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non-“name,” and we were independently financed. Rita was always adamant that I must play the lead—we became very good friends over the course of the production and since. Both Tom and Rita treated me with the utmost esteem and truly like a peer. Gary Goetzman, an independent producer Tom was wise to partner with, forming their company Playtone, was incredibly respectful and caring. I tell everyone: Rita, Tom, and Gary treated me like gold before that movie made a dime. They let me be in on every aspect of the film from editing to mixing to marketing. I asked boneheaded questions and learned a lot. It was a protracted, laborious production to complete yet clearly turned out to be enormously rewarding. I broke into an industry that had told me loud and clear I didn’t belong, and found success because I was tenacious, assertive, and obstinate.
    During this entire time in Los Angeles and even during the filming of the movie, I was in the process of trying to have a baby. I’ll spare you the gory details, but the miscarriages affected me deeply. I had never failed at anything before. I had moved to the States, gotten my green card and dual citizenship, written a movie, and played the lead role. How could I do all this but not make a baby?
    This thought keeps repeating itself right now, as I white-knuckle grip my steering wheel. The rainstorm pounds and howls against my windshield. I dead-eye stare out and think about the stubbornness and determination that led me to getting the film made. It’s the same tenacity that will ultimately not let me turn back now. I will keep driving through this frightening rainstorm and I will go to that fertility clinic again.
    I guess I’m trying to explain the personality glitch that would make me put myself through these IVF treatments.
    Thirteen times.

• 3 •
    When?
    More than a year later, I’m lying in a murkily lit room of artificial tranquillity, getting a headache from a cloying waterfall. Or maybe it’s a mix-tape of fake waterfall sounds. Oh, here comes the Hindu chanting, which makes me think of passive-aggressive yoga people who bow “namaste” to the instructor then push past the rest of us out the door.
    The ersatz waterfall’s cacophony is drumming into the bone of my forehead. I’m supposed to feel soothed and lulled into relaxation, but it’s hard to do anything but stare at the voodoo acupuncture needles in my stomach.
    In addition to the fertility doctors, I am now seeing another recommended Eastern medical genius who guarantees he can make my eggs stronger.
    It’s all I do now—try to make stronger eggs. I am on IVF #9.
    Oddly, I have it all in perspective. I refuse to cry. I don’t feel sorry for myself. I don’t consider my situation so tragic. I am almost ashamed that this is taking up so much time. Especially when I read the letters from nice people who tell me things such as My Big Fat Greek Wedding cheered them up when they lost their jobs, or they took the DVD with them when they were deployed. Or they watch it at night when they are caring for their sick parents . . . or since they lost a spouse.
    I am astonished at the amount of pain people experience and how they have managed to go on. This is why I tell myself to buck up and be grateful I have the time and finances to do these treatments.
    So I rest. I take vitamins. I drink daily jugs of toxic mud juice masquerading as “health tea.” I try to avoid tension. But it’s difficult to remain calm during this process that is not working, plus completely ignore anything to do with my career.
    Every door in Hollywood has flung open. Opportunities for a sequel rush at me. I had signed a deal for a TV show before the movie was released, but now it feels as if I could cash in on the “Big Fat” franchise forever, with cookbooks to ethnic dance DVDs. I don’t want to.
    I can’t work anyway. I just turned down a modeling piece for Vogue magazine because I am hiding the bruises the