Four Mondays

Welcome back

to work

during the holidays.

Today

is the fourth "Monday"

I've had in 

two weeks.

Oy.

Carry On

The other night I watched the new movie Carry On on Netflix about a TSA agent who foils an evil villain's plot to kill 250 people on a plane with a new Russian nerve gas. Taron Egerton is adorable as the TSA agent. I loved him in The Kingsman series where he help his own with Colin "Mr. Darcy" Firth. I loved Taron as Eddie the Eagle and in Rocketman where he played Elton John. This actor isn't afraid to eccentric goofballs, which is so endearing in the age of actors protecting their brand. How about having the brand of being talented? That works, too.

All of that about Taron is great, but I gotta say I was rooting for Jason Bateman, who was playing the villain. I was hoping Jason's character would knock off the U.S. Representative and her baby along with the other 248 people on the plane. Not that I actually wanted to see all of those people die, but rather the hero has to win, right?

Spoiler alert: Jason Bateman's character dies in the end from his poisonous nerve gas. He gets locked in an airtight storage locker made of glass so we can see his demise. I have to admit I was hoping for a Fatal Attraction ending, where he came back from presumed death. Oh well. Didn't happen.

My blog recently has not lived up to its name. Rough Draft was supposed to be a place where I could write stuff and just say "Fuck it. It might not be perfect or popular, but it is what I am thinking and feeling in a moment." Sort of a written Improv. Recently, I have been writing things, and then hemming and hawing about whether to publish them. That is not the point of this blog. In this post, I was afraid you would think I was a monster for rooting for the villain. Instead, it made me wonder about movies (and life) and who is cast as a good guy and who is cast as a bad guy. Jason Bateman is about my age (he's older than me, for the record) and he's played a tired, old white guy who seems like he is just doing his job, but somewhere along the way his job morphed into something terrible and his brain forgot to tell his conscience. He became really good at this horrible, shitty, evil job that ruins his life and the lives of others, but he keeps doing it. My god, this applies to half of the people I know, but who would admit it? Welcome to middle age.

What do we do? Carry on.

Monica & Me

Last night, I had an end-of-class improv show.

[Note: If you are one of my friends and wondering "Why didn't she invite me to her show? My feelings are hurt," I will say don't worry -- I didn't invite anyone. My class learned the format of our presentation the week before Thanksgiving, and I was worried that the show might be a cluster-fuck. I didn't need to drag me dear friends to see a disaster. When improv is bad, it is painful to watch. 

I asked one of the women in my class if she invited anyone. 

"No," she said. "I disinvited people."]

Last night was a learning experience. There were six classes performing, mine was the fifth. The classes before my performance were all great. There was some amazing work--you wouldn't know these people were just students--which made me more nervous. Performing the safe space of the dozen people in the class is one thing. Getting on stage in front of strangers is another.

My class voted that I would be one of the main performers, taking on the story arc of one of the two main characters. The other players have a tough job. Their role is to bring a bold and impressive offer to the main characters.

In my first scene, my scene partner boldly gave my character the name Monica. 

My third scene partner boldly gave me a last name Lewinsky.

It was intense.

I remember reading the Starr Report, all of which was published in the NYT in the summer of 1998. I remember working in Washington, D.C. in the winter of 1999, where Monica was hiding out at the Mayflower Hotel, down the street from the much less expensive hotel where I was staying. I wanted to stay at the Mayflower, hang out at the gym, and hope to run into Monica, not for any creepy purposes, but rather I thought "That woman could use a friend." And not some crazy Linda Tripp type. Another young woman who could sit next to her, say nothing, and nod. Everyone has done some crazy shit in their early adult life. Her shit just happened to make American history.

So there I was, playing Monica Lewinsky, on the spot. 

And now she has gotten into my head, about how this young woman in her early twenties had a fling with the President. She was besotted with him, and besotted twenty year old take crazy risks. Now her blow jobs are in history books.

When I think about Monica, I think about Hillary. Of course, I have empathy for the wife, but now that I am older and I wiser, I see Bill and Hill as a power couple. I have learned that power couples are more often about power, and less about the couple.

One of the challenges I had as an improviser last night was not trusting my instincts to serve the needs of the story, which is deadly on the stage. The audience was large, and I kept wondering what they would think, what would they want to know. When that happened, I lost my north star. To be fair, my performance was fine. It wasn't terrible, but I could have knocked it out of the park with such rich material and I didn't.

But therein lies the learning. I wouldn't have learned that lesson had I not gone on stage in front of strangers. 

Love Me Back

I played in a pickle ball tournament this weekend and I "got my ass handed to me," which is pickle ball parlance for I lost. 

Badly.

In five games, my randomly assigned partner and I scored maybe seven points out of a possible total of 55. We lost two of the five games 0 to 11. It was painful. When we lost, I didn't come of out thinking, "I held my own." Instead, it was like "That was a fresh slice of hell."

As I've mentioned 435 times before, I didn't play competitive team sports as a kid. I danced and danced and danced. I played one season of Cardinal Boosters soccer in 8th grade because I thought it would be fun. Nope. It was horrific. I was playing with girls who played since they were tots. 

This was supposed to be an advanced beginner pickle ball tournament, but people in Seattle do not get the idea of what a beginner is. 

This loss stuck with me longer than it should have. Sunday when I had my regular pickle ball league, I had the shakes. I was freaking out, terrified. Maybe I should quit if it is making me feel like such shit. I talked to another friend at the tournament, whose team was in second to last place. She was an artsy kid, and like me, new to competitive sport as an adult. My god, we should form a pickle ball support group. "I love pickle ball, but it doesn't love me back" could be the theme.

That was how I felt: pickle ball doesn't love me as much as I love it. I am still a beginner and feel left behind. Why do I want something like this to love me back? It is ridiculous. My ex would say he'd wake up and realize his job wouldn't love him back. He sounded like he wanted the job to love him back, but it didn't. It couldn't. I never understood what he meant until now, and the crazy disappointment that rides along with that.

The funny thing is I have a hundred things I'd tell my friends or my kids if they came to me with this problem, starting with "You win some, you lose some." I can't believe I never had to put this into practice until middle-age. I've learned thousands of things in my life except how not to be butt-hurt when I get shellacked. Damn, it is humbling. 

I practice, but I have other stuff in my life, like a new job and my improv class. But the other things in my life are independent of my relationship with pickle ball. Why can't I be competent at more than one thing? Why is losing so fucking hard? My friend Katie says playing pickle ball is a Buddhist exercise in acceptance every time she plays. That is so true.

Then I see the other people playing. I don't know their stories. Maybe pickle ball is all they have. Maybe they lost their job or don't have one or have other stuff going on in their lives that are causing them heart ache and strain. Maybe playing pickle ball is helping them survive.

Maybe pickle ball is helping me to survive: survive my post-divorce rebirth, survive my career new job. Maybe pickle ball is my life raft, and when it sprung a big leak, I freaked out.

Breathing & Partners & Haystacks

I recently improved my improv game by a factor of ten by using a breathing exercise from improv teacher. I told Charles I wanted to work on discovering a scene, not inventing one, as the father of modern improv Keith Johnstone writes. In an improv scene, we are supposed to listen and respond to what the other person is saying and doing instead of making up random shit. If you are in a scene in a grocery store looking at eggplants and a dinosaur walks down the aisle without prompting, someone is making shit up.

This breathing exercise is a game changer in discovering a scene:

1. Breathe in what your scene partner says
2. Breathe out your interpretation
3. Breathe in your feelings
4. Breathe out as you engage

This slows a scene down to a screeching halt--in a good way. I am forced to listen, absorb and respond.

The scene started where I was a Hollywood prima donna on set with a famous director. As I was preening, he was wasn't happy with where things were heading. I interpreted that he was calling me a bitch. My feeling was anger. I was pissed off, but I responded politely through gritted teeth. It was a battle of status, and the prima donna lost. In the end, she ended up wearing a gorilla suit at the director's request.

She was a damn good gorilla, dammit.

This breathing method allows us to move in tandem with our scene partner. 

At pickle ball last weekend, one of guys I played against repeatedly poached the ball from his partner. I hit the ball across court to the woman, and the dude ran across the court, jumped in front of her, and slammed the ball back. This annoyed me, and probably also his partner.

"The goal is to make your partner look good," Ace said.

"Isn't that true in all of life?" I replied. "When is it not true?"

Partnerships are hard, especially for me coming off a divorce. I had thought I was good a partnerships for basically my entire adult life, to now realize I might not be as great I thought I was. Now that I am divorced, I am learning about partnerships through improv and pickle ball.

In pickle ball, I don't want to let my partner down. Most games are mixed doubles, and I don't want to be the weak link, the reason my otherwise good partner lost. The funny thing is that I beat myself up when I lose a point, but I don't pick on my partner for missing one.

Improv is collaborative, not competitive like pickle ball. I still struggle with winning and losing. I feel bad when I get crushed, but at the same time I don't feel amazing when I win. I don't know why. 

This concept of winning and losing is becoming my haystacks. I feel about winning and losing the way Monet looked at haystacks. He painted a series of them in different light and from different angles. There will never be the perfect, definitive haystack. There are a thousand ways to look at a haystack, and each of them gives us an idea of possibilities. Half of my hangup about pickle ball winning and losing isn't as much about me as it is about my views of partnership. Why do I internally carry the blame for a loss?

Maybe I just want someone to want to play with me again.

Today

I wish 

I was 

my dog

so I could 

eat my breakfast

and then

go back

to bed.

Overlook Walk and the Full Glass

Finally!

The new park at the Market is complete! After a decade or so of planning, downtown is done.

First, Seattle built a tunnel for traffic to flow under the city. 

Next, they tore down the Viaduct, an elevated highway with spectacular views of Elliot Bay and downtown.

Once the Viaduct was down, they build a park where the highway used to be, so people could walk around and enjoy the views instead of seeing the view from driving in their cars at 50 miles per hour and trying not to crash.

Sunday morning, I was walking Fox by the new park, and I met a couple from London. They were blown away: "This is incredible, so beautiful!" They were glowing. I have walked my dog through that area many times before, and I never got such a reaction. 

(They were also enamored with Fox. "That is a fine hound you have there," the gentleman said of my lapdog.)

I am hoping Seattleites will be more excited about visiting the Market and downtown. Traffic will be a mess, but now there is a train that can bring people within blocks of the park. Seattleites and members of the PNW are an outdoorsy group, and many don't appreciate a solid urban core. To be fair, the urban core in Seattle could use a little TLC, just like many cities around the U.S.. But this park is more than lipstick on a pig. This is an urban hike for those who want a dose of the mountains and water without leaving town.

Seattleites can also be a grumpy bunch, finding fault instead of looking at what is good. This town--in spite of its beauty and wealth--tends to be a "glass is half empty" kind of place. This new park is a full glass, but I am sure people will find room to complain.

The wonderful thing about cities is they are what we make them. We can make the places we live and love beautiful and magnificent.

Ladder

In order

to climb

a ladder

you must 

first 

let go

of the 

lowest

rung.

I started a new job and I've been thinking about growth. Part of growing is letting go of the old, the safe, the familiar, so we can climb to the next level. We can't do both--climb while staying in place. Think of kids in school. Every year, they change rooms and teachers, sometimes even schools. They can't go to first grade if they stay in kindergarten.

Letting go of the old can be scary, especially if we can't see the rung above, or where it will lead. Are we strong enough to pull ourselves up? We hope we are, and we try.

Some people are happy and content where they are, and this is fine. Other times, we don't have a choice but to move. Maybe the rungs below can no longer hold our weight, or they disappear. We can free fall, or we can reach and hold on.

Vitamin D & the Sunbath

I felt a cold coming on Thursday night. It started with my skin looking pale. I looked bad before I felt bad. Then the throat tickle and the nose tickle and the omg I am so tired and I want to go to bed at 8:00 p.m.

I've felt shitty all weekend, until this afternoon.

I went on my balcony/deck/terrace (depending where you are from, call it what you will) and I sunbathed. I can sit outside in my bathing suit without feeling watched.* I took a bath in Vitamin D, and man did I feel better. It was almost like a miracle cure. 

I thought about how when I was a kid my family would go to Florida for Spring Break. We would come back toasted with a golden glow. Did it fight off bugs and viruses we didn't know about? Remember all of those Victorian novels where people would go to Italy for their health, like "A Room with a View?**"  Did doctor's more than a century ago prescribe a sunshine cure? Did they know something that has been lost in time via modern medicine? What kind of modern doc tells you to head for warmer climates to feel better? They would be considered a kook or a quack.

I was reading an article in The Atlantic about the health benefits of sunshine.

It’s long been known that sun exposure triggers vitamin D production in the skin, and that low levels of vitamin D are associated with increased rates of stroke, heart attack, diabetes, cancer, Alzheimer’s, depression, osteoporosis, and many other diseases. It was natural to assume that vitamin D was responsible for these outcomes. “Imagine a treatment that could build bones, strengthen the immune system and lower the risks of illnesses like diabetes, heart and kidney disease, high blood pressure and cancer,” The New York Times wrote in 2010. “Some research suggests that such a wonder treatment already exists. It’s vitamin D.” 

The article goes on to discuss why manufactured vitamin D isn't as effective, but what about the original source of vitamin D: sunshine?

I remembered this article this afternoon when I was feeling crappy. I laid my beach towel on my couch on my balcony/deck/terrace, and read a book outside for a few hours, no sunscreen. Even if sunshine isn't a miracle cure, there isn't anything better than feeling the sun on my back. I remember going to the beach as a kid, lying there for hours, never bored, just soaking it all in. "A day at the beach" is an expression for something extremely pleasant and relaxing, but isn't it?  What if a lazy day at the beach isn't just fun and chill, but could cure--or at least mitigate--our common ailments? 

I'm in!

* Maybe I am a little afraid of Google earth satellites getting a snapshot of me sunbathing, but I'll take my chances.

** Technically, not a Victorian novel, but close enough.

ZooTunes

My friend K invited me to use her extra ZooTunes ticket this week to see Built to Spill and Yo La Tengo at the Woodland Park Zoo this week. This falls into the MadLibs category of "I can't believe I've lived in Seattle for twenty years and have never _________."

This week's response: Been to ZooTunes at the Woodland Park Zoo.

TBH, that is one of the wonderful things about Seattle. I have lived here for so long and have done so many things and still there are new things to find.

I had never heard of either band, but it was fun. The music was cool but my favorite part of people watching. Now that I live downtown, I see many tourists and I don't see as many Seattleites in the wild as I did when I lived in Northeast Seattle. I was teasing K that we should hand out awards to people. Here are the categories:

• Coolest t-shirt
• Funniest t-shirt
• Best dancing
• Best baseball hat
• Nicest picnic blanket
• Best food spread
• Cutest water bottle
• Most adorable family
• Most interesting/creative visible tattoo

"But then we'd have to bring prizes," said K. I was initially thinking we could give away stickers, but maybe we could bring a bouquet of flowers from the market and let people pick one.

The Moth (again)

Last night, I vacuumed up a giant moth that was hanging out on my wall. The moth was two inches tall--I have no idea its wingspan. The poor creature was sucked up before it had a chance to fly away.

Last September, I wrote about another giant moth in my downstairs bathroom that freaked me out so much that I refused to open the bathroom door for a week, fearing the giant moth would attack me. (Thankfully, my condo has two bathrooms.) 

After a week, I opened the bathroom and it was fine. I never did find the moth or its carcass, which got me thinking: Maybe the moth I saw last night was the same moth from last fall... Maybe it finally ventured out of its hiding spot for the past eleven months.

I felt mildly guilty about killing the moth, being a living thing and all, but mostly I was worried that I would fail to kill it, and the moth would hide, waiting to spring out and terrorize me. I did not want to repeat what happened last year, fearing small spaces my own home because of a large flying insect.

Turning the Page

I started my new job Monday! Woohoo! 

I am exhausted--totally wiped out--and it's only Tuesday.

I dragged myself to Damn the Weather for lunch, my usual Tuesday lunch spot, where the owner asked me how I was doing, and I told him.

"It takes a lot of energy to turn the page," he said.

How true.

I am taking a job in other department in the same company, so the page turned very slowly. I didn't have the usual job change ritual of turning in my old badge and laptop, and then a few days later getting a new ones, like getting a new backpack and notebooks for the first day of school. Due to a massive enterprise-wide project, everyone on my team was booked before I left, so no good-bye lunch or happy hour. I am still in the same cubicle for two more weeks. It is like, "Have fun in 4th grade, but you are going to sit in the 3rd grade until October. The teacher will swing by and give you the lessons. Please ignore everything else." 

WTF?

I am sure I'll feel less tired soon enough.