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Gentling Yourself Through The No’s
By Molly-Ann Leikin
One of my contacts in Nashville gave me a blunt “no”.
“Can’t use it, Molly.”
What?
I read that email at 6:02 in the morning.
There’s never a good time for a no, even when armed with a fresh bag of York Peppermint patties and Brad Pitt, or his Jewish counterpart, Sheldon Finklefarb.
“I’m passing on your song, Molly”.
YOU’RE WHAT??
My first instinct is always to think I blew it. I’ve peaked. I’m over. Can’t write anymore.
Better be a Senator. Call Bloomingdales, get some SenateWear, including those little pumps in assorted, sensible colors.
Look Lawmaker.
“Can’t use it, Molly”.
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
Has the man lost his mind?
I started throwing stuff. Pillows first. Shoes. Lots and lots of shoes, baby. Towels. More pillows, but nothing breakable, because although the sound of terra cotta pots shattering is dramatic, whatever self-control I could muster reminded me of That Morning In The Eighties when what’s his name with the Blue-Eyes ran off with someone else, and I took a hammer to the orange poppy dinnerware he’d given me, smashing the entire set for eight.
A soft, sane, persistent voice, however faint, reminded me this morning to look at My List. Read your List, Molly. Read your goddamn List.
I wrote it on a calmer, quiet day, making copies that were scotch taped all over the house for national emergencies. The Lists are on my bathroom mirror. Oven door. In my wallet, the glove compartment of my car, in my gym bag, dangling in duplicate over my computer, and folded into my favorite pair of white Nike 843’s.
The List says:
l. What do they know?
2. Watch this song, like so many others, go on to become a smash. Then how stupid will they feel when I’m on the way to the Grammys and pass them selling stolen jewelry, again, on the Wilshire West exit of the 405?
3. I know my song is a killer. It wasn’t written by a petunia. I know it’s good. And I’ve never had a hit that wasn’t turned down a thousand times before somebody realized it was right for his/her project.
4. Scream, yell, swear into your voicemail. Vent it. Vent it. Vent it.
5. Racewalk up La Vista’s almost perpendicular hill, I-podding the instrumental-only “Parsifal”. Cranked. Richard Wagner knew. He got it. Crank the “Parsifal” and burn it off. Absolutely burn off the tantrum.
6. If you’re still livid after La Vista, turn right around and climb all the way to the top again. Scream at the seagulls. But get it out. Burn it off. Burn it off.
7. Stretch after the hike. Not just a little. You know your back. Don’t be stupid, Molly. Stretch.
8. Now go to the health club. Sit in the steam room. Breathe deeply, let yourself cry. Nobody in the stream room will notice. They’re too busy carb-loading for some half marathon in a third world country whose name they can’t spell.
9. Drink lots of water. No, more than lots. Then take a yoga class. Choose one that does not have music. You need silence.
10. After yoga, meditate for 15 minutes in your car to keep the serenity. Then drive home, carefully, Molly, and make yourself a grilled cheese sandwich on Challah.
11. Eat the sandwich while standing barefoot on the lawn under your jacaranda tree. Be where good things and miracles are growing. Let them begin to heal you.
12. Change the sheets in the guest room to the good polka dot Yves Delorme’s, slip into bed with Baby Bear, the smallest and most loving of your collection, watch “Mad About You” reruns so you can remember what laughing out loud feels like. Then tune in “Ellen”, and “Oprah” and do not, I repeat not, answer telephones. Throw all them into the dryer. Let Maytag take care of my stuff this afternoon.
13. Give yourself the day to heal. You might need another. Maybe three, max. Remember, it’s too hard on your back to be that furious longer.
14. My only job today is to pamper myself, bolster my self esteem, and crank up the “good for you’s” so I can operate on full, not desperate.
The yutz passed on my song? His grey mater is absolutely leaking.
After “Oprah”, I remembered that Trader Joe had $1.19 daffodils in a big barrel outside the store, so I roared over and filled my Lexus with as many bouquets as there were for sale, then put back a few for someone else who might also have gotten a terrible no. On the way home, I laid a few anonymous bouquets on doorsteps of people I didn’t even know who might’ve needed a little miracle.
I mean someone could be happy today, even if it wasn’t going to be me.
On the way back from the daffodils, I did my “good for me’s”.
Good for me. I flossed.
Good for me. I remembered to take my bathing suit out of my gym bag before it got mildew and died.
Good for me. I didn’t hit anybody parking, this time.
Good for me. I didn’t throw anything breakable into the fireplace.
Good for me. I refused to read the newspaper and get even more depressed.
Good for me. All my china and glassware is in tact. So far.
Good for me for remembering to do my good for me’s.
Tonight, I’m going to have real food for dinner – not a stand-up-at-the-open-fridge-unfolding-mystery-moldy-foil-wrap-surprises. In fact, I already made my Gelson’s list, which includes purchasing fresh pea pods, a great steak and an Idaho potato that’s really from Idaho and not Bangalor, to double bake until the skin is extra crispy
And I’m going to use butter. Not some dumb substitute that’s supposed to taste as good. It doesn’t. And I deserve a real meal.
You bet I do.
Even if morons can’t hear hits.
I made one phone call, to Pedro, my grumbling hophead gardener, who pulls weeds, keeping a timesheet like he’s an entertainment lawyer. I’ve been aching to fire him since the day I hired the man. Well, I finally did it. A good rampage has it’s benefits.
Pedro can deal with his rejection his own way. Meanwhile, I still can’t believe that guy on 16th Avenue South said no. He said no! He said no!!!
Is the man hearing-impaired?
I bet he’s axed tomorrow, when I’ll remind myself that’s one less no that I’ll have to live through on my way to the next yes. Meanwhile, today’s Molly Day. I’m indisposed, curled up in a little ball under two down comforters, wearing one purple and one lime green fluffy sock.
I wrote a great song. Period.
Send it to somebody else, Molly. A hundred somebody else’s.
Success is still the best revenge.
There is a version of this process that will get you through your no’s, too. But hands off Sheldon Finklefarb. He’s mine.
© 2007 Molly-Ann Leikin
songmd@songmd.com
800-851-6588
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