Morning Affirmations of a Desperate Woman

I hate my alarm.

No, Jen, start over.

Today will be a new day.  I feel gratitude for the mattress beneath me, for my alarm clock beeping, for my tangled hair that I still have on my head.  I will get up, have some breakfast, and go to work. Simple.

I don’t feel well.

Wait, why did you just think that?  You feel fine. You have a little nervous twitch in your belly because it’s Wednesday.  Just take a deep breath…1…2.3…4…hold….2…3….4….exhale…2….3….4.  And up!  Start the day!

I would like it if I could become more of a morning person. Something to aspire too. Little goals. Baby steps.

Let’s see…coffee before anything.  My heart is beating normal, should be fine.  I need it. I had that dream….what was that dream?

There was that house again, on the side of the river in the woods. The big balcony had the vines overgrowing the house, like in all the dreams.  At one point, I was with a couple of people, I think one of them was Kate from group therapy and the other was possibly my dad, but it kept changing.

Shit. Grounds everywhere. Fuck it. I’ll clean it up later. Just need coffee.

I need more milk.  Milk milk milk.  Don’t forget to pick up milk. I can also swing by the tea house. I’m running out of tea.

No, you aren’t running out of tea. You have 50 different kinds of tea, you just need retail therapy and you can justify buying tea because it isn’t booze, cigarettes, or sugar. You don’t need more tea.  I am running out of honey.

And my head is already onto what else I can buy when I get milk.  Jen, you have a refrigerator full of food and only one person to feed.  Stop buying things you don’t need, you piece of shit.

Wow….that was an extreme response. It’s honey.

Sorry, self! That kind of talk is not self serving.  Drink your coffee, you little rockstar, and get ready for the day!

Do I put on the news? Maybe just the weather. Nah, I can just look on my phone. Decent day.

I am grateful for a decent start to what I hope is a decent day.

I want to stay in my pajamas. I should never invest in comfortable pajamas. I never want to take them off my body. It’s a motivation problem.

I’ll need to bring this coffee into the bedroom…not the bathroom. You are not the kind of person who drinks coffee on the toilet. Be grateful for that.

Poop. You don’t want to do that at work. Can it happen?

Will it happen?

I need to wash my bathmat.

Yup. Good. See, something is already going well today.

Thank you, self, for having an apple last night. I am grateful for fiber.

I need to clean the corners of the floor here…wow, it gets dusty fast. I don't want to think about bathroom floors. 

Your’s is only used by you, so chill and put clean the bathroom on your to-do list.  It’ll be done by Springtime. Hahaa. 

Nah, I’ll put it on the to do for the weekend. I’m not a complete basket case, I like to live in a nice home.

Clothes: Black pants, are they clean? Yes. Okay, simple black top? Yes. This is a no effort kind of morning, and that’s okay.

I need to do laundry. I only have silly socks. Why do I have so many pairs of socks that I can’t wear?

One day, I will be the kind of classy woman who has perfectly hung clothes in the closet and folded pants in the drawers. I will have socks that match, not just themselves, but my outfit itself.  I will not have to wear boots that cover my socks not only because they have yellow stripes, but also because they don’t reach up to the bottom of my pants and my hairy dry leg skin is showing.  

It’s one of those things where someone’s eye will be drawn to the yellow socks, and they’ll see how they don’t work with the professional/casual look of black on black, and while they are looking at the socks, they will see… the dry flakey hairy legs.  Any credibility is out the window.

Someday, I will have smooth clear legs that I will show off with unripped pantihose and high heels, but today, I will secretly be a child wearing grown-up clothes.

I need new razors. I will only have nice legs for so long, and my elderly self will want to look back with pride.  I need to clean my fucking house. Dammit, the windows are dirty.

Stop.

Not helpful.  Right now, all you can do is the next right thing, and that is go to work.

So brush your long tangled hair and don’t focus on the split ends. It’s a ponytail day.

I am so thankful that I invested in good lightning. My freckles look cute in this light, especially across my button nose. I am thankful for my nose.

My lips on the other hand…I do not have pouty lips. Thin thin lips. Ugh.

Stop. Be nice to yourself: you love your big brown eyes. For every negative thing I say about myself, I will say one positive.

Deal?

Deal.

I don’t feel well.

Why do I keep thinking that? I’m fine, I just don’t want to go to work. 

What time is it? What have I been doing this whole time?

I have bags under my eyes, do I have time for one of those gold eye mask things?  No.

Just a little make-up then. You are going to work, not a night out.  I should have a night out soon, I love my couch too much.

What did I just step in? Foundation. Fuck, I’ll have to clean that up later. Why do I spill everything?

This is taking too much time. Just even it out with your fingers…

fine.

Chapstick not lipstick. It's the dry season. The skin on my hands is cracking. That’s attractive.  

My father’s feet were always dry and cracked. Do people think that about my hands? I need to get it together to moisturize. I’ll make that a priority. 

Old hands. Workers' hands. Stop staring at your hands.

Last looks: very girl next door business casual today. Well done.

Wear your winter coat, Jenny, you’d rather be warm than fashionable.  It makes sense with the boots.  Why do I always slip off my boots? Every single time I have to untie them, I decide that I’m not going to do this anymore. It’s better to add time to the end of the day than the beginning. What kind of knot is this?

Got it.

You look great kiddo!  Grab your keys and go go go.

Next time I invest in a winter coat, it will not be yellow. “Big Blob of Mustard on a Pickle Fork”

That’s what I would call me.

Keys in hand. Phone…where’s my bag?

Oh, right in front of me. Okay, keys, phone, wallet.

Check.

To the garage.

I love this smell. The musty garage smells of gasoline, mold, dust, dirt, and oil. Why do I love this smell? What do I associate it with? I’ve loved it since I was a kid.

“Hi car. Ready?”

Yup, me too. Let’s ride.

I am grateful for garage door openers. Good job remembering to be thankful for the small stuff. That’s important, and you are good at it.

Look at these people all going to work…all leaving their homes like people. See, they do it every day too!  They manage to go to work and come home and be human.  

What would I do if I had a child? Like, what does the kid do after work starts but before school? Bring them to work? A nanny? I don’t know how to parent. Doesn’t matter. I don’t have offspring.

Well, I might..

Why would you think about that right now?  Ugh! Stop.

My thoughts are butterflies, watch them flutter away.

Watch them flutter away.

Breathe 1,2,3,4, Hold, 2, 3,4, Out, 2,3,4.

Ugh, I forgot my book. Stupid idiot. 

Oh my gosh! Enough with the negative self-talk. It does not serve anyone. Bright side: you’ll be forced to practice your social skills at lunch instead of reading.

Drive.

It's Happening!

 

"Equilibrium in Entropy"

 Click here to read "Equilibrium in Entropy."

To Be Continued...

Dear Readers,

Words cannot express how humbled and honored I am that you have followed me on this journey. 

I am moving the second half of my novel, "Equilibrium in Entropy" as well as an edited first half to Substack. The plan is to roll out publishing chapter by chapter. I would be forever grateful if you would be willing to subscribe for free. Click here to subscribe!

Join me and find out what happens in the lives of Gary, Mira, Sandy, Hector, and Dr. Kelmer. I hope you find it as enjoyable to read as it has been to write.

I will be taking down all chapters of the book from my blog at the end of the week; however, I will continue to post other musings here.

Peace, love, and light.

-Lightning Liz

Not an adult?

A child at the playground yesterday yelled “Hey girl!” I assumed she was speaking to my four year old daughter; I looked up to smile. She established eye contact with me and said “Yeah you, girl!”

Realizing that she was speaking to me, I replied “What’s up?”

She said “I don’t have any friends.”

I retorted “I’m sure that’s not true.”

She slid down the poll that separated us, her above, me and my daughter below.

The child was about 7 years old with two long brown braids and sweet big brown eyes. Her white ruffled tee shirt framed a large brown wooden cross that she wore tied by a piece of twine around her neck.

The girl, now at my feet, looked up at me and said with a smile “I killed my father. Jesus made me do it.”

Startled, I said to my daughter “Go play with your father.” 

I turned to look at the child. “I don’t think that’s a good thing to say,” I said while scanning for a parent or guardian, but I could not distinguish which adult she belonged to.

As if reading my mind, the child said “My father is that ugly guy on the phone.”

I saw a completely fine looking man, glued to his cellphone, walking in and out of the playground.

“I am going to go to space and become a vampire. When I come back, I’m going to kill my father,” she said, getting my attention.

“That’s not a nice thing to say,” wondering what my responsibility was as an adult in this situation. 

I looked over at my own child, playing happily with a five year old she met 30 seconds ago.

My responsibility was towards her, my own kid. 

I turned to the patricide-planning child, who was brandishing a sharp metal gardening spade that she must have conjured out of thin air with her devil powers. She yelled into my face “Come to the garden with me, girl!”

To which I said “I need to watch her,” motioning towards my little one.

The child said “Leave her with your dad.”

It took me a moment.

There I am, a 44 year old mother confused for being a kid by another kid. 

“That’s my husband!” I laugh.

The girl’s eyes changed to disinterest, and she ran to stab at a patch of dirt.

I turned to my husband, delighted that he had been confused for my father while knowing full well that I do not look like an actual child.

I am going to look at this from a couple of angles.

I need to admit that this is partly a humble brag; it delights me that I was confused for a child. In reality, I do look my age, or thereabouts, and so does my husband. We may both err on the side of spring chickens, and he would never be mistaken for my father. 

I think what this child observed was my silliness. Maybe the adults in her life aren’t silly; therefore, I must be a child.

I would be remiss to not mention my concern for this child and her dark fantasies. The wearing of the cross and her mentioning Jesus only hardens my view that religion does more harm than good. But I do not want to pass judgment on her family; the child seemed happy and healthy.  I wish for her continued health and happiness with a pinch more silliness and less damnation.

Amen.

My Great Expectations

This I know now: If I do not state my expectation, it’s uncool for me to turn around and throw a fit.

When I was in college, I said things like “I should not have to explain why I am mad, they should know,” or “They should know better.” 

“Should” is a word that I am avoiding nowadays. It’s a controlling word and a word that is held up in past regret. “I should have done this,” or “They should do that,” are not helpful phrases. Nothing makes me feel like I’m being treated like a child more than someone telling me that I “should” have done something differently, as if my intent was to make the wrong choice.

Those who know me would not consider me to be an angry person. Those who know me well have seen the rage, sudden and unexpected, often followed by an unattractive smugness.

Actually, those who know me well and complete strangers…

In the past, if I held the door open for a stranger, and they neglected to say “Thank you,” I would snap sarcastically “You’re welcome!!!”

I sure showed those people a great side of my personality. 

This is the situation, I held the door open. No one asked me to do this. I probably held the door to be nice, and I could have continued to be nice. Instead, I essentially told them they should have thanked me. Rather egotistic of me, wouldn’t you say?

In the broader sense, Life does not owe me anything. I have to let go of the expectation that I deserve good things, that I should (there is that word) have great things happen to me. Karma should exist, but it doesn’t. Atleast, not in this life. Otherwise, life would be fair.

People do not owe me anything. Organizations do not owe me anything. Unless I have a written IOU, I need not expect anything…and honestly, IOU’s can be broken. 

Am I a pessimist now? No, that’s not it.

I’m happier without expectations. I may be smug in my anger, but I am not happy in that place. I am attempting to remove the word “should” from my vocabulary and recognize that no one is a mindreader. 

It’s freeing.

I open doors for strangers now simply to be helpful, not to hear the “thank you” I desperately think I deserve.

Dying Leaf Disease

They were purple and turquoise green. Their hair was no longer gray and coarse, but silver and sparkling. They were 85 years old. To be old, was to be beautiful.

Wrinkles and knobby knuckles, arthritis and bad backs, diabetes and heart disease all still existed, but instead of reminding us of decay, it showed a road map of a life well lived.  The oldest were, by far, the most beautiful beings that ever existed. To live to 100 was to become a god.

Lilith Parkfield, of Richmond, Indiana, USA, was the first senior in History to turn a different hue. On her 85th Birthday, Lilith, or Lily, as she had been called in her youth, was alone at her senior living facility.  

The day had started normal. Lily had no need for an alarm clock, and she awoke to the neighbor’s dog barking outside. This did not bother Lily; she liked animals.

She assessed her body: eyes - open and working, bones- stiff but able, muscles - sore but still strong. As she rose from bed, she was vaguely aware that it was her 85th Birthday, but honestly, it wasn’t much of a thought. It didn’t feel like much of a day.

Lily visited the toilet without a glance in the mirror. It was not until she had her morning tea and looked at her hands that she noticed anything different. Her skin seemed to be almost glowing an emerald shade. Lily thought it must be her eyes, and moved to the sink to wash her face.

Looking back at Lily from the mirror was the most fascinating creature Lily had ever seen. She screamed and swooned gracefully to the floor.

She dreamed of her first crush and could feel herself blush in real life.

Lilith woke up to her concerned neighbors and the sound of hurried footsteps. That is all she heard; everyone was silent. It was Lily who broke the silence. She asked if she looked any different.

It started happening quickly after that, almost like an 85th Birthday present. The next day, two seniors, Albert Conrad and Marie Chung woke on their 85th Birthdays to their own surprising colors. Conrad, while on a cruise in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, and Chung in her hospital bed in Hong Kong. Conrad was ruby colored, Chung was sapphire. The day after that, four seniors, garnet, amethyst, topaz, and onyx. The number of changing seniors grew exponentially.

When all the 85 year olds had fully bloomed, the older folks started turning.

The first name for it sounds laughable now, but “Dying Leaf Disease” is what this physical condition was called. Obviously all the tests were run, and nothing physical other than appearance had changed. And what a change!

The elderly glowed. Deep shades of every color, and all, except the bald, with the most exquisite silver hair. It looked like stainless steel, but felt like hair, original texture and all.

The road maps of the wrinkles each held a feeling, a story, and one could get lost just gazing at an old person’s skin. The comedy and tragedy of it all was hypnotic. 

It must be mentioned that not all 85 pluses led good lives. This was not Utopia. 

Some people almost got away with it. Evil doesn’t die young as a rule, nor does it necessarily die.  However, the wrinkles on their skin, their maps on their body, did not lie.  The truth and darkness shimmered as bright as the knowledge of what they had done. These elderly people still seemed magical, but also wretched, naked, and lonely.

Good deeds, on the other hand, shown like rainbow mist over the fields and valleys of skin. The truly exceptional could be displayed in a museum. Their complexion like dewy summer sunsets, the most loving, kind people were beauty incarnate. It became a goal: do the most good to get the most exquisite ending. Maybe it was Utopia after all.  

Their eyes did not change color, nor did their vision improve; however, in that glimmer was the Book of Life. When you looked an elderly person in the eye, it was no longer lost youth that you saw, but comforting knowledge.

People started going to senior care homes to see the colors, like taking the family to see the North East American leaves in the Fall. Instead of enticing the grandkids to stay with treats and toys, Nannas and PopPops were falling asleep with their loved ones gently petting and braiding their silver hair. 

85th Birthdays were more heavily attended than ever in History. Among the rich and famous there were grand unveilings. These were works of art, parts of History, and completely breathtaking.

Longevity became a goal. One may argue that it has always been a goal, but not by comparison. 65 year olds who were still working, supporting adult children, and giving birth to age spots everyday, had a new beginning to anticipate. 20 years time promised to deliver the recognition they have always dreamed, the love they have intensely craved, and the beauty they chased. 

In short, it was so perfect to die this way.

Now An Adult

It has been since 2016, which isn't as long ago as it feels.

In the short past 7 years, much has changed, most notable event being the birth of my daughter, Madeline. 

Also, during this time, I have grown-up.

I think a lot of it had to do with becoming honest with myself, and once I successfully practiced that, I was able to be honest with others. Life as an adult is more present. It's harder in big picture ways, but it is more manageable. I understand why I was a child for so long. There is such virtue in simplicity.

I spend my time with a focus on the beauty around me. I try to notice trees and see what the clouds look like today. I listen for birds and garden on my little Brooklyn Balcony. My favorite thing to do is to go on adventures with Madeline.

I think I'll post some short stories here, or pieces on which I am working. Maybe you'll find a connection in my words, and I hope that makes you feel like you are not alone.

Maybe I'll make you mad. I can control what I say, but I cannot control how you react to it.

Either way, good to see you again.

An Honest Living

I have been meaning to address this for a long while.

It's a pride issue.
It makes an anger-bubble pop up inside me, on the subway, on a run, in the grocery store.
I gently put my finger up and end its life with a they-don't-know-any-better.

Maybe it is my job to let them know better.

Instead of harboring ill will. Instead of keeping the self-worth in an easy to reach a place where I can defend and coddle it. Instead, maybe it's best for them to learn a little lesson.  It's okay to make them feel humbled, uneducated, and ashamed for being....well....rude.

Here is the plain and simple truth: people sometimes need to work more than one job.  Not only people in the arts, but also people who are looking to improve the world through political action, or people who are school teachers, or people who, as lawyers, work pro bono for causes that help change lives for the greater good.  In many walks of life, it is possible that a second job is needed.

This second, or third, or even forth job should not diminish a person's view of another person's worth.

I live in New York City.  My last apartment cost me $1200 a month.
For a bedroom.
In a shared apartment.
Above a dive bar.
That was falling apart.

This is not a crazy NYC story. This is what may be considered a good deal by a few people.
Still, it's a lot of money.

A common rule of thumb is that a person's rent should equal one forth of their salary.  As a working actor, this can be an impossibility.  For instance: A Tier One Equity Contract pays $625 dollars per week for a "midsized" theater (that is a theater with 699 seats or less).  To give a little perspective on this, the New York Public Theater's biggest indoor space, the Newman, only seats up to 299.
Let me do the math for you: If my rent is $1200, and I got a dream role of performing at The Public Theater, I would only have $1300 left to pay for utilities, food, and fun.  Forget about having a savings. Also, keep in mind that my neighborhood grocery store sells cereal for $6 a box.  Nothing in New York City is cheep.   The crowded, smelly, filled with crazy people subway is $2.75 a ride.  My $20 metro card always runs out in a surprising amount of time.

Money, money, money.

Currently, I am a full time performer.  I love my performance job.  I also love teaching comedy.  I truly love it, and feel lucky that I get to do two things that fill my meager bank account.

I have tended bar off and on for years.  I have made many friends through working behind the stick, and I even met my husband while behind the bar.  When I was on a solo tour making $50,000 a year, I actually missed bartending. Did I miss the late nights or serving the occasional mean customer?  Of course not.  I missed the money.  Honestly, I almost went into debt on that tour.  It simply was not enough money for a person like me to live in New York City. (Disclaimer: you can live in certain neighborhoods on that salary.  I enjoy living in Brooklyn near many trains, and I also love taking advantage of what the city has to offer: restaurants, theater, other fun adventures.)

Point being, if I have not seen you for a while, and you ask how I am doing and I say "Great!" and then you say "Are you still doing the whole acting thing?" and I say "Of course, I mean, what else would I be doing?" and you answer "Oh, well, are you still bartending?" or "Are you getting paid for it?" or the absolute worst, "Did you find a husband who can support you while you do this?" I think you are being rude, and I automatically become defensive.

Incredibly talented, beautiful, successful people work in the service industry. I have such respect for professional bartenders and waiters.  They have the patience that I cannot possibly match.  They should be proud that they are good enough at what they do to go into a shift with a smile, not get flustered by the events of the evening, serve with pride, and then do it all over again.

Incredibly talented, beautiful, successful people work as actors (or in other fields), and fill in the gaps to live a more fulfilling life by working a few shifts.  This does not mean that they are not successful. It means that they are making an honest living working hard to live in this impossible city.  Do not think less of them.  Do not judge them poorly.  Instead, praise their work ethic.  Go to one of their shows.  Speak about them with respect.  Instead of phrasing it "Well, he's out there doing his thing, but he is still waiting tables," why not say "He just did a stand-up set at the Comedy Cellar and is beginning rehearsals for 'Winter's Tale."

A good rule of thumb, speak about your friends and family in a way that they would represent themselves.

Let us not pity the actor, the teacher with the summer job, or the political activist.  They want to make this world a more fantastic place by bringing beauty, human rights, and passion to everyday life.  Sometimes, they just want a little more money to pay the bills.

smoldering

There is a fire.

And like

All fire

It is.

So you fuel it.

And it is hot

And big for my eyes.

And troubling. And beautiful.

It is because I contained it.

Locked it down and drained it.

So it was soft, yellow, and warm.

It now threatens, but I am yet to be burned.

And I hate the cliche of fire.

The first known metaphor, the beginning invention.

But yes, I think of sun and light and reflection

Of us, you, me.

There was no spark.

No lightning strike.

A cigar left in a wet pile of leaves.

A joint between the covers.

Red ash under the rug.

Grown, to a comfortable level

And now it keeps me up at night

Worried the house may burn down.

Funny that it tickles.

Funny that it is distant.

Funny.

But any way we decide, there will need

To be fire.

Without it

The shivers, trembling, palpitating 

No longer have the cover of softness or harshness.

It will just be dry, and if not cold,

It will just be.

And being has never been enough.