Distractions are everywhere. Why just recently my husband and I were talking about how easily we get distracted from our dreams. Email. Facebook. Television. Laundry. The kids. A sunny day. It takes a lot of motivation and willpower to stay FOCUSED on the task at hand. As you’ll read below, after making the big, brave move to Cali to pursue my show biz career, I got bombarded by enticements leading me astray. There were snakes in my new Garden of Eden, and I bit the apples. You, too, may find yourself giving in to temptation and getting off target from time to time. It happens. Big deal. Keep your eyes on the prize, hop right back on course, and win this race. And be sure to enjoy the view along the way.
Please enjoy your next excerpt from
Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl’s Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes
by Kristi Lynn Davis
Once adequate income and hygienic housing were acquired, I began to acclimate to my new surroundings. I had moved to Del Mar during peak time—summer—when it was flooded by tourists, many coming down from Los Angeles to rent beach houses or hit the Del Mar racetrack for racing season. The one main street in town included a delightful mix of funky little shops, cafés, coffee houses, art galleries, independent bookstores, boutiques, seafood restaurants, expensive gourmet dining establishments, and waterfront luxury hotels, to support the influx of people with deep pockets. The city’s oceanfront also offered some “gnarly waves, dude,” so you could walk down the street any day and find buffed, tan, young surfers changing in and out of their wet suits by their cars on the side of the road. It was good to keep an eye on them as occasionally one would accidentally let his towel slip.
In addition to all the surfers, famous triathletes were a dime a dozen given the superior training conditions: year-long gorgeous weather, mountains for cycling, and the ocean for swimming. Famous or not, it seemed that everyone ran races or mountain-biked on the weekends, worked out daily, juiced, practiced yoga, got massages, and saw a therapist. Many women sported fake sets of perfect, perky, bulbous breasts. Clearly, the body was highly revered here. There was no shortage of buffed physiques. As a result, every untoned muscle on my body suffered from low self-esteem. Something had to be done. And quickly.
Working out became high on my list of priorities, not only so that I’d fit in, be accepted, and be beautiful like everyone else, but also because there was so much I wanted to eat, without getting fatter. The influence of nearby Mexico was as strong as a Habanero chili pepper, and there was plenty of fabulous Mexican food to be found: savory fish tacos made of flaky white fish nestled in a bed of crispy cabbage slaw with a squirt of lime juice and salsa verde all pocketed in a soft corn tortilla, crisp and salty tortilla chips to dunk in salsa fresco (diced tomatoes, onion, peppers, and cilantro), and overstuffed burritos with garlicky shredded beef, refried beans, rice, and guacamole smothered in cheese and sour cream and washed down with a tangy margarita. Olé!
The word “cilantro” became an important addition to my vocabulary, and if either cilantro or some type of hot pepper wasn’t in my meal it was probably only my morning scone. I cranked up the heat on my taste buds and craved spicier and spicier foods. Having grown up with such gastronomic delicacies as Jell-O, Velveeta cheese, Oscar Meyer bologna, and casseroles based on Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup, these fresh, foreign foods blissfully expanded my palate.
I enthusiastically soaked myself in this exotic culture like I was basking in the warmth of the sun. Spanish was the second language, and I wished I knew how to “hablar español.” Southern California was a place where Mexicans, who had risked their lives crossing the border illegally, slaved away as fruit pickers or worked secretly in the kitchens of popular restaurants. Homes had roofs made of terra cotta tiles and were often decorated in Southwestern turquoise and salmon colors. Even the vegetation spurred my soul: palm trees galore; beach areas covered in thick-leaved, green ice plants with magenta blooms; masses of large trumpet-shaped hibiscus flowers in red, orange, yellow, pink, purple, and white; spiky Mojave yucca plants; fences lined with vibrant, papery Bougainvillea; cheerful flocks of Bird of Paradise flowers proudly displaying their orange plumes; night-blooming jasmine seductively scenting the air. Even the freeway medians and roadsides were lush with lemon-yellow and hot-pink flowering bushes. This piquant, tropical paradise felt worlds away from the gray, frigid Michigan of my youth.
The people scene enthralled me as well. I was fascinated by anyone who had shunned the normal life of nine-to-five jobs, broken all of the rules, and risked everything to find something better. Many of these people were artists who showed their artistic creations at Intarsia Gallery where I worked. Take Molly, for instance. She was a handsome, thirty-ish, tall, leggy, tan runner with a short, black, pixie haircut, who painted abstract designs on silk neckties and scarves. When hanging out in Paris some years earlier, she had seen an advertisement for silk-painting classes in the back of a magazine. She learned the trade and now made a living selling her hand-painted ties and scarves in shops around San Diego. She also cooked for a family or two and would travel with them on their boats as their private chef. I collected delicious recipes from her: basil beer bread, mint-chocolate brownies, carrot cake with cream cheese frosting, and ginger-soy chicken (chicken breast marinated in soy sauce, lemon juice, fresh grated ginger root, minced garlic, and a touch of sugar and then grilled).
Another quiet, unassuming, Librarian-like artist who intrigued me sold Chinese brush paintings, which consisted mainly of graceful, purposeful, abstract, thick, black brush strokes with a splash of red. She taught classes from her beautiful home so, out of curiosity, I joined in. The mood was very zen. We meditated while mixing our black ink in slate dishes, counting every stir. After reaching some ridiculous number (it felt like one million), we were allowed to stop the stirring ritual and start painting. By this time we were in a self-induced trance. Fresh, whole strawberries were served along with Chinese tea in delicate Chinese porcelain cups. We ended the afternoon in the artist’s lovely, peaceful, flower garden with a session of tai chi. I was a tiger.
Del Mar also had a captivating dating scene, peppered with men unlike any I’d met in the Midwest. My boss, twenty years my senior, had been wooing me—a flattering prospect, but not the wisest choice, perhaps, given our age difference and that fact that he had the ability to fire me. I decided I needed the job more than the dalliance, so I passed on him and instead dated Matt—a hunky, long-haired, thirty-something artist whose work was displayed at the gallery. His big-ticket items were stunning, large, plaster wall hangings—bas relief sculptures of wild horses made to look like antique relics using paint and fake cracks. Being situated in a horse-racing town, horse art was a big seller. But what really intrigued me were Matt’s travels down to South America to make plaster replicas and rice paper rubbings of Mayan and Incan designs. He gifted me a rice paper rubbing of a pregnant woman and a miniature sculpture entitled “Bondage” of a long-haired slave in a loin cloth kneeling with an arched back. Matt’s accent was a mixture of Stanford-educated academic and California surfer dude. He was also a runner, of course. He took me to Tijuana to shop, eat, drink tequila, and be accosted by small, pesky, insistent Mexican children selling Chicklets. I returned home chewing gum, carrying two bottles of cheap Kahlua, and covered in a layer of grime. Matt was certainly captivating, but the relationship didn’t make it much past Tijuana.
For a short time, I dated an extremely handsome Top Gun fighter pilot and even got to visit the officer’s bar at Top Gun air force base where they filmed scenes from the Tom Cruise-Kelly McGillis film Top Gun. One of my date’s instructors actually flew a plane in the flick. Having spent many a movie drooling over Tom Cruise since high school, I was in awe of it all. My date was debatably as hot than the diminutive movie star. Sadly, even though his gun may have been the tops, the relationship didn’t fly.
Aside from meeting groovy new people, I spent most of that first year working at the art gallery while taking the odd dance class. I found a professional studio in downtown San Diego, but getting there was inconvenient, finding parking was a pain, and the lack of instructors who satisfied my needs made the effort not worth my while. I tried a studio a few towns north of Del Mar that had a couple of excellent teachers, but I was too tired to travel all that way after working at the gallery all day. At either studio, fitting classes into my schedule was a task, and my motivation was weak. Finally, I started teaching aerobics and a few dance classes at a nearby gym, figuring I might as well get paid to workout. For the most part, I was spending all my energy paying rent and getting adjusted to my new surroundings.
To be honest, I had also become highly distracted by my persistent boss, Adam—a forty-five-year-old, tan, athletic, Jewish, ex-hippie—who finally persuaded me to go out with him. In addition to designing and owning a gorgeous art gallery, he was also a woodworker who handmade exquisite furniture adorned with colorful, Southwestern inlaid designs in the studio behind his house on the hillside overlooking the ocean. He was both creative and energetic, a combination of personality traits that compelled him to constantly reconfigure the interior and exterior of his stunning home, which he embellished with a collection of provocative African and Southwestern artifacts.
Adam wasn’t afraid to try whatever intrigued him. At one point in his life he studied to become a psychotherapist. At another, he spent a few years on an Ironman team, just training—running, biking, and swimming—for the Ironman race in Hawaii. He even started a health-food restaurant back when I was just a toddler. Now he owned a retail art gallery, and his daily work attire was khaki shorts and a good-quality Hawaiian shirt. Adam was a native Los Angeleno; his father had been the agent to Willie Shoemaker—one of the most successful and famous horse jockeys in history. Adam’s family had a box at the Del Mar Race Track, where he took me on the momentous Opening Day. Adam knew everyone in town and was extremely sociable. He lived life the way that made him the happiest, disregarding the opinions of the outside world. I envied that.
So, I gave in to his advances, against my better judgment of dating a man so much older. It was gratifying to be desired by this worldly man about town, and being on some tenuous mission to find myself, I allowed myself to experiment. Let’s face it, I was lonely, too. My free time was now spent hanging out with this long-time Del Martian who wined and dined me; taught me about running and cycling and art; and took me on exotic trips to Hawaii, Banff, and Las Vegas, on gallery art-buying excursions to San Francisco and Scottsdale, and on ski vacations to Whistler and Mammoth. The man had exquisite taste and bought me wonderful gifts as well. Once we hooked up, I was immediately welcomed into Adam’s circle of fascinating friends. This gossipy, slightly dysfunctional, small town functioned like a soap opera, and I was now part of the melodrama. my new social life kept me from wallowing in unsolicited solitude, as my sister Cindy was deeply focused on her writing and often unavailable. I was living the high life.
And yet I was discontented. I wasn’t doing anything in entertainment like I had envisioned. This would’ve been a great retirement lifestyle, but I still wanted to make something of myself and utilize my potential. But how?
Life is seductive, but so is the promise of your dreams coming true. Now get off this blog, and take a step toward accomplishing your goals. Thanks for reading.
On your mark…get set….go!
Kristi
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