Whatchu Been Missin’

29 Jul

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Some reads to keep me sane through the bleakness of in-between casting which goes on and on.

….Season General’s are super great…while doing them…then about 6 to 9 months later. In between, there is just a hollow hole of nothingness in purgatory. Waiting. Waiting for second and third calls. Waiting for the next show to cast first. Waiting for more waiting.

  …In the meantime, I’ve scooped up some lit-read gigs and script one-nighters, which feed me just enough that I don’t artistically starve to death. Which I truly believe can happen to a person, if they allow it to.

…As nothing but the written word, walking, and Netflix, seem to be helping in my current day-to-day Hell of work-life, I have dedicated myself to them almost completely. Even with a maybe sorta broken but for sure sprained toe, I’m marching and spewing words from any and every source I can get a hold of. My yoga mat is forever now where my coffee table should be, so even whilst streaming on the TV, I can get more steps in.

I feel that I have a certain responsibility to just “DO.” Constantly. Whenever I can. However I can. Up hills, by oceans, on mountains, in the car, even while waiting for reports to print out…I can’t seem to solid focus on anything without tag-teaming it onto something else…because somehow, I think my brain figures that occupying my entire person’s function at all times, will make me feel like I own some sort of control over something…at some point.

…I don’t though.

Instead, I’m just perpetually exhausted.

I have no alternative fix or answer to this predicament. I am only stating fact.

…Maybe, when another show is on the roster and I have responsibility to it, and its team, my brain will ease up a bit and let me enjoy the sunshine and being human. Until then, I feel this is the best medication I can grant myself…so I’ll have to keep at it…through even purple toes and pissed off Fitbit buds.

When all you have is all you have, you can only do what you can.

…But I’d be full of shit if I didn’t admit: I’m fucking tired, and hungry-starving to be back home in a cast again. I’ll trade you ALL the Fitbit badges, for that. Gladly.

~D

Hello, From Away

18 Jul

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I’ve been kidnapped by friends to a two-story cabin on the Sound somewhere on the peninsula.

…In the last 21 hours I’ve cried (from laughing), sped through country mountain roads (in an orange, 1960’s convertible Mustang), walked the tide-flats, let the ocean lap and salt-water sooth away my Joan Crawford bloating, back pain and pressure, ate a homecooked carne asada with fresh everything marrying so many flavor bonus surprises, the tongue was on multiple orgasm delight.

…We siesta’d on the back porch with frothy fresh margaritas, watched the waves at magic hour, read a play so late into twilight, we finished with candles whipping their light every-which-way…too stubborn to stop or go inside. Later: attacking a cheesecake on a plate between us, each with fork in-hand…laughing and chatting late into the night.

…Awoke in the loft bedroom, by the sun poking in through the giant windows. Downstairs, side-steped a morning breathing and yoga regime by Lady M, to fresh coffee, and out with bedhead and no makeup to the already toasty deck.

“Think I’m gonna take a morning dip, in a bit…the water is just too delish,” The Prof says, in greeting.

“Mmm. Coffeeeee…….,” is all I can yet manage, gripping my cup while looking out…at a view that is cinematically ridiculous.

…Lady M joins us, Yoga-refreshed, cup in hand. And for the prob’ly three-dozenth time in these hours away, we are: three women…as the world so very rarely gets the chance to unabashedly see us. Real. Makeup-naked. No phones. No watches. Hairstyles: irrelevant. We don’t care how we sit in our chairs, various sizes of little round tummies, not sucked in as an outreach to vanity. Toenail Polish on the feet thrust out before us, chipped in places…because, who cares? We are three generations of womanity…so different in our ways and manner of walking through life, but so at ease and peace with one another and (most importantly) ourselves.

…It has been silent for a while, and we are fine with this. I look at our coffee cups a moment and grin. It’s too good. I have to share it.

“…Even the cups we choose give us away: The Prof, with her delicate demi half-sized pour, Lady M with her funky handmade look and shape, and me: the largest monster-mug in the cabinet.”

…We all laugh. At what it says about us. To ourselves, and each other.

This. This is the kind of life-medicine that heals better than any pill or salve. This is where I have been taken by one of my closest of close friends….who just gets me and all my failings and frustrations. This is where I’ve been shown, by example and expert women-strength, that it is hard enough being a strong woman, being an artist, being in “business”…being a “grown-up.”

….Sometimes you need someone to take the phone and the watch and the pretenses away and say, “Go. For 24 hours: let it go, and just ‘be.'”

….And so I have.

…Save for one little blog, while two women of a certain age, laugh and sing in the ocean just below me…being amazing inspiration. Without even trying.

Because, just “being, ” is enough.

~D

Everlasting Purgatory

13 Jul

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The space “in-between” isn’t supposed to suck. We are given to understand that it is merely a holding pattern…like a plane taxied out on the runway, waiting it’s turn to take off. You’ve already boarded, already departed from your last gate, and have moved on to the next part of your journey, but have yet to quite lift off into final assent.

….My entire life is in this holding pattern.

Office, Theatre, Life, Finances…everything I own or identify with, is in a metal tube just sitting on that fucking tarmac. And contrary to what we are told about purgatory: it really sucks.

Like…a lot.

At this point, I’ve done all I can do. I’ve chosen the destinations and booked the flights and now…because I’m only human, I gotta just sit here in suffocating stillness, wedged between this screaming infant with dirty diapers, and one of those too-much-cologne-smelling Insurance Salesmen…who never shuts the fuck up. I feel absolutely surrounded by an attack force zoned specifically at my nerves and their Achille’s heel, and because I already left the gate and bought the tickets, I’m stuck here at their total mercy.

I HATE having no control. HATE it.

…And so, the only thing which has benefited in this past month, has been the only thing I CAN control: this goddamn Fitbit.

I am currently 14lbs down, 3 weeks in, because that thing on my arm is now my BITCH. I can’t control a callback, but I can control if I eat a Milkyway. I can’t control if that job recruiter will call me in for an interview, but I can control if I down a whiskey (or ten.) I can be depressed on the couch right now, or flip it the bird and get the hell outside for a walk.

…I have inadvertently turned fitness, into a form of saying “fuck you!” to everything not working in my life. (And all the things which might at some point suddenly decided to maybe work out, whenever/if ever, they finally get their shit together.)

…I’ve considered it a new strategy. Something that will take all the fates by total surprise. Because anyone in the damn world would rather dissolve at the end of these nonstop shitty days-and-weeks, with a bucket of fried chicken, a Blizzard, and a fifth of booze. By NOT doing that, I psych them out… I pull a different hand I’ve never played before. I take my usual patterns I love, which comfort me, and toss them out the window with a Thelma and Louise abandon.

Screw you, purgatory! If I gotta be stuck in this hot tar-smelling, tube of a shit-fest, I’m gonna do it my own damn way!

ADAPTABILITY, BITCHES!!

(as inspired partly c/o OITNB, season 3…second time ’round.)

~D

Fit My Bits

23 Jun

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Post-show bad-eating, booze-swilling, and couch-reading, has added another requirement to the Super-Awesome-Life-Plan-Reboot.

…In the end, it was cheaper to not buy an entire wardrobe in a fatter size, than to invest in a thing which can actually shrink me.

Up til now, I’ve always relied on free fitness apps to get my ass in gear,  my body watered, my eating reigned in, and my booze intake under the “daily alcoholic ” label. But with no theatre at night, no line-learning pacing by day, no show-specific in-shape requirement, and stacks and stacks of plays to read and break down for monologues, I’ve become such a sedentary blob, my body is literally oozing up and out of my clothing like I’m the Michelin Man.

Currently at the heavest weight-mass in my life…it’s really a lot not good.

…Obviously, I needed a new plan for that too.

…And so: welcome The Fitbit.

…A thing I must wear in punishment, to remind me constantly…like a voluntary self-branding. Because when thin people wear a Fitbit, it’s cuz they’re conscientious and, well… “fit.” When a chunky person wears it, it’s like a final plea for help. It means we know we cannot be trusted to moderate and motivate and follow thru on the other eight million free ways to keep in shape. We have to drop a chunk of change on a thing that sits on our person and lights up and buzzes and links to our phones and computers, so no matter where we go: it’s there. Watching us.

…Like that 80’s stalker song…

…Every move I make, every breath I take, he’ll be watching me…

…Which is exactly WHY he was necessary.

A wearing, staring object that cost money. I cannot afford to ignore it. I must live up to it’s requirements, or like a child, it will shit all over me…with terrible stats, bad sleep, an an embarrassing tan line if I take it off and pretend it never existed…just to escape the wearing-shame.

…Don’t think I haven’t thought about it, don’t think I haven’t planned. I understand the responsibility now before me, I get the motivational heft…I have already turned down sodas, Costco muffins, Hawaiian chips, and fast food of every archetype, and that is only at work…since Monday.

(…Im pretty sure it’s Tuesday now. So…that might explain a major source of how I got so goddamn fat to begin with…but anyway, I digress…)

Point is: I smell/see/hear the taunting foods, I look down at m’damn wrist, I whisper, “oh shut up,” or “effe you,” and take another swig of water.

It may be only day two, but it’s better than ground zero.

…15,847 steps…and counting…

~D

(* In all seriousness, this gadget is pretty freakin sweet. Glad I joined the fad on this one…accountability is tops!)

Money Trickery

19 Jun

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I am a grown-up person, in America, without Savings or a Credit Card.

…I’m not bragging. This is just fact.

…And it gets worse.

…My desk job of 8 years, only barely covers my living expenses, and theatre pays dick…so other than my refund tax write-offs every year (for being a professionally poor artist), I accrue very little not already-spoken-for dollars.

…Spoken-for, kidnapped, sucked away, blown out my car’s ass…it’s all the same, really.

(…Which explains why I haven’t been on a real vacation since 2009…but, anyway.)

…The deal is, I need something like half a grand to do what I need to do this year, with my Super-Awesome-Goal-Reboot plan…Which in my world, might as well be half a million.

…I need headshots, and travel change, and gas bucks, and hotel fees…things not negotiable in “plan variance.” I mean, I’m a person who lives on a College kid budget of dollar menus and Safeway 10-for-10 deals. Which is fine, except when you obliterate a tire on the freeway, annihilate your last good bra in a show, they hike up the rent, or your phone dies.

Or you get a burr up your ass to get the hell outta here and really do something with your life.

Because there is no budget for these things, (and no plastic to charge it to)…I am forever playing “rob Peter to pay Paul,” in a sort of a never ending carousel ride of overdrafts and late fees. None of which, help.

…So today, with goal-time ever sneaking nearer, I paid the absolute essentials and opened a totally non-related, in no way linkable, super secret, far away account…which is so exclusively a pain in the ass to get to, or claim money from, that once I’ve written a check to myself and app-deposited it into the account…it might as well be in Switzerland.

…I mean, I did extra research to make sure it was as inconvenient as possible, on purpose.

…Which means I’ll be even poorer. The “Peter/Paul” dilemma will undoubtably arrise at one point or ten, but my closet account in Bocca-New-Zealand-Bucharest, will grow slowly, despite.

So that’s done!

Now, off to invest in bulk pasta, canned beans, and boxed rice!

How do you fund your American Dream©?

~D

Orange Is The New Orphan Black

17 Jun

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…You know those days when you’ve lived about three lifetimes before 10 a.m.?

…All week.

It’s Wednesday.

…I’ve been trying to escape to worse realities than my work-life, by hitting up “Orphan Black” and “Orange Is The New Black” Season 3’s respectively. Episode after episode, like a crack-junkie…complete with falling asleep, waking up to them still playing on my phone at 2 am, rebooting and falling asleep to them  again, because I can’t NOT watch them…even when I’m exhausted.

…I do this and tell myself, “Well, at least you aren’t sleeping on a mattress made of maxi pads…” “At least psycho militant clones aren’t out to harvest your uterus and fallopian tubes…” “At least you don’t make 65 cents a day sewing panties, with a side business flipping inmate-used ones on the internet. ” “At least you haven’t changed wigs five times today, to play other versions of yourself with your actual life depending on not fucking up who is which.”

…It’s so bad, I’ll put it on freeze to eat an egg sandwich over the sink as fast as I can, so I can go back and finish streaming Cosima cutting a scalp off and ripping out the brain, without vomiting all over my couch.

…It’s so bad, the dark shitty life of lock up, makes me laugh like I have an unrealistic bond with murders, and find watching their social politics as intriguing and All-American, as “The West Wing.”

…Anyway, it makes for surreal sleeping patterns, and stream-of-consciousness, at a slight delay of reality.

Case in point: Monday morning, when I pulled in and parked next to a Forensic Van in our sales lot.

…I mean, in the past 12 hours, people had been locked in desert jails, used gnawed off rib bones as keys, folded under the influence of talking scorpions, undergone experimental brain treatments, and got mysterious red-eye diseases that like a week ago would have REALLY freaked me the fuck out. Not to mention: survived face-crushing, and rape, committed multiple homicides, built shanks out of lollipops, brewed alcohol out of prison fruit, and attempted suicide with depression meds.

So what is a Forensic Van compared to that??

…Then I remembered: I don’t have a talking scorpion, genetic freak-mutation, or diseased eye-balls after all…and my street cred doesn’t depend on used underware and Raumen noodle spice packets. A Forensic Van on a Monday is prob’ly a pretty big deal. I mean: when you’re in a consignment industry.

…This did not stop me, however, from climbing the steps over piles of wall-pieces and crap all over the walk, and bracing myself for (hopefully) not a lot of blood.

…The thing being: I was prepared, totally prepared for blood. And possibly a dead body. Or maybe several. And pretty physically self-secure in the fact I could shove any improvised weapon into any body part with a dead-eyed fierceness, impaling without impunity…like they’d stolen my soap to use without asking, and left an errant pube on it. (That shit costs money! Commissary your own, bitches!)

…Like those idiots you scream at in horror movies…I was sucked into my dark fake TV world’s, and totally just kept on walking, as if it was no big deal…side-stepping all the signs pointing to the possibility that it might be. And also, this was “real life.”

…Because here’s the thing: Violence, well written black comedic irony, and Sci-Fi DO deaden your realistic reactions.

Obviously.

…I mean, it wasn’t even 8 a.m., and like some kind of animatronic idiot, I totally just went for it…for whatever I’d find , like those stupid cheerleader/babysitters in every scream-movie ever.

…Which ended (thankfully) at an anticlimax, finding only a robbery.

(…We’ll talk about how a robbery is an anticlimax, some other time.)

…Meanwhile, the Tuesday that followed was so awesomely terrible, even possible-homicide-Monday was better, so Wednesday had to win in the “less shitty” department…and how you know is: no one got arrested or punched in the face.

…Also, today is when I hit the amazing call-to-arms Piper panty monologue, (with heightened musical underscore, which I have dubbed the Henry V battle cry of 2015), and laughed so hard I had to watch it twice in a row, to actually hear it.

…Which quite possibly saved my entire day.

…Which, in context, is pretty tragic actually. But it’s better to laugh till you cry about underware, than accept an office day at face value.

…Also, “Can I go, now that I’ve watered your ego-flower,” is like my new favorite always-phrase. I shall use it constantly, when Corporate returns next week.

…Anyway, in my head.

~D

The One With The Diseased Eye

8 Jun

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By the time I finally work myself up enough to actually go to a Doctor, I might be almost dieing, and am for sure feeling like third week hairy left-overs in a fridge. My fear of those bastards and the wrong -smelling world they live in, is such, that I’ve for sure lost multiple days of sleep and might even be on the way to an Anxiety melt-down about some Google-disease I’m convinced I have, by the time I finally walk (or crawl ) into their doors.

…And so it was today, with my diseased left eyeball.

On day three, night two, of crap sleep ever since I woke up Saturday with a red veigney eye from outta nowhere…which no drop or salve seemed able to cure…I finally gave up today, and got an appointment to the eye Doc, where they poked, shined lights, poked, folded my eyelids back and scraped at em, poked, dropped fizzy hurt-drops in, poked, and ended up with the conclusion that they didn’t know what was going on, but there was no disease/object/infection they could find…so I should go home, and come back later, if it kept hurting and being red or got worse.

…Which (even with full medical) cost me $50. $50, so they could make my eyeball feel worse than when I walked in, with promise that I’d come back for more, if it didn’t start feeling better, totally on it’s own at some point in the next several days.

I effing hate that shit.

…I hate that they never give you cold meds on first doctor visits anymore. I hate it that they soak you with PPO fees. I hate it that whether they find nothing, or something, their prescription of “come back later” is mostly all you get.

…Come back and spend more money you haven’t got, when you are already feeling for-shit, else why the hell would you even be there to begin with?!?

…Me and my pinched-squinting, sandpaper, blurry-haloed eyeball are now both pissed and irritated, that I’ve farted away all my damn lunch money for the week, because like an idiot, I tried to be proactive (three days later) and maybe manage to save my eyeball from some potentially horrible disease-fate. Instead, I’m just poorer, and my eyeball thinks I’m a total asshole for putting him through all that extra stress and pain for nothing.

…Meanwhile, my backup glasses are two prescriptions old, I can’t read anything, and the TV is blurry from the couch.

…Also, it’s like REALLY EFFING UNREASONABLY HOT RIGHT NOW.

…Stupid “all the things!”

~D

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