Oh Mammy!

One of the hallmarks of a woman turning 40 is getting her first mammogram.  I warn you now, if this is NOT an experience about which you’d like to read, just stop right now.  I mean it.  Get up.  Walk away from the computer.  Put down your phone (or whatever device you’re using).  Just.  Stop.  Reading.  Now. 

You still there?

Then I can surmise that you are either A) not squeamish about such things, B) curious about my experience or C) a pervy interloper who just wants to hear me talk about my breasts.  Whichever of these you may be, welcome.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you. 

I had heard tell of the horrors of the mammogram for years.  Not being aware of any history of breast cancer in my family, however, I didn’t anticipate requiring one until this year (as opposed to at 35 which is recommended for a patient with a cancer history). This was confirmed after a visit to my gynecologist yesterday (yeah, yeah, TMI.  I know.  Deal with it; we’re already talking about personal health stuff.).  She told me I needed to schedule an appointment with radiology.  The receptionist would give me the number to call.

Now I do not generally get nervous about males in the medical field, but there are some things I would rather discuss with a female (mostly because, hello, they have the same parts).  When I called to schedule the appointment, of course a male answered.  Gulp.  I told him that I needed to make a first mammogram appointment and when could they possibly squeeze me in?  No pun intended.  He laughed and said there was one the next day (today) and to make sure I don’t wear deodorant or lotions as they could mess up the imaging. 

Great…I was going to get my boobs smashed AND I had to stink too?  Aces. 

Flash forward to this morning. 

I started the day with an interview on a local radio talk show to promote the play I am directing.  My pits have a tendency to sweat, so I worried the entire time that the host could smell me.  This is weird, I know, but I am very sensitive to such things.  Plus there were other guests I knew there who kept hugging me….

After the interview I drove to the Radiology office.  The lobby was very calm and serene, yet I grew more nervous (as I am wont to be with doctor-ish kind of stuff)…so of course I kept sweating.  The receptionist asked me to fill out paperwork, verifying that everything was correct, including the emergency contact.  I told her categorically, “NO, my ex-husband is NOT my emergency contact”.  She also asked me if I had a living will.  I wondered why they needed this info anyway.  Was I going to DIE during the mammogram???

The receptionist led me through a maze of hallways to the radiology lab.  Inside the sterile room was a HUGE white and pink machine.  Even with its “cute” color scheme it looked a bit like a vacu-sealer or a “chomper” on an assembly line.  There was a plastic box (like a tray) attached to the front.  The radiologist, a really lovely older woman, glanced at my chest and proceeded to pick a larger tray off the wall where they were stored and to change out the trays. 

Something about me that you may or may not know:  I am really suspicious when it comes to new medical procedures.  I am also really fascinated by the gadgets and gizmos of the medical profession.  I therefore have a tendency to ask five million questions about how different equipment is used.  So of course I asked why she was changing the trays.  Because the trays are used according to breast size and shape, I apparently required a larger one.  Oh baby, oh baby. 

As this was my first mammogram, I really didn’t know what to expect.  I had heard about horrible smashing pain and cold metal plates, but apparently this has changed in the last few years.  Sure, there was the awkward repositioning of my breast (awkward because a stranger was shoving and prodding my chesticles haphazardly into the proper placement in the machine) and being forced to straighten up when the machine moved up higher (no, that is not the direction my boobs point), but honestly, it was over pretty quickly.  There was some discomfort and pressure (smash ANYTHING between two hard surfaces and of course there will be), but mostly pretty harmless. As the pink squash marks on my breasts lightened, I texted one of my best friends, “Blurg.  Just had the mammo.  Ah, time to deodorize.  Lol.” which about summed it up. 

And I did get to see the pictures.  Not for nothing, but daaaaaaamn, my X-Rays is fiiiiine, yo!

Bhahahahahahaha. 

Until my next entry, Lovelies….

Singin' the Imperfection Blues

I am having a day of feeling my imperfections.  I have these occasionally, generally whilst in a fit of boredom, loneliness or extended solitude.  I find myself filled with self doubt about my actions, words, emotions…and sometimes even my sense of self.  It is not a fun place to be. Because I am a woman, however, I can usually blame it on hormones or PMS.  This may or may not be the case, but it feels good to have something tangible that most people understand.

The truth is, however, I just get inside my own head.  Sometimes it is all sunshine and light and fluffy bunnies…then the bunnies grow and multiply and start looking like Gremlins.  There are so many of them, that they choke out the light, forcing me to seek shelter in an abandoned house.  This house is dark and spooky.  The floors are weak and the walls crumbling.  There are noises in this house that cause me unrest, the sounds of incessant scratching and howling.  This house is not safe.  I do not like spending time there.   

I have been told in the past that I have the capability of appearing aloof or distant, even cold.  I have always found this interesting as I have also been described as warm, friendly and approachable.  The truth is, though, I am neither one nor the other.  I am both.  I am both out of necessity and in the best interest of self-preservation.  This is for the very simple reason that, no matter my exterior, I feel things intensely.  When those feelings get overwhelming, I have to work that much harder to lock them down.  I grin and bear it as best I can during the day—and end up spending an angst-filled night (week/month/year) in the ol’ mental House of Horrors. 

I used to think that feeling this intensely was the hallmark of a creative person.  You know, suffering for one’s art and all that.  Perhaps that is part of it, but isn’t that giving creativity a bad rap?  Just because creative people can visualize 50 million different scenarios and re-live them over and over (occasionally through positive outlets such as theater, writing, painting, music, etc.) doesn’t mean they are all plagued by overwhelming emotion—does it?  This seems to be more of a societal assumption in regard to creativity.  Like, to create art one needs passion.  Whatever the hell that means. 

I am working to live my life to the fullest, emotionally, physically and mentally, but have to do so with the knowledge that not everyone is along for the same ride.  Passion can be a scary thing for those who do not have enough of their own—and for those who have too much and cannot handle more.  I, myself, have fallen victim to tremendous passion on numerous occasions.  I gave so much of myself.  I felt so powerfully.  What I got in return was less than satisfying:  Misguided affection and trust, rejection (imagined or otherwise), strained relationships, exhaustion, expectations, harsh realizations, moments of weakness, regret….

At the end of it all, however, I also get something very important.  Understanding. 

My journey is my own, and sometimes, life experiences are just that, experiences.  They may be a catalyst for something more…or they may be something that just happened.  Something to make me say, “Well, that was cool.  Next.”  They don’t have to be Events (with a capital “E”).  The problem is, of course, that I occasionally want so much more than just “an experience”.  I want to get caught up in the emotion…just not consumed by it.   

But then, I am a woman.  I feel things deeply.  And, you know, PMS.  Lol.

Until my next entry, Lovelies….

Pay It Forward...Or At Least Appreciate It!

In the (almost) week since my birthday I’ve been noticing a trend on Facebook toward posts about kindness and appreciation.  One friend posted that a total stranger had paid her toll while she was driving in the Bay Area.  Another friend mentioned that someone had surprisingly paid her fees for a license she required.  These (and more) prompted me to share one of my own experiences. 

Last week I was in Whole Foods buying myself a special treat for my birthday.  There was a man behind me with a single container of yogurt.  He was older, a bit surly and slightly unkempt.  Perhaps it was from the giddy anticipation of enjoying my carrot cake cupcake or because I was feeling particularly generous in light of so much birthday love and kindness, but I decided to purchase his yogurt. 

Here’s the funny thing:  Most people would be pleasantly surprised and graciously accept the gift, but this guy was extremely crabby about it!  He actually tried to snatch the yogurt back from the cashier.  The cashier gently told him, “She’s insisting.”  He begrudgingly consented, mumbling his thanks.  I smiled at him, but he wouldn’t even meet my eye.  He just took his yogurt and walked away, with his head down.  

This of course makes me wonder…was this an unusual act of kindness in his life?  Or was it simply difficult for him to accept the gift?  Was it because the gift was from a stranger?

I wrote earlier about the kindness of strangers, but here, it seems, is another lesson for me to take to heart:  It is not just enough to be kind to others, but to readily accept their kindness with graciousness and appreciation as well.  This is something I don’t do particularly well, depending on the situation. 

For example, my inspirational guru friend has a practice of telling people three things that she appreciates about them.  I love this practice, but I find that on the occasion that she directs her comments toward me I don’t know how to react.  I usually try to downplay her statements, an action which usually irritates her until she says, “Just say thank you.”

I realize that I have no issue with accepting kindness when it comes to “things”, but genuine and sincere compliments about my character or actions are a bit harder to take. I don’t believe this is because of feigned modesty, a lack of confidence, or even some underlying fear that maybe I don’t really deserve them.  Sometimes it is simply that I feel that I am being thanked for something I would have done anyway.  I forget sometimes that not everyone would do some of the things I do.  Some don’t care to, but some just are not able.  This doesn’t make me special or better than anyone else.  It’s just a different skill set or a different outlook.  I like helping or giving to other others and so it feels good when I can. 

That’s not to say, of course, that I don’t want to be appreciated.  Of course I do.  Who doesn’t?  I think I just sometimes also forget that what may seem natural and/or “no big deal” to me can mean the world to someone else. 

On a sadder note, I feel sometimes that my marriage might have ended because I didn’t show enough appreciation to my husband (Quite frankly, I doubt he appreciated me very much either.). It’s not that I wasn’t grateful either for him or the marriage.  I just didn’t tell him very often.  This is something that, admittedly, still sits heavy in my heart…a very glaring “Lesson Learned”.  While I can no longer do anything about that relationship, just imagine how appreciated the next Significant Other will be.  Oh yeah, I am going to appreciate all over that guy. 

So there it is, another Grand Lesson:  be kind, accept kindness and appreciate kindness when you get it. 

Until my next entry, Lovelies….

Oh No, the Big 4-0!

TO 40 AND BEYOND

Well, it’s here.  My 40th birthday. I am officially embarking on the next decade of my life.  Whew, what a lot of pressure!

So as a special birthday treat I am finishing the evening, not with a wild party, but in my pajamas watching Sixteen Candles and reminiscing about my favorite birthday moments of the past 40 years. 

February 13, 1974:  OK I don’t actually remember being born, but you get it. 

February 13, 1982 (Age 8):  I remember having a birthday party at McDonald’s.  I don’t remember who was there or what I got, but I remember the soft serve ice cream.  Even back then I was motivated by food.  I also got my ears pierced that year—and started my love affair with E.T.  Lol. 

February 13, Year Unknown (Age Unknown):  I vaguely remember an Ice Capades party.  I used to really love ice skating and thought I could be a skating star.  Clearly, that didn’t happen as I still don’t ice skate well. 

February 13, 2004 (Age 30):  My now ex-husband planned a surprise party for me at Buca Di Beppo, a cheesy, gaudily decorated Italian restaurant.  It was not only my first (and only?) surprise party, but also the first time I’d ever tried Lemoncello, a tart, yummy bit of alcoholic goodness.  I don’t remember if I’ve had it since.

February 13, 2012 (Age 38):  I was working at Blockbuster Video when I happened to look outside.  There, standing a few stores down was Elvis Presley!  OK, it was actually an Elvis impersonator (who also happened to be a friend of mine).  He and three other members of a vocal quartet were in the shopping center to sing Valentine-Grams in the various shops and offices. He convinced his quartet to come and sing the song, “Teddy Bear” to me, in celebration of my birthday.  Swoon.  

February 13, 2014 (Age 40):  This year’s birthday was pretty low key, yet it has been filled with such outpouring of love and support.  I am overwhelmed by the amount of messages people have sent to wish me well.  Sometimes when we feel our most alone, we are shown how many lives intersect with our own. 

Thank you for that, my friends.    

Until my next blog entry, Lovelies….

40 Days Till 40 (Day 40)

THE FINAL COUNTDOWN

Today, February 12, 2014 marks the last day of my 30’s.  I woke up in the wee hours (around 3am—close to what I call “the Devil’s time”) with what I think might have been food poisoning as my stomach was upset.  Could have just been because I was annoyed to be waking up at 3am.  Ha. 

I decided to read for a bit—a book called Don’t Worry It Gets Worse about a 20-something who meanders through her life and various failed attempts at being an adult.  So, yes, appropriate reading.  I finally fell back asleep around 5am. 

I awakened 3 hours later, deciding that I’d better at least watch SOMETHING from the Winter Olympics.  I turned on the television, mistakenly thinking that they would be airing actual events.  Instead the Olympic “coverage” consisted of interviews with various athletes and the random shenanigans of the Today staff.  How obnoxious.  I got my figure skating fix online.  How weird that my computer had more actual events than the station airing the Olympics.  And what a very, “Back in my day…” statement THAT was.  

Other highlights of the day included a meeting with my fabulous friend and mentor to discuss future creative ventures (SQUEE!), an unfulfilled search for a certain food truck, lunch at the mall, purchasing a fancy new case for my phone, communication with some male friends (because, believe it or not, I do have some), a trip to Target, a rather lengthy but still fun dress rehearsal, petting a puppy, an absolutely beautiful full moon, three…OK, FOUR, spoonfuls of Nutella and writing my final blog of this series. 

Farewell 30’s.  Hello to a new decade. 

Thank you for following me on this journey.  Join me tomorrow for my entry, “Oh No, the big 4-0”.  ;)

Until tomorrow, Lovelies. 

40 Days Till 40 (Day 39)

HAVE A GRATEFUL DAY!

Holy balls, it is only 2 days until my birthday!  For some reason I am all weepy, but then I suppose that is not uncommon.  Birthdays, like the New Year, are a time for taking stock in one’s life and figuring out what to improve, what to eliminate and for what to be grateful. 

As I sit here in my darkened bedroom, typing on my laptop, Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy” is playing on my iTunes.  Coincidentally, the lyrics I hear are  “So you take a look around…at least you got friends.” 

So apparently Prince knows what’s up.  I am definitely grateful for my friends, both because they are my friends, but also because they are so kickass that they inspire me every day.  There are thankfully many of you, but I'd like to give a special (vague yet sincere) shout out to four of you:  my Tom-Hiddleston-obsessed mama bear, my fiery, sassy, redheaded pragmatist, my uber-talented, auburn-haired sassafras (who also introduced me to "Asian Buns") and my favorite extroverted hermit…you’ve helped pull me out of some dark times lately.  Thank you. 

I am grateful for my pink hair.  That probably seems shallow, but my rosy locks make me feel better.  As my hair stylist and I agreed today, there may be sh*t going on in my life, but at least my hair looks happy.

I am grateful to know that I, like Gloria Gaynor, will survive.  I am strong, resourceful and capable…and I keep proving that to be true.  Thank you to everyone who keeps reminding me of that too.   

I am grateful for my ability to have food, shelter, employment and amenities.  I may have to live frugally, but I am not yet destitute—even if it feels that way sometimes.  

I am grateful for my daughter, who gives me a reason to keep fighting, even when I am over it all.  Plus she’s pretty damned funny. 

And finally, I am grateful to everyone who reads my blog.  I started writing this blog to make sense of my random thoughts, but I like knowing you’re there (especially when some of you quote my entries back to me!).  Whether or not you agree and/or commiserate with or are amused by my entries, I thank you for reading…and pity you for now knowing WAY too much about me.

Until tomorrow, Lovelies….

40 Days Till 40 (Day 38)

WHAAAT'S IN THE BAAAAAAAHHHHHHXX?!

I received a package from my mom in the mail today.  Upon opening it I discovered that it contained some of my first birthday presents for the year.   Although I don’t really want for anything (well, except money, but who in lower and middle class America doesn’t want/need more of that?), I, of course, still like getting presents.  Excitedly, I ripped off the wrapping paper.  Inside was a strange assortment of items that, when given individually, might seem relatively unrelated.  When given together, though, they seemed to spell out a very particular message.

Inside the box were the following items:

·      A workbook about the decade in which I was born, the 1970’s 

(My favorite part of the book was the section on “The Seventies Wardrobe”.  Apparently women were wearing either hot pants or Annie Hall style clothes, while men wore either punk rock clothes or bellbottom suits.  Ha.)

·      A picture of me as a little kid about to blow out the candles on my birthday cake (in a frame that said “Birthday”)

·      A craft magazine from the year I graduated High School (with a painted sweatshirt design that was indeed painted on a T-Shirt for me)

·      A tube of “Buxom” waterproof mascara, because, well, uh…it was probably a free sample

·      Various eye and wrinkle creams in a zip-up vinyl pouch from Botox

·      The February 2014 issue of Prevention (the magazine to help you be “Fabulous at 40+”)

·      A CD entitled “Prosperity:  Music and Meditations for Unlimited Abundance” (with a Post-It Note that read, “It can’t hurt to try!”)

·      Magnets with a French theme, including the cover of Le Petit Prince and pictures from Paris (Probably because I speak semi-fluent French?)

·      Four Leaf Clover Earrings and a button that said “Shake Your Shamrocks” (I assume in honor of the trip to Ireland for which I am saving)

·      A flowery heart-shaped pin

·      A book called Sugar Detox about overcoming sugar addiction and eating healthily (the cover of which shows a close up on a pair of hands with the worst manicure I’ve ever seen)

You’ve probably guessed it…this was my “Welcome to your 40’s” Box. 

Not unlike the time she gave me the book 10 Stupid Things Women Do to Mess Up Their Lives (right after I became—briefly—engaged to someone I dated before my now ex-husband), I was reminded that my mother has a funny, if not quirky, sense of humor.

Until tomorrow, Lovelies…. 

*For 2/10/14.  Only 3 days to go!

40 Days Till 40 (Day 37)

BADGE OF THE VAG  

(WARNING:   THIS ENTRY IS NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART)

I was having a conversation with a theater owner about my upcoming performance in The Vagina Monologues.  He asked me, “How come they never do The Vagina Monologues with men? After all, there are all-female casts doing Shakespeare.”

Although I did explain that the purpose of The Vagina Monologues is to bring awareness to FEMALE issues (and that I thought men might have participated in the show before), the conversation didn’t go much further than that.  He was apparently excited about the idea of producing an all-male version of The Vagina Monologues and decided to immediately float the idea to some of the other guys in the theater company. 

In thinking further, however, I realized that I was not overly enthusiastic about this idea.  In fact, I am pretty sure that I downright hated it.  While I think it would be an interesting experiment, there is a pretty major reason for NOT doing the production with male actors:  VAGINAS (or lack thereof). 

I am not saying that men cannot be feminists.  Of course, they can—and should.  Many are.  Hell, I’ve even wanted to produce/act in/direct an all-female version of a Shakespeare play too.  The difference is, in a Shakespeare play (or any other play), a woman would be playing a male character—not a man.  I have done this myself, several times. 

My problem with men doing The Vagina Monologues is that I feel it would lose its impact—especially if it were an all-male cast.  The monologues are supposed to be the stories of REAL women.  The show is not about man-hating (as some assume), but about women learning to love themselves or to survive after the trauma of rape or abuse.  It’s about the coming together of women to celebrate the feminine and to find solidarity in each other (and with society) through their stories.  It is about women having a voice. 

I am sorry, and this is going to sound like extreme gender bias, but how could someone who has never had a vagina ever be able to rant believably about tampons, gyno visits and thong underwear?  Or to commiserate about vaginal discharge?  Or to understand the shame of being raped by one’s husband because the patriarchal society deems it is OK?  Or to feel the embarrassment and exposure of shaving one’s hoo-ha (and therefore feeling like a little girl)?  No, that is not what or all the show is about, but some of the monologues poke fun at or discuss those things (and more) in a way that is specifically female.  While I have seen some male actors who play incredibly plausible females, I worry that an all-male cast would make the show seem more sardonic in nature, like it would poke fun at it…or only create novelty.  In other words, even though men may identify with some of the issues, having an all-male cast could very well go against the entire purpose of the show. 

Seriously, men, if you want to do a show called Conversations with My Penis or Talking Dick to raise awareness for male issues, by all means, go forth.  I will happily support you—but I won’t try to be in your production. 

Women have so few things that are inherently female.  Please just let us have just one damned play.  Hmph.

Until tomorrow, Lovelies….

40 Days Till 40 (Day 36)

ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE…?

My daughter and I were watching a DVD of the movie, Cirque Du Soleil:  Worlds Away.  Basically a compilation of various existing Cirque du Soleil shows, the film, although somewhat slow, was a visual treat.  Unfortunately, though, the full artistry and athleticism of the routines didn’t necessarily translate to my smaller TV screen—as evidenced by the fact that my daughter would become increasingly chatty during the music-only parts (translation:  most of the movie).  She did, however perk up when the film featured scenes and songs from “Beatles Love”.  At one point she started singing along (so proud!).

“All you need is love…and food and shelter and clothes!”

Wait, what?

I asked her about what she’d just sung. 

“Mom, love is not all you need.  You also need food and shelter and clothes.”

I responded with a gasp of dismay. Who had taught her such a thing?  Was it I?  Was it her father?  Was it society?  How on earth could an 8-year-old who obsessively watches Disney princess movies not believe in the romantic notion of Love (with a capital “L”)?  She still believes in mermaids and Santa Claus and unicorns, for goodness sake!  It actually made me quite sad.

I told her that yes, those are indeed things that are needed to survive, but that Love (and that song) is about more than just survival.  It’s about shared affection.  It’s about seeking happiness.  It’s about feeling supported emotionally.  We do need Love, whether from our friends, our family, our significant others or even ourselves.  Heck, I’d even take the Love of a pet.  Love can help us face our darkest days and pull us out of life’s quagmire. 

It’s funny, isn’t it, that I could still believe in Love?  Even through my most emotionally traumatic times, I’ve held on to the notion that there was power in Love.  I've had no doubt that Love existed and could cure so many ills.  While I yearn to find Romantic Love again, I know that I’ve got some pretty d*mned awesome friends.  They show me time and time again that I am not alone.  I am thankful to have them. 

And yet, I am not naïve about Love.  While I want to believe in Hollywood’s cinematic ideas of happily ever after, I am still realistic.  No, Johnny Depp will not be noticing me in a coffee shop and stalking me until I go out with him, but hey, who wants a stalker?  Ha. 

I hope that my daughter never gives up on the idea of Love.  How else will she understand the value of compassion and sympathy?

Until tomorrow, LOVElies….

*For 2/8/14.  Why are there not more hours in the day?

40 Days Till 40 (Day 35)

SHE’S THE MAN

I’ve had a very bizarre realization over the last week or so.  You might remember from a previous blog entry a conversation I had with a friend of mine (a woman I often affectionately refer to as my guru).  She shared with me something someone told her:  by picturing oneself surrounded with positive male energy it would open the doors to potential romance.  We can draw to ourselves what we want or need, right?

Almost immediately, I started feeling that something appeared amiss with my picturing and energy-drawing capabilities.  How does this work?  Do I picture actual men?   Dirty boots and grease stains by my front door?  A big slab of steak on a plate?  What am I supposed to do here? 

But then I realized, and this is going to sound silly, but bear with me…I think I have become the positive male energy in my life.   

Go ahead, laugh.  I’ll wait. 

You done?  OK, let me explain.

It may seem antiquated, but I’ve always thought aggression (not violence), independence and confidence were seen as attractive in a male.  According to societal norms, men are more often thought to be logical and strong with the highest earning power (the breadwinners). 

In other words, every thing that I am—or working to be.  While I do not make a lot of money, I am resourceful and relatively frugal (even if I do have a penchant for the $5 movie bin and colorful scarves).  I do not kowtow to my misery, but keep plugging along because I have to in order to survive.  I am secure in my sense of self, bawdy, opinionated and a natural, if sometimes reluctant, leader.  I am the remover of house-invading spiders and a “fixer” (successful or otherwise).

This is, according to many of my friends, perhaps why my marriage didn’t work:  I was a “man” in the relationship. 

At lunch with a friend today, my friend told me that one of the things that she loves about her new beau is how he makes her feel like a woman.  No, not in a Shania Twain country-pop sort of way, but, instead, taken care of...and feminine.  She admitted that she felt like she had always dominated her former husband, which never satisfied her.  This new beau allows her to be nurturing without begrudging her “mama bear” protectiveness.  They delight in each other’s inner child while still fostering a mature and loving relationship.  Now that sounds like positive male energy. 

She hypothesized that maybe that’s what I’m looking for:  someone like Gaston from Beauty and the Beast without the destructive,  misogynist  assh*le qualities.  You know, a big, burly dude with a heart of gold…like a cowboy who loves puppies…or Kurt Russell in Backdraft (as he’s running in slow mo carrying the little boy to safety).  Not someone to “dominate” me, but someone who can hold his own.  All manly and brawny—with chest hair for goodness sake. 

Hmmmmmm.  Maybe that’s why I have always liked Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew so much (mmmmm, Petruchio). 

Until tomorrow, Lovelies….

*For 2/7/14.  Posted late, but worth the wait?  Maybe.  ;)

40 Days Till 40 (Day 34)

WORRISOME HABIT

With a faint air of melancholy still lingering from the previous day, I was, not surprisingly, again at a loss as to what to write.  I received support and kudos from unexpected places today (even, amusingly, a fortune cookie) and so I found myself emboldened and supported as I work toward the future.  

Today, I went to meetings for future (and current) projects.  Despite whatever else I may seem, I am a dreamer, if not a planner.  Perhaps the applications of my plans seem spontaneous, but believe me, most of my plans are thought over and through and then over and through again.  I am a worrier. 

In the last few years, my worrying has caused me greater angst than necessary.  In the last few months, however, I have been attempting to stop worrying quite so much.  I am not always successful.  Worrying, however, never accomplishes anything—except bringing me more worry.  And what really is worry, but fear?

So what is it I worry about?  I am sure they are the usual fears that most people have:  loneliness, boredom, inaction, parenthood, money (or lack thereof). Admittedly, last year was a rough one for me.  I felt like my worries drew me into a black hole, sucking out my joy until all I wanted to do was just stay in bed, aimlessly watching television.  I am sure you can understand the difficulty this causes for a relatively happy-go-lucky person.

Which reminds me of a conversation I recently had with a friend of mine about happiness.  This friend is, almost as a rule, the person I go to when I have questions that require an incisive, laser-sharp clarity and rationality.  We were discussing a book called The How of Happiness, which takes a scientific approach to determine one’s level of happiness.  I asked her whether she thought I was “happy”—a bizarre question, as perception is always a finicky little beast.  She responded that for the most part, yes.  I’d just had to deal with a lot of sh*t lately.  Ain’t that the truth?

How best, then, to deal with all of that sh*t?  It is clearly not by worrying about it.  While I cannot yet stop worrying entirely, I am trying to not focus so much time or energy on worrying.  Actions bring about positivity and change more than worry ever could, right?  Right?!  Gah.

Now if only I weren’t so d*mned tired…Ha. 

Until tomorrow, Lovelies….

*For 2/6/14.  Of course, I worried if you even noticed that I didn't post it for two days.  Lol.

40 Days Till 40 (Day 33)

REMEMBER, REMEMBER THE 5^th OF…FEBRUARY

It was not without a certain amount of melancholy that I realized today is February 5^th.  Today, after all, would have been my 14^th wedding anniversary.  Even though I feel I have made great strides since the divorce, I am still dissatisfied with my current romantic situation (uh, if you can call NOTHING a situation) and, as you may know if you read my blog yesterday, with the situation with the ex himself.  Every year that passes I endeavor to find new memories with which to bring an alternate significance to the day. 

3 years ago (in the beginning of the end), I went to Monterey with my daughter—a bittersweet trip since he was supposed to join us but “couldn’t get away from work”.  When we returned from the trip, I was given a “joke” anniversary card depicting a wife yelling at her husband as they were plummeting to their deaths.  Ouch. 

2 years ago, I got a tattoo to commemorate the divorce.  I love it, but it’s still a reminder that I must keep fighting against and healing from heartbreak.  I was, however accompanied by two of my most spiritual and inspirational friends and we had a great brunch after. 

Last year I was working.  My daughter, however, was on a Disney cruise with the ex and his parents.  Don’t even get me started on that one. 

In other words, no overly successful melancholy blockers.  True to form, I didn’t get one today either.

Today, my daughter decided to quit a play for which she begged me to let her audition.  Apparently, she didn’t like her part (too small) and was therefore bored. I, of course, was disappointed. Ultimately, I don’t want to force her to do something that makes her miserable, but you’d better believe that there were conversations about responsibility, commitment, whether or not she had truly tried her best and how “there are no small parts, only small actors”.  We also discussed how difficult it was to move schedules or arrange transportation to accommodate her rehearsals.  I told her, if she makes this decision now, she may not get to participate in future productions with that theater company, either because she doesn’t seem reliable or deserving or simply because I won’t let her.  I doubt she would get any larger roles either. Tough love, maybe, but she will eventually have to realize that every choice she makes in life can affect other people—and herself.  At least I hope she does. 

Something else came from her decision to quit the show:  a realization that sometimes accommodating others’ needs or wants does not always make me happy…or even lead to success.  I flashed on everything I’ve done recently when I’ve felt disappointed or slighted and many of those things came from being accommodating.  It’s hard not to feel selfish saying that, but it’s, at least lately, true. 

But that’s another blog entry for another time, I think.  I am trying to prevent my February 5^th melancholy, not perpetuate it!

Until tomorrow, Lovelies….

40 Days Till 40 (Day 32)

SET ME FREE, WHY DON'T YOU, BABE?

My daughter asked me today when I am planning to move to California.  She claimed that she wants to live there because “They have swimming pools, the beach and Disneyland there.  Plus I can get a dog.”

At first, this may seem like a relatively innocuous conversation.  What you may not realize is that this conversation comes at the beginning of what I fear may become an ugly custody battle.  The ex-husband (the one who brought me to Reno in the first place) has accepted a job back in Southern California.  His company is allegedly allowing him to telecommute for the next couple of months after which time he will move there.  I am not even sure when he will move as he has not communicated any concrete information (other than maybe in March).  Oh, and that he would like to go to mediation to figure out what is happening with the move.

There are so many things that are bothering me about this potential move.  For the sake of my sanity (and yours!), I will not list them all here.  I will only suffice it to say, no, he will not be able to take my daughter without my approval; no, I do not currently want to move back to Southern California (and not just because he thinks it is best); and no, I do not look forward to having to make at least twice as much money just to afford what I currently have (and frankly, I live pretty damn frugally) if I were to move there. I have therefore suggested that with his recent employment record (unemployed for a year then quitting a seemingly good job after only 5 months, but telling me he was laid off) that it would be best if he were to live there alone for at least a year to establish whether he even liked (or could keep) his job and we would discuss it then.  Of course, he would still have visitation for breaks and holidays.  

I cannot help but wonder what would happen if the situation were reversed?  I, too, have applied for jobs in other states, but not without the realization that there would have to be a lot of compromise regarding child custody.  I knew that I would have to make a change, accommodation or sacrifice.  I don’t know that he has had the same forethought.

Currently, we share joint custody with a week on/week off visitation—which, by the way, if your divorce is particularly emotional or difficult, I do NOT recommend.  If you’re like me and you prefer a clean break, you will never be able to get peace from your ex since you will have to see him/her every single damned week.

So maybe that is one positive I can pull from this situation:  If the ex moves, I wouldn’t have to see him all of the time.  Yes, I am also aware of what this means for my daughter.  Frankly, though, I cannot say with all certainty that she wouldn’t be better off for the separation.  Every week she is subjected to a different parenting style.  I don’t doubt that my ex loves her, but I do doubt that he considers my contributions valid or important.  His disrespect was apparent at the end of the marriage; it is wholly apparent with this move and lack of communication.  We are not “co-parents”, as I’d always hoped.  I doubt we ever will be. 

I just keep telling myself it will work out as it’s supposed to.  Whatever that means.  

Sigh.  

Until tomorrow, Lovelies….

40 Days Till 40 (Day 31)

THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

In A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams, the female character, Blanche Dubois, says, “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”  Although, and let’s be honest here, Blanche could be classified as a “hot mess”, I think she’s got the right idea.

I was driving home this morning after dropping my daughter off at school.  Where she attends school is surrounded by newer homes and various hiking and biking trails.  Because it had snowed last night, the trails were covered with ice and snow.  As I was driving, I noticed a little girl trying to help an elderly woman who had slipped on the ice.  The girl couldn’t have been more than my daughter’s age, maybe around 9 or 10.  The women kept trying to stand, but the girl wasn’t strong enough to hold her. 

It would have been very easy to just ignore the woman and child and to drive past.  I, however, know first hand what it is to fall face first (both in snow and metaphorically) and to have someone help me back up.  I pulled over to the side of the road to help her. 

The little girl turned out to be the woman’s granddaughter.  She doesn’t normally stay with her grandmother, so this was certainly not something with which she would have to deal on a regular basis.  Her face was scrunched up with worry and she was near tears, but I could see she was fighting to keep it together.  When they realized I was there to help, her grandmother consoled the girl and sent her on to school. 

I helped the woman back to her house.  She didn’t live far, thank goodness, as she had banged up her leg pretty bad (and quite frankly, my own shoes, a ratty pair of Converse low tops, were a bit slippy.  I didn’t want to fall and pull her down again with me!).  When I left her at her house, she grasped my hand and said, “Well, that was your good deed for the day!”  I smiled and said, “No worries”—not telling her how many times a stranger had been kind to me in the past or that I hoped someone would do the same for me if I ever needed it.  Nor did I tell her how hard I have to work to be kind sometimes. 

That’s a funny concept, isn’t it, working to be kind?  It is true for me, though.  Oh, I am friendly enough and have no problem smiling at a stranger or being courteous to a waiter or retail worker.  I hold doors open for people and I thank those who have assisted me.  I compliment people when I like their shoes, clothes, accessories, hair, makeup or even their children.  I try not to cut people off in traffic or in store lines or to share my bad mood with the general public.   Yup, I am kind to strangers. 

It’s with the people I know that I sometimes feel I have to work that much harder.

Rather than intentionally hurting someone’s feelings, I typically choose to be diplomatic, yet direct.  Sometimes, though, it just isn’t in me, maybe because my kindness (or patience!) has been abused too much before.  Or I am tired of fighting the same battle over and over again.   I have a pretty bad temper, with the capability to blow up when warranted.  It generally takes a while for me to get to that point, but it’s always there. Waiting.  

Obviously, certain people (or types of people) may trigger my temper easier than others.  Passive aggressive, ignorant or verbally abusive a-holes, for example.  My daughter sometimes.  My ex-husband for sure.  The only power anyone ever has over us is the power we give to him or her, though, right?  That’s where working to be kind comes in.  NO, punching people in the head may not be the best form of communication…even if it feels necessary to get a point across.  

Awwww, look, I’m growing.  Yay me. 

Now if we could just get everyone to do the same, to show warmth and compassion to everyone—even the ones who could benefit from a good neck wringing.  What harm is there in a smile, a kind word or a helping hand?  Hmmmmm.  What an interesting world that might be. 

Until tomorrow, Lovelies….

40 Days Till 40 (Day 30)

TWO SPACE OR NOT TWO SPACE

I readily admit that I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook.  While I enjoy catching up with friends and acquaintances and I do like seeing and sharing memes, jpegs and random thoughts, sometimes Facebook can breed angst.  It can be a place where, rather than feeling uplifted, educated and inspired, I may feel horror, pain or ignorance.  Today, after reading an article posted on my friend’s page, however, I felt shame.

That’s right, shame.  You see, apparently I have a problem—A problem brought so clearly into the light by this article that I could feel nothing else:  I am a chronic two-spacer!  (Insert scary, dramatic music here!)

What is a two-spacer?  Let me explain:  In reading my blog entries, you might notice that there are large spaces after each of the periods.  These are created by typing an extra space in between the sentences.  This, my friends, is apparently WRONG.  At least, it is according to the article, "Why You Should Never, Ever Put Two Spaces After a Period", by Fahrad Manjoo.  Apparently, to add an extra space at the end of the sentence allegedly goes against the typography norm (meaning typographers really hate this practice).  The norm, of course, is to add only ONE space after each period, a simpler and much more efficient method of typing.  Double spaces will supposedly create holes in a paragraph, implying that the reader must pause, thereby breaking the flow of the writing.

Whew.  What is this world coming to?  First, Pluto is not a planet and now, no extra space.

I, like most adults of a certain age, learned the practice of the duo-space in a High School typing class.  The instructor was a big, burly coach, incidentally missing part of his pinky.  In a booming but strangely nasal voice, he would call out what we were to type:  "Period space bar space bar".  It has been ingrained ever since.  

Frankly, typing an extra space is no more work for me than typing one.  My fingers do it automatically.  If anything, I have to think harder about only using one space after a period, often because I am typing very quickly.  Also, as an actor, I LIKE pauses, dramatic or otherwise.  Pauses can enable our brains to better process the information.  Really, the only time a single space might become my habit is when I am typing a text or email on my phone.  Tiny keys and/or a touch screen are not necessarily conducive to a double-tap. 

So really, I guess I don’t feel shame about my two-spacing nature at all.  I was never big on norms anyway—even if I can be a bit of a Grammar Nazi. 

So space out, world!  It's your world.  Write what you will.  

Until tomorrow, Lovelies….

PS  If you’d like to read an article which disputes the theory of a single space as better, check this one out.  It’s long, but pretty funny.   

*Entry for 2/2/14.  Only 10 More Days in the Countdown...Eep.   

40 Days Till 40 (Day 29)

DANCE CALL

It is the first day in my birthday month, and already it has started off in an unusual way.  At 12:30 this morning I received a text from a friend of mine that said, “Hey you.  Come dance”.  I responded to the text, but with no actual intention of going, what with being in my pajamas and all.  Fifteen minutes later, another text with the location and the same plea to “come dance”. 

I responded, “We always get in trouble when we dance together.”  I promptly turned off the light and settled back into bed.  I had just fallen asleep when the phone rang at 1:30pm.  It was my friend.  Of course.

“What are you doing?” He was very chipper—and “four” beers in. 

Groggily, I answered, “What the f*ck do you think I’m doing?  I’m sleeping.”

“Come dance with me and my buddies!”

“Dude, I am in my PJs.”

“Get dressed.  Come dance.”

As I lay in bed in the dark with the phone in my hand, listening to him plead for me to come dancing I mentally flashed on that scene in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off when Cameron is sitting in his car, sick as a dog, not wanting to go meet up with Ferris.  After an amusing conversation with himself, he realizes he’d better just go: “He’ll keep calling me.”  Yup, same thing happened with me. 

So I went.  Not, of course, without marveling (and bemoaning?) the fact that I had just been drunkenly, not booty called, but DANCE called. Oh yeah.

By the time I got to the bar, it was 2am.  The dance floor was filled with a predominantly Caucasian crowd dancing to one of rap’s greatest hits.  Awesome.  I looked around for my friend, but didn’t see him immediately due to too little light and too many people undulating on the postage stamp of a dance floor.  Then one of the dancers turned and made eye contact with me.  My friend.  He extricated himself from the two girls who were doing their damnedest to grind on him (Oh God was one of them TWERKING?!) and bounded over to me to give me a hug.

“Whaaaaaazzzzzzuuuuppppp?”

He dragged me over to the bar area and bought me a drink.  I accepted, grumpily thinking, “It’s the least he can do after dragging me out of bed.”  Man, am I getting grouchy in my old age or what?

We were not there for more than five minutes (barely into the pleasantries and how are you’s) when one of the grinders bounded up to him, clamoring to dominate the conversation.  “Ohmygawd!  What are you doing?”  Turns out she was one of his former co-workers—and that after seeing a post of his on Facebook, she decided to stalk him…I mean show up at the bar.  What I immediately noticed about this girl (old enough to be a woman, actually) was that she seemed very displeased by my presence.

I should probably take a moment here to give you a little backstory about my relationship with this particular male friend.  Although we have known each other for several years (and I, admittedly, have felt a connection with, even an attraction to, him), we have never dated.  One of us was always married, so our relationship has always just been friendship.  After my divorce, there might have been potential for an indiscretion, but we quickly ended that.  We flirt, we dance, we hang out.  Done. 

So back to our original story…

We returned to the dance floor and this girl would not leave him alone.  Every time I even moved an inch away from him she was there, trying to sidle in between us.  She was hell bent on winning her “prize”. 

After an hour and a half of this, I chose to slip away unnoticed, attempting to ignore the woman working to gyrate my friend into submission.  After spending the next half hour chatting with a buddy of my friend (who drunkenly waxed poetic on the objectification of women), when the succubus and my friend effusively claimed that they wanted to head to another club for more dancing, I went home. 

It turns out I am too old to jealously fight for the attention of a married man.  Good to know. 

Until tomorrow, Lovelies…