Monday, December 17, 2012

Stressmastime is Here

Although I try very hard to live in the moment, I find it particularly hard at this time of the year.  Especially because this year,  thanks be to the Theatre Gods, I am insanely busy. 

I did not get all the presents for my kids I wanted to; I have not yet  begun to wrap what I do have; I did not get to decorate the apartment; the apartment itself is a disaster area, due to my Kitties' refusal to clean house.  (And maybe a bit from my never being home/intense laziness.) 

But, at the end of the day, none of that shit matters.  Because, here in Debbieland, there is something about Christmas Day that has a different feel from the rest of the year.  It's like time moves differently; sort of like when you're stoned, but everything isn't as funny and you don't have the munchies.  It's me and my kids, which makes it wonderful, no matter what day of the year it is, and we always have the best time.  There is something about that incredible bond you have with your kids that seems a bit stronger on Christmas.  And all the shit you didn't get done doesn't matter.

I'm really looking forward to that.  But, it doesn't stop me from stressing about it beforehand.  (Along with the added Theatre Stress of:  please let me remember my lines; please let more people come to the show; please let me learn my lines for the next show; please let me get that part I auditioned for, etc. etc.)  Not to mention work.  (Because I have learned the hard way to *never* mention work via social media. Meh.)

So, here's to what really matters during the holiday season:  Being with the people you love.  And hoping they won't mind running lines with you.

Friday, December 14, 2012

How I Learned There Is No Santa Claus

I guess I should have put a spoiler alert in front of that title, but you have to find out sometime.

The Christmas I was nine the present I wanted most was a Slinky.  I know, I know, but I've always been Low Maintenance.  Anyroad, I was extremely vocal about this.  I talked about it ad nauseum, I freaked out when the commercial came on ("Everyone wants a Slinky, You want to get a Slliinnkky!")  It was the 50's, brainwashing was in.  And of course it was the top of my list in my Letter to Santa.

On Christmas Eve, I was telling my mother how excited I was about Christmas, and, in particular, about finally getting a Slinky.  She stopped dead in her tracks and gave me a Joan Crawford "no more wire hangers-ever" look, and said, "What's a Slinky?"  I regaled her with the many wonders of the Slinky and then plaintively reminded her, "I told Santa I wanted it!!!"  She angrily threw on her coat and yelled to my father, "Charlie, I have to go to Thrift Drugs, I'll be right back!"  She came back twenty minutes later with a small, square box in a brown paper bag.

Now, in addition to being LM, I am also Extremely Naive, but I ain't the dullest crayon in the box, so I put 2 and 6 together and figured out that Mommy + Daddy = Santa Claus.  I wasn't so much disappointed in finding out He didn't exist as I was deflated that Mommy hadn't listened to me.  Again.

Moral of the Story:  Keep bitching till you get what you want.

Merry Christmas!

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Insert Random Pun About Sleep as Title

I have no business posting anything today, as I am so tired my Exhaustion Meter is down in the Meltdown range; proved by the fact that this morning when I woke up, I had to ask The Kitties my name.  (I'm Meow, by the way.)  Anyroad, I thought since I was drifting along in La La Land today, I might as well write about sleep. DISCLAIMER:  The quality of this post is not guranteed and your money will not be cheerfully refunded if it sucks. 

I love sleep, but I'm not very good about going to bed.  Even if I am as exhausted as I was last night (it's tech week), I will always stay up way past my bedtime, just because I can.  Part of it is because the act of getting ready for bed, (the teeth, the face, the jammies, the constant re-evaluation of my life and worrying about everything) takes so long, it's easier to sit on the sofa, absentedly petting The Kitties and staring into space, a decision I regret the next morning.

But I always repeat the same pattern.  Sa plus change. . . . .  (The elipses are for dramatic effect, not because I forgot the rest of that phrase.)

When I was a kid, my mother went into Full Battle Mode to try to get me to sleep. (And eat, but that's another story.) I had to drink warm milk with molasses in it every night, and yes, it was as disgusting as it sounds.  Along with this concoction, I was told every night that my sister always went to sleep when she was told to, why couldn't I be more like her?   I don't know how this Delightful Duo was supposed to make me want to sleep.  It usually ended up with me laying in bed crying, because I was nauseous and felt inadequate.  The same thing happens today, only it's due to beer and learning lines.  . . .sa plus meme chose.  (See! I told you I knew it!)

Since this has been a life-long pattern, I've gotten used to it.  I know that, eventually, I will get more than five-six hours sleep one night and the next morning I will be my usual, bubbly, delusional self.  And I will promise myself that I will go to bed earlier every night from now on.  And promptly break that promise.  At least I'm predictable. 

And exhausted.  Meow out.