now could I?"

"Well I show no record of another marriage license."

"You mean the record shows that I am still married to Barry?"

Silence.

"It is the only record I show."

Excuse me????????????

So where does this leave me? Well perhaps I'm single. Or perhaps I am married to my ex. Or perhaps I am an unwitting polygamist. Hmmmm.

Okay then - let the medication begin!

I called my ex-husband, Barry, and he is going to look for copies of the divorce papers (because

of course I don't have those either) but he assures me that he filed the papers himself in Burbank. And he is a responsible person, so I am comforted. But I had a million things to do today and I got none of them done. None! BECAUSE I - APPARENTLY - AM NOT MARRIED! At least not to the man who fathered my children. Instead, maybe to the man in this photo - circa 1981. A great guy but - well let's just say there's no going back. I can only imagine what he is thinking of all this right now. (Hi, Barry! Pretty funny, huh? You're laughing at all of this, right? And hey - would you mind throwing me on your insurance until we get this mess settled? I may still qualify under you and I'm due for the annual girl appointments...)

Of course, all of this is a comedy of errors (did I say comedy?) Because of course I am divorced. And Bob and I did pay for and received a marriage license. And we were legally married in the city of San Francisco - by a judge - nearly 20 years ago. With people there. And video. Its just that somehow, there is a snag in record keeping by us and, seemingly, the State of California.

So tomorrow Bob and I will go, in person, to City Hall in Van Nuys, the likely homeland of the paper which began this 20-year for-better-or-for-worse story and for the next four weeks, while we wait for them to dig us out of the archives, I will be living without health insurance and in a state of marriage limbo. And based on what they find, or don't, I may be sending out wedding invitations. And if that is the case, I will register with a variety of bridal registries. I need sheets and I would like crystal. All mine from the last go around are broken.

I figure I may as well get something out of this mess. I'll keep you posted.