Slightly More Sane, Still F*cking Crazy

I've been crying my eyes out at night lately and I'm loving it.

I've been told that it's the key to mental health. At least that's what my shrink told me right before I moved away from Santa Cruz. I was telling her that I had watched the Woody Allen movie Everyone Says I Love You the night before, and that I started crying rather dramatically when Woody sang, "I'm through with love, I'll never fall again...". It wasn't a particularly sad moment in terms of the plot. Woody was simply standing alone in his apartment looking longingly out the window singing a sad love song, and yet that image was all it took to bring me to tears. Lots of them. She told me that because I was just beginning to learn how to be vulnerable again, I may start crying at seemingly random moments, "Even while watching a silly Woody Allen movie," she added with a smile. She also said to me, "I think if you keep crying you won't have any more panic attacks. You may have one, maybe two..."

The idea of eventually conquering this whole panic thing is more appealing to me than a soaking wet Stanley Kowalski fresh out of anger management. Needless to say, I started to make damn sure to cry my eyes out whenever I felt the inclination to do so. If good ol' Woody Allen reminded me of my past heartbreak, I allowed the water works to run their course. This fairly simple exercise seemed to work: I didn't feel so tightly wound, I was sleeping like a baby at night, and, more importantly, I wasn't having panic attacks.

It was during this relatively healthy period that Dustin Hoffman visited me in a dream and told me he was my spirit guide. (If ya missed hearing about that, you can catch up here: http://thegraduate-steffic.blogspot.com/2010/07/my-spirit-animal-is-dustin-hoffman.html). I was already feeling great thanks to my weeping regimen, but after meeting Dusty in Las Vegas I was just plain giddy. For weeks. I even felt giddy the first few weeks I was back in Agoura. I wasn't worrying about the job market or My Future or the fact that I now share a wall with my parents -- I was only concerned with my Netflix queue. My only mistake, which turned out to be huge, was that I didn't allow myself any time to really think about how my new [old] surroundings made me feel. When people would ask me how my transition was going, I would use my automatic I-Don't-Give-A-Shit tone and say, "Eh, it's fine." In reality, I had no idea how the transition was going. I hadn't thought about it, and, more importantly, I hadn't really felt it. Feelings are scary, and I was too scared to know how I felt about my new [old] life in Agoura Fucking Hills.

I did not get away with operating on autopilot for very long. Not at all. Last weekend I drove up to Santa Cruz to see my friend Danielle perform in a production of The Music Man. I had a great time and I'm very thankful I was able to make the trip, but alas, I had to fight off a panic attack for the first hour of the drive back to Agoura. I pulled over at two different Call Box turn outs in twenty minutes, and as soon as I made it to Highway 101 I pulled over to the nearest restaurant and drank copious amounts of water. I even read a chapter of The Godfather in hopes I'd get lost in the story and forget about the tingling in my left arm, a sensation that is symptomatic of panic attacks, yet always convinces me that I'm going to die of heart failure as a 23 year old, menstruating woman. Eventually I calmed the Hell down and got home just fine, but because the panic attack I was fighting never fully developed, I felt a bit off for the next few days. I'd feel dizzy here and there, and my left arm still tingled from time to time. Instead of taking it easy, I got mad at myself. I was doing so well and then dammit, I was an anxious dick again.

Last Wednesday, aka: day three of tingly arms and a rapid heartbeat, I went to go watch Breakfast at Tiffany's on the big screen at the Agoura Regency Theater. (They do these flashback Wednesdays. They're fun. Although now that I think about it, I realize I will not be able to make it to Monty Python and the Holy Grail this week. Damn.) I had a perfectly lovely time, and by then, while I still had not looked inward and figured out why I was feeling so off, I was at least no longer angry...that's what happens when I choose to just ignore things, anyway. During the last scene of the movie, Audrey Hepburn and George Peppard are sitting in a taxi cab having one of those final showdown arguments that happen in romantic films, and Audrey Hepburn says that she can't be with him because he just wants to "put [her] in a cage." George Peppard looks at her and says, "I don't want to put you in a cage. I want to love you."

Forget "I'm through with love." That line of dialogue almost killed me. By some miracle, I was able to hold in my sobs until I was at home in my room ready for bed. But shit, did I ever let it all out. All I had to do was think about that line again, and the next thing I knew I was hyperventilating in the fetal position, covered in tears and snot. I cried about everything. I let all my negative thoughts pop in to my head, and then I cried 'em all out: I miss Santa Cruz, I hate the mall, I'm not dating George Peppard, and so on. It was great.

It has now been a week since I got back from Santa Cruz feeling like Tony Soprano after a plate of gabagool, and life is infinitely better. The tingly feeling in my left arm is gone, so unless fatal heart conditions come and go, I'm rather positive that it was psychosomatic. More importantly, I'm not mad at myself anymore. I tried to ignore what was going on in my head while I was visiting my favorite place in California, where I no longer live, but hey, I suppose it's not too early to say that I finally learned my lesson. It's simple, really: Feeling = [Moderate] Serenity, and Not Feeling = Shallow Breathing At A Call Box.

Dustin Hoffman visited me in a dream again. It was Saturday night, and I dreamed that I was sitting at a round table having dinner with my immediate family, and Dusty was sitting next to me. Like last time, I don't remember anything we said to each other. What I do remember is that everyone had a good time, dinner was delicious, and Dusty was all smiles. In the dream I wanted to tell him that I was so very thankful to be having dinner with him, but I kept it to myself. I knew I'd see him again.

Then, as dreams do, the dinner scene faded away and I was suddenly in my parents' house one sunny afternoon. My dad was having some friends over, maybe to watch a game on television, and so when the doorbell rang I walked up to answer it, knowing that it was most likely one of my dad's guests. Through the window, I could see that the guest was my dad's good buddy Jack Nicholson. (My father isn't actually friends with Jack. This is dreamland.) He was wearing a white linen suit and sunglasses. (Duh.) I was happy it was him, and when I opened the door I squeeled, "Jack!" and threw my arms around him. I mean, Jack and I were good buddies as well and seeing him at my doorstep was not at all out of the ordinary, but still, I had to take advantage of embracing him. I mean, he's JACK. As we hugged, Jack said, in his smoky, old man voice, "Oh, baby." I pulled away, smiled at him, and he looked at me and said, "I haven't so much as shot a pool cue in over a month."

Oh, Jack. You may not be Dustin Hoffman when it comes to spirituality and tranquility, but you sure are fun. And the fact that you came to my house in boring old Agoura Hills to hang out with my dad and watch some boring sports game shows stupid little Me that my life, at this moment, is much more exciting than I think it is, not to mention the fact that I managed to work your ancient hormones in to a frenzy. Oy.

Bring on the confusion, the exhaustion, the laughter, the tears, and please, let's keep the symbolic dreams of Hollywood legends coming night after night.

"Leave [EVERYONE] Alone, Right NOW!"

Remember the days when the headline news was peppered with pictures of Britney Spears' labia majora? It was right around the time when she was, ya know, "getting fat." Sometime between the divorce from Kevin Federline and the buzzcut, there were a few months where Britney's lady parts could be seen on television, in magazines, and, of course, all over the internet. She'd be climbing out of a limo, either doing her damndest to stay classy or drunk off her ass, when a paparazzo would snap a photo of her crotch.

In general, I have zero interest in celebrity gossip, unless, of course, it concerns whoever I'm obsessed with at the moment. That being said, Robert De Niro ain't makin' too many juicy headlines these days, and that will probably remain the case until he (a) gets another divorce, or (b) kicks the bucket. Therefore, when it comes to What's Fucked Up In Hollywood THIS WEEK, my knowledge is limited to what people tell me (to which I typically respond, "That's bullshit"), what I see on magazine covers while I'm waiting to pay for my groceries, and what I see on the "E!" channel while I'm searching for something halfway decent to watch. Despite my best efforts to remain out of the loop, I've still seen Britney's Brazilian.

I've also seen the footage of the night she shaved her head. Paparazzi bastards were stalking the poor thing, even though it had already been all over the news that she wasn't doing so well (ie: a whopping eight extra pounds and no panties). She drove up to some small hair salon, went inside, and shaved all her hair off. I don't know if she was high at the time (duh), but if not, she was high on desperation and exhaustion. Oh, and UTTERLY UNHAPPY.

To tell you the truth, I would have done the same thing. I go crazy enough when someone I love and respect won't leave me alone. Imagining how I would feel if strangers were photographing my every move and twisting my words and making me out to be some kind of basketcase and still demanding MORE...yeah, I'd shave my fuckin' head. Of course, Britney must have been pretty psycho at that point to pick up the razor, but what made her psycho? As if her demanding career wasn't enough (recording albums, filming music videos, performing live, appearing at the MTV Video Movie Awards, posing for the cover of People, BEING A MOTHER), pictures of her unsightly cellulite graced the cover of every damn gossip magazine in existence. It's odd. Her celebrity status was destroying her, so They bombarded her even more. And yeah. We've now seen her genitalia because The Media Gods assumed that's what we all needed.

My dad receives Rolling Stone every month, and Leonardo DiCaprio is on the cover of the latest issue. I picked the magazine up a few nights ago and flipped to the Leo story. At one point the otherwise low-key Leo says something like, "I had a lot of fun when I was young." (The interviewer must have asked the obligatory question, "How much pussy did you get after Titanic?") Leo then talks a little bit about his life after wrapping the James Cameron mega-hit, during which time he did a good amount of partying. While he insists he's never been in to drugs, he does admit that he definitely had a grand ol' time without giving any specific details. As I was reading, I thought to myself, "Why don't I remember hearing about this in the media?" Granted I was 11 years old during the height of Leo's pretty-boy days, but I do have a freakish memory for details, and if Leo had been getting in to trouble back in the late nineties, I would remember. Then Leo explained it to me right there in the interview: "This was before TMZ."

There was a time when you could go an entire day without hearing any uninteresting stories about fuckin' celebrities?

If you think about it, America's fascination with every petty occurrence in the daily life of a celebrity is a relatively recent phenomenon. It would be naive of me to suggest that we haven't always idolized movie stars/rock stars, but hey, our grandma's didn't grow up catching glimpses of Joan Crawford's undercarriage. Back in the day you had to actually pick up a newspaper if you wanted to read about who Clark Gable was schtupping; now you can receive Brangelina updates on your iPhone. People has been around for years, I know, but I'm not talking about conventional entertainment shit. I'm talkin' humiliating TMZ headlines. I'm talkin' bullshit Perez Hilton stories. I'm talkin' Demi Moore having over 2,000,000 followers on Twitter. She's Demi Moore, for cryin' out loud! What has she done recently that's at all intriguing?

These people are followed around twenty-four-hours-a-day. The most unflattering pictures of their inner thighs are printed in millions of magazines. They're criticized not just for what they wear to the Oscars, but also for what they wear to the supermarket. We love them. We hate them. We don't even know them and yet they somehow owe us something...but what is it? What the fuck do we want from them? And why? How did the media come to assume that it is imperative for us consumers to know every single gritty detail?

Going back to the Rolling Stone interview with Leo, I must say I really enjoyed reading it. I never got the feeling that the interviewer was trying to make Leo in to something he may not be: there is no insistence that Leo is the next Brando, nor that he's a total playboy. Furthermore, the article isn't agonizingly long, and by the time I was finished reading, I was a bigger Leo supporter than I'd ever been. Why? First, I learned that Leo and I are crazy in similar ways: we both need to say out loud where our wallets, phones, etc. are located before going somewhere (he searches through his pockets, I rifle through my purse), and we both excel in making mountains out of mole holes. (According to the article, he has drawn on his past experiences with anxiety to enhance his performances. Très method.) I'll also admit that the pictures of him throughout the article are rather easy on the eyes, and the combination of the way he looks in his jeans and his insistence that he wants to be married someday was enough to almost make me consider switching to Scorsese's new muse. I also fell in love a little bit when the article revealed that unless Leo is training for a movie, he doesn't spend much of his free time working out.

The article reminded me (and attempted to remind America) that Leonardo DiCaprio is a human being. It mentions his mildly obsessive compulsive habits without making him seem like he needs to be hospitalized. It mentions his achievements as an actor without making him out to be a tortured artist who just "Vants to be alone." It's a simple, well-written portrait of an artist (...As a Young Man...) that offers details about his movie career, and just enough about his personal life to make him sound like a likable guy. I got my fix of voyeurism without reading a list of every supermodel he's taken to bed, and I'm now determined to finally see The Aviator. The article gave me hope that the good, old fashioned, consensual Q&A [that ya have to pick up a magazine to read] isn't dead, and that not every young, good-looking person in Hollywood is destined to be destroyed by fame. It's all I ever wanted from a celebrity news piece -- to learn a little bit more about the person's career, and feel a small connection via The Human Condition.

And, despite my attraction to the featured star, the absence of crotch shots was fantastic.

Say It Loud: "I'm Single, And I'm Proud!"

My parents started dating during their senior year of high school. I learned from my father's Downey High School yearbook that they had actually broken up about three months in to the relationship, and, like most high school couples, soon realized the error of their ways and got back together. (When I think about how my existence on this earth depended on my mother forgiving my father for some adolescent infraction, I feel a bit spiritual.) They got married in July of 1978 after they had been dating for six years; my mother was 23, my father 24. I've been told that the wedding was a fucking blast. They couldn't afford to have an open bar, but the bartenders said that they'd never seen so many people willing to pay for booze at a wedding. According to legend, one of my father's uncles ended up passing out drunk by himself in the middle of a tennis court. I've also been told by my father that several of his friends were high during the Greek Orthodox wedding ceremony, a ritual that involves head wreaths, candles, and walking around a table a certain number of times. There's also, ya know, a buncha stuff said in Greek. I guess good ol' cannabis sativa has the power to make that ceremony a religious experience even for all those unfortunate Aryans of the congregation.
It has now been 32 years since the big fat debauched wedding, and, somehow, my parents are still together. When I tell people that they were high school sweethearts, they always seem amazed that their marriage worked. I understand their surprise, but personally, I'm not at all baffled that they never separated. I don't want to undermine their achievement, but honestly, I can't imagine anyone else putting up with my father the way my mother does, and vice versa. I guess that's truly what determines if a couple is Meant To Be.
Now, as a person who was lucky enough to grow up in a household that was never plagued by divorce, let me say right now that I do believe in marriage and family. However, I do not believe that getting married and starting a family is the only damn way to live. Unfortunately, we are living in dark times. We're at war, the economy sucks, and discrimination is still rampant. Regardless of how progressive our country had a chance to be, these shitty circumstances have set us way back, and that includes society's expectations for the modern American woman. Our leading ladies no longer travel the world raising Hell; no Gloria Steinem, Angela Davis, or Jane fuckin' Fonda to be found. Instead, millions of Americans worship the ever heinous Sarah Palin, and even more use The "C" Word to describe Hillary Clinton. Sure, it's important to consider that both of these women have been alloted rationed amounts of political power by a government that previously prohibited them from even voting, but If the women with power are being criticized and exploited and ripped to pieces (and I'm not a Palin supporter, but come the fuck on, how is it all right that Nailin' Palin was actually made?), where does that leave the rest of us?
The ice caps are melting. No one has any money. Thousands of gallons of oil have leaked in to the ocean every single damn day for the last three months. The guy responsible for Easy Rider is dead, and Sandra Bullock has an Oscar. Saddam Hussein has been out of the picture for years, and we still don't know where the fuck the actual 9/11 perpetrators are. More and more troops are going to be sent overseas to fight a war that hasn't made much sense since I got my driver's license. People are freaked out, man. It's true. And when you're freaked out, you revert back to a former way of life, and fuck, the country's values have regressed in the weirdest ways. Now that young men are being shipped off, it's once again time for young women to shack up with soldiers and say prayers for them in church every Sunday.
Did we learn nothing from The Deer Hunter?
John Savage scenarios aside, the pressure is on again for young women to think about marriage to any man, soldier or not, simply for security purposes. If you snag yourself a smart man with money, your days of job hunting in this pitiful market are over. All you'll have to worry about is keeping your house clean, your weight down, and your sex life exciting. (I hear Vajazzling is the new Landing Strip.) Don't worry about getting bored with the day-to-day routine -- you'll have your work cut out for you after you stop taking your Yaz.
I realize that my depiction of life as a wife is a bit cynical, but, like I've been saying, I don't believe that young women should go along with this sudden change in values just because the men who run the country have fucked us over. Like I said before, I do believe in marriage. I believe that if two people are in love and they want to spend the rest of their lives together while enjoying certain insurance benefits, they should do just that. But let's be even more frank here, the Conservative Christian Right doesn't exactly encourage young people to live their damn lives before exchanging vows. Combine that bullshit with this nouveau depression era paranoia, and where does that leave us? "Sanctity of marriage" my ass.
Ladies everywhere, don't settle down just because you think that's what you're supposed to do. On the other hand, don't get a Ph.D. just because it's the only way you'll qualify for a job at Starbucks. Our former leading ladies didn't bust their asses back in the day so us youngins would blindly do as society dictates. Everyone's a little bit confused, scared, etc. Let's take comfort in that, shall we?

BloggityBloggity

My last day of living in Santa Cruz has arrived. Well, it's done more than arrived -- it's nearly come and gone...

I always thought that my last day here would be a sort of sentimental scavenger hunt -- get kombucha at New Leaf, people-watch at Pergolessi, give a bum a nickel, etc. Instead, I woke up early and got right to cleaning my apartment. My fridge is officially empty except for my liquid calcium and my caffeine-free diet Safeway cola, and my bedroom is completely cleared out except for my mattress, which now sits on my floor. (There's something so pathetic about my current sleeping situation, I feel. I never thought about it before, but now that my box spring is in the dumpster and my comforter has been dropped off at Goodwill, I can't help but feel overwhelmingly lonely at night while I do my damndest to bundle up under one thin, dirty sheet and wonder why it's been such a gloomy, cold July.) My shower tiles have been doused in bleach over and over, and yet there's still mildew in one unruly corner. Everything must be spic and span for tomorrow morning's walk-through inspection with my landlord.

No. I did not have quite the sentimental scavenger hunt I had always thought I would.

It's okay, though, because right now I'm at The Best Place In The World: KZSC Santa Cruz. Yup. Never again will I have access to hundreds of CD's that I can store on my iTunes for free. It would be stupid of me if I didn't take advantage of this privilege one more time before my long drive tomorrow.

It's strange. I was worried that coming here this afternoon would depress me. That I would feel like I didn't belong. That things would have already moved on without me. That my presence here no longer mattered, and never really did.

Not true.

I feel as comfortable here right now as I ever have. In fact right now, I feel more comfortable here than I do at my own apartment. I mean, my apartment is completely torn apart and in the middle of a hardcore sterilization process. I've had enough of that for now. It was time to get out, and I know that I made the right choice by coming here. Everything is on pause. I'm surrounded by excellent music in a tiny cabin in the redwoods. There's a candy machine and a coffee maker. (Yes, I've had a mug of coffee. I had to, for old time's sake. Hopefully I won't fall off the wagon and have ten more.) There's internet access and a couch. And yeah, there are memories. Tremendous ones. Some magnificent, some heinous, but all of them important.

At this point I could label this post "Masturbatory Self-Indulgence," but let me save myself by saying this: if you have an inkling to try something new and creative, do it. You just might fall in love with it. That's how it was for me with radio. One day before I went back to school for junior year I decided, "I'm gonna be on the radio."

I tried it. I got hooked on it. I've now had the experience of total unadulterated artistic freedom, and I'll never be the same again.

(I've now had three cups of coffee and my heart is beating a bit fast and I can't stop biting my nails and I think it's time to have one more fun-size Milky Way before I head back to my apartment to continue scrubbing the shit outta every room.)

Just. Fucking. DO IT.

My Spirit Animal

Perhaps I am assuming a lot when I say that all of you out there who read this blog (which is an assumption itself...) have already read my short tidbit about my dream involving Dustin Hoffman and the Gourmet Cupcakes. (Future rock band?) Whether you did or did not, let me give more details.

I had a dream on Friday night that I was in Las Vegas with two of my best friends from A-Town. (In real life, Vegas is not my favorite place. I have only been there one time since I turned 21, and while I had fun, I still think the place is pretty damn weird. This is not to say I'll never go again...) The two of them were all dressed up to go out, and while I'm sure I was dressed up as well, the dream was from my perspective and I couldn't see myself. We were at some larger-than-life-caricature of a bar, and one of my friends kept telling me over and over again that she wanted a "Glucose-Free Pomegranate Martini." True to my real-life values, the idea of ordering a "Glucose-Free Pomegranate Martini" sickened and annoyed me, so I went outside to take a walk. The city streets looked a lot more like Manhattan than that good ol' cartoony Vegas strip, and I suddenly felt very comfortable. I crossed the street and decided to peek inside a gourmet cupcake shop on the corner. As I stood in line deciding what I wanted, I suddenly noticed that the person ordering in front of me was Dustin Hoffman.

"Mrs. Robinson, you're trying to seduce me!" "WE'RE WALKIN' HERE!" "My dear boy, why don't you just try acting?"

After Dustin Hoffman was done paying, he stepped to the side and let me order. I ordered a cupcake with blue frosting. There was nothing gourmet-looking about it. I paid, and when I turned around I saw that Dustin Hoffman was holding the door open for me. Yes, Dustin Hoffman had waited for me to complete my transaction so he could be polite. To me. As I walked through the door, he looked in to my eyes and said...something. I don't remember what it was, but I do remember it was deeply profound. Zen-like. He closed the door behind us, and then we stood on the street corner together waiting for the light to change. When the pedestrian WALK signal appeared, he put his arm around me and we crossed the street together. He had his other arm around a small boy. The three of us walked together to the other side, and when we reached the entrance to the bar where my friends were enjoying their ridiculous nouveau health-nut cocktails, Dustin Hoffman turned to face me, put his hands on my shoulders, looked into my fucking SOUL and said...something else. Again, I don't remember what it was, but I do know that what he said was wise beyond human comprehension. He was a fucking Jedi Master.

When I woke up the next morning, I felt (1.) disappointed that I hadn't actually met Dustin Hoffman, and (2.) suddenly desperate for a creative outlet. What'd I do? I created this blog. Small, I know, but I needed to do SOMETHING. (I then went a little crazy and created accounts with several other internet networks, largely because they might help me find a job, but mostly because I wanted to link my blog to them.) When it became time to give my blog a title, Dustin Hoffman popped in to my head again. "The Graduate." Perfect. I am, after all, a graduate who has no idea "what those four years of college were for."

It's been a year since I graduated, and while I can safely say that I'm done being a lazy ass kid with zero responsibilities, I still don't quite know how to go about becoming a successful, autonomous adult.

This is something I talk about quite often with my therapist.

When I met with her today, I told her about my productive weekend -- creating this blog, etc. She was happy to hear all that. Then I decided to tell her about my Dustin Hoffman dream. She listened, and then she asked, "How did the dream make you feel?" I said, "Well, I was bummed out when I realized I didn't actually meet Dustin Hoffman." She shook her head, and said, "Oh, but you did." Then she asked, "What does Dustin Hoffman mean to you?" I told her that for the last several months I've been absolutely obsessing over the important movies of the 1970's. Ya know, Papillon rules. She didn't care to hear all that, really. She asked, "But what is it about Dustin Hoffman? What stands out about him?" "Well, um, he's short." "Uh-huh." "He had no real plan to become an actor. It just kind of happened." "Uh-huh." I started running out of things to say, but then I said, "He's a real artist. I know he's an actor, but he's really good at what he does, and he was at the height of his career during a time when everything wasn't all so mass produced. He's five foot five with a huge nose, and he was a leading man! That would never happen today. Today he'd be the short, funny sidekick."

She cut to the chase: "How do you think all of this relates to you?" I paused, and then I said, "I would like to be like that." "Future tense?" she said. "How about you are like that?" Naturally, I couldn't accept this. "Well, I mean --" "Dustin Hoffman held the door open for you. He even walked you across the street. You have everything you need within you, and Dustin Hoffman is helping you along the way. But you're there."

As of today, I now know Dustin Hoffman is my Spirit Animal. He's a short Jewish guy with a big nose who went to Santa Monica Community College, and yet he's still a leading man. An unlikely shining star. There's just something about him, and it kicks ass...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5e-B2XQ8LYM

...And somewhere out in the cosmos, he's holding The Door open for me, ready to guide me across The Street.

Robert De Niro's 1970 Car Commercial (AFI)