Champagne Tales

S ince my career began, I’ve forced myself to disconnect on every vacation I take. No email. No phone calls. Minimal text messaging. Minimal social media. How can I resist posting an Instagram photo from time to time? Other than that – I try to completely check out. But I’ve always given everyone a fair warning, usually starting weeks in advance. Usually I say something like, ‘When I’m out, I will not be checking email. So don’t try and find me. Let me know what you need this week.’ It feels like a very un-American thing to do. Completely disconnecting. But it’s a lesson I learned early in my career – to embrace the 10 days of vacation I get each year and truly unplug and recharge. Work hard play hard.  I’ve never been faced with what has happened the past 9 days. For the past 9 days, I have been without a cell phone. Completely 100% unreachable via cell phone or text message. I left my phone in Chicago from a fabulous wedding weekend, and couldn’t get it back until tomorrow...

I had a dream. Years ago, as I sat in a trivial English class with no windows in the entire room of my high-school, and I was instructed to write myself a letter for where I would be in 10 years. It was thoughtless work at the time. Mundane. However, I went through with the assignment and wrote myself the letter. Almost a year ago I was home in Chicago and stumbled across the letter and could not resist the temptation to open it.  Inside were the dreams of a 16 year old with dreams of adventure and love. Two words that make my heart sing in this world 10 years later. I sit here on this stormy night in Mexico City, watching and listening to the thunder outside, as rain pours above my head while sitting at the hotel bar sipping a Malbec wine. Comforts of home swim in my head with each sip of my favorite wine. I smile as I look up to the dark sky. The rain pounds above me on the window above, and I realize the 16 year old Kelly would be proud of me. As a culture, we tend to list...

The following is a work of fiction, and a continuation of the previous posts, Chapters 1-6:  Companionship has a funny way of lingering. Even hours after someone is gone, you can still hear their laugh, smell their sweet cologne, or see lip marks on the rim of their wine glass. I left the party after literally saying the exact and simple phrase, "hello, how are you?" to two other individuals. That was my quota for the evening. I left the party and immediately took off the tall shoes I was wearing when I walked into my bungalow. I hadn't worn any type of wedge or heals in what felt like decades, when my feet used to endure the pain of heels for hours while dancing. I was walking the short distance to my back deck barefoot, already with a lit cigarette in my hand. I told myself I had earned it after this evening. The companionship of talking with the sweet girl lingered in my head. Sure, I had interacted with strangers these past few months - waiters at restaurants...

With the new year, brings new perspective on life. Take a break from my book, and instead take a peak into my words and soul...  Her head was a whirlwind of emotions. She couldn't think straight even though she was completely sober. She could hear her favorite song rippling in the background of her thoughts. She was smiling and felt like she could fly. So much anxiety had crept into her life this past year. So many responsibilities. So much loss, but oh, oh so much love had snuck in. She was a whirlwind of emotions as she looked out the window of her tiny apartment, the remnants of a vanilla latte still lingering on her tongue. It was more than an adrenaline rush that swept through her. Years of regrets swept through her brain as she closed her eyes and tried to leap free. She looked out that window and felt like a little kid again - just for those remaining two minutes and forty three seconds of guitar and lyrics. In that moment, she felt like the little girl she once was...

The following is a work of fiction, and a continuation from the previous posts, Chapters 1-5: I walked into the house wearing my black dress, and immediately was greeted by a sea of smiling faces. Everywhere I looked, it looked like fake smiles were plastered onto the faces of these strangers. I immediately regretted my decision coming here as I saw there was a dining room table where we would be seated this evening. I had envisioned the evening standing only – standing while drinking my cocktail and standing while I held onto appetizers passed around. I hadn't dared think of how I was going to endure an entire evening seated next to others. With that type of setup, it wasn't as easy for me to make a quick and early exit from the party. I was destined for failure. "You must be Elizabeth, I'm Sue Ellen and this is my husband John," the woman stretched out her hand with her fake smile plastered across her face. So she and her husband had known her name, contrary...

The following is a work of fiction, and continuation from the previous posts, Chapters 1-4:   I would be lying if I said I didn't go to the party thrown by my neighbors that Friday. However, if someone had asked me, I would have pretended not to be interested in attending. But my curiosity had peaked when I held that invitation in my hand at my mailbox, and had been sealed after the girl had introduced herself to me. I had starred at my closet for what felt like a couple hours as I fretted over what to wear. I hadn't been to one of these in years. I hadn't been into someone else's home in a few years. I hadn't talked socially with others in God knows how long. If I had had my entire wardrobe with me that were hanging on lonely racks back in Los Angeles. If I had had that entire closet, I would have spent half a day trying to decide what to wear. My entire closet was a beautiful story – it was filled with cocktail dresses that had danced with famous souls, su...

The following is a work of fiction, and a continuation from the previous posts, Chapter 1-3: The next few days looked exactly like the past few months – sleeping in, runs and walks on the beach, gluing my eyes to a book, intricate dinner feasts made and prepped for one person, lots of wine, and vodka sodas. I had turned my life into somewhat of an auto pilot with these activities being my daily rituals. It was almost as if I was living a gray daze. I was in denial about my future, and even more petrified to look at my past. One evening after I had been on a walk for a couple hours, I stopped at the end of my driveway, and checked the mailbox. There had hardly been any worthwhile mail thus far my stay there. Most of it had been spam, anything from oil changes, grocery coupons, or advertisements intended for the owner of the house I was renting from. I continued to have my mail sent to my current address in Los Angeles, and had my assistant, Mary, who I wildly overpaid collect and o...