For once can't wait for New Years

I haven't written in this thing in months...MONTHS I tell you. I have this whole..."issue" I guess about online blogs. My thoughts are as follows: I have a journal, why do i need to write something of equal worth on this interweb? Granted I have other blogs with purposes, and it seems like most of my friends blogs actually have purposes, be they art reviews, their writing or divulging the secrets of wee Asian countries. This one though, doesn't seem to have any such purpose other than vent or rant or emote or whathaveyou. and I don't even do much of that, I just kind of, go. So I'm on a mission: find a point to this blog or bag it. Hopefully do this over the next month or two, having given it a year to steep.

I have quite a few missions coming up, and they're actually exciting rather than daunting. I'm looking forward to a lot of things post New Year.

1) Continue to plan the wedding of badassery. Plan what I (we) want and not be manipulated by my family or his. Have lots of awesome red.

2) I'm thinking of getting a job. And that's a happy idea rather than a dreadful idea.

3) I'm going to take a class or three.

4) Continue my whole running thing. Cause it's amazingly good for stress and sleep.

Are these New Years resolutions? I hadn't really thought of them that way. They're things I'm excited about doing. I guess they are, but I don't want to think of them that way. I feel like every time I think of something that way it just goes to the shitter. So I won't. There.

This is the funk leaving my life

You know the phrase, "Pain is just fear leaving your body"?

For the past 4 days or so I've been sick. I woke up on Sunday morning with a cold, something I felt coming on the night before and thought I could stop it with my usual preemptive strike of Sea Breeze's and Cold-Eeze. Vodka and vitamin C FTW. I forgot the Cold-Eeze part though, or maybe I just had too many Sea Breeze's and woke up Sunday morning a mucus cloud of incubating germ warfare.

Sometime around Monday afternoon, while I was still out cold in my NyQuil induced haze, I heard this voice in my head say, "This is your funk leaving your life." I remembered that on Tuesday afternoon when I woke up again, still NyQuilled out.

This is the funk leaving your life.

I've had a funk for quite a while, over year and a half I'd say. I remember days around December 2007 when i just would not leave the house. But I won't divulge. I just like that this voice came into my head. Like pain is fear leaving your body, this sickness was the funk leaving my life. Not like I won't ever get a cold again (hell wouldn't that be nice) but I like the idea of purging terrible thoughts, feelings, stresses, etc. from your body and having a cathartic and physical reaction to it.

This is the funk leaving your body.

What a waste of time, having a funk that is. How horrible that I'd spend my time, any bit of my time, moping, whining or being depressed about things. Crying...crying is another issue. Sometimes you jsut have to get it out. But I find that after a good fucking cry I feel really motivated, and say "to hell with that shit," and move on. Any time you spend on a funk is a time you don't get back. I'll take the hours, days of being ill, (swine flu and life threatening diseases not included) if it means I'm purging my body, my mind, my life, of some sort of funk I've been in.

This is the funk leaving your life.

Panic Mode

I know I am now 26, and wrote this last year. But I thought I'd post it, since it's now a year later, and I don't think I've moved forward much.

Panic Mode-
Apparently, I'm supposed to be panicking.
My mind-numbing, nine-hour day at a high end music law firm usually includes catching the 2-3pm episode of Law and Order on my lunch break in the conference room. Since some much needed remodeling has taken over, the conference room has been piled high with supplies and become utterly unusable. Add this to the fact that the ever detail-oriented office manager forgot to pay the cable bill. So the TV may work, but instead of my daily date with Jerry Orbach, I get blurry Susan Lucci. As I prefer the former, I decided to head out for a walk during lunch today. "Get up off of me," my ass seemed to say. The Barnes and Noble on Fifth avenue is located on 46th street; my office on 54th. I figured the 16-block walk would do me some good- almost a mile. Take that, ass.
Upon entering, I'm bombarded with the usual new hardcover fiction. I'm wondering why Anita Shrieve is still able to sell novels, considering they're just feminine (note: not feminist) retellings of old stories. The "Current Affairs" table, pretty much declares that we should all just kills ourselves now, what with the Three Trillion Dollar War (Joseph E. Steiglitz), Terror and Consent (Phillip Bobbit) and The March Toward Hell (:America and Islam after Iraq, Michael Schuer) looming over our heads. Should one find solace in the chick lit section, I applaud their naïveté.
Oh good- next table over, the self-help books are on sale. I am a child and woman of the self-help generation. I am a staunch feminist, often extremely pushy about asserting the idiom "I am what I am”, yet, any book cover that tells me how to make myself as smart as a Mensa candidate, thin as a supermodel, peaceful as a yogi, or successful as a CEO usually merits two to twenty minutes of page rummaging. One white-waxed cover catches my eye: The Panic Years by Doree Lewak. The cover is festooned with frills surrounding a manicured hand, complete with engagement ring. I decide to give it a look, considering I am myself, engaged, and adorned with diamond upon my left finger. I figured the book would be about managing the debacle of planning a wedding. Flipping through, I realize it's not what I expected, but a self-help guide to handling life after twenty six without being engaged, a period the author dubs, “The Panic Years”. Sounds a lot to me like “The Quarter Life Crisis”, defined by Wikipedia (my favorite tech-generation resource) as, “the period of life immediately following the major changes of adolescence, usually ranging from the ages of 21 – 29.” Unsurprisingly, there is also many a self-help book for this condition, as well. In Quarterlife Crisis: The Unique Challenges of Life in Your Twenties, authors Robbins and Wilner explain that the quest to define ourselves begins in childhood but yet once we hit our twenties, the process must start all over again. But, if I am responsible for redefining myself in my twenties, what have I done with all of that wasted time? Early in The Panic Years, Lewak states that, “There are more stars in the sky than grains of sand, which also, incidentally, slip through your fingers like the years of our youth.” As I watch friends obtain their dream jobs and promotions, make plans for graduate school, and somehow master what should be the simple task of “moving forward”, I sit…waiting…and stuck.
Apparently, I'm supposed to be panicking. As if I needed another reminder at this point that panic is upon me.
According to Lewak’s theory, the trouble with these particular years is that the time for fun and games has ended. College is in the past, as are your random flings, "fun" jobs, and drunken debauchery. It's time to hunker down, figure out your career path, make financially responsible investments and decisions, get married, have babies, and set out on the path that will be your future. (Note: Disregard Lewak’s book if you've been working since high school, are of an ethnicity other than white, an heiress or already have kids.) If Ms. Lewak's artistic goal was to make one panic in the first few pages then she is, by all means, the most accomplished writer to date. Skimming through it, I hold under my arm a $9 clearance sale, gold leafed copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales. My ever-growing obsession with fairy tales and fantasy environments seems to have stemmed from the dark and adult conflicts central to these stories; themselves glazed over by childish plots. I glance down at the Grimm’s cover illustration, appropriately designed, showing Rapunzel alone in a tower, her rope of hair wound tightly and repeatedly around her before cascading out the tower window. Suddenly I feel as tied up as she. My arm tightens over the Grimm's, gripping close these fantasy stories of multitudinous possibility as my shaky hands hold the book that smacks of disheartening reality.
Panic? You've got that right.
Nick Carroway, the narrator of my favorite novel The Great Gatsby, celebrates turning thirty at the story’s end. Before that moment, his life consists of soaking up the roaring bustle of the jazz age. His neighbor throws elaborate galas, his sometimes -girlfriend is a sometimes-tennis star. He frequently drinks himself into oblivion. Yet, upon turning thirty, a sudden air of responsibility comes rushing over him. Is it so symbolic that his turning thirty coincides with death at the novels conclusion? (Spoilers avoided for those who've yet to read Gatsby, though said persons are now dead in my mind.)
I turned twenty five in October, the heart of autumn. It was the first time I felt that the dead leaves and clouding skies reflected my aging. I'm now into "The Panic Years", and wonder if I will even manage to accomplish any of Ms. Lewak's requirements over the course of the next decade. I am engaged, and terribly happy in my relationship, but everyone knows you can't climb a ladder that consists of a single rung. How many rungs need there be in my life? How many things did my little, younger self want to accomplish? I admit I hunkered down and signed up for the 401K my temp agency offered, though have not a clue which funds that money goes into, or what they support. I bought a Suze Orman book once, and upon using her "Calculate Your Financial Path" website, her first suggestion is to pay off credit card debt before moving on to step two. Thanks, Suze-I'll let you know when I do that. My acting career is at a shampoo standstill of audition, rejection, repeat. My weight loss goals are continually accomplished and lost. When I was little I told my arthritic grandmother that I wanted to be one of those "athletic grandmas", as I called them. The grandmas who are fit and trim, who avoid brittle bones and happily take mall walks in windbreaker suits. I don't think that little girl would appreciate my twenty pounds of extra baggage, or my struggle to motivate myself to the gym. So I keep it from her, while the image of my senior self seems to lose that liveliness, one chunk of calcium at a time.
Should I be panicking more?? Every task towards an achieved goal seems so circuitous and so demoralizing that the joy one would get out of accomplishing any of my hearts desire’s doesn't seem worth it. Or maybe I just think it isn't. Maybe I'm Daisy Buchanan, constantly waiting for the longest day of the year only to miss it. Or maybe I just convinced myself that not only am I definitely, wholeheartedly into “The Quarter Life Crisis” or “The Panic Years”, but that I am, in fact, not panicking enough. My constant efforts at finding motivation to do anything usually take up more of my life than the actual doing. I worry that I worry too much, I plan things I never do, and I hit the snooze button too often. Perhaps Ms. Lewak's goal was not to induce panic, but motivation. I didn't even read the whole thing.
So perhaps I'm getting a head start on Nick Carroway. Deciding to start sorting out life and get serious at twenty five gives me a five year advantage. With medical advancements and lifestyle changes, the life expectancy for a Millennial (someone born between 1980 and 2000) is 150 years. Daunting, no? Yet I think my advantage will truly come from some un-serious ways at handling seriousness. Can't take oneself too seriously. We all wind up like Gatsby in the end (oops). I guess it's just a matter of how we get there, and I have a feeling in that moment I won't give a shit about my 401K. Yet, until then, "tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further…And one fine morning --- So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

Funny Girl

I'm a pretty sarcastic, quick witted, sassy person. I think a lot of my friends would call me funny. That said, I fashion myself a pretty dramatic actress, and often ignore my comedic side because, well, I don't think I'm funny.

Apparently I'm often wrong about that.

About a month ago, I agreed to do a production of a ten minute play that a friend of mine had written. Though it was a short piece, it was pretty intense. A sort of American Beauty commentary on looking closer, and seeing what's behind the lies on peoples faces, it's plot concludes with an unseen rape. Pretty hefty stuff.

I was originally offered the main female role, the victim of said encounter. As a result of scheduling conflicts, I was switched with the other actress, and given the more comedic and lighter role. I wasn't really hesitant or nervous about the initial role, or the recasting for that matter. I guess I was just surprised at how I'm often cast in this type of part. Actually, come to think of it, about 2 years ago I did another play for the same author, and I think found some sort of hidden comedy in the role I was reading for and eventually given. This time around, the role came out of necessity, but looking back on the play, was the better role for me.

Strange that I never think of myself as funny. My mother thinks I'm hilarious, of course. Another friend of mine on college once said to me, "You're SO funny," out of nowhere and the only thing I could think was: really???

Lesson learned then. Going to have to start working on my comedy chops. Which may turn out to be a terrible idea, as when I am trying to be funny I'm definitely not. We'll see.

Old and Useless

Last night, when I couldn't sleep yet again, I asked myself, "Self, why can't you sleep? What are you feeling?" And Self responded, "Old and useless."

Now, I know I'm not actually old. 26 isn't old. I just feel old. I know that in the eyes of a 75 year old, 26 would be a wonderful thing. I felt old because I feel unaccomplished. I saw Anne Hathaway in Newsweek magazine and noted she was 26. I saw her with Kate Winslet who, at 33, is the youngest woman to have achieved 5 Oscar nominations. I saw myself at 33, and thought, "Maybe by then I'll have gotten an Under 5." That's speaking optimistically.

I have a habit of being really really pessimistic at night, just as I am about to go to sleep. I think about what I'd done that day. And when all I can recall is, "Sat at a desk and answered the phone. Watched some TV at home," you can imagine how life seems uneventful. But during the day, while I'm at that desk. I can be very motivated, and have to urge to get things done. Though there's little I can actually do from my desk to progress my career. I can check audition notices, I can submit myself to things, I can organize my bag. Mostly I watch Netflix instant queue and talk to friends online.

The brightest moment of my day today was when a girl came in and told me she had an interview with my boss. She said she was here to interview for the receptionist position.

I was suddenly wide awake.

NOT because I foresaw the loss of my job and the struggle to get more temp work. But because I thought to myself, wow. I could actually get out and do something about this acting thing if I weren't here every day. It was the most exciting feeling I've had all day.

Starting: The Bitch of Living

One of my new years resolutions: write more.

Ok, so it's February, it's taken me a little while to actually get that one started. It's taken me a little while to get any of them started, actually. Perhaps getting this one started will finally provide me with the incentive to start the others.

Starting anything is really my problem. I put things off all the time. Stuff sits on the back burner for years and I wonder where my time went. When I decided to start a blog the main point was to write more. I'm going to try and use it to have actual, cohesive thoughts about things, have more definitive opinions, and make better decisions, rather than just floating all of that around in my head and hoping something comes of it. Perhaps putting it all into words will help it all seem more real, and stronger at that.

Putting things off is something I excel at. I find distractions through any means. There are numerous distractions that have kept me from starting this blog. Distractions to keep me from acknowledging my distractions. My grandmother died in the early hours of November 5th. It's a mystery if she (the old fashioned Italian nonna) waited until after a great moment of celebration in the USA she called home to make her exit, or saw that a black guy was finally president and decided it was time to go. Either way, I found plenty of distraction in the holidays. Everything I had to deal with and come to terms with around that time I put off with the holidays as an excuse. I had to find a new pie recipe to make for Thanksgiving. Couldn't let my new Cuisinart or Pyrex pie dish go unused. December was loaded with extra work and Christmas shopping and planning. i love everything that is cheesy and annoying about Christmas, so I practically bathed in the holiday to get my mind off of everything else. The extra work provided me with the money, and zombie-like routine.

Time out: I just warmed up and ate some french fries because it was a great distraction from writing more of this. It was a nice break, because it was starting to stress me a little bit.

Anyway, during this time of later November and all of December I found myself saying things in my head like, "You should get that project done" or "You have all that stuff to do" and I'd say back to myself, "Yes, I will. After the holidays are over." I'd walk down the overly decorated and crowded 5th Avenue on my way to work and I'd say to myself, "Self, you've got a lot to do after the holidays." But it wasn't a reminder, it was a way of putting it all off.

I'm terrible at facing things. Excellent at distractions. I don't want this blog to turn into a whiny, anxious rant. Most people had those types of blogs when they were teenagers and in high school. Well, I didn't have the internet when I was a kid, so maybe I just need that now. I'm trying to be a happier person. My mother called me a bitch last month and asked me why I was so angry, bitter and sarcastic. My response was of course, "I get it from dad," which made her chuckle and agree. Then I actually asked myself the question. I'm a really hard person to know, a hard person to get to know anyway. I'm extremely selective of my friends, and discriminating against those who might threaten the barrier I keep between close friends and "people I know." I don't really know how my actual friends put up with me sometimes. Not that I need to befriend everyone who comes along in order to be less of a bitch.

So, for starters, I'm using this blog to keep track of myself. I don't know where the stress, anger, and sadness came from, as I've always been an optimistic person. Perhaps I am bittersweet. I don't know if anyone will read it, but if I find myself not writing it, I'll notice. I'm trying to keep one of many new years resolutions. (Hey, it was Chinese Lunar New Year like a hot second ago, does that count?) Write more. All the bottled up crap may explode at some point, better to uncork it time and again and pour a bit out. Glass of wine?

-Miserere, misero me.
pero, brindo'alla vita!

-Miserable, wretched me,
But I toast life!