Perspective.

I've been sleeping a lot lately. LIKE a lot. All day Sunday. Monday night. Tuesday night. I slept through the alarm I set to get going for rehearsal.  Woke up right when rehearsal was about to start. 45 minutes away. It was too overwhelming to figure out.  I had a long discussion with my mom about how depressed I feel. FOR NO REASON.

Today, my friend Aniela starts chemo. I just chatted with a member of the club who is battling lung cancer. A friend of mine just had to put her dog down. 132 children were killed in Pakistan.

I know I have it good.  I realize this.  My body does not.  My brain chemistry does not.

Depression is a lie.  But it's a damn convincing lie.

I have had a few "snap out of it" comments from people. A "go run on the treadmill to get your endorphin's up" from mom. My friend that I blew off last night told me he understands.

THIS HAPPENS. EVEN ON BRAIN DRUGS, IT HAPPENS.

Every year, the season starts and I want to hibernate.  Work gets crazy.  A lot of energy gets expended in events, negative members, balancing co-workers and membership drives. I leave the couch to walk Kevin.  Get a popsicle. Go back to the couch.  It's tough. I get that it's not just tough on me. I'm not crying all the time (just once on Monday night, but it was for a really good reason).

I'm not wanting to hurt myself.

I'm just tired.

This?

http://www.huffingtonpost.ca/anne-theriault-/living-with-depression_b_3726949.html

I have yet to read an article about depression that more accurately depicted the way I feel right now.

Wil Wheaton said that once he got on meds, the noise in his brain finally dulled to a ringing in the ears. That happened to me when I started the brain drugs. I went off the brain drugs for a few days, and now my brain just needs to catch back up. I need to deal with the health stuff going on in my life. (Surprise!  I'm anemic and have a temporarily broken uterus! Yay!) Realize that my friends love me. My family loves me.  I should love me.

To cope with this current bout, I'm going to be silly.  Post silly shit. Find videos that make me giggle and images that make me guffaw.  I'm gonna be a manic pixie girl. And get my femullet trimmed. That might be step one.

Da blues.

I've got a case of the holiday blues.

The only solution is...a poem.

I got dumped by an elf on Christmas
It was a very bad year
He had the curly shoes, the bells and the hat
And even two very pointy ears

It was one of those crawls

Where everybody drinks
Dressed like Santa, we all did shots
I thought I had been very good all year
But he had other thoughts.

We partied all night
I was naughty but nice
Dancing and acting a fool.
"It's not working out"
He said with a sneer
Shortly after I'd bought his 15th beer

My eyes teared up
Green mascara ran down my face
As I stood in my hooker Santa gear
"Merry Christmas to all"
He yelled as he drove out of sight.
"And I hope you had a very shitty night!"

Never trust a man who drinks cough syrup
He'll always end up breaking your heart
But that damn elf did me a favor that day
And left me to make a brand new start

I got dumped by an elf on Christmas
It was a very bad year
He had the curly shoes, the bells and the hat
And even two very pointy ears.

EFF CHRISTMAS!

THIS GUY IS NOT MY BUDDY! 

My sister inspired me.

I was mean to my sister.

Surprise!

She said something at dinner one night about trying to find a four leaf clover.  It was an item on her bucket list.

I scoffed.

"It's on your bucket list?  Bucket lists are for EPIC ADVENTURES, EXPLORING and DEATH DEFYING FEATS.  NOT FOR SOMETHING LIKE FINDING A FOUR LEAF CLOVER! DUH!"

I'm a jerk. And speak in all caps.

I realized that my interpretation of the bucket list is kind of douchey. (Sorry, Brooke.) The list doesn't have to be full of expensive travel or extreme sports.  It can be the little things in life that we've always wanted to do that are within our reach if we just focus on them.

I've added an item to my bucket list.

Do a single cartwheel.

I have never done a cartwheel. I don't trust gravity and my body to not break something in the process of wheeling. The other day I was teaching an improv class, and we were waiting for additional students to get there to begin.  While we waited, I suggested we do cartwheels EVEN THOUGH I DON'T KNOW HOW.  The two other ladies in the class tried.  I couldn't.  I was too scared. Scared of looking dumb or falling.

Not anymore. I'm gonna rock a cartwheel and I 'm going to look dumb doing it.  I'll scratch it off that bucket list and move on to the next item.

Seeing the Aurora Borealis in person.

That may take a while.

Key Largo...Montego...baby, why don't we go....to the ER!

This weekend was great.

And it sucked.

Big time.

I went to Islamorada with my dear friend, Casey, to teach improv to 75 students, raging in age from adults to elementary school students. It was fun. It was rewarding. It would have been more fun and rewarding had I not been barfing or thinking about barfing all weekend.

Friday morning, I woke up at 3:30am with the worst Charley Horse I had ever experienced.  I was soaked in sweat, even though I had gone to bed in a t-shirt and shorts.  I had to be up at 5:00am to drive to Boca for our trip, and felt...off. I scarfed some Belvita bars in the car. Casey and I stopped for coffee.  And then nausea began.

I held off being sick until our second stop of the day at about 11:00am.  We were in a Montessori school in a FREAKING CASTLE, and Casey and I walked outside so I could cool off while we waited for our contact to show up.  Casey looked at me and said, "Just go throw up."

I did. It was awful.  But I felt better for a bit. That night we went to a fancy party and ate a ton of free food.  Went back to the condo and ate junk food, watched Hot Rod, and smoked cigars. The next day we grabbed breakfast and went to teach. And I felt it again.  A need to throw up. I dry heaved a couple of times on our way home.  Went to bed at 11.  Woke up at 11. Slept the whole day. Went to the parents for our pre-Thanksgiving dinner. Threw up.  Everything hurt.

I took Monday off of work cause I felt so crappy.  Called my lady doctor and left a message with symptoms.  They called back at noon for more info. Called again at 2:45 and told me to go to the ER.  Got to the ER at 3:30pm and left at 8:00pm.   Mom drove me and brought a book from which she read to me aloud. Was diagnosed with Pelvic Inflammatory Disease, which occurs when an infection exists in the body prior to the biopsy they performed and is then spread all over by the procedure.

They put me on an IV drip of antibiotics.  Took X-rays, CAT scans, blood work, an ultrasound....which showed that I have a number of fibroids, not the one my doctor told me about.

The largest of which is 1cm across. Not the 7mm that my other doctor said.

They gave me oral antibiotics.  Gave me pain pills.  And sent me home.

I am going to the doctor today for a follow up.  I may have to reschedule my surgery next week.   And I feel like absolute shit.

I think I may need to get a new doctor.

Update on lady parts.

I have a fibroid.

It's the size of a pencil eraser that has been used until it's 7mm.

So...it's 7mm. By 8mm.

See that second pearl?  The second one from the penny? That's it.
Imagine that pearl attached to my uterus.
Or don't cause that's weird.

They did a biopsy last Monday.  It hurt like nothing has ever hurt in my life, and I've broken limbs and had a paper cut on my eyeball. The doc asked how I was doing as she stuck a camera up there.

"As good as someone can be with a camera up her hootinanny." I'm a classy chick. 

They always say, "This is gonna pinch."  Or "this is gonna cramp." 

No. It doesn't pinch and it doesn't cramp.  It fucking hurts.  Gynecological science has not gotten past the Dark Ages. It's awful and intimate and made me cry a little.

They are taking that sucker out on December 3rd.  Thank goodness. The Crimson Tide will finally go away. I'll feel better.  And I can finally stop worrying.   Mom is coming to stay at my apartment the night before so she can drive me.  Dad is taking care of Kevin so I don't have to walk up and down stairs. They are great.  It's going to be fine.

EXCEPT WHAT IF IT'S CANCER?  WHY HAVEN'T THEY CALLED WITH BIOPSY RESULTS?  WHY AM I HAVING BLOODWORK THIS MONDAY THAT CHECKS IF I HAVE CANCER? WHY DOES MY CHART SAY I HAVE HAD PRE CANCEROUS CELLS IN MY LAST TWO COLPOSCOPIES?  WHY DO I KEEP LOGGING IN TO MY CHART TO SEE IF I HAVE CANCER? 

WHY CAN'T THEY JUST CALL AND SAY IT'S NOT CANCER?

HOW MANY TIMES CAN I TYPE CANCER?

I think I need a Valium.

CANCER.

Cranky pants

I've been bleeding for a few months.  Off and on. Even with pills and hormones and cycles.  Oh, my.

Yup. I went there.

I had an ultrasound for my naughty bits because they are apparently broken.  I scheduled a bunch of tests for this coming Monday.

I hate tests.

I hate doctors.

I hate the fact that I feel like less of a woman because of these issues. I started worrying that I'll never get to experience pregnancy. I started looking into artificial insemination. Reading blogs of women who have made the decision to have a child on their own. Too extreme?  Yes. But this is me we're talking about.

My friends are all super supportive.  My mom signed me up for Match.com.  Again.  She and I talk about the fact that all of this makes me feel less than.  She wants me to find someone that can be my go to in tough times and in good.  But how do I put myself out there when I feel like I'm broken?

I got super drunk this weekend. I chalked it up to being out of town with no need to drive myself, but that's not it.  I was trying to let off some steam and also just trying to not think about everything that has been going on recently. My clothes don't fit.  I'm losing weight. I'm not hungry. I'm just worried. All the time. Tired.  All the time.  And I hope that these procedures will make it all better. I have my doubts, as I'll still be bat shit once they're done.  But maybe I'll be less tired.  Maybe I'll have more energy.  An appetite. For more than just food.  For life.

Gah, that got depressing.  Here's a picture of a sloth on a stuffed animal to cheer you up.

That time I hit a lady with my car.

The family got together last night and we were drunk, slap happy, and crazy as always.  My brother and sister in law are moving, and the discussion turned to re-registering cars in their new home state of North Carolina.  Brooke mentioned that it is not a No-Fault state so they needed to be careful.  She then referred to the time a biker came out of nowhere on the street and Brooke hit her with her car. This reminded me of the time a lady walked into my car.

She did. I swear.

It's a funny story. Probably not to the lady, but SHE WAS FINE, GUYS.

I had left rehearsal at the Atlantic Theater and was driving home in the rain.  I called my mom and asked if she wanted me to pick up dinner.  She wanted Jon Smith subs.  I turned into the Publix shopping center on PGA and Military, and stopped at the stop sign. As I went to turn left, a lady stepped out from the median and walked into the side of my car. She fell down and started dramatically screaming about her back.

The comedy in this is that I was on my way home from puppet rehearsal, with a puppet sitting in the passenger seat. I had buckled her in so she wouldn't get tossed about, as the puppet had been built and designed for a character I do that is basically Bart Simpson with a head cold.  It was my first puppet, and I loved her.

WHERE DID SHE COME FROM?!?!?

Anyway, it was raining.  I called 911. The lady stayed on the ground, piteously screaming, "WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME?"  as I held an umbrella over her head, getting soaked myself.  I apologized and told her to just stay still.  The cops came.  I started sobbing.  The whole time, people stood on the sidewalk staring.  The cops had me move my car under cover. I told them what happened.  Two witnesses told them what happened. The lady's friend told them I came out of nowhere, speeding and hit her poor, poor friend. Ungh. People suck.

I was standing there and heard my name being called. My best friend's mother-in-law was there, hugging me as I sobbed and told her my mom was on the way to pick me up, as I didn't want to drive. She stayed with me until my mom pulled in, and took over the hugging.  The puppet still sat in the car.  I grabbed the puppet. Waited as my mom pulled the car into a parking space.  I was wet and emotionally exhausted.  The cops told me that the lady was going to be fine. Jon Smith subs had closed. We didn't get delicious subs that night.

It's not funny. But it is. WHO HITS SOMEONE WHILE THEY HAVE A PUPPET IN THE PASSENGER SEAT?!?!?

Another depressing blog. Don't read if you are sensitive or are my Mom.

The Ray Rice thing happened.

It wasn't on my radar until yesterday, when my male co-worker brought it up to my GM, whose office is next to mine.   The same male co-worker who said that Jameis Winston's alleged rape victim was asking for it. He said to my boss, "How could she marry him after that?"

I kept my mouth shut, as it's impossible to argue with him. When the Winston case came up in conversation between us, he told me to go fuck myself when I tried to defend the victim. I was defending the victim because I was one myself. Not of rape, but of physical and verbal abuse.

It was college.  I was introduced to a guy while performing in the play Baby With the Bathwater. I should have seen the warning signs as he was attracted to the Crazy Nanny character I was playing. We went out. We started dating. He drank.  I didn't.

One night, he had a few too many beers.  I said something that made him mad. He threw my open makeup bag at me, scattering brushes all over. He screamed at me that he was sleeping on the couch that night.  I went out after a while and tried to talk to him, He grabbed a glass of ice water from his coffee table and flung it in my face.  I sputtered. I cried.  I left. Soaking wet.

He called the next day. Apologized. Made it seem like it was an isolated incident. He just had a bit of a temper.

That temper flared a lot. We had a fight and I wouldn't answer his phone calls. I was in my apartment alone. He had a key. I had closed and locked the door to my room.  He tried to kick it down, screaming at me to let him in. I had headphones on and pretended I couldn't hear him, while texting my roommate to help me. I don't know why I didn't call the police.  I didn't want to be that woman.

He left and my roommate showed up with her boyfriend.  I sobbed hysterically into her shoulder as I told her what had happened. She comforted me and told me to never speak to him again,

The next day he came over and knocked. We told him to go away.  He left me flowers and a card apologizing.  His parents called and told me they would pay for everything if I just didn't do anything.

I went back.  I don't know why.

We moved in together. I thought it would be different.

It wasn't.  He pushed me during a fight. I fell over my bed and landed on my arm. I pushed him out of the room, locked the door and huddled with our dog.  He started beating on the door, telling me to let the dog out.  It was his dog, let him out. I called my sister. I packed a bag. I couldn't take it any more. I opened the door, tore his glasses off of his face, and slapped him as hard as I could. While he was distracted, I left. I went to my sisters empty apartment and cried.

I went back. This time because the apartment complex wouldn't let me out of the lease unless I had a police report. We had separate lives, separate rooms. We were ok for a while.  Then one day I decided to take a shower with my music on. He put a boombox in front of the bathroom door, and turned his music louder. I turned mine louder. The battle continued. Finally, I stormed out of the bathroom with my robe tightly tied around me. I unplugged the boombox, and tossed it to him telling him it was enough.  The boombox cut his arm.  He grabbed me.  The robe opened.  I hit him.  He called the police.  I called my friend to come get me. The next day I found a room in a friends apartment, and left with everything. My furniture went into storage. My life was in boxes.  But I was free.

I worked at the college bookstore and he came in one day. His hands were bandaged, and he was crying.  Begging me to come back.  Telling me his life was miserable and that he wanted to kill himself.  The dog I had to leave behind had mauled him. I told him to leave. I cried. The manager called me into her office and fired me. I had missed too many days dealing with the asshole, and had caused a scene. They were uncomfortable having me around.

I wish I had never gone back.  I wish I had been stronger. I wish that I hadn't played his game.  At the time I felt I deserved that kind of treatment, that I wasn't worthy of someone who could love me without hating me as well. I was broken.  I'm not anymore.  Fuck that guy.  Fuck Ray Rice. Fuck the NFL who looked the other way until they were FORCED to fucking do something. Fuck that noise.

Just...fuck it.

"Good night, bud. I love you."

I say this to my dog every night when I go to bed.

I roll over, put the book of the day on the nightstand, pull the cord to turn off the light, and mid pull I mumble this phrase to an animal that has absolutely no idea what I am saying.

I have a hard time saying this to people. But not to this weirdo mutt of mine.

Kevin is a weird dog.  He would sleep all day and night if he could.  He has a bladder of steel and a bowel of iron.  We used to go on long, rambling walks through the neighborhood.  He now pees in the front of the neighbors house.

I knew that adopting an older dog would be interesting.  I didn't know that it would be THIS interesting. I love this little (42 pound, so guess not so little) furball with all my heart. I spoil him.  I buy him more treats than I do myself. I worry. He limps and I assume he's broken his seal foot. The doctor is very patient with me.  This is my first puppy love that's all mine. And I don't know what I'll ever do without him.

I dropped Kevin off at the vet yesterday as he was acting weirdly. They had no appointments, but said to drop him and they would look at him as soon as they could.  I figured it would be a while, so I went to Lowes for a mold test kit, grabbed lunch and made an appointment to get my hair trimmed, as I'm starting to look like Carol Brady. Not cute.

Midway through my lunch, they called to tell me he was okay and that I could pick him up.  I didn't hesitate. I shoved a couple more bites in my piehole and ran for the car. I got to the vet in 15 minutes, blowing off the hair appointment (Carol Brady is cute to some.)  $9.76 for his anti-inflammatories. New Treats.  A car ride home with him snuggled against my leg. We got home, and I gave him a bone and his first dose.

We went for a walk at around 4:15.  He started eating grass like it was his job. I worried some more.  I tried to get him to stop, as he started eating the tall, rough decorative grasses that lined the walkway and that cannot be good for him.  I got him back in the house and gave him fresh water and food to see if that would help.  He plopped down on the floor and began snoring.

I know he's ok. I'm just not ok. I don't know why my usually spry older dog is suddenly not coming downstairs in the morning for his walk.  I don't know why he is suddenly walking within 5 feet of the house and doing his business when he usually wants to walk to West Palm and back.  I don't know anything and it's really, really annoying.  I want to make him better.  I just don't know how.

I DON'T WANNA WALK!

A rose by any other name.

I am a nickname fiend.

My dad is Papajon, Shtoppie, Shtoop, Popojijo, Popsicle and Pops.  Also, Dad and Daddy.

My mom is Marm. Marmee. TMo. Mama-say.

My brother is Dan. Leinad. Danny boy. Pablo Honey.  Daniel-san.

Brooke is Bug. Brookers.

Kevin is Kevy-Kev. Kevers. Turd Burglar. Turdle. Stinker-butt. Stinker-Dinker-Doo. Chevy-Chev.

I may have a problem.

My truth.

2010 was a rough year.

I parted ways with the improv troupe that had been my family for 3 years. Personal and professional issues caused things to not be fun anymore.  I was down on myself as a human being and as a performer. I was anorexic.  I had gone from 180 pounds to 125 in a short period of time by not eating. I hated everything, most of all myself.

One night, I took out a bottle of sleeping pills.  I piled them into the lid, and put them on my dresser. I was crying every night. I cried that night. I sat on the floor, hugging myself and crying.  What was the point of this pain?  I felt that I was annoying my friends with my constant sobbing and rehashing and reopening of old wounds.  I was annoying myself.

I took my phone and stared at the number for a suicide hotline.  I stared and stared.

I clicked the phone number on my iPhone. The number popped up with the call or discard option underneath.

I clicked call.

"All circuits are busy.  Please try your call again later."

Astonishment.

Shock.

Tears stopped.

A bubble started forming in my stomach.

And suddenly I was laughing.  Somewhat hysterically, but laughing. Uproariously laughing.  Rolling on the floor giggling as snot and tears dried on my puffy face.

I got up.

I put the pills away.

I called a therapist the next morning and set up an appointment.

I'm better now.  So much better now.

Some people never get better.  And they are missed.

I'm not ashamed that I'm on anti-depressants. I'm lucky that I can afford them and that they allow me to smile more every day.   They helped me ignore a very bitter, angry person that I was confronted with last night during an improv show, who doesn't even know me but carries a grudge against me for some idiocy that occurred in that awful year of 2010.  2010 Lauren would have run screaming into a corner of her mind.  This Lauren smiled and let it roll off of her.

Find help if you need it.  There's only one of you, and you're needed.

You are enough.

I want to say it again.

You are enough.

YOU are enough.

You ARE enough.

You are ENOUGH.

Any way you emphasize it, start living it.

I had the amazing opportunity to bask in the glow of Sir David Razowsky this weekend.  I'm not sure he's actually been knighted, but he should be. An amazing person and an amazing teacher, Mr. Razowsky touched me, and not in a dirty way.  His lessons in mindfulness and letting go of the past were everything I needed to change me from a miserable person to be around to someone less miserable to be around.

I think.  Give me a week. Maybe two.

I was scared the whole workshop.  Scared that he'd call me out as a fraud.  Scared to go up first. Scared to go last. We went through two days and 7 hours of workshop before I finally felt like I had the cajones to just be an improviser. And it was the best moment for me. I rarely breathe in improv scenes. I'm manic.  But I was able to slow down and listen to David tell me what I needed to do, what I needed to get rid of, who I didn't need to be.  And the bullshit went away. I feel like a gentler person. I feel like a more confident person. I am enough.  I AM ENOUGH. I need to look at everything that happens to me in joy instead of conflict.  On stage and off stage.

The show was awesome. Weird. And awesome. Casey was generous enough to share David with us at the end, and the scene I was in with him and 2 other actors was about nothing but a lamp and family dynamic. It was great.  I was on cloud nine, ten and eleven. I'm still there. My day job today has been tough but I've been handling it. An irate member started yelling at me, and I kindly asked him to leave the office and come back and start again.  I handled him with joy and caring and he left smiling. It's not an easy thing to do, but it's the right thing to do.

Thank you, David. Your lessons for life and improv have done much to improve my outlook in a mere day and a half.  I am a more confident improviser and a much improved human being.

I am enough.

Is that something in your pocket, Matthew, or are you happy to see me?

Is it me?

My doctor has made me believe that I am crazy.

And not because she put me on anti-depressants.

I went in a couple of months ago as I was having consistent leg pain.  Today was a follow up to the brain pill appointment, and I told her yet again that the leg pain was hindering my fitness and well being goals.  I had downloaded a yoga app and attempted a tree pose with disastrous results.  The muscle behind my knee and my thigh felt like a razor blade was running through them.  The veins on the leg in the pained area were dark, dark blue, and I had to stop so I wouldn't barf on Kevin's still damp barf spot.

This is what my doctor looks like. Just with dark hair and bigger eyeballs.

I told her all of this. Even poked the leg where it hurt and was tender to the touch.

Vitamin D deficiency, she says.

WTF?

I worry that she thinks I'm a hypochondriac.  That every time I leave the office with a new script and a scheduled blood test that she's snickering with the nurse, lamenting the waste of time that is my appointment. I lost 6 pounds in a month.  The nurse said, "Have you been trying to lose weight?"  I responded, "No." CAUSE I EAT A LOT OF PASTA, PEOPLE. It's poor people food.  I put butter on it. And feta cheese. EVERY OTHER NIGHT.

This is not a weight loss plan. (I have been drinking a ton of water and eating a lot of ice, so may finally be hydrated. Moot point.)  I've been eating ice like it's my job. Craving it.  Dreaming about it.  Thinking I could just run into work and grab a cup of the soft, pellet ice from the ice machine near the golf shop. At midnight. As I'm driving past work on the way home from rehearsal.  I tell her that.

"Pregnant women do that."

I'M NOT FREAKING PREGNANT.

"It may be an iron deficiency, though your blood test in June doesn't indicate you are iron deficient.  You need pre-natal vitamins."

WTF?

This is my 2nd doctor in 2 years, and I'm afraid to change again and learn that I am in fact insane. What's a girl with good insurance to do? I want my $15 co-pay to go towards making me feel better, not making me feel like I belong in Arkham. Le sigh.

I'm gonna go eat some pasta and lose another 3 pounds.  Wish me luck.

Why can't I just improvise for a living?

WORK IS STUPID.

I'm typing this from work.

I'm itchy again.  It happens a lot. Work gets a little hairy, and I want to be anywhere but here. It's been 7 years (minus one week) that I've been working at this one place.  That is crazy to me. 2 years is my limit. On jobs and relationships.  Apparently, this job is the first thing I've ever really committed to and I resent it for that very reason.  It's gotten to the point though, where this job chose another woman over me and I think it's time to move on.

How dare this job choose another woman over me? JILTED FACE.

There are so many options.  Move further south to be closer to improv shenanigans. Find a cheaper place/get a different job/move to Colorado/a small town/somewhere with mountains/near my grandma/anything. My mom keeps sending me houses for rent in Columbus and jobs in Gahanna, her hometown. It's tempting to move somewhere I love, where people I love live.

The problem is I've fallen in love with a troupe in South Florida called the Sick Puppies. Head over heels in love. I feel important.  I feel special.  I feel like I have a voice without needing to scream at the top of my lungs to be heard. There are so many opportunities, and no one is telling me that I can't/I'm not good enough/to stop wanting more. This is new for me. New and exhilarating.   It's fulfilling a part of me that I had sworn off on after the last 7 years of improv frustration and anxiety.  SO HOW CAN I THINK OF LEAVING WHEN I FINALLY FOUND LOVE?

Decision deadline is November 2014 when my lease at the stupid, rude flood apartment is up. Any thoughts, dear readers? What should I do?  Who should I be?  Where should I go?

UNGH.

I kissed Scott Adsit. Twice.

Then my house exploded.

It's been a weird couple of weeks.

I had a productive morning on Sunday, July 6th. I had breakfast with my friend, Tiffany. I went to a house I'm sitting and set it up for the homeowners who would be arriving the next day.  I went to work and tried to fix the phones that had been out since Friday.  I was gone from 9am-12:15pm.  The whole time, gallons of water were pouring into my home per minute.

I lost my mind when I walked into the apartment to find water everywhere. Lost it. Sobbing hysterically lost it. Too many things to do.  I had to save Kevin (who looked pretty content sleeping in the bathroom where the water was spewing out of a burst toilet valve).  I grabbed his leash and beckoned to him to go outside, while he happily splashed through puddles in the living room to get to the treat I had left out for him that morning.  I called my parents once I knew Kev was ok. I had broken my phone the week before being a bonehead, so have to speak on speakerphone at all times now. "Look for a shut off valve," Mom said, calm and collected.  "I CAN'T FIND ONE!" I screamed, the opposite of calm and collected. I scrambled under the kitchen sink and under the bathroom sink. No go. We hung up shortly after, as cell phones and gushing water rarely partner well.

I have no idea when the leak started. I know when it ended. 15 minutes after I discovered it, as the maintenance emergency phone number went directly to voicemail. Twice. The office phone number went to voicemail.  Twice. I grabbed Kev, got his soggy ass in the car, and ran into the main office with him in tow. One of the leasing agents was there. I was out of breath, my jeans soaked to my thighs, almost screaming that there was water gushing into my apartment and that I needed maintenance.  "I don't know where he is." A gentleman came in behind me in beach gear, calmly telling the lady that water was coming in his apartment. He had been talking to the maintenance guy outside. Rushed back to the apartment to see the guy looking at the water flowing out of my front door. HE calmly (SLOWLY) walked over to the shut off valve located OUTSIDE AND 15 FEET AWAY FROM THE APARTMENT.  My next door neighbor came home, and I not so calmly told her what happened. "My apartment is fine, " she said. She also complained about the water being off to the maintenance guy. Bitch.

I put Kevin in my car with the windows down.  I stood outside, crying. The gentleman who also reported the leak brought me a bottle of water and asked if I needed anything. I said I was fine. He and his mother offered to pick me up some lunch.  I thanked them but said no. I called my sister. "I know it's your day off, but my apartment flooded and can you come and take Kevin to the parents house? Please?" She came. She took Kevin. She came back. My best friend, Jen, showed up. Then Nick, Brooke's boyfriend. They got me moving. Mopped up the kitchen and put everything from the dining room in there to stay dry. Emptied my cheapo bookshelves that were absorbing water by the second. Books were everywhere. In bins.  On tables. The plumber showed up. Fixed the valve and added a shut off valve to the water heater.  Convenient. Left debris from the wall all over the floor. Maintenance shop vac'd the bathroom. Everything was wet.  They threw my bath mats into the bathtub where they stayed until Wednesday when I finally felt comfortable being in the apartment. The carpet company came (3 hours later) with a cleaner the size of a road atlas. Brooke, Jen and I put cut up trash bags under all the furniture to save it. Maintenance manager showed up and started yelling at the carpet guy. Carpet guy called his boss. Handed the phone to maintenance manager. MM started yelling into the phone. At this point, we had done everything we could. I packed some (inappropriate) clothes and walked outside.

My downstairs neighbor arrived at this point.  I heard crying and yelling. We offered to help. She was beside herself.  Brooke offered to go check on Kevin, as it was about to rain and we had packed some important items into her car. She picked up food on her way. I stopped into the office and was told by the leasing agents that no one of authority was in and that I'd have to come back on Monday.  Also, that my renters insurance covered the apartment, not the contents. IDIOTS.  I soggily made my way to the parents house.    I smelled bad. I was soaking wet. I scarfed Wendy's and Brooke and I had a couple of beers.

It was a bad day. That bad day lead to a bad week. The insurance adjuster came in on Tuesday. Put every piece of furniture on the claim. Clothes. Tables. Couches. Dresser. Everything. The bookshelves were completely ruined. I spent the next few days arguing with the office about the living conditions at the house.  I was told a couple of times that I was wrong when I mentioned that the carpet was still wet.  I took my mom's friends with me, thinking they would respect them. NOPE. The manager was not only rude, but dismissive of concerns and just kept saying, "We don't do that. No. We don't do that."  She also said that it was a "freak accident." No. NO, IT WASN'T.

No makeup, Eyeballs after discovering mold in my laundry basket.

I met with her again to discuss compensation for the time out of the apartment and electric for the 4 fans and the dehumidifier that had been running for 5 days straight as well as the A/C that had been running (after being broken for 3 days.)  No compensation except for days out of the apartment.  Also, I had just reported the A/C was broken on Tuesday. Not true. I told them on Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday and was told that it was just running hard due to humidity in the apartment. BULLSHIT. Just...bullshit.

There's still a hole in the wall of my bathroom. The carpets are tacky, weird feeling under my feet. Kevin is missing a bed. There are no bathmats, as I had to toss them. My dad came home and helped me move out all the damaged furniture so I can actually get into my bathroom now. My plain, bare bathroom.

My lease is up in November.  I'm crossing my fingers that there are no further issues dealing with these idiots. Still waiting for insurance to let me know what's going on. We shall see.

AT LEAST HALLMARK IS SHOWING CHRISTMAS MOVIES IN JULY!!

Maladies and Honesty.

I haven't been feeling well lately.  And by lately I mean since November. I started having stabbing pains in my legs after Thanksgiving when I went to Universal to meet my cousin and his girlfriend (then fiancee, then wife. All on the same day.)  It didn't hinder the trip, but I had one of those weird heating pad stickers on it the whole time. Since then I have been having more and more leg pain, progressing from dull aches to sharp, guitar string plucking style pains all day long. My restless leg has gotten worse.  Muscle spasms have been occurring in both legs as well as my left pinky and right hand.  My left arm randomly goes numb.  My veins are visible on 90% of my body, and the areas where they are visible are sore to the touch.  I've had major dizzy spells. I am exhausted all the time. I've been randomly throwing up.

And there is absolutely nothing wrong with me. According to my doctor.

She ran a battery of tests before I left for my mission trip (a mission trip where I wanted to cut off my own leg after 5 days of lawn work). Blood work shows I am 100% healthy. Like, the healthiest of healthy.

Thinking it might be side effects of birth control, she told me to go off of it.  I discussed with her the fact that I am on birth control for PMDD issues, and that I guess I'd rather be in pain than yelling at people while sobbing hysterically and making bad life decisions.  She left the room to look into other forms of BC with different estrogen levels, and then came back with a light in her eye and a spring in her step.

"What if we put you on anti-depressants for the PMDD?" she asked, oh so casually.  As if the idea of being on mind altering drugs was going to solve all of my problems.  As if I would be excited about the idea of an anti-depressant.

I've been here before. A previous doc put me on brain drugs for the week before my period to help with the PMDD symptoms.  I mentioned this to new doc. She replied, "No, you'll be on it all the time. Every day."

I'm torn, here. What if the drugs mess with my creativity?  Am I going to turn into some sort of improv zombie?  Will I still be able to cry on cue? Or will my tear ducts dry up as my ups and downs even out? AND WHAT DO BRAIN DRUGS HAVE TO DO WITH LEG PAIN AND DIZZINESS?

Oh, did I have leg pain? She didn't remember me mentioning that. Even though that is specifically why I went to see her in the first place.

I kinda hate doctors right now.  But I also feel helpless.  I feel like I need a second opinion. But where do I go? What do I do?

I'll take some of the brain drugs and see if it helps me find clarity.  OOOOOOO...........shiny.

What a week.

Some people have been asking me, "Lauren-why were you in Virginia with a bunch of kids?"

The answer is "Yes, and..."

Performing improv is a large portion of my life. I also use a lot of improv rules in real life, which sometimes means that I say Yes before I even think about things. Life is too short and all that.

Last week, I drove with 11 girls and one youth group leader, followed by a van with 3 boys and another female chaperone to Vienna, VA for a week of service through Week of Hope, a religious organization that teaches about the works of Jesus through community service.

I am an agnostic/deist.  I have my doubts but can see some sort of order to the universe. I definitely don't like organized religion. Definitely. Don't.

So, I just spent a week sleeping in a church classroom with those 11 girls and that other female chaperone. On air mattresses. There were 2 showers. For 60 ladies. Adults had to shower between certain hours. Meals were held in the gymnasium. I coined a catch phrase when I thought the kids were misbehaving. "Whoa, whoa, whoa." They started repeating it back to me by the end of the trip.

It was awful and it was great.  I was the sole person in charge of a group of 5 kids. 5 kids who ended up being atheists/agnostics who really just wanted to help out and hang out with their friends for a week.

Day 1:  Got there late. Did not get schedules. Did not get paperwork. Got assigned a group comprising of two girls from the youth group I was with and 3 from another group from Delaware. They were not very communicative at first, but were "besties" by the end of the week.

Day 2: Went to the home of David and Virginia, an elderly couple with some major health issues. Cleaned their house. Edged and weeded their yard. Scraped and painted a swing that they courted on. It was sweet and awesome. Then we fliered a neighborhood for 3 hours in the heat with no access to the bathroom. I was mad at that.  The pastor of the church we were staying in was a jerk. A big jerk. I kinda hated him.

Day 3: Spent all day at the home of Betty, a lady with heart issues and one lung. Did yardwork. All day. We got done early, but were at the mercy of one of the organizers as we had no vehicle. We spent the last hour laying on the grass under a huge oak tree, chatting about life and goofing off.  That was the highlight of the trip for me. The whole youth group went to DC. We visited a couple of museums. We ate junk food. I pretended to be running really fast on the Metro every time it started up.

This group of knuckleheads made the week worth it.

Day 4: Yardwork. All Day. At the church we were staying at. I took the kids to Starbucks and Dairy Queen. We ended the day by spraying each other with the garden hose.

Day 5: Yard work. Half the day. Then got to organize a flower closet that had an a/c leaking all over the floor. We put garbage bags in the baptismal pool. Classy. Two girls had allergic reactions to a plant and almost passed out on Benedryl.  Then asshole pastor made us flier. Again. It was stupid. We walked back to the church from the school where he had us passing out things to kids (creepy) , and he pulled up behind us in the bus honking the horn, startling all of us. As we walked past, I muttered to my kids, "What a dick." They laughed.  The kids were allowed to stay up until midnight. I told them to wear their blankets as capes. We went to Wal-Mart to resupply for the ride home the next day. I bought giant marshmallows and incited a marshmallow war with all the kids at the camp. Fun. Sweaty. Times.

Day 6: We finally left at 8:41am. Got home at 4:30am on Day 7 (Saturday). I got in my car, drove to my brother's house as Kevin was there and it would have been silly to drive from Delray to Gardens only to drive to Boca the next day. My lovely sister in law made their bed up for me. I slept til 8:20am and headed home as my brother was sick and sneezing everywhere.

I am still tired. I ache all over. I have muscle definition in my arms. I lost two pounds.  My mom and sister keep telling me that I need to run every decision by them from now on, as it was a crazy week and I really didn't even have to do it. Eh. I like my Yes, And attitude. I have much better stories to tell when I embrace it. And my arm jiggle is gone. WIN WIN.

Happy birthday....to me???

This just in. My birthday weekend is going to be simultaneously dumb and awesome.

Saturday, June 14th
9:30AM: Donate blood for one of my best friends, who is having surgery and needs backup O-.
8:00PM: Arrive at Showtime Theater for Sick Puppies Show warm up.
9:00PM-10:30PM: Sick Puppies Show
11:00PM: Meet Youth Group and drive 14 hours to Manassas, VA for a week long Mission Trip. 11:00PM-12:00AM: Bloodlessly sing Kumbaya for an hour to annoy Youth Pastor.

Sunday, June 15th-My actual Birthday
All Day: Drive to Manassas. Sing more Kumbaya.

I'll be in VA til the 20th. Sleeping on air mattresses. In a church. There may be indoor showers. They may be communal. They may be outside. There may be a/c.  Participants make the meals. We'll be doing good work in the area and I get to hang out with some pretty cool kids. The adults are ok. :)

At least we'll be getting home some time on the 20th. I think. Who knows at this point?!?!?!?

Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me. I am an idiot who says yes to everything. 

Happy birthday to me 

My head is now public property.

"Hey, Baldy!" yelled the overweight man as he passed by my office door, light gleaming off of his completely shaven, bulbous noggin.  He had the back of the neck ripple. It's weird.

'He didn't even donate. How DARE Mr. Clean call me that,' I simmered, already angst filled from a frustrating day at the day job of doom.  I realized then that I gave up rights to my head of hair as soon as I posted my first notification for the St. Baldrick's event. People now have OVERT opinions on my choice to shave, on my appearance now that I have shaved, and the growing out process. And I want to punch them.

A kind gentleman today told me I was stupid for cutting all my hair off.  Another gentleman said that I was beautiful, and that I should keep it short. They feel like the own a piece of me now, and it's frustrating that I can't express to them that while I invited them into my life for the shave, I don't really need them now. It's hard enough dealing with my short haired self worth issues without adding on the opinions of strangers.  Do I like my hair this close cropped? Not really. I look like a q-tip stuck into a basketball with legs. It's ok. It'll grow out. Am I glad that I did what I did? Fuck yeah. But the commentary is wearing on my nerves.

I am not a person who feels a need to chime in on the physical appearance of others, unless I am complimenting them.  Hopefully, once the hair gets a little longer on top and stops looking so weird, the commentary will stop.

I may be a little sensitive right now. Especially since a member of the club just came in, pet my head, and told me it feels like his pussy cat.

LAUREN SMASH!

Mother's Day 2014

In honor of the day for Mother's and my own mother, here is a list of awesome things about my mom. I give you 16 Reasons My Mom is Awesome Sauce. 16 is my current age divided by 2. I was going to do 32, but my internet was down at home and this should have been posted yesterday.  So, I'm basically writing it at work the day AFTER Mother's Day.

1. She taught me that reading was an escape and a joy. 
2. She allowed me to choose what I wanted to read which lead me to a love of sci fi, horror, and fantasy novels more than anything in this world. 
3. She instilled in me a passion for the written word and to express myself in any way I could. This lead to newspaper articles in middle school and really bad poetry during my teen years.  Also, a cool web comic that I love and a blog that is only sometimes angry.
4. She encourages any endeavor I have ever explored. When I chose to pursue environmental science, she got me into a magnet program. When I ditched that and got into acting at age 15, she took me to auditions. She saw every show, and jumped in to help make costumes, sets, and even took over the drama department in high school when there was no one to teach. She bought tickets for my first show with the Puppies on Friday and encouraged me to drink wine afterwards. That's LOVE, people!
5. She encouraged any and all travel. She planned so many awesome vacations (obviously with my awesome dad, who I'll do 33 awesome things for on my birthday/Father's Day), drove most of the United States in a conversion van, and created a desire in me to see the world.  She suggested I travel with Up With People. She suggested I move to KY to start an acting career with Shadowbox. Come to think of it, maybe she just wanted me out of state.
6. Any time I have ever moved, she and my dad have been there. Even when we drove to KY. Mom and I drove my Chevy Cavalier, and made puns all day and night. "99 doctors walk into a bar...
7. Whenever I'm having a tough time, she's there. Just there. Maybe with a little guilt, but she's still there.
8. She has a cheesy sense of humor.  THE CHEESIEST.  And I got that from her.
9. Hanging with her is like hanging with a really good friend who has lots of advice. Sometimes I forget that she is my mom and not just some sassy gal pal.
10. My mom instilled in me a desire to try new things. Food...activities. Nowadays she pretty much just shakes her head when I tell her the next thing I'll be doing, but she was at my trapeze lesson with video camera in hand, laughing along with me.
11. She is fiercely independent and taught me that love sometimes needs a breather. When I was 5, she moved three kids back to Ohio to be near her dad, who was diagnosed with cancer.  My dad stayed in Florida because of work and visited when he could. I'll always know that my mom made a decision for herself and her kids, knowing that Dad would be there for us. 
12. She has a very distinctive laugh. It's "HA!" at an almost dog pitched level. I also have that laugh. I love it.
13. "Oh, Lauren" is a phrase I have gotten used to. I heard it the one time I showed up for a job I found in the paper in Cincinnati that ended up being a door to door art sales job.  I ended up an hour and a half away from home, broke and abandoned by some weirdo with garbage in her car and friends had to come and rescue me.  Told my mom about the debacle...and it was, "Oh, Lauren."
14.  She's helped me through some pretty awful times. Depression, anorexia, and a ton of other awful things and right there, always, was mom with a hug, a late night chat or a shopping day.
15. She made me want to learn new things always. Show an interest in the stars?  She got a telescope and had us out in the back yard on blankets. Then scheduled a drive up to Cape Canaveral to see a lift off. Then a visit to Kennedy Space Center. She wanted to learn more so she went back to school and took classes. She was and is what inspired my curiosity about this world.
16. She's my mom. As my little sister, Brooke, said so delicately yesterday, "Thanks for shooting me out of your vagina."

LOVE YOU, MARMEE (even though you hate that nickname!)

Chugga, chugga, chugga, chugga...

During a conversation with my mom on the facepage today, she called me the Little Engine That Could in response to me saying "I think I can."

I am the Little Engine That Could. We all are.  We're all dragging a load over the mountain, and perhaps this load was meant for larger engines.  Maybe no one thinks we can do it.  But we can.

I think I can...get out of bed today.

I think I can...forgive someone today.

I think I can...breathe. One breath at a time.  One step at a time.

I think I can...perform again.  As much as it causes me doubt, it also brings me so much joy.

I think  I can...be happy. Really happy.  Not just, "I'm pretending to be happy so you leave me alone" happy. But happy. 100 days, 500 days, all my days.

I think I can...do this.

I think I can...get motivated to love myself again. Care for myself again. Stop being afraid of anorexia and stop overeating.  I say this after emotionally gorging on Taco Bell last night and feeling like death today.

I think I can...stop blaming overeating on emotions.

I think I can...think of more things to say 'I think I can' about.

Maybe not the last one.

I'm tired right now. But I think I can get through this day, through the next and start believing in myself.

CHOO CHOO!!

TBT: Yellow Submarine

The Beatles tune came on the Muzak a few seconds ago and it took me back.  Way back to my 7th grade year, when I was dorky cool enough to be a part of the Kids Helping Kids Singers.

Yes. I was a part of the Kids Helping Kids Singers.

Let me explain a little bit what this was about. We were kids. We sang. And we raised money for kids with cancer.

See a theme in my life?

The first show I did with KHKS was a Beatles review. Yes. A Beatles review. We wore tie-dye vests with white shirts, shoes, GLOVES and pants.  I was a brace faced bleach blonde who was super awkward.  And I really wanted to sing "Let It Be."  I got to sing Ticket to Ride instead. He's got a ticket to ride. Not she. Cause I'm a girl.

We toured through the county, playing at church fairs, old folks homes and non-profits all over. We had props.  A yellow submarine. With portholes for our heads to fit through.  Fish made of wood that would swim around the submarine.  There were dancers...beautiful little girls who made me jealous cause I was uncoordinated and gawky.  We did one show where we were supposed to meet Joe Namath.  He bailed. I'm pretty sure that was the only KHKS show my dad came to see.  He was lucky.  My mom, not so much.

We were super dorks. I remember getting super excited about meeting my first celebs. The dude that played Peter Brady in the 90's film.  The chick that played the middle sister on Step by Step...the ditzy one.  You know the one.  I got their autographs. No one was impressed.

Our next big blockbuster was our rendition of The Lion King.  I should point out that the only color in our cast was a young Indian boy and girl. I sang Can You Feel The Love Tonight dressed like an angel while two young kids played Nala and Simba in front of me. It was lame, but it was at the Kravis, guys.  The mother fronting Kravis!

It was awful in hindsight, but when I was doing it I felt like I was making a difference through song.  We'd meet little kids with bald heads who were finishing treatments. We would perform and the older folks would tell us how cute we were and would give us standing ovations. It was the one place that this nerd felt comfortable and it has effected adult me in so many ways.

I then went on to do similar things with Up With People when I was 18, though that was on a much bigger and more professional level than anything I did in KHKS. It made me different.  It made me the butt of a lot of jokes, especially when I was already ostracized for having braces, pimples, and glasses. It also made me who I am today, and I would never change it for the world.

Improv hiatus...OVER!

I've been an improv recluse for the past couple of months year. It got so crazy for a second there, running my own improv troupe then deciding to no longer run my own improv troupe.  It was too much. Too much responsibility.  Too much stress.  Too much distress from trying to fund shows that were costing me more than they benefited me in terms of money and mental health.  Too much me being mean to people I should have been building up and supporting.  I tried it, and it failed.  I failed.

I distanced myself from improv in order to lick my wounds. Wounds that finally started to heal two weeks ago during a March Madness Improv show at Just the Funny when a director I had never worked with trusted me enough to do a two person scene with me. Wounds that continued to heal this past Sunday when I was invited to teach an improv workshop in Miami for Improv Rising. Someone I had never played with trusted me with his brand to teach an awesome group of up and coming improvisers.  Wounds that have fully closed and have left no scars after a rehearsal I was invited to last night with the Sick Puppies in Boca Raton.

Improv is hard to explain to people who have never done it before. It's a combination of terror and joy.  I've jumped out of planes, bungee jumped over a raging river, hang glided...and none of that even compares to the adrenaline that seeps into your body when you are about to head on stage with no lines, no blocking, and no idea what will be thrown at you by the audience.  There is nothing in this world that compares to the feeling you have after a great improv scene. It's like really great sex. You glow afterwards.  And you're pretty sore.

Last night was an orgy.  An intense, hysterical orgy of shared ideas, great characters, awesome jokes, and camaraderie.  I had met half of the people in the rehearsal before.  The rest were strangers. But it did not matter at all that we had just met and knew nothing about each other. What mattered was the art form. The banter. The back and forth. The emotional highs and lows created on the spot by people interpreting a word, color, sin, sensation into a scene for the amusement of others.

It was great. GREAT. I sobbed afterwards...you know, just like after really good sex. Happy tears. I didn't have a cigarette, cause cancer.   But I glowed.  And it's been a really long time since that happened.

Thank you, Just The Funny, Improv Rising and Sick Puppies. You are great.

Author's Edit: Negative Four Months hosted the March Madness event at JTF, so I should thank them as well.  I'm a jerk.

Throw Back Thursday

I'm hungry.

I reach into the large desk drawer that is dedicated solely to snacks.  Who needs places to file things anyway? I find a bag of Jolly Ranchers I bought when I was having vocal issues and decided that after a balanced breakfast and a small salad for lunch, I could splurge on a sour watermelon candy. Red dye #5 billion be damned.

My taste buds tingle. My senses flood with the fake aroma of watermelon.  My mind flits back to a simpler time, when my family lived in a brown and tan condo on Blue Ridge Rd. in West Palm Beach. My brother was 10, Brooke was 6 and I was 8. We walked to school every day, as Berkshire Elementary was a block from our house. We'd slip under the 6 foot wooden fence, backpacks sticking occasionally. There was a freedom to walking without an adult, though on the hottest days it felt like a chore.

One day, our parents decided to let us go ACROSS THE STREET to a convenience store.  BY OURSELVES.  It was heaven on earth. Mom gave me 5 dollars and we were allowed to not only cross the street, but to buy WHATEVER WE WANTED AT THE STORE.  This became a bit of a habit for us, as I'm sure Mom wanted us out of the house.  Brooke and I always got the same thing.  I grabbed the long, stick version of a Watermelon Jolly rancher. (See? I got to it eventually.) I usually got fancy and bought a Bluebird Pineapple juice, an odd pairing with the candy, but it tasted like freedom mixed with sunshine. Brooke would get a Sour Apple Jolly Rancher stick and apple juice.

I don't remember what Dan bought, as he was usually trying to distance himself from his stinky sisters as much as possible.  But he walked with us. He made sure we crossed the street safely.  He made sure the guy behind the counter gave us the right change. He was simultaneously protective and disdainful, a trait which lingers to this day.  Nothing tasted better on those summer days than that candy and that juice.  Never mind the home cooked dinners that always greeted us when we got home.   Ignoring the home made ice cream we had every Fourth of July. That candy and that juice taught us how to be independent. It taught me how to look out for my sister.  To bond with her. And any time I taste the overly sweet, somewhat sour taste of a Watermelon Jolly Rancher, it takes me back to those days of innocence that I will never, ever get back.

I hope that some day, when I have kids of my own, I'll be able to do the same for them.  I haven't give up hope for this world that we live in to get better.  There's overwhelming evidence that we are on a downward spiral, but there's also glimmers of light everywhere that make me think that someday, my kids will be able to play in their own yard with no fear.  That I'll be able to call them in from scraping their knees and enjoying the sunshine.

Eh, who am I kidding?  My kids will probably need to be called from their rooms where they will be reading.

Nag, nag, nag.

I was at the pharmacy yesterday morning, putzing around as I awaited a prescription written by my 24 year old, model like female doctor. I picked up TP (I was out) and new deodorant (thinking my old stuff was causing issues that the prescription was supposed to remedy.) As I was looking at the "As Seen on TV" section, I heard an elderly woman's screeching voice from over the rack of Hallmark cards on my right. "WHAT DID YOU DO?" she yelled in a harpy like fashion at her husband,  limping towards her with his Hurrycane that he had probably purchased from the very section where I was browsing.

"What?" he asked, obviously cowed by the angry visage of the woman who was once the beautiful girl he danced with at a sock hop in high school or who he shared a milkshake with at a Walgreen's counter. We were at CVS.  I don't think they had counters.

"WHAT DID YOU DO?" she screamed again, ignoring social norms and an inside voice to prove that she was upset with the man and also to register through the hearing aids Mr. Harpy was sporting.  "YOU KNEW I WANTED TO USE THOSE POINTS TO GET NEW SOAP!" she yelled, face burning.  " I AM DONE WITH YOU!  JUST DONE WITH YOU! YOU KNEW I WANTED TO GET THAT SOAP! WHAT DID YOU BUY?  WHAT DID YOU BUY?!?!?!?!"  The old man stuttered, "I got myself some shaving cream."

Harpy Lady stormed to the front of the store, repeating over and over how DONE she was with the man and the whole situation/marriage/store/soap deal.  I was taken aback by not only her vehemence, but in her complete disdain of a man she had probably slept next to for a good portion of her adult life. And the only thought that popped into my head was, "THIS is why I don't want to get married."

A weird thought, for sure, but one that I have been turning over in my head again and again after the last several cluster f*ck relationships I've been in.  I'm typically a monogamous person, in that I date someone for 1-2 years, even if they are complete toolboxes and I knew I should get out. I've had a dry spell lately, mostly cause the last few were such doozies that I needed time and space to not only heal but to stop hating myself due to their view of me or who I turned into while dating them.

I never want to be that woman. I would never want anyone I love to be that man. So, is it marriage that's the problem?  Is it me and my fear of committing and then only realizing that it was a bad decision years and years later as I'm screaming at my significant other in a CVS about soap?  Could be both.  Could be that I haven't "met the right guy yet." But I've met all the wrong ones already, haven't I?  So...who will know if there will ever be a right one, as I am the common denominator in these failed relationships?  Will I some day snap over used CVS bucks because I finally realize that this person cares more about their morning shave than my needs?  GAK.

Bucket List 2014

I recently had a birthday breakfast with a friend who decided to start striking things off of her bucket list as a result of turning another year older.  She and I talked for hours, and she challenged me to create my own bucket list, a challenge she had to repeat after a previous conversation regarding said list showed no results. I'm not a fan of the bucket list.  I pretty much try to live each day as if it was my last. Morbid, I know. Or realistic. Your choice.

Instead of a bucket list, every year I add to my Done It list.  I've posted it here before.  I don't like to feel like I'm bragging. But I'm bragging.

Done It List
I was born.

In three separate instances, broke my nose, arm and paper-cut my eyeball.  Tore my rotator cuff.  Had a benign tumor removed from my neck.

Have visited almost all 50 states. Still on the list-Wisconsin, Idaho, Hawaii and Alaska. Have traveled to Europe and British Columbia, Canada, visiting these European countries: Denmark, Germany, Belgium, Austria, The Netherlands, Norway, Sweden, Finland, Czech Republic.

Seen and done these things: The Little Mermaid Statue, Berlin Wall, St. Charles Bridge, Bergen Belsen, Mozart's Birthplace, Anne Frank House, Praha Opera House (saw Rigoletto), British Columbian Rain Forests, Bungee Jumped over a river in Canada, flew a Cessna, White water rafted on 6 different rivers, hiked in 12 states and 3 countries, parasailed over Lake Tahoe, rollerbladed at a Vans Skate Park, went camping at the Red River Gorge, Rock Climbed in North Carolina, did a back country trip for 5 days in the woods, flew on a trapeze and performed a catch.

Performed in:
Deadlock (ha), Oklahoma!, Fools, Guys and Dolls, Steel Magnolias, Roads (175 shows), Baby with the Bathwater, Naomi in the Living Room, StoryBox, Standprov, Page to Stage, 3 years of Shadowbox Shows,
A Christmas Carol (2 years), Finalist in a Rock and Roll Karaoke Semi-finals at Roxy's 2 years in a row, Vanities, 3 years of Jove Shows, Beauty and the Beast, Really, Created a two person improv troupe called I'm with Stupid. Ended a two person improv troupe called I'm With Stupid. Karaoke finals at Fosters.
Performed in the Maltz Jupiter Theater's Talent competition, badly. Started my own Improv troupe, The Rejects. Ended my own Improv Troupe, The Rejects.

Performed with-Michael Winslow and Garrett Morris, met Bruce Campbell.
Was in a Duffy’s commercial
Did a crap job in a Labor Finders Training Video

Wrote a Comic book

Was on Burn Notice 3 times.  NECK BOMB!

Went to San Diego ComicCon twice and plan on going again this year.

Was interviewed on a podcast.

Met Christopher Moore. Sent him my web comic. Met Jim Butcher.

Published a web comic. Spoke on a panel at a comic book convention.

Took 2 Stand up Classes. Performed my first routine. And performed at several open mics.

Wrote and Produced 4 shows on my own and donated over $3,000 to Gilda’s Club.

Visited New York City and touristed it up by myself.

Cruised twice to the Bahamas as an adult.

Rappelled off a building for charity.  With a torn rotator cuff.

Went Sky Diving.

Wrote a parody song and performed it at my brother's wedding.

Went Hang Gliding.

Shaved my head for charity.

Bold are things I've done since my last Bucket List post.

What's on your list?

St. Baldrick's and my bald head

It's been a long 5 months of anticipation. I decided, on a whim to raise money for St. Baldrick's by shaving my head. I set the date for St. Patrick's Day, compromising my parents 35 year anniversary. I facebooked. I tweeted. I bombarded. And I had no idea the support that was going to come my way.

Thanksgiving happened, and I had learned that a friend of mine from my Up With People days had a daughter who was fighting cancer. I had already signed up for a fundraiser for Gilda's Club, a charity I have supported for the past few years with shows and jumping off a building. I was set to jump off the building again, but my mind kept drifting to this little girl, with her Iron Man masks and huge smile. I wanted to do something different.  Something to help kids like her.

So, I signed up for St. Baldrick's at midnight after a long day. It was an impulse decision, so I immediately put it out there so I couldn't second guess myself.

It was a slow start. I didn't want to be too pushy. Then I realized I should be pushy.  And my $1,000 goal became $2,000. Then $2,500. Then $3,000. Then $4,000. And people kept donating. And supporting. And messaging me. About their own experiences with family in treatment.  With loss of loved ones.  And each story made me more determined.

The day finally came.  I was good. Fine. Until about noon. Then my stomach dropped. I felt the way I felt before jumping out of a plane. Nerves kicked in. I couldn't breathe.

My co-workers, my mother, and my grandmother talked me down. Grandma flew down from Columbus to cut off my pony tail.  Then we decided to raffle off opportunities to slice one of 6 tails, thus making more money for the charity and involving everyone in the event.  Grandma got to cut the last one. My brother's best friend from high school, Brian, who I've known since I was 14 was the first to be picked.  Then my friend Steve. Then Jason Burgoon, a friend and the husband of Jessica, my sister's best friend, who got to chop off the next tail. Finally, I picked my sister's boyfriend, Nick, who a)is awesome and b)I have a jokey love/hate relationship with (I nicknamed him Doodle after our first meeting).  Grandma cut the last one, gave me a kiss, and then Jen Cross-Van Portfleet (Jess's sister) of Aspen Falls Aveda Salon and Spa did the rest.

As I'm typing, we have raised $5,025 towards childhood cancer research.  THAT IS FREAKING AWESOME AND I HAVE YOU TO THANK!  All of my friends and family have been so wonderful and supportive of not only my fundraising efforts, but of my bald head and me in general.  It's been an incredibly humbling experience, and I am so glad that you all were on this journey with me.

Thank you to a long list of donors, supporters, cheerleaders, and friends.  You guys are the bees!

Ponytails

Before

After

Wig #1

Bah

You know how much it sucks to be the only one of your friends who ever takes the initiative to reach out and plan something?  Or even the only one who checks in with other people?

It sucks.

A lot.

And it's lonely when you decide that it's just too much work to try and make people want to hang out with you.

Friends are stupid.