Proof...

that I'm getting back to personal basics... Here's something I drew last week:


*Special thanks to DaVida for giving me the tools to get me going.

What Got Left Behind...

“How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you are?” – Satchel Paige

Age is all about perception and relativity. I am a newly turned twenty-eight year old. Considering that “fifty is the new forty” and “forty is the new twenty-five,” I’m barely pre-pubescent. For me, though, twenty-eight was like my thirty. Not to be confused with what will be my actual thirty. Thirty is that mythical age I’ve aspired to since I was sixteen, which essentially means my thirty will be like my twenty-one.

Still with me?

I’ve now witnessed a few friends thirtieth birthdays and not everyone shares my enthusiasm for entering the 4^th decade of their lives. For some of us, thirty is that dreaded crest of a rollercoaster where you hang suspended for a second, looking back on your twenties, before plummeting downhill into real adulthood. If you’re not strapped in, feet firmly planted on the ground, you might fall out.

My feeling about thirty is that it will be the age when my life finally emerges from this steep, winding canyon to coast along the open road at exhilarating speed. Except this happy middle, if you will, would be contingent on having made every correct turn to find my way out of the canyon in the first place. Thus, twenty-eight was like a marker for my final lap…

Am I strapped in? Feet firmly on the ground? Wait – was that last turn supposed to be a right instead of a left? Shit. What am I doing with my life?!

More than one psychic (a recurring theme of my life) had told me twenty-eight would be my year. By the time I turn twenty-eight I will be very influential in my business. By the time I’m twenty-eight I will have hit my stride. Coupled with a self-imposed wunderkind stigma and I had a lot riding on twenty-eight. I started freaking out as my birthday approached, because I was nowhere near where I thought I should be for those predictions to be true. Now that I’m here, I realize I still have a whole year of twenty-eight to make it happen. After all, I’m only a newborn twenty-eight.

I've spent the majority of my years leaning headlong into adulthood, but now… I think a deeper part of me is responding to some starting-line gunshot and pulling out all the stops. Like, the adult me suddenly woke up and heard the little me banging on the door, yelling, “You’re never going to get there without me, so let me out, you big dummy!”

Because, yeah… The little me got left behind.

The little me is the original me. Just like the little you is the original you. At the end of the day, the little you is the real you and the you we should all be answering to. We become so removed from the person we were when all we cared about was just being, that we forget some of the fundamental things that make us happy. The roots of our dreams are formed during childhood but, over time, experience and necessity chips away at them.

To a certain extent, it’s inevitable. You get older, you get drunk, you flunk a class, you have sex, you crash a car… You get a job, you get credit cards, you get an apartment, you get a new car, you get bills… You experience doubt, worry, frustration, disappointment, heartbreak, loss, and tragedy. You grow up. Life intervenes and the little you gets benched because you have more important things to think about. But that might be one of the greatest mistakes we all make.

“When I was little…” I say it all the time – increasingly so over the past few years.

When I was little… I loved to play pretend. I acted out imagined scenarios with imaginary friends. Once I pretended I was driving a car when suddenly I went blind… and I rode my bike into the pool. (I always had a flair for drama!)

When I was little… I would practice turning and posing in the mirror just like they did during the theme songs of Saved by the Bell and Beverly Hills 90210.

When I was little… I’d rock out to Def Leppard and Madonna on my Walkman, I’d sing and dance to MTV in my room, and I loved to make mix tapes.

When I was little… I started writing a script for Bartman: The Movie.

When I was little (adolescence is still childhood)… I could lose myself in writing or drawing for hours.

When I was little it didn’t matter what anyone else thought.

I didn’t think about why or how. I didn’t second guess myself or worry if I was good enough. I didn’t think about failing. I just did things that made me happy. I thought I was pretty F-ing awesome... and that was all that mattered.

I lost that unerring self-love, that infallible confidence – the original me – somewhere between then and now. As soon as I equated my talents with the potential to earn money... as soon as I realized I had the power to change my life, literally, in my hands… That’s when the little me started to fall behind.

As I got older, the pressure I was feeling to just get there, to make money, to reach success, became crushing. All consuming, really. No matter what, no matter how, I just had to be successful. I set off in hot pursuit of money, designer labels, a nice car and bigger, faster success. And I completely lost myself along the way.

My writing – the one thing that used to come so readily to me – stuttered to a stop. If I pushed myself, I could get words out in fits and starts, but never in the same easy flow. My simple desire to tell a story got all tangled up with thinking I had to do it in order to achieve something tangible. The fun of writing something that I found interesting or entertaining became irrelevant when I started worrying about anyone else finding it entertaining enough to give me money. I’ve only been intent on reaching for the carrot dangling at the end of the stick. It turns out that’s just not the way it works.

So here I am, finally understanding that I haven’t been doing the things I wanted to do for the pure love of doing them. My innocent joy when creating something, my jubilant pride in my own abilities, my love of my own mind with all its varied and quirky facets... That’s what got left behind.

Twenty-eight was my reckoning. I feel more confident now that thirty will be the age I've been waiting for: the age of celebration. Because now I get it. And slowly but surely - whatever it takes - I’m reconnecting with the original me. I’m drawing again, I’m writing free form; the way I did... when I was little. I’m doing it for myself and no one else. It’s necessary to please the little me, otherwise the big, adult me can't move forward.

You never realize how important that connection is until it’s gone. That relationship with your original self is what reminds you where you came from, why you wanted the things you want and what made you happy in the beginning, when joy was your only concern…

Something I Can't Deny...

When I was about 15 years old, I had a friend named Brandon whose mother was a dabbling psychic. I met her the first and only time I ever went over to his house. My memory of this is extremely vague, but… I know after chatting for maybe ten minutes, she declared me a good spirit. She liked my vibe. And she bestowed on me a set of her tarot cards. She wrapped the deck in an uneven cut of brown suede chamois and specified the importance of always keeping them wrapped to protect their “energy.” I think she told me the cards had been passed on to her and were a special brand that was no longer manufactured. The illustrations were lovely and more whimsical than the typical tarot cards you always see. In fact, I only ever found one identical deck in an antique shop in Santa Barbara.

So I went out and bought a book on how to read tarot and began my own dabbling… and I'll never forget one very specific reading I did on myself. Now, whether the cards are guided by a spiritual force or a collective unconscious or your own creative subconscious is debatable. I found that it was easy to “feel” if their meaning was truth or whether the cards I’d laid were a bit off. With this particular reading, I felt the truth deep in my heart. It was a spread to “Determine Your True Purpose in Life.” According to the cards, my purpose was love. Specifically, my purpose was to find love. Find my soulmate. I remember tears springing to my eyes when I read that from the tarot book…

Yes. I want love. That is something I can’t deny.

Back in my senior year of high school, when I started dating my first “serious” boyfriend, I told my mom that I would finally be able to concentrate fully on my school work. I could finally relax and focus on other things since I would no longer be worrying about the daily minutiae of trying to gently prod a crush to fruition. As far back as I can remember, I’ve always had a crush...

In kindergarten, it was Brett. So carried away by my crush (and not having learned boundaries yet), if I were sitting behind him on the blue carpet during story time, I’d find myself leaning forward – so close – trying to smell the collar of his shirt. I can mark in memory every single year of school with which boy I had a crush on. Each year I had a new object of affection. Often I’d alternate between Brett and his twin brother Bryan. In 3^rd grade, I hit pay-dirt. For some inexplicable reason, I became the girl that all the boys liked – including older ones – and I had my pick. I was passed notes and gifted rhinestone jewelry and even had my butt pinched during kickball! Sigh. I’ve never figured out how to recreate that phenomenon.

Then in Junior High I had my heart broken. Adam was my seventh grade boyfriend and I would venture to say he was my first love. As much as a 12-year-old can truly be in love, I was. He was the first boy that I really, really, really liked – and had for quite some time – who really liked me back. For two months (!!!) he held my hand and put his arms around me and walked me to class. He’d even point out our weekly anniversaries. I liked him so much that I became shy about it. That’s what did me in… because I was too shy to initiate our first kiss. It was the era of Truth or Dare, when we all learned how to French kiss, and I knew how to do it. But I liked him too much and it made me too nervous and, as I later learned, he decided I was too much of a prude. (Ha!) Really, he just never tried. I guess he rejected me before I could reject him.

It was after this heartbreak that I really fell in love with love. It was like heroin. I’d had my first hit and, oh, I wanted more. I discovered teen romance novels and read them voraciously. Every time I needed a fix I’d buy myself a new story of love trumping the odds of class lines and school sluts. I started collecting romantic greeting cards that professed charming quotations like “You enchant me” and “Can you feel my heartbeat?” with the intention of giving them to someone… someday. My VCR played The Cutting Edge on a loop and I bawled like a baby in a dark movie theatre during that scene in While You Were Sleeping when Sandra Bullock says to a sleeping Peter Gallagher, “Have you ever been so alone you spend the night confusing a man in a coma?”

High school was a veritable parade of crushes. Freshman year, I kept a running list in my head which I would re-order depending on which boy smiled at me that day or talked to me in class. I had a few “boyfriends” here and there. Usually these relationships didn’t last beyond two weeks because, as it turned out, I was a fan of the chase. More accurately, I think I was trying to reassure myself that I was likable. But once I’d confirmed that a boy did, in fact, like me back and the deal was done, I was then faced with actually having to interact with said boy on a more personal level… and suddenly it would feel wrong. Obviously, I just wasn’t that into any of them. Or maybe I was scared of being hurt again. Either way, I wasn’t sticking around to find out.

It wasn’t until I met Jeff – that first “serious” boyfriend – that I stuck around. This was one of those things that I believe was fated. I’m of the mind that certain people come into your life for a reason and once you’ve learned what you were meant to learn from them – just like that – they’re gone. My mom liked to boast of how well I “handled” Jeff when we started dating. True enough, he was a slippery one at first and I won him over without losing myself to desperation. Looking back, I think the result was two-fold. I was rewarded with a relationship that taught me how I deserve to be treated (another thing that my mom went on about for years afterward)... but, it also left me saddled with an ill-perceived confidence that I should be able to win over any man. In all of my twenty-eight years, Jeff was the longest, truest, steadiest relationship I’ve ever had. And we were together just barely a year.

Since that relationship I’ve had a string of hits and misses that engendered a new list: The Nickname Graveyard. Roll call, please? The Crying Orthodontist… Fidel the Future Convict… The One I Could’ve Married… The Gay… The Hobbit… The Hottie… The Nottie… and The Mask aka The (Mistaken) One. In terms of time, The Mask has been around the longest. In terms of actual consistency and bang-for-my-buck… he’s fallen quite short of the mark. However, this relationship, in all its peaks and valleys, has taught me a lot about myself…

See, I’ve spent a number of years now with “love” relegated to #2 on my list of priorities. When you have grand scale ambitions such as I do, it’s only natural for “career” to replace “love” in the #1 slot. Certainly, at least for the majority of early adulthood as you try to forge your way in the world, I think it’s important to shift that focus because it’s necessary to build yourself up, flesh out your character and really know what you’re capable of before you can be ready for The One. For a long time I’ve been aggressively career focused. So much that I was insulted when, a few years back, a female boss told me that some co-workers thought all I wanted was “to get married and have babies.” When she said it, I laughed out loud and scoffed at the idea, thoroughly annoyed to be dismissed in such a way. Turned out this was her own theory and she was testing my drive... I passed the test.

Truthfully, I’ve been using the “career” card as a way of justifying the failings of my love life. Many times I’ve explained away my disappointments by saying, “I don’t have time for a real relationship” and “I get wrapped up in a boyfriend too easily and can’t afford to lose focus” and “I’m just not supposed to be in love right now” and “It’s impossible to have a relationship in LA, so why bother trying?” Yet, every day I am contradicting my own stubborn logic, because... even though I say proudly that career is my #1 priority… it is LOVE – the search for love, the attempts at love, the grappling, endless yearning for love – that consumes my focus. Trying to tell myself otherwise, I’m realizing, is pointless. My career has really just served as a constant excuse for the lack of love in my life. Don’t get me wrong, my career is very important to me. But it’s a neck-and-neck race these days and, trust me… love fights dirty.

It is my want of love that makes me a girl that always needs a crush because otherwise life would be unbearably boring. It is my want of love that forces me to watch even the cheesiest romantic comedies. It is my want of love that caused my mind to play tricks on me, convincing me that I had honest feelings for someone who was less than deserving (The Nottie). It is my want of love that wouldn’t allow me to let go of someone that’s “just not ready” and might never be. And it’s my want of love that had me convinced I must not be ready either because I can't love someone else until I love myself.

All this time I’ve denied that I want love – want it and deserve to have it – right now. I've been denying that there is any other path to love than this fatally idealistic rut of waiting for a future with someone that may never come.

Then, recently, I took a trip to New York.

New York’s an inherently romantic city that I’ve visited many times before, but always returned home relatively unaffected by it. Except this time I was touched by some magic as I walked the streets. I felt connected to the pavement, the buildings, the trees and every person walking around me. I felt the thrill of catching the eye of almost every single guy I crossed paths with. I felt the giddiness of possibility. For the first time since I took up the mantra earlier this year, I believed in its power: I am The Prize. My desire for love was suddenly so sharp that I had to acknowledge it. As soon as I did, it was like all my feelings came rushing in and the world seemed to open up and I remembered...

I believe in love. I always have. I’m a romantic, I can’t help it. Love is what has always driven me. Love is what inspires me and excites me. I have so much of it to give. Love has always been my purpose, even before I knew it. I’m no longer willing to sit on the sidelines. I want the fantasy. I want the fairy-tale, with all its imperfections.

And I want it now.

Denying that was the only thing that was really keeping me from loving myself. But it’s something I can’t deny because it’s part of who I am. What’s so wrong with wanting marriage and babies?

I want it all. And I’m ready for it.

The Bianca Chronicles

So, it's been a while and I really kinda thought I wouldn't ever get around to blogging again...

But I recently read an article on how to get started writing your own memoir and it inspired me. By no means am I actually attempting to write my memoirs yet because I hope the best is still to come. I did decide, however, to use the "10 Exercises to Get You Started" as a way to do some much needed self-reflection. My assignments are as follows:

Write 2 pages about...
- Something you can't deny.
- What got left behind.
- Something you wrote or did that you no longer understand.
- Apologizing for something you didn't do.
- A physical characteristic you are proud to have inherited.
- What you had to have.
- A humiliating exposure.
- A time when you felt compassion unexpectedly.
- What you have too much of.
- When you knew you were in trouble.

Stay tuned...!

How do you say BADASS in Russian?

Because I'll bet Timur Bekmambetov has heard it ad nauseum in the past couple weeks. I saw his film WANTED over the weekend. And it was exactly that -

BAD. ASS.

See, I'm one of those girls that can hang with the comic book, science fiction, Legends of Zelda (yeah, I'm old) geeksters of the world. I've never really been a reader of comics, but through the magic of film adaptation and cult TV series, I have realized... These are my people. This realm is my realm. I identify with the themes, you know? It's all about good vs evil, getting revenge, damning the man, saving the empire, avenging the death of your mother/brother/friend and falling in love with the untouchable or ungettable or maybe just your sidekick you never thought of in that way... It's about realizing your strength as a person...

And being a FUCKING. BAD. ASS.

Everyone can identify with that a little bit. And I love filmmakers who do top-notch badass.

Timur Bekmambetov is a Russian director I discovered after a friend recommended his movie Night Watch. Then I saw Day Watch, the next movie in what is a soon to be completed trilogy about the forces of Day and Night battling each other in a gorgeously gritty Matrix-on-acid Moscow landscape. Seriously, I had to watch the 1st movie twice, there was so much going on. But I was hooked. And from that movie to Wanted, with some other Russian titles in between, Timur has obviously honed his directing skills to a fine razor point. He is genius.

Now I'll talk about the actors of WANTED:

First of all... Okay. I'm one of the few non-fans of Angelina Jolie...
(though, I did finally watch Mr & Mrs Smith - one sweltering evening in my dark, hotbox of an apartment because we have free HBO until September! - and begrudgingly enjoyed it)
...and she was badass in this movie. It made me like her again. Because badass is her forte. Enough with the forties pin-curl roles already. I like her best when she's being all dark and tough and pouty.

Common is in the movie, too. Common is hot. Common can act. But even if he couldn't... he's badass just standing there, man.

Morgan Freeman is all stoic and mysterious and, like Angelina, at his best that way. He's been in a couple soft, weepies lately and they aren't doing him any favors. I have no interest in him and Jack Nicholson sky-diving together unless they plan to kick some ass when they land.

Konstantin Khabensky, the Russian dude that stars in the Night Watch trilogy, has a role, too. It was like running into an old friend you haven't seen in a while and you're like, Hey, I forgot how much I like you! He plays a kooky guy and he's kind of adorable. And he speaks English, which I didn't know. Hello American cross-over career? Some talent manager better jump on that quick.

And then there's...
JAMES MCAVOY.

Yet another of my Brit boy crushes. Actually he's Scottish, which is even better...

*sigh*

I always like to gloat when I'm ahead of the curve and my eye for talent is validated... and this is no exception. I knew about McAvoy before most people did. He was in a BBC miniseries called State of Play that I saw years ago before it aired on BBC America and before Universal decided to adapt it into a film and recast the leads with flashy A-list stars. Among all the notable UK talent in the original ensemble cast, McAvoy stood out. Mostly because I thought he was cute and then, upon closer attention, because he's a phenomenal actor.

(Good-lookers with blue eyes, an accent AND talent to spare? Holy hell, they're like my Kryptonite!)

So, then I randomly saw him at an LA Film Festival party a year later, when he was still relatively unknown. Leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette, of course. I worked up the nerve and went over to tell him how great I thought he was and that he had a bright future ahead of him (ahem...). He was v. gracious and almost shy and when he stood straight to shake my hand......... Yeah, he was shorter than me. Even if I hadn't been wearing 4" heels he'd just barely reach my height. It's always such a disappointment when they turn out to be Pocket People - and a bloody LOT of them are. He still left me all aflutter which I don't usually get around most actors. It's like my "It" factor radar. And whaddya know? Today he's one of the buzziest young actors around. As in he's stirring up the Hollywood buzz. He's done the indie thing... and the romantic comedy thing... and the award-nominated epic period romance thing... and the fantastical creature thing...

Did I ever think he'd play an action hottie with an American accent and PULL IT OFF? Mmm, not so much. Boy, was I glad to be proven wrong. He was a revelation in this movie. And definitely the winner of MOST. BAD. ASS. He has officially ascended the ranks and conquered the sink-or-swim "bankable popcorn action flick star" echelon. Obviously his range of talent is not to be underestimated, but what's more... There's this shot near the end of the movie when he's finally really owning his badassness... Let's see...

Oh my... Uh huh... That's the one. Made me want to cut my legs off at the knee just so I could look UP into his smoldering blue eyes next time I see him. Too bad he's married. Although, who wants to put money on that - when a star rises in Hollywood, the wife is the first to go, right? Actually not so much with the UK actors. They were all brought up proper-like. They keep their traditional values. Okay, not all of them. UK actresses...? Maybe a different story. In some cases...

So, there it is. This wasn't meant to be a review. Clearly, because I made no comment or critique of the plot - which was kept fairly simple, with a not entirely unpredictable twist at the end. Or of the action - which, simply put, is edge of your seat, Holy shit did that just happen, FUCKING AWESOME. I am curious... Who came first? Bekmambetov or the Wachowskis? Similar styles. Who does it better? I think Bekmambetov drew off their innovations and dialed it up about 50 decibels with some insanely creative and clever stunts that have just the right touch of irony to make you laugh and shout, Dude! That's just my opinion. And this is just my enthusiastic recommendation. Because I'm not lying when I say I felt like a geek boy in women's clothing having a full-on comic nerd wet dream when I saw this film.

Yeah, I said it.

GO SEE IT.

Completely random...

I have no idea... Seriously. But this is highly entertaining...

Pick myself up, dust myself off...

Yeah, yeah, I'm the one that threw me on the floor in the first place. I've spent the last couple weeks doing fuck all because I've been in a funk. I needed a break.

Listen, this business is fucking hard, okay? And I have a fragile spirit. I'm a fighter, to be sure. But that doesn't mean I don't let myself get knocked down first. I'm like the kid on the playground who throws herself to the ground at the slightest nudge and spits blood before climbing back up and kicking that ball home (yes, I was the kickball queen). I'm all about the "rally." Nothing gets me fired up like a little hopeless despair...

So, our show was cancelled. Technically not "my" show. My boss' show. The show I worked on and, despite all bias to the contrary, I damn well believed in. Maybe sitcom is dead. Maybe ours was too "traditional" and a throwback to less "edgy" humor. What-the-fuck-ever. It was a GOOD. SHOW. We had Emmy-winning actors pulling their shit out every week. We had a kickass writing team. We had Jimmy Fucking Burrows as our live-in director! A guy that's so seasoned he doesn't even need to WATCH when the show is taping. He just paces and LISTENS and knows what camera moves to make. Then the network fucked with our show from the moment we got back after the strike. Don't give those suits time to sit around and think, please. And still our show was good and heading steadily towards greatness. But apparently "good" isn't good enough in this assbackwards business.

And that is the crisis of conscience I've been having. See, I know I chose this business. I've been around it my whole life and I know how hard it is. It's hard getting in and it's hard ascending the ranks. I've seen talented people try and fail, try and fail, try and fail. And now, I've seen award-winning talent fail.

THERE IS NO FUCKING RHYME OR REASON TO THIS BUSINESS!
(and if there is... it's called MONEY, honey)

It's just incredibly discouraging. You've heard the overnight success stories that are supposed to inspire you. And it does inspire all the Jeds and Mary-Sues who come to LA bright-eyed and bushy-tailed to be "famous!" But for every amazing success, there are 10 tales of shattered knee-caps. People falling off the wall. Giving up and waggling back to Minnesota, tail between their legs. It's not like going to med school or law school and being on an assured path to a secure career as a doctor or lawyer. Sure, nothing in life is certain. But in Hollywood it's all a fucking crapshoot.

SO... it went down like this: I turned in the 1st draft of my script. Two days later, our show was officially slaughtered. I write drama, the show is comedy. So it's not like I lost out on a big break, writing for what could have potentially been the next Frasier. Then I hear from my manager that my script still needs A LOT of work. And I'm just sitting there thinking...

FUCK. Who do I think I am, trying to be a "writer"? It took me months to write something (fine, essentially 3 weeks when I got down to it) that apparently was way off the mark and now I'll have to spend another month reworking it all. Meanwhile my boss, who is an established, successful "writer," just got royally screwed on something he put so much effort into. Like, really, am I kidding myself? What if I try and fail and never get anywhere? What if, for all my hard work, I'm just never good enough? In a business where even proven talent sometimes isn't good enough to win the game...

WHAT'S THE POINT?!

Well... the point is... (yes, I do have one) What would be worse? Trying and failing until the spaghetti sticks? Or not trying at all and never knowing what I could have achieved? I think that idea SUCKS. This is the business I chose. And I'm not hiding behind a Gucci suit and getting my rocks off by dashing the dreams of MY people. No, I'm on the creative side. I'm choosing to be one of the brave ones. I'm choosing to be among those that bare their heart and soul on the page. I will try, try, try again. Ratings and box office numbers be damned! It wouldn't be worth it otherwise.

"It's our wits that make us men."

See? Hopeless despair = Braveheart rally. Give it a go some time. It really works. Why? Because...

They may cancel our shows, but they'll never take... OUR FREEDOM!

(okay, yeah, I'm done now...)

On hiatus...

I am officially on hiatus until May 5th.

I've been given a deadline to finish a draft of my script and I'll be damned if I can't meet it.

Copy that.

Over and out.

Uuuunnnngggghhh...

I. am. so. hungover.

To quote one of the only bloggers I habitually read...

"Jesus H. Christ on a bike... Argh."

I couldn't in good faith claim the wordage as my own and (being the avid benefactor of talent that I am) had been meaning to do this guy a solid anyway with some P&A on my own less accomplished blog. And yes, he's British.

Anyway. Back to me.

I remember always laughing when people over the age of 35 would complain about not being able to bounce back as easily after a night of partying. Thinking, Ha! That'll never happen to me. In my exuberant, bouncy youth I rarely suffered hangovers and was sure I was immune. Granted, I've never been the hardcore 5-nights-a-week type, but I've done my fair share and handled it with aplomb. Four Ecstasy-fueled nights in a row in Miami when I was 21... Combat bowling until 3am on shots of Baileys and vodka when I was 23... Film premiere after-partying until it was time to shower for work the next morning when I was 25... Speaking of work... Two years of coke, booze and late nights in the middle of the week then rolling into the agency by 8am (well-dressed and perfectly made-up) and managing to be on my A-game for 12 hours straight while navigating the minefields of my boss' moods and learning what "work hard, play hard" really means.

Right, so maybe that last section of my party-girl career was a bit hardcore... at least for me.

And now we're up to date.

I used to be invincible, man! But now... Oh to be young and naive again. I'm not even 30 yet and I can't fucking deal. True, ever since I went all Less Than Zero at the agency I've sort of been on hiatus. Nesting and focusing on goals and such. I've become a little old lady that, when someone says "Meet around 10:30?", replies with "At night?!" It does make for more fulfilling fun when I do go out... but as I age it's getting harder and harder. The hangovers are getting worse and worse. It used to be that a good omelet and some juice in the morning could turn the booze crown upside down. Then it progressed to a dependable lunchtime dissipation. Now we're at 4 o'clock, I've had 2 full meals, protein, carbs AND sugar - blasphemy! - and I STILL have a cloudy, achy head and a queasy stomach. And I can't even discuss the morning. It's a miracle I made it to work... safely...

And all because I decided to take up a spur of the moment invitation to go dance like a nerd at a back-alley rock bar (okay, not so nefarious) on a Monday night. Seriously, if someone had told me yesterday morning that by 12am I'd be going ape shit up on a platform at some all ages 80s night and getting kicked out of the place for I'm not sure what because I don't remember and neither does anyone else... I would've been like, pssshhh, riiiiiight. Apparently, I'm unpredictable like that. Who knew?

All that is to say... I'm just not sure if it's worth it anymore. Not when I have to spend the next whole day completely out of sorts and feeling like I might pass out on my desk.

[insert labored moan here]

And it's still nowhere near time to go home. Wah.

Decidedly Simple #347

I'll be the first to say that I can be... difficult. Okay, my mother probably would be the first. I think of my personal quirks and expectations of the world around me as endearing. Call me a diva, call me hard to please, call me fickle... I say YES. All are a badge of honor that proclaim my high standards. But there are some things about me that are Decidedly Simple.

Witness: Exhibit #347

Bianca Responds to Positive Reinforcement

In my last job I had a boss that was super demanding. She was the matriarch of this company I worked for and therefore very successful and very, very good at her job. And I respected her. But let's just say, my nickname for her came to be Cunty Cunterson. While I know she thought highly of me and was only as hard on me as she was because she felt that I could not only meet but exceed her expectations... she was just a B.I.T.C.H. I worked my ass off for this woman and nailed it 98% of the time... But very rarely was acknowledged when I did good. No, she only ever harped on the 2% of the time I fucked up. Because she expected 100%. Sure, I get that. Nonetheless... only being recognized for things you're not getting right can be disheartening. I found myself dropping from 98% kickass to 95% and so on. Because it's all a mind fuck. And when she smelled blood, she went for it. Thus, a bad day would turn into a bad week and into a bad month. That bitch wore me DOWN. And I use "bitch" as a term of endearment here, because at the end of the day, when I basically decided I didn't want to BE her in 40 years and I quit... she helped me and I do love her.

At the opposite end of that spectrum... is the motivation that is sparked in me when someone compliments me or tells me I've done good. It's a little thing called Validation. While I'm locked in my little den of self-doubt wondering if I'm smart enough, good enough... One kind comment and BOOM the door blasts open. It can come from my mother or my manager or a friend or a stranger... I'm not picky... And it puts a big smile on my face because it has been confirmed that all my toil hasn't been for naught. And THAT inspires me to keep fighting the good fight.

Pretty simple, eh?