Oh man, this sounds like a relapse post. It's not. If you don't know what the hell I'm talking about, go back here. There you'll find the post where I dish on Stefanie's blog about leaving the world of boozin' good times and choosing a clean, fresh world of perrier and other natural soda.
Head roll, knuckle crack. Sigh.
Let's begin.
I am walking along the shore and there are millions of sparkling bottles lining the beach, clear and green and brown and they bob and pop and sparkle - all of them calling to my arms and hands. Pick me up. Read me.
Write back.
I want to hear the words and feel the emotion of the messages contained therein - it's just that they are too far away. Between here and there is the feeling of being bisected by my too tight jeans and the bedazzled look my tshirts have all decorated in baby snot and bits of mushy food. As I walk, I stumble over the crushing, jagged anxiety about the jobs that have flirted and flown by. The tree fairies who I hike to commune with swear that I'll be getting the call any minute about the next big and great job but they seem to be lying, flying little beyatches because the calls haven't come. At least the ones that say, 'You're booked'.
I love being freelance. I have been lancin' along since 1995 when I graduated college with some debt but a sassy attitude. I started a business, I had boom years. I changed directions and spent some money to start shooting commercials. It worked, good times followed. However like many people in my industry and every other industry, I found 2009 (and into 10) to be an ass-kicker bordering on doom. Of course in some ways the timing was great - lil BHB came on the scene and so me not being on the scene (as it were) directing was actually swell by me. Except for the whole money thing. Money is helpful.
sandbox of germs? where did he get this cold anyway?
In other stumbling news, the sweet boy has his first full blown horror of a cold. And ear infection.
Sleep has been completely elusive. We're back to the fuzzybrained newborn days with the-once-an-hour 'hello how are you?' typa thing. His cough sounds dangerous and deep and the fever is scary to me when his belly throws so much heat I don't know whether to cover it more or put him in a cool bath. So far the highest of the high is at about 102.somethin' but who can trust these damn digital thermometers? I know, we could bust out the vaseline and the old school thermometer but holy keerap that boy hates his diaper changed as it is, I can't imagine the flip-over-insert-instrument scream that would follow. No thanks. Not now anyway.
With the ear-infection diagnosis came the antibiotic prescription that I had filled on Friday in a bit of a panic. And then I read my copy of "How to Raise a Healthy Child in Spite of Your Doctor" and we talked ourselves out of the pink biotic-killing goop in the fridge. But now, with the cough from hell and the continued fever I am 2nd guessing our 'ride it out' ways and wanting for a quick release for him and for us. Damned dilemma.
So I see the glittering lil bottles with their allure of a dream and a dance. How I want to write about our new BFF's and a new spiritual path, the way a life can be touched by the most simple act and moment. Walking along the misty shore, I want to read and talk about the Oscars, Katheryn Bigelow, those pretty pretty dresses. What about all of the paths to God, my philosophy and the gathering storm clouds at once gorgeous and troubling? About extraordinary coincidence. About sweet thoughts that inspire good behavior followed by a shy smile. I have them all here for you. I just need to figure out how to walk over the broken ones to get there.
Elusively yours,
PS - Thank you for your kind encouragement last week about the milk dilemma of 2010. I do feel better. I'm grateful for the easy, soothing solution I can offer during this sickness - how great when he won't eat anything else. Of course the new demand has me busting back into an old 'where'd you buy those' look, but the teeth seem to be retracted for the moment.
Uh-boy, not a good opener. Now you've gotten the idea that a good post follows and well, friends, that just ain't happenin'. No really. I need you to let it go. With these words...gently, open your hand...release that silly little idea, let it float away into a sweet spring breeze....now take a deep breath. What do you smell? Ah yes, the dog crap I didn't pick up in the front yard. Right I'll get on that. Now that you're inspired to keep reading, here's what's up:
I'm just having a crappy ass time of it. There. I said it. No rainbows, no unicorns. Just that sticky residue of unnamed, unreasonable emotions that remain unexpressed due to the lack of funds req'd to do the rock star therapy thing. So to the writing class I go for the therapy that I need. And to you, dear interweb therapists, I guess I'm a- bringin' it to you. Thank you in advance for your sage advice and wisdom. Thank you for your virtual ear.
Tonight I'm all jacked up on ideas and Pinkberry. If you're not in LA - let me just say this. You're lucky. This Pinkberry stuff is totally delicious, totally useless, likely completely toxic and open until 11pm on weekdays. I go through phases with this fancy fro-yo stuff. I really only eat it when I'm full of self-loathing. So there you go.
I mean, it's pretty awesome how perfectly rotten it makes me feel. I eat it, I check my watch and then wait for the headache to show up between :22 and :28 minutes later. Tonight it came on in a quick :12 minutes, but likely that was due to the fact that I ran through the rain thusly accelerating it through my system.
So what does all of this have to do with milk? (the title of my post). Well I'm doubtful that there is any actual milk in the product of which I've been rambling, so that isn't it.
No, it's about me. About the fact that I am still serving it 3-4 times a day and while deep down I'm a stinky, stinky hippy who would be probably be willing to nurse through toddlerhood and beyond I've had some recent experiences that are threatening to end my run of being a walking dairy dispenser for the little baby with a big head.
Well, you can't see them in this picture - but there are top teeth as well in that little cartoon mouth.
And like anyone with new tools that they'd like to try out, he's been checking out his chomping skills.
And like anyone who is learning their way around emotional states, lately he's been taking his anger out for a test drive.
Ok. I've said enough. Y'all are smart.
Although I will say this, I'm proud to say that while much harm as come to me, no harm has come to anyone else in this family. When the little bite n' pull showdown went down the other night I calmly put him in the highchair while I calmly went to warm up the lentils and rice mush and I calmly served it and while he was not so calm I was quite. It was almost eerie. Perhaps being emotionally shut down has it's place.
And since I left the boy and his Dad before the final milk session tonight in order to go deep into Hollywood for my class, now I've got the surplus and the accompanying pain. Of course there is no serving it anyway because it's laced with Pinkberry toxins.
So while my milkmaid status is potentially precarious, I offer this math. 20 months ago, in June of 2008 my body got taken over by the production of a person. 11 months ago in April of 2009 it became the diary farm that it is today. Here in March of 2010, I'm about ready to take it back for my own uses, even if they are not noble or good. Anyone want to back me up on this decision?
Your organic farmer,
PS - It's probably obvious if you're read this far, but I could use some encouragement. Life is kinda kicking my ass right now, so if you've got any - please do share.
**EDIT, 3/4** - I just found out that when the boy was getting his last song last night he starting looking around wildly for me. Watching the door and pushing the sweet singing daddy aside, he was clearly wondering when the usual milk delivery was coming. When it didn't come he finally wailed 'Mom!' and collapsed into an inconsolable wail.
So he has been saying Momma and Dad -dad-dad-dad it's a little non-specific, we're not sure if he's placing it with us. So that was a first, and it's pretty damn touching. I am twisting my hair into dreads right now so that I can merge with my image of a long-term breastfeeding momma (you know I say stinky hippy only with complete love, right?) and see if I can keep this party going. I"ll keep you posted.
I type and I watch. I'm catching out of the corner of my eye these mad dudes with their flying, flashing ski's willingly flip, well - fling themselves miles into the air and flip flop fall and float (but mostly flip) into the relative safety of the snow that sometimes catches and sometimes kick back with a splash of white and whatev's. All I can say is WHOA dude. These guys are awesome.
What inspired that? Were they like six years old and racing a car around the Berber carpet in 1994 and looked up at the flickering coverage of the Olympics coming to them from Norway and saw these nutty dudes flipping through the air and then turn to their mom's with big round eyes and matchbox car mid-track and point their little stubby fingers at the screen and say - "Yes, I will do that. It will be rad and I will wear shiny colorful spandex and I will win."
photo credit: Mike Groll AP/File
Don't you wonder? As I watched the other jumping event tonight - the ski jump - with the dudes that fly for like 30 gorgeous heartdropping seconds I got totally annoyed with my 10 month old son as I projected into the relative near future when lil BHB and I will likely have this conversation....
INT: OUR HOUSE - NIGHT
An adorable 4 year old BOY pushes a monster truck around the hardwood floors as his MOM and DAD watch slack-jawed as the Olympic aerialists flip fourteen times before landing on the fake snow.
His Mom is extremely hot and looks amazing in casual sweats. She is a very thin and young-looking 43 year old...(oh rats, sorry - went off into fantasy there) Ahem. The sweet boy looks up at the giant plasma TV that is uber fancy and wafer thin...
BHB
Look Mom! I can do that!
ME
Nope. No way. Forget it.
BHB
But Mooommmmmm.
ME
Sorry.
BHB
(looking offscreen with intense resolve)
I will wear flashy spandex, and I will win.
ME
Noo! I love your big head!
I don't want you to break it on that mean snow.
Curse you inspiring dudes who flip through the
air with the greatest of ease!
Sigh. I guess we're not going to be watching the next Winter Olympics.
With love from the future,
PS - Ok, I realize that reading the above is like watching reality tv when a really great drama is on the other channel. It's on the silly, fluffy and pointless side but thanks for coming by...
Now if you want to read something really heartfelt and poetic and filled with awesomeness, you should go here. The writer is a dear friend, filmmaker, writer, and mom of an amaaaazing kid. I met her in line at Sundance a bunch of years ago. She's just fantastic! But I digress. But yes, you should definitely check this post out (whut up double link!) And be sure to play the music, it's a wonderful good time.
I've been remiss and missing from this space and let me apologize in advance for apologizing because it's kind of ridiculous. I mean. Y'all aren't sitting next to your google readers tapping your foot and wondering where I am, right? No. I know that. I so often feel this delightful and delicious tingly pull in this direction, oh - OK, nightly. More often than not I resist the urge, close the computer and go to bed.
Because right now it's either LCD and all the fun I have up here yammering on about my THOUGHTS and FEELINGS and occasionally an IMPRESSION and maybe even an occasional OBSERVATION.
Or sleep.
And as you Momma's know, sleep is a nice thing. And clearly it's been winning.
During the day it's chasing tiny boy and making sure brown dog stays clear of tiny boy and his tiny hands and his new teeth and charming smile so that brown dog doesn't do some dastardly doggie thing like nip at the mischievous tiny he tries to grab tall soft, brown ears.
And mushing the food or heating up the mush or steaming the finger food or mixing the stuff or making sure there are enough cheerios on the tray. And watching those impossibly tiny fingers PICK UP the tiny bits of carrots or pears or apples or o's or yam bits. And occasionally drop the bits for the brown nose to scoop in and enjoy. That game hasn't become a full time pastime but I expect that it is coming soon.
And the toys and the books and soft green ball that pile out of the little faux leather chest in the morning and then pile back into that same little brown chest at night.
And then there are all of those tiny shirts, the ones with the stripes and the tiny dogs on the front or the soft pants and the socks that are too small when you buy them and the shoes, why doesn't he have any shoes, what the heck size is he? And the hand-me-downs thank god for those but then you've got to hand them back and what box and which mom goes to which baby is going to wear it next. In the meantime they've got to be washed. And folded. And put away. And coaxed over a big head.
And at night it's a mix of emailing and emailing and working and conference calls and trying to think clear, concise and meaningful and oh dinner and right now of course the olympics (oh crap I missed it tonight) but we need to do a re-write of the script and we are casting later this week and I have to go location scout, but I'll be doing that while he naps in the car and and and.
I guess it's obvious why sleep is winning.
But for what it's worth I am writing into this white box in my head all day. The sweet bits of floating observations like the backlight of the afternoon sun, a halo on his sweet blonde head. Or his smile of discovery at a new thing (a bird!) which he now shares with me in his eyes, the recognition in his eyes of me - and - of a thing - and - of the separation of him and me and thing and then his delight in it or me or him or frustration when something is awry. Then comes my scramble to discover what IT is although sometimes if I have had enough sleep I might just sit in (or next to) his frustration and let him BE without fixing it.
And that's a pretty good reason, right?
Floating in the joy bits,
P.S. - One of these Monday's I'll get to writing about An Education. Short review: Hell ya, see it.
I feel so trite saying this, but here I go. I too want to go for the gold, only I don't want the round disk that all of those folks up in Canada are after - I'm more interested in that shapely hottie they call Oscar.
I think I've been too embarrassed to say it, especially as a resident of Los Angeles. It's just so obvious. And the Academy Awards are so. You know. Such a swell of pretension and glitz and comon' tell the truth actual awesomeness but they certainly have been known to roll around in a stinky pile of lameness. Like the King of World moment. Ugh.
But I'm going to out myself here. I want Gold - and it's on my five year plan dammit.
I'm excited that Kathryn Bigelow might beat James Cameron this year, making Oscar history by being the first woman director to win. I say hells ya. Or, actually? It would be okay with me if I was the first. Sometime in the next five years.
Sometimes I get annoyed with the fact that I've been dicking around doing other for so many years when I know that my true dream is to direct features. I feel lucky that I've been able to carve out a living doing what I love - I mean - that's kinda bitchin'. But, you know what? I've been really beating around the bush....
For fun - let's look back down the road full of bushes, shall we?
Corporate vids - Big fun! Nice money. Lots of control over the creative! A product that only makes sense to a tiny segment of the population. I know, I know, I've already subjected you to some of it here.
TV Ad's - Big fun with someone else's big money! A perceived sense of control! Lots of people talking in your ear. And a product that's reallllly short. But seen! Sometimes salesy and lame. But. Fun! Be subjected here.
Here is one of my favorite commercials that I've directed:
Short Films - Not so much on the money. But so, so much closer to the prize. A narrative. Actors. Creating a world. Hard ass work. Nice reward when we go to Sundance. (hello Secret)
Viral Vids - No money at first. Some fun. Some success. Later on, perhaps some money. Need to see some?
The reason I'm going ON about my career (or whatever it is) tonight is that I'm in a reflective mood after watching something super fawking cool happen. One of my BFF's from Seattle just walked with her Olympian husband in the opening ceremony. He was the guy waving the flag for Peru. He and my girlfriend met on the internet and fell in love long distance about six years ago. I remember I was one of her only friends who wasn't going, "Are you nuts? Some dude from South America? From the internets?" Not me. Being a fate-lovin' ridiculous romantic who had just a few years before met her hubs on a plane...I was cheering for her instant messaging love.
And now they are hanging out in Olympic Village with their adorable two year old and preparing for the race of a lifetime. What about it?
It's just so amazing to see a dream of that magnitude come to fruition. So inspiring. So fantastic. So like me going to the podium and trying not to trip on my fancy-ass dress when I accept my Oscar. Don't you think? I mean I've been mentally prepping for that moment for a long damn time. In fact when I went to film school I would go on my nightly runs through Balboa park, pictured to the right. And as I would run on this road toward the fountain with the sky going through it's pastel wonderland into black, I would accept my Oscar. Pumping my legs with my eye on the shooting water I would thank my peeps, crack a great joke, stand to the left to show my good side, and then give a shout out to my Dad on the other side. For the record? This was in the mid 90's. I, like Oprah, was practicing the Secret long before the australian home-chic made that cheesy movie. Of course Oprah seems to be better at it.
I have to say, I miss the Hollywood YMCA. I used to run on the treadmill there before Mamahood. I'd always choose the machine that looked right into a blank wall which must appeared to be an odd choice because that wall was maddening, like two feet away. But I loved it, it was perfect for projecting a fantastic future onto. I would replay that moment, that dream moment - me, dress, moderate heels 'cause I suck at walking in them, and the feeling of 'dream come true'. So if there is anything to that Secret madness, I've certainly put in some time.
Hmm. Guess I better go back to my bookshelf filled with manifestation books. Here are two of my faves:
So hang with me people, I think it's going to work. Tonight as I watched the faces of people I love and adore march across my television, I thought.
Yep.
I can do it too.
With big dreams and big bags under my eyes to match,
PS - Please cast your ballot about Movie monday, I know we're all watching the Olympics but I'll blather on about a movie anyway...
and we talked ourselves out of the pink biotic-killing goop in the fridge. But now, with the cough from hell and the continued fever I am 2nd guessing our 'ride it out' ways and wanting for a quick release for him and for us. Damned dilemma.
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Of course Oprah seems to be better at it.