Fail Better

I recently failed a lot at work.  I spearheaded a show that failed.   It failed and if I had done my job better, people would have pulled out their Visas and Mastercards and called the number.  I also failed at another show that really was supposed to be successful because the old one was.  Now, I can make all sorts of excuses as to why things go the way they go, but in the end, I really don't know.  I genuinely liked both of those shows that failed.  I actually thought they were good.  I felt proud of them as they flew out of our server and off to the dub house on their own.  I really thought they would perform well.  So, now what?  A lot of my job is based on what I think is right and will sell.  If I keep thinking things are good when they are not, then I really have no place in this business.  That then leads me down this terrible path of angst that inevitably ends with me in a ditch, poor and fat from too many Taco Bell meals given to me on the street in lieu of money because passer bys don't want me to waste what little cash they throw my way on booze and drugs.  I respect that.  I could probably pick a ditch that is not as close to Taco Bell.  Nonetheless, this spiral down to my future destiny is not pretty.   Sometimes I get all high- horse about things.  I think, "I am obviously too good for this business!  Infomercials?  Please, I come from a background in the theater (said totally snobbishly).  I don't have to take this.  I could be working in Cinema (equal amount of snobbery)."   My biggest fear as that one day I will just lose it, scream, cry, yell, be fired, and  end up being committed into an asylum where the biggest punishment will be that the caged television is playing nothing but infomercials.

I like to go back and forth between epic failure at life and mock confidence.  In the past, when I hit a wall like this where I felt like maybe I wasn't on the right career path, I just changed careers.  That is how I got to be a three times retired 33 year old flooded in student loan debt up to my nose hairs (side effect of getting old - for another time).   Well this is where it gets tricky.  Now, I have a partner and a car payment and deep desire to make babies and buy a house and despite what I hoped for, those things all cost money.  They cost a lot of money.  They cost even more money here.  I looked at a house yesterday that was absolutely perfect and if I had a few hundred thousand dollars laying around, I could buy it.  Then I get so mad because I think about how F&*#ing hard I work and how many long hours I work in order to make other people rich.  The best part is when a show does well, I get little to no recognition while our clients swim in their money and their children never have to worry about student loan debt.  When it fails, though....it's totally my fault.  I alone cause the show to fail.  I actually stay up late plotting how to fail harder for my clients.  No that's not true.  I do, however find it hard to sleep when my shows fail and keep myself up twisting my stomach into knots about my impending street corner status.

All joking aside, it's hard to live with failure.  It's upsetting.  I probably take it too hard but even that is upsetting.  I know I don't make all of these decisions in a  vacuum but I also recognize that as annoying as I am, as loud as my voice is, as persuasive as I am, I hold power over some of the choices that are made.  I am responsible.  I would love to pass the blame but like I said, I thought the shows were good.  I don't really know what to do.  I know what I do and I know it's not working.  I eat too much.  I stay up late watching tv.  I drink wine.  I drive my car with the top down (that is actually awesome).  I am mean to my mom and to Maks and any friends I still have left.  I put off wedding plans and I just pretty much suck at everything non-work related and what am I showing for it?  Failure at work too.  It's not good.

 And why do I do it?  I need the money.  That's the only reason.  You can't be creative when you just do it for money.  You probably can when there is a lot of money to be made but you definitely can't when it's just enough to get by.  I saw some friends this weekend that I haven't seen in a while and they are contemplating moving out of state because trying to live a normal life here with a house and a yard is just not a possibility if you're not a millionaire.  At least it is not right now.  She said, "Why are we working so hard to live HERE?"  Why am I working my A%% off to work here?

I don't have any answers to the questions I posed.  This is more of a sharing blog.  I know that I am not the only one failing at life or work right now.  I also recognize that it could be worse.  Please don't respond to this post by telling me about starving children somewhere.  I absolutely recognize that this is a first world problem.   I also applaud those of you who practice ultimate gratitude everyday.  Good job.  I am not so skilled at that.  I am working on it, though.  I suppose I will end on a Samuel Beckett quote that I am sure so many of you already know that you have stopped reading now.
"Try again.  Fail again.  Fail Better."
   

Going topless these days!

 I once took a trip to Idaho with my mom that was really not enjoyable.  My grandmother was dying and in general it was Idaho.  I don’t feel very welcomed there.  It’s just a different vibe.  I am not really religious and that is practically terrorist activity in Nampa Idaho.   When I got home, I was talking to my boyfriend at the time about the trip and for some reason or another I didn’t have a shirt on.  I stopped what I was saying and asked him to throw me a blanket.  I couldn’t talk about Idaho while topless.  We then went on to label that blanket “The Topless Idaho Blanket.”   At the time, I didn’t truly know the joy of turning a bad experience into a carefree topless one.

I have a 45 minute (without traffic) commute to work and while my job is something that most every person I meet makes fun of in one way or another, it is amazingly stressful.  Every day is filled with a  lot of responsibility.  The problem is that each day also requires a lot of creative thinking and that doesn’t always mix well in my brain with heavy responsibility.   Whether I am trying to make food storage exciting or hair care emotional or even an angry, abusive, cheap, misogynistic client feel heard and empowered, creative thinking is definitely required.  However, time is not always on my side. 

I used to spend most of my commute on the phone with one or ten work related people.  I viewed the commute as the beginning of my work day.  This worked but basically it turned even my short days into a 10-12 hour work day.  I would sometimes talk to my mom during the commute as well and while this is enjoyable, it usually fuels some argument or another about how we can’t hear or understand one another because of bad reception or just noise in general.   We would get cut off at the same place on the commute everyday and in truth, it was just not super satisfying to talk like that.  It’s better done from home when I can relax and enjoy and interruption free chat.  I promise this is all going somewhere.  It’s all moving towards my new true love.  It’s all about my new topless lifestyle.  It’s about my car.

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t want a convertible.  I used to drive by them in whatever car my mom or I had at the moment and imagine how great that must feel.  The wind, the sound, the smell, and it all seemed so dreamy.  And you know what?  It is.  I recently purchased a used VW EOS and I have to say that it is the most amazing gift I have ever given myself.    I have turned what used to be a miserable traffic filled angry part of my day into a truly enjoyable experience.  No more phone calls because it just can’t be done with the top down.  No more angry clients because you can’t talk to clients without a top on.  That would be disrespectful.  No more anything in general that could make me mad at all.  It’s my me time.   Sometimes I blast Bruce all the way and sing every note along with him.  Other days I blare Air Supply and smile and laugh as I pass multiple strange looks.  But the best days,  I must say are the days that I spend completely silent.   I don’t speak at all.  Sometimes there is music and sometimes it’s just the sound of the air and the road.  That loud silence is what fuels me these days.   My brain finds a way to solve problems.  My heart finds a way to release.  I sometimes cry and that too is a release.  It’s the best therapy ever. 

A very good friend posted recently about needing advice on how not to get overwhelmed and I can attest to that a lot.  I feel overwhelmed most of the time…but not with top down.   I don’t care what the temperature is.  Yesterday the dial said 35 degrees.  The only thing that keeps my top on these days is rain or a really bad neighborhood.   I need it.   It truly is what keeps me grounded.  So, without making this a complete VW commercial, I offer up topless rides to any of my stressed friends and family.  We can be silent or loud.  Your call.  You just have to try it.  Go topless!

My Mom is Amazing and Santa is Real!

          For the past few nights I have had a really hard time sleeping.   Last night as I tossed and turned on the cough so as not to spread my sleeplessness to Maks, I started going over all the reasons I am not able to sleep.   Maybe it's my job, maybe it's all the changes I am going through,  or maybe it's that I just need to lose some weight.  It was at that moment that I had Dolly Parton's Hard Candy Christmas run through my head.  I then had a memory of probably one of the greatest Christmas's I ever had.

        In the year leading up to that Christmas, my father had left us,  I had undergone a very serious heart surgery,  and my very brave mom had moved us across the country to the best little city in all of Central California, Fresno.  I was 6 years old and despite all that had happened, I still had a fine and dandy attitude towards Christmas.  My mom had talked about not having a lot of money and I had told her not to worry because Santa would cover it.  In my mind, Santa was pretty much all knowing and the change of circumstances with the move and all hadn't phased him at all.  He kept up on things like that.  Not to mention, I had just survived a really big surgery so I was pretty confident that I had made the nice list by default.

         On Christmas morning, I was proven right.  Santa had not only brought gifts for me but he had provided for my mom as well.  Thus another year went by with my belief in tact.  It wasn't until I was in my 20's that I realized she had bought those gifts herself.  She had gone to some dollar store or Walmart and bought herself the cheapest perfumes and soaps she could find and wrapped them up for herself.  What an amazing mom I have.  I thought that to myself last night as I laid there over thinking the anxiety of my current life.   Twenty seven years ago, this twenty nine year old woman without a college degree was the single mother to a child with a heart condition.  She had been abandoned by her alcoholic husband.  She had no real support system and no money.  She worked her ass off to provide a home for her kid and with the spare income she had, she put that kid in dance classes.  She had nothing and there truly were no gifts coming for her from anybody that year.  That wasn't what concerned her, though.  She just wanted to make sure her kid still believed in magic.  She wanted me to believe that no matter what, things would work out.   She still does that.  She listens to me rant and rave about the various tragedies  of my blessed life.  She still makes sure that even though it's just us, we have Christmas decorations up.  It's worth repeating that she is an amazing mom.   Later on that Christmas day, we sat in front of our 1985 television and VCR and watched The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas.   It was pretty much the best Christmas ever.   It is still a long standing tradition to watch as many cheesy Christmas movies as you possibly can between Thanksgiving and Christmas.  

          Ironically, Dolly Parton was on Kelly and Michael this morning.  She has such a great spirit about her.  It made me purchase Hard Candy Christmas from iTunes and I have listened to it on repeat for hours.  I think this is how my mom must have felt that Christmas.  She was barely getting through tomorrow and despite  everything that could bring her down she kept telling herself she would be fine.  Rather then see the loss, she saw the possibilities of maybe.  It's why she is today a fully educated  professor with a great following of students who fight to get into her classes.  They, like I do, see a woman with great spirit who works as hard as she can to make others happy and successful.

            Tonight I told her about my memory and she said she was grateful for everything she had to deal with back then.  It kept her grounded.  I suppose that is a good way to look at it.  I would now like to one more time say that my mom is amazing.  She is the greatest role model I could ask for.  She is beautiful and talented.  She gives much more then she gets.   If this blog had a place for a song, I would play Hard Candy Christmas and dedicate it to her.  As stressful as life gets and as hard as times can seem, I am so grateful to whoever put us together out there.  I suppose that is what grounds me.  I'll be fine...

Merry Christmas to all the single parents out there.  Maybe your kids don't see everything you do ight now, but they will someday,   You'll be fine too.

Furry Friends

It seems like a year since I last wrote.  I suppose that is because it nearly has been and truth be told, there is so much to say.  The past year has been full of change and all the new possibilities that life brings with it as you get older and start to actually realize your potential.  Today, however, I want to pay tribute to a friend I have had for a long time.  She has been with me for 7 years which in cat years really isn't that long but when I think about the last 7 years, I can't help but feel a tremendous sense of gratitude for the time we spent together. 

Mishka came to me while I was teaching Kindergarten in Watsonville.  I saw a mouse run across my kitchen while my amazingly kind and overly gentile dog merely watched.  Not knowing how to deal with mice, I walked into the school office and asked my work colleagues what they would do.   The mother of one of my favorite students laughed and actually said, "I have kittens in my car!  Do you want one?" To which I replied an immediate "Yes!"  It didn't take long before I saw that mouse strung out dead in the middle of my kitchen.  For such a tiny sensitive kitten, she sure had a thing against unwanted guests.   Mishka quickly found her way into the coziness of our family.  She would lay on top of Ceili while they slept.  When Ceili felt her presence had been a little too much, she would grab her by the scruff and carry her into the kitchen where Mishka would immediately run back to the couch where I was sitting only to continue the game.  She slept directly on top of you if you found your way onto any soft surface in the house.

When I moved out of Santa Cruz, Mishka came to live in Fresno with my mom.  She was then blessed with the opportunity of being an indoor and an outdoor cat.  While the outdoors didn't really interest her all that much, and other cats were certainly not her cup of tea, she did enjoy knowing she had the opportunity if she wanted it.  After I moved into an apartment community near SF State, my problem with mice reared its ugly head again.  I know it sounds like I am a dirty person, but the truth is, mice are sometimes hard to avoid without the proper defense system in place.  So, I called in my Special Ops. Sargent, Mishka Bear Monahan.  The best part of Mishka hunting mice as a grown up cat was that she had learned to clean up after herself.  A couple of days under Mishka's watch and I found 2 mice in the litter box.  Not only had she committed the clean kills, she had buried them appropriately.  I believe that shows heart.  She was not without mercy.

So, now to the sad news and I don't want to dwell on this part because I really do want to celebrate the life she had, not the one she ended up with.  Over Thanksgiving, I noticed she was limping.  She had been living in Fresno at the time while I traveled for work.  She had a spindle cell tumor growing on her elbow that progressed from the size of a peanut to the size of a tennis ball in just a couple weeks. The vet recommended amputation because the tumor hadn't spread and after some very thoughtful consideration, I decided that 3 legs was better then none and went through with the surgery.  For a while, it seemed all was back to normal minus one needless limb.  However, 2 months ago, she started coughing.  It turns out the cancer had spread to her lungs.  She was given 3 weeks, but she lasted until today.  Today she lays here as nothing but fur and bones with labored breathing.  The change just happened overnight and I can't bear to watch her suffer.  I made an appointment for her at the vet to take her last step.   I dug the grave and laughed about an old friend who thought her father had buried her childhood horse behind their house.  I cried about the loss.  I cried about how unfair this is.  I laughed at the first time I saw her slowly move her way on top of my sleeping dog, and now I am writing about it.  I suppose this is pretty angst. 

Anyway, animals rarely get funerals.  We all know they are so much more to us then pets, though.  Mishka has been a great friend to me over the past 7 years and I am so sorry to see her go.  If you have a free moment today, take a second to honor Mishka or any furry friend you may have lost.  They do so much more for us then we could ever do for them and I just want everyone to know how grateful I am for the time I spent with my little bear.

I love you, Mishka.  Whatever the next step on your path may be, I hope it somehow leads you back to a crossroads with me again someday.

I miss my dad

Well, it's been 5 years to the day since my dad passed away.  I know that celebrating someone's death-aversery seems sort of morbid and wrong but to tell the truth, I can't help it.  The death of Jay Monahan has been one of the most significantly painful things I have ever gone through.  It just seems sort of impossible. 

I know I have said this before, but my dad and I were not very close.  We hadn't lived together since I was 5 years old and our visits since then had been few and far between.  However, let's face it, he's my dad.  Despite all of his flaws, and there were many, I knew he loved me unconditionally.  I knew that deep down he thought the best thing he could do for me was stay away.  He was always proud of me, though.  He genuinely thought I was interesting and worthy, something that no other man in my entire life has ever thought.  He would call me in the middle of the night (he was famous for these midnight calls) just to chat and see how I was.  He would always ask about the weather and even start explaining what the weather man was saying moment to moment wherever I was.  I used to find this incredibly annoying.  Hello!  I know what the weather is like in Los Angeles.  I'm standing in it!  He wouldn't pay any attention that that, though and just keep letting me know about the massive heat wave we had heading our way.

These little tidbits of phone conversations and short visits are really all I have to remember him by.  However, since he died, I feel like I have spoken with him more often.  We had him cremated and split into three parts.  One went with his Satan witch of a girlfriend who promised to sprinkle him in the Atlantic along with a case of Busch beer.    Let's face it, he would totally dig that.  One went with my grandmother who promised to give him a proper Christian burial alongside his father and brother.  I also think he would have loved and valued this as well.  And 1/3 of my dad was put in an envelope and handed to me.  I too had plans to sprinkle him at sea.  I took him to Hawaii and went para-sailing with my boyfriend at the time.  It was a very special moment for me filled with all the sadness and humor that Jay would have appreciated.  First of all, you can't spread ashes without a permit but the guys who drive the boat aren't necessarily going to throw you off if they catch you.  So, with this in mind, I took a hefty part of my third of ashes and threw them in a plastic bag stuffed in the shirt of my swim suit.  At the top of the pull when I could see all of the Oahu coast my mom and dad had fallen in love on, I released him.  It was sad and beautiful and especially humorous when the para-sail guy handed me a picture of  my boyfriend and I with a small gray cloud underneath us.  That was really a great letting go experience and maybe I should have taken the entire third with me.  I just, well, I couldn't let go.   I wasn't ready.  Over the past couple years I have kept the other part of him in a lunchbox I decoupaged myself.  It's actually a much more attractive urn then the piece of crap thing Debbie (evil aforementioned girlfriend) picked out.  Each year on his birthday or his death-aversery I take a little bit of him somewhere I think he would like and sprinkle him.  I have taken him to the top of the Big Dipper and the boardwalk, out for a swim on the West Cliff of Santa Cruz, to the roof of my old apartment building in SF where I could see both bridges and the bay and Waimeia park where he and my mother were married.  The rest of the time he sits in the box listening to me rattle on the way he used to about one thing or another.  It really has brought us closer and I have to say he is a much better listener now then he used to be. 

Anyway, I really do think it is time to let him go entirely.  I am starting to feel like I am keeping his body prisoner .  Don't get me wrong, it's not like I open him up and run my fingers through his ashes or anything, I just talk to the box.  I do this, even though I know he's not in there.  But where is he?  That's the real question that hits me like a bullet every year.  Where did he go?  Is he just gone?  Do we really just stop existing and only live on through the memories of others?  What does that say about a man who left so many awful memories in his wake?  What does that say about him once people move on and forget about him or they die?  What a burden, to carry a portion of a person with you in order to keep him alive. 

So, I really don't know what to do at this point.  I see more and more of my dad in my face and mannerisms these days.  I recognize a twist of the cheek or tilt of the eyebrow as his, and frighten and delight myself.  I see his need for excitement and buzz in me at times as well as his self-loathing desire to escape others in order to help them grow.  I cry wishing I could just hear his voice or even a recording of it just one more time and every once in a while when I have had too much to drink I hear it in myself.  I do carry a part of him with me and it has nothing to do with the ashes so why can't I let them go?  Am I punishing him for not being around while I was growing up?  Or maybe I am trying to convince him that he should have stayed, leaving didn't help at all.   Or maybe I just miss him and wish he would call in the middle of the night and tell me about the fog here in SF.   I don't know. 

Either way, today, I am going to take some time to just give him a little life back.  I want to think about some of the ridiculous and funny things he would say.   I am going to remember riding roller coasters, water-slides, and gravitron until we were both sick.  I am going to feel the sun on my face and listen to the ocean the way he used to like to.  I am even going to think about the last conversation I had with him and try my best to remember that regardless of it all, his love for me was unconditional and in the end he wouldn't hold what I said against me.  After all of this, I am going to sit down and drink a Budweiser from a can, eat a Philly Cheesesteak, and toast to an imperfect and troubled man who was always the life of the party, placed no provisions on his love, and always thought the best of me.  Slainte, Dad!  I will love you forever and as long as I am here, you will be too.

The years of Harry Potter

I just returned from seeing the final Harry Potter film.  I know that everyone keeps saying this, but it really is the end of an era.  It's at least the end of an era for me.  I feel like I can somehow link all of the significant moments of my life in the last 10 years to something Harry Potter related.   I could write 50 pages on that but I won't.  Suffice to say, a lot has happened in 10 years and I will miss my time in J.K's world of magic.

I was in college dealing with a break up when I read the first couple books.  I listened to the entire fourth book on an elliptical.  I waited in line at Borders in the middle of the night for the fifth book.  I saw the first movie as a bootleg in a friends living room in Russia where one man translated the entire movie into Russian while you still heard the English spoken underneath.  I listened to the sixth book while I had walking pneumonia as a  Kindergarten teacher in Watsonville.  I bought the seventh book in my first weeks of graduate school and didn't do any homework until I finished reading it.  I cried when Dumbledore died and rejoiced at the moment I learned of Snape's innocence.   I made these characters a part of my life through the books as well as the movies and today I sat by myself in the movie theater during a time of great change in my life and I am not ashamed to tell you  I will miss having this little bright spot to look forward to every couple of years.   I found myself sort of twisted up as I felt the movie coming to a close.  I was, of course, wrapped up in the story but also so sad to see it end.  I have truly fallen victim to the mania that surrounded this series and after 10 years of it I am pretty grateful.  Even though I was a young adult when I first met Harry Potter, I do feel as if we grew up together.  I love the idea that help will always be given to those who ask for it (or those who deserve it).  I love that it doesn't matter where we came from, the magic will find us.  I truly hope love can protect us from evil and most of all I desperately hope that killing that ugly evil growth inside myself will not destroy me entirely.   Good, evil, nature, nurture, etc....Harry Potter followed many life themes and definitely resembled some dark moments in history but in the end it was really nice to have a hero.  I will miss you, Harry Potter. 

Beginning

A not so good friend of mine often blogs about the ins and outs of her life and while I don’t really know this woman all that well I have come to enjoy her fun loving stories about how she came to be a single woman in her thirties with 5 pets in a small apartment, or how she deals with the tragedies and turmoils she faces each day.  I am always touched by the small details she reveals to the hundreds of people who take the time to read.  I am often in awkward places when I come across these stories and I find it helps me work through some of the horrible positions I find myself in.  I recently read one of her entries while I sat in the SFDPT waiting for a boot removal.  It was bright spot in dark hour if you will.   I like to think that the doling out of her life experiences in a public forum and knowing that I am there to receive the information and be comforted by it brings her some sense of satisfaction.  So, here I am in a moment of great change in my own life and I find the need to tell whoever wants to listen about my feelings. 

Basically, I am in  my early 30's, single, and attempting to build a new career in some form of production.  I have tried a lot of different roles on lately and I just can't seem to find where I fit in.  I know that it is not necessary that I absolutely love my job but I guess there is a selfish part of me that feels that since I don't get to have a partner of any kind to help me through this life, I should at least love my work.   I also figure that with the amount of debt going to school has put me in, I deserve some sort of relief in my day.  I think that might happen if I had a full time job with a little bit of stability in it.  Anyway, the point of this blog is not to complain about my job, or my friends, or boast about myself.  I just need to feel heard (or read in this case) during this time of great change and ultimate confusion.  I have been keeping a journal for years and I think it might be nice to share some of my entries from the past as well as those that come up in the future.  

 I should warn you that I am not a writer and I am definitely a little bipolar in my thinking.  I contradict myself all the time and if you play a significant role in a humorous, upsetting, or interesting experience, you may find yourself (nameless) included in an entry or two.  

Thanks for reading.  Please come again.