"Are you alright?"

Fifteen to twenty crew members ask me this with concern in their voices every morning as I run around trying to get things prepared for my boss's arrival. The first couple days I always answered with a martyr'd sounding, "Yeah, no, I'm good, thanks..." and wondered exactly how awful and freaked out I must have looked to have THAT MANY people concerned about me.

I'm not sure how it clicked, but somewhere I realized their heartfelt "Are you alright?" is the English version of my "Hey, howyadoin'?" Oh, yeah- there's English and then there's English English. I felt like a jackass for letting my drama queen answer for the first few days. Now I toss it right back:

"Hello, Bianca, are you alright?" "Hey, yeah, howyadoin'?"

Our 2nd AD is doing his best to train me away from a lifetime of American English. The trash can is a bin, my trunk is my boot, and its not WATER, its WAH-UH. I'm not very good at it. But I have adopted the long, cute British phone goodbye.

Rather than the usual, Thanks-Bye-Hang-up, I notice calls end as follows with both participants speaking in a higher and higher pitch until its kinda singy:
"Ya, alright, thanks, cheers, bye, buh-bye!" And its a call-and-response, too, so you can really get into a few rounds of the "bye, bye" section. Adorable. I can't help myself.

Furthering my transformation away from American Girl, I've pretty well mastered Right-side driving. I don't hesitate with crossing lanes to turn right, I've figured out the rhyme and reason to roundabouts (hint: KNOW where you're going and PAY ATTENTION to what lane you need to be in) and I'm now comfortable running over someone's lawn to pass. The roads are narrow- usually too narrow for two cars to pass comfortably, so both cars drive half on the grass, gutter, or embankment on either side to make it. I'm excellent at this.

I found myself so good at Right-side driving, I got relaxed enough to re-adopt some of my awful American driving habits like working while I drive- UNTIL exactly 30 seconds into writing a reminder to myself on a piece of paper when I drove onto the curb of the highway. The curb was too high for me to drive off lest I pop my tire, so I stayed on the curb/sidewalk until it disappeared for a second and I was able to steer my car back fully onto the road- and realized I had popped my tire anyway. See sheepish in the dictionary? That's me.

(What's funny is all three driving Americans had an incident of some sort on the same day. Two flat tires and a busted side-view mirror. The crew definitely had a laugh about that.)

Sun sets over The White Lion Hotel, our Thanksgiving hosts

Uncle Sam says "Eat your turkey!"

 This week was Thanksgiving ("It's a big deal to you people, isn't it?" said my 2nd AD). Being NOT in America, we had a full day's work but afterward found a restaurant in nearby Aldeburgh (the ONLY restaurant) serving a Traditional Thanksgiving Turkey dinner. The appetizer choices were hot wings or mozzarella sticks- clearly American (?), if not traditional fare. We didn't care, we went straight for the turkey (amazing), green beans (actually yummy) and sweet potato mash (oh yeah) topped with pretzels (...what?).

Happy Thanksgiving!

Pretzels, my new Tgiving tradition

                          The restaurant was bleeding red, white and blue wrapped in Forth of July decorations and we couldn't get enough. It was really very sweet- Yay, America!

Our shooting schedule has us working 6-day weeks so when you consider I worked all last weekend, this has literally registered as the longest week of my life.  I'm starting to go kind of bats. The hotel I'm in has no gym and I'm working from before dawn until well after its dark. On the suggestion of one of my set friends, I decided to try running at night after I got home. I was so restless, I was open to anything...

So it's black as pitch here at night. No streetlights. None. I knew this and decided to run anyway thinking my eyes would get used to the dark. They don't- it's THAT DARK. Thank God for my flashlight app (yeah, I'm in love with my stupid iPhone, shut up.), its the only thing that kept me from breaking my ankle on the uneven roads. Also, I don't know my way around my neighborhood- I haven't had the chance to explore anything yet- so my plan was to keep the curb on my left and I would retrace my steps... instead, I found our neighborhood pub (ANOTHER place I haven't had time to explore) and realized I just jogged a 10 min circle. I chalked the experience up to "super stupid" and made fun of myself for doing it. Until-

Cheshire Cat watches over my run.

I did it again. Hotel life is either lonely as hell or you're in the hotel bar every night. Having spent every night in the hotel bar to this point, I decided to try again. This time I was armed with a working knowledge of which street I would take and I had Rihanna's new album to keep me company. And it was pretty fantastic.

There is really NO ONE around and it is REALLY DARK so if you want to dance down the street or pretend you're running away from a hideous maniac in the dark or sing at the top of your lungs with the wind blowing your hair around like you're starring in your own music video you totally can.

I know because I did.

This was the scene as I left my hotel for my run tonight. I actually had a bit of dusk to light my way the first few minutes.

This pic has nothing to do with this post other than its what I woke up to this morning and ITS SO DAMN PRETTY!!!

thirty-five minutes...

Is the grand total of sleep-- I'm lying, I snuck in a 20 minute nap midday Sunday, so 55 minutes is the grand total of sleep I've had since I woke up at 830a Sunday morning. Its Monday night, almost 11p.

I'm pretty impressed with myself.

I haven't had a melt down, I haven't even cried. And today was one of the hardest days of location for me: Move-in day. Imagine all the stress of moving into a new house and hooking everything up, discovering the internet doesn't work, the coffee machine is too fancy to figure out and you've been frying every electronic device you've been plugging into the wall.

Oh yeah. Something about voltage and maybe watts or transformers and numbers like 220 and 110 and 13 volts floating around. THANK GOD Apple products are all yoked up and ready to work internationally. Not so much for the Radio Shack computer speakers that squeaked out one last burp when I plugged them in. So it looks like I'm going shopping for a few things.

A little warning, yall? I've heard a bazillion times I don't need to tip at a pub, but I've never heard about the all-mighty English power of electricity that is so behemoth as to literally electrocute my poor little electronic toys to death. Have I...?

The house I'm in is stupid. As in phat. Or like dope. Or along the lines of "OMFG THIS PLACE IS EFFING AMAZING!" (Became very aware of my grandma with that last sentence, yall know what I'm talking about.) Huge with lotsa bedrooms, but who cares because the ACRES OF ENGLISH GARDENS are where I want to sleep and eat and shower and live forever. I want to roll around in the herb & vegetable garden. I want to sleep in the heated pool. I want to dance in the flowers- this, I will do.

I didn't know I loved English gardens until I walked through this one and had a prettygasm. It is so damn pretty! But difficult to photograph. In fact the only picture I've taken in this place is of the best toilet in the world.

It ain't an English Garden

I like toilets. They're important. 

Hey, I should totally blog this...

...I thought while having breakfast with my cousin Brian in London.

I've blogged all my major trips (all two of them, whatever) but it's been a long time since I traveled.  And since then, the internet has exploded into massive overshare with Facebook, Twitter, etc, of which I participate (Follow me! Friend me! Nah, you don't have to...) so it took weeks for blogging to occur to me when I found myself traveling again.

But here I am, now: a writer (who hasn't written anything in months) with a great new job (that I both love and then not-love sometimes) that gives me to opportunity to travel the world, so why not? As I sat in Brian's kitchen eating blood pudding with hammy bacon and waxing poetic on the relationship of travel to inspiration, there I was- inspired to write again! Using more than 140 characters! Nice!

A quick moment of prequel... eh, nevermind, I kinda just did that.

So anyway, because I've already spent a month working in Alaska I'll do a quick speed-through:

Anchorage, Alaska: bleak, cold, desolate, beautiful, ugly, shady as hell and easy to navigate.

Anywhere around Anchorage: raw, natural beauty. A whole spectrum of "Holy shit..." inspired landscapes. I spent so much time trying to take pictures at snow-covered mountains as I drove that my inner monologue was continuously writing and re-writing the news lead: "LA women crashes into gorgeous mountain and dies in fiery snowball" was the usual.

And I wasn't the only one- for some reason it became one of our favorite games to play on set. "Make-up artist spontaneously explodes into fiery snowball..." "Movie producer falls overboard tour boat into fiery snowball..." You could die in any way as long as you met your ultimate fate in a fiery snowball. I loved it.

I had my first two helicopter rides in Alaska, and I gotta say- if you think Alaska is pretty from the ground, it blows your damn mind from the air. Helicopters are fun, fun, fun. I always wanted to levitate, and that's what riding in a helicopter is. Both times we floated over and landed at glaciers that were so graceful and gorgeous that words are too small to describe.

Glacier Mouth... say ahhh...

I can honestly say Glacier #2 (of course every single one of these big girls have names and naturally I can't remember a single one) is the most beautiful place I have ever been to in my life. See for yourself...

No words...

If Alaska has to be so effing cold, at least its to make unreal stuff like this. And Jesus, was it cold.

The rest of my Alaska impressions are tangled in with all my badass crew members. GREATEST CREW EVER. Man, I loved those guys...

Love.

Which brings me to...

The UK! Suffolk, to be exact. Woodbridge, to be more exact. Rendlesham Forest to be ever more exact. The first time I saw the address, I got tired.  Suffolk is 2 hours from London, a county of tiny villages on the North Sea. I haven't seen any of it yet- I've been working my ass off since I got here, staying in the production office til dark, and lemme say: dark is DARK in Suffolk. It's country, yall.

A few things I'm excited about for this location...

Accents. Sweet lord, do I love British accents. I have crushes on every person I've met so far- male, female, gay, old, pot-bellied... I'm open for business. Just sayin'.

Right-hand driving. Meaning driving on the WRONG side of the rode ("RIGHT SIDE" my new accented friends jibe me) in the WRONG side of the car. The first 2 times I drove, I followed one of the guys to and from work like a duckling. The next day, when I woke up 2 hours late and 1 hour from my catching my train to London, I threw my Sat Nav in the car, roared onto the road, and made it to the office only getting lost twice. Nothing like a greater fear to overcome your other crap. (Feel free to use that nugget of brilliance in your daily mantras & affirmations.)

Aliens & ghosts. As my driver drove me into town for the first time, he informed me Rendlesham was UFO and ghost central. Despite 12 hrs of travel I perked up like it was my birthday (It was my birthday!) and got him to tell me everything he knew, which wasn't much. Still, I've quizzed everyone who will answer and its true! Rendlesham is the Area 51 of Europe. More on this as I do research, but I heard of a haunted hotel that I'm determined to spend a night in.

London. Instead of spending my first weekend in Suffolk laying groundwork for any possible future making-out, I took the train to London to work for the weekend. London is SO CLOSE I dream of dashing out to get my boss big city things I can't find in Suffolk like cute boots and cashmere sweaters- er, I mean Cuban cigars - on a weekly basis. We'll see, but getting to spend the weekend here was outstanding!

Oxford Street

Pee or call...?

LOVE a great bathroom!

One of these things is not like the other...
but all equally phenomenal!

Big fan...

 

What about those other guys?

Oh, them. The good ones. The ones I take for granted as I wrestle and roll in the muck with the unclean, the unwanted, the misunderstood demon lovelies that distract like screaming brats two hours past naptime.

The Angels.

What of angels? They get all the praise and all the credit and all their pictures up in places of worship. They get hymns and holidays and celebrations all over the world. They get to sit on top of Christmas trees. Frankly, I'm so used to angels they don't even register-

Correction. They didn't used to register.

I started a new job about six weeks ago that has absorbed all my time and attention. It can feel like the greatest job in the world one moment and the worst decision I've ever made in the next. This job is, without a doubt, the most difficult thing I've ever done in my life.

I sound like I'm over-exagerrating for drama's sake. I do that a lot, but this time I'm telling the God's Honest Truth. My new position challenges me in every way I've never let myself be challenged before. Not little challenges either- these are K2-sized bullies. I've burst out crying to my mom, in front of assorted cashiers, and to postal workers- not all the time, but I wouldn't call it a rare occurrence either. The job frustrates me, infuriates me, surprises me, thrills me, entertains me, spoils me, comforts me-

...What? Wasn't I just talking about how much everything sucks? It depends on your perspective. Being challenged is hard. The bigger the challenge, the more difficult it feels- but that doesn't have to be bad and that has everything to do with awareness. And this is what got me noticing the angels... and I learned a few things.

A. Angels are everywhere. Even on the phone. I called a hotel and a clerk I'd spoken to the night before answered. I didn't tell him I was stressed or worried or having an anxiety attack, and yet prompted by nothing, he told me I was doing a great job. He reassured me with his marble-y Louisiana accent that everything was okay and that I was okay. I silently cried on the other end of the phone line- it was exactly what I needed to hear.

B. Angels have perfect timing. From the guy who lets me in front of him at the grocery store right as the twenty pounds of vegetables I'm carrying in my arms are about to fall and scatter all over the floor to the shipping company who defies expectations and delivers precious cargo a week early impressing my boss enough to compliment me (text: "u rock!") right when my ego needed it.

C. Angels give you what you need. Easily. Turns out all you have to do is ask for help. This is something I didn't use to do because I was wired to believe I could do everything by myself perfectly with no help from anyone because I was smart/strong/capable. I thought if I needed help it meant I was dumb/weak/worthless. Not everyone, mind you, just me. That was then. (Note "then" = pre-Awesome Breakdown 2011.) This is now.

Now, I humbly ask for as much help as I can remember to. Remembering to is the hardest part, because over 30 years of habitual perfectionist martyrdom can be a tough groove to skip, but practice makes perfect.

So I give thanks to every angel who's thus done me a solid in the past six weeks. And as I continue to ask for help, I look forward to continued visits, phone calls, and pleasant surprises from my halo'd posse. And maybe if I can get my act together, I'll expand my musings from my horrible demon-lovelies to include some of the virtuous, pretty, white-tutu'd angel babies as well.

Thanks, yall...

There's No Place Like...

HOME.

I'm home. I was so excited to come home, I became a cheeeezball and listened to "Home" a lot before I hopped on the plane. I love home, I love it here, it's a vacuum of everything me, and for a narcissist that's like a gift baggie of smack to a junkie.

"Narcissist?" Igor gasps. He rushes into my head, checking around to make sure no one heard me. His voice lowers...

Igor: Uh, ix-nay on the arcicssism-nay. People don't like them. They're lame douche-bag assholes.
Me: Yeah, I can be a real asshole sometimes.
I: (waves away the point) So can everyone. Just don't call yourself a narcissist out loud.
Me: Why?
I: It's not pretty!!! (Catches himself. Breathes...) I don't think you know what the word means.

We look it up:
nar·cis·sism/ˈnärsəˌsizəm/Noun

1. Extreme selfishness, with a grandiose view of one's own talents and a craving for admiration.

2. Self-centeredness arising from failure to distinguish the self from external objects.

Igor looks at me. He bites his chapped lip. "Just- shut up." I gloat in satisfaction. He sees me gloating and sneers. "You're not that bad."

He's right. According to a Dr. Drew's online Narcissism Test, I'm above average, but I'm no Jersey Shore.

Still, in the interest of my demons, I'll call a spade a spade, and I'll call myself an asshole when its true. Of course it's not true ALL the time, but probably more than I'd like to admit and that's okay. I think most people are crappier than they want to take credit for, and as long as we're able to realize it (hopefully in the moment), admit it (maybe to our audience, certainly to ourselves), and apologize for it (if you must, and I'll tell you right now- YOU MUST) then who cares?

Anyway, back to the notion of home.

It occurred to me that home has little to do with any demons and more to do with ghosts. I'm surrounded by the ghosts of everything that made me into Me. The ghosts of my childhood hide in the shallow eyes of the stuffed animals my mom still keeps for me and in the ritual of burying my head into my mom's arm when I feel like crying. The ghosts of my innocence call to me from places around Austin where I grew up too fast, vamping up and down Sixth Street or riding on the back of my boyfriend's motorcycle through the Hill Country as I fell in love for the first time.

These ghosts haunt my dreams, and people I haven't thought of in years visit me, love me, tangle with me, make-out with me. I see old friends and catch glimpses of past lives in stories I can't remember but they can. They ask me about other friends, people we both couldn't care less about, people I've lost touch with, people I never knew in the first place, and I shrug and smile.

It doesn't matter how anyone is, I realize. If they're anything like me, they're exactly the same as they've always been except in the exponential ways they've grown that you could never measure with a bank account or number of offspring. We're all annoyingly the same- except totally different.

On one hand, I never again want to see the red glasses I wore from the ages of 10-13 that meant I was nerdy and ugly (I thought). I don't want to see all the places my boyfriend's family took us to dinner where I would sit and laugh and glow with the knowledge that they would someday be my family, too (I thought). I don't want to drive by my dad's first apartment after the divorce and look at the sidewalk and remember how every time he and I would walk to the park, I would step on every crack and make the same wish...

 

 

But I do. I dig up the red glasses. I wonder if my ex-boyfriend's family still meets at E-Z's for milkshakes and burgers as I drive past. I look for that sidewalk and that apartment and damned if I can't find them. (It's honestly driving me crazy.) The insecurity, the desperate need to belong, the magic-disguised control issues of an 8 year-old... I seek this stuff out because they are my ghosts. Mine. They it made me who I am, and I love them for it.

The thought that my current life will become a ghost to haunt me in the future comforts me more than it terrifies me. Yes, I'm terrified of getting older. But, I'm comforted by the knowledge that I'll continue to grow and evolve (even moreso than I am now, and I think we've all decided that is pretty evolved, narcissistic tendencies notwithstanding... sorry folks, just a little ego humor.) - and maybe in my evolution, getting older won't be such a fat, wrinkly deal.

As an aside, not every trip home is such an existential exercise. Truthfully, I rarely think this much.

 

 

...That's a total lie. Regardless, I blame my spiritual transformation- Thanks, Awareness, this is almost fun.

Well, That Happened.

Demons.

Funny, part of the reason I started this blog about demons is because I've always liked the misunderstood. I believe there's good in everything, even the Tea Party, even Evanescence, even demons. The way I see it, they're all just doing their jobs. (Like the Tea Party's job is to keep me fighting for universal health care, equal rights, freedom of choice, and all my other liberal beliefs, and Evanescence's job is to make me stop listening to work-place radio.)

Demons simply do what they do, whether its torturing humans or just acting ugly. They don't mean to be "evil", its just our perception of the effect they have on our lives- if you even believe in demons, because you can't get hurt by something you don't believe in... right?

Sigh. Let me tell a personal story and see if I can answer my own question.

The truly observant may have noticed I've been off the radar lately- particularly where this blog is concerned. It's a long boring story to everyone but my mom, but the bullet points are:
- I got my heart broken.
- Had a nervous breakdown.
- Haven't written a word.
- Am still recovering.

Because these bullet points are reading far more dramatic than I anticipated, I'll flesh each out a little.

Heartbreak: It's happened before, it'll happen again, but this one was the nastiest motherfucker to date. Not because of what any guy or girl did to me, but because of what I did to myself. I can't attribute this heartbreak to anyone but me. I broke my own heart. I'm my own bad boy.

Breakdown: I use the word flippantly. I didn't get a diagnosis from a doctor. But I did need help. Lots and lots and lots of help, and I found it with my spiritual practitioner. What I call "breakdown", she calls "spiritual transformation." Spiritual transformation sounds groovy, spacious, and smooth. To me "breakdown" more reflects the choking, desperate, writhing place I found myself in. I do like the movement and hope embodied in the word "transformation" rather than the dead-end that "breakdown" invokes... okay, fine, spiritual transformation.

Haven't written: I really haven't done much of anything beside reflect. And listen to endless TED Talks. For the first few weeks, being upright was a major accomplishment. My Type-A Barbie is doing her best not to whine and judge and remind me that writing is what we do! And if we don't do what we do all the time, how do we ever expect to get paid to do what we do?! ...she's trying.

Recovering: Sometimes I feel awesome, sometimes I feel stupid, sometimes I feel like I can conquer the world, sometimes I feel like I'm not good enough to eat. The point is I'm feeling. And feeling means I'm living. And living means I'm not still curled up in a tight little ball in my comfy chair.

...What was my point? "If you don't believe in something, can it hurt you?" was my question.

I hurt myself, I broke my own heart, because somewhere deep inside I believed I wasn't good enough. This belief was so deep and ingrained, I thought it was a fact of life, like my heart beat or my brown eyes. This belief was my default.

Over the course of the last two months I've begun to re-program my thinking. Contrary to what I would prefer, it takes longer than a weekend in bed to exorcise a demon I've had for a lifetime, but at least I'm aware now. For the most part. Enough to know "I'm not good enough" is total bullshit. And awareness is a wonderful gateway drug to healing, acceptance, and love.

So can something I no longer believe in hurt me anymore?

No. It fucking can't.

It feels good to be back. (Barbie just died from yessing too hard.)

D-bags and DOMINUS PENARUM

This demon is no joke. DOMINUS PENARUM (lets call him DP for fun) is a most rigid, controlling devil with a pimp cane. He's a demon used in love spells, but I'll get to that in a sec.

So I have this friend (not me), who's been putting up with a D-bag (you don't know him) for way too long. Why? Because, that's why. The point is my friend (NOT ME) cut ties and this demon still contacts her. Nonchalantly. Like they're friends. Like it's okay.

WHY? This, I don't know. But I have a theory, and it goes a little something like this:

Non-committed passionate relationships lead to non-committed seperations, so the door remains open where He and She are concerned. That's all well and good if both parties are on the same page, in the same phase of their life, and totally honest with how they feel - or don't - about each other, etc. This, however, is rarely the case.  So one or the other settles for less and/or puts up with more than they should, ignoring the nagging Igor that points out what's not happening and what they aren't receiving from their fuck buddy.

Why do I care? Because, that's why.

I care because people (yes, people, because women are just as guilty of assholery as men are) have become cowards. I don't care if you're only sleeping with me because it was better than what you had in your Netflix line-up, but BE HONEST ABOUT IT. Don't pretend it's something more. Don't say things just to say them and don't give me hope if there is none. Don't toss out phrases like "When we go to Palm Springs..." or "I can't wait to (fill in the blank) with you..." because they sound good. If you want to use me for sex, let me in on the plan so I can make an informed decision- otherwise you're lying to get me into bed and that makes you a fucking asshole coward.

People (again, people) are afraid to say what they mean, either because they're afraid of being rejected or they're afraid to reject or they just can't own up to what they want. You know what? Too bad. You want to be a big kid and do what big kids do? Grow the balls to talk about it.

I'm not blameless. I have my moments of swallowing questions because I don't have the guts to ask them. You know what that means? It means I'm involved in a bad relationship and I should go home alone. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. Regardless, I'm aware of what I'm doing and making an informed decision- even if it isn't always the best one. I'm still learning..

This is why it fucking galls me when this douchebag tests the waters by texting an oblivious "How you doing?" after years and years of turmoil, broken promises, loving someone else, and disregard for any feelings but his own. Where is his consideration? Where is his awareness? Where are his balls? If he wants friendship, show some respect and call. If he wants sex, come out and say it. Don't hover on the fringe of a relationship by giving the least effort possible to forge some sort of connection.

"How you doing?" DELETE.
"Everything good?" DELETE.
"I saw a picture that made me think of you." DELETE.

Know what's maddening? The longer he's ignored, the more persistent he becomes.

How do you exorcise a demon like that? When you've already screamed and Julia Sugarbakered their ass (to which you received a dead-end "Sorry") and they still contact you and the more you ignore them the louder they get and they don't stop, what do you do? If it were me, I'd get mad and loud and destructive. (It's still not me.)

There is no undoing to the demon, Dominus Penarum, that I know of- all I have are his stats.

DP is connected with power and control. A magician conjures DP to completely break the will of his intended, i.e. who he's crushing on at the moment, so she will be bound to him and powerless. The demon torments the woman until she bows to her passionate compulsions, no matter how unnatural. A direct quote: "As the Lord of Torments, this demon would be well-suited to make the target's life a living hell."

Yup, that sounds about right.

~Thanks to "Dictionary of Demons: Names of the Damned" by Michelle Belanger. Llewellyn Publications, 2010

The Me In The Mirror

I had a moment of clarity today. I spend lots of time avoiding moments like these because of how I feel now. Which is kinda sick, sorta crappy, and altogether terrified. What blows is this is coming on the heels of a great weekend.

I had the kind of weekend you wish you had every day: friends, dancing, laughing, even some precious me time thrown in for good measure. Then Monday came, and life came, and a few things I was expecting to happen didn’t happen, and I blamed myself because I control the world, don’t I? Well, I try to anyway.

This is all preamble to the real story that happens here: My day screwed up in five – yes, I counted FIVE – different ways that landed me at my grocery store at the same time as an ex. 

Mr. X haunts me- I see him around the city all the time. We've never spoken or even made eye contact because he’s in his car and I’m in mine. Yes, its always those weirdly random street pass-bys that I would have totally missed if I wasn’t looking up at the perfect moment. But I’m not talking about this when I use the word “haunting.”

Mr. X haunts me because he represents everything that’s wrong- er, challenging about me. All of my fears, my limitations, the ways I’m ugly are embodied in this dude. I think it’s obvious why I had to stop dating him.

So anyway, I drive into the lot, see his car, freak, and park. I consider sitting in my car and sweating my balls off until I see him drive away for a moment... then two.. then…

I check the mirror. I look like crap. It doesn’t matter. I’m going in to buy the damn honey I need to make the damn bread I need. I decided: I REFUSE TO LET MY LIFE BE DEFINED BY THE THINGS THAT ARE WRONG WITH ME– sorry, the things I think are wrong with me – ANYMORE.

I walk in with the determination and speed of a racehorse. I’m shaking. Honey, honey, where’s the fucking honey… I try to sneak glances around my blinders. The point wasn’t to run into him and have the awkward, “hey, how are you, feel like hooking up sometime?” conversation. The point was I was in control. I was in charge. Not my fears, insecurities, shame, limitations, unworthiness, doubts, etc.

I found the honey. I stopped by the fresh flowers and picked some out for my kitchen. I remembered I needed yogurt. As I walked to the checkout I saw him leaving and I almost threw up with relief-

He turned!

It wasn’t him. I almost threw up again. My hands were still shaking as I paid for my groceries and shoved them into my leopard print grocery bag. I was paces away from the exit. If I was every going to run into Mr. X, now was the time. I swallowed against the lump in my throat and kept my eyes open as I walked out into the hot sunshine.

I did it.

His car was still there. He was still inside. I walked past the car and let out a sigh of relief- my breath caught.

It wasn’t his car. Yes, it was a dirty piece of crap, but it was a newer model and had an entirely different nose- Whatever, it definitely wasn’t his car.

I slid into my hot car. I was okay. I was never in any danger. Of course, I was never in any danger, the whole damn episode was a figment of my imagination. And yet the feeling of gratitude and accomplishment washed over me.

I had just faced my biggest demon: ME. All the not-perfect things balled up into one person who I thought was buying groceries.

I got fired up. Fuck my imperfections, my ego, my shame, my selfishness, my fear… None of it matters if I can stand up to it and risk staring it in the eye. I mentally high-fived myself with a “fuck yeah!” and drove home.

I wish the story ended here. But it doesn't.

When I got home I began the recipe I needed the damn honey for and listened to a Ted Talk I found on vulnerability. The speaker talked about knowing you are enough. And I cried.

Because 10 minutes after my biggest win to date, my mind still drifted to what I didn’t have and why I didn’t have it. The things I wanted so badly to happen that hadn’t happened yet, and why it was all my fault. I realized that I couldn’t even ride the wave of being enough for 10 minutes before I returned to beating myself up for things that were beyond my control.

So how do you do it? How do you know you’re enough? And how do you keep knowing it over and over in the face of everything you’ve been taught since you were born that suggests the opposite?

I don’t know. I’m just going to keep trying to remember and know I'm enough, because its all I can think of. But I promise, when I figure it out, I’m going to tell you and my friends and strangers and the world until everyone knows what it feels like to win all the time, not just for a 10-minute drive.

Intimacy Issues

That's me. I love you or I don't care- there is no middle ground, no delicate dance of compromise and finesse. Tall, thick walls compartmentalize the different arenas of my life: love, family, work, expression...

Even my baby-blogs. Uptempo Plum is where I post my mushy personal musings; Demon Sauce, is where I work it like a school project. Or so it started anyway...

Lately, I've found life getting kinda blurry as my demons blast through the heart-shaped wall I so fervently bricked and cemented, spraying pink mist and mush over my perfectly pressed outfits and ruining my make-up. It's a good thing, people tell me, to explore your yin and yang and lose your mind and put yourself out there and let people in and all that crap. Therefore, in an effort to be a more fully realized person I'm taking a HUGE step and...

I'M MERGING MY BLOGS...
...crickets...

I said, I am merging my blogs. Together. Intimate-like. Like the Brady Bunch.

Still nothing...? Huh.

It's kind of a big deal. Walls are coming down, guys! Songs are written about unions like this! My Type-A Over-Achiever Barbie is letting my sensitive, brooding Emo Ken move in to the Barbie Mansion with all his knats and baggage and- stop rolling your eyes!

Well, I think is a big fucking deal and I'm pretty puffy about the whole thing. Uptempo Plum is on hiatus, past Plum posts are now integrated into Demon Sauce, and Demon Sauce will serve as my only blog until further notice. I'm choosing to go with hiatus rather than straight retirement because I'd have babies with the name "Uptempo Plum" if I could, but also in case Barbie and Ken don't work out.

Baby steps, y'all...

The Victoria Jackson Principle*

There's a reason I don't necessarily follow trending news- most of it is annoying and pisses me off. Consequently, I'm generally late to the party on the newest viral videos or what Charlie Sheen said today, and I'm okay with that. Yesterday, though, I clicked...

Holy Victoria Fucking Jackson. Talk about demons. Am I seriously qualifying Victoria Jackson enough of a demon to merit her own demon blog post? Fuckin' A. With her ignorance, press, and Tea Party backing (not to mention the huge hair bows and the voice) she's scarier than Satan.

I'd seen tweets and updates on the former SNL star "blasting" Glee for days-  It wasn't until I saw that she objected specifically to The Kiss that curiosity won, and I checked out the whole story because I really liked The Kiss.

The Kiss of course refers to the latest gay kiss milestone- or not... is it even a milestone anymore to show a good gay kiss on primetime? I hope not- regardless, I didn't hear about The Kiss beforehand and was surprised and thrilled to see it finally happen. NOT because it was another milestone but because Kurt likes Blaine soooooooooo much and Blaine finally saw the great love that's been before his eyes all season! I squealed through my happy tears and sighed- The Kiss was effing hot and GO KURT for getting the perfect first kiss scenario every teenager dreams about (yes, I believe, even you straight boys.).

So when I heard Victoria Jackson shit all over my own teenage dream, my first reaction was to get FIRED UP. My inner Dixie Carter sounded something like, "Are-you-fucking-kidding-me-how-dare-she-spout-hatred-and-intolerance-I'll-shove-the-gay-thing-down-her-throat-and-if-Muslims-kill-gays-they-can't-be-any-worse-than-the-Christians-who-do-the-same-she's-batshit-I-hate-her..." And so on, until I realized exactly what I'd thought:

"I hate her."

What? I don't hate (unless its related to vomiting.). I don't even believe in hate. In my spiritual practice, I subscribe to only love, unity, peace, creativity... you know, the good shit. Hate doesn't exist in my world (except for vomit), but fear does. And then I realized- she's afraid. Jackson's understanding of what's right and good is so tiny that anything outside her grain of sand-sized definition scares the shit out of her.

Okay, whatever... understanding washed over me and the veins in my forehead relaxed... and then bulged again-

She waved the Bible around. It absolutely galls me how much hatred and judgement people get away with by playing the Bible card. The Bible is just a big book of stories with a huge reputation. I believe the Bible is as divinely inspired as EVERY OTHER WORK OF ART from the Qur'an to Mona Lisa to Beethoven's 5th Symphony. By that reasoning, Jackson may as well be waving around a DVD of "All in the Family" and spouting her beliefs in white supremacy- that's how seriously I take her citing the Bible.

Jackson dressing up her ignorance and judgement with crucifixes and scripture doesn't hide what it is, just like Palin's poor pig in lipstick or Pretty Woman in shoulder pads and diamonds. The pig will always be smart and tasty, and Pretty Woman will always be Julia Roberts (until they remake it with Megan Fox or some nauseating shit). And ignorance and judgement will always be dangerous, polarizing, a defense mechanism for terrified people and a waste of time and energy.

We're all one: God and love and gays and pigs and Palin and Pretty Woman and-

Sigh... dammit... yes, even crazy Victoria Jackson's judgemental ass. And my judgemental ass.

I'm willing to accept we're guilty of the same snap judgement, but the difference is this: I can open my mind to consider her fear (of absolutely nothing) but she either can't or doesn't want to extend the same courtesy to those she sees as different. Jackson revels in ignorance- and if the only positive that comes from listening to her and other like-minded homophobes and fear-mongers is that the rest of us get even more sensitive, tolerant and open-minded-

Well then, that's actually pretty spectacular, isn't it?




*As a child of the 80's I couldn't resist alluding to Victoria Principal, Pam Ewing of "Dallas" fame. Just so you don't get confused, Principal is the beautiful brunette actress, entrepreneur and environmentalist. Jackson is the blond in the big hair bows.

~Thanks to Victoria Jackson for being outspoken and batshit crazy.

Could it be... SATAN?!?!

Oh yeah, I'm going there. No more dancing around with Boys' Town glam-demons and infernal middle management. I'm profiling the baddest of the bad, the star of Hell... SATAN.

Why? Because I'm dealing with my own personal Goliath demon: The Judge.

The Judge sits heavy on my heart like cancer. He's silent, unlike his cohort Igor- I imagine Igor is to The Judge as Chester is to Spike (and I never reference a link, but in this scenario, I'm definitely Sylvester.) The Judge doesn't have to do much- he just has to radiate his tsunami waves of disapproval as he arches a questioning brow and I stutter, backpedal, and mentally pummel myself. Then, the What-Ifs descend in a cloud that blocks out all sunlight while Igor berates me, and I go blind and crazy. It's ugly.

The antidote? Perspective and angels in the form of great friends who love you unconditionally.

Enough about The Judge, you all get it. So without further ado... IN THIS CORNERRR... SATANNNNN*.

First off, "Satan" is derived from a Hebrew word meaning "the adversary" and morphed from a function in the Old Testament into a proper name by the time the New Testament came around. Throughout the Old Testament, generally Satan is "the adversary" that tests faith- usually doing so by the Lord's command. In the New Testament, Satan graduates to Lord of Demons and God's arch enemy. Ensuing demonology supports Satan's evolution into the leader of all devils whose mission is to torture and tempt humans. In these accounts, Satan is an equal part of a gruesome foursome made of itself, Lucifer, Beelzebub (or Leviathan, depending on the text), and Belial (all of whom at some time/tradition or another were the big boss) who oversee all other demons.

So there. Honestly, I'd shied away from even reading the Satan entry until now because, as cheeky as I am about my other demon buddies, I was raised Catholic and went to church every Sunday for a loooooong time. That stuff sticks. However, dealing with The Judge these last few days, I knew there was no match for him but Satan itself. (And frankly, I think The Judge is still scarier.)

As an aside, I feel the need to cleanse my pallet after all the Fox News BS I sifted through for links. Penguins, joy, unity, kittens, Muppets, love, dancing, and cheese... that oughta do it.

*My apologies for The Church Lady scratch. I couldn't help myself.
~Thanks to "Dictionary of Demons: Names of the Damned" by Michelle Belanger. Llewellyn Publications, 2010

Insomnia? What is this BS?

OH my GOD, this is such BULLSHIT.

Insomnia.

Formerly known as the regular time I used to wake up when I had a job.

However, now as a woman of leisure and the boss of me, I fully expect my body to milk every drop from the 8-10 hours of sleep I like to get. Yes, EIGHT to TEN hours.

My Type A, over-achiever self - let's call her Barbie - fought my tumble into teenage levels of slumber for well over a year ("Get up! It's 7am! The sun's up! OTHER people are starting their commute, the least you can do is start your day! Think of all we can doooo!"). Then, one day... I slept until 11...

I woke up that gorgeous morning half-ashamed and half-elated.

Even when I pulled all-nighters on set, my inner clock was hard-wired to not sleep past 10a. My entire adolescence had been an exercise in how I could entertain myself while the rest of the girls at the slumber party slept til 11. (No joke, I usually cleaned their rooms. That's why moms LOVE me.) In college, I was the girl that worked the morning shift from 7-noon to come home and find my housemates just staggering out of bed at 1p. Every boyfriend I've ever had (Hi, all two of you!) could be dead to the world until after noon unless I poked and prodded them out of bed to their not-so-secret annoyance. I'd been a morning person for so long, it was part of my identity EXCEPT...

I evolved. It started with 11a the first morning. The next day, Sleep won out until near 1130. I continued that way for not long. Decades of mornings plus Barbie and Igor berating me led to a happy medium of a 9ish, 930ish wake-up for the last few months.

I don't remember what sleep was like when I would pop out of bed at the crack of dawn. I think I was blind to how wonderful, decadent, and nourishing it felt, because now? Even when I've been in bed for so long that Barbie and Igor throw their collected hands up in disgusted surrender, I revel in the languid pull of my pillow. I bask in my mattress as it holds sway over me. I leave Sleep like it's the best lover I've ever had: slowly, grudgingly, and always willing to do it a little more.

Don't get me wrong. I love being awake, too. I seize the day and smell the roses and all that crap but I DO IT BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 930ISH AND LATE.

This is why insomnia enrages me. I SHOULD BE ASLEEP. Even Barbie - who I finally beat into a 9am submission - is appalled we have to be awake right now. FOR NO REASON.

So now that I'm upright - because as good as my bed is at seducing me to stay and doze, when I can't sleep its a goddamn torture chamber of tangled tentacle sheets with a down comforter albatross - and fired up, I have no other choice but to start my day and be <groan> productive.

Somewhere in my head, Barbie perks up. "We're staying up?! Let's clean! You wanna write some more? We need to do a demon post! Or we could go grocery shopping! Ooooo, what time does the car wash open..."

Batthan: He's demon as fuck!

I'll tell y'all, its a whole new world. Certain insights have me all warm and glowy in a nice fuck you way. Btw, not to worry, I've cleared it with my mom. Sometimes you just have to say "fuck" - she's cool with it. Ooo, let's take this a step further, yes? I'll get to the demon part in a sec.

What makes Fuck so bad, anyhow? He's fully versatile and hard-working. You can make almost a whole sentence out of Fuck ("Fuck that fucking fuck!"). Fuck is a conscientious helper, willing to bolster any word in need of some support ("Unfuckingbelieveable!"). Fuck's got a lot of energy, too! More than likely, if you see Fuck, you're gonna find some exclamation points in the very near vicinity. So if Fuck's such a swell guy, what's the big deal? I've thought of two reasons: reputation and sex.

Merriam-Webster defines Fuck as "copulate" which means sex, which means you're not supposed to have anything to do with it - according to some* - unless you're married and trying to further the human species. Anything outside those parameters is wrong (some* say). So by that reasoning, only those married adults over 18 trying to conceive a child can have anything to do with Fuck. But they might not want to because...

Fuck has a flat out bad reputation. I picture Fuck played by James Dean, all red-windbreakered and deep with his furrowed brow. We've been told by our parents and teachers that we shouldn't play with Fuck, much less hang out with him or even try to understand him. He's a BAD WORD.

Fuck all that. I like my friend, Fuck, and I like playing with him. He's just a word, like any other word, only he's got the added BS job of dealing with the crap people project on to him. That endears him to me.

Like demons!

Bad reputation, for sure (but much less sexy). People are scared of them. Some people have even shared that they're scared of this blog, because of the demon aspect. COME ON. Knowledge is power, for Christ's sake.

Take BATTHAN, for example. HE'S A DEMON, mwahahahahaha...

Batthan is the king of the sun spirits. He and his court are bright demons with golden skin. He is gentle and has the power to make humans wealthy, healthy, powerful, and well-loved. (Yup, still talking about a demon here.) The angels Raphael, Cashael, Dardyhel, and Hanrathaphael have power over Batthan.

Doesn't sound so bad. In fact, Batthan reminds me of my awesome gay boyfriend. Stylin' and lovely with fantastic credit. (Kisses to you, Bestie!) But HE'S A DEMON and ALL DEMONS ARE BAD.

Meh. Snap judgements piss me off. Meet a demon, or someone else you've been told is BAD, and make up your own fucking minds.

*people who should mind their own fucking business
~Thanks to "Dictionary of Demons: Names of the Damned" by Michelle Belanger. Llewellyn Publications, 2010

F-bombs, incoming...

What would happen if you just didn't give a fuck? If you said what you wanted to say, did what you wanted to do, kissed who you wanted to kiss? I'm betting life would feel a lot more like you were living it instead of whatever you're doing now. Whatever I'm doing now, is probably actually more the point.

I shouldn't be this fired up- I just got out of a 2-hr long free class for writers about studio vs. indie blah, blah. The information wasn't groundbreaking, and the outlook the Hollywood-Insider-Guy painted was dismal.

Meh. I'm not even fazed by grim Hollywood Chicken Little bullshit anymore. But I got to thinking on the way home of some of the break-into-the-biz options HIG mentioned and I wondered why I hadn't tried any of them. My best reason - and it sucks - is because my shyness is arresting and I'm scared of my own shadow. How's that for Chicken Little bullshit?

It's the worst excuse, and it's a topic that's been on my mind more than the usual all-the-time-constantly that I examine myself. The WHAT-IFS. What if I suck, what if they hate it, what if he hates me, what if they don't get it...

What if I don't give a fuck? What if I tell people what I really think? I have a reputation for being honest, and I am, unless I'm lying to your face. What if I tell you I'm not interested instead of taking an hour to explain the reasons why you and I aren't such a good idea right now? What if I RSVP "No" to Evites without a benign explanation why I can't make it? What if I tell you, you're wrong, when you are?

What if I don't give a fuck? What if I do what I want to do? People think I already do that. I pole dance, and I write about blood-tinged semen and sociopathic teenage girls. My secret is, that's the tip of the glacier. I can fill reams of paper with the things I want to do and be. What if I tried more? What if I wrote and directed the short that haunts me, even though I have no money, even though I don't know how? Who gives a fuck?

Who would give a fuck if I kissed whoever I wanted? "Who haven't you kissed?" snears Igor from behind a fold in my frontal lobe. I've had make-out dreams about a friend, and I could dismiss my dreams as sweaty manifestations of the day's particular stresses but... I'm curious. So what if...?

Having given my blog addresses to family members recently, I guess I'm putting my money where my mouth is - they don't get a lot of fuck this and fuck that from me. And I guess if I don't give a fuck, it really doesn't matter. (Sorry anyway, Mama and Daddy. Don't stop loving me! xo!)

But think about it: What if you didn't give a fuck? What would you do? What would you say? Who would you kiss?

Six degrees of Cynassa

I got a quick job, so my blogging took a backseat for a while. Not that I wasn't dealing with the demons of having the same job I started production with ten years ago (same producer, same position: assistant/Office PA. It was humbling, to say the least.) or with the HELL that is Beverly Hills. Thank God, I'm unemployed again and back to my damned friends. Like CYNASSA.

Fabulous doesn't do him justice. His nature is described as quicksilver. I love that adjective! Cynassa is shining and malleable like Kevin Bacon. He manifests himself medium-tall and the color of a shining star. Whuut?! He incites love and lust in mortals, and increases a human's sense of pleasure- again, much like bacon. (Umm, I wanna meet this "demon"...) Bonus: Cynassa has the power to provide luxurious gifts like spendy perfume and fabrics. He is a minister of the demon Sarabocres and connected to the planet Venus. Three angels, Hanahel, Raquyel, and Salguyel, have power over him.

Why did I choose Cynassa? How could I not? After a week of feeling less than quicksilver doing PA runs in traffic all over the city, I needed a little awesome to feel like myself again. Don't get me wrong- this job saved my life and I love my bosses. But it gave me a new appreciation for how hard the entertainment business is on people. Not because I was doing an entry level job with entry level bagel responsibilities that I thought was long behind me, but because I was doing it with the gift of perspective.

Eighteen months away from a production office is a sizable chunk of time. It's enough time to realize entertainment is what it is. We're telling stories and trying to make people happy. And if you take yourself or the business too seriously, you won't succeed at either for very long. So you enjoy the little things like the word "quicksilver", getting taken to lunch by your boss, and Kevin Bacon.

*Thanks to "Dictionary of Demons: Names of the Damned" by Michelle Belanger. Llewellyn Publications, 2010

Proculo, my newest... zzzzz...

Once upon a time, there lived a not-a-girl-not-yet-a-woman (sorry, I can't be more specific) who was average in most ways, except for the ways she wasn't. She'd rise with the sun, accomplish a ton, check things off her list, til she'd crash with the mist (of night fog. Can't resist a nice rhyme.)

One day, the sun rose, but she didn't. The city awoke, but she didn't. The neighborhood bustled, but she didn't. Her eyes cracked open at the stroke of noon and she breathed, "Ugh..." before rolling over and slipping back under her heavy blanket of sleep. With no other symptoms to indicate she was dying of an exotic sickness, she accepted her new life. Sometimes she'd eat, occasionally she showered, every once in a while she'd crawl to the TV to sleep through DVDs, but for the most part, she succumbed to her newest demon: Mr. Sandman, or officially, PROCULO.

Proculo serves under Hael and Sergulath according to the Grimorium Verum. He is expert on everything sleep, and can knock you out for 24 hours. Proculo also has the gift of prophecy. I'm assuming, likely wrong, that the prophecy thing ties into dreaming.

With the days of sleep I've banked lately, I can only look to Proculo as the cause. Unfortunately, there's no info on how to exorcise him, so I'll either keep sleeping or wake up someday. That I've remained upright long enough to write this is promising.

One thing that's vaguely interesting about having slept the last few days away is that my dreams are so lucid, I feel as if I've been awake. And you, and you, and you, and you were there... so if I mention some nonsense about slaying dragons with you, making out with you, or playing putt-putt golf in Austin with you, just smile and nod.

My Proculo calls...

*Thanks to "Dictionary of Demons: Names of the Damned" by Michelle Belanger. Llewellyn Publications, 2010

St. Valentine's Day Massacre

Unlike all my single girlfriends, I adore Valentine's Day. Relationship status and marketing manipulations be damned, I love hearts, glitter, lace, candy and the color red. They are, in fact, my favorite things in existence (not including certain people, certain animals, certain natural wonders, and Friday Night Lights) so Valentine's Day is actually one of my favorite days of the year.

BUT.

There is something about mid-February that screams death to me. Maybe it's because things I love tend to die about now. Here's an example: Roland the-evil-yet-amazing Fish.

Roland has been at death's door a number of times. In fact, about a year ago I bought the smallest container of fish food (1 oz.), certain he wasn't long for this world. But he's a fighter, dammit, and I was forced to upgrade to the 3.52 oz canister of Tetrafin. Just last Thursday, I threw caution to the wind and bought the 7.06 oz canister- and with that probably signed Roland's death certificate.

Yesterday he became very drifty. Within an hour, he was stuck to the filter, too weak to swim free. In a flash of genius (?), I stuck a knife into the tank and nudged him off the filter, imagining scaring the hell out of him with a sharp cleaver as equivalent to defibrillation. I was supposed to be in the car on my way to Grandma's House, but I couldn't leave him. I watched the life float out of him, float back in, and float out again. Over and over. For a very long time.

Unable to bear it, and dying to beat traffic, I packed my dying friend into a Tupperware, packed his VERY HEAVY tank with all it's extra crap into my car, grabbed the cat and got on the road.

I'm a believer in euthanasia. Pull the plug, spare the pain, and lets start healing. But all that changes when you're forced with the decision and you have a life in your hands. I could have flushed him at home, and I considered it- even if he fought his way back to life, he'd probably like the sewer. I imagined the pollution and excrement serving Roland well, and that he'd come out the other side ten times as big and singing Disney songs. But I couldn't do anything but what I did, which was to take him on a 90-minute road trip and sing showtunes to him from "Wicked," because even though he was ready to leave, I couldn't let go.

Did I call my father sobbing? Yes.
Did my neighbor come knocking on my door because I was crying so loudly as I packed him up? Maybe.
Did I overeact? No.

See, it's my fault. Roland had parasites. I was lazy about getting him treatment. He'd lived with them for so long before I knew what they were, I didn't imagine they could kill him. He was scrappy, tough, a badass- he was a sourvivor. Still deep down, I must heard the clock ticking because I finally bought the correct parasite medicine online 2 days before he died. I was anxious to get them and start proper treatment. I thought I had so much more time with him, and I was wrong.

As I coasted into my grandma's driveway, "For Good" came on my iPod. I uncovered Roland's Tupperware casket still hoping beyond hope that it wasn't my jerking the container that was moving him, but that he'd found the strength to overcome my neglect. I was wrong. I set Maggie in her travel case next to Roland and we had a quiet moment as a family. I cried again, as Glinda and Elphaba honored Roland better than I ever could as they sang to each other, "Because I knew you, I have been changed for good."

Am I still talking about a fish? Yes.


Maggie hunts Roland (the smudge by the filter)

ROLAND the Evil FISH

Swim in Peace, 8/07 - 2/14/11

"Have you tried Harry Krishna?"

I broke my New Year's Resolution today for the first time.

For one month and eleven days I succeeded in journaling and meditating every morning, and not half-assing it either. So today when I found myself ready to kick anyone who annoyed me (everyone) in the face, I surmised it was because I missed meditating.

My day wasn't bad: pole class, chocolate, CostCo, teaching, bestie dinner, and The Muppet Movie (ga-gong, ga-gong, my heart speaks Muppet).

But somewhere past CostCo I developed a pissy, restlessness that felt (feels) like someone's rubbing sandpaper on the back of my neck. My joints are wound tight, aching to karate chop a bitch. A grubby little storm cloud hovers over my third eye. That "somewhere" was Salon.com.

As I fixed lunch, I checked my twitter feed to find this tagline: "I was at the height of my screenwriting career. Too bad I was nearly fifty—and a woman." I knew the story was going to piss me off from the Debbie Downer teaser, but I couldn't help myself. I'm a woman, I'm a writer, and I'm a glutton for getting my buttons pushed. So I read.

The article is an except from a book by Tracey Jackson called "Between a Rock and a Hot Place: Why Fifty is Not the New Thirty," and is essentially a one-page bitchfest from what I presume is a 300+ page bitchfest coming out Feb 15 from HarperCollins. I haven't read the book, so I can't judge it, but I did read the except and I'm DYING to judge it.

Let me start by saying that witnessing someone play the victim is MY BIGGEST EFFING PET PEEVE. I have no sympathy when anyone points to their circumstances for no constructive reason other than to bitch/wallow/whine. Jackson's excerpt does just this.

She begins by qualifying herself with her career track as a female comedy feature writer (yes, very hard job, I certainly wouldn't want to do it). She lists a couple high-profile projects she got replaced on by younger writers until she couldn't get another job and had to resort to pitching BS guys movies and kid stuff. Jackson never indicates anything that motivates her beyond wealth, fame, and recognition.

As I read Jackson's declarations of ageism and sexism, all that kept running through my mind was, "It doesn't have to be." I'm not deluded. Ageism, fine. Sexism, sure. Its the way the world works. Favoritism, nepotism, classism - they are all facts of the business, always have been, always will be. They work in your favor until they don't. My point is, if you buy into the bullshit, you're just as guilty in perpetuating the bullshit. Rise above the status quo and make your own way.

Rather than kowtow in desperation to every whim of the business (3D! Vampires! Matthew McConaughey romcoms!) do something you're passionate about. At least then you can enjoy your work because it means something more than its prospective outcome. What you spend your time on has to amount to more than wealth, fame or recognition, because these qualities are so transitory they barely exist.

I know I'm talking about Hollywood where surface rules, but you know what? I refuse that- if I don't, I'm as bad as Tracey Jackson. I refuse to give up passion. I refuse to give up integrity. If that makes me naive and stupid, good. I hope I stay naive and stupid forever. At least then I'll still play the game my way, instead of buying into the same old bullshit.

It seems Tracey Jackson may have discovered this in some form or fashion, as well: she couldn't get hired to write what she wanted to, she got passionate enough to write a book about her experience, and now, whoop-dee-doo, she's a published author.

If you don't like the rules, make up your own. If you're tired of the game, find a new one. Just don't play the victim. We're so much more powerful than that.