Defying Gravity

When I was very young I had dreams in which I couldn't run at full speed.  No matter what danger was chasing me (it was a werewolf in the first of these dreams I can remember) I would try to run away and instead I would take giant, leaping steps in slow motion.  My feet would barely touch the ground before I was launched into another leap, covering maybe four or five feet with each step.  Imagine running on the moon.  Despite the distance I would make, I moved so slowly that the possibility of being caught was always very real.  I still have these dreams from time to time.  They are extremely frustrating.  I will myself to run faster.  To get my footing and take normal steps.  To feel the ground beneath my feet with each step.  But no matter what, I always end up in this weird balletic movement that I know will be the death of me.

I was thinking about Lena Dunham last night as I tried to get to sleep.  I haven't watched Girls.  It's not like I'm boycotting it.  I just don't have HBO.  I was not a big fan of Tiny Furniture, though I was extremely impressed that she actually made it.  Admittedly, it wasn't easy for me to put my own ego aside and I kept thinking, "Fuck!  Why don't I do something like this??"  So, it was hard for me to be as objective as I might have wanted to be.  It continues to be difficult for me to be objective about her as I am reminded several times a week how much I look like her (though, in fairness, I'm older, so, really, she looks like me...) and how much she reminds everyone of me.  "Oh, my God, it's like she's stealing your whole look!"  Which a) I don't have "a look" and b) considering she's the actually famous one, that's a tough argument to make.
When Girls first started airing I got a call from my agent.
"I just had a brilliant idea!" he announced.
"Great!"
"You should play Lena Dunham's older sister on Girls!"
"... Okay ..."
Needless to say, that never happened.  I don't know if I was supposed to go ahead and call her up or what.

Anyway, here is a picture of Lena:

 

And here is a picture of me:

Picture courtesy of Daniel Lam

As you can see, we both have short hair and brown eyes so it's practically like we're identical.

Here's a sure fire way to tell us apart:  Lena writes and directs her own material and gets it produced and created an entire career for herself.  I play too many video games and can't seem to get a good grasp of who the hell I am.  Lena wrote a full length feature loosely based on her own life when she was 23.  I married a man I didn't love and moved to Los Angeles hoping to get on TV when I was 23.  If someone had held a gun to my head and told me to write a full length feature loosely based on my own life, I would be dead today.

My friend suggested that maybe she has some kind of Autism that makes her hyper-focused.  Maybe I have some kind of Autism that makes me sit around and wait for something to happen.

I hope I'm making it abundantly clear that I am well aware that I am responsible for where I am in my life.  I spent the better part of the last 20 years trying to find other people or life circumstances to "blame" for whatever "misfortune" I may have had.  And I don't feel sorry for myself.  Anymore.  The same friend who suggested that Autism might be the cause of Lena's success also insists that I'm wrong about myself.  That if I had given interviews in my early 20s I would have come across much like Lena.  Self-aware, with a fairly good grasp of who I was.  The thing is, I did give interviews in my early 20s.  I spent 6 months of my life when I was 21 on a reality series in which I did very little but talk about myself and trust me, I came off as anything but self-aware.  Self-pitying?  Sure.  Bitter?  Absolutely.  But sure of myself?  Not a chance.

Don't get me wrong, I think I had every right to be bitter.  It's hard to overstate the impact of losing one's parent at 13-years-old.  My mother's death, besides being traumatic on its own, sent my career and my life off on very different paths than where I had been before she died.  I was bitter and angry over the life I never got to have.  I was bitter that my career stalled because my family was too busy dealing with my mothers illness and death to devote the time necessary to foster a career.  I was angry that for the rest of my life I would feel defined by my mother's death.

But there's only so long you can cart that shit around with you before you have to let it go.

Lately, in preparation for this impending baby, I'm unpacking boxes that I've been lugging around and storing in closets for years.  It's tedious work.  Every time I open a new box I'm faced with more crap I have to decide what to do with.  Pictures from my wedding, or from my trip to Scotland (There I am in front of a cottage.  There's me in front of Loch Ness.  There's me with some cows.  There's the tour guide I thought was cute.) or of kids from junior high school that never really felt like friends or of the dog my ex and I shared.  Shoes from years ago that I kept meaning to take to the cobbler to get repaired.  Old costumes and props from sketch shows I did over 7 years ago.  And ugly pair of hiking sandals I've never liked.  Old diaries and notebooks and journals.  I keep the writing.  The rest I send down the garbage chute.

At night I go over what I tossed out with too much regret.  Even while knowing it's all worthless crap I don't need anymore.  There was an outfit I bought in the little boys section at Old Navy in 1996 right before I went off to college.  The shirt was moth eaten and tattered.  The pants were stained with paint and had holes that showed parts of the body no self-respecting person in their 30s would show in public.  But I thought about them sitting in the garbage bin in the basement of my building filled with guilt.  That ugly outfit represented something.  I remembered buying it.  I thought I looked so cute in it (when, in reality, I'm pretty sure I looked like a 10-year-old boy).  I was proud of the fact that it still fit.  I almost felt like I was betraying this shirt and pair of pants.  Like they were laying in a heap amidst the trash, weeping, "What did we do to deserve this?"  Truthfully, I have always bestowed inanimate objects with feelings.  A half-burnt out candle I've moved with me from apartment to apartment is like an old dog who has outlived its uselfulness and is kicked out into the rain.  I am cruel and heartless to throw it away.

But the shit has to go.  There are more important things to make room for.  There's an actual person with actual feelings and needs whose well being is a real, concrete thing and who will rely on me for its very survival.  The old photos and shoes and clothes and candles and nicknacks and stuffed animals is just stuff.  And maybe it's taking this kid to finally get me to move on.  To understand that life keeps moving forward and you can either move along with it and get your shit done or you can spin your wheels and watch everything pass you by.

The misguided blame and self-pity and the bitterness and anger was just stuff I was carrying around with me because I had given it all too much importance.  And I became so accustomed to its weight that I didn't recognize it as something separate from myself.  It all became who I was.  If you asked me who I was, I would sling that giant bag off my back and open it for you.  "This.  This is who I am.  Hurt and angry and defensive and victimized."

Last night I dreamt I was being chased.  I tried to run away but I couldn't get myself anchored to the ground.  I leapt away from the danger in slow motion as it got closer and closer.  And I told myself, "No.  This isn't working.  This has never worked.  Stop.  Feel the ground under your feet.  Now take a step.  And another.  And another.  Now, fucking run."  And my feet hit the ground solidly with each stride and I gathered speed and the danger behind me fell further and further away.  And I was free.

******

 In other news, I'll be taking off my clothes and singing with The Skivvies this coming Monday, March 4th at Rockwell Table and Stage.  This is the only time I would ever feel comfortable getting practically naked in front of people as ironically it has taken me being pregnant for people to finally realize I'm not actually chubby...

This was me last week.

It's Such a Good Feeling

Lately I've been waking up with the first line of "It's Such a Good Feeling" from Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood playing in a loop in my head while simultaneously feeling profoundly depressed.  The soundtrack to my mornings goes something like this:  "It's such a good feeling...Oh, I suppose now I have to TAKE A SHOWER!   Of course.  ...to know you're alive"  and "Maybe today (It's such a good) will finally be the day (feeling) I get T-boned in an intersection (to know) and feel myself careening toward a light pole in slow motion thinking, 'Ah!  At last!' (you're alive)"  Seems like even my subconscious is ironic.

Incidentally, I never liked Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood.  Or Winnie the Pooh.   Their earnestness and sentimentality made my itchy.  I can't stand A Prairie Home Companion for the same reason.  I always preferred stories that were darker.  If you want your kid to turn out like me (and who wouldn't want that, really?) read them these awesome books:

1. Mr. Rabbit and the Lovely Present (Actually kind of sentimental but with a sort of melancholia permeating it.  Gorgeous watercolor illustrations by Maurice Sendak.)

2. Outside, Over There (Fucking terrifying and awesome)


3.  Dear Millie (Google Affiliate Ads doesn't have this one.  But you can get it on Amazon.  It is, quite possibly the saddest children's book ever written.  Haunting and beautiful.)

You might as well go ahead and get these two while you're at it:

                


Clearly I have a thing for Sendak.

I also have a distinct memory of my mother reading me Salman Rushdie's Satanic Verses.


Anyway, my morning malaise is chemical.  I know this.  My neurons and synapses aren't firing right, or whatever.  But, like morning fog, it tends to burn off as the day gets going.  I only need worry when the thoughts of death and hopelessness permeate my life for days on end.  That's when I know it's time to call the doctor to get my meds adjusted and "talk" about my "feelings".  "You know when you just think what a relief it would be to veer off the hill on Mullholand Drive, Doc?"  "No."  "Oh, yeah.  Me neither.  That would be...crazy."  "I'd like you to take the freeway from now on."
I just looked up the lyrics to the song and found out that ironically the second line is "It's such a happy feeling: You're growing inside."  Is that irony?  Or is it more like the Alanis Morissette version wherein a guy who's afraid to fly dies in a plane crash?  The rest of us call that a coincidence.  But what is it, if not ironic, that a song from a show I never liked or watched with the lyrics "It's such a happy feeling: You're growing inside" is laying itself over my thoughts that life is completely meaningless?  Half my brain is whining, "Life sucks." while the other half is screaming, "You have a person in you, you dumb twit!"
And it's true.  Despite my bouts of terror and my morning depression, it is a generally happy feeling to know Krumholtz is growing inside me.  Even with the elimination of one of my meds for the duration of the pregnancy, I've been riding a pretty nice high.  Progesterone, it turns out, is the best antidepressant I've ever been on (and I've been on a lot of them).  Even with the rather large stumbling blocks I've come upon, I've been very upbeat.  I don't remember feeling this good overall since I was a kid.
Right now I'm down with the flu (which is not the same as being down with O.P.P.).  Or a flu-like cold.  What ever it is, it isn't pleasant.  I swear a friend jinxed me by warning me to get the flu shot.  I poo-pooed it and was sick a couple days later.  I'm making the most of my bed-riddenness by transferring Kurt's old VHS tapes to DVD while Kurt runs around taking care of me and generally being awesome.  In that last 24 hours I've watched "Soylent Green" (Spoiler alert: It's people.), "Blade Runner", "The Fisher King", "Braveheart" and "Clear and Present Danger".  I'm grateful for the distraction.  Friday I received a notice from the unemployment office that I will be required to prove that I'm applying for at least three jobs a week in order to continue receiving benefits.  Never mind that I'm 6 months pregnant and no one in their right mind would hire me right now.  "Yes, I'm available for work, but you'll have to give me time off every other week for 6 weeks and then once a week for 6 weeks after that to see my midwife.  Also, I can't be on my feet for more than an hour or so at a time.  And I have to pee at least once an hour.  Oh, and in May I'll be quitting to have a baby.  What's your maternity leave like?"  And never mind that I'm an actor and therefore can only get temp work or a job with hours that will allow me to pursue my actual career.  My temp agency, by the way, keeps sending me emails announcing jobs for which I would need a B.A. in engineering or communications... And never mind also that any temp job I get it still not going to pay me as well as unemployment (which, incidentally I've paid into for way longer than I've collected from.).  I'm pretty sure the government cares about none of these things.  I've tried explaining that I have an agent who looks for work for me via a letter I attached to my latest claim forms.  Something tells me a letter attached to my claim forms will not get me very far.
But I haven't crumbled.  I just keep making the phone calls and writing the letters and putting the bills aside and watching my bank account drain anyway and letting the morning blues run its course and doing my exercises and walking the dogs and waving Chicken's farts away and trying to get Sally to stop gnawing at her backside and giving Krumholtz high fives when s/he kicks me and slowly getting our new apartment in order and thanking Kurt for being understanding and taking such good care of us.  And I have amazing friends who have stepped up and organized showers (both physical and email) and who go to lunch with me and are also understanding and supportive.
Kurt assures me every day that things will be okay and all I can do is trust that they will be and be grateful I'm not doing this alone.
Turns out it is a great feeling to know you're alive.


Here is a recent picture:

It's true.

Moving On Up

At 33-years-old and after 18 years of therapy I am just now learning that I go through life fully expecting everyone to be disappointed in me at all times.  I can theorize about where this comes from (familial alcoholism, two decades in a business filled with rejection, laziness, low self-esteem...  I can't imagine how many auditions I went to with "You're going to hate this!" oozing out of every pore in my body.), but really, it doesn't matter where it comes from. 

It was with this attitude that I went to our first appointment with our awesome midwife, Davi last week.  I was fully expecting to be chastised for everything.  How much weight I've gained.  How little I exercise.  What I'm eating. 

About a week after Thanksgiving, Dr. Yamaguchi told me I had gained more weight than I needed to at the point.  I think what she said was, "You're one or two pounds over."  What I heard was, "You're heading into Jessica Simpson territory, you fat cow."  So, I became slightly more conscious of what I was eating.  And when I say "slightly more conscious" I mean that when I ate fast food I was like, "I totally shouldn't be eating this." 

You know that whole "eating for two" thing people like to bandy about?  Apparently the second person you're eating for really only needs 300 calories a day.  All your life when you've heard people say, "You can eat WHATEVER YOU WANT when your pregnant"?  Turns out those people actually have no idea what they're talking about.  I mean, technically, you can do whatever the fuck you want when you're pregnant (Except in those states where you'll be arrested for drinking or doing drugs while pregnant because that hurts the baby Jesus's feelings.  Or possibly soon in New Mexico where you'll BE ARRESTED for having an abortion after being raped.).  But it's best to stay away from ice cream if you don't want to give birth to a giant baby.  And go ahead and scarf down those cookies and candy.  As long as you don't mind Gestational Diabetes.  And then there's fried food, and empty carbs and basically all the things you actually WANT to eat when you're pregnant.  You know how when you're not pregnant you should really be eating things like fruits and veggies and complete proteins and foods high in "good" fats and, like fish and nuts and shit like that?  When you're eating for two, you should just be eating more of those things.  Not cake and ice cream and french fries.  Crazy, right?

As it so happens, having a human being inside me is actually the best motivation I have ever had to eat right and not be such a lazy slob.  Yes, I've been an actor for over 20 years which you would think would have been enough motivation to keep fit.  Oddly enough, the promise of thousands of dollars and a career has never really inspired me to keep myself in tip top shape.  Ironically I had only just finally succumbed to the pressure to be skinny in April, losing a total of about 15 pounds right before getting knocked up.  At any rate, I actually have cleaned up my act quite a bit.  Something about not wanting to push a watermelon out of me or have a baby with completely avoidable health problems has made me forgo the drive thru a good 99% of the time I'm compelled toward it.  Also, I have been blessed with a savory tooth instead of a sweet tooth (The cake incident from the last entry notwithstanding.), so skipping the cookies and ice cream is really not that difficult.  Put a salt lick in front of me, though...

Turns out, everything is right on track.  Davi couldn't be happier with where we are at this point (Except when she asked me to sit on the floor and try to touch my toes.  I couldn't even reach my knees.  Because basically I'm an 80-year-old man.).  She was happy with my weight and my goal weight (though it occurs to me that gaining only 8 pounds in the next 15 weeks is going to be a Herculean undertaking.).  She was pleased and impressed with my exercise habits (though admittedly I may have overstated things a bit.).  And best of all she said I have a "roomy pelvis" (hiya, fellas.).  She said the baby is going to come sliding right out of me which, if it doesn't, I'm totally suing her.

She handed us a binder filled with checklists, guidelines, expectations and information on everything from early labor signs to the debate on circumcision.  I have a lot to do to prep in the next three months, including taking a child birthing class, learning baby cpr, eating every two hours, setting up a nursery, stretching various parts of my body including my taint...

In the midst of all this, Kurt and I are in the extraordinarily slow process of moving to an apartment just upstairs from where we were.  Neither of us are very good at moving and the whole thing is taking way longer than it needs to.  We have too much crap and we don't seem too willing to get rid of much.  But I've finally come to the realization that I don't need copies of Tess of the Dubervilles or Emma or The Picture of Dorian Grey collecting dust on precious space on my bookshelf.  So, to the library they will go and if I ever get a bug up my ass to read The Count of Monte Cristo, I can walk the one block to our local branch and check it out.  Something tells me I will go my entire life without ever reading The Three Musketeers and be perfectly fine.

On our first morning in the new apartment I woke up to the sound of sobs and quickly realized they were my own.  It took me a full minute to recover enough to tell Kurt I dreamt I was robbed at gun point.  When the assailant realized I was pregnant he pointed his gun at my belly and threatened to kill the baby unless I gave him all my money.  I had no money. 

And it is on that note that I will leave you tonight.  We are on day seven of the move and my brain is beginning to seep out of my ears.  I'm having trouble maintaining my train of.... Wait.  What?