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November 07, 2006

True Story

Hmph.

I don’t want to have to confess to these things, but I will just because I am that type. Yes, the type that doesn’t want you calling me out on some shit before I get a chance to explain myself.

(Baby step one. Tell one small truth that bothers you to keep withholding as a stepping stone to the bigger truth that lies within. I love my word choice and I’m sticking with it because it make me laugh and that’s all that matters right now.)

There. I bought Uggs. Okay. So don’t come up to me in the line at Starbucks talking about “I thought you said you didn’t like Uggs in the spring of 2003…” Yes, people have come up to me and referenced something in my blog. No, not necessarily calling me out on shit, but this is just to show you how far-reaching the scope of having a blog is. And now that we’re on that topic, can I say that I have total blog paranoia? Ugh. Ever since Dateline’s To Catch A Predator, I’ve been starting to feel like the Internet, as amazing an innovation as it may be, is going to straight fuck us up one day. You heard about that lady whose baby went missing and then the investigators and bloggers traced her whereabouts by figuring out the times she was sitting around fucking around on MySpace when she should have been looking for her baby? Well, she killed herself after Nancy Grace interviewed her on her show. Yeah, I’m talking about this type of insanity. The Internet is scary.

So scary that I don’t know if I can really keep this up. I mean, seriously. I hardly ever post anyway. Sometimes, when I journal, I think maybe that’s “blog worthy” and then I’m like NO WAY, I am not sharing that with the world. Nobody needs to know about my … see, that’s what I’m talking about. I almost divulged that I’m involved in x, y and z and no, I don’t want you judging me so I’ll keep that to myself. No, x, y and z are not porn, heroin and country music respectively. Although I must say I’m teetering on the edge here. I really need to get this off my chest.

(Baby step two. Just get there. Someone might appreciate it and step back from the ledge. Or you’ll regret it and remove the post and face your inbox two hours later filled with messages of “where’d the post go?” and the like. Either way, you’re totally talking to yourself so whatever.)

FINE, I started talking to somebody about some things. Okay, there I said it. I went to one session of real live therapy. I have my second one this week. Shit, we all need a little help sometimes. I got some raggedy shit going on upstairs and I think it would behoove me and those around me to support my decision to talk it out. There are no group hugs, none of that. It’s just talking. No drugs either although there’s something sexy about having pretty little pills in my purse to conveniently swallow every time I think I’m about to haul off and snatch somebody by her ponytail just because I don’t like the way she’s talking to the pedicure lady. She’s just Korean, not of another planet altogether. You don’t have to talk to her like that – my god!

Surprisingly, it’s not anger management. It’s a little tiny bit of depression. Yep, sister girl is in a funk. I'm human. I know that some of us are raised not to talk about these things, but I have always been a bit too open with my shit as you can see by some of the decisions I have made – and made peace with – in the past. Regardless, we all get down from time to time and I’m happy to report I’m on my way into an upswing.

But wow, the lower points were a real bitch. (This is me practicing honesty and getting in touch with my “ego rules.”)

I never talk about stuff like this out loud, you know.

I had been working like a Bangladeshi ship-breaker on a book idea. I wrote out all the shit, edited and re-edited and submitted it to my agent who then submitted it to a gang of publishers. Over the course of three months (damn, y’all sure are taking a long time to just say yes), there was a lot of waiting and hoping and dreaming and sulking and pining and avoiding and distracting myself with things like glycolic peels that forced me to stay inside because I mean, really, I’m not depressed. I choose to stay inside because seriously, there are scabs all over my face. But you see, it turned out that I was depressed or maybe just a little too disappointed in my first attempt to get somewhere with this writing thing. I’d sit in the mirror, staring at the scabs and say, “You are unpublished and you got scabs – you better hope the hours before Nip/Tuck fly by because honey, it’s fixin’ to be a long day.” And this was just on my days off. You see, I only work part time and like a fucking chameleon, I can shut off the depression the second I leave the house and get into work mode. It helps that I like my job, and my boss and my co-workers and the lavender lotion in the kitchen area. But still.

My mind goes to this place that says if I were published, I wouldn’t be in “work” mode, I’d be published and so there’s that whole internal dialogue that is so annoying, I can’t begin to tell you. J, bless your heart for listening to all of it. I don’t know how he’s put up with me crying over my green tea mochi balls every night. Every night. Why had no one told me? Food escape is the SHIT.

I’m not condoning compulsive overeating or anything, but given my family history and genetics, I can choose wine (totally predisposed to pick this over all other addictions) or food (better choice considering Mercy was a mere 97 pounds when she got pregnant initially). As it stands, my vanity has actually helped me. These teeth cost me too much to stain so bring on the sacks of fries and the chocolate pudding. I like salt and then sweet. Oh, I could have gone the shopping route, but I have buyer’s remorse and I don’t need another thing to be sad about. Can you imagine being upset about buying Costume National boots for a measly $200 and feeling like you didn’t deserve them so away they must go? It's madness, irrational madness. I bypass all that shit by not shopping at all. Yes, I’ve had these jeans since 1999, what’s it to you? They’re Levi’s. You can’t clown Levi’s.

But, I suppose there are lots of things that were left to discover on my own. I started talking to other writers and they're all like, DUH. It's a special brand of depression and shit. I did not know that. I'm also not one of those people that works well with others so it's not like I ever put myself in a position to learn about the strife of a writer. Okay, not that I don't work well with others. I'm just one of those people that doesn't like "group" settings. I'm not a participant. I also don't like to hear people sit around and talk about their "craft" and so to do it myself is just doubly disgusto. Yeah. I was like this even in college. Writing is just this weird thing I have to do or else I get stank. I hate-like it. Thereby making me just like everybody else -- all tormented and predictable and annoying about it. Gross.

So after all the submissions, the basic answer was NO. Some maybes. Some absolutely nots. But definitely no yeah yeah yeahs, you see.

Please don’t fret. Know that I know it is so annoying to be this upset -- therapy upset -- about one failed foray into being published. I know this. I keep telling myself that old girl that wrote Harry Potter was denied one million times and now look at her. My therapist said that just because you’re not published does not mean you are not a writer. Yeah, fine that’s true. But fuck that. See, this is the thinking I need to turn around. It’s not fuck that. It’s, wow, I’ve never thought of it this way. I’d like to continue "sharing my gift" and "honing my craft" (vomit on my chest) with no reward, financial or emotional and keep it moving. That’s fucking awesome. No sarcasm. But see, I’m not there yet.

But I am moving forward.

I started work on another book idea altogether. A couple ideas actually, but one is my most favorite. It’s a real practice in total truth. Maybe I’ll go back in and fictionalize some things because no one would ever believe the real truth although crazy shit does go down in Hollywood, even in the circles of the lowest echelon of celebrity ever. You really do get to see a bunch of amazing things that are not to be believed.

I did accidentally sit on that famous woman’s weave track and handed it back to her and watched her clip it back to her head. I did see that pop star in bunny slippers and he did offer me a microwaveable chimichanga and yes, all I could think about was stealing his phone so that I could get the number of his pop star homie who is way way way hotter than he will ever be. And that gigantic sitcom actor did try to get at my best friend in the parking lot of Tower Records and yes, she did deny him totally not knowing who the fuck he was and so, I did throw a couch cushion at her for not knowing that he’s totally that guy and we could have totally been on the set eating all the snacks and seeing all the stars which is superficial, but what about it? Story after story, pages and pages – they just keep coming which is nice for a change. And the celebrities are so random that I think it’s fantastic. Maybe someone else with the know-how and elbow grease to make it happen will too, but whatever. Even if they don't, it's okay because I like it.

And finally. My friend Will said I have to have a MySpace, for business. Strictly business and "networking" and like, meeting people who play a cool role on Desperate Housewives who you had no idea knew who you were and then you befriend each other on MySpace and go to brunch and now you have this new friend who also happens to be Filipino which is awesome. So having said all that MySpace is all right, I guess. He made it like in some weird way it enriched his life. Enriched might be putting a lot on it, but you know what I mean. It's like taping shit when everybody has TiVo or DVR. There's no reason to deny yourself the technology when it's right there for free or like $10 more a month on the cable bill. I don't know. A part of me felt like it says a lot (in a positive way) about you if you don't have a MySpace, but shit shifts so quickly these days. Back in the day if you had AOL you were the bomb. Now, if you don't use Gmail you're not awesome. Do you get what I mean? I'm too old for MySpace, I think but everybody is like that's not true.

To Will, I was like But, I already talked a gang of shit.

Yeah, but mere shit-talking didn’t stop me from tracking down these kids size 4 Uggs, now did it? It's still ugly and not customized, but I don't know how to do all that and I don't plan on learning because then I'll judge myself as a weirdo. We're working on all of that in the sessions. Anyway...

Be my friend here. On the business tip (smiles). Thanks.

Posted by melissah at November 7, 2006 01:51 PM