Facebook infiltration

Okay – I was NOT going to do this, but I need to write. Something. Anything. When I do, it calms my brain which is in overdrive over nothing. Well, not nothing, but certainly not something worth overdrive. No one’s ill, we are not totally broke and my marriage, family and career are tops at the moment.

Yet, the brain in my skull still finds a way to hit supersonic speed over tidbits of banal life chatter. Oddly enough, I don’t feel comfortable writing about what is bothering me. Hmm.

It’s my very own list of 25 random facts about me of which some I am not sure anyone – including husband and best friend know. The list was hard to compile for this blog since I have been pouring out a lot of random me for almost a year now.

  1. I do not feel like I am in my forties. At least, this is not what I imagined being 40-something would feel like.
  2. I prefer to type everything because I don’t like my handwriting.
  3. I have been putting this off out of fear that I do not have 25 interesting random notes to write about myself.
  4. I used to dream Sting sang me his new songs before he released them. Like on some sort of alter-dream-plane-universe.  Then, in the real world (well, my reality anyway), the songs would always sound familiar, like I’d truly heard them before. Most notable among those were “Every Breath You Take,” “All This Time,” and “When We Dance.”
  5. I used to consider joining the Army. Not to fight but to lose weight.
  6. I had an older brother who died of a terminal genetic disorder at the age of ten on St. Patrick’s Day, 1974. He would have been 45 this past January 30th. His short life and death affected my entire life. Seriously – my entire life.
  7. I once pumped out 12 ounces of breast milk. Quite an achievement for someone with my “a is for apple” cup size.
  8. I still have my wisdom teeth, but often do not feel very wise.
  9. I am pretty sure my soul has had previous lives but on the whole is fairly young. I think this may be the reason why I weep whenever I see soldiers in uniform, have a weird sense memory of hiding in the bushes as a child while trying to escape to freedom, and see faces in various objects, shapes and designs.
  10. I have a crush on Matt Damon and wrote him a letter thanking him for his smoldering yet authentic performance in The Bourne series. Surprise – I never mailed it. (Maybe I’ll post it here someday?)
  11. My first cigarette was when I was a tween with my cousin, Tracy – Salem Lights, menthol. Never was a full-fledged smoker – I smoked off/on for years and officially quit in 1992 after a severe throat infection. Occasionally when I am with my peeps, I’ll have one or two.
  12. I still have a curling iron I borrowed during a show in college that I forgot to return and it haunts me from under the bathroom sink like Poe’s “Tale Tell Heart.”  (FYI – I graduated college in 1993 – nice, huh?)
  13. I continue to dreadfully miss performing in the theater. I secretly search the audition lists and pray for an opportunity to run away and rejoin that circus.
  14. I sometimes forget which hand is my left and which is my right. I use my wedding band as a reminder.
  15. I used to be too afraid to reveal something like number nine out of fear of judgment from others. Now, I figure, what the hell? Judges will judge whether they know that about me or not.
  16. My husband recently referred to me as still being a MILF to him – aww, isn’t that sweet?
  17. I am sitting here listening to aforementioned husband play the guitar and sing while I type this out. He does both quite beautifully and on days when my brain is in negative overdrive, I get jealous instead of happy for him. How crappy is that?
  18. I tell everyone that I started my acting career in kindergarten as the third billy goat in the Billy Goat’s Gruff. But in actuality, I think that is a lie. I am thinking I was a rock by the bridge the goats cross over. Oh, well – we all get our start somewhere.
  19. I got a $15,000 bonus (lots of money in 1997 for a fledgling actor) when I worked at PaineWebber in NYC and walked away from the job and the clear opportunity to make more if I stayed in order to come home to Texas to start our family. No regrets – NOT ONE.
  20. I am coming around to the awareness that blogging while satisfying on many levels, is also very lonely. There are no stage lights to illuminate me, no hands clapping furiously after my post and not enough interaction with other humans with the same creative leanings as me.
  21. Sometimes I get so caught up in the things that aren’t working, I forget about the things that do:
    Does Not: fabled idea of relationships – Does: reality of relationships
    Does Not: my ability to deal with frustration and anger – Does: can deal with just about most anything else
    Does Not: worrying about money – Does: trusting that there will always be enough
    Does Not: worry – Does: trust
    Does Not: stuffing my feelings – Does: letting them pass through me naturally
    Does Not: hiding from fear – Does: facing it
    Does Not: shame – Does: love
  22. I desperately need a manicure and pedicure. And a weekend away by myself. Something I have never done – be alone in an unfamiliar place without anyone I know to keep me upright.
  23. I have a postcard from Alaska to someone named Kelli in Denton from someone named Dana in Houston that I found in a book. I have always, always wanted to go to Alaska.
  24. I prefer coke zero over diet coke, salt over sugar, lake over beach, vibrant over pastel, Shaun Cassidy over Lief Garret, spy novel over romance, coffee over tea, Superman over Batman, peace over war, love over indifference, and life over death.
  25. I have no fucking clue why I wrote all of these out after all of this time especially considering that I think I have confirmed my #3 fear. Oh, look! A turtle!

Peace.

Let them eat steak

I recently came across a familiar situation where I was faced with the opportunity to not do something I didn’t want to do. Toss in a little bit of having to do something I needed to do, but am not generally good at – and you have the makings of yet another blog post.

Let’s see how I fared, shall we?

In case you don’t know, I suffer from many “issues” one of which being I have a very unstable stomach. Food, which is supposed to be my friend, can in many ways be my worst enemy. Not only do I have the pudge-potential syndrome, I also have the irritable bowel one. Food choices are critical to ensure I do not end up writhing in pain for days. However, food is also my go-to mood adjustment device. Happy? Have a cupcake. Sad? Eat an entire bag of potato chips. Enjoy camaraderie? Scarf down enough Chili’s chips/salsa/ranch to feed a small nation. Totally depressed? Eliminate food altogether – which is clearly as harmful as eating too much.

[If at this point, you are thinking I need some sort of therapy – please, please refrain from suggesting that road which has been traveled ad nauseum. ]

This bit of background leads us up to the other evening when I was having dinner with some folks I am very close to. Food issues already range from the comical to the serious over the course of my life, so the fact that I have dire choices I am faced with making three times a day plus in between snacks only enhances any sort of meal-enticed environment around others because I then have to throw in the fact that I believe my choice must not offend or upset anyone, in anyway possible.

For many reasons, one of which being I had recently had the stomach flu – considered akin to a near death experience for IBS folks, I was not feeling all that great when I arrived at the dinner. It was soon revealed that we would be dining on good old fashioned steak and potatoes. No other choices offered.

I immediately thought, “Ouch – red meat on an already fragile stomach? Nope, cannot do it.”

Which was immediately followed by, “Fuck. This means I have to say something about it. Fuck.”

For just about anyone else, the solution is simple – state that you cannot eat the steak but would be delighted with the baked potato and be done with it.

If you have read more than one blog post from me, you also know I do not consider myself anywhere near the realm of normal. Telling someone that I am unable eat what they have prepared or don’t like the way they cut my hair or think the brakes they installed are not quite right or disagree with them over anything in general can be as difficult for me as brain surgery is for a statistician while at the same time producing some sort of self induced traumatic esteem injury.

[Again, if you have that tiny little urge telling you to suggest therapy for me – please don’t, pretend you did and simply allow me my eccentricities.]

I gave it a try anyway and said that I would not be able to eat the steak due to my stomach still not being totally healed. Whew! Look at me – gonna be tummy cramp free!

Then, when dinner came and my plate was being loaded and even though I’d been very clear that I was not going to eat steak – I was offered steak like parishioner is offered communion. I, again, said, “No, thanks. Remember, my stomach?”

The steak was held out in front, hovering in the air like a Matrix special effect by a pleading host.

“Are you sure? Just a little bit won’t hurt you will it?”

Did I maintain my commitment to my internal organs and refuse to eat the steak?

Or did I crumble like a tin can under the weight of an 80 ton tyrannosaurus rex crashing through the jungle on its way to a veggiesaurus slaughter?

Lost things…

I used to have this beautiful gold necklace. It was a gift in honor of a very sacred occasion. It was given to me, for me on that special day out of love and pride. I cherished it. I was still very young and I wore it most of the time for about as long as I can remember.

Then, at some point, I lost it.

I have no idea how it happened and it was long while, I would guess, before I even realized it was gone. I went to put it on one day and it wasn’t there. I searched everywhere – it’s not like I have a lot of jewelry or many places I would have kept it.

It was just gone.

It made me very sad.

It still makes me sad.

I reactivate my search efforts every now and then thinking it will show up or reappear out of some blissful magic.

It never does.

Most days I don’t think about it. Yet, on the days I do, I can almost pinpoint the place I last saw it. It was on top of the medicine chest in our apartment in Manhattan. Hidden away from sight. Not sure why it was put it up there, but I think it was and now I see it in my mind’s eye laying there covered in dust and cobwebs. Almost lonely from not being worn, the gold glistening so hard in the harsh light of the bathroom hoping somebody will notice it and rescue it from its obscured, lost place.

Then, if my thoughts are extra fierce that day of regenerated seeking, the internal argument begins.

“You should just let it go – you’re never going to find it again. It’s gone.”

“But what if was accidentally put it in that old black leather bag I carried then? Maybe it is stuck in the side zipper pocket?”

“Did you check there?”

“You know I did.”

“And was it there?”

“You know it wasn’t. Maybe it got stuck in between – ”

“Why can’t you accept that it may be just be gone?”

“See – even you said – ‘may be gone‘ – that sounds like there is room for hope!”

“There is always room for hope, my dear. In this case, you may need to switch that hope into to finding a new necklace.”

“But I didn’t find this one – it was given to me as a gift.”

“So, you’ll get another gift that is just as special.”

“That is not possible.”

“Well, who’s leaving out hope now?”

Needless to say, I don’t like losing things. I have enough brain chatter going on without adding the constant anguish of not knowing where something is. Or if it even still exists.

So, if by some chance of fate, you are reading this from your second floor brownstone apartment on the upper east side of Manhattan, 89th and Lex, check above the medicine cabinet, will ya?

If you find a small gold crucifix, shoot me an email, please?

If there is nothing there, well, honestly not sure what I would do with that information…