You know it’s hard out here for a wimp

So, you ever find yourself in the position where you realize you are just one of those “funny people”? You know how it is, everybody just thinks you’re sooooo FUNNY. Which translates into “dancing monkey” or “person who is never serious” or the one you “watch” as opposed to “listen” to? That’s me. In a freaking, tight-fitting, ill-sized, nut- shell. And, I’ve done it to myself. True confession time. I’ve set it up that way. But, I don’t have to like it. I still get to complain about it. Because I’m a work in progress.

I’ve just been a little too much dancing monkey and not enough real human lately. Too much going out and not enough coming in. Things are out of balance.

Here’s the thing when you are a “funny” person:

1. People look to you to make them laugh, not talk about your inner-demon-struggles.
2. People want to talk about how fat and old they feel and are not interested in your own aging process unless you (and they hope you will) make a joke about double chins (hilarious!) or spanx (double hilarious) or cellulite (is that ever funny?)
3. People want to “know” you in the cursory way but they don’t really want to “know” you in the human, my-shit-stinks-too-surprise!-kind of way.

Oh, I could go on. Girl’s just tired. I haven’t had any time with me. You know, to think of stupid shit and laugh about it, and have bad ideas and let those go, and just, you know, be.

I am actively feeling that moment where too much is going out and not enough is coming in. I am officially complaining. Sitting here and connecting with myself while the drunk neighbors trudge up the stairs and try to manhandle their keys into door-unlocking submission. Trying to be a regular guy.

And a big part of me says, “Suck it up Parrish! You are lucky to be inquired about!”

And another big part of me says, “Get OFF me! I’m pooped.”

So, I guess I am right, smack-dab in the middle of something. Which is when the best things happen. Out-of-the-corner-of-your-eye-style. You know, when you are distracted by something shiny, but what was THAT? That’s tonight. That’s now. That’s my dinner companion.

I think maybe I’ll take her to bed. That dinner companion. That black fleck in my teeth. That thing that grabs my dress and sticks it in the back of my pantyhose. That asshole. I know she’s bad for me but I’m just REALLY attracted to her.

Hell, you never know, maybe I’ll learn a new position. Maybe I’ll learn to be more flexible with the parts of me I don’t love. Maybe I’ll learn to shut up and take it. Maybe I’ll learn how to say, “no”. Maybe I’ll give myself a break.

Or, just maybe. I will fall in love with the middle of myself. A part of me that I have been a little bit afraid of, for a really long time. Maybe I will take her out for a few more dinners. And a drive. And, maybe we’ll even make out.

I’m not saying I WILL. It’s just that I notice this thing out of the corner of my (haha-funny-girl) eye. And I want to check it out.

TO BE CONTINUED….

Humpday is my Fun Day

So, I’m leaving work today and walking up Lincoln to the bus stop when I hear a commotion. I look over and some glassy-eyed-jacked-up-street-kid is yelling at a motorist, for driving on the street where he wants to pee and meander, I guess. So, the driver yells back, “Get a fucking job!” And, the street-kid yells back, “My job is bugging you Dude!” So, I yell out, “How are the benefits?”Stopped him dead in his tracks.

A friend of a friend asked me to use one of my voices and make a crank call to one of her co-workers. I asked for some background and she told me this guy collects ugly Christmas sweaters because he goes to an “Ugly Christmas Sweater Party” every year. He was in the Portland airport recently and saw this woman in a horrible Be-Dazzled Christmas sweater and asked her if she would be interested in selling it to him. Apparently, she explained that her cat had the VERY SAME SWEATER and she loved the whole matching outfit thing with her feline so she just couldn’t bring herself to part with it. So, the friend of the friend wanted me to call this co-worker and pretend to be the Cat-Lady with the hideous sweater and leave a humorous message on his cell phone. I agreed to do it. I think my blood sugar was low.

Anyway, I called and the guy ANSWERED. So I just said, “Hi! This is Myrna and I hear you are in the market for a Christmas sweater. The guy kind of laughs and I say, “Well, Lou died. He had a goiter. It’s a long story. Anyway, I’d be willing to sell you the sweater but it’s going to cost you.” He plays along and asks, “Oh yeah? What’s it going to cost me?” I say, “One and three quarter pounds of seadless grapes and an hour of beautiful cunnilingus.” He laughs and says, “How about a back rub?” At this point in the conversation I officially love this guy so I decide to hand the phone over to his friend and end his unmerciful torture. A good time was had by all.

I went to the library for the first time in about 14 years today because I need to stop buying books. Who do I think I am? Donald Trump? I don’t have any fucking money — I’m a freelancer.

So, there are just three reasons why today was a pretty ding-dang good day.

Random Thoughts and Stuff and Things….

In no order that makes any sense:

Just had a cigarette outside and over at Chez Drama across the street I heard pounding on a door and a woman half crying/talking, say, “Gary? Gary, do you want me to leave?” Now, I’m no relationship counselor but if he locked your ass out I’m guessing Gary is done with you Honey — at least for tonight. My advice: take your dignity out for dessert and coffee and leave Gary to his own devices.

My naked shoot got canceled on account of the rain. So, I ate cheese and drank wine and smoked a little wacky-tabacky. And it was really fun. I couldn’t stop singing, “Blame it on the Boogie”, though.  I was disappointed though because I felt really READY for it, you know? Now, I have to start all over with the diet and the worrying and the obsessing — OR, maybe I just try a little self acceptance instead. I think the bikini wax is good for another couple of weeks. Everybody likes a clean work space. I can’t stop looking at it — the coochie. It’s so damn, pretty. All even and shit. I keep showing it to Von and I think he’s running out of things to say about it. Yesterday I whipped it out after my bath and he just nodded vigorously and said, “Nice Boo. Looks Good.” I love me some Von Porter.

People keep fucking with my time lately. Mostly by accident or force-of-nature style or life-zigging-when-it-should-have-zagged style. But, I’m getting cranky. (Wait– gotta change the channel – I hate those fat-guy-skinny-wife shows.) There. That’s better. Anyway, I don’t like myself when I’m cranky and I’m not quite sure what to do about it. Although, I will say this, I feel a lot more relaxed after last-nights’ antics-lite behavior.

The lobby of our apartment building smells like old people and pot. Take a look at your future Parrish….

Here’s what I heard in the 7-11 parking lot tonight: “Those damn bus tickets. Counterfeit that shit. They counterfeit those damn bus tickets now! You believe that shit? Counterfeit bus tickets. Can’t believe that shit.” Picture Morgan Freeman with more gray hair and less freckles sitting in an SUV and yelling at no one. Yeah, it’s like that. Still, he must be doing something right because he’s got a car and I don’t.

Bean’s getting fat even though she runs around like a crackhead and Milo doesn’t seem to age. I think my cats are “visitors” and they’re probably probing me while I sleep.

At least I’m not bow legged.

Is it wrong to drink wine while you watch an episode of “Intervention” ?

I have more pimples now than I did in high school.

Why is Dane Cook rich and I’m not?

Why do I want a dog so badly when I’m too busy to take care of one?

Would the Justice System really send me to prison for killing Heidi & Spencer? Or, would Obama give me the Presidential Medal of Honor? Best case scenario, no one would even notice.

I wonder who would win in a fist-fight? My insecurity-cellulite obsessed-demon- self or my sure-I’m-fatter-but-I’m-so-much-awesomer-self? I say the latter. She’s getting stronger every day.

Gonna go have another cigarette and check on Gary.

More than a dump-truck-full is a waste.

I found out my boobs are bigger than I thought. This is no surprise to the guys at work, however. They have been telling me that for years. Which explains why it’s sometimes hard to get a lunch order out of them. Summertime is especially distracting, apparently.

But I digress. So, as I’ve said, my “naked” shoot fast approaches and I have been eating well, working with a trainer, and drinking much less alcohol. I have not been perfect, however. Still, I’ve struck a really lovely balance and want to keep it up. Even after my “saggers” make their peachy debut.

I was instructed by one of the producers and stars of the show to get a nude colored strapless bra and panties and some pasties (for this one shot they need to get from the back). So I thought, “Better not fuck around with your twig-and-berries, Parrish. Better go someplace good like Nordstrom. Ross and Marshall’s aren’t up to the task.” So, I drag the Boo-Boo to Nordy’s. This perky little imp who could easily go braless and no one would notice says to me, “Hi! I’m Blahblah – can I help you find something?” I say, “Well, yes, actually. But here’s the thing….” I tell her about the situation. You know, the whole, everything looks bigger on camera thing. She brings me a couple of braziers. That’s all I can call them. They look like trucks you could smuggle illegal aliens across the border with. I wonder, “Jeebus, really? Am I that ungodly fat?” But she also has a tape measure with her and she straps it around me and I feel a little bit like she should have bought me dinner, or at the very least, an appetizer first. She’s all hands.

She delivers the news: “Well, you are right between a 34 and a 36.”
I say, “A 35?”
“Yes,” she says.
And I am elated! For a second.
Then she says, “But you need to go up a cup size.”
I say, “What are you saying?”
Blahblah says, “You are actually a D.”

As my dear friend Susan used to say, Oh my TOTAL god. The good news is that it’s not backfat. The bad news is I need the muther-fucking-jaws-of-life to hoist these delectable orbs anywhere near sunlight.

So, I could have bought the $38 dollar BRAZIER, but it fell down a lot when I was jumping up and down in the dressing room. So, I sprang for the $76 dollar BRAZIER which could support the total economic reform of the United States of America. I also purchased a pair of nude-colored panties that looked like they might at least keep my religion a secret. They cost $12, American.

Then, I remembered the pasties. I asked Blahblah, “Hey, I almost for got the pasties, you know, for that one shot I told you about?’ She says, “Oh. Do you mean the ‘breast-petals’?” I was taken aback. I said, “I don’t know. DO I?” She laughed, tossed her three hundred dollar haircut around and said, “Yes. You mean ‘breast petals’.”

(Now is the time when I start to scan the third floor for a Boo-Boo sighting. And there he is! But he is stumbling around like a goopy-hole-in-the-neck zombie from Night of the Living Dead. And I know it’s time to wrap things up, underwear-style.)

“Right, ‘breast petals’. Where are those?”

She pulls something in a “packet” out of some secret drawer and rings me up. She announces that the total is $107 dollars. A little bit of soft-serve-shit leeks out of my giant ass, and I just thank god I’m not wearing the $12 panties. I give her my debit card.

This is going to feel a little uncomfortable….

Note to self: hire a personal assistant to help you get your sweater on and off.

Nurse Diesel really did an upper-body number on me yesterday. Sure, it was tough getting myself dressed this morning but the worst part was contorting my upper half like a soft pretzel for my Goddamnogram this morning. So, for all of you fellas out there – here’s what happens at the annual boob-smashing. You strip down to the waste and have to wipe off your deoderant with a moist towlette. Then you put on a delightful blue smock and carry your valuable belongings into a sterile room with at least one bad Impressionistic-style painting on the far wall. Then the woman (and yes guys, it’s always another woman) says, “Please take your right arm out of the sleeve.” That’s code for: Your right breast is about to be the mortar between two concrete blocks so get ready.” Then, the nice lady takes hold of the underside of your right boob and gently places it on this little tray thingy and then works a control that smashes opposing panels against your boob until you know what you would look like if your boob got run over at a monster truck rally. Does it hurt? Not exactly. But it’s not awesome. And, let’s face it – pretty fucking weird. Then rinse and repeat on the left side. (Sidebar: one year my goddamnogram landed on St. Patty’s Day, so while she was making mincemeat out of my boob I said to the lady, “I know I’m not wearing GREEN but this is ridiculous!”) But the worst part of the whole mess was that I was having trouble controlling my arms. She wanted me to reach up and grab ahold of this bar and I’m like reach up and grab this! But I tried my best to oblige her. It’s not a good idea to piss off the person controlling the circumference of your bosom. Then, when it’s all over, you chat politely about the weather and her grandkids and what you think the weather will be like tomorrow while you wait for her to check over the last image and make sure she got a clear shot of your left torpedo. Once you get the “all clear” you grab your important shit and waddle back to the dressing room and put your clothes back on and get on with the rest of your ding-dang day. Unless you spent the morning before being put through the paces with Nurse Diesel. In that case you walk to the bust stop while constantly dropping your purse and 40 pound messenger bag because your arms have become unruly and are planning on storming the castle walls.

Here’s the good news: I’ve pooped three times today. Is that T.M.I.? PLEASE. If you’re still reading this I’m pretty sure you’re one of those people who learned some time ago, that girls poop and women aren’t afraid to talk about it. But I digress…. I guess Nurse Diesel really does know her shit – har-dee-har – about speeding up the metabolism with nutrition and exercise. I’m seeing her again on Tuesday night to work on a routine for my lower-body. Get the salve and cotton swabs ready. Hopefully, by then I will have regained control of my arms. Otherwise, I’m calling in fucked on Wednesday.

Here’s what I had for lunch: apple, raw almonds, a slice of cheddar cheese and carrots.  Jealous? Well, you will be when you can bounce a quarter off my bare ass.

Nurse Diesel has redefined the word, “meal”. Apparently, I’ve had it all wrong for years. See, I thought a meal was this thing you sat down to enjoy and was comprised of hunger-satisfying portions. Also, I thought it automatically came with wine of some sort. Not so. A meal is actually 40% lean protein, 40% good carbs, and 20% good, healthy, Christian fat. With as many raw vegetables thrown in the mix as you can handle. In Barbie’s-hunger-satisfying portions.

And, I’m not one of those annoying people who pretends to really fucking DIG it, you know? Those people who adopt a super healthy diet and won’t shut the hell up about how great their fucking unsalted eggs over a bed of chard, lightly sprinkled with flax seeds and whey protein powder is and how much better they fucking feel for it. Shut up. Of course I feel better physically, but my fun quotient has diminished like Michael Jackson’s original nose. I don’t trust those people – I think they’re up to something.

And it takes so much goddamn WORK. Nurse Diesel suggests that I devote a few hours to “food preparation” at the start of each week. I’m thinking, what’s there to prepare? But she means spending a few hours peeling and chopping carrots, boiling eggs, washing and shredding lettuce, measuring out raw nuts and sunflower seeds, etc into eensy little plastic bags so I don’t freak out, get too hungry, and grab the first McGriddle I run across. When I asked her about yogurt she said, “Sure! Yogurt’s great as long as it’s plain. It’s kind of sour but you’ll get used to it.” So is prison. You can “get used” to anything after awhile.

So, the day is only half done but I’m seeing The Blue Room tonight so I have to do this now. Tomorrow morning is something called, “Yolates”. Dear god help me.

Day 3 and still no land in sight….

So far DAY 3 has been very interesting. First of all, I barely got any sleep last night, and as I was lying there wide awake I remembered the Pabst tallboy in the fridge, so I got up and made myself some Crystal Lite and gave the Pabst the finger. I watched Sex and the City repeats until I was choking on fabulousness and tried to go back to sleep again. No go. The whole time I am thinking, “I have to meet the trainer lady at 9am!!!!” But my Perimenopausal hormones are really self-involved and don’t give a rip about what I have to do the next morning. So, I continued to just lie there. I tried a number of tactics including deep breathing, counting backward from a hundred, playing out how I would greet each of the hosts on The View, you know, the norm. The last time I looked at the clock it was almost 3am.

I got my ass out of bed at 8am and ate stupid oatmeal with tea and walked to the goddamn gym. I got there at 10 minutes to 9. I met the trainer – we’ll call her “Nurse Diesel” and she was nice and smart and funny and very fit (of course) but a teeny bit sadistic. All of them are. The yoga instructors, pilate instructors, aerobic teachers, and personal trainers. They all have a little bit of evil in them. I’m sure of it. As long as they’re just mad at the fat I’m cool with it. I’m mad at the fat too.

So, we talked for a while about goals and expectations and then we started the workout. Sweet Baby Jesus With Free Weights! I was determined not to appear weak so I powered through the torturous regimen saying things like, “I got this!” and “Sure I can do two more!” My face was a sort of maroon color and I was breathing like Baby Huey on a respirator. My arms were shaky and somehow, my sports “bra” had rolled up under the swell of my ample breasts and I looked like I had a sideways tube sock filled with sand on under my tee shirt.  Pretty girl.

Then came the abs. I sat on this bubble thing and “crunched” until I felt like I might hurl. If my abs could have shouted one word it would have been, “Cocksucker!” I not only felt the burn, I felt the rage and later, the retaliation. But I did it! And tomorrow, because I have a goddamnogram in the morning, day job in the afternoon, and I’m seeing a play in the evening there is no time to get to the gym. Which means Saturday involves yoga class, then weights, then cardio.

Fuck it. Maybe I’ll just be a little fat. No Parrish! Snap the hell out of it!

Okay, so, back on track. I went to my audition and then bussed/walked home, ate a piece of 12 grain toast with peanut butter and a glass of skim milk for dinner. (I know reading about the food is boring but Nurse Diesel says I have to keep a food & exercise journal and I’m already doing this so deal with it and just be thankful you don’t have to eat it!)

Now I am enjoying delicious water. For kicks I might take a Benadryl before bed. Maybe I’ll really go ape-shit and shave my legs. I might need the jaws of life to lift my sore ass out of bed tomorrow.

Naked in 25 Days Part 1

I have to be naked in 25 days. And I can’t tell you why. But I can tell you that it’s not normal-naked. It’s on-camera-naked. Which is in a completely different stratosphere. The camera doesn’t factor in how hilarious or smart or sexy or capable you are because the camera doesn’t give a shit.

Now, I won’t be totally nude. I’ll have pasties on and some sort of something over my wedding tackle but my “bingo-wings” will be riiiiiight out there. (Bingo wings: The flap of hideousness that quivers and swings back and forth when Marge raises her fat-old-lady arms and shouts, “I’ve got BINGO!”) And I’m sure my back fat will be featured as well. Lucky you. Not to mention my ripple-icious ga-dunk-a-dunk.

I chose to do this thing. Because I need to get the fuck over myself. And it’s a hilarious bit. And, goddamn it, I don’t want someone else to do it just because I pussed out – so to speak.

Coincidentally, I am in the sweaty, hairy, pimply throws of Perimenopause. Awesome. I’ve always wanted to go bald and grow a beard at the same time. And I love the way these zits punctuate my wrinkles and neck wattle. I still feel sexy, though. Maybe sexier than ever. So, I’ve either got a healthy dose of self-esteem and my priorities in middle-age order, or I’ve gone completely around the Whatever-happened-To-Baby-Jane bend. Either way? I’m good with me. But on-camera-naked, like I said, is its own deal.

So, I got to thinking….

How much better shape could I get into in 25 days? Hence, this blog. I need something to keep me focused and busy while other people eat yummy food and drink delicious beverages while reclining on the couch watching tv.

Day One (yesterday):

Not much exercise except for a little walking while carrying my 40 pound messenger bag full of crap I might need. Rehearsal after work. Dinner: a Kashi bar and flavored water. Snack: fucking sunflower seeds. Dessert? Kill me now. In bed by midnight.

Day Two:

Breakfast? Scramby-eggs with no salt. Cooked in olive oil. Lunch? Apple, one slice of cheddar, and unsalted almonds. Snack? Fuck you I’m angry. Dinner? Salad and some lean meat. Made appointment with personal trainer for tomorrow morning. Went to Leverage audition and tried not to look fat. Worked uncontrollable rage into my character of “Lab Tech” as my “given circumstances”. Drank a shit-ton of Chamomile tea. Developed “the rules” as follows:

THE RULES

1.     Nothing fried
2.     No alcohol (Performance nights excluded)
3.     No sugary drinks
4.     Tons of fruits & vegetables
5.     Very little salt
6.     Weights (upper and lower body) twice a week
7.     Yoga at least once a week
8.     Cardio 4-5 days a week – 45 minutes minimum.
9.     Lots of water
10.     Blow me

I believe I can make a fairly remarkable dent in my dents in 25 days if I follow my rules.

Day Two (continued):

So, here I am. Doing this. And trying not to give myself an aneurism “thinking thin”.

All forms of encouragement welcome.