DIMer!

I went through this strange phase, in which, I mentally wrote all my blog posts and assumed that my amazing stories (getting a crowded bus to yell "Smoosh!" at each stop), keen observations ("I can see you peeing on that bike."), clever repartees ("Sir, I don't care who you are, where you came from, or how much your underwear cost but if don't stop drooling on my bar, I can't serve you."), and my general view on humanity (humanity is awesome, but, in general, we have some work to do) would be psychically/magically channeled to the Internet. I mean, really! Doesn't someone have an app for that? No?

This evening I had a chat with a very talented, over-worked and, therefore. successful, but tired colleague. I'm going to dramatize the conversation below:

Me: "I didn't recognize you with the beard! How are things?"

VTOWTSBT (very talented, overworked, therefore successful, but tired) "Oh, I am over worked and tired but successful. But tired. Did I tell you I was tired?"

Me: "I think there may be more gin at the bar. I like Eating and Drinking. And did I say Drinking?"

V: "Tired"

Me: "Eating and Drinking and Sleeping."

V: "But Success."

Me: "Sleeping and Drinking and Eating. Sometimes Breathing."

V: "Breathing?"

Me: "Its the thing I do between/during Drinking and Eating and Sleeping. I can help you practice."

V: "No, I'm tired and successful."

And damn, he should be. While I have been imagining success, he has been working for it. While I dream of food and wine and, oddly, sleeping, he has the DIM attitude. I'm tired of hearing about economy-saving techniques, "stay-cations", collapsed economies, DIYs, and all the other rhetorical bullshit that claims it will make me feel better but really it just petrified me into inertia. Lucky for me, this Very Talented Super Do-er reminded me that this is a unique time in history. We can make, unmake, better, worsen, cower, or shine in the quality of the future we build for ourselves by ourselves. Therefore, down with DIY, Do it Yourself. I'm gonna be a DIMer: Do It Myself-er.

Family Travel

Last week, I traveled California like I was in some girl punk band trying to get famous. I was on planes, trains, and buses. And at each stop, there was a branch of the family waiting for me.

The first leg was Seattle to Sacramento. There I waited patiently for my somewhat deaf elderly grandfather (paternal, it'll help if you know which grandfather I am writing about when) to pick me up in front of baggage claim at terminal B, while trying to communicate with him over cell phone that terminal B is at the end of the airport driveway and that "I am at the VERY end standing under the Mexicana sign" and his continuous response "but I'm in front of arrivals and I don't see you" and then me saying "Grandpa, keep driving until you DO see me. I am at the VERY END. Keep driving" and then him "I'm parked and I don't see you" and then me...well you get the point. Fifteen minutes later, he realized I was at the VERY END of the very end of the terminal B, just like I had said. Once I was in the car, the conversation was filled of him talking about his harem of elderly widows with whom he takes aqua-cize at the community center. I have discovered that the way to have a really rockin' social life is to be an 84 year old widower.

The next day, my father, his partner, and myself drove down to Clovis, CA for my niece's high school graduation. I always enjoy seeing my brother and his family and this time was no exception but I'm thinking the vast amounts of wine helped to alleviate the earsplitting decibels of teenage girls squealing. And when all was said, done, and squealed, Amanda, my niece, graduated in a ceremony full of fireworks and not just because my sister-in-law and I sneaked in a flask. She was beautiful and not just because we sneaked in a flask.

The day following her graduation, Amanda had her first truly adult duty to perform, Lunch With Grandma. My mother is chaos. She is sneaky in the way she personifies chaos: her voice is gentle (until she layers it with ice and steel), she's frail (until she verbally whips you), and she's ill (so there isn't a thing you can do to protect yourself). While I love to see her, she is making it harder and harder to connect with her. While I don't "go home" much, I am always incredibly surprised by how much she has changed. She no longer resembles the image I have in my head of my mother. I know time changes us all and aging is a part of life, but I expected her to mellow and bloom like a fine wine instead of turning to vinegar. I am hoping that we have enough love to turn her back.

That was it for time in Clovis. I boarded a train and then a bus and made my way to sunny Los Angeles to attend the high school graduation of my cousin, Avery. And yes, there was a good deal more teenage girl squealing. I hadn't seen my cousin (or the rest of this side of the family) in about 10 years, maybe more. As my uncle and cousin picked me up from Union Station, my aunt picked up my grandfather (maternal) and his new wife (of 3 years). The two cars met at my aunt's work: Warner Bros. Studios. We got a nice tour of the lot, met lots of lovely people, and I learned a great deal about the people I was about to spend 2 days with, some good, some...not so good.


To be continued...

Let It Go to Voicemail

I'm not a super shy person. I was a professional dancer at an early age and have work in the theatre for the past 14 years. I'm used to changing in a room full of people, or in the wings, or backstage by a set of dressers. But one thing I can't get over is people who answer their cell phones in public restrooms.

My "day job" is at a major national airport. Lots of people come though, about 42,000 people per day. Aside from the frustration of being surrounded by tons of people at all times, when I go on break, normally to deal with a human matter, I never escape overhearing this :

"Hey, we are at the airport...Yeah, our flight was delayed, so we are about an hour late...Hold on, I have to flush."

The only thing that makes this situation worse is when the call in question is on speakerphone.

I shiver in disgust for the person on the phone, but I feel embarrassed for... me. I don't know this person on the phone (I don't like to get cozy with stallmates), and I don't know the person on the other end of the line, and I really don't want either of them to hear me peeing. Is that weird? In a world where public restrooms have doors that don't fit the frames and one has to deal with people peeking thru the cracks and children flipping upside down to peer at you from under the door, must one also guard themselves from the cell phone satellites. Is too much to ask, or expect, that making a call or taking a call in a public restroom is a tacky, disgusting thing to do? Where's the respect? If not for you then for the person on the phone. Must you share everything? Do you answer the phone during sex? I ask that, and I bet, there are some people who do. (Ah, I just freaked myself out.)

Next time you are out in a public place and you find yourself "relieving" yourself when your phone rings, do everyone a favor (and I mean everyone): Let it go to voicemail. Call them back in the two minutes it takes to finish and wash your hands. And please! Wash your hands! (We, the people, notice when you don't, and yes! We Are Judging!)

In Search Of

My fantastic email provider provided me with an interesting internet link: a dating site for the wealthy. It claims that its members are CEOs, athletes, former beauty queens, and fitness moguls. I admit I was curious so I navigated my way up the internet river to the website. I was surprised to see that it offered "Free" membership*. I didn't sign up but after I had a nice chuckle to myself**, I started thinking about the proliferation of dating websites. I got curious so I started a random search. These are a few of the criteria I searched for: Sci Fi Fans (heavily biased toward Star Trek and Star Wars), Food/Chef Lovers (with support sites for people dating chefs),Space Lovers (including the chance to date a Space Sim, virtually, of course), Gay Loggers (I assume you can opt for a straight logger if that is your preference), and Cloggers (straight and gay options available).

Its a short list. I was running out things to type into my search engine without dipping into the realm of pervy internet queries. So, I assume that whatever hobby a person is into there is another person out there who is interested in it, too. I just wonder if there are any wealthy loggers who enjoy clogging and are looking for a Space Sim chef. That would be one hell of a personal ad.

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* cheap wealthy bastards. I would think the site would charge $1,000,000 just to prove how wealthy the members are. Are there no standards in business anymore?

**and a sense of exclusion. I mean, I'm not looking for anyone as I have someone, but I would like to have the option. It's not my fault I'm not wealthy. These student loans don't pay themselves (as my student loan providers have repeatedly informed me).

So Remiss

I've been remiss. It's true. I am a Re-misser. When I set up this blog, I told myself it would be the perfect format to revitalize my creative juices having just spent the last few years writing nothing but analytical and academic papers. Unexpectedly, I began to suffer from MLA flashbacks and I froze. Not that I ceased to love writing, but I was burnt out. Burnt! Fried and crisped in duck fat with a side of pork belly. (Sorry, just watched the finale of Top Chef)

But now...I hang up my hat and cloak* as The Remisser and become the Misser? No, that can't be right. Well, whatever the opposite of the aforementioned is, I will now become. The UnMisser. **

It's been an interesting bit of time since the last and only time I posted a blog entry. I feared that a blog would become an online journal, but I have been fortunate that I have a good friend who has a blog that has become a mental amuse bouche (again, Top Chef, I'm sorry, I can't help it) or to be a bit more precise an amuse intellectuelle. Ms. Lewis Infers is the title of the blog and the blogger herself is amazing.

So, I will start posting and I will do my best to woo you into reading. Shall we try this again? Please, take me back.




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*I don't really have a cloak but I wish it were fashionable to wander (or walk purposefully) around in a big ol' blanket hooked at the throat with the way the weather has insisted on being such a cold freaking jerk.

**Except when it comes to remembering important dates: birthdays, anniversary (esp. my own), holidays, graduations, weddings, Arbor Day, and when it's my turn to pick up the dry cleaning. I can't help it. Its genetic. Ask my father, he'll tell you.

It's Love

Really... It's love, inn'it? (as our Brit cousins would say) In love...it's amazing. Now some of you may be hesitant or cautious or just plain scared. I'm with you. I grew up on Cosmo so I understand hesitation, the doubt, the questions (you know what they are). But what if you are lucky enough to fall in love?



Let's see....

Insomnia

Well, here I am, wrapped in a red fuzzy blanket and my underpants, listening to the music overflowing from the halfway house next door. And, as usual, I can’t sleep. Not because of the loud and intrusive music from the half-way house. No. In fact, I find it soothing to listen to the mix of music, television, and film noise that emanates from that square grey brick building.
The problem is this damn insomnia. I can’t sleep. Wait, let me explain: I do sleep, if I didn’t I would be dead (so say the experts), and I do find that in the periods of time called ‘night’, I will be not conscious for a half hour or forty five minutes at a time. The problem is the two and half to three hours between each spurt. In this awake-in-between-time, I am happy to listen to Jackie Chan kick someone’s ass or listen to Greenday sing about their boulevard of broken dreams. That’s not the issue. The problem is this damn insomnia.


I have tried to explain it, not only to doctors but also to friends and family. You want to hear my description? It goes like this: it works in one of three ways. 1) Am unable to fall asleep. This doesn’t happen much. I listen to soft classical music and count my breaths, the sheep on a mountainside in the Swiss Alps, salmon desperately jumping up a waterfall in the woods, and normally within in a half hour or so, I’ll be asleep. 2) Am asleep but wake due to weird-ass/terrifying dreams, i.e. family being slaughtered, innocents killed, and mass destruction. (This happens enough to be annoying, enough that I spend the following day distracted and doing my utmost to not bore people with the re-telling of my weird-ass dream from the night before.) 3) (the most common) Am able to fall asleep fine but wake suddenly, not due to a dream or from a loud mad lick of Greenday from next door. Just “pop” awake. One moment asleep, the next wide-awake. This happens the most, 'more oft than not', I would say (though it is more likely that Shakespeare said it first and I'm a copy cat). It's as if my unconscious is nervous about what dreams may come (that is definately from Hamlet). And having woken from the weird-ass dreams previously mentioned, I don’t blame my unconscious.


This leaves me much time to think. Or worry. Mostly worry. And my poor brain, it tries to come up with ways to occupy me; fantasies, day dreams, and wishes. But I, stubborn as always, refuse to be relaxed into a state of restful sleep, regardless of breathes, sheep, or salmon.

The other night, as I lied awake next to my enviously deeply sleeping significant other, I began to characterize my insomnia. One was Me, the one who was kept awake, felt anxious, and ultimately had to go to school and work worn out from a restless night. The next was Brain, who tried so hard to do what was needed and expected. She sent out all the right chemicals at the right time, ready to do whatever it was she did while Me was in Sleepyland. Then there was Mind, the trouble-maker, the rebel without a cause, unless the cause was to unnerve Me. She was the one who over-heard the Elvis Presley singing “Fools Rush In” from an apartment 4 floors above and decided to wake up and listen. (Hey, it is Elvis so at least Mind has a sense of class.) I’m not crazy, but these three entities at work were the personification of inability to sleep.



Me wanted rest. The day was long, it was taxing, there was traffic, homeless people, pan-handlers, and crack addicts, plus the duties of maintaining a home and a career. I am an actor, and yes, that is a career, Let me answer all the questions you are thinking right now: No, I am not famous. No, I do not want to be famous (as a woman I like being a size 4, hell sometimes a 6 if it’s after the holidays or a stretch of time when I am bored. I was a size 0 when I was 16 and a professional dancer. Now I’m 30 and the pounds stick whether I wish them to or not. I’m ok with it.) No, I have no desire to get a boob job, lip job, cheek bone job, ass job, or whatever else job that makes me not look like me. I got my mother’s cheekbones and eyes and my father’s nose and tush. I like these bits, they are the result of a long line of my ancestry, history gave me this nose, this tush, these eyes, and these cheekbones, and I don’t want a surgeon to come along and modify them. (Well, the nose could use work, but that’s an issue for therapy.) And, no, I do not wish to have my every mistake in outfit/ lipstick choice/ boyfriend/ dinner party/ drunken mishaps recorded in the tabloids, regardless of the saying that “there is no such thing as bad press.” So that's Me. The bit that most people see, meet, go shopping with, bitch to, flirt with, and categorize.


Brain wants to do her job, which includes mental shut down and restoration. She is responsible for the wear and tear so she needs a few hours each night, when Me is distracted by the fun movie (dream) playing. To get Me to see the dream, Brain has to release chemicals and initiate a sequence that takes Me through NREM (non rapid eye movement) sleep. N1, also known as the transition to alpha waves, followed by N2, “sleep spindles”, and takes up about 45%-50% of sleep time. Next is N3, the delta waves, this is when ‘abnormal’ sleep behavior occurs, such as bedwetting (no issue with that), night terrors (wish I didn't have issue with that), sleep walking (had a roommate with an issue with that), and talking in one’s sleep (been known to have an issue with that). Lastly, Brain institutes N4, which is just a deeper version of N3 (don’t be mad, Sleep Specialist, for me over-simplifying). REM, rapid eye movement, occurs in N3 or N4. While Me is distracted with N1-N4, Brain can continue on with her job, and, honestly, its quite mysterious. No one knows exactly what it is she does but it is known that if she does not have the chance to her job, then several mental and emotional features will occur. So its best if she gets her way and is able to work unobstructed. Otherwise, she is pre-occupied looking up sleep statistics and not getting the rest she deserves.

And then Mind comes along...