Sick. Part Two.

Oh, I'm surely green today. I did drag myself to the computer so I'm feeling slightly better than yesterday, but there is no denying I have a definite olive/kelly/hunter hue blend going on. Other than that you would know I'm sick because I just ordered ginger ale from Yummy.com for an obscene mark-up and delivery charge. That is how desperate I am to get my much needed, soothing Canada Dry.

Ahhh, I hear them coming down the hall now. :)

Work.

I started waiting tables when I was 18. Well, I started out as a hostess, then after about 3 months I was given a shot at waiting tables. The restaurant was called W.D. Crowley's and it was rather upscale in my mind. The best thing on the menu was an Australian lobster tail which was 16 oz. or so and it cost $60 which was a lot of money back in the pre-Clinton years.

I wasn't a born waitress. No matter what people thing about the job of food service, I will tell you this, it ain't as easy as it looks. I have heard countless assholes in my time say, "You bring the food from there to here. A chimp could do it." I'd like to see them do it...the asshole with the manners of a monkey, I mean. It's not exactly neurology, but it does require a combination of speed, skill and cognitive function which not everyone has...or can learn for that matter. There's a great deal going on and you have to keep it all in mind and moving and on top of that, you have to PLEASE people, which could just be the hardest job on earth. Given my choice of earning a dollar working a problem out in a solitary lab or attempting to please 16 or so hungry people, the lab is by far the easier choice.

But even so, the lure of service work is like a siren song once you've sampled it. I think of it like career gambling. You have an idea of the riches to be made in one shift and the knowledge of what will have to happen to make it a reality, but the hustle is tricky and there are no guarantees. I love the managers or other workers who have tried to tell me how much money they make. "Oh yeah, servers here make $250 a night generally." Bullshit. The only place that really happens with any regularity are the Jean Georges and Cuts of the world and those jobs are rare and extremely difficult to maintain. But a good living can be had and it all seems so easy. The problem is, it leads no where. Like gambling, when the game is over you may be up or down, but you gotta come back and do it again and you've built nothing and there is no security.

I'm trying to think about this while I look for a second job. I am working part-time as a fundraiser for non-profits (think nice boiler room), but the work is taxing on my soul even though I feel it's for a good cause and I can't make my (greatly reduced) ends meet on the pay. I'll have to find a second job...and be in a hurry about it too. But the question becomes, how many times can I pony up to the crap table and roll the dice knowing I'm not really doing anything different that Sisyphus did. And the truth is, I don't know if I can find a waitressing job right now. The global economic crisis means that not only am I competing with every L.A. actor and wanna be but I may even be up for a job opposite one of those corporate jokers who thought the job was so easy and though I've done this job for about a score, that means nothing in this casino my friend. Maybe I should give neurology a go?

Sick.

Last night, my friend and producing/writing partner, Jon, came over to work on our project, Flesheaters Anonymous. Jon and I always have a good time working together. Most nights we are reduced to a fit of giggles because of some tangent we take while talking about character or marketing or even a recent discussion of Apple's Trackpad which resulted in a stunning theatrical recreation of working with the computer interface in Minority Report. Of course, most of these fits of fancy are only after several hours of relentless editing and hard creative decisions when we are left truly slap happy. A good time in the 4 a.m. hour--which everyone knows are the best times.

The only thing is, all this weather in L.A. combined with my lack of "roofed" transportation and my burning the candle at both ends has rendered me pretty sick over the last two weeks and I awoke this morning (after a short nap) feeling like a brick was laid on my chest. So my pneumonia/flu/crud is back with a vengeance. But luckily I was able to change my work schedule around a bit and I'm gonna work from home today and try to get a bit of creative work done while I cook a little ramen.

I'm trying to come up with a eye-popping but relevant and meaningful image for the FA website. I'm hoping the sickness will be inspirational.

Uncertain.

As I was leaving work today it began to rain. Drizzle. Which is a big pain in the ass when you drive a scooter, as I do. But the pain of a light smackling of drops on your face is nothing compared to what happened midway home. With a mile left to go, it began to hail. Or something like that. I'm not sure if hail would be the precise term a meteorologist would define it, but it was icy and hard and falling like pellets. I call that hail.

The hail already falling to earth at a slight northeasterly fashion at a slow speed takes on a special force when you travel at 30 mph southwesterly to meet it with your Honda Metropolitan. I'm shivering (from both the temperature and fear as being in traffic during a hail storm in L.A. on a bike is far from the bosom of safety your mother preached so often). The hail is pelting me on my frozen face. My yoga pants are completely soaked. And I'm thinking, "What the hell am I doing?" And the question was not just in relation to the moment in question.

Being stuck in a situation which is uncomfortable brings up questions of with what degree of certainty do I have making the life decisions which brought me to this pass are the right ones? But as I skirted home bypassing SUVs and coupes, ran through the door eschewing wet clothes and jumping into a warm shower and then diving into the covers for a midday nap, all uncertainty eased from my body and my steadfastness to my course returned.

(About the photo: I had taken several shots of the tree and this shot came to me last. I only took one exposure, making sure I underexposed to capture detail in the sky. This shot became my favorite of the day.)

Snowballs.

I went for a long walk today as it was New Year's and it felt like the thing to do. I ended up at the always overly crowded CVS across from the Grove. I love miscellaneous sundries shopping. I really do. When you put a stick of deodorant or a tube of toothpaste or even give in to a moment of splurge with a pot of lipgloss, two things are certain in my mind: 1. These items will not break the bank, and 2. These items are necessary and comforting. Once you get these items homes and house them in the appropriate cupboard, shelf or drawer, you're life is a little closer to being complete. You have the things necessary for making you're life nicer and isn't that what everyone wants? Completeness. Wholeness. Well, the wholeness never lasts and you find yourself back at CVS or Target, but the search is half the fun. What deodorant will make my armpits more pleasant. Is there a shower gel that will make me so giddy I will wake up running to the shower...unable to wait to get my day started? It's like hunter/gathering for the times, so pleasant and affordable.

As I was strolling down each aisle, in no particular hurry and without a definite list or design, I allowed my eyes to roam over each shelf and contemplate which items would be most useful to me. Which "thing" would bring me more joy. I was in the snack section, as I was indeed hungry and I knew what I would find at CVS would not be available at the Whole Foods next door where I was planning on getting my dinner. Cashews. Corn nuts. Combos. Nothing was appealing...and then I saw them.

I was drawn by the color. The vibrant pink I adore so much and yet try to balance my desire for it with other, more adult, colors. The pink encasing fluffy mounds nestled side by side, a little like breasts, in their perfectness. I reached for the cellophane packaging and immediately began to cry.

Why I don't know. It reminded me of the year before when while shopping at this same CVS with my close friend, Garuda, I saw a tin of bright orange cheesy puffs and again burst into tears inexplicably. After a few minutes of weeping so hard I began to draw attention, I remembered bringing a tin exactly as the one which prompted the fit of tears to my mother in the hospital. I remember thinking how much she loved to take one. Then two. Then about 1/3 of the can with a sneaky smile on her face. I remember thinking as I bought the cheesy puffs, what delight she would find in peeling the aluminum from the top of the can and dipping her fingers in gingerly to indulge in a guilty pleasure. But she would never open the can. They would sit for a month on a counter in the hospital as I waited in vain for my mother's appetite to return.

But snowballs held only happy memories for me. I remembered quickly how my little sister, Lisa, loved snowballs when she was a little girl. That made me smile. I loved them myself as a girl. If I remember correctly, I loved the thought of them much more than the actual taste. I was never much for marshmallows. Unless they were holding Rice Krispies together or blackened by a campfire. But the idea of snowballs made me buy them nonetheless. It was as if they represented life as it should be. Pink and perfect and filled with cake. Chocolate cake. With a dollop of creme at its center.

And with this purchase of my beloved snowballs I decided to come home and write. Because its a new year and I want to start living my life as I would like it to be. And that means writing. Everyday. Whether I feel like it or not. Whether I am pink or blue or yellow or green. It means devoting at least 30 minutes each day, a mere 1/48th of the day to becoming the Monty I want to be. So I'll write. Maybe someone will read it. Maybe not. But it will make my life a little nicer, a little more complete. And isn't that what I've wanted most of all?

The Facebook Friend

I went to a play reading last night hosted by a lovely, young, recent Carnegie Mellon grad. Among the attendees were about 9 or 10 equally lovely and young drama school graduates and recent L.A. transplants and my friend, Rob, and I. Now, Rob and I are lovely and young-ISH. Let's say I'm young compared to Stella Adler. Wait, she's no longer living you say? Well, you get the point.

In any case, I was sharing a small sofa with one of the exuberant, talented youths and I was so taken with his joie de vive that at the end of the evening I found myself asking if he was on facebook. Now, I don't know about the younger set, but I view becoming a facebook friend equivalent to a more benign version of "Can I have your number?" without all the sexual overtones and come on implications. Like a, "Let's have lunch" kind of thing. What I may fail to recognize is that for the 22-24, befriending someone on facebook, may be on par with the 70s pick up, "Your place or mine?" God, I hope not. This poor boy may be mortified. I mean, I read Arkadina last night for Christsakes...I played a cougar mom. Sweet Lord.

But this whole thing got me to thinking about facebook, which is a great invention. I mean, I've reconnected with people I thought I would never speak to again...never locate again. But I mean, there are friends and then there are facebook friends. The problem with facebook friending is, you may never actually speak again...you'll just say "Happy Birthday" every year or so. Or worse, you may just be something which someone has accumulated...like tsochkis. Jeez, I'd hate to be just a figurine in someone's glass menagerie. But I'm sure I am.

Gosh, I hope I'm the unicorn.

In Praise of Sweatpants.

This one is for Michael Catangay!

I love sweatpants. It's true. Those of you who know me, know this. If at all possible, I will wear sweatpants...or sweatpants' close cousin--yoga pants for every occasion. (I know, I know, images of those with abundantly endowed rears are running through your mind. But I would like it noted for the record, while my rear is indeed rather abundant, it is also quite firm. So, advice to mothers: teach your daughters to skate. Years pushing myself around a disco ball have meant my quads and glutes remain rock hard despite epic fluctuations in my weight over the years.) But even though sweatpants are the preferred apparel for the weight unstable and the New Jersey housewife, sweatpants have other exemplary qualities besides the expandable, elastic waistband. And I'll list them now:

1. They are usually made out of cotton. Now, I don't know if it's because I'm southern, my grandmother raised the crop and it's just in my blood, but I find cotton to be the most superior and luxurious of fabrics. In a battle between silk and cotton, cotton beats those little worms work til it's one with the earth.
2. They allow me to bend and move in every possible way, making my time on the floor, which I spend quite a bit, ever so comfortable.
3. I'm ready for exercise with no notice what's so ever. I'm not a scheduler. My day takes me where it will, so when I'm ready for a walk or the gym...I'm ready!
4. I'm ready for a nap. As I have discovered recently, I'm part feline, which explains my constant napping and nocturnal activities. And as I explained in #3, I never know where the day is gonna take me, but if there is a mat, or a soft cushion of grass, sofa, bed, whatever...I'm ready for my nap!
5. It's easy to get them out of the way when I wish to hop on my bike and take a ride. No embarrassing shots of my special places if I wear a skirt and no possible crashes due to my jeans creeping down and getting caught in the gears.
6. They're easy.
7. And if you get them dirty or stained, no tears because they were cheap.
8. They go perfectly with American Apparel tees and my Nike sneaks.

Now, I am well aware they aren't the most fashionable clothing choice and perhaps I'd met a better caliber of mate if I wore my wrap dress and stilettos, but honestly life is hard enough without being comfortable. So, here's to the sweatpant: you will always have a place in my closet.