"You're not REALLY shaving your head, right?"

Yes.  Yes, I am.

I've been known to do some weird things in my life. Maybe because I went to Europe when I was 18. Maybe cause I've always tried to get past fear, depression, or anxiety. That all changed when I read a post on my Up With People cast page. A Canadian friend posted that she's heard through the grapevine that another cast mate had found out very suddenly that her five year old daughter had a brain tumor.  It's hard to stay in touch with 170 of your closest friends from one of the most amazing years of your life, but I started paying attention. I watched every day for updates, and saw pictures of a beautiful, smiling little girl who was going through such a difficult time with such grace. I cried tears of joy on the day she finished treatment.

And I started thinking.

What can I do? What can I ever do to help someone so far away?

I do weird things for charity.  I created my own comedy show to benefit a cancer charity in Ft. Lauderdale. I jumped off a building for the same charity.  I had a member of the country club I work for come in and talk about an awesome event he participated in with the fire station where he worked.  The firemen shaved their heads. For kids. With cancer.

Sunday night I was sitting on my couch, pondering a next adventure. Would I jump off the building again? Would I plan another event? What could I do?

I made a quick decision and signed up before I could doubt myself.  I secretly have always wanted to experience the freedom of a shaved head. I kept eyes peeled in college for productions of Wit, as I love the show and thought I could be as badass as Emma Thompson with no hair. I registered. I posted on facebook. Added it to my website. And now, I'm blogging about it.

St. Baldricks donates 80% of all moneys raised to juvenile cancer research. 80%. Over 33 million dollars was donated last year alone. It is an amazing organization, and it deserves my support. And my bald head.

I'm nervous, but the support so far has been overwhelming. Yes, I am scared.  Yes, I'm nervous of how my bald head will look. I'm vain enough to worry that I will look like a bald chipmunk with giant, Disney-esque eyeballs and cheeks. But I know that it will be so worth it when I hold up a sign saying hello to Alex as I video my hair falling from my head to the whirring of an electric razor.

Living Single

This morning I woke to sunbeams shining on my face, caressing my cheek with their warmth as birds sang outside my window. I stretched luxuriously, grabbed Kevin's leash, headed down my new stairs and walked with my fuzzball for 40 minutes around a lake. There was a blue heron in flight as we turned the corner. Squirrels chattered at us as we passed. Neighbors said hello as we wandered. He pooped on our next door neighbors patio.  We arrived home, I got ready and arrived at work 10 minutes early. I made coffee for everyone. Then the day got weird, as our catering director got in a shouting match with a nasty member in the hallway outside my door. I gave her brownies. She also asked the mother of the bride at a wedding this past weekend if her daughter was pregnant.  She wasn't.  But I digress.

I'm not sure how, but my perspective has changed in the last few days.  The weekend was filled with stress, disappointment, and delight. Seeing my home come together...seeing Kevin get comfortable with an extra spring in his step from running up and down stairs...feeling my ass muscles hurting as I run up and down the stairs...it's wonderful.  I have cable. I have internet.  I have wireless. I have space.  I have the ability to sit around in my underpants.  I cooked the last two nights.  Not in the underpants. Grease spatter hurts.

I can't figure out how to turn this photo.

I've lived in apartments before.  But never one with this much character and space and potential. I have an office. A little nook where earlier I ordered Kevin's rabies tag while staring at Bruce Campbell's signature on an Army of Darkness poster I've owned since college.  It never seemed to fit. I never seemed to fit.

But I fit here, for now. I started paring down my life before this move, and I feel that the good times are about to start. I've gotten rid of the baggage. I bought new pillows today. PILLOWS. AND A WINE RACK. AND A BASKET. And I've never been more excited about a purchase. This place is me. The new me.  The happy me. The me that loves floral pillows that complement my poppy field poster hanging over my head. The me that loves wine.  And the me that is starting to love me, a little bit more every day.

Change?

I want to chop my hair off and go blonde. Maybe stick my tongue out a lot and use foam fingers in inappropriate ways.

I want to workout every minute of every day so I can be sleeker. Different. Like Jennifer Grey's nose.

I want to look at the world and not hate it. Not all the time. But a lot of the time.

I want to succeed. In anything. Anything at all.  Business. Without really trying.

I want to stop burying my life in taking care of the dog and live. With the dog, of course. He ain't going nowhere. But do I worry about him at the detriment of my own life?

I want change. They say it does you good.  I say it just slides out of the coin purse and pools in the bottom of your handbag.

I've been failing a lot the last week or two. Saying the wrong thing. Having people hold grudges for assumed slights when I can't even see where there was fault. I've been sleepless. So sleepless that up until my writing this at 1am, I've been staring at the blinking green light that indicates my cable box is still not working.  Over and over it blinks and over and over thoughts flit through my mind. I take drugs. They don't work til too late and then I'm sleepy in the morning. Viscious cycle.  Was sick. Lost Bailey. Tried to be strong for my family. To be there for them. But who's gonna be there for me?

Eh. Vomitous blog. Positive is that I'm gonna be too busy the next few days to even think about anything but surviving an ill prepared emcee gig and a writers conference. Who knows. Maybe selling PMS will be my success. Or maybe not throwing up from nerves tomorrow will be one.  Fingers crossed. Now to sleep. Here's hoping.

This is not a fun blog.

Sorry.  It's just not.  Go read The Oatmeal or 27bslash6 if you want fun.

Dogs are awesome. They love us, unconditionally.  I needed that about three years ago.

I had moved home after passing out alone in the living room/rent was raised.  I was a mess. Depressed. Thin. Full of self loathing and derision.  Why had I been so stupid?  How was I back at my parents house at 29? Why couldn't I do things right? Dumb, dumb, dumb. And slowly, I got better.

My parents were a gigantic help. I mean, they're rock stars.  Equal parts badass and comfort. But what got me through the worst of the worst was a little furball named Bailey.  Bailey loved me when I didn't love myself. I would find him laying next to my bed, looking up at me as I curled in a fetal position and cried. During bad weather, he would run into my room and shake while thunder rolled and I tried to calm him.  I would put him on my bed and try to soothe him.  I was there for him, and he would always be there for me.

My parents would go away and it would be Bailey and I rambling around the house. Up at 6am. Let him out. Feed him. Fall asleep on the couch for a little while, snoozing as I heard him plop beside me with a grunt. One such occasion saw the onslaught of tropical storm weather.  I cleared out the downstairs closet in case of a hurricane, cleared off the couch cushions and made a cozy bed for the two of us in view of the Weather Channel and that cleaned out closet.

He is a sheltie. He is beautiful. He is neurotic. He is sick.

I was on the phone with my mother yesterday. My very strong, very independent mother.  We were discussing a writer's conference we are going to together, and were discussing the need for doggy care for Kevin. I said, "Well, you're gonna need to get someone to watch Bailey."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone. Then, "We have an appointment on Thursday. He hasn't been eating.  He's been throwing up what little he does eat.  He's skin and bones and I'm not going to let him suffer."

I've never been around when we've lost a pet. Our first dog, Gizmo, went to live on a farm. An actual farm, not the fictional one that parents create when a pet dies. Our first sheltie, Maggie, died while I was in Europe and it broke me. Our second sheltie, Shelby, died during a hurricane in a horrible way. My mom was there for both. I understood why she was hesitant to tell me. And I realized I'm stronger than I was then.  I know it's better for him to pass peacefully than in pain.  He helped me in my time of need, and I'm gonna be there for him in his. It's still hard. But it's the right thing to do.

I called my brother and sister last night to tell them the news.  Both expressed a desire to say goodbye.  I'm going to be there tonight to say goodbye, myself.  All of us are sad.  But we're gonna deal with it together.

I'm gonna hug my weird furbaby extra tight today and tomorrow. Ya'll wanna do the same? For me?

Everybody Hates Singles

I love being single. In a squirrely, never want to leave the house kinda way. I enjoy my own company and I am unashamed of that fact.  But our society has been giving me more and more signals that single is not the way to go.

One bedroom apartments in safe neighborhoods are 15 gazillion bazillion dollars.  One bedroom apartments in crappy, scary areas with chalk outlines of bodies are in an affordable range.  It's cool.  I'll sell some eggs or a kidney for that 800 sq. of safety and comfort.

Plus One on a Wedding Website RSVP-Won't go through unless the second email for Guest is filled in. Umm. Thanks for your generosity, but I don't have a plus one. So, I put myself as my date. Suck it, happy couples who are getting married and love each other.  I'm having chicken AND steak.

Single Serving Frozen veggies-Broccoli and cheese is mostly stalks. WHY DO COUPLES/FAMILIES GET ALL THE FLORETS?  GREEN GIANT, YOU BIASED BASTARD(S)!

There are two Twix and 4 Kit Kat. I have no one to share with, so end up feeling like a glutton when I scarf that stuff.  I CAN'T JUST PUT THEM BACK IN THE PACKAGE AND I CAN'T THROW THEM AWAY. That would be wasteful.

SleepNumber Commercials. Why's it gotta be all about couples?  Maybe some days I like the left side to be super hard and the right side to be super soft.  That way, when I roll from one side of the bed to the other (WHICH I CAN DO AS I HAVE THE WHOLE BED TO MYSELF AND DON'T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT GETTING KICKED, SMACKED, OR SNORED AT), I can enjoy a different sleep experience. Also, maybe Kev might like a soft side. Pets are people, too.

Publix key lime full pies are too big.  Half pies are too big. But not if you eat them over 3 days.  Right?

I'm gonna drink the other half of this bottle of wine cause I don't have to spend as much money on alcohol cause I only have one or two glasses at a sitting. HEY! Being single is great!!

YAY!

Insomnia Makes a Great Mirror

I haven't been sleeping well. I'm too...something. Too wired. Too antsy. My legs won't stop twitching and my mind won't stop wandering. I dwell on the inane and the insane.

Thoughts:
"Why are my veins all protruding recently? Am I dying?  What would WebMD say?"
 "Is Kevin happy? Why does he lick himself so much? Why doesn't he lick himself more?"
"Where am I going to live in two months?"
"Why am I so mean to myself?"
"Why do I try so hard?"
"Why don't I try harder?"
"What do I want to do?"
"Who do I want to be?"
"Is there ice cream in the freezer?"

On this, the third night of raging sleeplessness, I decided to take a melatonin early so that I could drop into sleepy time without a hitch. It hasn't worked yet. I read a book.  I watched some Netflix. I took pictures of my dog.  Then I decided to get ready for bed.  The roommate is away, so I've been T-shirt and
underpant-ing it up for bed the last few nights out of a weird sense of rebellion.  I know.  Underpant-ing is not a word. Get your own blog.

I washed my face and scrubbed with all my might. I used my water pick. Brushed my teeth. I took out my eyeballs. Took my hair down and applied night cream. And stared at my reflection in the mirror. Make-up less except the smear of mascara I always miss under my right eye. Hair in disarray.  White long underwear shirt and granny panties with a paisley pattern on them. I've been skipping the hair dye as it's expensive to do right and a mess to do myself. The mousy brown strands that I've been dyeing since I was 12 peeked out from above the dark brown ends.  I looked.  And looked closer (I'm blind without my eyeballs.) And I realized something extraordinary.

I like myself. I finally like myself. I felt more beautiful and together in those few moments than I have for the last few years.

I've been panicking for the last couple of months...

whereamigoingtobewhatamigoingtodowhoamidopeoplelikemewhyamidoingthisjobidon'tknowhowtodowhyaminotgoodenoughmaybeishouldrunawaystartoverwhydidiscrewthatupican'tdoanythingrightsomeonetellmewhattodoi'mnothappywillibehappywillieverbehappy WILL I EVER BE HAPPY?

The answer is yes.  I will.  I am.  I just have to look more. It took a mental breakdown at work, a vacation with people I love, lots of wine and lots of puppy kisses, but I am happy. At least with myself and the rest can fall into place.

I like the mousy brown. It's me. It's who I am and who I was meant to be. I don't need to hide that person anymore. I'm not fooling anyone by being this figment of who I really am.  I can have hard days and I can have joyful days.  I just need to LOOK and realize that no matter what I do or where I am, what I wear or what I say, the constant is me. And liking me is the first step in an awesome adventure that is the rest of my life.

NOW IF THE MELATONIN COULD KICK IN, EVERYTHING WOULD BE GREAT.

VMA is more like T&A. Random thoughts.

The other day I was watching a concert.  I'm really not sure who the act was, but it was a group of rocking, soulful 20 something men dressed in jeans and tanktops, screaming into mics and thrashing poor instruments until it looked like either their fingers or frets were going to explode.  Hordes of screaming girls populated the audience, scantily clad in the outdoor arena in what looked like summer time.  I know. My attention to specific details is amazing.

This imagery started me thinking about the music industry in general. How is it that men can be un-bathed, wearing disgusting undershirts with ratty, pulled off the floor jeans and ladies have to dress like hookers?  I can barely walk on stage to sing a 3.5 minute song in regular heels.  I can only imagine 3 inches.  Actually...I wore huge heels once while at Shadowbox. I fell over on the way off stage and almost took everyone out, dominoes style.  It was uncomfortable and unnecessary. Though my legs looked fabulous, I almost died trying to get down a set of stairs in the shoes, and for what? So I could look like an orange Muppet turbo hooker with pink hair for a live version of Roam by the B52's.

As a side note-how come Justin Timberlake can barely sing half of his songs cause he's doing choreography at the VMA's but have a lady try to pull that off (Beyonce at the Super Bowl) and she's lambasted while he is glorified?  Can we all just admit that his falsetto sounded like he was a normal range singer who got kicked in the balls?  BUT GOOD ON HIM AND SASHA FIERCE FOR SINGING LIVE WHILE DANCING LIKE IDIOTS.

I watched the Miley Cyrus thing. Unfortunately.  And it's not just an issue of overly-sexualizing herself in an attempt to get as far from her squeaky clean teenage image.  It was almost like watching a completely crazy person lose her mind in front of an audience of millions. The tongue sticking out.  The weird ass behavior. The twerking. Robin Thicke and his team were also to blame for this. But there would be no need to see this shit if it wasn't for the glaring discrepancies in how we treat male and female musicians in this society.

I want Beyonce to come out on stage ONE TIME and be able to wear a shitty looking shirt with comfortable looking jeans. I want to focus on the person and the voice. I love artists like Sara Bareilles who allow themselves to just be. SB is all eyeballs and hair.  And I love that!  I love that.  As a performer, I get it. I get that you put on a persona and that's who people expect.  But I can also say that some of my favorite performances have been when I'm in boots and a cute dress, being me and not some Barbie/Vampy/Trampy version of myself.  And maybe if we move towards that aesthetic, then crap like dancing teddy bears and strippers won't assault our eyeballs and the eyeballs of the thousands of teens who are being brainwashed by this garbage.

That's a Coldshot, baby!