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.