Lost, Found and Forgotten

Writing Is Easy. What's for Dinner?

2010-06-29T19:28:00.000-07:00

"Writing is easy." Whoever said that... was not a writer.

I don't care if you're Stephen bloody King or the schmo sitting in front of your computer staring aimlessly at nothing while you're trying to think of what to have for dinner when you should be writing; writing is most definitely NOT easy. Writing, like anything else, requires lots and lots of hard work; that's the only easy part about it. That's the part that you hear preached at all those seminars you spent money on or all the "Writing for Dummies" books you've bought: Write every day and eventually something will happen.

I write every day, but my poetry turns into grocery lists; my verse, into that damn pop song I can't get out of my head; my short stories, into movie reviews; my novel, ah yes, my novel.... My novel is complete. It rests comfortably on the bookshelves beneath a thin layer of dust. It is not published.

You see, I completed a novel... longhand. Now I have to tackle the incredible task of editing it and transfering it onto my laptop. One might read this and think "Hey, what are you complaining about you nitwit? At least you're done! The hardest parts over with." How sweet it would be if that were true.... In retrospect I think writing the story was the easiest bit, because as soon as I started typing it out I found myself editing and changing it more than I had ever intended to. I read back some of the paragraphs I wrote and thought "Who the hell wrote this shite!? Surly not I!" And because I talk to myself in some hybrid sort of Victorian speech and dramatic theater thespian jargon, the mess seems bigger than it actually is.

I am as committed to my deadlines as Jesse James is to Sandra Bullock. Sometime back in February I gave myself one year to finish my book. Tempus fugit. I have twelve chapters completed and saved. That was over a month ago. My passion seems to have waned, my muses decided to go to France on sabbaticol (don't they have enough freakin muses over there any way!?) and self-esteem as a novelist is depleting faster than these choclate-covered strawberries before me.

There was a time when all I wanted to do was write. To have a job as a writer anywhere was a dream come true, to complete a novel was nothing short of a trophy I could place in my imaginary room of accomplishments sitting comfortably between my nobel prize for world peace and my really cool cappucino maker.

Why do I always feel two steps behind everyone else? Am I meant to walk away and start treading my own path? Or do I follow behind authors like Ray Bradbury who is as iconic to me as Bieber is to millions of young girls and even some sexually confused boys? For a few terrifying moments I thought I had lost my passion for writing, my love for it. Those moments stretched on like a nightmare where you feel paralyzed with fear and you're not entirely sure what to be afraid of.... It was then that Mr. Bradbury's words came to me in full force as clear as they did the day I heard him speak.

"Do what you love, and love what you do."

Without my writing I feel empty, lifeless, meaningless, dead.

As I look at the last strawberry on my plate I realize I have once again experienced a resuscitation, albeit a small one, in my passion for what I love. In any case, it has lasted long enough to keep me from devouring that last succulent fresa. Indeed, my hunger has transpired from fruit to words... and this schmo has never felt more ravenous.

"At Last..."

2010-05-20T10:24:00.000-07:00

One of the most complicated relationships I have ever been in is the one I’m having with myself. It is demanding, neurotic, complicated and downright exhausting. On the other hand, it is satisfying, stimulating, interesting and considerate. If I were an outsider I would be telling myself to dump the bastard but only on the condition if I am unhappy. If on the other hand, I am happy then it might be a match made in heaven and I should throw myself into it with the gusto of a skydiver hoping against hope that the chute opens up at that most eminent moment.

Lately, I have been feeling less than secure about myself. Not having a job does things to a person like make them question their worth. Although I am infinitely happier to be away from that toxic environment I used to clock in and out of for the past five years, I am also not the type of person who can simply meander around her home watching television while eating ice cream out of the carton. I thought cleaning the house from top to bottom would help alleviate some of the pressures and guilt of being unemployed, but after all the dusting, mopping, scrubbing and sweeping I felt no more satisfied than I did when I cleaned and had a job. Sure, I finally got around to finishing the flooring and the newly reorganized closets have never looked better, but one thing I have learned is that even if I clean every second of every day there will be more dishes to wash tomorrow, there will be more laundry to do when the weekend comes around and let’s face it, living with two men means “messy” follows them around like groupies on rock stars.

The more I cleaned the more I realized that the shinier my windows were, the duller my self esteem became. Even though there was a tiny flicker of satisfaction when I finally rounded up the dust bunnies under the bed, there was still something missing. I did not know what it was until I woke up one morning after experiencing a restless and sleepless night because I had rearranged the bedroom; no amount of shifting furniture or wiping floors was going to satisfy the need for challenge raging inside of me. I had been subconsciously rearranging myself into something I am not and neglecting what I truly am, a self-employed writer; a strong independent young woman who thinks beyond how clean her home is. I was restless because I had been too busy cleaning that in the process I forgot to air myself out.

There will always be dishes to wash and there will always be laundry to do, but that moment an idea for a chapter pops into my head will be gone forever if I sacrifice it for scrubbing the toilette. I finally have what I always wanted, the ability to stay home and actually work on what I love best, my novels. There will be other jobs, there will be other chores, but I may never have this time to myself again. After all, that is the part I love best about me, the confidant person who thinks for herself and has the ability to make the best out of life even at its most sour.

I think I’ll take myself out on a date this weekend just so that I might be reminded of how lucky I am to have found someone who truly understands what it takes to have the military discipline of finishing a chapter as well as the interior designer ability of reorganizing a walk-in closet…. This, my friends, could very well be a match made in heaven.

Etta James - At Last .mp3

Found at bee mp3 search engine

"Writing is the only thing that when I do it, I don't feel I should be doing something else."
— Gloria Steinem

Friends

2010-05-19T12:43:00.001-07:00

I am a staunch believer that in order to be truly comfortable in my own skin I shouldn't care what people think of me. I don't wear name brands to feel chic, I don't name drop to feel important, I don't wear makeup when I work out, and I don't work out seven days a week to try and attain a perfect body. All in all, I try to be as content with what I have and who I am as humanly possible...however, my boyfriend accidentally took my phone this morning and left his with me. Since he had snooped through mine not too long ago I felt I had every right to trade in my get-out-of-jail-free card and snoop through his. Most of the messages were from me until I stumbled onto one sent to him by his best friend that said, "So how are your living situations these days?"

I know my boyfriend and I know his friend. There was snide sarcasm in that question. Immediately, my mind went into feminine overload and I read it at least two more times, trying to decipher the subtext of that question. Why hadn't he asked how things were with me? What did he mean by "living situation?" Did he even know we were together? And furthermore, why didn't my boyfriend respond? Was he embarrased to say he was still with me? Did he only speak ill of me? Knowing full well he was busy at work I called him anyway and in my most polite-but-still-upset-tone asked him about it. He explained that the last time he spoke with him we had gotten into a very big argument and told him he was moving out.

"So you're telling me you haven't spoken to him about us since?"

"Nope?"

Riiiiiight.

"Fine. I'll see you later."

He hates when I hang up without saying I love him.

So I suppose my question is, should people care what their significant other's friends think of them? In college we all used to get along, because in college you are expected to live your nights like one long party and your days in recovery of those nights while still finding time to ace your finals. His friends have always been of the strange "theater type" who break out into Irish accents for no good reason and think flatuence and dirty joke are the highest form of humor. They smoke pot the way some breathe air and live in Los Angeles thinking that at the ripe old age of thirty-five they are still going to hit the jackpot with their medicore talent. I commend them for their courage, but at their age one has to ask "Is this really what I want? Aren't I a little too old to think I could be the next Robin Williams? Shouldn't I at least get off my ass, put down the bong and actually try to write a screenplay or intern at a studio to get my foot in the door?"

They literally used to sit around and critique the shit out of comedians and movies saying things like "We could do soooo much better than that shit!" Oh yeah? Then what the fuck are you waiting for? Do it already! Nope, they'd just hit the bong again and slip into another hallucinigenic coma. The sad thing is that some of their ideas are really clever and could be something.

I do not have their talent for making people laugh. I don't have the comedic skills that they toss around like confetti or even the ability to make doing nothing into an enviable art form. Although I'm not a stick in the mud, next to them I might as well be Mother Fucking Theresa. In all honesty, if my boyfriend had not been going to school to become an EMT and was still trying his hand at becoming the next Mel Gibson, I don't think he would be my boyfriend now. Thankfully, he has always been the more mature one of the group, the one who saw himself as something more than just another guy waiting tables in L.A. trying to become famous, but his friends remain the same. Sometimes I feel as if I am in constant competition with them because of the stories he's told me. He makes it sound like all they ever did was sit around and laugh. Which is probably not far from the truth.

So maybe he doesn't always bring me up when talking to them. Although I talk about him to my friends, it's not as if he's the only topic at hand. And now that I think about it, perhaps there really isn't any reason for me to feel intimidated by them or their stoned humor. Personally, farting is not my preffered type of comedy and I still have yet to smoke a joint (in my opinion, liquour does just fine as my drug of choice). Truth be told, if I really cared what they thought of me then I think I would be the one with the problem.

I may not have the most brilliant sense of humor, hell, I can barely tell a fucking knock knock joke; I may not have the uncanny ability that so many men do to fart at will and find humor in it; and I might not ever find Los Angeles as fascinating as others do, because I've done the backstage gig and eaten at the fancy restaurants without ever having had to relocate there. Guess what, it's not as glamorous as everyone thinks it is. The whole city is one big set and all the men and women merely players....

No, I should be grateful that my boyfriend and I are living together... two hundred miles away from all of that hooplah. Sure, we can visit, but we can always drive away with our heads in the clouds but feet firmly on the ground. That's more than I can say for some people....

Nothing

2010-05-15T00:40:00.000-07:00

Her head was fuzzy
From too many drinks
Too many pills
And too little water
There was no moon to welcome the night
And so the cascade of stars slept in their cold, darkness
Alone and unperturbed
She had only a single candle to keep her company
Through the night
Her reflection in the window was as fuzzy as her thoughts
There was no warmth on that cold summer night
And so she slept
And so she slept
As thoughts appeared and faded
Like the ebb and flow of the tides
An ever changing quest of questions with no answers
Arguments with no end
Screaming with no silence
She welcomed the dark night as it swept through her
And hoped morning would never come
And so she slept
And so she slept

Change in the Weather

2010-05-09T19:08:00.000-07:00

A strong breeze glides through my bedroom window, blowing strands of wet hair across my forehead as I sit, hunched over my notepad. The lit candle perfumes the air with traces of sandalwood and patchouli.

Yesterday was the first day I truly began to panic about not having a job; so much that I took a shot of some very strong amber liquor in a feeble attempt to calm my nerves. The feeling of helplessness, of being stuck in the middle of a vast and turbulent ocean without any means of rescue, began to creep over me like a thunderous cloud just before a tornado kisses the earth.

My thoughts became fuzzy and my hands stopped shaking, but my mind still raced with unanswered questions and dark, indistinct images of an unforeseeable future. I could feel a lump in my throat and hot tears threatening to spill forth at any given moment. The Internet, with its infinite library of information, proved useless and superfluous; nothing interested me as I swam against a tide of irrelevant sites.

What I needed was an anchor, a weight, a crystal ball showing me what my next step was supposed to be; instead, I found myself asking the inevitable question those who experience buyer's remorse ask: Why did I do it? Why had a left my job? It was secure, it was safe, it was what I knew.

I had to get up and walk, run, do anything to get away from those thoughts and questions now snapping at me like vicious little piranhas. I went into the kitchen and sat on the counter ready to make myself another drink; hell, ready to drink straight from the bottle when my fiance, my best friend, walked in smiling.

"Am I ever going to find another job?" I asked him, staring at my small hands. I could not bring myself to look at him in fear of bursting into tears.

I could feel him looking at me.

"Of course you will. You're incredibly smart." He said softly. "Besides..."

Here it came, the joke. He is always making jokes.

But instead of a punchline he said, "The hard part is over. The important thing is you're free from that place." With that, he kissed me and left.

I sat on the counter smiling, as the snake that had coiled itself around my stregnth and confidence loosened its grip and slithered away....

He was right. For so long, too long, I had allowed myself to suffer unfairly and did not see that I had become institutionalized in a place that became greedy and stressful to a toxic degree. Yes, I had had the security of receiving a steady paycheck; yes, I was good at what I did; yes, I had gained a vast amount of knowledge while there... but it was time to move on.

They say that the right thing to do is usually the hardest. They say change is scary, but necessary. They say a person must make painful sacrifices before finding happiness. They say a lot of things... and you know what? They are right.

Addicted to Love

2010-04-27T22:52:00.000-07:00

Florence And The Machine - Addicted to Love .mp3

Found at bee mp3 search engine

Rarely do I say a song is sexy. Rarely do I say a song stirs something in me that makes me want to slowly remove my clothes while staring through cat-like come hither eyes. This. Song. Does.

I was never a huge fan of the original, but when Florence and the Machine remade it... Hot Damn. It pulsates with sensual intensity and it works faster than any mix drink or shot I've ever had. Maybe it's just me. Maybe I read too much into it too fast, but her voice, like "honey with a touch of scotch" is just the ticket to making this soulful song a definite winner.

I had never heard of this group before and was achingly dissapointed when I found out they were at Coachella fest this year when I was not. I weep for my own loss in the privacy of my bedroom as I wear oversized earphones and sing along to the best of my ability.

Anyhow, listen to this song in the dark with only your thoughts to accompany you. Smoke, if you must. Drink, if you're lucky. But most importantly, have a single candle burning as the melody and her voice moves through you in waves of unimaginable (or very imaginable) desire move through you.... It is an experience you will remember ever after. It is a dream you will not want to awaken from, like the first time you fell in love or the last time your heart was broken. Either way, it is painfully beautiful.

The Lonely Life

2010-04-27T01:39:00.000-07:00

We writers are an odd bunch. There are times when we can't stand the sight of each other because we are all egomaniacs who live life as if we were reading books with excerpts such as "She angirly walked away from him, casting one last glance of frustration over her shoulder as the gray morning reflected her animosity towards him...." blah blah blah. Seriously, we really do that. There are also times when we feel that no one in the world will understand us except other writers or the bottom of a bottle of liqour; however, the worst are those times when we don't think anyone in existence understands us at all and so we are forced to spend time with ourselves.

It is not that we are all introverts who only seek solace in dark corners of seedy bars or smokey cafes; we don't ever particularly mean to ostracize ourselves from humanity... it just sort of happens from time to time.

Take for example tonight: My fiance and I got new cell phones. I'm of the opinion that so long as I know how to place a call or send a text message, that's all that really matters. He, on the other hand is the type who reads the entire manual cover to cover, sits with his new gadget as if befriending a newborn child, cradling it and showing it a kindness I could never express to technology. So when he came bounding in our room like an excited little boy grinning from ear to ear as I was writing the last paragraph on yet another chapter of my life, I felt myself cringe when he said "Hey babe! I just figured out how to personalize a ringtone to your name!"

"That's nice sweetie." I said absentmindedly, hoping he would get the hint that all I wanted was to finish the last two sentences. He didn't. Instead, he sat there smiling, hopeful eyes staring at me as he grasped his phone.

"Wanna hear it?" He asked, still grinning.

"Um, in a little bit sweetie but right now I just want to finish this." Already I felt like a bitch.

"Oh... Ok." His big blue eyes seemed to swim in disappointed heartache.

Sighing heavily, I caved. "Ok." I said, hands reluctantly removing themselves from the keyboard so I could give him my full attention.

He grabbed my phone and dialed his number. Within seconds Simon and Garfunkel sounded through the speakers of his phone as they sang "I Am A Rock."

Insert pause here.

"You associate me with Simon and Garfunkel?" I asked, genuinely surprised.

"Well... yeah! Cause you're a rock."

But I'm also an island I thought. Was this who I was. A rock? And island separated from all of humanity as life passed me by and I wrote about it?

He frowned. Oh no. What had I done now? I didn't react with the enthusiasm he had been expecting. I just stared at him, attempting that smile he hates. The smile you give to people when they give you a gift you don't really like or understand.

"I'll just leave you alone now."

"No, I like it!" I said in some vain attempt to express enjoyment, but he had already walked out of the room, shoulders slumped and head down.

I am a terrible person. I am a writer.

You see, this is why most of us drink. It's not that we don't like people, it's just that we so often live in our own heads creating scenarios, characters and entire lives that we put reality aside for hours at a time so our social graces end up getting completely flung out the window. Believe me, we know this is what we do because we write about selfish characters like this in almost every story we create!

When I write I am in a zone, nay, I am in the zone. Nothing else exists except what is pouring out of my head. I become a monster, hunched over the keyboard or notepad with a crazed look in my wild eyes and a maniacle grin floating just above my lips like the Phantom of the Opera over his organ. I talk to the pages in front of me, yelling at my characters if they take a fork in the road of their destiny I had not anticipated. I curse more than usual if suddenly they have me running alongside them on a completely different path I had chosen and I lose sight of the outcome with every step we take because I had already planned their fate two chapters before. "Are you crazy!?" I yell to creation. "What the (bleep) are you thinking? This wasn't supposed to happen! What's wrong with you!? Fine! It's your demise!"

However, what most people don't realize is that this is when I am happiest with my work, becuse it is moments like this, when I seem to be in excrutiating pain, that I am molding and creating and actually doing what I love, which doesn't happen very often becauses the muses come and go the way rainfall does in the desert. Writers are not struck with creative bouts of genious on a daily basis; it's not like we can punch a time clock and suddenly, there it is, our work laid out for us and all we need to do is organize it into neat piles. No, when we are struck by lightening, nothing else can exist because that moment might never come back again and usually never does. I wish it would, but it gets lost the way so many socks do in dryers. Then there we stand with half an idea in our hand that could have been really good if it had it's mate.

So yes, I felt bad for saying what I said to my fiance who actually does know how important writing is to me, but like me with books, gets over zealous with gadgets. Still, I would have felt worse if I had not been able to finish what I was working on.

And by the way...if you think writers are horrible people when they write... you should see us when we're not writing. Now that my friend, is scary.

Ends, Middles, Beginnings...

2010-04-27T01:09:00.000-07:00

There is an eerie stillness in the air; the kind that only presents itself after you've just been rattled by a particularly horrific storm. You stand there, not quite trusting that the worst has passed. The last time I felt this way I was staring at the ceiling fan of my childhood bedroom; my eyes slowly moved over every single object draped by the moonlight, from the corner desk where I had sat so many nights typing away fanciful stories as the soft glow of the computer screen washed over me, to the billowy chiffon curtains my father had so vehemently protested, and finally back to the wooden rungs of the bunk bed above me.

I remember thinking I would never see that view again and a happy sadness washed over me. Of course, I knew I would enter my parent's house many times after that night, but only as a visitor... and not always a welcome one at that!

As I cleaned out my office and answered e-mails I knew I didn't have to, but what the hell, working late had become a common practice, I felt a sense of relief followed by a brief, unwelcome sense of panic. It is perhaps the feeling a crab might experience when it has to abandon its shell for a larger one because he has outgrown it; there is a quick sense of immense vulnerability as he stands there naked and exposed to all manner of predators, but suddenly... warmth and security and more importantly, solidification of knowing it was the best decision he had ever made engulf him as he snuggles into his new roomier quarters.

I pack the remainder of my belongings into an empty copy paper box. The sun has set outside and there is a chill in the air that makes me quicken my step across the lonely parking lot. The horizon looks beautiful as the luminous orb descends behind it, sending a last cascade of rays across a small group of clouds and giving the black mountains an effect of being torn paper ripped across the indigo sky. I am meeting a friend later for coffee (at times like these we all need a friend).

As I approach it I notice that the parking lot is completely dark and the familiar warm orange glow I had come to associate it with is extinguished. Instead, I am met with a large red sign that reads "SPACE AVAILABLE." My heart sinks as an ebb and flow of memories talking with friends at this coffee shop go through my mind like the tides. I decide to make my way to another coffee shop and as I settle in sipping the warm, delicious drink I look around the new meeting place. It is not as intimate as my last one but it will do... and I feel safe. And I feel warm....

What Did You Say?

2010-04-17T01:52:00.000-07:00

I'm tired... but not really.

It's two in the morning. I'm mad.

Sometimes I don't even know why I get mad. I just do. It's a waste of energy and I know it. Knowing that makes me even madder. Little Dragon croons "Twice" through my speakers and all I want to do is cry or sleep. I don't know which I want more.

There are moments in life that define who we are; sometimes those moments are fleeting, like when you subsonciously give up your seat on the bus to someone else; sometimes those moments are eventful, like when you decide to leave your job because you've suddenly realized that you are more ethical than the company you work for. Then there are those moments that slip by with barely even a breath. We miss them the way we miss countless of shooting stars every night; but they're there nonetheless, molding and shaping and defining us in every sense of the word.

Where are we?
What the hell is going on?
The dust has only just begun... to form crop circles in the carpet
Sinking
Feeling....

Imogen Heap is beautiful like the wind when it talks to you through the trees. It's so very late here but I'm not tired at all now. Not in the least. I feel... disembodied from myself. I want to do so much right now. Too much, but the hours are slipping by and I can't keep up with them.

Mmm what'd you say?
Mmm, that you only meant well.
Well of course you did
Mmm what'd you say?
Mmm, that it's all for the best.
Well, of course it is. Mmm what'd you say?
Mmm, that it's just what we need.
You decided this.
Mmm, what you say?
What did you say?

Los Angeles

2010-03-27T18:28:00.000-07:00

There is a certain secure insecurity about this city; an overwhelming sense of need to impress everyone; to leave a lasting mark that will cut straight through the throngs of designer bags, hair extensions, faux tans and purchased smiles; to spear through it like a searing bow cast through soft flesh, cauterizing an image of their constantly changing perfection.

In an instant, you can tell who belongs here and who doesn't. I doesn't.

In my pinstriped business shirt and black capris, I am a sharp contrast to the sea of carefully distressed denim, billowy tank tops and carefully coordinated flip flops. The local Starbucks (one of the many) runneth over with men wearing pastels and women wearing skinny jeans, all of whom are ordering drinks with titles longer than my own.

Dusk decends over the city, wrapping her cool grey blue satin blanket across the skyscrapers (most likey desinged by Valentino) and palm trees. It is a place where the chocolate cakes can put you into diabetic comas and alcohol is every season's must have accessory in order to feel like you belong.

Waiter, I'll have another....

And I Call Myself a Writer...

2010-03-18T21:05:00.000-07:00

As I sifted through the dust and piles of decomposing and moldy carboard boxes in my garage, I stumbled upon a few treasures that had long since been lost amongst the mountains of paper, unwashed clothing and unsightly knick knacks I'd collected over the years. To date I have unearthed a pile of journals dating decades back when I was still trying desperately to perfect my cursive writing at the ripe old aging of thirteen; many, many outfits that I wished I'd never worn, but offer some wonderful memories of days that will only ever be etched in my mind, and even some useful items that I can still utilize today, like that picture of the rotten ex whom I can use to line a birdcage with if I had one.

However, the most beautiful artificat that I stumbled across had absolutely nothing to do with me, but rather it is a letter written by a very dear friend of mine whose words brought me to tears as I read it until my vision was so blurry I could not go on. She is one of those effortlessly brilliant writers who is so talented it oftentimes makes me quite ill, but I support and love her because she is not only wonderful, but one of the few people on this earth who I hope to know until the day I die.

Over the years we have had our share of trials and tribulations, coming of age discoveries, laughter and tears... but above all, we have been there for each other as much as our busy lives will allow. We don't speak very often, but when we do I always end up amazed at her quick wit. It is foolish of me to think I can possibly keep up with her.

Tonight I was reminded of just how talented she is.... As I brushed away cobwebs, filtered through sand and cracked open the pages of my journals, a singular paper fell onto my lap amongst the dusty, dry garage on this quiet Spring evening. It was a letter she had written me six years ago that she titled "The beauty of pain, as felt by a writer". I will not say what caused her this pain, nor will I disclose her name or even the letter in its entirety, because pain, especially this type, is always best kept private; however, her words were so emotionally raw, so haunting, so perfectly heartbreaking, that it would have been selfish of me to simply return them to the confines of a dirty old journal. So here they are, words that exquistely describe a pain that we have probably all felt at one time or another but have never quite had the talent, or the courage, to express. As I read it again, I feel honored that she chose to share this sorrow with me.

And my friend, if you ever read this, please know that I will always be at your side, no matter how dark the world may seem. I will hold a light, even if it is the tiniest flicker of a candle, to help you out of that darkness....

"You know, pain is a very diverse thing. To say that pain hurts is a very inaccurate statement. When I discovered [this secret] the pain was a dead feeling... almost not a pain at all, but a dull ache of just another mystery (unfortunately) solved.

We writers are a very...'feeling' bunch. You could say we're drama queens, but to feel and to write about how we feel is a gift, I believe, and to be eloquent about it is an important skill for all of humanity to learn from.

Do I welcome pain? Not necessarily. But I suppose I can learn from it, and write about it, and remember how to deal the next time....

Yes, this is a new kind of pain. Does it hurt? Hardly. It[s] an exquisitely sharp pang that radiates from my chest. It makes me nauseated and yet also heightens my senses. It has a sound, too... it is a crushing sound, and there is a monstrous roaring in my ears, so loud I am dizzy from it.... Dramatic? yes. But so is the breaking of my heart."

The Saints Don't Come Marching In

2010-03-17T21:34:00.000-07:00

OK, so I am asking for forgiveness beforehand for any spelling or grammer errors that I might make in this entry due to the fact that I am a bt tipsy. The reason for my tipsiness being that I have just watched, nay, survived watching "Boondock Saints II: All Saints Day." Even now as I see the title in courier font before me I cannot help but close my eyes and shake my head.

Every year on St. Patrick's Day, it has become a tradition to eat a hearty meal accompanied by potatoes paired with green beer and on eof the greatest movies every made... "The Boondock Saints." my nephew and I look forward to it the way most kids look forward to opening presents on Christmas morning. Tis year was no different, except that while I was purcahsing our dinner items at the store I got a wild hair up my ass and decided to rent "The Hurt Locker" (fucking awesome film!) in case we wanted to watch it afterwards. Lo and behold, this movie made its way into my eyesight and I decided "what the hell."

Have you ever had one of those moments? The moment where something v ery embarassing happens to somoene you know and you cannot help but actually feel emabarrassed for them? Well, I have. In fact, I felt that all throughout this film....

Guilt is weellling up inside of me now as I type this entry. Guilt for the director and writer of this film, this cult classic, this brilliant first film known simply as "Boondock Saints" that should have been left as a single piece of art. Someone should have stood up in his cofnerence room and shouted "Leave well enough alone!" Or even "If it aint' broke...." Any of those cliches would have worked splendidly and probably have gotten the point across just fine.

Anyone not familiar with Troy Duffy's first brilliant film should make themselves familiar with it and anyone who has seen it and been blessed enough not to watch the second bastardization of it should, you guessed it, leave well enough alone.

Within ten minutes of the movie, my nephew and I had ecvhanged the familiar "What the fuck?" look until I mad eth eexecutive decision that before we started drinking, we were going to need a lot more liqour if we were going to get through the rest of the film. Once we were well stocked and ready to watch the rest of the movie it still failed to get any better looking.

I cannot even begin to tell you everything that was wrong with the sequel, nor would I be able to seeing as how I can barely keep my eyes open right now. It is no wonder that this film barely made it into two theaters across the nation, and even so, it should not have made it into one. the acting was overdone, the script was, how shall I put this... unfunny and desperate and i still cannot figure out if the saints themselves were weraing too miuch makeup or if they went under the knife and under bad lighting. I hope againts hope that they just had a bad makeuup artist. If so, Mr Duffy, call me. I can do a much better job.

I will be watching the first movie momentarily in attempts to wash some of the sequel out of my brain, but like any bad dream or dissapointment in life, I know it will be etched in my thoughts everafter. I just hope I'm drunk when it does so.

All in all, the only way to watch this movie is captured in the picture accompained with this blog.

With All Your Faults

2010-03-10T16:34:00.000-08:00

We are all opinionated people, whether we would like to admit it or not. Some of us have our opinions proudly pinned across our chest like colorful patches received with honors; some of us keep them shyly hidden away like dirty underwear we hope no one ever, ever catches a glimpse of; then again, there are those few who gather their opinions like so many precious jewels and only take them out when they feel the person they are showing them to is worthy enough. Is there a right or wrong way to express our opinion? Do any of us ever really have the right to express certain types of opinions such as, oh I don't know, relationship opinions?

We all think we know that the guy our friend is dating is a total loser and she could do so much better because he doesn't invest or own his own house yet. We all think we know that our male friend's girlfriend is a bitch who is just taking advantage of his kindness while cheating on him with his best friend. We all think we know they are secretly agonizing over how to break up with them so they can be set free and rejoice over drinks and a pinata full of condoms at their "I'm Not Getting Married" party. But really, the truth is... we don't know. We don't have all the answers and we don't have all the facts, because the only two people who truly know what is right or wrong for a relationship are the people actually involved in the relationship itself. All people like to see are the faults and cracks in some buildings instead of the beauty it is capable of holding within.

Do any of us ever really bother asking what the "loser boyfriend" does for his significant other? Probably not because we were all too busy mouthing off opinions. One of the major thrills of his day is probably getting to come home just in time to wash his girlfriend's hair or run errands with her on their day off. The "bitch" we love to criticize? She's making her boyfriend a lunch with a note that says she loves him, or spending five hours trying to perfect a cake she made especially for him just because she wanted to see him smile at the end of a long, arduous day. At night, when their heads are on the pillow, we don't see them staring at each other lovingly, we don't hear them making each other laugh over coffee in the morning, we don't see them sharing genuine apologies after they've fought over a scene in a movie. All we see are those days when her eyes are red and puffy because she's been crying. All we see is when he's upset because she tore his favorite shirt in a fit of rage. We see the big moments, not the little ones... and even then, we fail to realize how incredibly big those little moments are to the people in love.

When it comes to love, we are all blind, especially those who criticize it. Just a few days ago I found myself telling a friend of mine that perhaps it was time to leave his current relationship because he was too good for her; she didn't appreciate him the way he ought to be appreciated. I saw the hurt in his eyes and thought it was hurt of hearing the truth, but even though lately he has had nothing but complaints for her seemingly lack of interest in their union, he can't find it in his heart to say good-bye to two years of his first love. And really who the hell am I to tell him its the right time to let go? I realized that look in his eyes wasn't a look of hurt, but a look of disappointment that I wasn't as open minded as he thought I would be. I only realized this until recently when one of my friends asked me how sure I was about my own relationship....

I knew she had been having problems in her relationships since, well, forever and even though she is currently single, I never thought of her as the resentful type. Then suddenly she said "Be honest, he's so lovey dovey with you in public, but in private he's not really like that right? Come on, be honest." She must have caught us dancing in the parking lot of my office building. When I assured her that not only was he that attentive and romantic in private as he was in public, but was actually more so, I was sure she would be convinced. Unfortunately, a few seconds later she came back with "But you must feel smothered sometimes, right?" That was it. That was the moment when I simply looked at her as she stared at me quizzically, waiting for me to vent all the bad things my fiance does. I didn't. I simply said "So first you think he's not really that attentive but now that you know he is you think he might be too smothering?" Her look went from inquisitive to confused. Even she wasn't sure. But I was.... All I could do was smile and say "I love him and he loves me and that is the only thing that matters. He makes me happy and if that doesn't make you happy, well, I can't help you with that." At which point she began to apologize profusely and back peddle like I've never seen anyone back peddle before. "That's OK," I retorted, "I can only hope that when you're in a relationship again, he loves you as much as my fiance loves me...."

The truth is that I am in a loving relationship and, like everything else in life, it has its ups and downs... but what people don't know is that not a day goes by when he doesn't make me coffee in the morning, not a day goes by when we don't say "I Love You" and kiss passionately. And yes, he dances with me in parking lots as easily as he pulls me close to dance with him in our kitchen where he always helps me make dinner. We may not always agree on things, but we don't have to because our love for each other fills all those nooks and crannies that people are so quick to point out. We see beauty in those tiny crevices whereas someone else might see fault. We see the beauty in each other, even when others don't... and truth be told, I don't care if they ever do or not.

Why I'm On Team Conan

2010-03-03T16:22:00.001-08:00

There are certain moments in life where it is not even a question of taking sides, because it is as transparent as Paris Hilton's head; you just automatically know where you want to stand. In the case of Leno Vs. Conan, well, let's just say it was another no brainer.

When I was younger I was first attracted to Conan's show because he seemed like such a caricature with his little mermaid style flippy bangs, beady little eyes and pointy nose. He never cared about being a heart throb of late night audiences or even the most clever guy who tried to make other people look and feel stupid so he could look witty. No, he was this Irish bloke who was just plain funny. Even his mannerisms made laugh. I thought, if I'm ever a celebrity I would beg to be on his show cause really, what a swell guy to know. He's that kind of person who makes me want to say things like "swell" and mean it.

So it was clear that as soon as NBC decided to cancel him in favor of Leno, there was no team I would rather be on than team Conan. The last week of his show was nothing short of spectacular. Thanks to the Internet, I did not miss a single beat and have watched it several times now. I think my favorite skit was when he was ordered by NBC to not speak ill of the network at all; no making fun of it, no bad mouthing it, nada. So what did he do? He bad mouthed them anyway... in Spanish. It was simple, comical feats like these that make him so damn lovable. Furthermore, he was unselfish.

When the time came to pull the plug he not only argued for his "severance" fee, he also argued the severance for that of his loyal staff. Not only were these incredibly fortunate people able to work for someone who didn't bang interns or have an abnormally large chin and drive circa nineteen twenty-nine automobiles, they worked for someone who had their backs covered. OK, so maybe their going away fee was pittance compared to what he was able to walk away with but come on, it was definitely more than I make in a year so yeah, I'd be grateful as hell.

Suddenly, just when I thought the Leno Vs. Conan brouhaha had simmered down and late night was inevitably handed over to the ever annoying and egotistical Leno, just when I had placed my metaphorical "Team Conan" shirt away in the closet, just when I thought the red hair laughs were over... I heard, through the bitter Hollywood grapevine, that Conan was tweeting. Now, I hate twitter. I hate it so much I don't even bother capitalizing the "t" in its name. I avoid it at all costs and would rather be kicked in the place where babies come from rather than tweet. But then I saw the picture above that Conan, new to twitter himself, posted with a caption that simply said "This is how many people it took to write today's tweet: "JUMBO" shrimp. WTF?" and I laughed. I laughed until I cried. I laughed until I peed a little. It was that kind of simple, self-deprecating humor that made me love Conan and be a loyal member of his team ever after and say this with steadfast gusto... screw you Leno. That one picture and post is funnier than a month of your shows.

Team Conan!

Still Breathing

2010-02-22T21:54:00.000-08:00

“There are two things I always tried to believe, but couldn’t; one was that there is a perfect man waiting out there for every woman, the other is that true love gives you happiness. In real life I spent so many years dodging men who were so much less than perfect, and when I did fall in love… happiness never came. So I grew up and put away those childish things and finally stopped holding my breath for a man.”

I remember when I was little I used to try and hold my breath for as long as humanly possible; whether I was in a pool, in the tub, or just laying in the grass outside as the warm sun spread it’s blanket of light gently over me. I knew it couldn’t be good for me because my lungs would start to hurt and my head would get so hot it felt as if it would explode. Then, just the moment before I felt as if I would burst into tears I would open my mouth and take in the sweetest gulp of air that would fit into my tiny lungs. It was delicious, cool, and lifesaving…. Moments later I would do it all over again.

As an adult I found that relationships, dates even, are very much like holding your breath. We do it to challenge ourselves; to see what it will feel like to be in pain on our own terms. The fun comes in seeing how long it will last. When we get to that breaking point, the point where all we want to do is cry, we let go. The strange thing is that we let go with great difficulty knowing that perhaps we could have held on just a little…bit…longer.

Perhaps it was being raised on Disney films and losing myself completely between the tower of books at my local libraries. Perhaps it was the knowledge that though my parents love for each other had waned long before I was even able to take my very first steps, I always wanted to find someone who would make me feel as if I never had to hold my breath again. I wanted to breathe without the challenge of seeing how long I could last before getting hurt, before I stopped breathing altogether….

There is a movie I have had a love affair with for quite some time now; it is called “Still Breathing” and it stars the ever wonderful Brendan Fraser, who has incidentally, long since been the man of my dreams. He plays a man, so eccentric, so gentle, so… perfect, that the first time I saw this movie I thought what every woman who has gone through multiple failed relationships would think “Yeah. Right.” I have long since stopped believing in fairy tales and soul mates. I gave them up officially the last time I held my breath too long…. I had come to the conclusion that love was not worth the pain; that the pain of losing someone was not worth the pain of perhaps losing yourself. And then this movie fell into my life like a flower from the sky when there aren’t even any trees or shrubs around for flowers to grow on.

In a time when movies are afraid to believe in magic almost as much as people are, this movie was a breath of fresh air. The leading lady has become a cynic, a pessimist. She is jaded and has made it a career out of men falling in love with her so that she may use them and discard of them as easily as one might a tissue. The leading man, played exquisitely by Mr. Fraser is, ironically, a puppeteer, much like she is; however the big difference is that he uses his talents to manipulate people into smiling. His joy comes from entertaining young children with his whimsical puppets by day and dreaming of his lady love by night. Endlessly, he searches for her in his subconscious; trying desperately to piece her face together with images handed to him by fate. Under normal circumstances I would roll my eyes at this type of film and reach for another movie before even the intro credits stopped rolling. Something about this film, as fanciful as it is with its vast Texan shots of ivy and great big magnolia blossoms… something about it made me want to believe again; believe that love could exist completely between two people; believe that maybe, just maybe there was someone out there thinking of someone like me, wondering if I would ever fall out of the sky even when there no shrubs or trees for flowers to bloom upon…. I no longer believe in fairy tales, but I sure as hell believe in love, even with all its flaws.

Fletcher, Brendan Fraser’s character, may be just a character in a movie, but I would take him over all the Clooneys and Pitts out there any day of the week. He is a gentleman who does not have a fortune stashed away in investments or stocks, he is gangly and handsome in an unconventional way, he is steadfast and determined to the point of seeming like a stalker, but just controlled enough to know when it is time to walk away. He is someone who seems as if he has never felt the need to ever hold his breath….

As I type this, I’ve come to the conclusion that perhaps my love affair (and love for Fletcher) goes beyond wanting to find someone like him (because aside from his own love affair with WOW my fiancé could very well be him), perhaps it is a matter of me wishing I could be more like him. That childlike innocence that I have all but replaced with cynicism and doubt is encompassed in his smile. If you don’t believe me just take another look at the picture above.

I may be more cynical and pessimistic than I was ten years ago. I may have had my heart broken a few more times than I would have liked, worse yet, I may have broken more hearts than I would have liked; and yes, when everyone else is splashing around in a pool you will still catch me quietly sitting below the water, silently holding my breath until my lungs feel as if they are on fire and my head threatens to explode. Just before that moment of excruciating pain threatens to engulf me and all I want to do is cry, I’ll pull myself out and take in the sweetest gulp of air I’ve ever tasted in my life. As I look around at the people laughing and enjoying the cool water, life seems to move in slow motion.... I will sit back and appreciate the fact that even though love is painful as it is wonderful… I am still breathing….

Disney Dreams Deferred

2010-02-20T23:31:00.000-08:00

What is Valentine's day really all about? Even when I have someone in my life to share the day with, we usually end up wanting to celebrate some sort of anti-valentine's day. Has anyone ever really taken the time to notice how pathetic those people look? You know, the ones in line at the supermarket the night before buying the wilted flowers and cheap boxes of chocolate; the chocolate that shouldn't even pass for chocolate in the first place? You know who you are because I'm one of those people too. We'd all like to be the type of person who puts thought and time and effort into Valentine's day gifts, but we don't. We scoff at it and secretly want the other person to forget so that we can hold up our five dollar flowers in a guilt-induced declaration in hopes that we get to call the shots in the relationship for the entire subsequent week. Even now, as I sit here at Disneyland, supposedly the "happiest place on earth," all I want to do is hit the next princess I see on the snout and beat the shit out of her prince. Which brings to mind a question: if the two of those diabetes inducing assholes ended up happily ever after, why are they never out walking the park together? You never see them holding hands and bursting into spontaneous song; no, she's always alone under two pounds of cakey makeup surrounded by deluded little girls all hoping for their own happy-ever-after endings. So where are the fucking guys? The ones who fight dragons and witches and evil family members all for "true love?" I'll tell you where they are, they're off in some seedy underground speakeasy hidden within the bowels of the magic kingdom playing video games and drinking hard liqour while porn plays in the background.

They've shed their tights for comfortable jeans, worn t-shirts that have their "Neverland University" alma matter etched on the front. They're playing poker, making jokes and laughing at their own farts while the princesses they "saved" are off keeping up the pristine squeaky clean Taylor Swift image so as not to scare the kiddies. You know what I say to to that? Fuck. That. Shit. Uh-uh. That is not for me. Pass the Jack because I'm no fucking princess. I'm no prince either. What? So when the thrill of the hunt is gone, when there are no more innocent dragons to slay or stepmothers to vanquish they can just start distancing themselves from the pastel-loving princess until they absolutely have to make a quick apearance in the fucking parade you can't even see because of all the damn kids sitting on their father's shoulders? Hey, some of us adults actually want to watch that shit too.

No, if you want to find me I'll be hanging with Cruella, Hook, and my all time favorite villain, Malificent. Incidentally, I'd be pissed too if I didn't get an invite to the party just because I have a bit of a dark side. That's just as bad as being racist, that's being Villainist. They may be evil motherfuckers but at least they tell it like it is. No sugar coated shit here. So after we go over to the Pansy Prince Gentleman's Club, beat the shit out of them with their own plastic swords (which won't be hard cause you know princes can't fight worth shit), and steal their liquour (daddy can afford to buy them more), we'll head down to New Orleans Square and get pissed while listening to jazz. All characters allowed except for those deemed as "royalty." And after we all jump in the river and stop singing "Heal the World" we can toilette paper the castles and throw bags of shit at the entrance (thanks Pluto). Snow White's evil stepmother can brew up some bad ass hangover cure and in the morning, we can do it all over again.... Now that's Disney.

By the way, there was one Prince signing autographs alongside his lady love: Aladdin. That's because he's not a cowardly little pansy raised with money. Boy grew up on the streets and had to actually try to earn her love. Jasmine's OK too since she fell in love with him when he was poor. Guess there are exceptions.... But you'll still find me drunk with that darker side of Disney.

Sexist Deodorant?

2010-02-07T13:31:00.000-08:00

OK, I consider myself a pretty laid back feminist (I'm one of those feminine feminists who can't wait to watch the superbowl later and down jello shots), but I saw a product today that actually made me raise an eyebrow and say "Oh no they din't!"

The product is a tried and true one that I have been using for many, many years: Degree for women in the "Sheer Powder" scent. I don't use any other kind because it has never let me down. Until recently.

Years ago, when they first began launching this "body responsive" campaign, I was immediately drawn to the ad in my "Seventeen" magazine. There, in a full page glossy color, was the picture of a young female director behind a camera looking over her scene. All around her were problems written that had arisen during her day like "Your lead actress is stuck in traffic," or "Boom just collapsed onto the scene," and for good measure "Studio execs paying a visit after lunch." All these problems were followed by their famous slogan of "When the heat turns up, Degree turns on!" Or something like that.... I loved this ad so much, because it portrayed a strong young woman who was not going to be intimidated by the daily problems handed to her unexpectedly; she was not only going to face those problems head-on, she was going to bulldoze through them full force... and all with the help of Degree. I was so moved by this ad I even tore it from the magazine and kept it.

Fast forward thirteen years. I ran out of deoderant so I went to the store and immediately reach for my faithful product only to stop short upon reading the new slogan on the cap. Get ready for it..."Extra RESPONSIVE in EMOTIONAL moments." What the fuuuuuuuuuuck? Oh. No. They. Didn't.

I grabbed it anyway because the product works and I wanted to take a picture of it so I would have proof that I was not hallucinating, but let me tell you, it is enough to make me go in search for another deodorant with a demographic that does not target a massive group of "emotional" sweaty women. Last time I checked, I was sweating because I went for a hike not crying because I had just watched "The Way We Were." In fact, that movie evokes more eyerolls than beads of sweat from me.

Ironically, their main slogan on the website is "Degree: It Won't Let You Down." Sorry Degree, but I disagree. Maybe your next slogan should be "Degree: Body responsive to control your sweat while you slave over the pot roast you've been working on all day because you have no life."

Can It Be Done?

2010-02-06T22:26:00.000-08:00

On dewy, overcast days my favorite thing to do is hang out in my bedroom with my space heater on and all my kids curled up sleeping on the bed. The blinds are pulled up to let the soft, filtered light absolutely pour through the large window and my silent cup of coffee sits patiently on my windowsill, waiting for me to take another sip....

There is a wooden fence right outside that soaks up the last bit of rain that washed through the desert during the cold night. Every now and then the sun peaks through the clouds as if it is making sure it hasn't gotten too cold, like a matronly guardian checking up on sleeping children.

It is days like today when all I want to do... is write; work on my novel, finish one more chapter until that moment comes when I can place the final punctuation mark on the final sentence of the final chapter, and whisper "The End," to no one in particular. Yet, I don't.

Instead, I find some excuse not to; the room is getting too dusty, so I reach for the dustpan; the clothes need washing, so I reach for the detergent; the floor needs sweeping, so I reach for the broom; I haven't perfected my hollandaise, so I reach for the whisk; my German Shepherd needs fresh air, so I reach for the leash. Lately, I seem to be reaching for everything but a pen!

Well, I'm done. If I can make time in the day to watch an episode of "Sex and The City" or re-hang a painting on the north wall because the lighting was all wrong on the east one, I can certainly make time to work on my novel for at least one hour a day. And so this blog is going to take a dramatic turn, at least for me. I am going to challenge myself the way I should have a long time ago.... In the past I've said that a true writer is simply someone who loves to write. Wrong.

I would like to add to my definition of what it takes to be a writer: A true writer is someone who takes their writing seriously, who gives themselves deadlines the way a publisher might, and more importantly... someone who finishes what they start.

A book, like a relationship, is something you must work at, through good times and bad, no matter what might have transpired throughout your day, you must make time for it; because really... "the only way out is through."

I am giving myself 365 days to completely finish my novel. Any of the ones I am working on. I will write about my progress and try to make it as interesting as possible for those of you following me (thank you by the way!). If on that 365th day I have not sent my completed "masterpiece" or "complete piece of shit" (depending on your taste), I will not only have failed this challenge, but I will also be forced to take a good, long look at myself and contemplate whether or not I can truly call myself a writer....

Though I am a bit curious, look at the picture above. Doesn't my painting look better over the sofa? It really was lost on the East wall.... But my hollandaise still sucks.

Junk Food For Mah Brain...

2010-01-31T22:23:00.000-08:00

OK, so I’m watching “Scream 3” right now (this is not my proudest statement). I just finished watching part two (this is not my second proudest statement). Don’t ask me why I opted for skipping the first one (though I am pretty proud of that), I just wasn’t in the mood to watch high schoolers getting slashed; I felt collegiate and Hollywood murders were more my taste tonight.

You’re probably wondering why I’m bothering watching these films at all, so I’ll tell you…. I watch them for the same reason why I eat snickers followed by large gulps of cold soda to cut the sweetness; or why I like smoking cigars once in a while with my jack and coke; it’s junk food for my brain. Plus Patrick Dempsey, Jay and Silent Bob, Parker Posey and the guy who played The Tick cameos make it almost completely worth wasting two hours of my life. Almost.

Even though the longer I watch these films, not only can I feel my brain slowly beginning to ooze out of my ears like a thick jelly, I also find myself unable to look away. I have the same problem when driving by flashing police cruisers and ambulances parked on the side of the freeway. Though… this may very well be my favorite of the three “Scream” movies because it’s making tremendous fun of itself. Not that I’m a huge fan of slasher films unless it’s Halloween and we have nothing better to do.

This is also probably going to be my shortest blog for obvious reasons: it is definitely not one of those movies you discuss later because of its depth. All I can say is that I am so glad I watched “Inglorious Basterds” yesterday. I will definitely be watching it again later… that is if I have any brain cells left and an IQ high enough to know how to turn on a television. Yeah... I can't watch this anymore. My eyes are beginning to cross and I'm actually considering putting blonde streaks in my hair....

Point of No Return

2010-01-28T21:16:00.000-08:00

I wish I could say I remember watching the entire play of "Phantom of the Opera" on Broadway. I really do. I wish I could say I listened intently to the magic of the operatic voices unfold before me like petals of a great and mystical flower… but I can’t. What is to blame for this amnesia-filled night you ask? The answer is simple… my first martini.

In New York during the most massive snowstorm since the turn of the century, you can do one of two things: Stay indoors like most sane, intelligent people… or not. We tourists who have only ever dreamed of visiting the intoxicating city would never let a few feet of snowfall stand in our way. Never! Yes, it was my very first trip to the Big Apple and I intended on taking as many bites as I could.

My itinerary had started out as a simple devil-may-care bullet point of things I would do, things I might do, and things I would love to do but simply couldn’t afford them; unfortunately, one of my co-workers had a massive crush on the city, and before I knew it I was scheduled to watch three major Broadway productions, two of which took place in one day….

"Phantom" was the only show I had chosen myself and so I was thoroughly excited from the moment my friend booked the seats, prime seats I might add. Center section and right next to the aisle; later that evening you will not even believe how grateful I was for that….

Just before the show, we opted for a cozy window seat in a bar just across from the Majestic in order to escape the bitter, cold wind whipping around our red noses and ears like an energetic child begging us to pay attention to it. Everything about the bar screamed New York; from the heavy mahogany to the dry-humored Irish waitress who asked “What’ll you be havin’ there lass?” It took all my willpower to keep from squealing like a delighted little girl. I was in heaven.

Even before I opened the menu I knew what I wanted; no drink said "New York" to me like an old-fashioned martini. So I ordered one. If I were Jewish, this is the part I would say “Oy vey.” She proceeded to ask how I wanted it. As I stared at her like a puppy with it’s head cocked to one side, I told her I didn’t know, so to make it as old fashioned as possible... but with a huge side of olives. Within moments, she brought me a very dry gin martini chock full of olives. Before I could send it back and ask for one with the olives on the side, she was already taking another table’s order. Ok….

Somewhere in the archives of my old computer lies a picture. It is a picture of me taking the first sip of a my very first martini… and it shall remain in those archives until I am drunk enough to post it on the internet someday in the future…. My taste buds exploded, my eyes shut, and my face contorted in ways I didn’t even know it could. I suddenly became spastically aware of muscles I didn’t even know I had. The waitress seemed to sense something was wrong because she came over to check on me, or perhaps take my pulse (incidentally, a very smart thing to do to a person who has never tasted gin before in her life).

“Howar you doin’ there lass?” She asked, barely able to contain a smile.

“Is ver goo.” I spat, “But could you git me sim to wash i down wif.” Those are not typos. That is how I sounded after I took my second sip.

A few moments later she did not bring me water; instead, she opted for bringing me some seven up. I would not realize this until years later, but alcohol + sugar = not good. Or very good depending on how sloshed you want to get.

My very kind friend whom I no longer keep in touch with, snapped away and laughed and pointed as I finished the rest of the drink. Each gulp of gin was followed by a large gulp of sweet soda, and each gulp of soda was followed by an olive that did nothing more than explode a veritable tsunami of more gin in my mouth.

Before I knew it, it was time to go and as I stood up it took a full thirty seconds for the room to catch up with me. For the first time in my life I was afraid of a staircase. The entrance loomed before us like some great gateway to hell. The good thing is I could no longer feel the cold. Hell, I couldn’t even feel my legs. Now, New Yorkers are known for being a bit brash, but that night I put them all to shame. Everyone from the usher to the person outside selling the programs (of which I bought two) were my best friends.

Finally inside, we took our seats and to this day I can only recall the lifting of the heavy, red velvet curtain and a large chandelier. The rest of it is a blur. Sometime shortly before intermission I turned to my friend who was sitting on my left.

“I hafta pee.” I whispered loudly. The person to my right bristled.

“Intermission is in a few minutes. Can’t you wait?” She asked.

I stared at her for a full minute before saying, “Yes!”

I proceeded to sit like a small child trying like mad to keep her mind on everything but liquid, but before I even knew what I was doing I flew/ stumbled/ crawled across her lap in search of the restroom.

Suddenly, I found myself in a strange yellow hallway lined with identical doors. Which to choose, which to choose? I asked myself. I chose the one in the middle. Snow. There was snow on the landing and a brick wall across the way. I looked down to find myself on a scaffold. Wrong door, I thought.

Door number two proved to be equally useless. Again I found myself somewhere I shouldn’t be. How many fire escapes does one building need even?! In frustration I slammed the door shut. Now, there are two pieces of advice I will offer you if you ever see a beloved Broadway show: 1) Never drink so much you have to pee during the performance 2) Never ever slam a very heavy door during one of the most dramatic scenes in the play. The sound echoed for what seemed like eons and I could hear murmurs through the curtains just behind me. Luckily, when you’re as drunk as I was, you won’t care. I looked down the hall. Nothing. I looked up… ahhhh… something. A ladder. A ladder leading backstage…. A ladder that would take me to the quiet chaos of actors, extras and props. A ladder that would lead me to… the Phantom himself! I felt like I had just discovered the holy grail. Slowly, without the feeling of my legs, I glided towards those magic rungs. This was it, I was going to meet the Phantom, my Phantom.

My greedy fingers clasped the bottom rung and just as I prepared to pull myself up... a loud screeching from the actress who played Christine sounded from the stage and I was yanked out of my reverie.

The sudden urge to pee came forth tenfold and I knew that if I didn’t find a restroom I was going to have a bigger mess on my hands than even I could imagine. The thought alone of walking twelve blocks with urine quickly freezing to my pants was enough to slap me across the face and bring me back to the true mission at hand.

Somehow, I found the restrooms, relieved myself and by the time I was done the lobby was full to the brim with theatergoers; all five foot three of me blended in effortlessly. I found my friend who simply shook her head when she saw me. She grabbed my arm and we headed back towards our seats in spite of the protests I made as I pointed to the secret ladder behind the curtains. My second mission had failed. I would not meet the Phantom, and so I opted for trying desperately to focus on the rest of the play of which I cannot recall. After the show, my friend proceeded to tell me how I was making such a racket that I nearly ruined the show for everyone... including the actors.

Years later, as I sit here and take sips of my dirty martini which I have perfected over the years, I cannot help but feel pleased with myself. I may not remember anything but a glass prop from my most favorite of Broadway shows, but I’ll be damned if I don’t smile every time I drink a martini. To those people who were not drunk and actually trying to enjoy the show I nearly ruined, I offer my most sincere apologies. Sort of....

Kettle, Meet Pot

2010-01-27T19:18:00.000-08:00

People can usually tell when it’s safe to enter my office. They can gauge the mood depending on what music I have playing. If Winehouse or Duffy is soulfully crooning, I probably just got in a fight with my boyfriend. Jazz? I’ll be all smiles and may even pay you a compliment. If I have my nineties mix going, it’s time to stroll down memory lane to the days when my BFF and I thought we were the shit in our Beavis and Butthead t-shirts with matching bling; however, if you hear Barbara Streisand’s haunting voice wafting through the speakers perched upon my desk or through my headphones… you better stay back or there will be hell to pay.

Something about her empowering and soul-wrenching voice makes me feel all warm and gooey. It keeps my raging anger and the moment just-before-I-go-postal at bay. To this day I don’t know what it is about her that keeps me from throwing my Sith coffee mug at the office idiot who still doesn’t know how to convert excel to PDF; or catapulting my Sting replica letter opener at the face of the craptacular, arrogant schmuck who needs the report I sent him two minutes before yet again, because he still hasn’t learned how to access anything but porn on his iPhone.

Sweet, sweet funny girl; I can almost smell the hair gel and glitter sizzling under the hot lights of the recording studios as she and Barry Gibb laid down “Guilty.” She makes me tolerate my boyfriend whose fingers are flying across his Mac like Liberace sans the glitter cape and heavy foundation.

“But babe,” he pleads, “I just need five more kills before I level up my hunter! Wanna watch?”

Somehow, I sit through those five kills and watch him skin them with disturbing glee. My grimaces and protests of mauling defenseless cyber wolves minding their own business go unnoticed. He tells me he’s going to record his level eighty honor so he can watch it again later and warns me to brace myself because it is going to be so “epic.”

Sipping my ginger vodka, I watch as his character glows for half a nanosecond.

(Insert pregnant pause here)

“That’s it?” I ask.

“Well, yeah. My computer was kind of lagging because I was recording, but when you watch it back and magnify him it’ll look so awesome.”

I’m still waiting for a trumpet or horn to sound, marking the occasion. Nothing. I look over at my German Shepherd laying in the closet. She blinks twice and goes back to sleep on my pile of clothes. “Exactly.” I tell her, but my boyfriend doesn’t hear me. He’s too busy already training his character in order to complete his accomplishment.

“Fucking gamers.” I say to myself while I pour another drink, turn up Babs, and proceed to design my t-shirt that reads “Nerds of the world 010101010110111001101001011101000110010100100001.”

I chuckle at my cleverness and smirk pompously as I think of how bad ass I’m going to look at next year’s comic con.

Blog, Baby, Blog

2010-01-26T18:16:00.000-08:00

As I prepare to write my very first blog post in the history of my life, I suddenly realize that it seems as if I'm preparing for a romantic dinner. There are aromatherapy candles lit, mellow music wafting in the air around me and an alcoholic beverage sitting on the shelf next to my bed; my elixir for calming jitters. My children (dogs) seem to sense something is wrong as well.... This is not usual "mommy time" of sitting on the couch, laptop haphazardly placed before me as a movie is playing while I "finish my novel" and take sips of a very dirty martini. They stare quizzically as I actually seem to be interested in what I'm doing.

Up until a few days ago I always thought "blogging" was something only narcissistic people did when their personal lives took a turn for the dull and uneventful. "That's not me," I would smugly say to myself. I like to keep my narcissism and boring life private thank you very much. Then I would go on writing articles no one would ever read.

As you have probably guessed by now, I am an aspiring writer. Duh right? I'm not bad, but I'm not very good either. Like anyone, I have my moments... until I read something written by Oscar Wilde, Stephen King, J.K. Rowling or the side of a cereal box for that matter. It is then that I look back at what I wrote and chuckle while I proceed to take out my journal and write about how bad a writer I am. To cheer myself up I'll go to one of my local libraries or bookstores and scour the shelves for poorly written literature while quietly muttering my mantra ("If they can get published, I can....") over and over until I begin to garner strange looks from people around me.

So here I am, Tuesday evening, on a date with my blog. So far, I like what I see. It is introducing itself to me quietly and without pressure. It is not judging me for heading to my fridge and grabbing a beer before even climbing out of my heels and pulling on my PJ's. I think it may even like the candle I've chosen to sweeten my bedroom that was starting to smell like dirty laundry. I feel... confident that this will work out. After years of refusing to conform to what everyone else was doing (no, I don't tweet, Facebook, or MySpace anymore...) I finally feel ready to share my thoughts with whoever is willing to listen. And hey, even if I'm the only one who ever reads this, I'll be fine with that too. This sure as hell is already shaping up to be a lot more organized than the pile of composition books I have scattered throughout my house and garage....

Oh, and I can't take credit for simply beginning to blog on my own. Even after being inspired by the movie Julie/ Julia, I still wasn't sold on the idea of a cyber pensieve (you Harry Potter fans will get that reference); so I decided to throw the idea out there to a few friends of mine and one of them couldn't have said it any better than "Blog, baby, blog...." Thanks Ren ; )

	Florence And The Machine - Addicted to Love .mp3

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