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Monday, 07 May 2012

  • Love Through Touch

    It was all I could do not to pass out. I felt the familiar anxiety-induced tingling sensation running through my brain I've come to know too well in recent years. The pungent, stale air brought over a wave of nausea that I fought to get under control. I had just wandered through a labyrinth of linoleum floors, cluttered with food carts and mopping pails. I waited for a crowded elevator that stopped on every floor before my destination with no one getting on. Whatever good I was about to offer was losing the mental battle that wanted me to bolt to the nearest exit. But it had taken fifteen minutes just for me to get an elevator to take me to the seventh floor of this home for the aging. The definition for "subacute unit" as offered in my Google search the night before was mild in comparison to what awaited me.

    In my latest effort to improve myself and give to others, I've committed to volunteering at least once a week. And for this week, the task at hand was to provide manicures and pamper seniors in a "subacute unit." When I made it to the recreation room, there were eight seniors in wheel chairs (some more conscious than others) and two volunteers. An episode of "Family Feud" blared throughout the room, though only one senior and an employee seemed to be engaged.

    "Name a place that's hot, crowded, and smelly," the host declared. The clearly suburban female contender on TV quickly piped in, "The mall!" She received a blaring, red X, while her competition scored the number one answer, of the "subway." If the word "crowded" was omitted, the room we occupied may have scored the number one spot. The heavy air reeked of bodily fluids, decay, and a salty-rich smell I could not identify. I joined the two other volunteers and leaned against a cracked window, taking what little fresh air I could and now grateful for the same winds I bemoaned on my walk to the nursing home as they provided a sliver of relief. I ran through all the possible positive thoughts I could to somehow quell my dizziness and discomfort. I imagined myself or a loved one being in their position and envisioned how I would like to see us treated at that stage of life.

    Our team leader entered. She was an older woman herself, smiling broadly and toting her own portable seat. Her energy transformed the room and she calmly took my hands and warmly greeted me.

    "Thank you for coming today. We're here to treat all our special ladies and gentlemen like kings and queens. Some of them may communicate with you, but some will just sit and enjoy being pampered. We're here to show them love through touch."

    Love through touch. My mother has always been a touchy person. In fact, she puts such intensity behind it that I've been known to squirm and resist. I've never been comfortable with it. But she is a natural caregiver. She can handle bodily fluids, sick people, and the down and out with a loving, calming connection that was not passed on to her eldest daughter. This was one of the reasons I opted for an experience that would take me completely out of my comfort zone and push me to be more comfortable with the uncomfortable. To connect, to be aware, and to appreciate all that I have.

    "You may notice the smells," our leader continued. Thank God, I wasn't the only one. "All of our guests are in diapers and they may need to be changed. But if you can stand the smell, we won't be here for very long and if they have to leave right away to get changed, well, then they miss out on being pampered. So do the best you can."

    Amen. In a moment like this I needed the honesty and encouragement. I was assigned to a woman with snow white hair, who acknowledged me but could not speak. I carefully removed her nail polish, which already appeared immaculate in spite of being a week old. I couldn't go two or three days without having to completely redo my own. I remembered how much I envied my great grandmother with her long, tough-as-steel fingernails. She used to always complain they needed a trim all the while I spent money buying potions to make mine like hers.

    There were moments when I was overcome by the smell and the warmth of the room. When I felt anxious to be holding a stranger's worn hand, as she kindly would look to me and let me do whatever I needed to. Her vulnerability frightened me. I did not know this role very well. But I committed myself to doing the best manicure I could. I left her with a vibrant shade of pink on her strong, long nails. And I left the nursing home with a new spark aglow within me. I may not ever get to the level of caregiving my mother offers the world, but I can feel myself expand just a little more each time I volunteer. As much as the studies conclude our personalities are essentially set in stone between 25 and 30 years of age, maybe there is a chance to change if we are willing. Or so I'm trying to prove this year.

     

Friday, 20 April 2012

  • Title-less Musings

    Narcissism sweeps through today's batch of latest ramblings, querulous insights, and status updates. Snarky sentences and critiques are so ubiquitous that I can't even vent without feeling like I'm no longer original (insert my moment of narcissism). How I miss the days when no one I knew even had a blog and we were referring to our Xanga sites as a "new place for writers." Now it's a place for everyone. So I've abstained from writing anything to abstain from being another loud voice in a noisy forum of endless chatter. But how I miss the random entry, full of updates that only my mother would care to tune into (and maybe a few former nosy lovers along the way). Without said forum, I find my mind-chatter interferes in my zen moments of walking the dog, yoga, and banging away on my piano.

    So here we go. Let's begin with the exciting news. This year, my new musical duo, Mirabelle is performing at Night of a Thousand Stevies at the Highline Ballroom. It's such a treat to be able to perform on a night of scarf-twirling, glitter infested, Stevie Nicks-inspired grandeur. Our project, "Crystal Revisions" has received so much positive energy (if not yet from Stevie herself) and if you haven't downloaded it yet, go to www.crystalrevisions.com. It's free to download and perfect for the upcoming BBQ and beach weather heading our way. 

    I've committed to a plan, in my often unpredictable life, to ground myself in routine. This means working out more, volunteering more, learning more, and expanding my horizons. Thanks to LiveMocha, I've started learning German. Thanks to NYSC, I've made the commitment to work out every day of the week. Now, it doesn't necessarily pan out that way, but I read that it's better to do something every day than to convince yourself you'll do it a few times a week. When I committed to three days, I found that I'd inevitably find a way to weasel myself out of a day here or there. By pushing for everyday of the week, no longer can I procrastinate until tomorrow. I just have to find the time today. And volunteering comes as I've begun to question my path and my contributions to the world. I feel we are so incredibly off course as a culture. With all the good things that can be done, so many hours are wasted doing absolutely nothing to better the lives of ourselves and others. I've been spending time with more seniors, who give us such a rich perspective of the circle of life and what's important. What a lifetime will amount to. In my brief visits, it always amazes me the moments that the seniors tend to relive in conversation and regret in passing.

    I've started to tell the truth about my age. Obviously, those in the biz who are reading this, or anyone I deal with in "that world" are getting spoon-fed lies because money is involved and the entertainment industry just perpetuates the bullshit that youth is where it's at and we should all do everything possible to preserve the face of a 21-year-old. I turned 30 this year. And I fucking love it (sorry, Mom, who informed me that children occasionally read the f-bomb on my blog. This is NOT a blog for children and never has been, but additionally, any child in society today has inevitably heard a few f-bombs if they've left home more than once or twice). But being 30 is great, as the requirement to maintain a twenty-something stereotype slips away. I've promised to blog about my experiences with ageism that began as early as 20 for me (and I in fact began lying about my age to appear younger at 20) and will get to that at some point. But considering I still get id'ed wherever I go and occasionally hit on by young punks, I'm fine with it. And working out every day has only guaranteed I'm in the best shape of my life, as opposed to when I was a far more voluptuous 20-year-old pretending to still be 19. It's amusing that I felt such a need to hang onto youth when every girl-crush I've ever had has been on a woman in her mid-forties or older. Go figure. I'd also pledged to go blonde at 30, but considering there's nary a grey hair in my head, I may have to hold off another decade, when it will make more sense. 

    Aging is also great because my objectives have changed. My source of joy has been redirected and my angst about hurrying up success has been refocused to redefine the success I want in my life. Amen for that. It's so interesting to really look at and understand the life paths of people I've aspired to emulate are really crappy and miserable. And that perhaps what I wanted before really isn't as fulfilling or fun as I once imagined. I wonder, if like many of my new senior friends, that the times I will most adore and long for will be the days I dreamt my dreams in lieu of the days I realized them. Chances are, yes.

Thursday, 19 January 2012

Thursday, 05 January 2012

  • 2011: A Review, And Could You Come Back Please?

    Typically I write an annual year in review, specifically highlighting the adventures, feats, and gratitude of what came to me in that year. These reflections are always accompanied by an overly optimistic zeal shining towards the new year with the potency of a "Care Bear Stare." This year I made the mistake of not writing such an entry sooner, and whatever rainbows and money trains I imagined flying out my ass in 2012 have taken a nose-dive into the shitter. Not a few hours into the New Year did my boyfriend contract a nasty cold and eye infection that still lingers and has happily hopped from one blue eye to the next, infecting me. Although, red eyes make for blue to become even more vibrant in the gorgeous contrast of an unhealthy eye. I left 2011 with volcanic passion and a dedication to return to writing. I actually started a script on the dreadful life of a "fake girl," a catchphrase that has become my implied moniker as I loan my body parts to films and commercials that aim to capitalize on the victims, whores, and objectified women that are written for us gals lucky enough to land a break in "the biz." And just as smoke shot out my ears in this manic episode of creation, I was swept away into the malaise of the holidays, dragging my spirit down with excessive sodium, fat, and human interactions. My one goal was to find a quiet place of self-reflection, where I could write, find my bearings, and make some really "serious" choices. Instead, I've been so busy dealing with everyone else that my deep thinking days have been exchanged for incessant mind jumps and thoughts of whatever ridiculous, outrageous life change I should take. Be a flight attendant and move to Belgium? Abandon New York and live in the countryside of Vietnam teaching English as a happy ex-pat? Move to Hawaii and live in a van, selling trinkets and busking for tourists? Donate my eggs for the sum of $10,000 for a family that has the means to adequately raise a child as opposed to me, who may never have the right "time' and opportunity to bear my own? Go kick ass in corporate America, sell my soul, only to be sliced and diced with budget cuts as my boyfriend and all the other men from my past who have been laid off repeatedly in this ever-improving economy? Or maybe I can just dig a nice ditch and bury myself with cement and sand, because whenever my heart is heavy and burdened, there is nothing I wish for myself than to be covered with the weight of something else. But perhaps I'm not so bad off. My boyfriend has been dealt a lay-off, head cold, pink eye, and pure vitriol from his worrisome girlfriend in the first six days of the year. That feels like a fucking winning year to me.

     

    But alas, per my annual agenda, I must clear the disasters of the new year and reflect on 2011. I didn't think it was such a great year, but after 2012's shit storm, I'm beginning to think it may not have been so bad. So here we go.

     

    The highlights:

    #1.  I returned to songwriting. Not only did this little passion of mine resurface, it came in unexpected moments. The boyfriend and I wrote our first song together called "Cold and Incomplete." I also wrote a song for the recent album "Crystal Revisions" that pays tribute to Stevie Nicks. It's called "Crestfallen" and it is the first song written purely from the love and longing for a different era and the great things Stevie Nicks, and the greats before me, have managed to accomplish.

    #2. I went to Jamaica. For the first time, the boyfriend and I had a real vacation and we relished in every morning swim and snorkeling session, every moment we carefully avoided the visiting teen-aged schizophrenic at the resort, and every halfway decent rum cream concoction we managed to come up with. And, oh, the sunsets. They were such a blessing.

    #3. My dog became completely potty trained. Yeah, he even exceeded my goals of having him trained to a box. I gave him an easy out but this little punk chooses to hold it and await our five-flight trek down the stairs onto the often cold, wet, or smelly concrete sidewalk. And for that, well, I love him. On the other hand, he also revealed that this aggressive-territorial sense of entitlement is going to be a hell of a lot more challenging to wash out of his system. Particularly when he drew blood from the my unsuspecting, lethargic grandfather who reached to pet the distressed dog and ended up bleeding for ten minutes thanks to his tissue-paper thin skin and blood thinners upon Jack's strike. But, what fun would owning a dog really be if we didn't have these issues? I'd never get to test my patience on a daily basis without him. Oh, and my boyfriend.

    #4.  I said fuck you to my back molar. After three root canals and crowns in 2010, my budget and patience were spent. I opted that the dentist just rip out a back molar and spare me the expense. The recovery was a bitch and my love for Vicodin has dissolved after the once miracle drug left me with a reverse stomach acid waterfall (you catch my drift, I hope) and an allegiance to ibuprofen during the hottest heat spell of the summer. And it allowed me to dive into a new year with one less responsibility. I think of each tooth as coming with the responsibility and financial burden of a child. They don't live as long and it costs you almost as much. I just may be a little more cautious in killing off any more of these offspring because getting used to having a big hole in the back of my jaw has been a real bitch.

    #5. I finished another album. "Crystal Revisions." I love it. It's different. It's allowed me to explore a whole different part of my vocal range, and in spurts allowed me to tap into the energy, the spirit, the soul of a time that enraptured my imagination and desire to perform in the first place.

    #6. I stopped caring. No, really, after all these years of worrying that I have not done enough, that I am not good enough, that I am not moving fast enough, I just said enough is enough. And for the most part, I'm content. I want change, but I think seriously, this has about as much to do with me as it has to do with the world around me. It's not reactionary, necessarily, because I project light and hope for all of us. But I think there's more to answer that than me and self-persecution wasn't the road to anything but misery.

    #7. Bye-bye to numbers. Dates, months, years, have all faded into undocumented occurrences. No longer do I remember or attribute time passing or an emotional reaction to "Holy shit! It's really 2012!" No, I don't keep track of the years, months, etc. with the diligence I once did, searching for numeric meaning and significance. I just live my life.

    #8. I lived with a man for an entire year and didn't kill him. I came close, namely by strangulation from time to time, but I buried the urge, bit my tongue, and let the moment slide. Or I made a nice big drink, sat at the piano and banged out my frustration because notably, this year, I could finally write songs again. 

    #9. I kept my fervent hope alive. Alongside "Occupy Wall Street," amid the disappointments, the challenges, and the doubts, I did what all us good Americans do. You can stick the Statue of Liberty up all our asses, but we will still stay optimistic and believe that indeed, "tomorrow is another day."

     

Friday, 04 November 2011

  • The Ramblings of A Sick Chick

    Eight days ago I convinced myself the dry air and pigeon dander at the Javits Center were to blame for my tender throat and mild migraine. A winter storm approached and my headache was attributed to the pressure changes and unseasonal snow. But when the boyfriend took a beating, clearly inundated by a no-nonsense virus, I knew I was next in line. So here I am, sequestered in my little studio apartment with a ring of autumnal-flavoured candles, hacking up a lung or two and thinking how not a single thought of my boisterous mind could meet the limitations of a tweet or status update. 

    My nine-pound chihuahua, though equipped with the feistiness and ferocity of a rabid bear when infringed upon, is quite adept at training his owner. I'm so pleased that now he has a routine of pouncing at the door whenever he needs me to haul him down five flights of stairs so he can relieve himself on Broadway. Having been raised with dogs that were hardly trained, I thought training a dog was near impossible and my family possessed a genetic defect in training our pets to be obedient and do their business outdoors. But I was wrong. Nothing makes me happier than coming home and watching my dog's painstaking efforts to sit politely, his body in a flurry of muscle spasms suppressing his impulse to jump and run up to me. Because he knows how happy I am when he sits and stays calm, aiming to keep his emotions at bay. My boyfriend, on the other hand, comes home and shouts, "Do race car, Jack! Do race car!" He's coined the term for the greyhound-inspired trollop through the apartment the dog does, his full fan-tail tucked between his speeding legs as he dusts the floor in pure bliss. Having a dog, a boyfriend, and a triangle of glowing candles makes being ill a bit less of a burden. But it still sucks.

    I've become infatuated with "Cagney and Lacey," lamenting on the old New York and the television programming that opened the doors for stronger, character-driven women. My boyfriend's first remark about the show was, "If they did that show today, those characters would be much hotter." That's kind of the sad point. I miss the saucy, spunky casting choices of days gone by. When I see a show like this it makes me consider being a detective or changing my career because they look like they're having a blast. This week's "New York Magazine" (my absolute favourite periodical) did a feature on "Ms. Magazine" and I felt a touch of sadness that we aren't in a more turbulent time of women assessing how we are portrayed and defined. That being a strong woman today means you're also willing to shake your booty ala Beyonce or be in an outlandish wedding-possible PR stunt ala Kim Khardashian, or half-naked and transgendered appearing like Lady Gaga. But if someone were to mirror Gloria Steinem in today's media, she would not receive the same level of attention or respect (or even disrespect) because she wouldn't make the same waves. When I was 19, I boldly applied to be an editor-in-chief at Ms. Magazine, which was hiring out of LA (of all places). My cover letter was brazen, explaining that the magazine needed a new voice and direction to appeal to my generation and that I had ideas to steer the publication. I received a very kind response, obviously reflecting on my lack of experience as a magazine exec, but offering a follow-up and possible position if I was interested. Of course, my mind back then changed with every Santa Ana wind and I opted for an actress-celebrity greeter string of gigs instead. 

    But now, I wonder if following the figurative winds and my undying allegiance to doing what I want with my time has amounted to a less than brilliant career. Apathy tends to trump passion, until the right project comes along. What's more is the layer of guilt I feel with my own contentment, so very much against the American dream instilled in us  all to acquire... and acquire some more. As far as acquisition goes, I'm happy enough with a new Crumbs in my neighborhood and enough candles to get me through another month. The Crumbs alone is enough reason for me to stay in this tiny apartment for years to come. That and the amazing no-frills attitude of my boyfriend, who really appreciates the simple things in life. Who would rather buy me new rain boots and five new sweaters than to even consider buying himself a few new sweaters. Who uses his sick day to take our dog to Petco for some new balls and for a romp around his favourite hills in Riverside Park. I still long for travel and making an impact in entertainment, in creating music that really inspires people, in seeing my dreams realized. But at the same time, I have such a level of fulfillment with what is in my own "backyard". Even if my backyard is haunted by the eerie, animalistic screams of a crazy lady on a bi-hourly basis. I guess it's to remind me that I'm in New York, as if the cozy quarters wasn't enough of a reminder. 

MsDiatribe

  • Visit MsDiatribe's Xanga Site
    • Name: Michelle
    • Birthday: 3/6/1984
    • Gender: Female
    • Member Since: 2/5/2001

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About Me

  • Accept my invitation to a world of innocence lost. A place where pandemonium is accepted as normalcy and sarcasm is the quintessential source of humour. Lastly, I welcome you to a home with the motto "F*CK 'EM IF THEY CAN'T TAKE A JOKE"

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