My People

I'd like to talk for a minute about people. Ah, yes. The old art of a person talking to people about the subject of people. That never happens. And it always goes so well.

As I've mentioned before in my blog, I recently got married. My husband and I got married in Las Vegas, near no one we know -- including us. We were incredibly lucky, however, because we still had almost 100 people join us for the wedding. 

I had lots of family there -- because my family is fucking awesome. I had lots of new family there as well because my husband's family also happens to be fucking awesome. I can pick 'em, boy. I also was lucky enough to have a bunch of friends from high school make the journey from Cleveland and considering I had my 20 year reunion last year, it's not like we're all still hanging out during the football games together. I had writing friends of mine fly in -- women I met online 15 years ago who changed my life in so many ways. And I had friends that I share with my husband make the journey for us, as well. 

Basically, yes, I am the queen of everything and have the best friends on the planet earth. Suck it, everyone else. But...

I'm not gonna be talking about any of these marvelous people, though. 

Now, you know, we did a lot of talking in 2015 about raising the minimum wage. Like, a lot of talking. I heard it on the streets (like you do). I saw it on the news. I read it in papers. And I was drenched in it on Facebook. I witnessed a lot of people say a lot of really shitty things about people who hold minimum wage jobs. A lot of people that I would have never expected to be so aggressively angry at minimum wage workers. A crazy amount of people who seem to think that minimum wage jobs are some kind of starter bullshit job that only 16 year old kids work. 

Ah, ignorance. Still alive and well in the 21st century. Alive and beyond well. Fuck, alive and running for president. 

The people I want to talk about here are the group of insanely wonderful people that I worked with for a couple of years, a couple of years ago. This fantastic group of individuals, all of us real live adults, worked at a movie theatre chain in Los Angeles. Educated individuals, hard working vets, people who truly know the definition of the words "work ethic" -- all started at minimum wage and worked for years for a place that gave the bare minimum in raises for even the best of employees. 

5 of them drove in from Los Angeles to join us. By far, the largest turnout from either of our varied work lives. They were ecstatic for me and excited to meet my husband. Dressed to the nines and ready to dance the night away. They were perfect. And honestly, such a highlight of the evening. And I had a good evening. 

These are some of the best, most wonderful people I've gotten the chance to know in my life (and I have no shortage of amazing people surrounding me). These are people that worked suicide shifts on a regular basis, that worked over 40 hours a week a lot of the time, and weren't offered even the most minimal of health insurance coverage. These are all adults who take their jobs seriously, whose goal may have been to move on to other things but are living in reality where that may take longer than you want or expect. And these are people that are not an anomaly. There are more of them. I know. I worked with others fitting this description. 

And these are the people that you're saying don't deserve a living wage.

These are fucking hard-working real people. Good people, caring people, kind people -- people who deserve to be able to do more than simply pay their rent each month and put gas in their cars. 

Every single month I worked at that movie theatre, I struggled. I struggled to pay rent, to buy food, to get medicine. I wasn't eating caviar and living in a loft. I was eating raman noodles and living in an efficiency in Koreatown. And the thing is...I wasn't unimportant. I ran the bar. I was trusted to do the inventory and the ordering. I created drinks and rewrote policy. And I struggled. I struggled living a normal life, living a life that others take for granted. I struggled with my health -- with long hours in a hot kitchen, on your feet all day, some days not having enough time to get home, get a full night's sleep and get back in the morning. 

Here's the bitter reality...what I just described? Straight up, this is the world we live in. You may want to live in a world where only teenagers and senior citizens looking to try something new during retirement work minimum wage jobs and if that's the case, you should start working on changing the world post haste. But right now, here in America, in the year of reality, we have a shit ton of businesses that won't even hire someone under the age of 18 for minimum wage positions (like the one we all had) and chances are, if you see a senior working one of these jobs it's not cause they have more time on their hands than they're used to -- it's because they fucking need the money to cover the ridiculous cost of prescription medication in this country. So for now, maybe rethink some things. Maybe consider that your one-sided view of minimum wage workers might not be that accurate. And, if you're able, have a little compassion for your fellow man, no matter what their station in life. Because if you feel like someone is beneath you, you're probably looking at things upside down.

Johnny Manziel, The Douchebag's Quarterback

Let me be specific about what my blog is going to be about because with a topic as wide as "Johnny Manziel", it could be anything. This blog is going to have absolutely nothing to do with his ability or inability to play the game of football. Because let's face it, if he doesn't give a fucking rat's ass about his game, why should I? 

What I'm going to be talking about is his fucking attitude problem. And by attitude problem what I really mean is his entire personality and every single bit of behavior he displays. Johnny Manziel and his "smell my own farts" view of himself is so typical and unimaginative that we should just expect this kind of shit from young players. 

We have spent decades in this country worshiping professional athletes. Doesn't matter the sport. Almost doesn't matter the gender. If you're even a little bit successful, you've got carte blanche on pretty much anything and everything. 

DUI? Well, who cares.

Beat your wife or girlfriend? Just this once. Or twice. 

Rape a few people? They were probably asking for it. 

Murder? Yup. That's okay too. 

You can do any fucking thing that you want. Feel free to have zero respect for your teammates, fans, loved ones and even yourself. Don't fucking give a shit about anything besides the money you rake in, how many Twitter followers you have and how many paparazzi stalk you. Get yourself a tv show, an endorsement deal, a merchandising gig and your own fragrance. Because everyone knows that professional athletes smell better than anyone. You're not an athlete, you're a fucking MOGUL, baby!

Johnny Manziel is so not the first of his kind. Fuck, he's not the first of his kind in Cleveland. He's not the first of his kind in Cleveland this very minute. And Cleveland is no different than the rest of the country. LA, NYC, big cities and small. No one is immune and things don't seem to be getting any better. I mean, at least athletes have a skill. Plenty of reality stars behave the same way and their only skill involves turning oxygen into carbon dioxide. 

And they probably wouldn't get that joke, either. 

Johnny Manziel wants to go to the Cowboys? Fucking awesome. Take him, Dallas. Please, make him your goddamn problem. We will literally take anyone in return. A player, a coach, the waterboy, Adam Sandler as The Waterboy, what-the fuck-ever you've got lying around. 

And if you don't want him, say so. Tell the press. Tweet about it. Post it on your Facebook page. Sing it from the top of the tallest building in Texas. Let's be vocal about how unbelievably unacceptable this behavior is. Let's send the message that you cannot be a complete fucking dickface just because you're a professional athlete. 

Maybe, just maybe, we can make sure that Johnny Manziel is the last of his kind. After all, we can't stop him from procreating. That's not legal. And let's face it, if it was, we should've started with Mark Wahlberg. At least Manziel's chances for impotence are probably higher because of all the sacks and shit, but the thing is -- we really can't rely on his black and blue balls alone. Let's see if we can't fix this fucking entitlement issue and force professional athletes to behave only as shitty as the rest of us do.

It's My Birthday and I'll Whine If I Want To

I'm a totally reasonable person. I try not to get hung up on petty or trivial things. I take pride in the fact that I don't really care what celebrities are wearing or who anyone is sleeping with. The things that tend to really upset me have more to do with civil rights, health care, violence, poverty, shit like that. 

Now having said ALL of that, I'm turning 40 next week and I fucking hate it. I hate it and I don't want to and I am so totally going to approach this birthday kicking and screaming the whole way. 

Now I do realize that -- and yes, this next part is being delivered to the crowd from my perch on my very own high horse -- I might not feel this way if I had a pair of balls instead of a set of tits and ovaries. Not because there's some kind of property in estrogen that makes this particular birthday difficult but because, basically, men decided a while ago that at the age of 40 a woman's vagina begins to rot out of her body and she no longer serves any sort of purpose for humankind or the subservient animal kingdom. And since we haven't yet reached a time when the vast majority of men (and some women, too) are willing to share this world equally with us uterine folk, what they say tends to go. I'm just lucky that I'm not an actress cause if I was, I'd only get cast opposite Kirk Douglas, Alan Arkin or the second Albus Dumbledore once the big 4-0 hit. 

I do admit to generally liking birthdays, despite the fact that mine is so close to Christmas. I have all the normal triggers that everyone whose birthday is close to Christmas has. One tradition that never gets old: when my best friend gives me my birthday gift, it is ALWAYS accompanied by her pointing out the non-Christmas wrapping paper. And you know what? I fucking appreciate that. But, as I was saying, I do. I like birthdays. I like the fun. I like the attention. Fuck, I like the presents. I'm woman enough to admit that freely. 

But...for reals...I am seriously not liking this one. I remember when I was twenty, thinking to myself that I was halfway to 40 and how fast that first 20 years went. And now the next twenty have gone by. I hope I nail down the ability to savor every moment in the next twenty so it doesn't feel like it's flying by so fast. So I don't close my eyes for what seems like a second only to realize I'm turning 60. 

I have a sneaking suspicion though that this next 20 is going to be amazing. For maybe the first time ever in my life I feel on the cusp of something. I feel like I'm approaching the very beginning of my destiny and instead of pulling at my leash to get away, I'm running towards it. 

So, maybe 40 isn't going to be so bad. Maybe, just maybe, 40 is going to be amazing. Maybe, at age 40, I'll begin to take over the world. And when I do, I'm going to make sure that 40 is no longer "old". 40 will no longer be the age when people begin to decompose and slowly approach irrelevancy. And by people, I mean women. 

40, instead, will be the age when we begin our ascent into a higher plane of existence. 40 will be when a new level of respect is reached and a new, more refined, thought process is developed. 40 will be the beginning of the Age of Enlightenment. 

And, you know, 40 will be when we start becoming our most awesome selves.

Sadie, Sadie, Married Lady

I'll be honest, there's a lot about being married that doesn't feel any different Yet, at least. I don't know how things are going to feel in a year, 10 years, 50 years but so far most everything is pretty much the same. 

Maybe it because my husband and I were living together before we got married. Maybe it's because we're not planning on doing the kids thing so this isn't the first step in a series of monumental changes to our life. Maybe it's because we're both almost 40 and so we both either already feel like grownups or have already come to terms with the fact that nothing is going to make us feel like grownups. 

Maybe though, it's cause I've already felt married. 

I mean, don't get me wrong, this legal thing is a HUGE deal. Despite the fact that we got married in Vegas, we knew perfectly well what we were doing. I know that this, as far as the legal system is concerned, is a binding contract. I know that there really aren't too many decisions bigger than this one. 

I know that signing my name is going to be a bitch for a while. 

But, I also know that even before November 21, my husband had me for life. I've thought a lot about that notion that there's always someone in a relationship that loves the other person more. Truthfully, I've been afraid of that concept for much of my life -- being afraid to be on either end of that spectrum. I felt, though, that logically it made sense. You can't actually love someone the exact same amount that they love you. Impossible!

And now? I realize that it's not like a measuring cup of love. It's not like there's a scale somewhere that can calculate the tiniest difference in the weight of one's love. I realize that things don't work that way. I realize now that there are some couples that are in a race to love each other the most. I realize that some people support each other, love each other and comfort each other so intrinsically that measuring love seems silly and petty and truly unnecessary. I realize now that it's truly possible to be so secure in your partner that you can't imagine measuring your love or his(hers). That when you think about this whole idea, you can't imagine anyone loving someone any more than you love him(her) and then you think about the love he(she) gives to you every single day and you realize that you are literally loved just as much as you love. 

Marriage isn't much different for me yet. That's true. But I still have those moments when I just stop and look around -- when I see men's shoes at the door or get a good look into the master bedroom closets or just glance to my left and see my husband sitting on the cou

ch -- and the 12 year old girl inside of me just giggles and thinks gleefully, "I'm married!! I've got a husband! Holy shit!" And yes, my 12 year old self would've totally said holy shit, just ask my matron of honor. 

I'm pretty psyched about this whole marriage thing. I know it's not going to all be easy but last time I checked nothing about life was. I do have a feeling though that life is going to be a little bit easier with my husband at my side. It's amazing how little I'm afraid of now, not because I think bad stuff can't happen but because I found the person who considers it an honor to battle all of the monsters with me -- someone that I would slay any dragon for. And not only am I not as scared but I'm more brave and powerful than I could've ever imagined. Failure isn't so scary when the existence of the person next to you makes you realize you're always a winner.

Oh Joy! David O. Russell and Friends Are Back!

Could David O. Russell please stop casting the same people in all of his movies? I mean, for real. Like, for real, for real. 

Hey, who was in that movie The Fighter? Mark Wahlberg, Christian Bale, Amy Adams, Melissa Leo.

Hey, who was in Silver Linings Playbook? Jennifer Lawrence, Bradley Cooper, Robert De Niro.

Hey, who was in American Hustle? Christian Bale, Amy Adams, Bradley Cooper, Jennifer Lawrence, Robert De Niro.

Hey, who is in that new movie Joy? Jennifer Lawrence, Bradley Cooper, Robert De Niro. 

For fuck's sake, David O. Russel, it's like you're trying to be the grittier, douchier version of Tim Burton. Except instead of lining up Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter for every single movie, just turn Jennifer Lawrence and Bradley Cooper into every character conceivable. That blueprint has worked out spectacularly for Burton.

I mean, who didn't love and adore the way he made childhood favorites like Alice in Wonderland and Willy Wonka into something straight out of a twelve year old's erotic nightmares?! And I'm sure Steven Sondheim loved what he did with Sweeney Todd, turning him into the most boring story of singing, cosmetology and murder anyone has ever seen! Fuck, instead of slicing throats it would have been easier to just put everyone into a goddamn coma. I saw that movie on my birthday (my motherfucking BIRTHDAY) and I seriously fell a-fucking-sleep after 30 minutes. 30 minutes. And I was looking forward to that movie! Hell, when my roommate woke me up and I gave the movie five more excruciating minutes of my time, I ended up rolling over as much as my theatre seat would allow and I fucking went back to damn sleep. 

Directors falling in love with certain stars and forgetting about everyone else on the planet has always turned out great. Not having to wonder where your next paycheck is coming from has definitely made Johnny Depp a solid choice for me. I mean, I look forward to every sell-out move he makes nowadays, whether it's something from the now-constantly predictable Burton, a 15th Pirates of the Caribbean movie or just drivel like The Tourist or The Lone Ranger.

Leo DiCaprio and Martin Scorsese have gotten into the mix too. I mean, sure The Departed was awesome and I fucking love The Aviator but you know what isn't good no matter what anyone tells you? Gangs of New York. I don't care that Daniel Day-Lewis is in it, so is Cameron Diaz. And don't even get me started on the fuck fest that is The Wolf of Wall Street. Yeah, I said it. And I know that there are a whole host of people who now want to lynch me because of what I just wrote and I get that. Nothing is more deliciously hedonistic than sitting in your underwear on the couch, Cheeto crumbs staining your fingertips and snake hole, jacking off to the wonders of The Wolf of Wall Street. Cause that's all it is -- a gluttonous bull-n-bear wankfest. 

No one is immune to it. It happens to the best pairings of the best in their field. I mean, Splash is 80s awesome and Apollo 13 is pretty fucking rad and Tom Hanks and Ron Howard have done some amazing work throughout both of their careers. And then they did The DaVinci Code and Angels & Demons. 

See what I mean?

But, I'm sure it's gonna be different for David O. Russell and his merry band of followers. I'm sure Jennifer Lawrence's fierce quirkiness or Bradley Cooper's scruffy charm is going to keep shit from going down. Robert De Niro's ability to transform himself into the ever-changing characters from Goodfellas, Casino, Meet the Parents, The Family, Analyze This...wait, what was I saying?  

I'm sure David O. Russell isn't headed down a very well-marked path to directing mainstream dreck starring people who should be doing more interesting work. That couldn't possibly happen. I mean, let's face it, the best way to learn and grow in your art is to work with the same people over and over again. It worked for the royals and their lineage. Nothing bad happened at all when bloodlines didn't mix enough. Besides, working with the same people over and over again has proven successful for some people. Just look at Adam Sandler. There's a guy who can hold his head up high when discussing his impeccable body of work.

I Am...

You know what's a nice little challenge to set for yourself? Blog about panic attacks without having one. Cause, I'll be honest, I don't love telling strangers that I get panic attacks. Fuck, I don't love telling anyone. 

Now, I could say that the reason for this is the stigma behind panic attacks. And that certainly doesn't help -- because despite the fact that people are becoming more aware of how they actually work and that everyone knows someone (probably more than one someone) who's afflicted by them, society at-large doesn't really take kindly to anything that effects your brain or your emotions, let alone both. 

But it's actually my own perfectionism that makes me not want to tell people. I don't like the idea that I can't handle something. It makes me feel weak and inferior. Like, I wasn't given all of the proper tools to function as a human being. It's isolating. At least for me it is. When I'm having a panic attack -- or one is approaching -- other people, no matter who they are, get sucked into the noise of the panic attack and add to the assault on my brain. So, sharing that I get panic attacks with the world -- even when I doubt anyone is going to read it -- is pretty close to a 10 on the scary meter. 

I feel like I need to blog about it though because as someone who's getting married in just about three weeks, the panic attacks are more frequent. Now, before you start to worry, the attacks have nothing to do with the actual getting married part. That part is awesome and the man I'm marrying is the most effective person at helping me with my panic attacks. He's never once judged me about them, which kind of blows my mind cause whether it's true or just feels true having a mental illness in this country (not saying we're worse just saying I only live here) is like setting yourself up to be judged. People assume just about anything they want to when they find out a nugget like this. You can't be relied upon. You can't handle stress. You aren't logical enough. You let your emotions rule you. You're defective. 

And god-forbid you take medication for it, well, you're more than broken...you've given up on yourself. I actually had a friend once who, when I made the big and brave decision to go to a psychiatrist, turned into Tom Cruise before my very eyes -- rallying around the idea that psychiatry was a bunch of crap and more dangerous than anything imaginable. Never once worrying that the most dangerous thing imaginable was saying all of this shit to me -- preaching it, really -- after I had struggled so long to make that harrowing decision like that. 

I have certain triggers -- things that I tend to refer to affectionately as "what makes me twitchy" -- and one of those triggers is money. There have been times in my life when I've been comfortable and times in my life when I've been in fear of homelessness. And I think that once you really think you could be out on the street, that fear of being back there never really leaves you. I hope I'm wrong about that because I'd like to think that someday I might beat this feeling but so far that hasn't happened yet. 

And, of course, you can't plan a wedding without talking about money. All the time. And, more than likely, with people whom you're not comfortable talking about money with -- at least for me. Which kind of puts me in an area where I can have a panic attack at any time. And I can feel them from a mile away. I can feel the oxygen leaving my lungs and my fingers starting to fidget. I can feel myself looking it dead in the eye, wishing like hell that it won't come while knowing the whole time that it's going to. And I can feel the world's disappointment when I can't stop it from happening. 

The stigma is bad. It's so bad that even though this runs in my family, I don't feel like I can tell them. My mom knows but she's the only one I've really told and it took me decades to do that. But when you spend your whole life listening to family members talk about your favorite aunt who passed when you were in high school -- the godmother that you have so much in common with -- and make light of her struggle, it gives you the scars that she can no longer wear. I understand that she didn't make life easy -- not for her or for others -- and I get that sometimes we need to be able to laugh at the things that scare us most or have caused us pain but you just never know who might be listening. 

It's not easy being a human being. We're all broken in some way. And if you don't think you're broken, well, that thought is a neon arrow pointing to those broken pieces. I struggle with depression and anxiety. Every day. It has little to do with how happy I am or my goals or dreams or the love I feel. It just is. I have triggers and crutches and coping mechanisms. I have hopes and fears. I have insecurities -- some that I was born with and others that the world helped to create. 

I am real. I am valid. I am not less of a person because of my struggles. And I say this all as much for you as I do me. Because some days, I can't hear my own voice inside my head, all I hear is the world echoing inside of me. And where mental illness is concerned, those words are generally not positive and soothing. 

Sometimes writing can help me manage a panic attack. Sometimes, not. But regardless, I have a gift and an understanding. It's time for me to stop being afraid of other people's ignorant thoughts. I don't deserve that. No one does. 

I am depression. I am anxiety. I am also intelligence, compassion and strength. I will continue to try and not let others dictate how I feel. I will continue to try to stop being my own worst enemy by broadcasting negative thoughts and words into my own head. I am brave. Things that are easy for other people are not easy for me but there are things that I can rock the hell out of that other people can't. 

We are all different. We are all equal. We're human beings and this isn't math class. There isn't a spreadsheet somewhere that lists all of the things a human being is supposed to have that each of us has to check-off for ourselves. Doing something or handling something better than another person doesn't mean you win. Nothing about you -- on the inside or the outside -- works that way. We may want it to, we may have spent millennia trying to tell people what traits are better to have -- from skin color to gender to how your brain works to who you love or how or if you worship -- but the only trait that really sets us apart is compassion. And if you have it deeply, it can seem like your tragic flaw. You can feel crushed under the weight of it, watching all of the pain in the world and feeling it in your bones. And people will make you feel weak because of it. People with little or no compassion will do all they can to make you feel like there's something wrong with you if you do have it. It's not that the people without compassion have louder voices, our voices are just as loud, but they've been holding the microphone for far too long. People's differences, people's uniquenesses--do not make them less-than. There's no such thing as a human imperfection. Why? Because there's no such thing as a perfect human being. It's not in our genetic makeup. 

I am depression. I am anxiety. I am panic attacks and humor and compassion and intelligence. I am the only version of me that there is. And therefore, I am the template. I am the mold to being the ultimate me. No one and nothing can take that from me as long as I don't let them. And I don't. 

I am proud of who I am. There are things I need to work on and things I need to cultivate. And there are things I need to spread to others because the force is rather strong in me. The force is strong in all of us, we just need to realize that no one is more privy to strength and character than anyone else. 

We, as humans, can make the world the beautiful place that it can ultimately be. But it's all on us. We can't wait for someone to do the work for us. Whether you believe in God or not, it's our job to do not his. And the first step in the process is to tell someone else how great they are. Pick someone you wouldn't normally say it to. Pick a stranger. Pick an enemy. Pick someone who looks like they're having a tough day. Look them dead in the eye and say, "hey, you've overcome a lot and I think that's pretty awesome. I see you doing things that I wish I could do and I'm really impressed. Thanks for adding that to the world."

I am depression. I am anxiety. And I wouldn't change any of it because then I wouldn't be me. And I like me, as Mark Darcy would say, just as I am. 

It's Always Sunny on Criminal Minds

You know what's like seeing a shooting star on the night of a full moon during a leap year while the olympics are going on? A tv show crossover. 

And I'm not talking about those very special episodes that network television loves to do in order to force people into tuning into shows they normally might not watch just to see a split second of a character from one of the shows they do watch. Look Dr. Ross and Dr. Carter are having a double date with Rachel and Monica! No biggie that ER took place in Chicago and Friends in NYC. Oh, isn't life on tv adorable! 

What I'm talking about is when you're watching one of your favorite tv shows and all of a sudden, you're inside one of your other favorite shows. 

This happened to me last week.

I was watching a Criminal Minds episode on Netflix. One, I feel is only fair to point out, that I've seen a bunch (like every other Criminal Minds episode). I'm not sure what was different about this time. I must've been looking up at the screen at just the right part, paying attention where I otherwise might be dicking around on my computer -- because truthfully I think and write better when I have noise on in the background and CM is one of the shows that I'll just let play while I work. Whatever it was...I watched as the unsub (CM lingo *wink, wink*) rounded the corner, his peacoat wrapped around him and his Clark Kent glasses secure on his head, and I stared on in amazement as he walked right fucking past Paddy's Pub. 

For reals, yo'.

He walked right past the entrance to Paddy's. Now, I know what you're going to ask. No, there was no sign. Come on, dummy. This is Criminal Minds and the team wasn't even supposed to be in Philadelphia. There was no Sweet Dee or Mac, Charlie or Dennis. Frank wasn't drinking wine out of a can and Rickety Cricket wasn't huddled by a dumpster. But fuck, if that killer wasn't about to stab someone right outside of Paddy's Pub! 

I was motherfucking delighted. Granted, I couldn't pay attention to the rest of the scene at all. The next thing I knew the story had moved on to the next plot point while I was busy looking up and down the street for a makeshift shanty town. But it was delicious. Those, probably, two minutes where two of my favorite shows collided was just goddamn lovely. Yes, it took me out of the show I was watching for a few minutes but that was okay. It was glorious and I loved it. 

This just doesn't happen often enough. Maybe if I wish real hard in two months time as I go to blow out my birthday candles, the next season of American Horror Story will take place in Stars Hollow!!