Tuesday, November 22, 2011


Well, it's That Time of Year again. 

I don't actually know what that means.  It's ALWAYS that time of year again, whatever that time was last year and the year before that, etc., etc.  That's life (that's what all the people say). 

But what I think I mean (and today is one of those days where I'm not sure I know what I think I mean) is that the holidays make me schizophrenic.  (Okay, say it: More schizo than I normally am?  Thank you and fuck you.) 

On one hand, I love Christmas, because it's the only time of the year (barring emergency apartment moves) that both my kids are in town at the same time and we always have a blast.  On the other hand, I hate New Year's Eve, for a variety of reasons, even though the last few years I've always done a show on NYE and that made it easier to get through.  (Is there anything doing a show won't make it easier to get through?  Did that last sentence make any sense?  I told you it was one of those days.) 

Then there is the overall atmosphere of the season wherein everybody feels compelled to make everything more important because of the time of year.  Like using "wherein" in that last sentence--I'd never do that in mid-June.  But this time of year it seems like everything carries more weight (especially my tummy and my credit cards) and it makes me feel discombobulated.  (Again, I would never use the word  "discombobulated" in February, even if I were.)  It's the damn holidays. 

I think I expect too much of myself this time of year.  Although, to be honest, I expect too much of myself on a daily basis.  I always expect me to be Everything to Everyone and when I'm not, I feel like I'm a failure.  There is a reason why I'm in therapy.    But this time of year it seems exaggerated.  I feel like I'm expected to be Jolly and Full of Christmas Cheer from Nov. 1 to Jan. 2 and I haven't been full of cheer since my last pregnancy.  I blame The Media (why not?).  Every sad thing on the news seems sadder because it's Christmastime.  Every happy thing on the news is a goddamned Miracle, because it's Christmastime.  The only true Christmas Miracle is the Charlie Brown Christmas Special--if Linus' speech doesn't make you tear up you are not human. 

I'll get through The Holidays, I always do.  There will be the best of times, there will be the worst of times and throughout the whole endless barrage of Christmas music (I HATE Christmas music, except for "Christmastime is Here" from the aforementioned CBCS) I will smile and wave and be Everything to Everyone. 

And wake up Jan. 2 Full of Failure.  It will be That Time of Year.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

Time Isn't on Anybody's Side

What's up with Tuesdays?  Why are they so insufferably long?  Even if I'm doing something I like to do (which I'm not) or even if I have a lot of work to do (which I don't) they always seem to be about 12 times longer than Mondays.  And on a day like today when I have no work to do and there's red velvet cake staring me in the face.  . . . .well, it's not pretty. (but delicious)

If Einstein was right (and I have trouble believing that anybody with hair like that knows what they're talking about) and time isn't really real, just some concept we came up with, then I think we should have more say in how it works.  Of course, we also came up the concept of our government and we're supposed to have a say in how that works too, so never mind.  But I still find time frustrating.

Why does it go so fast when you're having a good time and so slowly when you're not?  That seems a very Catholic way of controlling time to me. Maybe that's where they came up with Catholicism in the first place.  "Hey the passage of good times speed by and bad times last forever, so let's make up a religion like that!"  Doesn't make any sense, but nothing about being a Catholic ever made much sense to me.   Or maybe the Catholics invented time.  I wouldn't put it past them.  Any religion that makes their leader wear a hat like that can't be coming from a sane place.

And then there's that thing where it appears to stop or go in slow motion when something awful happens.  I have a good friend who falls a lot. (Actually, so do I, maybe that's why we've bonded.)  The last time she fell (Saturday) she said she felt it was happening in slow motion.  Well, that's not right!  If an iron gate is going to fall on top of you, let's get it over with as quickly as possible!  And don't get me started on childbirth. (Seriously, wear a condom, for Christ's sake.)   Shit, if you have to push a watermelon out of your hooey it should be over and done within a matter of minutes, not stretched out for endless hours!  It really hurts.  A lot.  And eating an ice cream sundae, one the few pleasures in life I still partake in, cannot be lingered over or the damn ice cream will melt--this is not right!  I have had enough!!!!


 As soon as I figure out how.  Where's Einstein when you need him?

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

That's Why They Call it Work

Come January, I will have been at Dicks 'N Balls for ten years.  That's a long-ass time for me to have the same job.  I started working temp and was made full-time in a month.  I never meant this to be a long-term thing.  I never meant for my marriage to end either, but it did and the two things happened to coincide, so here I am.

I know I bitch a lot about my job, but it really isn't that horrible, I've had much worse.  It's just not a good fit for me.  I doubt if any clerical position would really suit me.  Organization and attention to detail aren't my thing.  I'm an impulsive, emotional-driven kind of gal.  I don't know what kind of work those qualities make me suited for.  Soap opera writer, maybe?  Tester for bipolar meds?  Professional five-year-old?

The truth is, of course, that the only thing I can do well is act.  I'm not complaining, I'm uber-grateful for the gift.  And if I had to choose between being able to act and being able to create an Excel spreadsheet. . . .well, you know how this sentence is going to end. 

If I could turn back time (pause while you curse me for getting that song stuck in your head), when I quit college after my junior year  I should have taken six months off, gone out to the desert, done a lot of peyote and thought about my life.  But, instead, I enrolled in Duff's Business Institute (no relation to the beer) and learned Gregg Shorthand, which is now obsolete, whereas I still use all the acting techniques I learned in college.  I'm sure there's some deeply ironic, philosophical point here, but I'll let you Choose Your Own Adventure on this one.

I am very lucky to have a job.  I have way too many friends who don't and can't find one, so I have no right to bitch about mine, imperfect as it is.  However, in Debbieland. . . . . .

You do what you want to do and get paid in whatever you feel you need at the time.   Cure cancer for cocktails?  Sure!  Take out trash for a trip to Tahiti?  Why not?  Guide the government for gumdrops?  Well, hell, Reagan did it for jelly beans, so have at it!  Anything for anything.  It doesn't even have to be alliterative!

In the meantime, thank you Dicks 'N Balls for employing my very non-clerical-like self.  Unless I find a job as a professional five-year-old, then I'm outa here.

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Home Meh Home

Have you ever been to someone's house that looks like it came out of an issue of Better Homes and Gardens?  My apartment does not.  I wouldn't say I'm a slob, but that's only because I'm not being truthful.   It is just not something I feel is important.  I live alone and rarely have people over, because it freaks me out to entertain. (I've probably mentioned this before, but people scare the shit of me. That's a whole other post.) I spend as little time as possible at home and if I am home I'd much rather waste time by learning lines,  reading or Huluing than scooping up dust bunnies. 

I've been in my apartment for a year a half now.  When I first moved in, I discovered that the number of books I had in my old place somehow grew when I moved into my new place.  I threw a bunch of them in a box and they had a couple of weeks living in close quarters, so who knows what went on in that box during that time.  I don't like to think about it.  But the upshot is, I now have too many books.  So I just left them in the box and planned to buy a small, two- or three-shelf bookcase to put them in.  That was my plan.  Actually, it still is my plan, evidently, because those books are still living in that box.  (Don't worry, I threw in a box of condoms, so that should keep the population steady.)  I just haven't found the time/motivation/money to buy the damn bookcase.  Martha Stewart would not approve, and I don't really care.  But, thanks to my Irish Catholic upbringing, I do feel guilty about not caring.  It's a lose-lose. (Which is the Irish Catholic equivalent of a win-win.)

Please don't get the impression that my apartment could audition for an episode of Hoarders--it's not that bad, just not that good.  Not Better Homes and Gardens good.  And I guess I'm kind of fascinated by the people that have BH&G d├ęcor.  I wouldn't know how to justify spending $50 on a thing that sits on a table and doesn't serve a purpose other than sitting on a table.  I can do that for free.  (Although if anyone wants to pay me for that, I'm down.  I have very little pride left.)  I once went to a home that had an entire wall covered with Gone With The Wind Commerative Plates.  There must have been fifty of them----fifty poorly drawn pictures of Vivian Leigh and Clark Gable and Hattie McDaniels.   My kids were with me, but too young at the time to appreciate the incredible kitchyness/tackyness/laugh-out-loudity of the situation.  I think I actually gasped and, luckily, the hostess took that as a sign of delight/jealousy.  "Yes, aren't they beautiful?  I have the whole set."  I was able to honestly answer, "I've never seen anything like that."  I hope I never have to again.

Oh, well, the world don't move to the beat of just one drum, etc., etc., and my guess is that the type of person who shells out beaucoup du bucks for Commerative Gone With The Wind plates wouldn't enjoy hanging out on a porch, drinking beer and talking theatre.  Her loss.