APRIL 12th, 2011 ~ Nifkin

It’s Tuesday, April 12th, exactly two months since my last gratitude blog. In my defense, I have been doing a lot of writing, just not about anything for which I’m particularly grateful. Over the past few days, several people have contacted me to inquire about the hold up- so I guess it’s time to get posting... 

I'm going to dedicate this entry to Erin ‘Nifkin’ Altman. 

Erin, alongside my two other Hamilton girlfriends Katie and Jess, was the literal highlight of my college experience. Anything that happened outside the presence of those three was completely secondary... and that includes everything I learned in class, (Sorry dad, I know that’s not what you want to hear.)  Though the four of us have remained friends since graduation, we don't get together nearly as often as I would like. Over the past couple of months, however, Erin and I have been making it a point to talk and spend as much time together as our conflicting schedules will allow;  reinforcing how grateful I am to have her in my life.  I’m sitting here with my back to an open window, the rain outside hitting me in the head- I’m hoping the Gods of Eloquence will assist me in constructing a sentence that won’t leave me sounding corny or trite.  Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen, so here's what I can say, Nifkin- I love you.  I love you for so many reasons- and maybe some time I’ll get into them all... But right now, I love you for being the most supportive, patient, and wonderful friend I could have possibly asked for through my descent into dreaded girly-hell.  You have been a constant support through the bitching, whining, and over analyzing of every little thing; you never get bored of me, you never get drained- you are the best.

I guess now would be a good time for a little background.  According to the laws of Kabbalah, everyone who comes into your life has been put there to push your buttons in a specific way in order to teach you something.  It’s your individual responsibility to find out what that is, because if you do not then even if you manage to get rid of the horrible person who made you so unhappy someone worse (or at the very least equally horrible) will show up to take his/her place.  I believe I said something on this subject in regards my college non-boyfriend Sean.  I mentioned that though he has been out of my life for seven years and dead for nearly three, the evil that was in him continues to show up in my life in the form of other relationships.  Since I have been out of college, I can think of five relationships, (or more accurately non-relationships) wherein I’ve essentially found myself dating Sean’s ghost.  For the sake of brevity as well as my own sanity, I’m not going to go into gory detail about them all.  I will say though, that the common threads were dishonesty, selfishness and at times, blatant meanness.  The only difference is that Sean was 100% Irish and the rest were all Jewish, Italian, or some combination thereof.  

Up until a couple of days ago, I was involved with a man (if you can even call him that) who when looking from the outside in, I had no business with.  It's a running joke among my friends that I have the most bizarre/abominable taste in men.  But as I said, there was definitely a karmic reason why this person, who for the sake of privacy and protecting the innocent will remain nameless, showed up in my life.  THAT is where my Nifkin comes in.  Nifkin, by the way, is not actually her middle name, it's just what we call eachother.

Erin and I,  both philosophy majors, have had countless discussions on the topic of relationships and interpersonal trust.  We are pretty much polar opposites in regards to the ways that we view and conduct our relationships.  Erin has had three serious, long-term relationships over the last 11 years... I've had about a hundred what can only be described as silly, short-term ones.  And we have both spent so much time totally miserable, why?  We've dissected the subject ad nauseam and I think what we’ve come up with might be worth listening to...

There is a term in philosophy called skepticism, which is the idea that nothing is for certain.  For example, how does one know that the floor is going to be there to meet your foot every time you take a step?  You don't is the answer- but you have to just kinda live as though you are sure because well, what other choice is there?

When it comes to personal relationships and love, however, it gets tricky because some people believe there is a choice... What I'm referring to is the thing that some snooping while others consider merely doing their due-dilligence.  I never really understood the logic that supports snooping around in my boyfriend's stuff or checking behind his back to confirm his word.  Obviously, the goal of the snooper is self-protection; but protection against whom?  Your partner?  Aren't you supposed to be on the same side?  Isn't that the whole point of coupling off?  To avoid isolation and aloneness?  

That's always been my arguement, anyway, that snooping, aka going through your partner’s things, asking questions that aren't your business, fact-checking, or any other display of doubt in your partner is never okay.  I say this because I truly believe if you cannot trust your partner, than you do not love him, plain and simple.  You may think you do, but love, according to me at least, isn't a a feeling; it's an action.  To Love means to put that person's needs ahead of your own; and by needs, I mean emotional as well as the tangible.  So how could it be okay to put your need for certainty ahead of his need for respect?  That’s the opposite of love; its selfishness.

Even if it does come from low self-esteem, it's still wrong.  If you believe that you aren't lovable, why would you ever believe someone who tells you that you are?  You'll convince yourself that that person is a liar; and every move you make will be motivated by your need to prove yourself right, thus making the whole thing about you- not him.  What kind of relationship is that?

To bring the floor metaphor back for a second, I guess I would liken it to taking a hammer and pounding the wood 60 times before taking a step.  That’s what you’re doing when you don’t trust your partner.  Eventually, even the strongest floor is going to crack.  And when you do fall through it, who is to blame?  The floor, or you and your stupid hammer?

Being someone who has spend 90% of her relationship history playing the role of the floor... it's very easy for me to say 'You and your stupid hammer' are to blame.  Unfortunately, everyone, even the floor has to take responsibility for his or her own experience.  So what if you're the floor in this scenario?  What if you're the one who's constantly getting struck by your partner's fictitious hammer of doubt?  

Obviously a floor is inanimate and an object in this scenario, so let's flip the metaphor around and say that you are now the person who has looked down and seen that this floor is FULL of deep gashes that you did NOT put there and the wood is rotting?  Do you continue to step?  Most people would not.

Sadly, I am not most people... Back to nameless dude.  How can I describe him?  Well, for one thing, he was closed.  The kind of guy who would share very little about himself in conversation, always preferred to be the one asking the questions.  Any time I tried to shift the focus onto him he would deflect the question and immediately return to his more favored role of information gatherer.  There was a part of me that didn't mind the attention on me.  I did, after all choose a career in airing my dirty laundry.  Unfortunately, the interest was not genuine.  It was a manipulative tool used to make me feel safe and appreciated while distracting me from the fact that he wasn't actually revealing anything about himself; a tactic came into play again when, for example, the question of exclusivity came up.  He had no qualms whatsoever about asking me not to date or sleep with anyone else, but wouldn't commit himself one way or the other.  He wanted me to invest in him but refused to invest anything back.

What's more, he would put words in my mouth- things I never said, or things I did say but he'd take them completely out of context and use them as evidence that I didn't like him.

Here is a kind of funny example to prove my point.  He's a white guy but his balls, (you know, testicles) are very dark, kind makes his scrotum look like a bicycle seat.  It's sort of a funny visual, when you think about it.  Anyway, one time without thinking, I made a perfectly benign observation about the difference in color around that area of his body and completely flipped out.  He jumped to the conclusion that I was criticising him, I wasn't- it was merely an observation.  But he insisted that I thought he was a freak and I wasn't attracted him and sulked about it for days.

Another time, we were having sex and he started accusing me of only pretending to like his dick.  I'm a little bit uncomfortable revealing this just it's so vulgar, but I will anyway just to illustrate the severity of the situation.  He started yelling at me, literally, in the middle of sex that I wished his dick was 4 inches longer and 2 inches thicker, just like my old boyfriends (how he ever managed to find the dimensions of that guy's dick, I will never know) But he was certain.  He meant it.  He had convinced himself that that's what was going on inside my head and he hated me for it.  There was literally nothing I could say or do to convince him otherwise.  And any attempt I made would be twisted around and turned into further evidence toward his point.  There's no reasoning with a fanatic...and when it came to this man's self-hatred he was downright fanatical.  Any observations I made he would insist were insults; Any compliments I tried to give him he would spin into mockeries.  I couldn't win; there was literally not a thing I could say or do to get him to abandon that mission and and allow himself to feel close to me.

I realize that all of these examples show what is, by my OWN definition, is the opposite of love.   Which begs the question, WHAT is wrong with me.  How could I, Knowing full well that this person did not love me (again, I'm speaking of love in terms of action not feeling; I have no idea how he felt and it hardly matters) continue to step on those cracked floorboards, rotted nearly all the way through?  It's not as though I haven't seen the signs before.  I know what a floor that's full of holes looks like and yet I keep stepping right into them!  

I can blame this guy and the slew before him all I want but at the end of the day, I am the failure for not using what I've learned from the past and allowing myself to become involved with someone who was clearly a lost cause from the start.  My self-esteem needs a serious overhaul and fast.  Everyone yearns to connect and to love and I'm no exception- but unfortunately so few of us really know how.  It's a myth that everyone deserves it; some people don't!  That saying, "You can't love another until you love yourself..." it's an inconvenient truth if ever there was one, but it's the true nonetheless.

Nifkin... Thank you for helping me keep my sanity through this tough, but necessary learning experience.  You're an incredible person and an incredible friend and my appreciation for you is immeasurable- but we both have our work cut out for us. I need to find some stable floors and you need to stop driving hammers into the one you're currently standing on.   I love you and I hope you love you too.

FEBRUARY 12, 2011 ~ Margaret Cho, "I'm the One that I Want.."

I have recently delved into Margaret Cho’s memoir, I’m the One that I Want.  I’m having a hard time getting through it not because it’s not great... because it’s so great I can’t read more than a couple of pages at a time.  I have to take time between anecdotes and really let what she says sink in.


About a quarter of the way in, Margaret talks about a relationship she had at a  young age with a man named Bob.  As I read I was reminded that I too had a Bob.  I met my Bob in college; his name was Sean.  The story of the relationship between Margaret and Bob was painful to hear in that it reminded me so vividly of my own experience; but at the same time it gave me immeasurable relief.  Margaret Cho is amazing, if there is a bitch alive who needs no one’s approval it’s her, right?  Yet here she is, openly admitting all she was willing to put up with for once ounce of approval from a guy she didn’t even really like and I couldn’t help thinking, God that’s brave.
I started really thinking back on my relationship with Sean, as well the ones that followed and imagining all the misery and heartache I could have avoided if only I would have been honest with other people and myself.  Even now I sometimes catch myself slipping into a state of denial about who someone really is to me, as though that’s going to make the cold, hard truth any less cold, hard and true.
I met Sean when I was a freshman.  He was funny, I think.  It’s hard for me to remember anything good but there must have been something that drew me to him and it sure as hell wasn’t his looks, so I’m gonna say he was funny.  He drove a red KiA and on days when he felt like being nice to me we would drive around and listen to this mix CD full of bad 80’s music I loved.
Most nights we slept together in my bed- and by slept, I mean literally slept.  It wasn’t weird for me because I had a lot of friends who were guys.  I prided myself on being the cool girl who’s pals with all the guys, as though it were some badge of honor.  I wasn’t unattractive- no, I was just too cool.  Of course I didn’t have a boyfriend, not because nobody wanted to date me, but because fuck boyfriends, boyfriends are lame!
I deluded myself into thinking that the reason Sean and I weren’t sleeping together because our friendship was ‘just too special to ruin.’  I think women do this a lot- tell ourselves that the men who reject us are doing so out of respect or reverence because the thought of being rejected for any reason is just too painful and humiliating to accept. He’s not that Into you, if you can forgive the cheesy title, is actually quite brilliant for this reason.  It tells us that just because one person doesn’t love you, you’re not unlovable.  And that we need to recognize the signs when somebody isn’t returning our feelings, accept that this isn’t the end of the world- and fucking walk away, dignity intact.  Well... easier said than done.  Coincidentally enough, that book came out the very year all of this was going on.  My mother sent me a copy for Valentines Day.  She’s sweet like that.  Of course I didn’t read it; I didn’t want to hear it.  I was in denial.  Denial has been been a running theme in pretty much all of my romantic involvements thus far; this one was no exception.
“He kept talking ‘three-way! three-way! three-way!’ like there was no tomorrow.  It was just like that Albert Brooks sketch where he has two female roommates and keeps trying to get it on with them.  Trace got freaked out, ‘Oh my god, No offense, but your boyfriend is totally gross.  I’m not having sex with him.  I would do you in a second, but him- No way!’  We laughed a lot about it, but inside, it hurt me to be in a relationship with someone so sleazy, and not only that, my friend knew it” (Cho pg. 58).
If ever there was a literary passage that hit close to home it was this one.  Sean and I spent pretty much all of our time together so naturally people began to  assume we were a couple.  When I’d correct them they’d look at me puzzled and say things like “What?  You guys are always together... you belong together.”  As if it were that easy; as if it were up to me.  In an effort to passive aggressively make certain the whole world knew we were just friends, Sean would talk at length and in gory detail about all the girls he wanted to fuck right in front of me.  People, in particular girls, within earshot would shoot me this sort of concerned, sympathetic look which made me feel like just about the lowest thing alive.  I’d try to muster a laugh, but usually the most I could come up with was a sort of half smile, half shrug.  I may as well have just cried, it’s not like they all couldn’t tell.  The secret was out.  I was pathetic; a doormat... and everybody knew.
To add insult to injury, the objects of his adoration were always girls who looked nothing like me... skinny, tall, athletic, preppy.  No curls, no feminine curves; just pin-strait hair to match their pin-strait bodies.  They’d wear these boxy-looking pastel shirts with the color turned up- probably to hide the tag on the inside that would read Boys, Extra Small. The jewelry that accompanies this uniform is impersonal and specific.  Delicate pearl studs, a silver chain-link necklace with that authoritative “Return to Tiffany’s” logo on the clasp, an hermes bangle, or if she’s feeling particularly daring, two.  The most loathsome part of the whole ensemble, I’m going to have to say is the cardigan neatly draped around the shoulders the way an elderly woman would wear it.  I used to joke in my stand-up about grown men who dressed in this fashion- my punchline was “Only infants and easter eggs should be allowed to look like that.”  I could never take it seriously, I just found the  look so dismally un-masculine.  But it’s not feminine either, it’s stuffy and it’s sexless; tasteful androgyny.  I hated it.
Growing up in greenwich, there was no shortage of those types.  Some of them were even my friends.  He tortured me to no end with those.  “Oh, I’m gonna re-name my penis ‘---’s Butt’ because I’m gonna put in ---’s butt next time I see her, I can’t wait.”  God it’s so vulgar.  So many men talk like that- even older ones.  It’s so sleazy and vile.. I knew it was disgusting; I knew I hated him.  But I was stuck; stuck in a place so desperate for this person’s approval that I was actually jealous- of that!
I should probably take this time to mention what Sean looked like.  You’re probably imagining that he was some kind of debonair stud.  He was not.  Sean was fat.  Really fat.  He had acne that he would refuse to pop or do anything about so he’d walk around, face full of these festering yellow and white pustules; greasy hair barely contained by some filthy baseball cap, or beanie if it was winter.  I’ve always had a hard time taking a grown man seriously when he’s wearing the same style cap you see on newborn babies in the maternity ward, but of course I never said a word.  A lot of times he would get so stoned he’d forget to shower, so he constantly wreaked of the body odor/pot combination.  He was downright disgusting, inside and out.  They say the people we choose is a reflection of the way we see ourselves.  I knew he was gross but I was drawn to him for some reason.  I must have felt I was some sort of female equivalent of this horrific mess.
When he told me his plan to fuck this girlfriend of mine I laughed in his face.  “Oh, you don’t think I will?” He asked with a mix of shock and horror, “No, Sean.. It’s never gonna happen.”  “Why not?” and then out it came, without even thinking.. “She has really high standards.  She’d never want you.”  The rest of the conversation was kind of a blur.  I remember him stopping the car and getting right in my face, “Excuse me?!?”  But the rest... I don’t know.  I remember wracking my brain, trying to figure out how I got to this point.  That girl he was talking about was one of my best friends in high school.  In fact, I’m pretty sure she used to look up to me.  What the fuck happened?  I didn’t know.
When we got back to school I regaled my friends with lies about what a fantastic weekend Sean and I had together.  Again, I must have thought if other people believed that our relationship was so special it somehow would be.  At the end of the night, drunk and tired I went back to my dorm to sleep.  He was already there waiting for me, stoned.  Sean was always there when I got home.  He’d greet me with something along the lines of ‘Oh what great timing!  I literally JUST got here and sat down.  I had the best night, I was out with this person and that person, doing this and that...”  I knew he was making it up.  Sean never went out, he never dated, he never did anything.  He didn’t have a friend in the world outside of me, why couldn’t he recognize that?  Why couldn’t he love me?  I sat on my bed waiting for him to finish up the last of my bowl, before turning off my lights.  Finally, he climbed into bed.  I’m not sure what came over me, but I guess all the spinning I had been doing of the events of the weekend had filled me with a false sense of security; I decided this was the time to tell him how I felt.  “I’m sorry.  I thought you knew.  I just... I like hot girls.”  He paused briefly- “This.. (waving his hand over my body) disgusting.”  The tone was as flat and factual as if he was pointing to my hair and saying "This... blonde.”  That was the end of putting myself out there like that for me.  If there’s a chance the response is going to be “This... disgusting.”  I’d rather just not know.
I never told my friend that he’d said that about her.  I was afraid she would be offended, or worse, offended on my behalf.  She’d probably look at me all sympathetic and say something like “Oh Genevieve, what are you doing with a guy like that?  Don’t you know you deserve better?”  I hate to lie- but how do you tell someone “No, I don’t.” without coming across like a sympathy seeker?  I remember once, my friend Katie tried to say something to me about Sean but I wouldn’t hear it.  When you’re as insecure as I was, it’s impossible to tell friendly concern apart from pity- and pity is humiliating.  I wanted to be envied, not pitied; so as the pain tore me up inside I continued smile and boast of my wonderful relationship to anybody who would listen.  I’m pretty sure I didn’t fool a soul.
I don’t think about Sean very much; he’s a part of my life I have done my best to forget.  When I found out he died in November of 2008 I went through my pictures to try to find one of him.  I couldn’t.  Sean hated having his picture taken; it annoyed me so much at the time but now I’m grateful.  I don’t need images of him clogging up my beautiful pink photo album... thats for good memories.  I wish I could say there was a happy ending to this story; there isn't.  He's gone now and I don't miss him.  If I could go back in time and call him before he died I probably wouldn't.  The emotional trauma that followed "This...Disgusting" isn't something I’d wish on anyone- But Sean wasn't to blame for it, I am.  Cutting Sean out of my life was certainly a good move, but it didn't really solve anything.  He wasn't the cause of that event in my life, he was merely the catalyst; I know that now.
If you're wondering what the point was in sharing all of this, here it is: Have the courage to be honest yourself and with other people.   If I hadn’t let my fear and low self-esteem drive me to that state of denial I never would have been in that situation or any of the many variations thereof that followed (and there have been quite a few.)
So on a happy note- everyone be grateful for all that you are, and listen to people like Margaret Cho.  Not many people know their shit the way she does- and fewer still are willing to share the secrets of their hard-earned perspective on life so that we may be able to skip a few steps along the road to self-acceptance, peace, happiness, and eventually love.

FEBRUARY 1, 2011 ~ Tony Robbins

It’s the first of February so I’m starting this month off correctly, with a new gratitude blog.  I was contacted by Steven, my assigned Tony Robbins representative earlier today; he asked if I would consider writing a testimonial about my experience with Tony.  I told him I would be honored.  I was planning on writing a piece about Tony in the near future anyway so here goes!
How has Tony Robbins influenced my life for the better... What a question?  Where do I even begin?  I’ll start by going back three months to November 2010 when I attended his seminar, ‘Unleash The Power Within.’  I had no idea what to expect, as my knowledge of Tony Robbins was pretty much limited to ‘Oh yeah, that guy who put a hex on Jack Black in Shallow Hal.’
When I arrived on the scene of UPW I was totally taken aback by the spectacle of it all.  It was a like a rock concert at 8 o’clock in the morning.  People yipping, hollering, dancing like fiends... I’m thinking “What the hell am I doing here?  This is fuckin’ NOT for me...”  But since my mother was there, (she wasn’t sitting with me, of course... she was up front with the VIP’s and stuck me back with the herd) and I knew she was going to ask for a full report, skipping out really wasn’t an option.
When I really began to listen to what Tony had to say it became so clear; how much life really comes down to our perspective, which inform our priorities, and in turn inform our choices.  As a result of that seminar, specifically his pain/pleasure association exercise, I made the decision to quit drinking.  Now, I would be lying if I said I haven’t slipped up here and there... but by comparison to where I was?  I did a total 180.
I was so unbelievably fascinated by what I was learning that I decided to take the process a step further and go out to California for ‘Date with Destiny.’  That’s where the breakthroughs started happening...
One thing Tony talked at length about at DWD is this idea that we create meaning around events in our lives and then we use the story of what happened to us as justification for why our lives are unfulfilling.  That, by the way, is a severely simplified version of what he actually says, but I’m not here to paraphrase- if you want more eloquence on the subject, go to the source.  Anyway, I began looking at certain behaviors of mine and wondering how on earth it came to be that I got this way.
I’m a pretty smart girl and I have great ideas, but I’ve never been much of a follower-througher (I know that’s not really a word, just go with it).  I tend to get really excited about the prospect of doing something and then when it isn’t as easy as I anticipated I just sort of give up.  I’ve heard the sayings “If it was easy anyone could do it,” or “Anything worth doing is worth working for...” I understood it on a cognitive level, but clearly I wasn’t getting it on a personal level because I was still falling victim over and over again to these tendencies.  According to Tony’s theory, there was a high likelihood that I somewhere in the past some event occurred around which I created some story starring me as the wronged one and I’ve been using that story (the story I made up) as incontestable evidence that I’m doing the best I can given the resources I have when, in fact, I’m not doing crap.  Here’s what I came up with...
Sports, in particular team sports, have never been my thing.  When I was a kid I was small, slow, uncoordinated, and most importantly, uninterested.  Because kids are fucking mean, I got made fun of for this.  In an effort to make me feel better, my mother used to tell me it was okay that I wasn’t good at sports because I’m little.  It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see where she was coming from; obviously, she was trying to be a good mom.  If that woman had had any idea how such a minor, not to mention well-intentioned comment was going to screw me up, she would probably have handed over her reproductive rights then and there... because the moment it became okay for me to ‘suck’ at something, it became okay for me to suck period.  Is it really okay?  Would my mother tell me today that it’s okay for me to fail?  Was I really sitting there, a 26-year-old woman: chronically single, financially dependent, and drunk 7 out of 7 nights a week because my mother said I could?  Of course not!  But that didn’t stop me from using it an excuse.  Pretty crazy, huh?  I actually allowed something as simple and harmless as that to be the reason why I’m where I am in life as opposed to where I want to be... but at least I'm not alone.  It's something we all do.
So what’s the next step once you know?  Well, since coming to this realization, I’ve actually made the shift from unconsciously blaming my failures on my momma, to taking full responsibility for my own actions.  And believe me, when you’ve got no one to blame for your shortcomings, you’re gonna be a lot more proactive about turning them around.
This story is just ONE example out of many breakthroughs I had over the course of my time working with Tony and his incredible staff.  If I had unlimited time to ramble I would cite a hundred more examples and anecdotes and knowing me, this is just part one of a whole manifesto on the influence of Tony Robbins in my life.  The guy has some quality stuff to say, and if you’re not an idiot- you’ll listen.
People ask me all the time (with a twinge of sarcasm, of course) “So, did Tony Robbins really change your life?”  I know they’re making fun of me- and I’m not offended.  It’s a sad reality that people just don’t know what to make of a guy like him... a guy who has so much and seems so happy.  I mean, with the exception of the teeth which are fearsomely large, he’s pretty much perfect, right?  So what’s he hiding?  Nothing.  He’s a real person with real flaws and challenges but he uses his mistakes to teach others instead of trying to cover them up.  There’s no ego with him; just heart.  He is so wonderfully human that literally anyone can relate to him.  People can’t get enough of that energy and are more than happy to throw money his way because of the value he adds to their lives.  And that makes a lot of people jealous as hell.
Humanity’s general take on success is truly one of the greatest hypocrisies in life.  We tell ourselves all the time, ‘As you so, so shall you reap’ or ‘Do right by people and they’ll do right by you...’ but these words don’t mean anything to us, not really.  These are the pillars by which we say live, but when was the last time you saw someone doing better than you and thought ‘Wow, he/she must be really hardworking and have a good heart to deserve all this greatness?’  I work in the entertainment industry.  Every day I’m surrounded by people who pride themselves on the fact that they chose art and love over the soullessness and greed with which they associate corporate America.  Yet is another’s success in this community ever met with anything other than “What?  That hack!?  Who’s dick did she suck? (or he suck).”  It’s almost enough to make you want to stay ordinary your whole life just so you don’t have to hear that shit.
A friend of mine told me he couldn’t take the work Mr. Robbins does seriously because he “prey’s on people’s insecurities for a living.”  My response was something along the lines of “Wow, ‘prey’ that’s a loaded word if ever I’ve heard one.”  He furthered his point by saying ‘If there was no such thing as low self-esteem there would be no need for a guy like Tony Robbins.’  Well, friend-of-mine-who-shan’t-be-named, if there was no such thing as genital herpes there would be no Valtrex.  Are the actors who feed their children by means of royalties from those oh-so-inspiring commercials with couples riding bikes through a meadow, crotches no longer aflame with burning pustules ‘preying’ on the plight of anyone dumb enough to pick up herpes?  Or... are they simply identifying a need and providing a service for it... (Personally, I’d rather feed my kids cheap MacDonalds food every day and let them grow obese than ever put my face on a herpes add; as far as I’m concerned those people are martyrs!)  Anyway, my point is this: Would the world be a better place if we didn’t need Valtrex?  Of course!  But it’s not a better place, and we do need Valtrex.  And Insecurity DOES exist, and we DO need Tony Robbins.
I realize that I just compared Tony Robbins to Valtrex, and I believe my point was made; but before signing off I want to take the analogy just a step further, because when talking in terms of what he does for people’s lives, Tony isn’t Valtrex.  He’s not a pill you pop to temporarily stifle your symptoms.  He’s more like the condom that keeps you from catching that shit in the first place..  Does he change lives?  Well, yes and no.  Can a condom save your life?  Sure it can, but not if you don’t put it on.  Tony’s work in and of itself can’t save anyone.  But if you really take in what he has to say and apply in to your life you will find problems and challenges, but nothing you can’t handle; nothing you can’t overcome.  Yup, I said it... Tony Robbins is to people everywhere what a magnum, lubricated, ribbed-for-her-pleasure condom is for STD’s.

JANUARY 6, 2011 ~ Whoopi Goldberg

January 6th.. Epiphany.  My family didn’t acknowledge holidays past new years, I only really knew about this Epiphany thing because my best friend, Melissa got presents.  Bitch.  Melissa is still a good friend of mine now so I don’t feel bad for saying it.  This blog isn’t about her though... it’s about Whoopi Goldberg.

Strange choice?  I know, but I can explain.  I signed into Facebook earlier today an I came across a pop-up add saying that Sister Act is opening up on B’way in a couple of months... Happy Epiphany to me!

I was first introduced to Whoopi Goldberg via her Oscar winning performance as Oda Mae Brown in the movie Ghost. The year was 1990, and My dad, a lifelong Patrick Swayze fan, had rented it for us to watch as a family.  You might be wondering what kind of father brings home a movie wherein one guy gets shot, another gets severed in two by a jagged windowpane, and a young couple fornicates on a pottery wheel for his six-year-old to watch... Same guy who takes his four-year-old to see Guerillas in the Myst, (don’t even get me started on that).  Anyway, I remember sitting on this hideous floral couch in the living room with the whole fam.  We were all young enough that movie nights were still a thing, it was very picturesque... All of us in our goofy pajamas;  I had these green flannel footie pajamas that I always wore, (Whoopi wears a similar pair in the scene where Patrick Swayze keeps her up all night with his horrible singing).

I was instantly dazzled by Oda Mae.  Her energy as well as her costumes just sparked in perfect contrast to that dowdy, boring Demi Moore.  I’m aware that Molly Jenson (or whatever her boring-ass character name was) is supposed to be a sad, depressed widow in the second half of the movie... but how that does that account for the beginning?  She was positively miserable.  And that hair!  I know androgyny was big in the 80’s but they could have switched Demi out with an 8-year-old boy and no one would have batted an eyelash!  To this day, I picture Demi Moore and all that comes to mind is ‘Vapor.’  She’s like vapor to me.  Neither here nor there, completely and utterly insignificant.  Sorry, but somebody had to say it.  Anyway, back to Oda Mae...

There is a scene in the movie where Oda Mae and Sam enter a bank and she attempts to withdraw $4,000,000.  If you ask me what is the funniest scene in any movie ever, I will tell you this is it, (a close second is Joan Cusack’s breakdown in In and Out).  Truth be told, I’m not even sure if I laughed.  Everyone else did of course, especially my mom at the line “gas... I get a little gas from time to time.”  But I was beyond impressed; I was entranced.  As soon as that scene was over, I stood up from the couch, marched my flannel-clad self over to the VCR, and hit rewind.  Then I stood in front of the TV and let it play again.  What’s weird is, I don’t remember anyone yelling at me.  Not that it would have mattered; I had to watch it again.  My dad eventually got up and yanked me back to the couch so we could all enjoy the rest of the movie, but the impact of that moment has never left me.

It’s not like I started walking around telling people I was going to be a comedian after this; It was much more abstract than that.  I was so young, you have to remember, that I didn’t even really know what ‘comedy’ as a concept meant or was.  All I knew was that what I saw, whatever it was called, if it was even called anything... that was going to be me.

Kathy Griffin, in her memoir Official Book Club Selection (which is very entertaining, by the way, and totally worth reading) mentions a similar experience when watching The Mary Tyler Moore Show. She writes: “I’ll never forget that awesome apartment with the big M on the wall and how beautiful Mary was.  But when Rhoda burst through the door in her gypsy headscarf, billowy caftan and hilarious, abrasive delivery, I was like “Who is that?  Oh my God!”  That’s when I fell in love with wanting to be a sidekick.  Everything out of her mouth was hysterical, yet she was vulnerable and human.” (Griffin pg. 29)

That particular segment resonated with me in a huge way because it was the same thing I felt the first time I saw Whoopi... as well as the second, third, forth, and ten-millionth.  I have been a lifelong fan of Whoopi Goldberg.  I’ve seen all her movies, specials, and everything else. Sister Act is one of my favorite movies of all time.  I Don’t think it matters if you’re 8 or 26 or 90, that shit is hilarious.  I also remember enjoying Corrina Corrina. It was an interesting story and I loved her character.  I also like Tina Majorino, I’m glad she’s starting to show up in movies again.  The only issue I had with that one is Ray Liota.  I get uncomfortable watching him on screen because I think I look like him... (Ridiculous, I know.)

Before sitting down to write this, I re-watched some of her stand-up, just in case I wanted to site anything.  I’m not going to go into detail about it because no words of mine can even begin to adequately describe these amazing people- not even characters- but real and fascinating humans that she brings to life on the stage.
Anyone who hasn’t seen Direct From Broadway.... do so now.  I won’t say a word except pay special attention to the surfer girl.  When you feel your heart break inside your chest but you can’t hear it over your own hysterical laughter- that’s not just entertainment, it’s not even art, it’s life.

I look forward to meeting her some day so I can express my appreciation in person.  Whoopi literally taught me what comedy is, and I am eternally and wholeheartedly grateful.

JANUARY 4, 2011 ~ D

It’s January 4th officially now, 4:25 PM.  I’ve just returned from yoga and i feel anything but invigorated.  After writing last night’s blog about the importance of girlfriends in my life, I feel compelled to expand further on one in particular.  Yes, I’m talking about my “Person,” the Meredith Grey to my Christina Yang... D.

I know some of my girls who are reading this might be put off that they aren’t first- (there are 361 more days in this year, Amie Canning, you’ll get your turn!)

I’m not exactly sure at which point we made the shift from just knowing each other to “people.”  It’s fitting though, partially because we’re both obsessed with Grey’s Anatomy, and also because D is about as emotionally developed as a brick and relationship labels, even one has non-committal as 'friend' make her physically uncomfortable.  

Some people find this quirk of hers a little cold and off-putting but it never bothered me.  I appreciated being able to spend a day with someone without any implied “We have to hug now” at the end of it.  I don’t have a problem with hugging, I just don’t like the way it’s become so expected.  It's almost as if it'sreplaced the handshake as the standard greeting.  In fact, I don’t even think I can remember the last time I shook someone’s hand and wasn’t instantly yanked in for an extended embrace.  I don’t like it.  Hugs should be earned or something.  That’s my thought on the matter anyway... clearly, I’m in the minority.

This past summer I was dealt a pretty major emotional blow.  Naturally, it had to do with a guy, (Bastards!!)  I was betrayed by a man I had trusted in every way, including the one having to do with my bed.  The details of the situation, while amusing, aren’t particularly relevant except for one thing that happened in the aftermath.  Don’t worry, I didn’t try to slice my wrists or anything.  No doubt I drank my bodyweight in alcohol but that was standard for me at the time; and even drunk I managed to keep the hysteria to a minimum.  All in all, I handled the situation well, except for one thing.  Somehow I developed a totally bizarre, irrational aversion to my bed.  I could not sleep in, sit on, or so much as look at the thing.  I couldn’t even get close enough to it to rip off the deep-purple bedsheets that still held his scent. 

During the day it wan’t such a big deal.  I moved my TV out into the living room so I only really had to go in there to use the closet.  As for where I slept?  Everywhere else.  It’s an uneasy feeling, Not knowing where you’re gong to sleep on a given night.  I always found a place though, because I had to; my own bed was simply not an option.  I would stay at my mom’s or my sisters here and there, but they live far away so that wasn’t a sustainable choice.  I also took an impromptu trip to California which gave me a few days respite.  Mostly though, I stayed with D.  She was exceedingly patient for a while, especially since I’m a bit of a blanket hog.  It’s a good thing this happened over the summer or I may have found myself sleeping in the hall.  

After this ridiculousness had gone on for a few weeks, D decided it was time to get me into my own bed again... even if it mean she had to sleep there with me.  I needed to relax for this one, so we went to the Irish pub that’s adjacent to my building and I began pounding coronas.  Once sufficiently wasted, we went upstairs, climbed into that bed, and... (all you filthy-minded readers out there who are expecting some kind of lesbian porno scene to follow, prepare to be bitterly disappointed...) I slept.  I made it through the night not only unscathed, but well rested.  I haven’t been afraid of this bed since; in fact, I’m lying on it right now and I couldn’t be more comfortable.

The point I’m trying to make is that when I got involved with this person, the whole thing felt so wonderful that I began to associate love with him.  When that relationship turned to shit it only made sense that the love was going with it.  I got so caught up in the loss of that love that I wasn’t seeing how much love there was right in front of me; being put forward by so many people to help me through this hard time. 

Having this “Person,” this “emotional brick,” totally adverse to mush, come through for me in such a way made me realize that even though Mark was gone from my life, love wasn’t.  And that real love may not always show up in the most obvious of places, but it shows up.

Thanks, D.  And I’m glad you’re my person.

JANUARY 3, 2011 ~ Girls

It’s about 4AM on the evening of January 3rd, So I guess technically that makes it January 4th.  But as far as I’m concerned, it isn’t tomorrow until I’ve officially put today tonight to sleep.  Sadly for me, I can’t sleep.  Probably because I didn’t finish my blog for the day and I feel shitty about being a mere three days into this venture and already behind.

I could just try to come up with a quick easy one… “I’m grateful for diet coke” or some shit, and throw it up there so I have something; but if it’s not gonna be meaningful there really is no point.  Not that I’m not grateful for diet coke, I am, but what I had really wanted to talk about earlier today was girlfriends.  Not any one in particular, my friends are all so special in different ways; as exemplified in my piece from yesterday.  But girlfriends as a whole…

Let me begin by saying this: Girlfriends are one the most valuable and yet under-appreciated commodities we as girls will ever come by.  We know we need each other; it’s pretty fucking clear.  If you’re a girl, at some point there is gonna be some loser of a guy who’s gonna hurt your feelings and you’re gonna want to throw a tantrum in a bar, get black-out-pee-your-pants-drunk, and send a slew of angry text messages.  This, however, is not something one can do one one’s own…. I mean what would be the fun in that?  You NEED friends with cameras to take pictures of you sobbing into your corona and then post them on facebook so you can really see how absurd you were for being so upset!  But then what happens when that very loser texts at 3AM, how quick are we to leave?  We blow off our girlfriends for boyfriends at a moments notice and for what?  Are they even grateful?  The boys, I mean.  Do they not blow US off for each other all the time?  Where are our priorities?!?

I’m not an expert on psychology or anthropology, but I do have a theory.  I think as women we interpret our self-worth to be in direct proportion to what guy wants us.  Along with this theory I am of the belief that it’s not our fault; it’s how we’re raised.

Here’s an example:

Look at the way men talk to their sons, “Live your life, your oats, find a nice girl when you’re good and ready.”  Take this, vs. the way women talk to their daughters, “Who’s gonna buy the cow….”

I remember having several conversations of this nature with my friend, Jessica in high school.  We ended up falling out shortly after graduation which was devastating to me at the time, but looking back makes perfect sense as she was a classic victim of this mentality.  She completely defined beauty in terms of what the boys thought.  I, on the other hand, couldn’t get a date to save my life at that age, and was therefore forced to develop other measures for my self-worth.

I’m not saying I don’t fall prey to this sort of thing at times, especially in college.  I am guilty every aforementioned crime against girlfriends and more; including the one where you badmouth a girl because the guy I wanted preferred her.  There’s nothing productive about mistreating and undervaluing each other in this way.  We’re not cows!!  And even if we were, are there really not enough boys to go around?

I could go on on and on about this but in an effort to introduce some brevity into my writing I’m gonna stop.  Besides, I believe my point has been made, has it not?  So in conclusion to all of this, I want to let every girl out there who has generously given her time and care to getting through rough shit know that I love you and I’m grateful for you.

JANUARY 2, 2011 ~ Daniel

January 2, 2011.  I’m getting an earlier start this morning, it’s 10:11AM and I’m officially up for the day.  I was shooting for 9, but this isn’t so bad.  Better than yesterday, for sure.  New Years Day, was a bit of a lazy day for me.

I lounged around the house, ordered in sushi, worked on my goal chart, wrote that fabulous blog from yesterday, that kinda stuff.  Toward the end of the night I was beginning to feel a little bit mopey so I called my friend Daniel, who I’ve decided to make the object of my gratitude today.

Daniel Siegel, who pretty much everyone except me and his mother refer to as “Danny..” (I refuse, he is soooo not a Danny), lives in New York and does stand-up comedy.  He’s funny too, if you visitwww.dannyisfunny.com you can see what I’m talking about.  But this isn’t about him as a comedian; it’s about who he is to me.

I first came into contact with Daniel at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in the summer of 1998.  I was not even in high school yet, was at least 3 or 4 years younger than everyone else in the program, and oh yeah… I sucked at acting.  I did not, however, suck at swing dancing, a skill I picked up at the academy and still boast of to this day.  My most important accomplishment that summer, however, is the connection I established with this tall, handsome, floppy-haired 19-year-old that has impacted my life in ways I could never have imagined.

I think it’s safe to say that Daniel got me through my adolescence.  I was an awkward, miserable teenager… what other kind of teenager is there, right?  Of course I know that now, but at the time it certainly felt like it was just me.  Though I was always surrounded by “friends” I felt totally isolated, like a freak of nature who no one liked.  That was time, praise Jesus, that this magical figure came into my life.  Any time my world came crashing down (and in 9th grade that happens a lot) Daniel was my go-to guy.  He could handle literally anything; whether there was a crisis that needed solving or I just wanted to talk.  And it’s not like he didn’t have a life of his own, either.  He had returned to florida after that summer and was working at a restaurant called the Screaming Coyote to save money for his eventual move to NY.  I remember this because I used to call him there with my personal emergencies all the time.  And I mean ALL the time.  I can’t believe he never got fired!  Sometimes we’d even do this completely stupid thing where’d we act scenes from Dirty Dancing over the phone.  Daniel would channel his inner Patrick Swayze and of course I was flawless as Jennifer Grey.  It really didn’t matter what our conversations were about…  10 minutes on the phone with him was the difference between a horrible day and a great day.

I was 17 before I ever kissed a guy.  I’m aware that’s on the old side- but as I said, I was awkward, boys didn’t like me, etc.  My BFF at the time, Jessica, got some guy I didn’t know who was friends with her date to ask me to the prom so we could all go together.  This is how I met Joe, (Joe and I are friends today, so I’m sure he won’t mind if I share this story).  Anyway, being the somewhat immature, incredibly insecure girl that I was, it honest to god did not occur to me that this guy would expect a kiss (if not something more) at the end of the night.  I really believed that he’s asked me only as a courtesy to Jess, and couldn’t possibly have any interest beyond that.

The prom was pretty standard, it was the “after party,” which was really more like 20 kids sitting around on beer-stained couches in some kid name Brad’s basement, where things got crazy.  There was me, awkwardly holding a bottle Mikes Hard Lemonade, praying that nobody saw as I faked taking sips and then poured it out into the plant to make the level go down.  And there was Joe, in all his after prom glory, drunk as a pirate, and looking a little like one too.  If I remember correctly, he was still wearing the top half of his tux, including the cummerbund; what happened to his pants, though, was a mystery.  He sat down on the couch beside me and began whispering in my ear something like “You’re so sexy, I love you.”  and then wham!  In for the kiss!  GROSS!  The part I remember most about this moment was the confusion over where to position my eyes.  I couldn’t look at him; I couldn’t look at anyone else; I certainly couldn’t look down, because all I would  see was his erect penis popping out through the fly of his bleach-stained, plaid boxer shorts… talk about a shock.  So I did what any mature 17-year-old would do.  I ran upstairs, called my mom, and I told her she needed to pick me up.  I told her what happened in the car… and get this- she couldn’t for the life of her understand why I was so upset!  Are you kidding me???  I didn’t watch The Sound of Music 19,000 times so my first kiss could take place on some nasty-ass couch in front of a bunch of drunk hooligans!!  It was supposed to be a perfect moonlit evening in a gazebo by the lake… in Austria.

At this point in the story, I’m sure you’re wondering what on earth this has to do with Daniel.  I’m getting to that… Anyway, where was I?  Oh yes, so I flew up the stairs in an absolute fury; Angry, upset, my whole life RUINED.  I realize of course, that this is absurd, but you have to understand I had built up this moment so huge in my head.  It was supposed to be this grand, epic milestone and it was taken from me just like that.  I couldn’t dial the numbers fast enough.  He answered, and I bawled out what happened to me, including the part about the gazebo… to which he responded, “Yeah but, didn’t that guy turn out to be a nazi?”  Good point, right?  What he said after that was so brilliant it has stuck with me to this day.  He said, “That’s so funny, when I was 17 it was my dream to drunkenly kiss a girl I barely knew on some scummy couch… Why don’t you just pretend you’re me, and then you can be psyched about this!”  Obviously, he was joking about that being his dream.  He said it to make a point.  He was trying to show me that with a little change in my perspective, I didn’t have to be sad anymore.

Fact is, in the grand scheme of things, events in and of themselves are neither here nor there… but what meaning we attach to it that can either propel us into happiness or screw us up for life.  Of course he didn’t put it into terms like that, Many years as well as a couple of Tony Robbins seminars would pass before I even could.  But wether he knew it or not, Daniel was always a master at applying that principle.  Even when it looks like things aren’t going the best for him, he finds a way to see how in reality, they are.  This is probably why people are so drawn to him.  You simply can’t help but like the guy… he’s fucking amazing.

This is just one story out of hundreds of millions.  I cannot possibly count the days that he’s made better or disasters he’s turned into laughs for me but I can say this:

Daniel, it’s an honor to have you in my life.  You are as much my hero today as you were the day we met.  Thanks for everything, Bro.  I love you.

JANUARY 1, 2011 ~ Dad

New Year’s Day 2011… It’s 2:46PM and I haven’t moved from my bed.  I decided this year that every day I will compose an entry on something I’m grateful for.  My website is, of course, due to the negligence of my web designer, not quite up and ready to receive these entries, a fact about which I am not at all grateful.  Regardless, I’m going to write it, save it, and maybe some day my fans will be able to see it.  Even if that never happens, it’s still an exercise in that law of attraction, positive thinking, make your own destiny mumbo jumbo that we all really should do since it seems to be the only thing that works.  It’s true by the way, even Hulk Hogan agrees.  I just read his memoir, there’s a whole chapter on how The Secret changed his life.

So because this is my first gratitude composition… (notice I’m calling it a composition, not a blog) I’m going to start with an easy topic.  My dad.  He’s the last person I hung out with in 2010, other than the Haitian taxi driver who chatted my ear off on the way home about how much he hates New Years (I’m with you, dude) and my squatter, Yamaneika who is currently still snoring on my couch.  Mom, if you’re reading this… don’t be mad.  I know you think my first piece on gratitude, as well as my last, and every one in between should be entitled “One more reason why my mother is fabulous.”  Maybe that will be the theme next year, but for now just relax.  I’ll get to you.  Now where was I?

Dad.  The problem here, and part of the reason why I’m having such a hard time getting started, is that I don’t really know where to begin.  I guess we could start at the beginning: somewhere around July 18th 1983 (that would be nine months previous to my expected due date). Thank you, Dad, for charming my mother into laying down with you and for having sperm tenacious enough to plow through that diaphragm wall.  Imagine how bleak all your lives would be if things had gone according to plan.. All I see are slow moving black and white figures, trudging solemnly through the snow while mean old Mr. Potter laughs demonically and counts his money…  Seriously though, pretty much everyone who’s ever met my dad, Rob, will tell you he’s one of the coolest guys in the world.  I’m gonna skip the long list of generic attributes that describe him because the point here this isn’t to be sappy or cheesy; It’s simply to acknowledge how grateful I am that this person, place, or thing (in this case, person) exists in my world on this day, the first of January, 2011.

As most people who know me will attest, New Years is not my thing.  In fact, I sort of hate it.  This could be a carryover from my youth- a result of youngest-child-syndrome where I view New Years as the day everyone goes out and has fun without me.  Of course I’m 26 now, so that’s hardly a good reason.  It could also be the whole “Who did you kiss at midnight?” thing… A reminder that I’ve completed yet another year without managing to secure a meaningful relationship.  But I don’t hate Valentines Day, so that’s probably not it.  I think it’s more likely just that general pressure to have a good time.  Other  Holidays carry this pressure as well, of course, but there’s a structure to them.  Thanksgiving, for example- you know how your’e supposed to enjoy Thanksgiving.  Same deal with Easter, Halloween, Christmas.  Forth of July is a little more up for interpretation but generally you know that if you’re doing it right there’s gonna be a grill involved, some fireworks, cold beer if you’re of age, perhaps a squirt-gun fight or a lightening bug hunt if you’re 5… New Years though, I feel kinda leaves us hanging.   The only real guidelines we get are 1) expect to see a lot of sparkles and 2) you’ll probably drink a lot of champagne.  And for those of you living in Manhattan, don’t try to walk over one block to Jamba Juice because by 4PM your entire neighborhood is going to be one giant police barricade and it may be hours before they let you back into your building.  Anyone who comes to NY for new years is an idiot, that’s my professional opinion.  So after a few years of dealing with this buuuullshit, I decided this year that I was going to skip the whole thing.  I stopped drinking back in November after attending Tony Robbins’ Unleash the Power Within (no judgements), so the idea of running around between overcrowded bars, paying $18 for each ginger ale and freezing my tush off in some skimpy, uncomfortable outfit REALLY didn’t sound like much fun.  If you’re wondering, at this point, where on earth I am going with this story and how does it pertain to my dad?  Well, it turns out he was feeling the same way about the whole thing.  Yesterday afternoon he stopped by unexpected, to the utter horror of my squatter, Yamaneika, who freaks out if Rob sees her looking less than flawless… “You let your father come by with me lookin’ like a the queen of the vagabonds??”  Sorry, Yam.  I don’t know what she’s worried about, it’s a known fact that since his divorce, or as he likes to call it his “emancipation,” he doesn’t date women older than me.  Anyway, we resolved to spend New Years together at the Village Underground.  Was it crowded?  A little.  Were the drinks overpriced?  Probably, but was I paying?  Nope!  Were there any other white people besides us?  I counted about three.  Do I have a point?  Yes.  The point is I had the best New Years Eve ever with the best date ever, listening to an awesome band and watching the other customers dazzle us with their dance/fornication moves.  I’m not hyperbolizing here, good luck getting a booth at that place while the music’s going, every one I counted had a girl bent into a perfect right angle position with a guy or two or three grinding up behind.  It was positively magical.  Happy New Year, Dad.  I love you.