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