Laid....off

The only good thing about unexpectedly losing your job is concluding that shitty day with the unanticipated loss of your pajama bottoms in tangled up sheets. Naturally, with a very hot, very naked guy lying next to you...who knows just what he's doing. Twice.

The Naked Truth - Addendum

It appears I may have offended a member of the Y chromosomed community with my last blog. "So, that's it? Just checkin' out the goods and then off you go." (Mind you, this comment was not from anyone whose 'goods' I checked out. We are just friends. Just so this is clear.)

But my answer is this: Of course not, my dear. All joking aside and despite the light-hearted nature of my yammering, it's about more than a hook up...it always is no matter what we (I) try to tell ourselves (myself).

It's really about second chances at missed opportunities. It's about the possibility that that same anticipation will ultimately express something that's been there all along but somehow wasn't ready to reveal itself until that very moment. It's about maintaining a belief that movie love really does exist and that though you were distracted by something or someone else, the one you had longed for had a longing for you just the same. And all it took was something, anything, a question, a thought, a whisper, a giggle, in that time you took to pay attention to your curiosity to turn your whole world around and here you are all sweaty and naked, wondering why it took you so long to get here.

(Cue cheesy music)

The end.

The Naked Truth

In the few days I have left counting down to my trip to Mexico, I've been doing a lot of thinking. Thinking somewhat forced upon me because of whom it is I'm going to see. While in Peru, I met an interesting fellow who happens to have a notable amount of boyfriend qualities. He is chivalrous and very kind, attentive and affectionate (which every girl loves) without being annoying about it (which every girl loves). He's Latin. Everything they say about them is true. How they can be so innately passionate and get away with saying 'make love' without sounding like the cheesiest bowl of Kraft cheese and macaroni, I will never quite comprehend. If a white bread, American guy EVER said he wanted to make love to me, aside from laughing uncontrollably in his face, it would likely be certain death to our budding relationship or even our budding hook up.

Speaking of hook ups, in light of the aforementioned potential for future relationship development, inevitable girlie conversation has taken place regarding satiating the curiosity of the what-could-have-been, before tying on that chastity belt and taking a walk down Commitment Lane. (And just a note, men may think about sex more often than women, but women undoubtedly talk about it more. I know this much is true.)

And so it was decided that yes, one is indeed warranted a visit to their former (or even current) curiosities, even if simply for curiosity's sake...better now than later, better now than never. Let's be honest, who doesn't wonder what it would be like to bag the crush they've been eyeing for so long. And in my opinion, unresolved, unanswered curiosity can be nothing short of agonizing torture. So why have that...

In addition to the unanimous decision by my lady friends to deem the hook up not only acceptable, but frankly downright necessary, it was decided that in order for this uh...coming together to serve its purpose, it must go down, at the very least, three times.

Why three times, one might wonder. Well, unfortunately, the first time is hardly an accurate or fair gauge for either party, really. I mean, let's face it, first time sex can be amazing, or entirely disastrous. The anticipation of this moment can cloud one's vision as well as one's perceptions as well as one's performance. All this sweaty nakedness has the power to provoke one to call out the names of deities into the darkness, or cause one to ponder what in God's name they're doing there. Even Olympians are given a few chances to achieve their best scores and they're already known to be good at what they do. Besides, if it is fantastic, why the hell wouldn't you want to do it again? Am I right?

Therefore, a second round is a definite must. The pressure is off, the nerves have calmed, neither party can say, "I haven't done this in a while". If by chance it was pretty damn good, but you just didn't get to do that one thing...here's your chance. And, surely a slightly more accurate reading can take place at this juncture.

Lastly and most importantly, for one to conduct scientifically sound research, the third time is most necessary for the sake of calculating...an average...of course.

Ayahuasca in Peru

Ayahuasca - Iquitos, Peru


The trolley drove us an hour and a half outside of Iquitos, Peru to the Blue Morpho Shaman Camp. The look on everyone's face was exactly the same - excitement mixed with scared senseless. A few people chatted to one another, getting to know the person sitting next to them, not realizing how their acquaintance with that person was going to multiply exponentially over the next nine days. The guy standing next to me asked me why I came to Peru and I told him. I won't even dare say it here, yet I spoke, without hesitation, of my hope to obtain a long sought reprieve by participating in an ancient Ayahuasca ceremony. 

Or five ceremonies to be precise.

The camp was breathtaking, lush vegetation, butterflies fluttering everywhere; brick laid paths leading to each bungalow displaying its beautifully hand-thatched roof. No locks on any doors and no windows, only mosquito netting protecting us from the elements. Each bungalow would sleep 6 people, one shower, sans hot water, one toilet and one sink, no doors; a curtain our only form of privacy.

After settling in, 28 strangers gathered for dinner. Along with supper came the continuing curiosity of every person who had found their way to this tour. Everything I'd heard before coming here was repeated in conversation after next as we sat behind checkered tablecloths, trying desperately to predict what tomorrow was really going to be like. "I heard that Ayahuasca doesn't just make you puke, you poop too!" "I heard that you sometimes can't even make it to the bathroom." "Seriously? You shit your pants?" "That's what I heard." "What's your name again? Oh, hi, nice to meet you." This was our 'get acquainted' dinner conversation. If any of us were apprehensive or nervous or downright petrified before, it is only fair to say our fear grew to a horrifying climax by the time our meal had ended.

Before long the light of day began to vanish into the surrounding jungle. Lanterns were lit, one by one, in each room, in every bungalow. Along with no hot water, no electricity. The nightlife began to crescendo into existence. The sounds that came out of the darkness were unreal. Insects zinging like jumping jacks on the Fourth of July. Over-exaggerated drops of water, they came from some bird, I think. One sound was likened to that which a Furby would make or a cartoon cat purring -- mixed with a cartoon zipper. It was my favorite sound; it seemed so lovable and innocent. Turns out the owner of that call was a tarantula. Another favorite was the frogs that sounded like cackling witches. At the time of night when they would begin to laugh, a quiet room full of humans would start to giggle and then eventually laugh hysterically from these contagious little amphibians. They were a welcomed distraction from the fact that we were still scared shitless for tomorrow evening, our first ceremony.

I fell asleep to the jungle concerto, never once having to remind myself that this was the real deal, not a nature sounds CD. I awoke fairly early, but continued to lie in bed for a few more minutes, staring at the ceiling of my heavy-duty mosquito tent. I instinctively checked my appendages for bumps, bites, fang marks, do tarantulas have fangs? I don't know. I seemed to have survived my first night in the jungle. I unzipped myself from my canvas house and made my way toward my group, already hard at work pounding some sort of bark with wooden mallets. As they broke apart the outer bark of the vine, its orangey pulp began to show. This was the main ingredient for our medicinal concoction. Ayahuasca - the sacred vine. I grabbed a mallet and got to work. Four large pots (we're talking witch's cauldron size) sat off to the side, waiting for the Shaman to begin their ritual of offering blessings with mapacho (tobacco) and carefully layering the ayahuasca and numerous other plants, barks and leaves. A large brick stove was then lit, the pots were set in place and there the Ayahuasca would eventually begin to boil. This would continue throughout most of the day. When the mixture was done, our first ceremony would begin. Many of us took turns sitting on surrounding tree stumps, staring at the bubbling pots. No one spoke much, but when they did, it was pretty much the same thing everyone else was thinking. "Am I really going to drink this stuff?"

The Shaman tended to the mixture, stirring it, watching its consistency. They strained it and then boiled it some more. They maintained hours of this painstaking process. Anywhere we walked in the camp, our line of vision somehow always directed us right to these ominous pots. Every time I looked at them, my stomach wrenched, every time I tried not to look, my stomach said, 'Nice try'. Late in the day, as I made my way passed the brick stove once more, I noticed the pots were gone.

The early evening quickly began to descend into the canopy of the jungle and the critters once again took their positions in the ever and over-growing amphitheatre they call home. The travelers began to take shorter, quicker breaths as the realization of this day became inescapable. The round house was lit with just two lanterns. This room typically displayed a bouquet of hammocks for lounging; tonight they were swung up over the beams from which they hung in order to make way for the mattresses that now graced the entire span of the floor.  Each mattress came with a pillow, a blanket, a cup of water, a roll of tissue, and a big, plastic puke bucket.

As I looked around the room, I wondered if I would be the first person in Ayahuasca history to throw up before the ceremony had actually begun. I moved the puke bucket closer to me.

Our master Shaman quietly walked in, scanning the room, acutely aware of every last person's every last thought. His face appeared sympathetic and humored at the same time, by the palpable anxiety in the air. He's been here before, many, many times. The smirk he wore was because he knew some of our uneasiness was insuppressibly magnified by our naïveté. His compassion shown because he knew some of our uneasiness was about to be horribly, painfully justified. As everyone shifted positions on their mattress, attempting to get comfortable, the Shaman and their apprentices initiated the ritualistic commencement of the ceremony. The lanterns still lit, we watched as they poured each cup, singing into each one individually, a personal Icaro, for the person to which the cup was intended. I watched as each person near me received his or her prescribed amount, I counted how many there were before me. And then I counted again. Before long, an apprentice was standing in front of me with a white mug, containing about as much liquid as one measuring cup. I closed my eyes and prayed like I've never prayed before. I opened my eyes, held my breath and then closed my eyes again. I tried to get it down in one big gulp. I almost succeeded. Ayahuasca's taste has been described in countless ways. None of them, in my opinion, came close to describing it accurately. I'm not certain there is a way to describe it accurately. I do know, however, that I quiver even now as I write this. While trying to get the taste out of my throat, I thought to myself, 'It's no wonder people puke from this stuff.'

In about a half an hour's time the entire room had been served. The Shaman lowered the wicks into the lanterns and the light excused itself from the room in a similar manner. They began to shake their leaf rattles, called Shakapas, a sound that could soothe even the most tortured of souls. Simultaneously, they began to sing. The Icaros would continue for an unspecified amount of time, growing louder at times and sometimes waning into a simple whistle by one or two Shaman. They made their way around the room, dedicating time to any person who appeared to need their attention. It wasn't long before the first person started to throw up. It wasn't long after that that pretty much everyone took their turn in front of their bucket. The indescribable taste of the Ayahuasca the second time around can only be described as worse.

My legs, my arms, my head, everything felt very heavy, as though I had melted and had become adhered to my mat. I seemed to have stepped outside of myself, took a look around and then decided to swan dive inside my own mind. Although the Shaman were still sitting at the front of the room, I could hear them singing and whistling so close to me, as though they had abandoned their physical form and were my very own personal headphones, inside my head. At first geometric shapes, like when you press your eyeballs a little too hard, were floating behind my eyelids. Then colorful landscapes, referred to as vistas, began to take shape. Waterfalls and rainbows, flowers, millions of them, would cascade over a constantly moving scene. I could think about anything and everything at once, without feeling confused or overwhelmed. My thoughts were complete and it was impossible to get distracted by uncertainty or insecurity. An unbelievable sense of gratefulness came over me. At one point, it was as though I was able to account for every single person in my life and know that they had crossed paths with mine for a reason. I could understand the issues in my life that just a few hours ago were undeniably problematic. I was in a place free from fear or judgment. A sense of contentment came over me that was truly authentic.

At times throughout the ceremony, I was aware of others in the room, sometimes it was impossible to avoid being aware. Some wailed and cried and moaned to a heartbreaking degree, others purged relentlessly. Others yet would call out to our Shaman for help, and he would go, be it physically or spiritually, to help them through their difficult moments. Linear time and space are typically lost during these sessions, Shaman are believed to be in multiple places at once, because they are needed in multiple places at once. On one occasion, I knew I heard him standing next to me, when I mustered up the energy to open my eyes, his shadowy figure was sitting in his chair, right where he had probably been sitting for quite some time. Or perhaps not.

At one point I decided to try to focus on one very specific event in my life. The real reason I came to the Shaman in the first place. Although I was aware of the situation in my mind, I could not feel about it the way I have felt for the last 8 years, not to mention, the way I had intended to feel about it this night. I wanted to cry and scream to get it all out, once and for all. It simply was not possible. The Shaman tell you time and again, that your experience with Ayahuasca will not be what you want, but what you need. It will be nothing like what you expect and quite possibly nothing like what you had hoped. I came in expecting a nightmare. I came out cleansed of my enormous guilt, relieved of my life sentence of regret. Yet, strangely, I cannot explain how it happened. It just did. All of the horrible feelings I had harbored for so many years, every minute of every day, were just gone. Disappeared into thin air.

The Shaman also tell you that no two ceremonies will ever be the same. We had four more to go. This was only the beginning.

You make me feel like I belong under the sun*

In the last month, three different people not related to me by anything other than friendship or acquaintanceship , told me that they were proud of me. All for different reasons, which made it even more special to hear.

I'm not sure if I can put into words how awesome it has made me feel. I am grateful for you just thinking of me, let alone with such handsome regard.



*Lyric courtesy of Citizen Cope

Where's My Oscar?

And 20 million dollar paycheck?

I have unwittingly become an actress. When did this happen? Why did this happen? More over, HOW did this happen? And why am I not getting paid for it?

Yes, I live in Los Angeles, L.A., La la land...where you and your miniature breed dog can become a celebrity, a household name, a spokesperson, a joke and an E! True Hollywood Story in just one week's time. If you're lucky. And you don't even have to be a good actor.

I mind my own business, I don't have a cute, little dog that wears a shirt stating, "Bitches love me." Although, if I did, he probably might, but I digress. I tell people when I like them, I tell people when I love them. I have nothing to hide. Well, up until lately. It seems more often these days I have to hide the way I feel about certain situations. Usually in an attempt to just keep the peace, or take the high road or to be "gracious", but not a genuine gracious, of course. It's all an act. Smile ever so kindly and/or say thank you so that you can save face...the other person's face.

I'm sick of it. I'm sick of making situations comfortable, when they clearly are not. Do you think it's pleasant for me to receive your obviously regifted gift? No, it's not. It's SO uncomfortable, as a matter of fact, it makes me want to jump out of my own skin. But, to help YOU avoid feeling stupid, I will play dumb. I smile and say thank you so very much for your thoughtfulness. And as I walk away, I wonder why I felt the need to deny my feelings and spare yours. When did it become not okay to say what's really on my mind? Because it's a shitty thing to do? Well, guess what? So is regifting!!! You know what sounds fair to me? Returning the 'gesture' with the same sincerity in which it was given. Let's see how that goes.

Or what about the night I ran into a guy that I was spending a significant amount of time with and he happened to be with his on-again girlfriend? I once again tucked my feelings in my pocket and pretended that I was no one of any significance, particularly to him...to spare them both an extremely uncomfortable moment. Neither one of them aware that when I finally got to my car, I broke down and cried.

Why have other people's reputations, feelings, and shitty behavior become my responsibility to uphold? Why do I have to struggle to hold back the tears until I can hide so that no one will know the truly pathetic things that are actually happening? Why am I suddenly an actor whose job it is to conceal or completely dismiss my own feelings, on a regular basis?

Where's my fucking Oscar?

Remote Controlled Expectations

There's a great scene from the movie Singles where Kyra Sedgwick's character gives her garage door opener to this guy she's fallen for, who not surprisingly, ends up being a complete dick and she therefore loses said garage door opener (which of course symbolizes a plethora of sentiments much greater than the worthless piece of plastic itself). As she purchases yet another replacement to fill the remote shaped hole in her heart, she swears aloud that she'll never lose it again.

I lost my garage door opener not long ago. Off it went. I had a feeling it wasn't coming back. I didn't cry over the sad-looking little box that left my life that day, but over the hope that that little button holds each time it is pushed. No matter how tough any man or woman might pretend to be, the truth remains, no one really wants to be alone. The extra remote somehow represents the extra space in your life, not just in your garage.

As some things never change, I still somehow end up at Home Depot just about every other day. I found myself perusing that section a few times. Get yourself a new one and just don't ever lose it again. Then I thought, that's no way to be. It would be a pretty sad existence to never take risks just because of one, or two, or...ten bad experiences. But, chances to be taken or not, I still left the store without my Liftrex Super replacement.

I came home today and picked up my mail and inside a padded envelope I saw an object whose color could only be described as garage-door-opener gray. Out of the envelope, it fell into my hand and for a moment I was sad to see there was no note. Not even a scribble to say something like, "Hi, not long ago I used to kiss you a hundred times a day and now we don't even speak, how are you?"

But even so, I had the hope back in my hands. What's so awesome about this though, is I will forever attribute the loss of that stupid fucking remote to what finally inspired me to do things I'd been wanting to do for years. Things I kept saying I'd do next week or next month and then turned into years, without accomplishment. This August, I will travel to another country. By myself. And this Wednesday, I begin my lessons with my Spanish tutor. FINALLY. And so I thank you, former apple of my eye, for saying all those sweet things and for every one of those kisses...and then for being a giant asshole to me. You have inspired and motivated me more than I ever would have imagined. And getting my remote back is a reminder that, although at times it may seem like it, hope is not lost. Perhaps misused and mislaid and misjudged sometimes, but definitely not lost.

And so the dance resumed...

...with his glances from across the room, despite my preoccupation with diversions. His hand then on the small of my back, a heavy whisper in my ear. Its all so familiar but still perilously beckoning. My only other option was to run. A purely wicked dichotomy, because it could only bear the resemblance of catastrophe, regardless of the choice I was to make.


But so the world would not be, without tragedy lurking in the shadows of anything worthwhile. And how easy it is to forget its potential ravages at that one moment. That split second when choice simply ceases to exist and your heart begins to beat so fast you cannot find your breath. And as soon as you do, it is stolen from you just the same. But, oh what a kiss.

God bless the art of coquetry

I declare, wholeheartedly, I love men who flirt. And completely unabashed flirting at that. It is amazing how one seemingly trivial action is capable of making me feel unquestionably feminine and unmistakably pretty. There is something to be said about the confidence in a man who will hold my hand in his and play with my hair, in a room full of people, although we've barely just met. It is an art form.