Tag Archives: drinking

Hard Truths

27 Aug

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It is arctic-freezing in the office.

…Two air conditioners war from lobby to the WHS Pimp’s office for the sake of incoming clients, who never arrive. I, meanwhile, have turned to ice, attempting thaw now by spending “lunch” pacing…while one-thumb punching in this blog.

I feel a little bit awful.

…This is because Cecil and I spent last evening getting blitzed. Which seemed like more than just a good idea at the time. It was a long-coming, multi-purpose necessity.

…Like the tater tots and pizza, which followed.

At around 11 pm.

….Also now: a regret.

…Funny thing about blow-out binging…it never seems to adhere to the: “chances you don’t take” regret rule. And why is that? It’s only fucking fair.

But, no. No, but no, but…no.

(Another water swig, pausing to make sure it goes down n’ settles.)

Minimal Hangovers are like the nagging mother of bad ideas. Not a big enough punch in the gut to say, “Wow…am so not gonna do that again in a long while.” More like,”There are smarter/healthier ways of doing things, and you should be a more responsible adult…with two more long work days ahead.”

…Minimal Hangovers are the bitchy little “I told you so’s” of day-afters. Which sorta just pisses you off more than prob’ly a full blown blitzer.

…At least then you could be like, “Yeah! I told you that was a totally serviceable set of reasons to get tanked! See! A repercussion that is equal to the joy/rage/disappointment/situation which preceeded it! Embrace it, as it all pukes out in front of you!”

(More water. And more.)

….Have peed no less than ten times today. An every-swallow effort to force-cleanse in the opposite direction of how it currently wants to. And I have done this. To myself. No denial here. Only regret.

…Regret and insane yearning for some fucking ginger ale.

So: there is that, then.

(Water, water, water…to infinity…)

…Also: I want a taco.

Why?

~D

On The Piss…Then Off

1 May

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I shall survive! This MONSTER bout of general grossness from seemingly all walks of my life, up to (and including) my Birthday, is almost over.

…And now that I am finally coming out of this two week cycle of woe…like passing a really shitty kidney stone from hell…I can report that the world is not ending after all…while showered and shaved, dyed painted and plucked…sitting in some sunshine. 

…Sure, I’ve gained weight back…which is to be expected when you spend three days and nights on-end eating everything you can get your hands on, and getting pissed on every kind of fermented substance known to man.  But it’s over and done…I survived the bitch, and it’s time to collect myself, and hit the waves of “better things” now.

It all began on Saturday night.  This was when I closed the latest show with a particularly terrible performance, possibly due to the collective 4 hours of sleep I’d had in the past 24 hours leading up to it.  Or possibly not.  Maybe I just blew it full-turkey-out-the-ass all on my own.  I dunno.  But I’m never one to just roll over and let those kind of things just run off my back, whether it’s my actual fault or not.  This only put more fuel behind the next 12 or so hours of supreme hormonal meltdown, leading into my 34th birthday on Monday.

…It basically ended in a Nora Ephron comedic sketch of me blubbering to myself in between hot flashes, whilst refusing anything to do with celebrations by anyone with good intentions, and instead closeting myself away in pajamas, to watch nonstop film alone, on loop, and consider the travesties of my youth, with a bottle (or several) of booze…and how I’ve accomplished nothing I set out to, or will, and I might as well eat this pizza and get even fatter, cuz who cares?

I like to call it “Bridget Jonesing.”

…Add to that the fact I’m pretty sure I was (and am) peri-menopausing on top of it.

…Like an idiot, I did research online. This is ruinous for people like me, with anxiety issues that won’t sleep for weeks at a time cuz a zit on my elbow might actually be a cancerous growth I don’t know about yet, but am too scared to really check out.

…So I fester.

…Only lately, it’s been: “fester and sweat.”

…Now, don’t get me wrong, I have always been a clammy sweater. Its in the Latino DNA. Only for the past…oh…year or so, I’ve had these random night-sweats-from-hell that I try to pretend aren’t really there. Except when they wake me at 3 am because I have to strip every fucking thing I’m wearing due to the fact they are doused and soaking wet with sweat. It’s been really special…lemme tell you…

…And as my BD got closer, and I brought it up to Ma, she was all, “Well, yeah…I mean, me and two generations back all had hysterectomies by your age…so who KNOWS when menopause hits this side of the family?”

…And I said, “ARE YOU TELLING ME ON THE EVE OF MY 34TH BIRTHDAY THAT I AM MENOPAUSAL?!?”

…And she said, “Well…maybe peri…”

…And I said, “I STILL GET ZITS ON A REGULAR BASIS! I’VE BEEN DYING THE WHITE FROM MY HAIR SINCE MY MID TWENTIES! I JUST FINISHED PLAYING MOTHER TO A MAN THREE YEARS OLDER THAN ME!! ARE YOU BEING REAL RIGHT NOW?!? HOW IS THIS FAIR?!?!”

…And she said, “Reasons.”

…So, needless to say, after a really shitty performance, in my really not best show, with streaks of white waiting to be dyed out of my temples, a bitchingly horrid period, and (apparently) peri-menopausal sweats, I decided to be terribly terribly depressed on the day of my birth.

I’m usually anxiety bound…so this was a new thing. It sucks too. Especially the involuntary bursting into tears bit. You know…the, “I should take a shower, but what’s the point, I’m fat anyway…my back hurts like I’ve been punched in the kidneys…I think I’ve bled so much I may have turned anemic and SUNOFABITCH it’s HOT IN HERE!”

…That kind of thing.

…Wrapped up in: ” All my LIFE I wanted to be EQUITY and pro, doing only theatre by age 35, and now its only one year away and I’ll never make it…or if I do, I’d only work like once every five years…there aren’t enough houses here to support it anymore…and I’m a coward…totally unlike The BFF who just opened her first solo company in freakin’ New Orleans last week…you know…cuz she SAID so…and also, no matter WHAT I do, these last ten pounds just won’t go away. It’s like my body is STARVING for the fat…to keep it warm and sweaty (apparently)…also my mood swings could basically be categorized as step-one bipolar disorder…if that’s even a thing…and I’m in my mid-thirties…and STILL struggling to pay bills and live life and figure out my head…and sometimes am maybe a little lonely…but never enough to deal with the shit that people have to deal with when they come in twos…”

…And also: “CHOCOLATE!”

…And, “Maybe I need some sex IMMEDIATELY, or at least more often…or maybe not ever again. But definitely salt. Like NOW!”

…And, “How DARE my mother call me menopausal! Peri or otherwise!!!’

{gentle sob}

…It’s been an interesting few weeks, to say the least. And by “interesting” I mean: “viciously feminine and horrifying.” And though the actual REAL heat outside is not helping my body’s imaginary already over-indulgence, the sunlight does. So I’m trying my best to use it as a guide…to get out in it and sweat more (on purpose) and hydrate like a sonofabitch…and try, try, try to find the humor hiding in all my personal little woes. It’s there. They are the original basis of Rom-Coms (minus the love story bit)…which is totally fine with me…cuz I obviously have enough shit to deal with right now without adding secondary subplots into the mess.

…And whatever all THAT means/achieves in outting crap for some better self mental-help: so be it. Consider it writ. You can now commence to make fun of me. Meanwhile…I’m packing up and going for a walk. Like a person.

Hurrah for me.

~D

General FYI

28 Sep

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I try not to “chug” Jameson.

…First of all, it’s “crass” and rude.  One should only “chug” bottom-shelf. But it’s been a week.  Plus, WHS Pimp has YouTube’d video’d me to a duel.  He was doing Jagger shots, with Red Bull chasers. I figure, I already pull ahead by doing a legit booze challenge with a “medium shelf.”

…At home (alone) after a particularly well received Friday performance, (after a particularly shitty week at work), I am two full glasses of Jameson, down.  Two swigs, like they were water.  I recorded the last to turn in (as WHS pimp did) his own.  I feel that I “win.”

…No “chaser.”

…Mine was two full tumblers. Straight. After a week we have shared. From hell.

….So, maybe, I’ll give him some lee-way.

…Anyway.  I am writing this now: toasted. As I deserve to be.

…The show tonight was well received.  We made people “gasp” and “laugh” and “yearn,” and I am home, directly after, reviewing my week.

It was the day in the life of an actor.  In that it was repleate with shit having nothing and everything to do with it,  And it was real,

My whole life has suddenly become, “real.”

This means something like: ” there are consequences.”

Decisions were made this week, which equal “that.”  And  decisions were NOT made, and equaled “that.”  This is what it is to be a human, in today’s era.  I kinda suck at it (is what I’ve learned from this week,)  But never-the-less, here we are.

…From all the “shit” accumulated…the fact that WHS Pimp still exists (however short his voluntary term is), I consider, the ONE  “blessing” in disguise.

…For now, else, we wait.

…As I do my final show in however many months it turns out to be.

Consequences.

…They are a bitch.

…But, perhaps, a necessary lesson.

~D

Sometimes No News Is Better

16 Sep

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It’s been several days since a real blog post, for good reason.  Not because I haven’t written them, but because one tires of the negative.

…I’ve been writing for a week, just to get it out. 

…Even though it feels like the never-ending-buffet-table of excessive “I won’t go away no matter what.”

…So my frustrations have accumulated and sit there, in the draft box, waiting for day-never.

You all certainly don’t deserve to have it show up in your inboxes.  Bills are bummer enough.  And as nothing seems to be going right at the moment, and everything from the office, to theatre, to finances is screamingly fucking frustrating beyond explanation, I have yet to find the spin on these matters wherein I can turn it into something I can make fun of.

Everything is just shit right now.  Period.

…What I’m walking into at the office tomorrow, god only knows.  I haven’t the faintest idea what to expect, which could equally be said with tomorrow’s rehearsal. 

I’ve yet to get approval from Corporate on the minion I picked, who after passing the drug test, still needs to give a two week notice to her current employer, which means she won’t even be here before I host the Corporate top-brass take-over, as well as do contracts on a fourth road show. Meanwhile I’ve already spent a week at a makeshift table by the trash can, in the warehouse, because the offices were three days behind on the fact lift by Monday. As of Friday, we were at eight days behind schedule, without even a toilet to pee in, let alone doors, or carpeting.

…We won’t even discuss the theatre fiasco, it would take too long and work me all up again.

…Meanwhile, I may (or may not) still be employed by next Friday, which means I may (or may not) even give a flying shit if I have an office door, OR a minion by then…but either way, at the moment, I’m mostly irritated because I’m home right now, after only a 3 hour cue-to-cue/tech, and can’t even toss back some whiskey so I can shut my head up from all this stress, and get some sleep tonight.

…I have this stupid personal rule about “not drinking when I’m depressed.”

And I have to tell you: the thought of being a teetotaler for the next foreseeable future is ALSO really pissing me off.

In short: I’ve got nothing amusing to share with you. Or positive. Not even a joke at someone elses expense, or a bitchy one-liner you can make a meme of, later, featuring cats in people clothes or Victorians talking about penises.

Out of a week’s worth of blogs, THIS is the least depressing one I have to give you.

…So it’s good I’ve moved onto other arenas besides “post-a-day” then, ain’t it?

It’s technically now Monday.

If I make it 24 hours without breaking something or sobbing in a bathroom, I’ll be very surprised.

Place your bets, now.

~D

Real Time

12 Jan

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Ladies and gentlemen, we are now in hour 1.52 of celebratory Opening Us-ness, post-performance.  Including dance parties via butts (so as not to piss off the downstairs  neighbors.) God.  We need to have a legit cast party at an actual house where we can lose our shit and jump around like assholes.

…We are such good examples of humanity to the youth of our cast. 

Guess what, though?

…Tonight is just grown-up time…with four almost grown-ups.  The Joe, a Marty, The Fella, and Me.

I’m restricted cuz of period pain pills. 

The limitation pisses me off. 

But we still managed to kill an entire magnum of Champagne in an over-sized Wine glass the size that God drinks out of…while playing “Thunder Struck”…which was new to me, cuz I never went to a Big-Ten college.

Then the Kracken and Coke and Vino were busted out…and the dance party got all yay-er.

…Also, we have a matinee tomorrow…or rather “today”…and there are Cheetoes in front of me.

…I dunno that this random stream-of-consciousness is gonna be as awesome when I read it in retrospect tomorrow…something like fifty seconds after the alarm goes off and I have to be in the shower. In fact, it prob’ly won’t…but at least I can say I fulfilled my blogging obligations for the day.

I am a responsible adult, dammit!

…Gotta go. We are apparently watching Katy Perry videos now.

~D

…And Then The Alcohol Punched Them In The Face

1 Jan

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Listen: it became the tiniest of gatherings, ringing in the New Year…after a rehearsal, straight to food buying, straight to cooking, straight to eating. 

In the end, it had been deemed the better idea, allowing us to dress in clothes of our preference with zero pomp and circumstance, while getting as embarrassingly drunk as we wanted to, with zero reputation-slaughtering repercussions.

…Marty n’ I were well into the champagne, laughing at “Legally Blond,” tripped out in various pj attire and shoving eleven kinds of food in our faces like Hoover vacs…mostly getting it in our mouths…when a call came in from one of our most beloved “Twelfth Night-ers.” So we whooped loudly, everyone talking at once over speaker phone, while cackling dirty laughter with our mouths full of chewed up food bits, when our “Joe” arrived, fresh from Party #1, in his three piece suit, bow tie and fedora. 

…The slobs embraced him thoroughly, and provided him with his own bottle of alcohol, and he, in turn, popped the cap, immediately proceeding to make out with said bottle mouth for the rest of the night…like those couples who can’t keep their hands off each other, only getting worse the drunker they get.

…But because, “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas,” I cannot disclose the full beauty of what happened afterward…having nothing at all to do with sex, but everything in the world to do with the greatest hits of being totally trashed with people who you trust.

It was magical.

…And upon command of, ” We have to DO something when the clock strikes…a gesture…something to really punch it and make it matter,” an idea was put out on the floor to do a symbolic slaughter. Something of the past year, or an idea, or a thing that has haunted us that we want to start the New Year totally free of: write it down, then all rush outside, light the New Year stogie (saved for just this occasion), and pass it amongst ourselves as we light and watch disintegrate, that crappy whats-it from our past.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

…In a cold cloud of relief.

…Then back to the drinking as regularly scheduled…”Galaxy Quest” and “Back to the Future” tag teaming the TV in the background.

It was a night of a thousand giggles and guffaws, with tons of surprising moments of delighted “yay.” I may never know how long it truly lasted, as I peeled away at ’round 6 a.m…to pound water and pass out on a soft surface.

…To bed and to rise, with this crazy bright New Year sun screaming at me, and liquor corpses in the living room…which I should really do something with, but I figured they are well preserved, so can prob’ly wait at least as long as the length of a blog.

For reasons that don’t at all add up, I haven’t got the faintest tummy oots, or brain pain. It’s prob’ly that whole side of cow I ate that soaked up all the toxins, so I’ll have to remember to light a candle for it later…before confession.

…Keeping to tradition, Marty will bounce up with eyes round as saucers, blink a couple times and ask, “what’s happening, what’s next?” Cuz she’s the only human being I know who can get totally blitzed…not ONLY without repercussion, but can get by on 2 hours of sleep after it, waking up with the innocents of an infant, ready to start the day.

Our “Joe” being a new team member, still has the Jury out in debates.

…But either way, we had a helluva time…able to be the most basic us-like us’s, with complete freedom of safety, in a warm little house, stocked full of goodies to imbibe on, and beds and pillows to swallow us up afterwards.

A Happy New Year to you all! Hope your Alka Seltzer breakfasts and bed-buddies treated yuh well.

…And so off I go, to administer to the dead.

~D

Why Yes, And Thank You

18 Oct

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I always feel such a sense of accomplishment when a friend from Russia reads these posts.  Just to see that massive landmass all shaded, indicating readership coverage.  It sorta makes me feel like a mini Dictator to watch SWAL’s words take over the globe.  Either that or the History Channel’s maps they put up charting how plagues have spread across the world, and the total devastation they leave behind.

…Which is basically the same thing, when you think about it.

I am nothing more than a word dictating disease.

Wow.

…I need to work on some more metaphors and similes, I think.

In Other News: I am on day 4 of a self-inflicted booze abstinence. I think I pulled something last time I made trips out to the recycling bins, and decided that there is really no need for me to consume more than one can carry, in one trip, over the course of two week’s time. Sure, I’m not the only one swilling at my house, but even if you cut those arm loads in half, there is still a whole lotta rotting grape going on in the “me,” on a consistent basis. I thought it was time to scale it back a bit. And by a bit, I mean cold turkey for now…firstly to make sure I can (and haven’t catered to my family habit of turning accidental drunkard), second: to drop some weight off, and third: because I am perpetually broke right now, and something had to go.

…So far, so good.

…Of course I haven’t really fed the beast by enticing myself either…with things like pasta and steak and pub hang time, which are the usual catalysts for gross amounts of boozing intake. But I’m pretty confident that I still could withhold even then. After all, I do have a full bar set-up in my living room, (with all the fixins.) And I do pass by it multiple times per day. And there are two bottles of red still corked and flirting with me from the corner pocket there. And I haven’t considered even tasting them, right now.

…Don’t feel any different physically, haven’t begun to lose any weight as yet (which could totally be Mrs. Johnson’s fault, as she waits just there in the wings.) All I know is: I know it ain’t “essential” to me, which is good. And I’m sure I’ll miss it at one point, which is fine. And eventually I’ll pour me out a glass and enjoy the hell out of it, like always. So be it.

And Also: My Horoscope (which I don’t really believe in, only this one app I use is like freakishly accurate 95% of the time) yesterday said that I have some really cool things coming my way, and that if I just accept the gift of them instead of balking it, almost everything in my world will be coming up roses. I can only assume that this means one of you will be splitting your Lotto winnings with me, or gift me a house, or car, or a much needed vacation in the Bahamas. For which I am stating, right now and for the record:”Why yes, I will take this boat/car/house/vacation/million dollars that you are willing to give me. And thank you.”

~D

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