SCD recipe: Smoked salmon and goat cheese bites

salmon bites

Note: if you're a "Crohnie" or UC patient or parent of an autistic kid who came for the recipe, feel free to skip ahead to the recipe. (Although I'm guessing most kids won't be too into lox.)

Likewise, if you're a self-involved tool equally disinterested in understanding the suffering of others and broadening your body of knowledge, feel free to skip ahead. Although be warned: just because you don't have IBD now doesn't mean you or someone you love won't someday, especially if you keep on eating your crapass, Corporo-Fascist-approved Standard American Die-Yet? Incidence of IBD on the rise in Westernized countries.

No, really, go ahead: blow off the back story. We'll be here via the Google when your insides have turned into raw hamburger. Hopefully, it won't be too late! Toodles!

Okay.

For the rest of you...

THE BACK STORY

Readers come here from all kinds of search strings, but one that comes up a lot is "Specific Carbohydrate Diet" + ("you name it").

Most likely this is because the Specific Carbohydrate Diet is notoriously difficult to follow. The list of legals and illegals only makes sense up to a point: Why navy beans and not kidney beans? Why provolone and not mozzarella? Why honey and not maple syrup?

I noticed. And while we're at it, what the hell's up with you hippies and your homemade yogurt?

Bottom line is this: the SCD is predicated on the thesis that undigested matter lingering too long in the gut provides a 24-hour feeding station for irritating intestinal bacteria. The more bacteria, the more mucous (yum!), the less the gut is capable of doing its (you'll pardon the pun) duty; also, the more irritation, the more abrasion, again, leading to a reduction in functional capacity. Not to mention the garden of attendant earthly delights like diarrhea (regular, explosive and bloody varieties), extreme fever and underweight, energy loss, body aches, pain and...wait for it...puppy-killing farts.

Or, in the words of the wise and eloquent Seth Barrows,

The SCD combats bacterial and yeast overgrowth by restricting the energy they require to live while keeping the host well fed.

But no one really knows why it works, just that, in many cases, it does work.

Unfortunately, in many cases it doesn't, but no one knows why on that count, either, it could be user error, as the SCD is notoriously difficult to follow. Even when you start to get what you can and can't eat; even when you're well enough to eat the full range of allowable foods (in the beginning, when you're really sick, many "legals" are verboten), there's hella prep involved in eating legal.

So there's no getting around it: following the SCD is a pain in the ass.

For those of us who've found relief, however, not following it is an even bigger pain in the ass. I fell off the wagon shortly after meeting The BF (not his fault! not his fault!), and have been on and off in the three years since. (I was in Fanatical Adherence mode for the two years prior.) I started to get another scare just before Thanksgiving, and had an epiphany much like I did when I felt the bronchitis coming on for a third time and quit smoking on the spot, in mid-pack: 20 years, and I'm still smoke-free.

Of course, it is MUCH harder to stay on a diet than to quit a substance entirely, because hey, you gotta eat. And not only is it difficult to steer clear of the temptation all dieters are faced with, there are literally hidden evils in everything. Every. Thing.

So we eat mainly non-processed food. Nothing canned, bottled, boxed or to-go. No convenience foods. Which makes life...inconvenient.

There's another downside to this: food gets scary-boring. I mean DEADLY boring. Because it's so much work finding and making food, one's intake on the SCD gets numbingly repetitive. Honestly, if I could have any luxury, when I can have any luxury, the first one I want it a private chef to come in three times per week and cook me stuff. (And for my chef friends out there, now you know that the thing I love most is being asked over for a tasty, SCD-legal dinner!)

One trick I've learned to apply from the other part of my nerdy life is batch-processing. Make a tub of yogurt and then figure out the 17 different ways you can use it. Find a recipe that freezes well in portions and make a shitload of it. Four dozen cookies, six loaves of "bread" (which you then turn half of into toasts).

So the following recipe is what you do with some of the homemade goat's milk yogurt it takes you 26 hours to make. It's fecking hawesome, as Shane Nickerson speaking in a bad British accent might say, and it made my night.

Also, for you normies, you can have it on real bread toasts, if you like. But the cuke makes it lighter and less caloric, in case you care about stuff like that.

THE RECIPE

Serves 1 hungry-ass SCD-er as a meal, or several dainty types as hors d'oeuvres

  • 1 cucumber, sliced into 1/4" rounds
  • 1 cup DRIPPED SCD-legal goat's milk yogurt*
  • 1/2 cup chopped scallion
  • a few tablespoons capers
  • 4 oz SCD-legal smoked salmon**
  1. Spread rounds with dripped goat "cheese".
  2. Press sprinkling of scallions on each round.
  3. Press a few capers (to taste) on each round.
  4. Layer with generous swath of salmon.
  5. Eat your damn face off!

*Can substitute SCD-legal cow's milk yogurt, although not as tasty
**Check package, even if brand you used last time was legal; I think suppliers change for brands, and many add sugar

This is very tasty with a Virgin or Bloody Mary. Vodka, fortunately, is 100% legal on the SCD.

Um...in moderation, of course.

xxx
c

Image by chocolate monster mel via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license. And no, that recipe is totally illegal. Looks good, though!

Other SCD-legal recipes on communicatrix-dot-com:

Help is a yellow Volkswagen

yellow VW beetle I'll admit it flat-out: I'm a bit chagrined by last year's goal-post title.

To be fair, it wasn't a total wash. Out of ten goals I set for myself last January, I fulfilled seven. Fairly good, percentage-wise. Especially since much of the year, I wasn't consciously trying. Such is the truly awesome power of just writing things down (not to mention making them public!).

Still, there's no question that one of last year's gifts was in leaving room for improvement this year. I do like the Best Year Yet method, since it walks me through all the steps I might otherwise skip in my fresh-year enthusiasm. A fair amount of time gets devoted just to examining where the previous year went well and where it went off the rails, the idea being you'll get the best sense of what lessons will prove most useful to you by examining where the hell you went so very, very wrong.

I'm happy to say that mine boiled down to two things:

  1. an unrealistic sense of what I can reasonably (or even unreasonably) expect to accomplish in a given chunk of time
  2. an almost pathological inability to ask for help.

Why happy? Because if I'm honest with myself, these twin terrors have probably kept me from more successes than any other things. "Inability to face up to stuff," for example, is not on the list. Took a few years to get it off, but it is gonzo, brother. So is "depressed," "unmotivated," "refusal to look on the bright side," and a host of other ills. As demons go, these two ain't bad.

To help with my time issues, this year is going to be a lot about scheduling. Yes, I've scheduled in the scheduling.

I'm also putting a heavy emphasis on Asking For Help. My mantra for 2008 is "Help Is Everywhere," both because I'm starting to see that it really and truly is everywhere, and because once you get it in your head to see yellow Volkswagens, that's pretty much what you're going to see.

2008? It's the Year of The Yellow Volkswagen.

xxx c

Image by slimmer jimmer via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

,

100 Things I Learned in 2007, Part II

,

still the best dog Wrapping up this fine and crazy year in 50 short-to-medium numbered items. If you have OCD or something like that, you might want to read the first 50 short-to-medium numbered items first.

  1. I may not be a dog person, but I'm definitely an Arnie person.
  2. In every possible figurative sense, my eyes will probably always be bigger than my stomach.
  3. Television? What television?
  4. The shortest distance between two points is often a half-bottle of chianti.
  5. Time crawls when you commit to doing something every day for 30 days.
  6. The strongest proof of global warming may just be a visit to my apartment in September.
  7. Life is better with regularly scheduled Ladies' Nights.
  8. And TextExpander.
  9. Just because you have seen someone over and over on the internet does not mean they are ready to embrace you as an old friend when you finally greet them during a surprise run-in at the coffee shop.
  10. Especially when they are four.
  11. And you are interfering with their immediate receipt of hot chocolate.
  12. Lead by example.
  13. Podcasts are easier heard than made.
  14. Bank accounts are easier closed than opened.
  15. The price of grinding your teeth at night has more than doubled since 1998.
  16. There may be a wearout number of viewings for Play Misty for Me, but at 50, I've yet to hit it.
  17. No matter how evolved I get, from time to time, I will be That Asshole.
  18. Designing album covers is every bit as cool as you thought it would be when you were 10.
  19. Even if the albums are now only 5"x5".
  20. And will mostly be downloaded anyway.
  21. Despite optometrists' exhortations to the contrary, you do not actually need to buy a new pair of glasses every year.
  22. If you want something done, schedule it.
  23. You never know where your next job will come from.
  24. That goes double if you have a blog.
  25. Those classes at the Learning Annex are as educational as you'd expect them to be.
  26. That doesn't mean you won't learn from them.
  27. The Central Coast is even better when seen from the picture window of your own, private rental home.
  28. Never say "never."
  29. On the other hand, "no" is a really good thing to say from time to time.
  30. If Malcolm Gladwell does not want to be my next boyfriend, Jonathan Coulton will do just fine.
  31. Or Bob McBarton, if I can convince him to leave his adorable wife and daughter.
  32. Or Dan Savage, if he'd be into batting for the other team.
  33. The point where dreams get truly difficult is when they start coming true.
  34. You can't quit (or start) until you're ready.
  35. When it comes to letting my hair go, I'm still a total scrotum.
  36. The best birthday presents are the ones that cost nothing and show up unexpectedly.
  37. It is way more fun to marry other people than to marry, period.
  38. Trying to compose 100-things lists in the WP text editor is like trying to make a pie wearing mittens.
  39. She who doth not invoice, doth not get paid.
  40. Let it go.
  41. Really, just let it go.
  42. I'm serious...let it the fuck go, already!!!
  43. Boobage is a pain in the ass.
  44. People are amazingly good at providing help.
  45. Especially when you ask.
  46. Sadly, nothing much has changed from a management perspective since Upton Sinclair's time.
  47. Happily, much has changed regarding access to the means of production.
  48. The less you make of the holidays, the more fun they are.
  49. Even if you own, you're only renting.
  50. When in doubt, put on Django Reinhardt...

Happy new year, one and all!

xxx c

It may be a while before I post another one of these, so...

2007

2006

2005

2004

Honeydripper: Changing film history, one viewer at a time

honeydripper Here's the ugly truth about the current state of independent film: filmmaking may have been democratized by the portable video camera and iMovie, but distribution, the means of getting films by the people, to the people, is still totally FUBAR.

No studio dollars, no big marketing push.

No marketing bucks, no big release.

No big opening, no run.

How do I know this? Because I spent two hours that were, in equal measure, exhilarating and spirit-crushing, with filmmaking duo John Sayles and Maggie Renzi (and, because I'm not above dropping a few names when they're this impressive, Haskell Wexler, Lawrence Turman and Anne Beatts.) It was part of a small, roundtable/salon-y type thing I somehow fell into (to pervert a line from Animal House, "Thank you, blog!"), which Sayles and Renzi doubtless (in part, anyway) decided to attend to pimp their latest film, Honeydripper, which was wholly self-financed AND is being wholly self-distributed.

Okay.

For those of you who are completely outside of the Hollywood scene, who might know box office tallies and other useless insider info (something that came up, as well), that is like me saying I'm going to build my own direct competition to McDonald's out of Legos and gum, and have it profitable inside of four weeks. Seriously. Because...

  • the pipeline is really tightly controlled by mega-chains and distributors
  • the pipeline dictates that (most) movies must open big or die instantly
  • the pipeline is configures so that all but the most outrageously popular films must move along, son, after a week or two

And mainly, because the pipeline is THE pipeline. There are next-to-no "little theaters" for cinema, like there are for stage performances; there's no off-off-Broadway for movies. And coordinating what is there takes Herculean effort.

Which means it's difficult for even great, proven filmmakers like John Sayles and Maggie Renzi to get their stuff out there to the audiences who want to see it. Let me state that again: to audiences who want to see it. Sure, there's Netflix (and it's great!) and yes, someday, that Internet pipe will be big enough and ubiquitous (provided we don't blow up the damned planet first) but movies-in-theaters are rapidly becoming, as they put it, the blow-'em-up stuff that will play globally or the few token, anointed indies that make it. Bad news for those of us who like to see our movies big and communally, in the theater.

The good news is, these are some smart, determined people who don't understand the meaning of the word "impossible." They've been doing the impossible already for years: creating smart, interesting cinematic treats that live decidedly outside of the mainstream. And making a living at it. So they've put together their own distribution for their latest film, Honeydripper, which opens in theaters this Friday, December 28. Maggie & John broke down the plan for us over lunch, and I have to say, if anyone can succeed at this very brand new game, it's them.

We all know how important it is for new films to do big box office on opening weekend, so I don't need to tell you to get out there and support this Friday/Saturday/Sunday (especially Friday, that's when I'm going!) But they've also put together kind of a grassroots worksheet on other things you can do to get the word (and people) out, and support the film. I've uploaded it to my server, and you can download it here. It includes a glowing review from Variety; I haven't seen the film yet, but the story, about a black roadhouse owner in the 1950s American South who stands to lose everything unless he can pull off a Saturday night miracle, sounds good and fun and full of excellent music.

I'm all for the edgy youngsters making edgy movies about their edgy selves. Hey, I was edgy once! Okay, I wasn't, but I pro-edge.

I'm also pro- grownup movies made by grownups for grownups (although Honeydrippers sounds like something you could take the kids to, and it is PG-13.) And as through-the-looking-glass as it is, films like the ones John Sayles makes, especially films made now, by the no-longer-young John Sayles, are the fringe films in need of support to get a foothold in this crazy marketplace. These well-crafted, beautifully told, thought and emotion provoking stories are what is really edgy and out there.

If you're in New York or L.A., get out there, too, this weekend. If you're elsewhere, check to see when it's rolling out near you in January & February. Read the PDF. Blog it. Do that voodoo that you do so well.

See you at the movies, fellow hipsters...

xxx c

UPDATE (12/29/07): Feel-good charmer/fable of the season. It's gentle and sweet, with lovely music and a life-affirming message. Plus, that kickass Sayles storytelling ability.

UPDATE (01/14/08): Another cool DIY film project here, albeit on a much smaller scale: Fat Head, debunking current dietary wisdom, or what passes for it. Start with Michael Blowhard's great interview of the writer/director, Tom Naughton.

Image of Danny Glover & John Sayles on the set via Flickr and ©2007 John Sayles.

100 Things I Learned in 2007, Part I

mardi gras Hard to believe this is the fourth installment of listy, round-up goodness. However, time cares not what we believe, continuing to march the hell on, regardless.

And so, without further ado...

  1. Money might spend itself, but it does not reconcile itself in the QuickBooks.
  2. Goals, on the other hand, neither make nor complete themselves.
  3. No matter how public you go with them.
  4. There is life after land lines.
  5. CFLs do not suck nearly as hard as they did five years ago.
  6. But they still kinda-sorta suck.
  7. Bread + beer - activity = belly.
  8. Fortunately, underwear stretches.
  9. For someone who claims an ambivalence towards blood relatives, I feel awfully proud that five of my boy-cousins made hanging out with me a priority.
  10. There is still no family like family of choice.
  11. Even if they happen to be related by blood.
  12. Nerds rule.
  13. No, seriously, they rule.
  14. Whoever said "Life sucks and then you die" was only half-right.
  15. Thank christ.
  16. Or whomever.
  17. Information designers are hot.
  18. Portland kicks L.A.'s ass.
  19. Seattle doesn't, but Seattle coffee kicks all coffee's ass.
  20. The real cost of acquiring stuff is the time spent divesting oneself of it.
  21. That thing I tell myself, about being able to go back to copywriting? Total lie.
  22. When in doubt, do a salute.
  23. Or rearrange the furniture.
  24. Cheese can tell you a lot about a person.
  25. Telling stories is my favorite thing.
  26. Helping other people tell stories runs a close second.
  27. There is no such thing as too much music.
  28. Or books.
  29. Facebook is the AOL of social media.
  30. Twitter, on the other hand, is the tits.
  31. Perimenopause is a lot like having PMS 365 days a year.
  32. Atheism makes an excellent hillbilly repellent in a pinch.
  33. This design business thing isn't for everyone.
  34. And by "everyone," I mean me.
  35. The Wall Street Journal publishes an entire newspaper every day.
  36. And by "every day," I mean every fucking day.
  37. I miss SxSW when I don't go.
  38. Mid-century L.A. apartments were not built for global warming.
  39. Neither were mid-century women.
  40. The Marines are the second-toughest job you'll ever love.
  41. President of your Toastmasters club being first.
  42. We all have a type.
  43. Rick's hamburgers are as good as they say.
  44. If you build it, they will come.
  45. Dental insurance in 2007 is but a walking shadow.
  46. Not to mention a walking shadow, a poor player strutting & fretting and a tale told by an idjit.
  47. There really and truly are no shortcuts.
  48. There is nothing like fan mail.
  49. I can live without everything but truth.
  50. Even the lamb sandwich at Cafe du Village.

Can't wait for Part II? Have I got your number, brother:

2006

2005

2004

Pushing back

resist Sometimes it seems like I resist almost everything.

Doing work, certainly. Going to my weekly Toastmasters meeting. Returning phone calls, exercising, taking the recycling down to the basement.

But it doesn't stop there, the stopping. Oh, no. On a given day, I can usually find myself resisting any or all of the following:

  • brushing/flossing/Rotadent-ing my teeth
  • at all
  • going to sleep at a reasonable hour
  • letting myself take a nap if I haven't
  • having sex
  • showering
  • peeing
  • answering the phone
  • walking downstairs to pick up the Wall Street Journal
  • actually reading the Wall Street Journal
  • blogging
  • doing my marketing "homework"
  • finishing the last 1/100th of whatever project needs finishing

The odd thing is, with the exception of dental maintenance and phone-answering, I either don't mind or outright enjoy most of these activities. Hell, I even like talking on the phone when it's Dawud Miracle calling. And we have us some marathon sessions.

I learned a lot about resistance and procrastination during the Hypnotherapy Project I worked on earlier this year with my awesome friend and hypnotherapist, Greg Beckett. Partly responsible is The Resistor, my name for Steven Pressfield's characterization of the art-killing force that enlists procrastination in its fight against creative output (if you haven't yet, run out NOW and get The War of Art.)

But also responsible, I think, is a young lady who's been pushed beyond a reasonable expectation of endurance. Frankly, if I don't give her a break, and have a confab with the rest of the committee to get right with things, we're going to start having some serious shutdown issues.

So I'm working on a number of things to implement in the next four months, one of which is working less on stuff with a lower ROI and more on stuff that rings my bells. You see, I love working, as long as the work is fun. But this year was characterized by a little too much work that was just...work. It became clear that the plan was flawed when the plan basically got dumped by the side of the road like an unwashed, hitchhiking hippie somewheres south of March.

It's going to mean taking some gigundous risks. Maybe not to an outsider, but positively outrageous for me. But I'm committing to it. (Gulp.) Committing to not committing, except to what I really want to commit to. Which, right now, is not much of what I've been occupied by over the past several years. It will be interesting to see how this year's edition of Best Year Yet plays out.

Which leads me to the obvious question: did your 2007 go off the rails, or did it unfold with the exquisite combination of surety and serendipity that your mind-like-water self conjured up in December of 2006?

And what did you want? And how did you set about getting it for yourself?

And (here's hoping I don't regret this) did you use any special books/plans/tools to get yourself there?

Mastermind group? Plain old list? Goal-setting dominatrix wielding a Palm and a slim switch?

xxx c

Image by jashj via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

Tarnation

photobooth There are gothic tales of horror all around us, hidden in plain view. I had tastes of several growing up, something about my own, weird upbringing made me very freak-friendly, but I never grokked the way darkness goes hand in hand with light until I moved New York City in the mid-1980s.

You would meet people, in bars, mostly, but occasionally at parties, in bookstores, through friends of friends of friends, whose fabulousness you just knew was incredibly hard-won. I didn't have a storybook childhood by any means, but there was (enough) money, stability and love to establish at least a foundation of normalcy to provide a reference point to the madness that followed. For example, my own overly-beautiful mother (as far as I know) was never subjected to repeated rounds of electroshock therapy, abandoned by my father when I was an infant or raped by a stranger in front of my eyes hours after we rolled into town on a Trailways bus.

All of these things happened to Jonathan Caouette, the writer-director-actor whose autobiographical documentary, Tarnation, took the film world by storm (four years ago, but more on that later.) Comprised of stills, film and video clips over at least 20 years, and originally edited entirely in iMovie, it's a haunting, mesmerizing look at what one wrong turn (in this case, falling off of a house rooftop) can do to a delicate soul and everything that touches her.

It's also a monumentally inspirational take on the power of the human spirit to prevail in the most horrific of circumstances. The film and video that Caouette pieces together to tell his story is clearly the film- and video-taking that kept him sane growing up in, to put it mildly, horrific circumstances. There are smidgins of film taken before even the very precocious filmmaker was ready to pick up a camera, but once those mini-digits were big enough to place "record", it would seem young Caouette was at the ready and up to the task. Part of what's so fascinating about the film is getting to see the artist in formation, on both sides of the camera (there's one particularly compelling bit where he plays a woman in distress to the camera.)

Of course, even his impressive facility with the very simple tool that is iMovie was vastly enhanced by the soundtrack. Like El Mariachi some 15 years earlier, the film was made for peanuts ($218.32 of them!) and repackaged for substantially more. (Note to budding DIY filmmakers: if we can't hear it right, we won't be able to see it right.)

But who am I to quibble with the addition of some great songs and high-priced, Sunday-go-to-meetin' sound editing? At its core, Tarnation is good, old-fashioned storytelling.

And I have never been one to turn down a good yarn...

xxx c

Image of Jonathan Caouette and his beautiful mother from the film, via WIRED online.

What can you give me for Christmas?

bonanza gift Having worked my way through various careers (i.e., advertising copywriting, TV writing, acting, graphic design), it's become clear to me what I am not (copywriter, screen/TV writer, actor, designer).

And, having spent a fair amount of time now writing (on this here bloggity-blog, among other places) and speaking (at my Toastmasters club, although I'm happy to come and talk to your group, if you like), it's also become pretty damned clear to me what I should be doing next.

There's just one problem. For someone who's spent her entire adult life in one form of communications or another, I have a surprising inability to articulate what the hell it is I have to say and what the hell use it is to other people.

Okay, see? That's two problems. Start talking about myself, and I get all bollixed up.

I realize this is my issue to grapple with, and grapple, I do. I have also enlisted grappling assistance from my marketing coach and my shrink, who, upon hearing my egregious ineptitude at self-summary, immediately volunteered herself for grappling duty.

But I would like to enlist your help as well, dear reader. After all, you, those of you who actually come back here and read these little stories and essays and illuminata on nerdery, most likely have a better handle on why you return than I.

Also, I have found that the odd email that comes in over the transom or the random comment left on a particular post is often more illuminating than hours of cogitation or reflection or self-help exercises. Really. You guys are beyond awesome as a mirror. And the answers that have started coming in since I started focusing on this and asking out loud for help have, well, already been helpful. It's just time to ratchet things up a notch, I think.

I don't expect a fully articulated brand statement; I don't really have any expectations, other than this might be an interesting experiment. But, because 'tis the season and because you are doing me a solid and also probably because, as my exasperated shrink says, I have the LOWEST sense of entitlement of anyone she's ever treated, I will do this: for every helpful comment (or email, if you'd prefer not to be public) that I receive by this December 25th, I will donate $1 US to Habitat for Humanity, up to a total of $1,000. I don't really expect 1,000 comments and/or emails, although that would be great, but hey, it's a great organization and if I'm getting huge blessings, I'd like to pay it forward in an immediately tangible way.

Of course, I hope you know that my ultimate goal is to take the information and help make the world a better place. It's dorky, I know, but my mission statement (this, I have) is to be a joyful conduit of truth, beauty and love. I'll keep doing it at ground level, no matter what; I've just had a nagging (and growing) feeling these past few years that I should be doing a better job of putting myself out there.

If you're a genius whiz-bang marketing type and you can sum me up in a genius-whiz-bang mission statement, that's awesome. If you just tell me why you like reading the blog, or the newsletter, or the acting column, or the design column, or my emails, or any other of my writing, that's awesome, too. You can also...

  • tell me what your favorite post is (and hopefully, why)
  • tell me how you describe this blog to other people (if, if fact, you do this)
  • tell me when you think I'm "on" and/or when you think I'm "off"
  • tell me which posts best sum up "communicatrix"
  • tell me what the hell a communicatrix is
  • tell me (your idea here)

And if I get no comments or emails, well, that's fine, too. This is a process, and an evolving one, and what's supposed to happen will, in its own time. Hell, I'll probably give a bunch of money to Habitat anyway because I really dig them and Jimmy Carter is one of my personal heroes.

But I just thought I'd ask. Again. Out loud.

If nothing else, it's one step out of the hole of anti-entitlement.

xxx c

UPDATE (1/1/08): Another 8 or 10 replies came in via email since the last comment, bringing the tally up to $45. I'm rounding up to $50, and heading over to H4H right now. Thank you, everyone, for playing! And if you've come to this late, but still want to contribute, email me: I'll keep the offer open up to $500 in calendar year 2008!

Image by wallyg via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

The Diving Bell & the Butterfly

the diving bell and the butterfly Sometimes, The BF has to drag me to movies.

Okay, most of the time. He's remained a more ardent fan of both film and music, almost always willing to put up with the minor discomfort that trekking out to consume new things involves. I don't know when I shifted from being the girl who'd see four (challenging) movies on a weekend in New York City to the old lady who'd rather stay in and watch a DVD, but there's no denying I've shifted demographics.

Well, come on, like you'd want to leave your comfortable home and drive through 10 miles of Los Angeles semi-rush hour traffic to see a movie about a man who's struck down by a massive stroke in the prime of life and wakes up from his coma to find the only thing he can move is his left eyelid?

As my friend, Danimus, likes to say, "The goody-good times." I'm glad I don't have to market this film.

And yet, I'm about to. Because that's the only way a great but challenging film like The Diving Bell and the Butterfly is going to get the audience it deserves: one rave at a time.

I can do nothing but rave, save perhaps marvel. How did the editor of French Elle know what I was going through when I had my own hospital epiphany? How did he bat out an entire memoir with his eyelid? How did director Julian Schnabel make this story come alive, brilliantly, burstingly, hilariously alive, with a main character who was, for all intents and purposes, immobilized?

Most of all, how come none of that matters and the film ends up being about love and human foibles and communication and all the other utterly mundane (but profound) things we struggle with day in and day out, no matter what our level of autonomy or mobility or self-understanding?

There's not a false performance in the film, and everything, the music, the lighting, the design, is beautiful. Unobtrusively so, there to serve the story and not for dig-me purposes. Full and mad props go to Schnabel, director of the also-excellent Before Night Falls, who won the Best Director Lion at Cannes for Diving Bell.

It's also the perfect tonic for a trippy season, this overly-amped time of year when we wonder why there's no there there and whether maybe we haven't all got things a bit bollixed up and backwards. We have, but Jean-Dominique Bauby's message is that it's not so difficult to sort it out, should we really want to. Connect with your humanity, with the magnificence that is the ability to feel a thing and communicate it to another living soul, and you will reconnect to the all-that-is.

It is maybe a little more difficult to do when you have so many moving parts in the way, but it is possible. Live, live, live while you have the chance.

See this movie if you need a little reminder of all the good reasons why.

xxx c

Image of the delicious Emmanuelle Seigner lifted from The Diving Bell and the Butterfly site.

Play Misty for Me...RIGHT THIS @#%$! MINUTE!!!!

misty There is something about this time of year that, even if she really, really likes winter holidays and cooler weather, can bring an up dude down.

And that's where I am, down. Or down-ish. Not so far down as I was pre-Arnie, certainly, but hey...getting up from down is a process. (So is learning that "up" is not better than "down," but that is a post for the Half-Assed Buddhist to tackle, and thus far, he has refused to take up the blogging cause.)

To cope with it all, in the grand tradition of Mom's side of the family, I self-medicate. Unlike several of them who are no longer with us because of it, I try not to turn exclusively to my pal, Dr. Al Key Hall, for solutions. Instead, I mix it up: a little sugar, a little caffeine, a lot of long/hot showers, some escapist reading and, my all-time favorite, the cheesy movie. When the skies or my mood darkens too early or often, I watch movies, lots and lots of movies, most of them familiar to me already, and of a decidedly unchallenging nature, thematically.

My current go-to drug of choice is a great, old Clint Eastwood flick, Play Misty for Me. It has everything I love: the Central Coast of California (comfort location); a 1970s setting (comfort decade); an absorbing but not overly complex story structure (gently-engaged-but-not-overtaxed brain); enough dialogue to serve as company (comfort movies play in the background, usually); and a connection to my childhood (Dad loved Clint and worked with him later in life, so I feel like Clint is kind of the good, Hollywood version of my dad.)

I never really understood why people owned movies until I stopped watching television. Now, I get it: for the company. For the comfort. For the little respite, that brief trip in the Wayback Machine that takes you away from it all in a way Calgon can't. It's not just about watching Clint narrowly escape the clutches of the mad (but ultimately, sad) Evelyn Draper for the 20 or 30th time (Jessica Walter in a tentpole performance, the movie would sink without her); it's about going back to a time that felt safer, or at least less complicated. It's about having a Dad and not being the elder yourself. It's about a world that was less crowded, less noisy, less dangerous and at the same time more exotic, or at least, one that seemed that way from my 10-year-old vantage point.

That's really what it is, of course. It's about being 10 again, and everything being 10 meant: safety. Security. Years and years before I had to worry about what I was going to be and how I'd take care of myself when I was alone and it was dark.

Yes, at the risk of being completely morbid on the threshold of this happy holiday season, my love for this nutty old film is about being farther from death, so far as to have zero acquaintance with it. And what's even crazier than that is the whole reason I appreciate holidays and loved ones and the combination of the two is that I have a far keener appreciation for their being here at all. Once you've lost, you can't help but treasure what's left all the more.

I will, of course, listen to a few carols over these next several weeks. (How can you not? Isn't it mandatory at this point? Take off your shoes and overcoat, empty your pockets, and listen to goddam Christmas carols.) I'll even partake in some holiday...er...stuff. Parties and gifting and whatnot. In moderation, Christmastime can be quite pleasant.

But you'll excuse me if, at some point in the middle of the festivities, I slip off by myself to my home and, well, a neat single-malt and Clint in the DVD drive. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

And this girl needs a quick trip up the coast in an old Jaguar with a jazz radio deejay.

xxx c

UPDATE (11/29/08): For more on this suspense masterpiece, I direct you to the site of one Joe Valdez, who writes a film blog that is hands-down my new-favorite obsession/timesuck.

"Thank you, sir! May I have another!?"™, Day 21: There's always room for sorry

This is Day 21 of a 21-day effort to see the good in what might, at first, look like an irredeemable drag. Its name comes from a classic bit of dialogue uttered by actor Kevin Bacon in a classic film of my generation, Animal House. big little hug

Everyone knows that the phrase "painless breakup" is an oxymoron. Any two people who are truly together are going to have a rough time of it when the together part ends.

But some splits, let's face it, are rougher than others. Maybe because you don't see them coming. Maybe because the passion is still there. Maybe, god help you, because of both of these happening at the same time.

The spring of my horrible breakup ushered in the summer of my unhappiness and the fall (and winter) of my big illness. It was not a banner year. And yet, I would not hesitate to call it the best, most significant year of my life. It was the year that changed me: that illness, and how I dealt with it. That breakup, and how we both dealt with it.

You see, up until then, there had been lip service about remaining friends with exes, but really, that's all it was. A polite fiction. The friendship that arose from the ashes of this wreckage took years to form (with a good, long break between the end and the beginning), but it is the friendship I am most proud of. I have had longer friendships, and even closer friendships, but I had never had a friendship I had to approach like religion: utterly faith-based.

Like the Crohn's, which has taught me so many good things like tolerance and kindness and the value of slowness and simplicity, this breakup and subsequent friendship taught me that anything was possible, given two people with the right attitudes and enough time. It laid a foundation for all kinds of impossible things: a breakup without rancor. A previously unimaginable friendship with my ex-husband. An inner flexibility I've never, ever experienced. The possibility of change, true change.

I do not know who reads this blog, beyond the people who come out from the shadows and tell me. But I do know this: there is nothing anyone has done to me that I would not forgive them for, were they truly sorry. I had a conversation with one person to this effect some three-odd years ago. At the time, it took a great deal of effort (and, I'll be honest, blind faith) to say it, but I meant it: the door is always open. Step through it, and together, we will work out how to move forward from there.

And should you choose not to step through it, that's is fine, too. Who am I to say what is right for you? We are our own keepers. Surely, I made choices that have left others scratching their heads. Surely, other people have moved on from things I have done which were painful, and have extended me grace I don't even know. (Thank you for that. And I know, I know, quit calling you "Shirley.")

Thank you, one and all, for being my teachers, no matter what the lesson or the method.

What a lot I have to be grateful for. What a lot, indeed.

xxx c

Image by Jon Irons Photography via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

"Thank you, sir! May I have another!?"™, Day 20: Gloomy Manor

This is Day 20 of a 21-day effort to see the good in what might, at first, look like an irredeemable drag. Its name comes from a classic bit of dialogue uttered by actor Kevin Bacon in a classic film of my generation, Animal House. biernacice

One of the sad facts of divorce is a general reduction in circumstances, especially for the mother, and children, if they stay with her.

The facts of my own parents' divorce are far too byzantine to cover in this post. The split had its roots in my parents' ridiculously short courtship (a long weekend at Jack Webb's fabulous Palm Springs getaway), fundamental incompatibility, and unfortunate coming of age on the cusp of the era of self-awareness. Too much possibility and too few tools to deal with it.

But for the sake of our story, let us oversimplify and blame this on the mother. The father, who always did his duty and yet was never quite There, was as bewildered as I that this shit was going down. He was forced into moving off-campus into a dreary, studio apartment, followed by an equally dreary one-bedroom apartment, while we stayed in our fabulous (if largely unfurnished) co-op by the lake.

Within four years, however, their fortunes had reversed: Dad moved into the swingin'-est 2-bedroom bachelor pad I've seen yet, rooftop pool, living room furnished with pinball machines and parade of hot stewardesses and all, while Mom, little sister and I moved in with her parents.

On paper, things still looked good: gigantic mansion on Lake Michigan in a tony suburb, weekly visitation with Dad and private, Catholic school for the two of us. In day-to-day reality, though, things were a little different.

First, we moved into Enablers Central. Mom found two new instant drinking buddies in her own father and eldest brother, who'd been booted out of his own household. They had different poisons of choice, but weren't all that picky, so anytime after about three o'clock (depending on day of the week and state of employment), you were pretty much guaranteed that someone was going to start tying one on.

Second, the Chief Enabler, our otherwise astonishingly responsible and competent Swedish-American grandmother, was, um, stingy with a few things, including the food. I don't mean that things ever got completely Dickensian on us, but she came of age in the Great Depression and I, more often than not, was hungry. (Although because she was a kickass cook, what there was to eat was always pretty darned tasty.)

A teetotaler, devout convert to Catholicism and frugal genius without par, Grandma had one human weakness: an insane sugar jones. Everyone knew where she kept her cookie stash; we also knew exactly how many we could poach without getting busted. When the selection was Pepperidge Farm Sugar Cookies, it was tough, pretty difficult concealing cookie leakage in that small, tight stack. You were better off around certain holidays, when there were tins of home-baked goods. But you didn't even look for the good candy stash. You pretended you didn't know about it (even if you did), and waited for her to haul out the Fannie Mae and offer you a piece when she was feeling itchy and generous.

Possibly worse than the food situation, although for a 12 and 7-year-old, not much, was the heating and plumbing situation. While the house was grand and gorgeous, with beautiful bones, plenty of space and a gracious flow, it was a sumbitch to heat and maintain. Everyone in Chicago was hot in the summer (well, except my beloved paternal grandparents, who got A/C shortly after it was invented and were never without), but I wonder how many people in our ZIP code were as cold as we were in the winter, there on the lake, in that huge house with the wind rattling the old storm windows, and the heat turned up enough to keep the pipes from freezing but not much else. It wasn't bad when you were fully clothed, and we learned the benefits of layering early on, but there was this insistence on bathing that made life difficult at times.

Which brings me to...the plumbing. The original plumbing, no doubt, with next-to-no water pressure and never enough hot. Forget that we were only allowed to use three squares of toilet paper per seated occasion (god knows I'd like to); far, far worse was shivering in the shower as you tried, TRIED, I TELL YOU, to get your 1970s, long-and-parted-down-the-middle girl-hair wet, shampooed and rinsed. At some point, our uncles took mercy on us (my beloved youngest uncle had moved in by then) and let me use the special shower they'd added on to one of the rooms. It must have had new pipes coming up from the main, because compared to every other faucet in the place, it was like standing under a hot fire hydrant. Which, in January, just off the lake in Chicago, is as close as it gets to heaven.

Life there was not, I must say, an unmitigated hell. I escaped every day to my wonderful, amazing grammar school, albeit an hour away by bus, and in the dark, for this was during the energy crisis of the mid-1970s. Gloomy Manor itself was an amazing place to explore and imagine, with four floors of who-knows-how many rooms, and a huge yard with steps down to the beach. I had dolls and books and all the paper and pens I wanted, plus hours and hours to myself, which I've always loved. If we lost half the house to the winter, sun porches and side porches and attics and basements, there were other, warmer rooms.

And while it chapped her hide, Mom never actually shut my sister and me up as we washed and dried every night to the sound of ourselves singing "If Mama Was Married" from Gypsy. While we were a dark family, we all appreciated a good joke.

Still, it was with profound relief that I welcomed her next husband, my ex-stepfather, into our lives. We went out to dinner, we sang in the car and everyone was allowed to stuff herself with food. He laughed easily, which was none too common at Gloomy Manor, my paternal grandfather's grim-joke name for this fallin g-down house by the lake full of stoic and/or drunk people. Our rental house that summer in Evanston before I started high school was a paradise compared to the remote prison I'd been stuck in for a year and a half. I barely cared that we were moving to a new place with a new school where I'd no know* nobody in my class of 1,000; freedom was in sight.

What is there, then, in that 18-month sentence, to be thankful for? Well, Youngest Uncle, for starters. He introduced me to Led Zeppelin and Monty Python and the National Lampoon during my stay, and besides saving my bacon, opened new worlds to me. Almost 20 years younger than my mom and only 10 years older than I, we probably never would have gotten close were it not for us being thrown together as cellies.

There was the quiet, too, and the isolation. Perhaps not the best for building critical preteen social skills, but while I was sequestered in the North Suburbs, my Chicago friends were starting to get into some pretty grownup stuff. I can't prove it, but I'm guessing that getting pulled from the city slightly before I hit 13 probably helped me hang onto my innocence for an extra four years, not at all a bad thing, in hindsight.

Most of all, though, came a fine appreciation for simple luxuries: the hot shower. The warm room. A full belly.

Love, expressed out loud.

It would have been devastating to have been deprived of these things from childhood, of course. But to have them, then have them taken away...well, like it or not, it probably contributed greatly to my gifts as an artist, not to mention my ability to see the humorous side of things. What is the comedian's curse again? Damn you for giving me a happy childhood?

They did their best. I know that, too. Nobody writes down, as the saying goes; in the same way, few people are intentionally awful to their fellow man. There is patterning, followed by a tent of darkness.

Some of us, if we're lucky, get just a peek under that tent. A small peek, bracketed by lots and lots of sunshine and warmth.

I am one of those people. And that is why I do what it is I do.

Thank you, Gloomy Manor, for the inadvertent gift of understanding. It's taken me a while to put it into play, but with some luck, there will be many, many years of illumination before this light is put out.

xxx c

*Wow. I was so overwrought, I plumb forgot my words.

Image ©2007 MichaÅ‚ Å»ebrowski.

"Thank you, sir! May I have another!?"™, Day 19: Sam

This is Day 19 of a 21-day effort to see the good in what might, at first, look like an irredeemable drag. Its name comes from a classic bit of dialogue uttered by actor Kevin Bacon in a classic film of my generation, Animal House. sam

I did not discover I was a dog person until last week, but I have always loved cats. Yes, they're aloof, but they're also independent and delightful in their own way, a very different way than dogs.

And I grew up with cats, starting with Crystal, when I was about six years old (sharp-eyed readers will note that this makes my p0rn name either "Crystal Delaware" or "Crystal LSD", depending on whether you call first street, period, or the first street I remember).

Turns out Crystal was allergic to city living and Mom was allergic to Crystal, so Mom stayed in town and Crystal moved to a farm to chase birds. This rendered me catless for a few years, when Newly-Divorced Dad let us get Monique (my parents divorced when I was young, what can I say?)

Once Dad moved away with his new family (to be fair, they would probably have preferred to stay right there in Chicago), I was essentially petless for almost 15 years. When I was in high school, Mom had another baby, so I had a kind of human pet, but that was it for years and years. College is too transient a time for pets, and when I was living in New York City, I could barely afford to feed myself.

Things started looking up money-wise when I moved back to Chicago, but my life was in rather great disarray, plus I was in renter's mode. A pet is not a great thing to get when you're not sure whether you'll last out the year in your adoptive city.

But once I'd sorted things out with my shrink-slash-astrologer and decided to stay, it made sense to really put down roots. A terrific condo dropped in my lap, and in short order, Sam followed.

Sam. Sam I am. Samela. Sam had a sad history when he came to me as a three-year-old. Much beloved by his first master, Sam came with a gallon-sized baggie of frozen cooked, chopped roast beef in individual serving sizes, and a stack of red plates he liked to eat it on, Sam was not, alas, beloved by the man's fiancée. Reluctantly, he chose the girl and I got Sam. There was some judging on my part about this (which I came to regret later, as you'll see) but I was happy to have Sam under my care.

Sam liked to sit around, a LOT, and then suddenly, arbitrarily, get up and do five minutes of wind sprints across the wood floors of my condo, time of day be damned. He had a tiny, tiny head and a big, not fat, but big, body. He enjoyed playing with invisible pieces of paper, freaking out for no reason and sleeping on my head. Not beside my head: on top of it. (My head-to-frame size was inversely proportional to Sam's own, so I shed a lot of heat out of that sucker, and Chicago gets fiercely cold of a winter's night.)

Mainly, as you might expect, Sam dramatically improved my disposition. He was someone to love, and to love completely. That should have been enough.

Alas, I was greedy and foolish. I wanted human love, too, and the type that appeared on my doorstep did not like cats. In fact, he hated them.

In fact, he wrote a poem about his feelings for them, which started like this:

Kitty in the microwave Asking me your life to save It's hard to hear your muffled cries Above my sizzling cottage fries

Okay, all you SPCA types, he was a stand-up comic and it was a joke. And a funny one, the way he delivered it. I laughed, every time. Me, lover of Sam. And felt only the smallest twinge of guilt in doing it. (My motto: the Joke is King; all Hail the Joke.)

The three of us living together was not so funny, however. The Chief Atheist didn't ever, ever physically mistreat Sam; I wouldn't have stood for that. But he was overt in his hatred, and I know Sam felt terrorized. So it was not hard to make the deal that when and if we moved to Los Angeles, Sam would not move with us. We'd all be better off. Well, Sam would.

Sam had a dry run or two with my friend, Deb, before the actual move. Having grown up in a house with a mother who made you put snacks in a dish before eating and who moved the piano to vacuum behind it every single day, pets had never been a part of her mental (or physical) landscape. (It was a very tidy and pleasant house, though, I must say, way nicer than any I've ever lived in.)

So she took on the task with some trepidation. And, again, I must confess that I pushed a bit: I knew that if Sam lived with Deb, there'd be a good chance I'd get to see him a lot on visits, (although I didn't realize how much that would ultimately turn out to be.) But of course, the same miracle happened with Sam and Deb that happened with Arnie and me: she fell in love. Sam brought out something in her she'd never known was there, could be there, and she took sterling care of her new baby until his death years later.

I have always looked on my loss of Sam, or my abandonment of him as I caved under pressure, with a strange mix of sorrow and thanks. Sorrow for the obvious reasons: I was weak. I lost Sam. As a grown woman of 31, I still didn't believe in my own self well enough to stand up for what I truly wanted.

Thankful, too, though, for some equally compelling reasons. Like having to face up to some less than delightful weaknesses I needed to work on. Like introducing a friend to the wonders of unconditional love on the donor end.

And mainly, for giving Sam the Wandering Kitty the best of homes to live out the rest of his years.

Happy holidays, little guy. May they be filled with lots of tasty roast beef served on brick-red plates, and big, warm heads to nap on.

xxx c

"Thank you, sir! May I have another!?"™, Day 18: Dude, where's my stuff?

This is Day 18 of a 21-day effort to see the good in what might, at first, look like an irredeemable drag. Its name comes from a classic bit of dialogue uttered by actor Kevin Bacon in a classic film of my generation, Animal House. bottom shelf

My other sisters have lost far more of real value because of our alcoholic mother: substantial money; their youth. Things get stolen out from under from you when you have an alcoholic parent that you don't even realize until much later, when you start comparing yourself to your normal friends.

I lost a little money, true. And a little of my youth, I suppose. But what I miss are my words.

I've been doing this crazy scribbling for much longer than this blog's brief existence. I began a diary back when that's what we called them, when they were bound in leather and came with tiny locks and keys and their heavy, gilt-edged paper only allowed for five or six lines of information per day. I've been writing stories and drawing pictures since I could pick up a crayon, manufacturing worlds for my imaginary creatures to live in that rivaled Middle Earth in their detail and complexity. I knew I could not keep everything; when you move a lot, which we did after my parents' divorce initiated our long, slow slide into intrafamilial dependence, you learn to do with less and less, to cull down to what is most important to you. Good training for the apocalypse, I warrant.

Before my escape to college, I got my stuff down to a few boxes, and then, on a subsequent visit where I was told to pare down, to one that I had to keep. It held the best of the best: all of my journals, best (or favorite) drawings and keepsakes, an unsigned Picasso print from my grandfather (well, so he said, anyway). One box.

You're not supposed to think about the stuff you leave at home. You're supposed to put up with your parents nagging you to pick up your damned stuff, already, so they can turn your bedroom into a sewing/guest/crafts room. But you don't even imagine that, outside of horrific acts of God, your stuff will just disappear.

Sometimes I wonder when I pick through stuff at thrift stores about how it got there. The same way I wonder how someone could just give up a good dog like Arnie, I wonder how someone's handmade photo frame with a family picture ends up in that great unwanted pile called the Goodwill. But I do know, someone dies...alone. Or someone gets on drugs, goes crazy and wanders off. Or someone loses his job and is forced to move out in a hurry.

Or someone's alcoholic mother can no longer pay the fees to the storage company and her things are sold in lots. Poof, a lifetime of chairs scavenged from estate sales, of knickknacks and out-of-print childhood books, of ski clothes and stuffed animals, of words and words and words, gone. Because of booze and shame and despair. Because you are broke and too embarrassed to ask for help. Because, because, because.

Of all the things I have had, it's the loss of words that haunts me. I don't trust my memory, you see, but I trust the words. I trust what they say, and I trust in my ability to read between them and recall the rest. Right now, my memories begin at age 18, in college. I still have every single journal with every single cringe-inducing entry. The photos I have that predate them? They help me to remember, but they were taken by other people of me; they are not my memories. I'm making those up now, as I go along.

I get a hollow feeling right now, even now, thinking of that box. And yet, I'm thankful to have lost it. It has made me treasure the few relics that have turned up in other dead people's things even more. And it's made me appreciate that no matter what exists, or doesn't, it is my story to tell, however I see fit. My story to distill meaning from.

Most of all, it has helped me find compassion in my heart that I might not have found otherwise for my mother and for people like her. People who cause pain even while surely they wish they could stop. We've all of us let something be sold out from under us, done (or neglected to do) something out of carelessness or fear; in this case, it was just something tangible.

The love is not in the beloved childhood doll any more than the stories are in the written-down words. These are things that are in us, that we carry wherever we go, and that come to life when we share them.

Let's put it this way: maybe, just maybe, if I had those journals, I never would have started writing out loud, for other people. I never would have had the experience of having my words played back to me, of hearing what resonated and what didn't, of what landed and what didn't. I never would have met the people I've met and learned the things I've learned and changed the way I've changed.

A Picasso print, signed or not, legitimate or not, will last as long as it lasts. The feelings unearthed by looking at it are what lives on.

xxx c Image by orbitgal via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

"Thank you, sir! May I have another!?"™, Day 17: Tenant from hell

This is Day 17 of a 21-day effort to see the good in what might, at first, look like an irredeemable drag. Its name comes from a classic bit of dialogue uttered by actor Kevin Bacon in a classic film of my generation, Animal House. hellen

Before I decided to downshift into the carefree (ha!) life of artist/Seeker-of-Truth, I was a woman of property.

When my now-ex-husband and I decided to relocate from Chicago to Los Angeles, we decided to rent said property to some nice couple, so that once we'd secured jobs and agents, we could return to live in our city of choice with a minimum of hassle. After all, it was such a great place in such a great neighborhood, and this process could only take 18 months, two years, on the outside.

Three years later, our dream tenants had to relocate to a different city for work, and we had to find someone to replace them. We were managing the place long distance, but we hired an agency to screen prospective tenants, also known as That Parade of Freak-Job Losers with Hilarious Credit Ratings.

Finally, they found us another dream tenant. A big antiques-lover, she preferred older buildings (ours was pre-war), needed a parking space (we had one, a huge deal in the densely-populated Wrigleyville/Boystown neighborhood) and best of all, had a good, steady job at a nearby hospital as a mental health care worker.

That should have been our first tip to run.

She didn't raise hell right away. The gateway hell was little things: could she do this, add that, install these? Fine, sure, we said. We were happy to have her happy; if she wanted to add hooks and shelves and whatever other crap that would hold her doodads and knickknacks, fine by us. Plaster is (relatively) cheap and the ex is (very) handy.

But the problems started coming faster. There were cracks in the walls or the dryer was broken or the neighbors were annoying. (Um, what happened to your great love of this 75-year-old building? And isn't that what neighbors are for?) The ex would make repairs when he was in town, and when he wasn't, we had a handyman friend take care of what he could. A really nice, really easygoing, really competent handyman friend, who told us in no uncertain terms (and some fairly colorful language) that our tenant was batsh*t crazy, and also something that rhymed with "hunt."

Things devolved for months and months until we were barely speaking. She was constantly threatening to withhold rent, to take this up with some board, to generally keep making our lives a living hell. There were crazed letters of three, four and five pages in length, outlining the many physical and psychic indignities she was being made to suffer at our hands. I earned my first set of diplomacy stripes in this period, talking her down for hours on the phone, patiently listening to her alternate cursing of us and pleas for understanding. Bat. Sh*t. Crazy.

And then, we decided to sell. All of a sudden, Crazy Lady was our new best friend. She looooooved the condo; we knew that, right? Other people might like it, but she really loooooved it. She'd bonded with it. It was home. She'd added so much to it, like...shelves! Hideous assy kountry krap fixtures. Uh...paint. I guess. And best of all, if we went with her, we'd have someone in there we already knew and loved!

To add insult to inanity, she not only lowballed the price by tens of thousands of dollars, but, if I recall correctly, also enthusiastically proposed a bizarre extended payment plan that made zero fiscal sense whatsoever. After marveling briefly at her big, crazy brain and matching brass balls, we came back with price in target range, less than we could probably get, which was only fair, since we'd be paying no realtor's fees. But apparently far, far more than she thought she should be paying.

So we gave her notice that we we would be showing the place. Our realtor would, of course, work around her schedule, but she'd need to give access.

The seething hydra kicked up a huge fuss, with more threatening of boards and lawyers. She called us every name in the book. She told us we were delusional, thinking our place was worth that much. Our attorney wrote her a nice letter spelling out the actual law on planet earth; Crazy Lady backed down, sulking. We were nervous that she'd do something to queer the deal, but miraculously, even with her blocking maneuvers, we sold it, and quite swiftly, at more than we'd originally thought we could get.

You might be thinking this is another example of that karma I'm thankful for, but really, it's not. (Although I do admit to feeling more gleeful than sorrowful at the thought of her having to haul all of her goddam kountry krap back down three flights of stairs and out of there.)

Honestly, I'm thankful because I learned one thing for absolutely, positively sure: there are landlords...and there are people like me.

Thank you, Crazy Lady. I hope you are happy in Kountry Krap land. And that it's many thousands of miles away from me.

xxx c

Image by TCM hitchhiker via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

"Thank you, sir! May I have another!?"™, Day 16: Arnie McScruff

This is Day 16 of a 21-day effort to see the good in what might, at first, look like an irredeemable drag. Its name comes from a classic bit of dialogue uttered by actor Kevin Bacon in a classic film of my generation, Animal House. Arno J. McScruffington

I don't know whether to chalk it up to the writing gene or the bad-brain-chemicals gene, but all my life, I've grappled with depression.

It doesn't hit me as hard as some of my smarter friends or those relatives further over on the Irish-Swedish side of the spectrum (thank god for being sort of a dumbass and half-Jewish, I guess); in me, it's less of a steady condition and more of a trigger-driven one. Too little exercise or too much sugar/caffeine/bad food or too much passive media intake and I'll slip into what Truman Capote so perfectly named "the mean reds." Always liked that better than "the blues." The blues are for sadness and wallowing. The mean reds are sons of bitches on a covert mission to fuck up your soul.

I hadn't had a bout in a long time, so they sort of crept up on me this past week without my noticing until they'd really taken root. And once that happens, uprooting them is like battling a flea infestation: slow, painful and largely Sisyphean.

There is not much good to a bout of the mean reds, other than coming out on the other side. The last round of them happened after 9/11 and stuck hard, so hard, in fact, that my therapist came very close to "firing" me. Just the thought of having to go on meds put the fear of god in me (I swear, our mom raised us like Christian Scientists); I did a ton of internet research on depression and came up with a mix of exercise, media blackout, stimulant/depressant fast and vitamin cocktail that lifted the horror long enough to get the talk therapy to work.

I'm off the good insurance now, so talk therapy (outside of the once-monthly session I can afford) is out. Fortunately, my new pal, Arno J. McScruffington, is in (see above for photo of my strikingly handsome savior.)

Within five minutes of meeting him, I felt the clouds part. Just being in the house with him shifts the energy of the place, and makes it a better, healthier, happier place to be. It reminds me of how much I need to get my own house in order, so that I can create my next living space: something with a separate room for an office; a space to house large gatherings of my friends; and an animal companion.

I have never been a Dog Person. Or perhaps, I never knew I had it in me to be one.

So here I am thanking those motherfucking mean reds for introducing me to the miraculous healing powers of the canine rescue pup. (Can you believe someone could not love a face like this?)

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to get me a good dose of Arnie...

xxx c

Image by The BF, with and via his iPhone. Yes, all this, and an iPhone, too.

"Thank you, sir! May I have another!?"™, Day 15: Don't call us...

This is Day 15 of a 21-day effort to see the good in what might, at first, look like an irredeemable drag. Its name comes from a classic bit of dialogue uttered by actor Kevin Bacon in a classic film of my generation, Animal House. I did not start out here in Hollywood as a hot commodity. To do that without being well-connected you have to be:

  1. exceptionally young
  2. exceptionally beautiful
  3. exceptionally weird looking
  4. exceptionally funny

Some people might argue that "exceptionally talented" should be on that list. I, on the other hand, would argue that everyone thinks he's exceptionally talented, so what's the point? There's one Meryl Streep; there's a million people like you...getting off the bus...every day.

But I digress.

I was none of those things. But even though I was 33 when I got my start, I was fairly funny and in target range looks-wise for a gigantic commercial type (i.e., "Young Mom," 24-34). And I was connected, thanks to the Groundlings Sunday Company and my old career as an adhole, so between the resume at Groundlings and a casting director I'd worked with many times on Gatorade, I got a commercial agent.

I even booked a spot. A horrible test-market spot that went nowhere, but still, a booking. My agent seemed pleased.

So when she got a better gig across the street and was only taking her "bookers," I was stunned to hear I wasn't included. And, well...hurt. Yes. I was hurt.

Ordinarily, I would have gone off in a huff with my hurt feelings ("I'll show her") but in one of his more useful moments, my dad told me flat out what to do: go to her and ask her if she could recommend me to anyone else. To my great surprise, she gave up four names. I put packages together, sent them off, followed up, and nothing.

And then one of them called me. He is Cris Dennis of Film Artists Associates, and he is one of the greatest guys in the world. It doesn't usually happen and it's certainly not a prerequisite of doing business, but we genuinely like each other and call each other friends. He and his wife, Martha, were my staunch defenders while I was sick and then recovering from Crohn's, offering any help they could and insisting I take off as much time as I felt like, and to hell with it. For years after the onset (because these things are really up and down, especially until you learn to manage them), Cris would accept my "not up to it today" without so much as an audible sigh. Complete, unwavering acceptance and support.

But before all this loveliness developed, I was just the new schmo on the client list. Going out time after time, and not booking. I was so upset at the six-month mark, around the Christmas holiday, that I fell over myself apologizing when I stopped by his office to drop off the only gift I could afford: some small plant or a mixtape. Pathetic. And he could not have been more gracious: "Don't worry, it takes time. It'll happen."

When you are low and desperate, this means almost as much, if not more, than the validation of a booking itself. Someone believes in you. Someone is laying out time and money every day because he believes in you. I never forgot it.

I certainly didn't forget it two years later, when another agency started courting me, hard. Because Cris had been right: I did start booking. And I had spots running everywhere. Class A, network commercials, good ones, funny ones, with me front and center. Selling cars and tacos and I don't remember what else. A crapload of crap. I was lousy with TV presence.

The agent who'd been assigned to my case confided that my name had come up in their weekly meeting as a hot person they wanted on their roster. Who is she? Who is she with? Find her and get her here. Who was I?

I was that person who sent you a head shot and resume two years ago. When I had only the good name of my previous agent and a few paltry credits to recommend me. When I had no spots running and nobody knew my name and no one was willing to take a chance on me.

Well, no one but Cris Dennis. And if you think I'm leaving him to come to you, you're out of your mind.

I was nicer about it, of course. Even while I was marveling over having this conversation, the dream one, the one where the object of unrequited desire comes crawling back on all fours, I couldn't be mean. What would be the point, other than giving someone fodder for calling me bee-yotch.

But it was, I confess, a glorious moment. One I never would have had, along, quite possibly, with a career and a great friendship, had I not been shitcanned.

So thank you, old agent, for shitcanning me. And for being gracious enough to pass along those names.

Sometimes, you really do get to see karma in action...

xxx c

Image by James Gubera via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

"Thank you, sir! May I have another!?"™, Day 14: You can't go home again

This is Day 14 of a 21-day effort to see the good in what might, at first, look like an irredeemable drag. Its name comes from a classic bit of dialogue uttered by actor Kevin Bacon in a classic film of my generation, Animal House. chicago

You have no way of knowing this, but I was a wunderkind.

Seriously, that's what they called me in Adweek. Well, that's how they referred to me, anyway; management would reveal neither my image nor my name, for fear that the investment they'd fussed over for six months in the copy trainee program and six more months after that would be stolen out from under them by some ruthless competitor. Har dee har har.

I was no more than a combination of garden-variety clever and lucky, the far-greater success of so many people I came up with is proof of that. It was my fifteen minutes, that's all, and I wasted it in advertising. Que sera, sera, I guess.

Anyway, when things started getting a little bumpy in paradise, I figured I'd follow my old boss to Chicago. Number 1, it was my hometown. Number 2, there was a boy there I'd been in love with since he kissed me after I barfed up four hours' worth of beer and cigarettes downed in an hour and a half and it was time to see what was what with that. And number 3, my money would go a lot farther in Chicago than New York City, where I wouldn't have to share my 1-BR apartment with a 6'1" amateur fencer/musical theater enthusiast, not to mention the usual NYC fauna.

Immediately, my life got exponentially worse. My new co-workers were suspicious, at best, openly hostile at worst. Not that I did anything to endear myself to them; I was an obnoxious, oblivious, ungracious intruder. The intrastate version of the Ugly American. (The Ugly Ultra-Urbanite?)

Then, two or three months in, my boss abandoned me to move back to NYC and for the first time in my life, I was acutely aware that I had no protector and was flying solo.

Also, my new-old boyfriend tired of me quickly once I was actually available. Plus his mother, for reasons I cannot fathom, despised me from the get-go, and he, for equally unfathomable reasons, worshiped her. I think the relationship officially lasted 11 months, but basically it was over as soon as I got off the plane.

With a few notable exceptions, I did not relate to my old friends, most of whom had not left the area ever, even to go to school. I had lost the rhythm of Chicago and taken on the pace of my adoptive city, which meant that I walked, smoked and talked like an alien. And being closer to family meant I was expected to be closer to family, which was...not my favorite thing.

Just about the only thing that was better was my apartment. That, at least, was a vast improvement.

What is horrible about being in the middle of a big, fat, mess for the first time, bad job, bad relationship, lonely, depressed, is that you have nothing to compare it to and thus, you are sure that it will be ever thus. There's no benchmark; there's no understanding of cycles or the fixability of things. You have for-crap life-management skills, and back then, there was no wikipedia to turn to for guidance. So, at 25, I thought, this is my life and I finally get why they say it sucks.

The thing was, I had moved away from NYC to Chicago to flee unhappiness and, like Dorothy Gale, found myself right back where I started. I was by no means smart, but having moved myself over 1000 miles and bought real furniture and made commitments, I figured it was cheaper to hunker down and fix it there than to chance that location was the issue and just GO. And thus, I began the business of untangling and analyzing the mess that was my life, which only took another 20 years.

Kidding, kidding. Of course, I'm not kidding, I'm still figuring it out. But I started the heavy lifting back then. Significant time spent alone. Significant effort making new friends, and attempting to determine my own landscape and values and interests, the real ones, not the theoretical ones I'd been coasting on since college. Significant money (gulp) committing to some of them, like therapy and real estate and art.

There have been a couple of 18-month periods of my life that were so black, I despaired of moving past them, but this is the one I always have in mind when I say I wouldn't be in my 20s again for anything.

And I wouldn't. (And thank CHRIST I don't have to.)

At the same time, I am utterly and completely grateful for my extended first year at the School of Hard Knocks. And I mean that: whatever gratitude I have now I can connect directly to that time.

So thank you, rotten academic year at the school of hard knocks. Thank you to all my teachers, patient (hi, Mary Ellen) and impatient (you know who you are, and trust me, all is forgiven).

I will likely skip the reunion once again, but you are forever in my heart. For you have made my heart what it is.

xxx c Image by L Castro via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

"Thank you, sir! May I have another!?"™, Day 13: Speechless

This is Day 13 of a 21-day effort to see the good in what might, at first, look like an irredeemable drag. Its name comes from a classic bit of dialogue uttered by actor Kevin Bacon in a classic film of my generation, Animal House. speechless

Anyone who knows me will assert that I am rarely at a loss for words. I suffer from the opposite problem: so many words I need to get out that I end up talking waaaaaay too fast, a prime example being this new acting podcast I was recently interviewed for. (Warning: it's looong. And it's just Part 1.)

But because of a strange confluence of events, I found myself with no words at all earlier this year.

I was sliding into illness, you see, when the occasion of my installation as Chief Nerd (a.k.a. President) of my Toastmasters club rolled around. I toyed with the idea of staying home, I was feeling godawful, and could feel my voice slipping away, but since I am from tough (read: hardheaded) stock, I decided to drink a lot of hot water with lemon and tough it out.

The event, which happens every six months at the changing of the guard, is in the form of a roast, although dinner itself is usually chicken (harhar). The past-president, who is as social as I am anti-, would have loved to have been roasted endlessly, including by yours truly. She's a good sport and she likes the attention. But I quickly realized that just getting through a the brief installation ceremony and an acceptance speech was going to be pushing it. And it was. By the end of the dinner, I was a wreck; all I wanted to do was magically transport my body and what was left of my voice back to bed.

Instead, I was surprised with a radical "improvement" to one of our current systems by a newly installed officer. Who had already started implementing the improvement over dinner. Without so much as a howdy-do to me.

I was floored. This was bad news on a couple of levels: a potentially upsetting and sudden change for some long-time club members and a harbinger of big-time management trouble to come. So I did what any green, untested, barely competent leader would do: I tried to explain why this might not be the best idea right now. Louder and louder, over smiling but steadfast rebuttals and an increasing din. And, I must confess, my own personal fury. It is one thing to volunteer to shoulder a burden; it is another when people happily throw rocks at you while you do it.

She had several years and many, many healthy blood cells on me that night, so I finally mandated that we shelve the discussion. Even if I hadn't, I would have had to: I woke up to no voice at all. None. Zero. Zip.

For three whole days.

Despite my sunny disposition, given the right circumstances I can go down the Bad Path like a greased sled on an icy hill. Now I was truly fucked. The club would be in upheaval, it would be my fault, and I would never regain control.

So I did something rather novel: I relinquished control. That's right, folks, the Queen of Overthink put down her DIY sword and standard and called for help. (Okay, emailed. I could barely manage that.) And bit by bit, my trusted friends helped me dig out from under and regain control of the situation. All while I could not speak.

I wish I could report that everything was smooth sailing from then on. Far from it. It was five months of tough slog, even after the four-week mysterious illness (mostly) vanished. (Side note: I must plug the magical, healing powers of the neti pot at this juncture. Without one, I think I'd still be sick.)

Getting so sick did the trick, though, in getting me back on the path. It made me recognize certain things I might not have otherwise: that things aren't always what they seem. That people you thought would be your staunchest supporters ain't necessarily. That help comes from strange corners. And, happily (because this story does end happily), that slow and steady does, in fact, win the race.

So thank you, dreadful virus. Thank you, human road block. Thank you for being my teachers.

Let us hope that I don't need to learn this particular lesson again...

xxx c

Image by monaxle via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

"Thank you, sir! May I have another!?"™, Day 12: Look, Ma! No coverage!!

This is Day 12 of a 21-day effort to see the good in what might, at first, look like an irredeemable drag. Its name comes from a classic bit of dialogue uttered by actor Kevin Bacon in a classic film of my generation, Animal House. high wire unicycle

I have already alluded to the sorry state of my teeth, gums, cancer resistance and internal chemical management systems. May I now bring up the fact that in another seven and a half months, barring some sort of miracle from on high, I will join the ranks of those unable to pay for the regular maintenance and catastrophic repair of same?

I never thought it would come to this. Really. Had I known, I would have bought private insurance years ago, and not depended on what I now see are the vagaries of the employer-paid group insurance system.

The thing is, when I started out, in my 20s, all pluck and vinegar and walking ball of parentally-induced obligation complexes, I was 100% sure I'd be working for The Man the rest of my life, and that he'd pay for all the digestive disorders and other stress-induced diseases he was responsible for. That and a 401K? More than a fair trade, as far as I was concerned.

When I left my full-time ad gig in 1992, reality struck in the form of COBRA: expensive and time-limited, I quickly realized that the most important thing about being on COBRA was using the time to figure out how to get off COBRA. Fortunately, the ex-husband was healthy as a horse and whatever weird lady-surgeries I'd had were distant enough to be paying just an arm, not an arm and a leg. We scored some insurance with a deductible my younger, pre-preexisting conditioned self found outrageous. You know, the kind I'd crawl through hepatitis-infected glass to have today.

Still, it was enough of a drain on the household finances that I finally begged my dad to help me find some menial job with one of his beneficent corporate pals so that the Chief Atheist and I would qualify for coverage. I wanted to act, which required me to actually be available for auditions when asked (however seldom). But the cost was a wash, cheaper to work for slightly above minimum wage than to pull down $500/day and buy private.

All that came to a glorious halt with the SAG years. Sweet baby Jesus, the SAG years: coverage the likes of which I'd not seen ever, even in the fatcat, go-go, Madison Avenue years. For eight years, I never thought twice about going to the doctor. Not that it was anything I, you know, looked forward to; it was just that I wouldn't worry about how I was going to pay for something that happened out of the blue.

No more. Today I'm on COBRA again, and clinging for dear life. I've already informed all my providers that I'll most likely be entering the High Risk Pool next July, which means that I'll pay roughly $600/month for coverage that doesn't kick in for thousands and thousands of dollars I hope I never need to ask for. All of which means that anything needing to be probed, sampled or excised must happen now, or possibly never.

There is not much good in this. I am not thankful for the way our country treats its citizens when it comes to medical care. I am not thankful that I will join the ranks of the barely cared for, and pay an enormous price for doing so.

But I am also considering what a great gift it is to finally find out how most people live. For one reason or another, my whole life I've been sheltered from what I once saw as a petty concern, though it shames me to say it. I'm also thinking about creative solutions to the problem: of opting out, perhaps. Of taking the almost-$600 monthly and sticking it in some sort of investment account. Of letting my poor, old body crap out when its time. Of not fixing it, but, and really, heaven forfend, should the occasion rise, using myself as an example. Liveblogging my demise. Morbid? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Maybe a bunch of us have to throw ourselves under a bus to get Congress to get our legislative and executive branches of government to take notice.

Or maybe I'll join the ranks of the Starbucks unrevolution, work for The Man pulling espressos for my coverage. Maybe it's time for a little wax-on, wax-off. I'm not averse to a job-job if it doesn't mean selling my soul.

Whatever winds up happening seven months from now, I'm thankful that, for whatever reason, I'm not worried about it anymore. Me with my bad teeth and diseased gut and cancer-prone tissue. Maybe it would not be such a shame for my voice to get loud one last time over the indignities too many have had to suffer getting to this state of crisis.

I'll be truthful: I'd rather stay. But if it comes to it, it might be the noblest way to go.

And I am truly, truly thankful that I no longer consider living out this one particular life in some particular way to be a must-do. There are bigger things in life than this old bag of cells. I am glad that, at some point before I must go, and again, I hope it's a long, long time from now, that I finally realized it.

xxx c

Image by Gary Henderson via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.