The Starring Role

Exciting news...I've been cast as the lead role in my very own show. It's called the life and times of Lucy Anaya-Mitchell. It comes out pretty much every day from the time I awaken to the time I fall asleep. There are some behind the scenes things going on while I sleep, but you need a back-stage-pass to get to see that stuff. Unfortunately, as interesting as I find this show, I can't find much of an audience. Most people are too busy starring in their own shows to pay mine much attention. The great thing is, I have some small roles in the shows of other people, too. In the "life and times of Mychal Anaya-Mitchell" and the "Life and times of Alec Mitchell" I get to play the mom. She's quite a character. As fun and free-wheelin' as she likes to consider herself, she's really much more conservative than she ever dreamed she would be.

Speaking of which, the guy that plays my husband is pretty hot. His name is Steve Mitchell - both in real life and in the show. He's had many roles in my show. He started out just being a guy in my class about 25 years ago, then he was a drinking buddy, and then my confidante. Before you know it, we're off in Las Vegas getting married!

I've been thinking a lot about roles lately. It started a few days ago when I was listening to a radio interview with Raphael Yglesias, the author of "A Happy Marriage," an autobiographical story about his marriage and mostly his wife's death from cancer. It was a sad and poignant story, but the thing that struck me most was the fact that Raphael's parents were both fairly well-know authors, themselves (Jose and Helen Yglesias), and in the article he discusses what it is like to have your life portrayed in the stories of others. He says, "even when someone writes you in a novel flatteringly, the truth is it's always troubling because it's odd to be a minor character in someone else's life since we're always the major character in our own lives."

Sure, I already was aware that we tend to think that things such as a "bad hair day" or having a stain on our shirt as much bigger in our minds than they are in the minds of others. Still, I became keenly aware that not only am I always center stage in my own role, those around me are also at the same time starring in their own roles. I am at once flattered that I get to be part of their production - but at the same time, want them to stop and appreciate what a marvelous job I am doing playing my own role. I'm sure I'll be up for an Oscar one of these years...

Besides, B-sides

As one who has always been compelled to root for the underdog, I have also had a great deal of empathy for the "B" side of records. Of course in the age of CD's and electronic devices to listen to music, the "B" side is no longer a thing with which I struggle. However, as a young music listener I felt that it was only fair to listen to both sides of a record. Who was I to ignore a song that this musical artist put such work into? How could I sentence it to be face-down for its entire existence?

I don't know exactly what age it started, but I do recall that in our house we had a great rack of 45 records. Most of them no longer had their sleeves but they all seemed to play without skips or scratches. My cousin Melissa and I would spend long afternoons listening to them and making up dances to the various hits. This rack brought me my first introduction to David Bowie, with the song "Fame" (B-side, "Right"). But I digress...

My obsession with "B" sides continued even when I graduated to record albums. I would purchase an album for a specific song, but I would force myself to listen to the "B" side to the point of getting familiar with most of the songs before I would allow myself to listen to the "A" side; which of course contained the song for which the purchase was made.

I still don't know exactly why I would do this. Part of me thinks that in order to be a true "fan" of an artist, you should be familiar with a broader scope of their work. One can also get a greater sense of the artist by listening to the lyrics of a variety of their songs. Even if someone didn't write the song themselves, (Ironically, Barry Manilow did NOT write, "I Write The Songs") they are choosing a song for its message and caring enough about it to apply their voice, their essence. The second reason is that I've always been a bit of a masochist. It takes a certain amount of sacrifice to earn or deserve the honor of listening to the song that so moved me to spend my $3-12 dollars. I chalk that whole notion off to my good Catholic upbringing. You can't just walk in and get to hear "Ashes to Ashes," you have to earn the right by listening (and learning to love) "John I'm Only Dancing (again)" (1975). ...(I apologize for all the parentheses.)

HCG Diet

I now have something to blog about - my new diet. I have struggled with my weight for most of my life and have always been a "big girl" and a "good eater" and this is basis on how I developed my self-image. I am indeed a larger than average person. On the list of words to describe me you would not find petite, small-boned, or frail. On my best days I feel voluptuous on my worst, gross and obese. Last year I was prescribed Phentermine and managed to lose 30 lbs. with the combination of Phentermine, serious diet modification, and 4x a week gym sessions. Well, then the holidays hit and everything I had previously been doing to maintain my weight loss slowly went out the window. I have since gained 15 lbs. back and am not willing to go back to 200 lbs.

I had heard about HCG and when I realized that you have to inject it, I put it out of my mind. That was until I had my last physical and my weight was almost up to 190. I discussed my issue with the nurse practitioner hoping she'd give me more magical Phentermine and she suggested HCG. Apparently it forces your body to release adipose fat rather - the stuff that gathers around your middle and thighs and STAYS there. It also somehow hits the "reset" button on your metabolism. Still, I was reluctant to try it but made an appointment anyway. In my research of HCG I ended up finding a place much closer to my house and went there last week.

The part that still gave me reservations about the whole thing was the injection. I have a SERIOUS needle phobia due to a series of shots I had to get as a child. In the Dr.'s office I mentioned my hesitation and he offered to poke me with the type of needle that I'd be using for the injections. It was truly painless. It was not "this is only going to hurt a tiny bit," it was entirely pain-free. Being the suspicious person that I am, I had to ask him if the needle was collapsible. I was convinced that this was his sneaky way of getting me to purchase his snake oil. ;-)

The first time I had to give myself the shot I woke up at 5 a.m. because I could think of nothing else. I went to the bathroom, mixed up the HCG, and prepared the shot. I sat there and gave myself the mental pep-talk and then quickly jabbed in into my leg the way he showed me...nothing. I pushed in the plunger still not fully convinced that it was in my leg. When I pulled the needle out, I actually squeezed the area to make a little dot of blood so I KNEW that I had indeed put the needle into my skin. I'm still not crazy about the process but at least I know that it is not painful. However, it's still a mental leap every time I'm holding that shot in my hand.

The hardest part about this diet is not the shot - it is the 500 calories-per-day. Today is the first day that I did not want to cheat (and it's only been 3 days). In fact, I still have another 80 calories to burn and I'll do that with 6 oz. of strawberries after this post. However, the thought of 30 days of such a small amt. of calories is overwhelming. Hence, the blog to write down my ups and downs (and hopefully those downs will include serious pounds). I hear that the hunger gets more manageable after the first two weeks, but that is a LONG time when you're hungry all the time.

I have also never realized until recently how many commercials are for food. It is no wonder that the American diet had deteriorated to the current state of processed food. That is what we are constantly "fed" by Madison Avenue! I even opened my Oprah magazine to a paint swatch insert and the paint colors were "bun," "hot dog," and "mustard." I know this is not going to change, so I have to just change my attitude. It helps that I have a supportive husband and a good friend at work. This way I have my bases covered when I'm having a weak moment and I just need a little diet pep talk before I begin gnawing on my leather shoe.

A reopened time capsule

...is just as much fun as the first time you open it. My husband and I created a time capsule "to be opened at the Millenium" when we were merely 3-months married. It contained a few items to remind of us of our Vegas wedding trip: a "Slots-o-Fun" card and a soap from the hotel in which we stayed. It also contained letters from ourselves to ourselves and to each other. We also included a napkin that we'd scrawled random Spanish phrases made up of the few Spanish words we knew, "Donde es el diablo?", "Hoy es dias de los juevos," and my personal favorite, "Escucha la enchirito para todos mureto perros y gatos." Which roughly translates to "Listen to the enchirito for all the dead dogs and cats." Yep, we know how to have some fun.

My favorite item, however, is the piece of paper folded in half that reads, "Anyone can put a bowel movement in a can, but it takes a real genius to roll it in Corn Nuts." It is in my husband's handwriting, but we cannot for the sake of ourselves remember what led to this conclusion. We were notorious for staying up way too late, drinking way too much coffee, and getting far too slap-happy for our own good. Every now and again we'd get the notion to write down some of our random thoughts. One that I can remember is a Simon Says list of things, such as: Simon Says...defy the laws of physics...hover...undulate...etc.

Going through our time capsule 15 years later reminds me that my husband is my favorite chum and he has been for a better part of the last 25 years. We surely get goofy and he makes me laugh my craziest snort laugh and I absolutely love it. One of my favorite things is to laugh so hard that tears are streaming, snot is threatening to blow bubbles, and all you have to do is see the other person laugh and it gets you all over again. ...Good times!

The Blog eludes me

I marvel at all the great ideas I have for writing in my blog, and when it comes time to write them down, the ideas are nowhere to be found. Most of my ideas come during my morning commute. I have really deep thoughts when it comes to putting my life on the line with many bozos on the road - some of which are fully engaged in shaving, putting on mascara, texting, or some just putzing thinking about what they're going to blog about.

I guess the most consistent thought is that of my childhood. There are many thought-provoking stories; ones that make you realize why I'm the cynical, angst-ridden, yet jolly person that I am. It was a childhood overflowing with emotion, many bodies in a small house, a cacophony of voices, and also had its share of deprivation (physical and emotional) all at the same time. There was both feast and famine simultaneously.

Still, I am glad for the experience. It made me who I am today...a cynical, angst-ridden, yet jolly person.

Oh, happy day!

Lest I turn my blog into a hotbed of angst, I will thus post something happy.

Let's talk about my husband. It is true, I am lucky to be married to my best friend (insert "awww" here.) I've known him now for more than 1/2 my life. We met when I was 16, and I am now older than 32 years of age - by more than a smidge. I liked him from the get-go because firstly, he was pretty easy on the eyes. Secondly, he was pretty easy going and laid back. Thirdly, he had a pretty wicked sense of humor. Sure, there's a lot of pretty going on. He's pretty fantastic.

We met in high school drama and on the first day of class my Senior year. He was one of the "new kids" that came to South Mountain High School via the Magnet Program. Yes, I went to a school where they had to import white people. He was an import - and a pretty cute one at that.

[...]

Then we went to Las Vegas 10 years later and got married. Did I mention it snowed in Vegas that day? Oh, well...blog, blog, blog...we've been married for 15 years now.

I'm really not very good at this. Can you tell? Yes, I may have missed a detail or two. Oh yeah, we live on Sesame Street. Seriously.

India Fea

This is one of my "nicknames" from my youth. It means "ugly Indian" and it was a term of endearment (?) from my mom. I had crazy curly hair growing up and it was difficult to manage because not only was it crazy and curly, I also have A LOT of it. For the most part my hair was kept in braids - sometimes one, sometimes two...but always braids. They were to keep my hair tamed. Every now and again I would like to leave my hair down and loose, but it was never a good thing. It would end up tangled and a mess. When my mom would see it down, she'd call me "India Fea." This would shame me into putting it back in braids or at least ponytails.

I actually was terrible at doing my own hair for most of my life. My grandma would help me braid my hair every morning. She would brush it and part it perfectly down the middle for two braids or just pull it all back into one perfectly smooth braid. It was a comforting ritual every single morning. The braids however, hurt my head. Eventually (6th grade) I cut my hair short, but that only made things worse. I had no idea how to do my hair, nor did anyone else. The days of being able to pull my hair back into two plaits were over and now...it was thick, curly, unruly hair gone wild.

I have learned to surrender to my hair after all these years. It's still unruly, but I've learned how to tame it. The funny thing is that my husband actually LIKES my wavy and carefree hair. I've spent so much of my life apologizing for it that it's hard for me to truly embrace it - or believe that it's something to like, rather than endure.

Blog, Blog, Blog...there's gotta be a better word.

Well, here is my blog. I don't quite have the hubris to believe that I have anything worth writing; yet, here I write. Mostly I am struck by ideas and memories that occur out of nowhere and find that I should put them someplace. I guess this is someplace.

What an interesting twist that I am beginning my Blog by contemplating end of life. Not mine, mind you. Well, not entirely. I have a family member whose stepfather is going into hospice today and earlier today I purchased books at a yard sale that have such sentimental value to me, that I am at a loss for words. The books (Tales of the City by Armistead Maupin) were introduced to me in the summer of 1986 by my high-school teacher and mentor, Jim Hayden. Mr. Hayden (aka Jim) died seven months ago and I still find myself stopped in my tracks by his death. Jim [excuse me while I flip back & forth with Jim and Mr. Hayden - it took me YEARS to learn to call him Jim!] was a prolific reader and wrote in his journal every day. He left behind a legacy of living life in a positive light and a partner of 45 years, Fred.

In a way, my story and my life begins with Jim Hayden. It was through Jim's eyes that I was able to see myself in a different way. I was 14 and had lived my life in as quiet and small a way as I could possibly manage. (We'll get to that later) It's hard to describe, but he spoke to me and not at me. Even in my ego-centric teenaged mind I could see that he had a measure of respect for his students, even when we did not always give him the same respect right away. In fact, Jim LOVED to re-tell me the story of my first year in his class, when I got incredulous over the fact that he insisted that I not read my Teen Beat magazine while he was trying to conduct class. I begrudgingly put my magazine away and deigned to listen to his lecture on "who knows what."

To give you a clear picture, the high school that I went to was on the "south side." I would call it the "inner city" but in Phoenix, it's more like the outer city. It's frankly the poor side of town with a high minority population. Mr. Hayden was a gay, white male who was about 5'8" and 160 lbs. soaking wet. Well, Mr. Hayden unbeknownst to him, became my guru. Through my years in high school Jim became my sounding board. I bounced my thoughts and ideas off of him and he gave me his sage advice. What I didn't know back then was that he'd already lived his life as an "outsider." He knew both the strength that it took to be who you were, and the dividends that it pays to know that above all else.

It wasn't until Jim's passing that Fred shared with me Jim's "coming out" letter to his sister. The letter was very frank and took a strength that I am both in awe and inspired by. It is through this letter that I can so clearly see how Jim was able to pull me into my own. All those years ago when I first met him I was a scared and troubled girl and I shared my darkest secrets with him. He did not shirk away or even bat an eye. My acceptance by him wasn't a special invitation, it was just pure and simple acceptance. It was very "Mr. Miagi." However, at that age and time I felt like a complete outsider and an impostor, and his acceptance was everything. This was the beginning of a long and wonderful friendship; the loss of which can still bring me to my knees.