Where Did These Boobs Come From?

I braved the mall yesterday. I thought malls were dead. Apparently, I was mistaken. As it was the second-to-last Saturday before Christmas, the place was absolutely mobbed. It took me 20 minutes to find a parking space! I even held my pee for three hours because the line for every bathroom was 20 deep. Well, for the ladies room anyway. You men have it so easy.

Why on earth would I submit myself to this insanity? In a nutshell - to buy some new clothes because mine don't fit anymore.

I've put on a few pounds this year. And by a few I mean 20. It's been kind of hard year over here, and I deal with it by eating my feelings. And eating my stress. And eating my boredom. And, hell, eating my happiness, too. Basically I eat everything for every reason. And now my clothes don't fit.

I had a talk with a friend about this recent phenomenon lately. She, too, has gained some weight, although hers was a result of two little humans she incubated, birthed and subsequently nursed. Her reaction to not fitting in her clothes has been NOT to buy new ones because, as she says, it will inspire her to lose the weight.

I used to feel that way, too, but I don't anymore. Because day after day after day of opening my closet, surveying the contents, and realizing I can only comfortably wear maybe 15% of what's in there is incredibly depressing. Instead of inspiring me to lose the weight, it's inspiring me to eat more. Because emotions. And I eat those.

When I went to Weight Watchers my meeting leaders would tell us to get rid of our fat clothes as soon as possible. This, supposedly, encourages us to keep the weight off. It just means I have to spend more money on clothes when I inevitably yo-yo back up. That's how it has always been for me. I've gained and lost the same 30 pounds for the last 20 years.

So I said - fuck it. I'm not going to be a party to shaming myself daily. I am heavier right now than I'd like to be. But that doesn't mean I can't LIKE myself right now and FEEL GOOD about how I look when I gaze in the mirror. Those size 4 jeans staring at me from the bottom of my dresser do like to whisper to me, "you used to be so thin that we were getting too big for you!" But there is no reason I can't have a size 10 pair of jeans sitting on top of them, shouting, "Girl, you still look fabulous! Don't let those skinny bitches make you feel bad!" Thus the trip to the mall.

Even though I am trying my best to be good to myself and gentle with my psyche, it is hard to stare at your underwear-clad body in the harsh light of dressing room mirrors (except for Ann Taylor Loft which, blessedly, has soft, warm and flattering light). There are things that bulge and sag that didn't before, and seeing it several times over the course of an afternoon is not exactly uplifting.

What I did notice, however, was that I was in desperate need of a new bra. Every time I took my shirt off it looked like my boobs were trying to escape. Some women gain weight in their face or their butt or their thighs. I gain weight in my boobs. Like, crazy, fucking weight. The poor bra I was wearing was waving the white flag of surrender. It looked really tired. And my boobs didn't care how they got out of there, whether it was over the top, out the sides, or covertly underneath, they wanted out.

Usually, when my boobs get big I try to be economical by buying a new bra at Target. When I lose weight they are the first to go, and bras are expensive. But the thought of going to Target AFTER the insanity of the mall was too much to bear. I decided to step into Victoria's Secret instead.

If you have never gone through the bra-buying experience at Victoria's Secret, I highly recommend it. As soon as I walked in, a sales associate came over and asked it I needed some help. I casually mentioned I needed a bigger bra because I gained some weight. No sooner did those words leave my mouth than she went into action as though she had been preparing for this moment her entire life.

She asked what size I thought I was. When I'm thin, I'm a 36A. When I'm not as thin, I can go up to a 36C. So I told her 36C. She got out her measuring tape, made some calculations, and informed me that I was now a 36D.

WHAT?! NEVER in my life have I had a D cup! No wonder my poor bra looked like it had been to hell and back. Where did these boobs come from? Is that what aging does? No wonder my mom has enormous boobs. I can see my future, and backaches figure prominently.

Anyway, she asked what kind of bra I was looking for, which for me is simple - no push-up and no lace. She filled out this little card and escorted me back to the dressing room where another sales associate met me. This woman took a look at my card and then consulted this GIGANTIC wall of sample bras in every size. She pulled out four and sent me back to a dressing room. Every bra fit perfectly and felt like heaven. I bought two. I'm actually EXCITED to wear them!

(On a side note, the only other woman to come into the dressing room while I was in there also commented to the sales associate that she needed a new bra because she had just lost weight. Is that the only time women buy new bras? When we gain and lose weight?)

What does all this mean? Well, I'm still going to make a New Year's resolution to take off some of this weight, because honestly it makes me feel gross. I didn't just toe the line between a weight where I feel okay and a weight where I can't stop obsessing over my body - I jumped over it with apparent glee. It's time to reign it in. BUT - I'm not going to give in to the shame of it. This is where I am right now. There is NO REASON that I can't celebrate myself, even with all my imperfections. I WILL dress in glitter this holiday and draw attention to myself, even if I don't look like my ideal self. And I WON'T get rid of these clothes as soon as a lose a few pounds. Because I may need them again someday and that is OKAY.

Oh - and if you need a new bra, you absolutely have to go to Victoria's Secret. They will HOOK YOU UP.

Venus at Her Toilet - Peter Paul Reubens
courtesy www.peterpaulreubens.org
creative commons license

“Step Away from the Mean Girls…and say bye-bye to feeling bad about your looks.

Are you ready to stop colluding with a culture that makes so many of us feel physically inadequate? Say goodbye to your inner critic, and take this pledge to be kinder to yourself and others. 

This is a call to arms. A call to be gentle, to be forgiving, to be generous with yourself. The next time you look into the mirror, try to let go of the story line that says you're too fat or too sallow, too ashy or too old, your eyes are too small or your nose too big; just look into the mirror and see your face. When the criticism drops away, what you will see then is just you, without judgment, and that is the first step toward transforming your experience of the world.” 

― Oprah Winfrey

I'm Not a Christian, But I Prayed Today

I prayed today.

No, I don't normally pray. Not in a traditional, Christian-type way. I'm not a Christian, and I've never spoken to God in a direct way through prayer. Just saying the word "God" has always made me uneasy. I'm not an atheist, however. I am a spiritual person, and I connect to my spirituality through meditation. I feel more comfortable with the word "Universe" to describe the all-powerful, all-knowing presence others might refer to as "God". "Universe" works for me, because my beliefs tend to lean towards the idea that everything is connected - you, me, that dog, those flowers, Jupiter, the cosmos. As Carl Sagan famously said, "We're made of star stuff." That deeply resonates with me, and my truth.

When I feel troubled, have a problem that needs to be worked out, or am generally feeling blue, I've learned to turn to this meditative state, and to find solace in the small things - my cats purring, the rose bush in bloom in the garden, a warm cup of coffee. I've found answers to many of life's problems there, which is generally along the lines of "Take it easy. Don't take yourself or your problems too seriously. We're all part of the same machine. You're not in this alone."

But there are times when that isn't enough, really. As I get older, problems seem to become more serious, more life-changing, more damaging - the potential for total annihilation seems to be around every corner. I'm having one of those moments right now. Where I'm confronted with a problem that I have discovered I don't yet have the tools I need to really deal with it in a meaningful way. So I prayed.

Anne Lamott wrote a wonderful book a few years ago called Help, Thanks, Wow: Three Essential Prayers. In it she identifies three types of prayers - those where you ask for help, those where you thank God/the Universe because you are receiving the help you need, and those where you are so totally wowed you are speechless. I'm very familiar with the latter two, but I don't have much experience with the first, so I decided to try it. What could it hurt?

There are many among my friends who dismiss prayer as a legitimate tool of assistance. Asking God to cure cancer seems totally futile. Is God going to reach down out of the sky with a giant hand and miraculously cure you? Probably not. But I'm coming around to the idea of asking for assistance through prayer. When I pray, I may pray to "God" (which I did this morning), but really, I am praying to myself (which, I literally believe to be true - we are all a part of "God" or have "God" inside us, whatever "God" is - that star stuff Carl Sagan was talking about).

I prayed for patience, and insight. I prayed to find the tools, the wisdom I need to deal with this particular issue with grace. I promised to clear my mind, let go of my more explosive emotions, and be on the lookout for the help that I need. I promised not to shut down, but instead to open up, to let go, to make space for the new light to fill, when it comes. I asked for help with all of this.

I'm asking myself to be open to new possibilities, to find new ways, to have more grace. I'm old enough to know that problems will never stop coming. No life is problem-free, and many of us face unbelievably heart-breaking challenges from time to time. I am wise enough to know that while I don't have the tools I need yet to deal with this problem head-on, that this challenge is giving me the opportunity to learn new skills, to be a better person. To be a better me. I may arrive on the other side with a couple more wrinkles and a couple more pounds, but I will be smarter, my mind will be clearer, my heart will be stronger, and my soul will be more open.

I prayed today. And I think it helped. I'll probably do it again sometime.

A Simple List of Things I Love

Today's task in The Artist's Way was to make a simple list of things I love, and to post it somewhere where I can see it. If possible, I'm also supposed to get myself something off this list to enjoy. I've posted here before about my essentials for happiness and things I want, but making this list felt a little different. These are the simple things that bring me joy. They aren't necessarily essential to my well-being, but they make life richer and more meaningful.

THINGS I LOVE

1.  CATS!
2.  Slow meals with good friends and family
3. Candlelight
4. Bright colors and patterns, especially exotic ones
5. Wonderful smells like lavender, lilac, rosemary and onions cooking on the stove
6. Things that are soft and fluffy and silky to the touch
7. Bright fall days
8. Being surrounded by plants and flowers
9. Rain and thunderstorms
10. The sound of meditation bells
11. Lemon flavored desserts
12. Receiving cards and letters in the mail
13. Giving gifts
14. Traveling to new places
15. Indian food
16. The first glass of wine at the end of a long day
17. Hugs from my parents
18. Bringing a smile to someone’s face
19. Halloween
20. Feeling like part of a family
21. Listening to music while driving, and singing along
22. Street fairs and farmer’s markets
23. Claw machines, and the feeling I get when I win
24. Sunrises, and the quiet early morning hours
25. Being in nature, and seeing animals in their natural habitats
26. The first cup of coffee in the morning
27. The anticipation of travel, of fun upcoming events, and of seeing people I haven’t seen in a long time
28. Dramatic sunsets
29. Clean sheets
30. Pretty little flowers in a vase

What do you love? I challenge you to make a simple list. It feels good, and it's a great reminder to add these little things to your life whenever possible. You deserve it.

My cats, Murray and Venus, enjoying a fresh breeze.  I love them!

Why Getting Older Has Made Me More Indecisive and Less Opinionated, and What That Has to Do with Renee Zellweger's Face

Unless you are completely disconnected from the Internet, chances are you read something about Renee Zellweger's face over the past couple of days. It seems just about every media outlet, celebrity journalist, blogger, and anyone with a Twitter account has piped in with their two cents. Scroll through your newsfeed and you'll no doubt see before and after pictures of her face, expressions of shock and dismay, and opinions about women over 40 getting plastic surgery. Some people find her new look appalling. Some think we should just ignore it. Others have defended her.

My original reaction was one of mildly shocked confusion. How could someone's face change so much that they no longer look like themselves? I clicked back and forth between pictures, trying to figure out what was different, but the changes are subtle. Yet, there's no denying she no longer looks like Bridget Jones. I felt the familiar mild annoyance I generally do that women over 40 continue to perpetuate this notion that we all have to live up to impossible beauty standards, and continue to look like young versions of ourselves, even when we're older. I, myself, have considered plastic surgery on this nose of mine, thinking that would solve some of my problems and people in Hollywood would like me better. So far, I've succeeded in talking myself out of that. I have worked very hard to like who I am, and I don't really want to undergo elective surgery that may drastically alter my appearance. I want to look like me when I look in the mirror.

But then I read her response in People magazine and I thought, "Hey, she's right, who am I to shame someone whose appearance has changed?" My confusion and annoyance about the differences in her face morphed into annoyance about all the attention people were paying to it. I liked that she had made many of the same changes that I've been working on as I get older, namely slowing down, spending more time with a few important people, getting more rest, nurturing my creativity, and learning more about my authentic self.

But then, goddammit, I read this article in LA Weekly, and my opinion changed again. Amy Nicholson makes a great argument that it's okay - nay, that it's actually very important - that we're upset about Renee's Zellweger's face. The actress's refusal to acknowledge that she has had any cosmetic procedures to alter her look, that they are instead the result of being well-rested and happy, is a terrible affront to all us average Sallys out there. No matter how much sleep I get, or how many home-grown vegetables I eat, I'm never going to look like a "movie star". Nicholson argues that her changed appearance just proves that talent and personality are much less important than beauty.

I already know that beauty is king, I don't need any additional reinforcement of that idea.

So, here's where it gets tricky for me. I appreciate Zellweger's response that people should focus more on the positive changes she's made in her life to make it happier and more fulfilling, and spend less time obsessing about her looks. But I also agree with Nicholson, that ignoring it does nothing to mitigate the idea that women need to always look as beautiful and as young as possible, even if it means going under the knife.

This makes me want to tear my hair out! I don't know what to think anymore!

I was very opinionated as a teenager, and in my early 20s. But since I hit 30, if you present me with two opposing ideas and make a good argument for each, I cannot decide how to feel about it. I no longer see issues in black and white. I've had too many life experiences, things I thought would never happen to me and family, that have forever altered my ability to see issues as inherently good or inherently bad. I tend to shy away from hot button issues because my thoughts aren't generally solid one way or another. I'm terrible at arguing a point, especially with someone who is very persuasive, because I then see it from another point of view and my own arguments seem hollow.

I thought this development as I get older, this inability to be fervently opinionated, was the result of having a more tender heart, of feeling a little weaker. A friend (someone who is, coincidentally, a great persuader), challenged me that it is not weakness, but wisdom.

I'd like to believe my indecisive nature is a result of wisdom gained over the years, but I'm not so sure (ha! There's that indecisiveness again). Now with Renee Zellweger staring me in the face with her new face, this issue is more confusing than ever.

Does anyone else have this problem?

Morning Pages Insight - What I Want

Part of the creative recovery process laid out in The Artist's Way are the morning pages. These are perhaps the most important tool of the entire journey and must be completed every day. First thing in the morning, you are to write three pages of free association. No editing, no censoring, just get it all on the page, even if it is nonsensical garbage.

I've come to the point in the process where we're asked to go back and read these morning pages, looking for insights and calls to action. It's a rather astonishing exercise. First of all, I'm awed by the sheer number of words and pages. If I dedicated myself to writing three pages every day, I'd have a book in two months. Wow. Secondly, while there is quite of bit of blathering on about mundane daily life, there are some genuine themes emerging, and bits of writing that I've done that are resonating with me.

Early in the process I made a stream-of-consciousness list of what I really want in life. Some of it is just basic, like wanting good health. Some of it is my dreams, like starring in a movie. But all of it is illuminating. I feel a little naked exposing this to you all, but I feel like naming what I want and putting it out there into the Universe is the first step in calling it to me. I am working hard to visualize abundance for myself and my family and friends, and to honor the notion that the Universe is conspiring to give me everything that I want. And that's not a selfish notion - I believe that is true for everyone. You have the capacity to have everything that you want.

So, here it is. Here is what I want.

What I Want

1. I want financial security.
2. I want a strong and healthy family.
3. I want a strong and healthy body.
4. I want a rewarding, intimate relationship.
5. I want a clear, healthy, and creative mind.
6. I want to be respected in my field.
7. I want to be a successful writer.
8. I want to make my living from writing and acting.
9. I want to be creative every day.
10. I want to play in the sun and grow a big garden.
11. I want to live somewhere that is beautiful.
12. I want to marvel at nature on a daily basis.
13. I want to travel and see more of the world before I am dead.
14. I want to nurture the important friendships in my life.
15. I want to see my parents and my family more.
16. I want to have a peaceful relationship with my husband's family.
17. I want my friends to have the things that they want.
18. I want to be happy.
19. I want my friends and family to be happy.
20. I want to spend as little time working as possible, and as much time playing and exploring my hobbies and helping people feel inspired by the world around them.
21. I want to be a force and a voice of good.
22. I want to be a good person.
23. I want to be involved in my community.
24. I want to be a good role model to young and old alike.
25. I want to grow old gracefully.
26. I want to embrace my flaws.
27. I want to feel confident and strong.
28. I want to banish anxiety from my life.
29. I want to live peacefully, surrounded by nature and my cats.
30. I want to write some books and go on a few book tours.
31. I want some of my books to be turned into movies, movies in which my friends and I can star.
32. I want to explore the world and explore my inner world.
33. I want to meditate more and talk less.
34. I want to be a beacon of light to others in the world who feel lost.

So there you have it. That is what I want, at least on that particular day in September of 2014. I feel it is so important to name these things, so that I can make a move towards attaining them.

What do you want? Have you sat down and written it out? I challenge you to take a little time to be abundantly clear, down to the smallest details and the biggest concepts, of what you want out of this life. And then tell me all about how you are achieving these things. We can do it - together!

On Solitude or Being My Own Best Friend

I've really liked myself for quite awhile now.

Wow, that sounds arrogant, doesn't it?

Let me rephrase that in a more palatable way. I've learned how to enjoy my own company and to not get anxious about being alone. In fact, those times when I am by myself are some of my most enjoyable and satisfying.

It wasn't always like this. I remember being a teenager and worrying about whether my close friends were hanging out without me. That was such a terrible, lonely feeling, knowing they were at the mall without me. Probably having lots of fun and buying some new, cute thing to wear. Or maybe going to the movies and seeing that one film that I really wanted to see - but they didn't think to invite me. God, that was an awful feeling.

I was an awkward adolescent (who wasn't?), and certainly wasn't a good friend to myself. But sometime around my mid-20s - it took me that long to grow out of my awkward phase - I discovered I enjoyed hanging out alone. I found that sometimes when friends would call to invite me out for drinks or a show, I would actually decline, just so I could continue doing whatever it was I was doing by myself. It could have been organizing my CD collection or rearranging the living room furniture, it didn't matter. I was having a good time and I didn't want to stop.

Now that I'm almost 40, I've found that time alone is absolutely essential to my well-being. I don't know if I've been an introvert all these years and didn't realize it, but after time spent out with friends I need a couple days by myself to recharge. I love being with my friends, of course - they're my friends for a reason. But I have a threshold for social activity that I reach pretty quickly, and only time away from all the interaction can recharge my batteries.

I see things differently when I'm alone. When I'm quiet, my mind has time to wander, uninterrupted, revealing new thoughts and ideas. I hear sounds I might otherwise miss - that sweet little bird in the tree, singing his little heart out, unaware that anyone is paying attention. Or the sound of my cat, Murray, laying ten feet away and happily purring in his sleep. When I'm alone, I have permission to linger, I don't have to explain what I'm doing or why I'm doing it. I can just be with the experience.

I've been actively working on being a good friend to myself for a few years. I smile at my reflection in the mirror. I sing songs when I'm alone, just because it feels good. I celebrate my accomplishments and don't let myself wallow too much in my defeats. I'm better at saying no when my schedule is getting too full, even if that no is met with disappointment from others. I give myself permission to indulge in the activities I enjoy - browsing garage sales for nothing in particular, creating a miniature gnome garden under the tree in the front yard, making a complicated dinner just for fun.

Discovering the pleasure of solitude has been a gift to me. Having alone time is part of my personal equation for happiness. And as I'm getting older, I'm getting more adamant about making time for me, just me.

Do you enjoy being alone? When was the last time you took yourself out, alone, just for the fun of it? Or turned down an invitation so you could have some time to yourself? Did you feel guilty, or is it important to your well-being?

Taking Sexy Back, One Shimmy at a Time

I've been neglecting any type of formal exercise for awhile now. Truth be told, it's been a couple of years. I used to run regularly and go to the gym, but since we moved to a house in the suburbs, the only exercise I've gotten is in my garden, muscling the ground into submission and yanking weeds out by their throats (who knew gardening was so violent?). I keep thinking I'll take yoga again, or practice at home, but I don't. It just seems like too much trouble. I'd rather spend that time (insert anything other than exercise here).

As a result, I'm now 20 pounds heavier than I'd like to be, and not feeling so super great about myself.

So when my friend, Whitney, suggested we take a Vintage Burlesque class on Tuesday, I was a little resistant to the idea. Okay, I was a lot resistant. I haven't been in touch with this sagging sack of flesh in quite some time, so the idea of trying to put on some sexy moves in front of other women was off-putting. However - the class is taught by our mutual friend, Kristina, whom we both adore. It's a new endeavor for her and for the studio where she's teaching, Studio Soma East in San Gabriel, so when Whitney suggested we should go simply to support our friend, there was no way I could say no.

I am so glad I went, you guys!

Once upon a time, I was really in tune with what was going on inside my body. Hell, I spent three years and untold amounts of money getting an advanced degree in Acting. I spent mornings practicing the Open Choreography of the Williamson Technique and afternoons understanding the subtleties of my alignment and how it affects my voice, via the teachings of Kristin Linklater. I was acutely tuned into my sensuality, and was training my body to become an expert tool of expression. Upon moving to New York City, I was a founding member of a physical theater company, Theatre Lila, and spent many post-work evenings exploring Anne Bogart's Viewpoints and practicing contact improvisation with my fellow artists in a gorgeous studio at Dance Theatre Workshop that had an unrivaled view of the Empire State Building from its wall of windows. I marveled at how my fingers would vibrate when I spoke, knowing that tingling sensation was the result of years of work opening myself up and allowing my voice to freely resonate in every chamber inside me.

My fingers haven't tingled like that in quite some time.

As the class began, we learned a few of the basic moves of Vintage Burlesque like the hip bump and the shimmy. In case anyone was fearful of what might be in store that evening, we were gently reminded that everyone stays fully clothed in this class. Much of what makes Vintage Burlesque so titillating is the suggestion of sexiness and the coy connection you make with the audience, not the actual revelation of body parts.

We moved into some simple stretches from there. As someone who once spent so much time and energy learning how to communicate with my body, it is embarrassing to admit how long it has been since I even allowed myself any stretching. It felt so good just to do a few simple neck rolls and to stretch out my hamstrings, rolling slowly back up my spine, vertebrae by vertebrae. The memory of all those years of training my body started to whisper to me, and encouraged me to settle into this experience.

What followed was 45 minutes of learning a routine, and how to sell that routine to an audience. And what surprised and delighted me most was how easy it was to connect to my body again. The muscle memory is still there, carrying with it all that I have experienced and all that I have learned. At first, when I watched myself in the mirror, I was critical of what I saw - a woman who has let herself go and gotten a little fatter than she'd like. But it wasn't long before I was able to set those thoughts aside and just enjoy myself, and luxuriate in the experience. Even though I don't feel particularly sexy in my everyday life at the moment, it was so easy to connect to my sexuality and sensuality through the burlesque. I could feel myself taking sexy back, one shimmy at a time (thank you, Justin Timberlake).

What I find so appealing about burlesque is that it doesn't have anything to do with how you look on the outside, and has everything to do with how you feel on the inside. Burlesque is an expression of your personal sensuality, and no matter what your size, shape or age, you can feel sexy yourself and be sexy to others while doing it. It is the best kind of workout, because not only do you move your body (I worked up quite a sweat), but you can't do it mindlessly - you must be connected to yourself in order to make it work. There's no going through the motions, here. It forces you to go inside and find what makes you you, what makes you beautiful.

Who wants to take a class with me? I'm ready to tingle again!

You Ever Have One of Those Days?

You ever have one of those days, where everything feels like a big bowl of cold oatmeal? Where nothing you think of, nothing you hope to do, stirs any excitement in you? Where everything you create or think about creating sounds mediocre at best? Where it seems like everyone but you is succeeding? Where everyone but you has great ideas, and knows how to perfectly execute them?

I'm having one of those days today.

I know, logically, there are ups and downs in the creative process. My left brain is busy at work this morning talking my tender and easily-hurt right brain off the ledge. They then come to a standstill and stare, unblinkingly, at the blinking cursor on the white page.

Stare. Stare. Stare.

My right brain is really putting up a fight this morning, throwing all the old standards at me, you know the ones:

"You're a hack."

"You have the suggestion of talent, but lack real skill in anything."

"You have fallen so far behind the pack, you might as well just give up."

The good news is, I have enough self-awareness to know that these are the same old arguments that come up every time I'm feeling blocked or out of sorts. I recognize the Beast of Self Doubt for what he is - a flim flam man, a shyster, playing to my insecurities in moments of weakness. Fighting him begins with awareness, of knowing that he sings the same songs every time, badly and in a too-loud voice.

Just writing this is helping to silence him, a little bit. But he'll be back. He always comes back.

How do you deal with your inner critic? How do you nurture your childlike, creative being and keep the dogs at bay? What are the tools you use to survive another day and get back on the creative wagon? I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments. I can always use some good defensive strategies for this ongoing battle.

You Name It, I Fear It

A particular theme keeps surfacing as I continue on this journey of creative self healing: fear. Fear seems to motivate, or at the very least, color many of my choices. A close relative of the Worry Monster that I've written about before, fear seems to be the bigger, more aggressive, gun-toting, hate-speaking brother. The one who takes your lunch money and threatens that you better not tell anyone - or else!

Fear keeps me from pursuing my passions full throttle. Fear of failure is, of course, a primary concern. What if I try the thing that is closest to my heart and fills me up like nothing else, and I completely suck at it? What if people make fun of my unskilled attempts? What if I spend years toiling away and never find success? What if I am nothing more than a dilettante? What if I'm exposed for the hack I really am?

Then there's the lesser-known fear of success. What if I'm good at this, and suddenly there's tons of pressure to keep up the success? What if I have to be totally "on" all of the time? What if I alienate my friends and family? What if we have to move? What if I have to change? God forbid.

Of course, lets not forget about all the mundane, daily fears. What if that persistent muscle pain in my leg is really a blood clot? What if the guy across the street decides to upgrade his verbal threats into actual physical threats - and act on them? What if my car breaks down in heavy traffic on the 405 again? What if I don't ever take off these 20 extra pounds for good?

Why has evolution taken so long? I understand why our ancient ancestors developed a sense of fear - it kept them alive. Now we just seem to fear the things that exist only in our own heads, situations that could happen but most likely won't.

I wish I could tell you all that I've conquered my fears. I haven't. But I'm starting to address them in a more constructive way, in an attempt to take away their power. Elizabeth Gilbert has a great essay about a fear, a letter written to a friend who was fearful about sending her book into the world. In a nutshell, she responds by telling her friend that her fear is boring. All of our fears are boring. We all have the same fears, and they keep repeating themselves. There is nothing original about my fear, or your fear. When we begin to realize that our fear can't come up with anything original, we can more easily put it aside.

What do you fear? What keeps you from pursuing your passions and making your dreams a reality? How do you handle your fear and take away its power?

The Titanic. Original photo by David Hollingworth (Creative Commons)

How to Deal with the Worry Monster

I've always been a worrier. It's such a big part of my identity, I'm not sure I'd recognize myself if I didn't worry anymore. Who is that carefree woman in the mirror? I've never seen her before, I don't think she's from around here.

When I was young, I worried about the kinds of things young people often worry about. Are my grades good enough? Will I get into the right college? Will I ever find a boyfriend? Am I making enough money to survive?

Now that I'm older, the worries have become more profound. How much longer will my parents be around? Are we making the right decisions for our family? Is that mole cancerous? Is that semi going to tip over and crush me while I'm driving on the 405? Should I be worried about this lump? Does that confrontational guy living across the street have a gun, and is he going to use it someday? The worry monster just gets bigger as time goes on. It has a steady diet of potential calamities on which to dine.

It has become essential to my well-being that I learn how to manage all this worry. I can easily let my worry spiral out of control, until it consumes my mind and turns my stomach into an aching crater full of acid. I can't live like that, so I've made it a conscious practice to deal with it head on as much as possible. It ain't easy. I've remained steadfast in my conviction that my worry originates in my mind, that it is not a chemical imbalance, and I'm not interested in managing it with medication. I think that course is certainly right for some people, but I don't think it's right for me. So I've had to find other ways.

Meditation

I talked about starting a regular meditation practice for years, but never really found a way to begin. My mind is constantly chattering like a 14-year-old girl, and trying to sit quietly with it for more than five minutes can make me terribly irritable. But as the worry has gotten bigger, my need to quiet my mind has become non-negotiable. I made it my New Year's resolution to meditate regularly, and it has finally stuck. While my mind often prattles on during these meditation sessions, it has allowed me to disengage with the emotional reaction to the thought, and that has been essential to mitigating all this worry. If I can see the worry for what it is - a road block to my well-being - than it is easier to consciously turn it off.

Finding the Flow

"The best moments in our lives are not the passive, receptive, relaxing times... The best moments usually occur if a person's body or mind is stretched to its limits in a voluntary effort to accomplish something difficult and worthwhile." - Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi

What does that mean? In a nutshell, it means finding activities in which you experience flow. Some people call it the "zone." Basically, it's engaging with an activity that is so engrossing and enjoyable that you lose sense of the passage of time and become completely immersed in what you are doing. You are fully present. For me, that's gardening. When I am out in the garden, I'm fully present and engaged with what I'm doing. I'm not feeding the Worry Monster. The more you experience flow, the greater your overall happiness, so the theory goes. It seems to be working for me, so I'm going to keep digging up the dirt, planting seeds, and watching them grow.

Mindful Choices

Life is full of so many choices. Every day, we are presented with hundreds of choices, from what to wear to work that day to what we're going to eat for dinner. When I was younger, I often didn't put much thought into the decisions I was making about how I spent my time or who I was choosing to spend it with. I'm much more careful and mindful about those decisions now. I am more discerning about my friendships and who I want to have in my life. I take time to nurture the relationships that are worth keeping, and allow the ones that are not beneficial to my well-being to fall away. I am trying to do that with all aspects of my life, although some are harder than others. I really want to be mindful about not eating unhealthy foods, but that pizza is soooo delicious. At the very least, I will sit down and enjoy the experience of eating the pizza, savoring the flavors and texture, instead of eating it on the run or while performing another task. I have less guilt when I do something mindfully. Since guilt often leads to worry about making poor decisions and where they will lead me, making mindful choices helps to lessen my guilt and subsequent worry.

Worry will probably always be a part of my life, but that doesn't mean I have to let it control me. These practices are helping to take the power away from the Worry Monster a little at a time and are allowing me to be a more relaxed and confident person. It takes a conscious effort every day, but it's worth it.

Do you deal with the heaviness of worry? How does it affect you, and how do you try to deal with it?

I Want To Be a 90-Year-Old Fashion Icon

Do you know Iris Apfel? I didn't until literally just now. Well, I've known her through photos, but I never knew her name. This woman is marvelous. She is exactly who I want to be when I am 90.

Found at http://www.theenglishroom.biz/2013/06/15/film-news-iris-apfel-documentary/

 Isn't she marvelous? Those glasses! That make-up! Those bracelets! All that poof and pattern and panache! I love it!

Learn more about her in her own words at Into the Gloss. Or here at the New York Times.

Look at her house, featured in Architectural Digest!

THIS OUTFIT!

THESE PANTS! WHERE CAN I GET THESE PANTS? I WANT THEM NOW!

EXACTLY.

10 Promises To My 80-Year-Old Self

I am getting older. It is inevitable. As you read this, you are getting older in tiny, incremental steps. You are older now than you were when you began reading this post. Each second that passes is one less second you have to live.

It's better than being dead, isn't it?

I don't want to view aging with dread. I want to embrace each age as it comes, and focus on the positive. I want to welcome old age with vigor and vitality. I want to sit at the table with it and have a long, lingering meal while we talk about what we did that day, and what we might do tomorrow if the feeling hits us. I want to be one of those awesome old ladies, who actively looks for reasons to be happy and who cultivates new interests and friendships right up until the very end. I don't want to succumb to despair, knowing that most of life is behind me. I want to be grateful for each day that I'm given.

With that in mind, I've decided to come up with a list of ten promises to my 80-year-old self. 

1. I promise to wear whatever the hell I want without apology. I want to be the old lady that is draped in tunics and flowing pants, arms filled with bracelets, neck wrapped in scarves I've picked up from my world travels, gigantic colorful glasses, and natural gray hair shorn into a pixie cut (who wants to deal with hair when their old?). It'll be like wearing pajamas all day except more awesome.
2. I promise to have as many cats as I damn well want. Who cares if anyone thinks I'm a cat lady when I'm 80? I'm a cat lady because cats are awesome!
3. I promise to make romantic love a priority. I will have a boyfriend, and we will laugh together, and dance together, and tell each other stories, and maybe even canoodle now and again. This is, of course, if present hubs isn't still alive. He's got some years on me, so chances are he won't be alive when I'm, say, 90. But if he is, well, yay him! I hope he still has his hearing and cognitive abilities and hasn't gotten grouchy, and that we are the best of friends.
4. I promise to cultivate a diverse range of friendships. I will have an active and vibrant group of friends of all ages who engage me and challenge me and help me feel young and alive.
5. I promise to look after folks my own age, and hope they do the same for me. I have no biological kids, so there won't necessarily be any family to look after me when I'm old. I'd like to  belong to a tight group of old folks who will look after each other's physical, emotional and mental well-being. Perhaps we'll even all live in a big house together!
6. I promise to keep myself in as good a physical shape as possible. I know that my mental and emotional health is closely tied to my physical health, and I will stay active, take walks, garden, and not use my advanced age as an excuse to keep it easy. I will challenge myself physically, and take care of myself when I am sick.
7. I promise to maintain a positive outlook on life. I may be old and closer to death than I've ever been, but I want to have a healthy, upbeat attitude towards life until the day I die.
8. I promise to keep that feeling of child-like wonder about the world, and to continue to discover what is beautiful about life. I want to always feel like a child on the inside, even if my shell looks like an old person. I want to stay engaged with the world, and make new discoveries, and revel in all the small, beautiful details, right up until the very end.
9. I promise to continue to cultivate new interests and to learn new things. It ain't over 'til it's over, so what's wrong with learning to play guitar at 80, or dance the cha cha? Maybe I'll finally have the patience to master French macarons!
10. I promise to look back on my life without regret, because all those choices and experiences have made me the person I am. I want to live a meaningful, mindful life, and even though it will have its inevitable tragedies, I want to look back on it with warmth and fondness.

What do you hope to be like at 80? What promises will you make to yourself?

Me as Millie in "Hot l Baltimore" (2001)
Production directed by Israel Hicks at Mason Gross School of the Arts

The Skinny on Being a Fat Girl

I was a fat girl. I was the kid who never met a cookie, cake, pizza, sugary breakfast cereal, donut or ice cream she didn't like. I didn't really have a shut-off switch, and never learned to practice self control. I drank Kool-Aid with extra sugar with my dinner every night. McDonald's Happy Meals were a staple in my house. I would sneak three Oreos from the cookie jar, eat them, and THEN ask my mom if I could have some Oreos and I would eat three more. I shopped in the "Pretty Plus" section at Sears.

My brother, three years my senior and a normal, healthy weight, found my growing weight problem the perfect tool to use against me. When I irritated him, which was almost daily, he would call me the Blue Whale. Eventually, he and his friends morphed that into Blue Shamu because it had a nice ring to it. Kids in the neighborhood heard him call me that and soon everyone was calling me that. I remember getting off the bus one day after school, and several kids stuck their heads out of the bus windows as I was walking away and shouted "Blue Shamu, Blue Shamu!" at me. It was devastating as an eight year old.  I still think of it from time to time if I'm wearing blue.

I took tap and jazz lessons as a kid, for several years. As I started to gain weight, I started to feel more uncomfortable in my leotard and tights. My mom took notice and suggested it was time I go on a diet. I was bigger than all the other girls in the class. I feigned stomachaches before class so I wouldn't have to go. Eventually, my mom said she wasn't paying for classes I wasn't attending, so that was it for tap and jazz at Miss Shirley's Dance Studio. I was sad but also relieved.

In junior high I tried out for the Tigerettes, our school's dance team. Basically, it was what all the girls who didn't make cheerleader did. You still got to wear the cute cheerleader outfits, but you did a choreographed dance at half time instead of cheering during the game. At my first football game, some boys walked by me and said I was one of the ugliest cheerleaders they had ever seen.  I cried that night, and no doubt soothed myself with a big bowl of chocolate ice cream.

My first year of high school there was this kid, Phil, who was in one of my classes and decided he didn't like me for reasons I can't remember. Anytime I would pass him in the hall he would act like there was an earthquake, because he said I was so fat I made the floor shake when I walked by. That was hard to absorb at 14.

These are the memories that come to mind when I think about being a Fat Girl. No doubt there are many more, and if I took the time to write them all down it would be a Young Adult trilogy series.

At 15 I decided to do something about my weight problem. I was tired of being the subject of scorn and ridicule.  I didn't have the discipline to starve myself, and somehow I managed not to develop a binge/purge problem.  I asked my mom if I could go to Weight Watchers. I was the only kid in the group, which met in the basement of the YMCA.  I bonded with middle-aged ladies who weighed me weekly on a scale set up behind a curtain for privacy.  For the first time, I learned what a healthy diet was. I was only encouraged, never discouraged. It was a safe place, and I was glad I had found it.  These were my people.

I lost 45 pounds and became a Lifetime Member at age 16.

I've gained that weight back, and lost it, and gained it again, and lost it.  It's a pattern in my life.  I still sometimes go to Weight Watchers, and I'm almost 40. My inner Fat Girl is always going to be there. It has become part of my identity, and I suspect it will always be. As an adult, I've learned ways to cope with it.  I've cultivated meaningful friendships with men and women who would never judge me by my weight.  I've learned to treat myself gently, and to love my body no matter what size it is.  But I still feel uncomfortable in my clothes sometimes, and worry that my face is too fat.

I have a 14 year old step daughter, and I see her struggle with many of the same body issues I have. Is that a right of passage for every teenage girl? I am vigilant about not disparaging my body in front of her. I want to teach her to respect her body, to feed it healthy food, and to feel good about it no matter what it looks like. But I have no control over what other people say to her, the media messages she is bombarded with, or what happens to her while she's at school.

All I can do is be good to myself. I try not to equate my self-worth with my pants size. It isn't always easy and I have my good days and my bad days. But really it starts and ends with me. It is essential for my well-being and health that I remain my own best friend. I don't negate compliments I'm paid about my appearance. I smile when I look at myself in the mirror. When people tell me I'm beautiful, I choose to believe them. Because I believe I'm beautiful on the inside, and that shows on the outside, no matter what my physical appearance is that day. I am learning to actively cultivate my inner beauty and share it with the world.

I want to present my true self to the world. And my true self is someone who has alot of issues about food and about weight. I want to show who I am regardless of what I weigh that morning. It's a daily struggle, and it takes a lot of courage and self-awareness, and I have to be my own cheerleader, but it is a battle I think I'm winning.

It's Vag-tastic!

For the second year, I participated in the V-Day Downtown LA 2012 production of Eve Ensler's The Vagina Monologues.  What an amazing event!  V-Day is a global movement inspired by the play that works to help women and girls who are victims of violence.  Over 6000 productions a year are produced around the world with all proceeds benefiting V-Day and the local charity of your choice.  Our production helped A Window Between Worlds, a wonderful non-profit in Venice, CA, that uses art to help women and children in abusive relationships.

With this being an evening designed to raise money and awareness, we decided to hop on the cupcake trend and sell vagina cupcakes (or "pussycakes")....

can you find yours???

The cupcakes were a huge hit, and elicited all kinds of interesting responses.  Some people couldn't wait to get their mouths on one.  Others were a bit more hesitant.  Some were mildly grossed out.  Nonetheless, it certainly shines a spotlight on the vagina, which is of course the whole point of the show, so I'd say overall they were a success!

I baked both vanilla and chocolate cupcakes.  The vaginas are made out of homemade fondant .  And did you know that if you Google "how to make vagina cupcakes" you are led directly to this amazing video from Chaos Bakery?  Oh, the wonders of the internet.  Thank you, Chef Bev!

In Vag We Trust!

Go Happy!
Amy

Surviving the Rat Race

Last Sunday I ran my second half marathon.

If you've never run in an organized race before, I can tell you that you learn a helluvalot about yourself during those precisely measured miles - and the hundreds of miles of training leading up to the event.  I've learned that I am the following:  tenacious, disciplined, determined - and also irritable, complaining, bitchy, competitive and that in the "tortoise and the hare" scenario I'm definitely the slow-ass turtle.  Let's examine, shall we?

Tenacious, disciplined, determined:  there is something about distance running - and perhaps any sort of endurance event - that magnifies aspects of your personality.  I think I can confidently assert that I have drive and stamina.  Well, at least if I have a specific goal.  Let me make this absolutely clear:  I hate running.  I always have.  I joined the track team in 7th grade so that my BFF wouldn't have to go it alone.  The 100 meter was my event, and if memory serves I never even came close to winning a race.  The only thing I hated more than breaking a sweat at practice was actually running in front of people at the meets, showing the world that I look moronic, perhaps even slightly "challenged", when I run.  Not good for this nerd's already precarious social standing in those cruelly awkward adolescent years.  Needless to say the team (my BFF included) breathed a collective sigh of relief when I didn't  go out of the team the following year.

But I digress.

It's not running that I like so much as achieving something that is both physically and mentally difficult, in my case that is running 13.1 miles.  I like the challenge.  I don't don my running shoes at 6am and head out into the dark and smoggy LA morning because I'm an eager, thrill-seeking masochist. It's because if I don't I'm gonna regret it on race day, when at mile 6, huffing and snarling and sweating in sheets, the race chews me up and spits me out and I lay in the filthy LA streets next to the dog poo and used hypodermic needles until someone decides to come by and scrape me up.    So maybe it's the fear, or the latent Catholic guilt (I heard somewhere that God doesn't like quitters), that propels me out of bed at that dreary hour.  Whatever it is, it works.  And keeps me hurtling towards the finish line, arms and legs akimbo, come race day.

Irritable, complaining, bitchy,competitive:  is it telling that I can come up with more negative words than positive to describe how I am when I run?  It brings out the best - and the absolute worst - in me.  Just ask my boyfriend.  If he innocently decides to question whether or not I'll be heading out for a run that morning, he gets a three-minute expletive-peppered tirade about the minutiae of my schedule that usually ends with something like "and I don't see you out running today, old man!".  I get pretty touchy.  He's a saint.

And have I mentioned that running is perhaps the most boring exercise on the face of the planet?  On those dreaded days when I have to put in serious miles, I find myself compiling a laundry list of things to think about while I'm out running, such as "what outfit am I going to wear to dinner on Saturday?".  "What can I make for dinner this week?".  "What are some most-excellent comebacks I can craft to win any argument?".  "What will I be doing when I'm 40?  Do you suppose I'll still be in deferment on my student loans?" and so on and so forth. 

The funny thing about race day is that all of sudden this solitary endeavor becomes a huge social event.  Instead of passing another runner here and there, you are surrounded by 15,000. And I have to tell you, some of those people don't have the same ideas about personal space as I do.  Take, for example, the "speed walker" next to me whose arms, bent at right-angles,  furiously pumped at his sides, as though he'd still be able to cross the finish line if he found his legs suddenly stopped working.  Just try to pass this guy, you'll get clocked in the face.  And pass him I tried, but the fucker kept pace with me the entire race.  He could walk as fast as I could run!  It did not do wonders for my self-esteem.

But I did manage to make it to the finish line with a time of 2:42:36.  Not as good as I had hoped, but I finished and without much injury (unlike the woman who took a face-dive while crossing the finish line moments before me, I hope she decides to buy one of her commemorative finish-line photos).

I think I'll be doing yoga for the rest of year.

don't let the smile fool you, I'm out for blood.

Go Happy!

Amy

Not a Significant Source of Cholesterol

Hello Blog-Friends!

I don't know if I told you, but I'm in the middle of training for a half-marathon.  It's my second, and I can tell you, I never thought I'd be the type of person to willingly run in races.  But...I've found running to be an easy kind of workout (you can do it anywhere, for free, without spending too much on equipment).  Plus it's been an interesting challenge.  I joined the track team in 7th grade (only because my best friend, Kim, wanted to join the track team and we did everything together), and the only thing I can really take away from that experience is the fact that my mother told me I look funny when I run.  So there you have it.

Nonetheless, I am currently running 5 times a week, with a day of cross-training (bike-riding) thrown in there.  One of the things I enjoy about this daily run is the opporutnity it gives me to really check out my neighborhood.  I've run essentially the same path over and over for the last year and a half, but inevitably something new surprises me every time.  Today, instead of my usual morning run, I opted to go out at about 2pm (one of the luxuries of unemployment is the ability to workout at whatever time I want to, not necessarily the crack of dawn).   And it was definitely a different kind of experience.  Early in my run, I was joined by a pack of high-school kids, in the midst of their afternoon P.E. run.  I am proud to say I was able to keep up with them, although thankfully our paths did not converge for long (nothing like watching a teenager run effortlessly to make you feel old).  But the most amusing part happened when I rounded the corner to my street and was half a block from my apartment.  I live on a residential street, all apartment buildings, and it's pretty quiet for the most part.  Not alot of pedestrian traffic, mostly just neighbors walking their dogs (and the occassional crazy homeless person, but that's another blog).  As I rounded the corner, I was approached by an older man dressed nicely in a suit carrying an empty 2-liter Coca-Cola bottle.  He started to say something, and I had to remove my headphones in order to hear him.  He dramatically indicated the empty Coke bottle to me, and proceeded to ask me, in severly broken English, "Please tell, have cholesterol?".  I thought, what the hell is he asking me?  Is this some sort of ambush?  Is some guy gonna pop out of the bushes while I try to decipher what this guy is saying to me?  But no, he simply wanted to know if Coke contained cholesterol.  As he went on to explain "Me no cholesterol.  Say doctor", I understood that he wanted to know if this 2 liter he just sucked down was going to kill him or not, based on the recommendations from his doctor.  He and I both studied the label, which I tried to tell him said "not a significant source of cholesterol" but it took alot of hand gestures and figuring out different ways to say "no" (like nada, nothing, zip, zero) to get my point across.  I finally saw the light bulb go off, he smiled, seemed excited by my answer, and went on his merry way.  Why the fuck he was walking down the street asking strangers this question is beyond me, but hey, this is Los Angeles after all.

Go Happy,
Amy

Where the Hell Have You Been?

Hola, Blog-Friends!

It's shameful that a whole week has gone by without one post from me.  How did this happen?  I'm unemployed, for god's sake, shouldn't that mean I have unlimited time for silly pursuits like a daily blog?  Apparently not.  Friends who have also recently been laid off tried to warn me that after the first week of dithering around you suddenly and inexplicably get really busy.  But busy doing what, exactly?

Well, for starters, I filmed an episode of a reality tv show on Monday.  Before you groan and tell me that no matter what I may have said or how good my intentions were, they are going to edit the crap out of it to make me look like either an asshole or an idiot.  Which may be true (I may not even need their help with that!).  But I figured what the hell, right?  It's called Character Fantasy, and it airs on USA during the commercial breaks of the USA movie.  Basically, they show you living out some kind of fantasy for a day.  I was cast in the "fantasy spa day" episode because the producers liked my story of being recently laid off and needing a spa day to rejuvenate and refresh so that I could proceed with my job search with a "fresh, new face and attitude!".  So Monday was a gruelling day of....massages and hot stone reflexology and deep-cleansing facials.  Oh, and a plug for Betty Crocker "Warm Delights" (I got to go home with a case!).  So be on the lookout for me late October being "surprised" at my apartment and whisked away to a day spa for some full-on pampering.  Pretty cool.

What else?  Well, I ran a 10K on Sunday morning and finished with my best time ever - 1:01:02 - for the first time averaging less than a 10 minute mile.  It was pretty awesome, even though the event was poorly organized (I couldn't find the start line, they ran out of water at the finish line before I got there, they ran out of goody bags before I got the expo, etc, etc, etc...fuckers).  I still didn't beat the guys who were running barefoot (can you believe that shit?  Barefoot on the street in Santa Monica?  No thanks.), but I still beat the 80 year old lady and the guy on crutches, so I got that going for me.

Hmmmm....I also did a staged reading of a play I've been writing over the last year with my dear friend, Lita.  Thanks to all who came.  I don't write alot, and when I have I know how hard it is to finally put your stuff out there and get feedback on it.  In fact, I always try to remember that when I'm asked to give my thoughts on other people's projects (and having worked in development for the last three years, it was almost daily).  It takes alot of nerve to open yourself up like that, and I have enormous respect for those who do it much more frequently (and graciously) than I do it.  But Lita and I got some insightful notes that will help take the project to the next level.  Onwards and upwards!

Gosh, what else?  I got new headshots taken, now comes the process of narrowing 500 pictures down to 10 so that I can get some feedback on those.  I don't know about the rest of you who get headshots taken, but I find it kind of stressful and exhausting.  I generally take good pictures, but it's still nerve-wracking to wonder if you are getting the shots you want, especially knowing how much money and time you are investing into them.  I think my shots turned out pretty good.  It's funny, though, to compare them to the first ones I got ten years ago.  I can see the age in my face, although I think I still look pretty damn good. :-)




Is this a good commercial shot?

Oh, and one of the things I have been looking forward to in my unemployment is finally having the chance to sample all the food trucks around LA (since, hell, I can spend the afternoon driving around looking for them).  Lucky for me, I hit the motherload of food trucks, and only about a half mile from my apartment!  Apparently they like to congregate behind the MTV building in Santa Monica at lunchtime...

The Greasy Weiner


Frankly, the "Greasy Weiner" truck sounds more like hangover food to me, so I opted to sample the tasty fare at India Jones.  I had a delicious paneer "Frankie" - you might call it an indian burrito with fried paneer and mango chutney wrapped in a grilled tortilla.  I sat on the grass next to my car and watched all the Viacom execs and production crews walking by with their baggies of trendy fast food.  It's nice to view them in their native habitat like this.

What's in store for later?  Why, dollar tacos and margaritas at Don Antonio's of course!

Go Happy,
Amy

COBRA and Other Venomous Specimens

I have officially made it through one week of unemployment.  I'll admit, though I've made endless "to do" lists and have had a flurry of energy, I had moments of feeling at loose ends.  Moments where I felt that all my glorious planning about What To Do Next had done nothing but create a mountain of not-yet-started projects that, at times, felt insurmountable.

I felt a bit like that today.  Dealing with anything related to health insurance makes me want to jump off the Santa Monica bluffs on my next morning run, so I've been putting off looking at the big packet that recently came in the post containing everything I ever wanted to know, or not know, about COBRA.  For my dear Blog-Friends who may be reading this in Canada (or some other country lucky enough to have socialized medicine) and are super-confused about why I may be receiving poisonous snakes in the mail, COBRA stands for the Consolidated Omnibus Budget Reconstruction Act.  Quite a mouthful, no?  Basically, it means that I can elect to pay the premium so that I can continue to have health insurance coverage.  So that if I were to, say, be bitten by a cobra I could actually go to the hospital for it.  Ain't America great?  However, I swear you have to have a doctoral degree to understand the minutiae of this literature they send to you.  But I think I have it figured out.  If I am summarizing the information correctly, it goes something like this:  pay us an obscene amount of money, and we'll try to do our best to make sure you don't die.  Or something like that.

So while I might dream at night of being bitten by venomous snakes and have moments of ambiguity during my days, for the most part this unemployment thing is pretty awesome.  That being the case, I find it amusing that when I tell people of my recent lay-off, the first thing they want to do is console me.  I'm not quite sure why this is, since usually my admission is complemented by a huge smile or a shout of "Yahoo!".  I don't need to be consoled.  I needed the consolation when I was employed.  THAT was dreadful.  This...this ain't so bad.

Go Happy,
Amy

Sweet Dreams...