Vicarious Rising

The Film Doctor

I love movies. Reading this blog, you probably wouldn't get that sense. I haven't written much about movies here. In fact, I really haven't watched many movies of late.

I'm not a huge fan of going to movie theaters. I do love movie popcorn and can eat over a bucket of the stuff all by my lonesome (keep in mind I only weigh about 100 lbs., but that stuff is all air, I tell you) and I dig the big screen and sounds. But I hate all the people around me and hate that I feel stuck in my less than optimal seat.

The new house has a media room that is not yet furnished that should resolve a good deal of my movie issues. The primary problem remaining that I have to wait to see movies until they are available on demand or DVD. But since I haven't been going out to see movies in the theater of late anyways, that's hardly a sacrifice.

Today, however, was an exception. We got tickets to "Iron Man" - on of the special digital showing and we drove a little further to go to one of the stadium seating theaters.

The movie kicked ass. Go see it. I have a little crush on Robert Downey Jr. I am so glad he's stayed sober. Hope he continues his success.

So, now maybe since I have gotten bored with blogging about my recovery I will return to an old, old old idea I had to write about movies. See, I pretty much can find things I like about every movie. But, of course, there are ways things could be improved much of the time. So, I had thought it might be fun to blab endlessly about how to fix what was broken in movies, hence the name "Film Doctor."

Ok, writing that out sounds really pretentious, but well, it still might be fun.

Zoltar Says I Sleep Too Much

Alrighty, so, here's some pics from my L.A. trip., starting with the view from my hotel room of the Grauman Chinese Theater. A couple are from the L.A. zoo, Universal Studios and one is of the restaurant Cicada where we had dinner our second night. For those of you into movie scenes, this was a setting for at least two movies I know of: Mr. & Mrs. Smith and Pretty Woman. The night we went was some sort of speakeasy night. Very fun, although we didn't know we were supposed to wear flapper gear. We gawked instead. My photo of the Betty Boop-like singer came out crap, so I didn't include it.

Zoltar (famed by the movie Big with Tom Hanks) was on Santa Monica Pier. He really did say that if I kept sleeping in like I do, life would pass me by. Stupid fortune teller.

My son wouldn't go near Zoltar. Hee.

He did, however, gladly feed the hippo.

The foot and handprint in the cement are from the late, great Humphrey Bogart. I adore him. My husband took a picture of me with my hand in his handprint on a different camera. *Happy sigh*

Contentment Content

I haven't been feeling like blogging lately. It's funny how when things are going well, the need to gab dries up. I think some of it has to do with my inclination to keep my good news to myself, but generally speaking, I think most people tend to not gush on and on when life is good.

At any rate, spring time has begun on the top of my little hill here. I'm enjoying the changing of season and my amateurish antics at gardening and furniture assembly.

I still want to put up pics of my LA trip. We got to feed the hippo and rhino at the LA zoo because my husband's cousin has a friend who works there. It was the coolest thing and I got great photos of the animals.

In other news, my sister is getting married in October. I am happy for her. I think. I haven't met the guy. He can't be worse than the last guy she married. Right?

Hollywoodized

I'm back from my trip to L.A. It was fabulous. I'll try to get some of my photos posted this weekend if anyone is interested.

L.A. is a really interesting place. Its vibe is not really what I expected: anorexized, plastic and cruel. People were friendly and seemed upbeat. I liked it. Can't say I'd want to move there, but I wouldn't mind spending more time hanging out.

Speaking of hanging out, my son spent about 15 minutes lounging around in the lobby of our hotel about 10 feet from M.C. Hammer and had no clue who he was until the hotel staff told us. No parachute pants to tip us off. Some megawatt white Nikes though. My son is so bummed he didn't get to touch M.C. Hammer. I told him he can still tell his friends he hung out with him.

Mr. Hammer was waiting for the valet to get his car and for the rest of his posse. Yes, he did have a posse. They all seemed like pretty well behaved posse people, including the Hammer-man himself. They all drove off in a big black hummer with the license tag "LOOK 3Xs". No comment about that cause it would be rude to say anything about flagging careers. It would've done Mr. Hammer good to introduce himself to the 13 year old to get a fan in the new generation.

As if.

One funny thing that happened was when we drove up to the Hollywood Roosevelt in our chauffeured car (with a license plate that said DIVA, no less), a bunch of college guys were peering into the tinted windows trying to see who was in our car. I sat there giggling thinking how disappointed they were going to be. Considered throwing a jacket over my kid's head and rushing him inside. When we stepped out, one of the college kids said, "aw, it's just some chick." This made my day because I am very glad to still be considered a chick. He could have said, "aw, it's just some nobody" or "it's just some loser" or "it's just some slag/troll/cow/hag/bitch." I'll take chick with a big smile.

Oh, and because I failed to mention it, this wonderful adventure was the grand prize for a Burn Notice drawing. For those of you who missed the television show Burn Notice's season one last summmer, they just started rerunning the program on Thursday nights on the USA Network. It starts season 2 in June. I can't wait. My massive crush on Michael Westen has been soothed a bit by winning this prize, but I've been irked by having to wait so long for another fix of the show.

High Life

If anyone remembers a post from about two months ago, I won a trip to L.A. thanks to one of my favorite television shows. Welp, my son and I are off for our vacation tomorrow. The trip was supposed to include a meet-n-greet with one of the show's stars, but because of the writers strike and some other timing issues, that part of the grand prize will not be happening. Kind of a bummer, especially since I have a minor crush on the show's star. However, we will be staying at the Hollywood Roosevelt and dining at some rather excellent places courtesy the show and the USA Network. This chica is mighty excited.

Perhaps not so ironically, I didn't really want to share my good fortune with my family. I feel like they have this idea in their heads that I am "lucky". Or, perhaps better put, that I have an imbalance of too much good. Which is not to say they are deprived because they are far from it. But they have a way of making me feel terribly guilty when nice things happen to me. So, I tend not to tell them about them.

Actually, I tend to not tell them about much of anything. It seems safer to ask them about themselves and cluck at the appropriate times.

One of the big changes through recovery has been to allow myself to enjoy when good things happen to me. To not expect the hand of god to reach down and punish me for feeling joy and pleasure in the nice things around me. To indulge in the idea that maybe, just maybe, I do deserve a nice life for no other reason than that I am a nice person.

It really isn't funny how much time I spent destroying myself for every good thing that came my way. I really was my own worst enemy. In some ways, I got worse as I got better in my early recovery. I wonder if others have experienced that struggle. I'm sure many have. As I began to recognize reality and separate myself from what I had been told about myself, there was a real internal war going on that at times I wasn't sure I was going to survive.

It's too bad my family cannot share in my happiness. It would be nicer for me if I could share my life with them. But I have adapted, if not quite accepted.

Now, off to the land of make-believe. I'll try not to gawk like a total tourist. As if.

Let it Rain

My therapist and I are in the process of breaking up. It's a very strange thing to do with deliberation and discussion. I imagine this is the way we are supposed to grow up and leave home. But I think it seldom happens in this way. It is an unusual experience, and rather uncomfortable. I feel a lot of discordant emotions, pleasure and guilt, excitement and fear. But I think in the end sum, it feels right. It feels time.

Nearly.

Decorating my home has been a joy interspersed with headaches along the way. Most of the headaches seem to be shipping related, and unfortunately cannot be pegged on just one shipping company. This has me rather disgruntled, particularly since I am rather in love with online shopping. It give me the opportunity to patronize independent artisans and smaller boutique shops and discover new things the world over. But the merchandise needs to arrive and arrive in one piece. I never had much of a problem (except for the mail lady who smoked incessantly so everything smelled of cigarettes and she also would never bring packages to the door even when we were home: she always left the "sorry we missed you" slip in the mailbox right before I'd watch her drive off in her USPS truck.) until recently. I don't know what the deal is, but it isn't like everybody is spending tons of money shopping. You'd think the delivery folk wouldn't have much else to do but get their jobs done right.

One lovely item that just arrived is this Zen Rain Drop glass mobile I purchased from Leah Pellegrini's Glass Creations on Etsy. My office faces south and gets quite a lot of sunlight. I think this will look beautiful hanging in the windows over my desk.

Leah included a little business card-sized note on her inspiration of the mobile's design, and I thought I would share it because it reflects some of what I have been going through the past several months.:

In this image of lotus leaves in the early morning, we can see in the rippling of the water that one drop has just fallen. It is a precious moment, and one that is full of poignency. In surrendering to gravity and slipping off the leaf, the drop loses its previous identity and joins the vastness of the water below. We can imagine that it must have trembled before it fell, just on the edge between the known and the unknowable.

~Osho Zen Tarot

Leah says to "remember to let go and your life will thank you". I like the imagery of the lone, trembling drop of water setting itself free. But I don't like to think of it as wiping out its entire identity. Rather, that it is joining the part of itself it had been separated from, that it is being made whole. I kind of have to wonder if the vastness below is any more knowledgeable than the lone drop above. Or does it too change beyond the impact of superficial ripples when hit by the droplet? Maybe it doesn't matter. And I'm not so sure about surrendering to gravity. I'm not in any hurry to get wrinkles. But the rest sounds good.

There I go, ruining a perfectly good metaphor with literal interpretation. I'm having a hard time taking myself too seriously these days. I think that's progress.

Things I Can't Swallow

I generally like eating most things. But I ran into these at the grocery store and can't come up with a good explanation for them. They're broccoflower (which you've probably heard of) and orange cauliflower. I ask you, why? The damn things look like Play-Doh food. My phone photo don't do them Technicolor justice. The orange was really pastel carrot orange. Ick. Thought about buying them to make my son eat them, though. Because I am not very nice.

I suppose I could accept these mutations of vegetables as they are, victims of some sort of well-intentioned science experiment or perhaps a marketing scheme. I don't care to guess or investigate. It's not the brocco-orange-cauliflower's fault for being as it is. I should have compassion for its facsimile of appearance as an edible item. It too is sufferring. Maybe by seeing a pervasion of mutations everywhere, mauling the good vegetable kingdom of no fault of its own or the victims partaking in eating the vegetables, I can find peace of mind in my own corner of the world. I am not the only victim of unreal tinted vegetables. It's no one's fault things got out of hand. We should just accept the evils that happen, open our eyes to the pain and close our eyes to the fact that we are all still being poisoned. 'Cause there's no one to blame, no one taking responsibility. We're all just ingesting and being saints.

Yep.

I think I'll pass on the crazy colored engineered veggies.

Obviously this is hyperbole. I'll probably eat the weird brocco-shit and like it. It's supposed to be nutritionally better for you than regular cauliflower, the orange one with beta-carotene and crap. Clearly, I'm irked by something other than the molestation of leafy greens. But it was a fun analogy even if it isn't a perfect one.

Fallibility of Perfection

I was reading an article in the March/April issue of Psychology Today that suggested that "perfectionism is a crime against humanity" because adaptability is the characteristic that enables survival. Perfectionism, on the other hand, is rigid and, by extension, blocks evolution. If you are seeking one specific "perfect" result, you are stuck in a pattern that inhibits your creativity, innovation and risk taking.

The article also states that success hinges more on how you handle getting things wrong than on what you get right.

Heh. I knew all my flailing around wasn't for naught. All my mistakes? Testing ground for growth, adaptability and assimilation of knowledge. I'm a survivor. I can't spend too much time stuck in one place trying to get things picture perfect. I think that the "ideal" is something fluid rather than a fixed goal. Progress would never be made if we all just accepted things as they are, never looking beyond, wondering if something greater could be achieved.

I guess I don't know where I'm headed, just that I think it is in a positive direction. That's cool with me. When I trip, as I know I will, I will look to see what I did wrong, make adjustments, acknowledge my errors and change.

Because I am So Superspecial -- All About Me

The other day I declared myself positively boring on this very blog, so maybe I can debunk my own claim by filling out this self-absorbed meme. The amazing Lea Jacobson of Geisha, Interrupted tagged me. For those of you who haven't been to her blog, you should visit her droll diary of experiences as an expat in Japan. Also, Lea's memoir, Bar Flower, will be published in a few weeks. Click here to order it from Amazon.com. I pre-ordered mine ages ago.

Lord knows why Lea'd want to know anything about my upstate New York mom-of-a- teen-boy life. But, hey, I'll take any compliment I can get because I am that deprived and pitiful. Now that I have sufficiently lowered expectations, here are the sordid details of my secret life as a horny housewife:

What I was doing 10 years ago

Living off crazy South Street in Philadelphia and attending the Wharton school for my MBA. My son was 3-years-old and I was one of only three mothers in the grad program. This was out of a total of 750 enrolled. We three were the most exhausted of any of the students, and I am not saying this for dramatic effect. All the men with kids had wives who stayed at home with the kiddos during the program. My husband and one of the other mother's husband was also in the MBA program. The other woman commuted daily from Princeton, NJ so her daughter could stay in school there and her husband could keep his NYC job. Some days we three ladies would just bleerily eye each other and mumble, "no one else understands."

I hated, hated, hated business school. My drinking became an increasing problem. Everyone kept telling me I would never regret getting an Ivy League MBA, that it was a terrific opportunity and my ticket to the big time.

I should have listened to my inner voice that wanted out. Ten years later, all I have is the student loan payments (although those are nearly done, but Ivy League tuition? Pricey. Especially when you follow it up with quitting your first job out of school within 3 months and not ever stepping foot in the corporate world again.), an impressive diploma and dubious bragging rights that I drag out every so often to remind myself that everyone else does not know better than me what is best for me, no matter how pretty the credentials look on paper in the eyes of people who don't see through mine.

I did love Philadelphia, however. I miss the food there. Not the smell of South Street on Sunday morning, though. And I missed the Easter Zombie Pub crawl this year. Bummer.

Later in the year, went for a semester abroad in Milan, Italy. Was the only thing that made going to grad school remotely worthwhile.

5 years ago

Living in the middle of New Jersey (shoot me) and selling US made handbags to vendors in Japan, Taiwan and Korea on eBay. Was a surprisingly entertaining venture, although I spent all my earnings. Had stopped drinking for a year, but not in a program. Buried up to my eyeballs in pretending normalcy. Would pick up again in about a year.

1 year ago

Probably about what I am doing now, hanging out in West Palm Beach, Florida and blogging. My son keeps asking me to play games with him and I keep refusing despite the massive guilt trips. Yep. Same scene. Not a bad scene.

Yesterday

One change in this year's agenda was that I got to see my husband's grandmother from Iowa, who is visiting. That was a treat. She's a phenomenal person. She still handwrites letters, writing things as simple as: "It's 5 a.m. and there's still frost on the ground. The brown squirrel has been searching for nuts, but has given up for the morning. It might snow tomorrow. Made a batch of snickerdoodles and thought I'd send some to you. Made a pie too, from some cherries Wendi and I bought at the Barnes store, but pie wouldn't ship well, now would it?" I adore her.

5 snacks I enjoy

1) Popcorn (not microwave popcorn)
2) Wint-o-Green Lifesavers
3) Rolds-Gold Pretzels
4) Swedish Fish
5) Cheese and fruit - all kinds, even if I can't pronounce it - either the fruit or the cheese. I'll take jams, jellies, compotes, crackers and fancy breads too

5 books I like

1) My big, old dictionary that my husband rescued from being recycled or trashed (sacrilege!)
2) The Stand, Stephen King
3) Drawing from the Right Side of the Brain by Betty Edwards
4) Any fairytale or mythology book from any country, especially by Andrew Lang, Ruth Manning Sanders, the Brothers Grimm and subsequent updates by Neil Gaiman, or any books with gorgeous illustrations, plus Roald Dahl
5) J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter books (this feels like a cop out, but I did love them. there are many, many other books I have loved. I have a rather large library)

What I'd do with 100 million dollars

1) Pay off all my debt.
2) Finish doing all the stuff to my house and yard that I want to get done.
3) Get a new car. Probably a Mini Cooper. My 1999 Toyota 4-Runner has over 100,000 miles and is great here in snow country, but the CD player died about a month ago. That won't do.
4) Set up some sort of investment to live comfortably on and possibly generate some extra money to continually....
5) Give the rest to various charities and environmental concerns, local farmers, small business loans to developing nations, etc.

.....because $100 million won't be enough, but maybe in perpetuity I can do some good. But a girl's gotta live.

5 places I'd love to run away to

1) My Dream House (of course!)
2) Emilia-Romagna, Italy
3) Provence, France
4) Fiji - why not? Actually, I'd probably rather go some place in Asia or maybe back to Turkey. But not permanently.
5) Someplace beautiful I've never seen, but I'll know it when I see it. It's there. I know it. I need to travel more.

5 bad habits and pet peeves I have

1) Pet peeve: bullies
2) Pet peeve: people who write the word "then" when they should be using "than"
3) Pet peeve and bad habit: people who interrupt/interrupting people.
3.5)Pet peeve: being poked to get my attention
4) Bad habit: staying up too late and sleeping too late
5) Bad habit: picking at scabs

5 things I like doing

1) Writing, reading, learning
2) Drawing and painting
3) Cooking and gardening
4) Torturing my son
5) Just being

5 things I would never wear

1) Lilly Pulitzer clothes
2) Fur
3) Birkenstocks or Tevas
4) A blouse with a big bow at the neck
5) A t-shirt with hateful images or sayings

5 TV shows I like

1) Buffy the Vampire Slayer
2) Burn Notice
3) House
4) Angel
5) Dexter

5 movies I like

1) Moulin Rouge
2) Gladiator
3) Heathers
4) Jaws
5) Casablanca (anything with Bogie)

5 famous people I'd like to meet

1) Freddie Mercury
2) Joss Whedon
3) Angelina Jolie
4) Queen Elizabeth I
5) Jesus (and not because I am a believer, but, man, am I ever curious)

5 People I'd like to see fill this out

1) Confessions of a Serenephobic
2) Mantramine
3) Pat of Child Lost
4) Slutty McWhore
5) Syd of I'm Just F.I.N.E.

I Swear It Wasn't Because of a Baule Fetish

I've never been one for small talk. When I was a youngun, my best manner of survival was being as quiet and unseen as possible. So, while my interior world was usually quite busy, it was rare for it to crack my exterior.

When I drank, of course, there was leakage. I became more likely to share what was happening in my head. I don't know if this was to the horror or delight of my companions or anyone within 20 feet of my viscinity, but in general I don't think it was a bad thing. I was a congenial drunk, cheerful, very smiley and a bit of a smart ass. I think. At least that's how I remember it.

My therapy session have been more and more of a strain for me because I don't really have anything to bring up for discussion. In my mind, therapy is for, well, problems. Since I don't feel any particular angsty things I need to talk about, I am left wanting to ask my doc about his personal life. Which of course isn't appropriate. Well, I do ask in the most polite of manners and he'll small talk and it's all so... dry and dull.

Today he brought up that maybe we could talk about why it is so painful for me to just talk about how I am if nothing is happening. Now, you tell me, but this seems sort of stupid to me.

Yet at the same time, I get this weird niggling feeling, like I get when I read posts like the one Slutty McWhore wrote the other day about an intense meeting with a stranger. I get this feeling that I have all these plate tectonics moving around in the lava under my skin, ready to erupt, but it just isn't coming out at the surface. And for some reason, that mask of steel I've got on my outside still isn't budging. But I feel fine. I really do. But I can't say I feel connected to anyone else.

Does any of this make sense?

I think that I am still in a place where I am not able to relate to other people well at all. The only way that I ever feel truly connected to others is when I write. And I don't just mean blogging, I mean when I write fiction, I feel closer to human beings, when I am relating to made up characters. I wonder if there is something inherently mental about that. Because I also know whenever I try to make a character similar to me, she is the singularly most boring character on the planet. And she has absolutely nothing to say.

Much like me in my therapy sessions.

It's almost like there is a part of me that thinks the world is interesting, what I observe in the world is interesting, but I, alone, am not enough to hold interest.

Swell.

I started this post because I was on the hunt for a chair for my new office. I'd bought one, but it is too short for my desk. I'd done a search on eBay for "cane chairs" because I was liking some French chairs that featured caning in the backs. Inexplicably, the search turned up this Fine African Art Senufo Zoomorphic Stool pictured (you can click on the link to see the listing on Ebay). Some of the description mentions some yadda yadda about baule fetishes and somesuch, but I don't see the word cane or chair. I sort of like the critter, but I don't think it's a suitable desk chair. A little out of my budget too, at $2,350.

I decided to post because absurdities make my day. I don't know why something like this, finding a piece of African Art while I was looking for a French chair, tickles my fancy so much, but it is part of what I love about life. And one of the things I genuinely like about myself. Maybe just the brief thought of me sitting on that bugger, too low to see the computer screen, typing away whilst trying to look serious gives me the giggles. I'm never too old to giggle.

That's my small talk for today.

On the Lookout

I wanted to post today just because, oh I dunno. Just to say hi. I haven't got anything in particular to say. It's just that people of our ilk have a way of disappearing, and I think often that means we're doing things we're not supposed to. Or at least, that is what I worry. At least one of my favorite blogging buddies has taken her blog down and not answered emails, and I am really worried. I can't help but think how I would act if I were not being good to myself.

So, not that anyone out there is asking for it, I am checking in just because there ain't nothing going on with me. Well, not precisely true, but that's all I am sharing. Heh.

Rolling With It

"In spite of illness, in spite even of the archenemy sorrow, one can remain alive long past the usual date of disintigration if one is unafraid of change, insatiable in intellectual curiosity, interested in big things, and happy in small ways."

~Edith Wharton, A Backward Glance

I've been contentedly puttering around my new home, slowly arranging things in my nest. Saturday my husband and I celebrated our 11th anniversary. We went out for Indonesian food and had a really nice dinner in each others' company.  My son is really liking the new place. We all are.

I am glad I feel really and truly present to enjoy all that I have. I'm not sleepwalking through my life anymore.