I drove to Kentucky last week for a job we were doing in Louisville. I rented a 20' box truck and picked it up from midtown at 11 last Friday morning. From there I drove to Long Island City to pick up video and audio gear and I was on the road by 2pm.

Our client had planned to use a local A/V company and at the last minute they bailed. Our gear is more expensive and there's a pretty big shipping cost, so to try to save them money, I volunteered to drive down. I was kind of excited about it.

One thing -- I like driving. Now that I live in New York and no longer own a car, I rarely get the opportunity to drive. Plus, a road trip all alone rocks. So, I take off and drive all the way to Columbus the first night. People. They upgraded me to the Presidential Suite at the Hyatt. I am so excited. I walk in and the place is enormous. I have three bathrooms.

One has a bidet.

I have my own little cedar sauna. Seriously. And I have a wet bar. By the time I got to the hotel it was past one in the morning and all I wanted was a glass of wine and to sit and watch TV. When I saw this place I was in heaven. Then I checked the fridge. Nothing. No wine, no beer, no water. Nothing.

Before I arrived at the hotel I requested that a cheese and cracker plate be left in my room for me. I knew it would be late and I'd be starving. Guess what. No cheese.

So I call Room Service.

RS: Ma'am. Room Service closed at midnight.
Me: I can't get anything? I don't need anything to be cooked.
RS:No, Ma'am.
Me: What about wine? Can I buy a bottle of wine?
RS:No, Ma'am! It's illegal to bring liquor into your room in Columbus!
Me: Okay. Thanks.

Now I go downstairs to talk to the desk people because there is no point in continuing this with her and time's a ticking.

DP:Yes Ma'am? [I swear I thought only Southerners did this.]
Me: Hi. I requested that a cheese plate be left in my room for my arrival tonight and it's not in there.
DP: I'm sorry ma'am. Let me check that for you. (Checks that for me.) Nope. There's nothing on your reservation. Did you get a confirmation?
Me: Yes. But that's okay. Can I get something now?
DP: No, Ma'am. I'm sorry. Room Service is closed.
Me: I realize that this is not your fault but I specifically requested that a cheese plate be left in my room for my arrival and I confirmed that I would be coming in late. I have just driven eleven hours straight and I was hoping to have something to eat when I got here. Isn't there anything you can do?
DP: I can get you some orange crackers with peanut butter.

Can I tell you how proud I am of myself? I did not freak out. I did not let the fact that I was hungry and cranky and sore from bouncing around in the world's crappiest rental truck.

I went back to my palatial suite, gave myself a little pep talk, drank some tap water out of one of the champagne flutes from the not-so-wet bar, and took a sauna.

I am SO growing.

You Can Hear That?

For the past few weeks I've been having an almost daily nightmare about being stuck at my mother's house. The story varies but there are exclusively two plots.

Plot One:
I'm at home for a visit and am frantically trying to leave. The reason why I can't get out is the variable in this plot. Mostly the reason ends up being something to do with my legs not working. This one fucking terrifies me. I'll be running to get out of Fitzgerald and all of a sudden both of my legs will stop working from the knees down. They become so weak that I can't pick myself up to keep going.

It gives me anxiety just writing about it.

One morning after waking up from this dream, I told Erica about it. She said, "Yeah. I hate those dreams." Now, being the center of the universe, I was amazed to find out other people had my dream. I honestly thought it might be due to the fact that I have knee issues because each of my knee caps turn toward the outside of my legs. Or, maybe the fact that when I was younger I was a dancer (which is probably why I have that knee cap issue.)

When Erica said that practically everyone she ever knew had had a dream in which their legs didn't work, I felt like Zorak from Space Ghost Coast to Coast when Space Ghost yelled at him, "Shut up, Loud Eyes!" Zorak, a praying mantis whose eyes click every time he blinks, was stunned.

You can hear that?

Plot Two:I am angrily cleaning the junk out of Mom's house and can't leave until it's done.

Mom, in real life, is an uncontrollable pack rat. She has literally drawers full of mismatched socks. She can't let go of any them ... you know ... in case she ever finds the match. Of course, she never thinks to look in one of the mismatched sock drawers for the match. She's probably got over 500 pair of socks in there -- and counting.

Then there's my niece's old baby clothes. Now, I don't mean just her first dress or her first pair of shoes. I mean every onesie and every t-shirt she ever wore. Mom saves these because baby clothes are expensive and one day she might know someone who needs them. My niece V is almost twelve and I don't believe one stitch of her clothing has left that house.Of course, my sister has had several friends who could have used a nice stock of little girl clothes, and a baby bed and a baby swing and all the other crap rotting away in the back bedroom, but according to Mom, my sister's friends are trash and therefore do not deserve V's twelve-year-old onesies.

In my Plot Two dreams I dump drawer after drawer of socks into huge black garbage bags, but when I get to V's closet, I can't part with anything. Mom claims to have an emotional attachment to each piece of clothing and each toy so although I attempt to get rid of these things, I am overwhelmed with guilt and can never complete the task and therefore will never escape.

You can imagine how rested I've been lately.

Then this morning I remember a session with my therapist when she and I discussed a dream I had the night prior. She told me that in your dreams, every character is a representation of a part of yourself. And I had one of those delicious moments of clarity where I realized I'm the one holding on and in my dreams I'm trying to get myself to let go of the past. And I feel fantastic! All this Power of Now stuff finally makes sense to me and emotionally I feel better than I have in over a month.

And, people, I spent last Friday night in jail in Louisville, Kentucky.

I just got home from having drinks with Dan and Patrick and I just wanted to talk about it.

First of all, Dan says my blog is too depressing for him. Which I can understand. Although we had a brief hiatus in our relationship (due to my disappearing off the face of the Earth) Dan and I are quite close and have shared a lot over the past several years. I think maybe he's too close to the story to find it funny or just interesting. I think he worries about me and that's why the blog's too much for him.

Which is the sweetest thing ever. So, even if this isn't the reason, I'm going with it.

Then, Patrick and I start having a conversation about politics. Now, Patrick is very politically involved. He is well educated on all of the candidates and he is committed to Hillary like gangbusters.

I am not any of those things. I'm not politically involved. I know nothing about the candidates other than headline stuff. I am committed to no candidate. Other than Obama, if forced to choose in a conversation, only because I heard someone say that they thought we should get some new blood into the White House who wasn't related to a Bush or a Clinton. Seems sensible to me ...

I am pathetic. I know. But really, I just don't care.

I put my energy into my immediate life. I try to attack happiness and good things on a personal level. I feel like if I'm going to make a difference, I'm going to take it bird by bird, rather than try to make a Nation-wide impact by casting a vote at PS 182 in November. Instead, like Gandhi suggested, I'm going to be the change I want to see in the world. I'm happier these days than ever. I focus on the positive things in my life. When I have arguments or when bad things happen, I've become really good at stepping back and looking at what I'm getting out of them. Rather than be bogged down in anger or bitterness, I try to figure out what I'm supposed to be learning from whatever shitty thing is going on.

Now, this is not to imply that I am all Zen and shit about this. I certainly have my moments. But they no longer have exclusive rule over my emotions. I have some control and it's nice. And in that way, I'm a happier person. And I believe that affects others around me. I mean, Erica certainly gets happiness out of it. People I work with ... you see where I'm going.

And that's where my energies go these days. I feel like my reactions to what happens to me on a personal level are things I do have control over. The government -- not so much. And honestly, I have very little faith in the media, or politicians, or anyone who has a public presence like that. Like my friend Leila, who was on a reality-based series says, "There is no reality in Reality TV."

Those big exclamations of surprise from the stars? Scripted. And if the first take isn't good, they'll re-shoot. And if producers will waste time and money on that crap to get it right ... just think about CNN.

This tying your pants to your shoes thing has been going on a while. And I've thought a lot about it. It bothers me. It bothers me the same way that little tag so many of the Timberland wearers leave attached to their laces bothers me. Or that fucking size sticker on baseball caps. Seriously. What is that? Though,
I'm learning not to care so much, even if it doesn't make any sense at all.

Now. This pants-to-your-shoes thing, I get. One. You keep your pants from being stepped on in the back. Two. You let everyone see your super cool shoes. It isn't the most aesthetically pleasing fashion trend, in my opinion, but whatever.

So, sitting across from this guy with his jeans strapped to his Timbo's, I started thinking about how one would get one's pants tied to one's shoes. You know, I remember the eighties when we were into the skinny jean thing and I would have to step on my pants in order to pull my feet free from them at night. Or when my Gloria Vanderbilts were so tight that I would lie on my bed and pull the zipper up with a pair of pliers. So, I am well acquainted with the private humiliations we suffer for fashion.

But now, all I can think of is that guy sitting on his bedroom floor in his underwear and sneakers with those jeans around his ankles while he tied them to his boots this morning.

Is he alive?

Shit.

I'm sitting on the train this morning and I'm next to the guy who's nodding out. (That's my shoulder in the black sweater.) There is always a seat next to that guy. And he's the test of whether you are a true New Yorker or not. I've been in the city for 10 years this year and I'm that person. I have no problem sitting next to the nodder -- a seat during rush hour is that important to me. As long as they don't smell and they don't appear to have urine stains or copious amounts of drool, I'm fine. The woman who sat on this guy's right side didn't have issues either. As we both made our way to the seats, we had that conversation that can only be held between two NYC rush hour commuters. No words -- just shoulders, eyebrows and the occasional point using the lips and the chin.

Her: Arching of one eyebrow, lip point/chin gesture in the guy's direction. (Drunk?)

Me: Shoulder shrug, twist of mouth. (No. I think, heroin.)

Her: Double eyebrow arch. (Oh. Good.)

A nodding-out heroin addict is preferable to a passed-out drunk ... less chance of spontaneous vomit.

Anyway, I sit down and as I do I'm thinking about how sad the heroin problem is and how this is so New York -- sitting next to someone completely passed out from drugs while you're just on your way to work. Then I thought ...

Blog! So I took a picture. Ok. More than one picture. (This is another sign I'm a true New Yorker ... no shame.)

Then, as I was grabbing my Sharpie and notebook, I remembered this story about a guy who died on the train and his corpse rode the Q line for six fucking hours before anyone realized he was dead. And I thought, "Oh my God. How awful would that be?"

And I also thought, "But, if he is, what a fantastic story."*


*The guy was not dead. He moved before I got to my stop.