(because, generally speaking, I don’t wear pants – just skirts and tights.)
I mean, first of all, there is the fact that my beloved football team played HORRIBLY last night in the Super Bowl. It was three hours of painful football viewing, since they really failed to play football from the first play through the last down. I was very confused about how my Bronco’s went from a truly stellar regular and post season to . . .well, NOT stellar. And then I was kind of embarrassed. But, I remain a long time and true (orange and) blue fan. I have enough critical analysis about football (or ‘hand egg’ as my friend likes to call it) to not let the loss of a game totally ruin my day but, well, its hard not to be a little bummed. Meanwhile, none of the other 5 feminist ladies in my office give a shit, and the one guy only sort of does so, I also feel a little alienated. Even football femmes get the blues.
Then, there’s the business with Phillip Seymour Hoffman. I’ve been thinking a lot about why the news of his death feels so HUGE for me (normally I’m kind of judgey about the mass mourning of celebrities) and then I read this passage, from Lynn Breedlove:
“lost one of our own. philip seymour hoffman. Actor. academy award winner. addict. dead at 46. He was 23 years sober when he went out on pills last spring. 10 day rehab didnt fix it. only heroin would fix it. being a crazy american ADD redheaded artist is no joke. Acting is no joke. to win an oscar you have to go deep, into the dark, pull yourself inside out find some fucked up part of you that mirrors this guy you’ve been assigned to represent. truman capote. a million junkies, cokeheads, wankers, child molesters, dealers, pornographers, bad priests, hangers on, losers, sell-outs, always playing a guy who lives a double life, hiding something, like we all are, who twists that secret into some kind of genius or revolution or just barely gets by, or depressed, or some, enough to exist one more day on this miserable planet. you get those parts because you get THEM, the tragic, the sleaze, the us. You don’t get to be that guy in 50 great dramas by chance. You play them because you know them in some way. You can understand them. and Philip Seymour hoffman’s gift to us is to catharsize us with his playing out of our every fear and attempt to repress shit we hate and build on some tiny desperate dream, so that we can be angels. that kind of art is magic. not to be fucked with. scary. you have to go a little crazy. and you already are, that’s what makes you a great actor, you are a little multiple personality, so you have access to every neurosis they want you to portray. and you are prone to the heady mix of fame and adrenaline. You want it all and you’ll do anything for it, for the perfect channeling of whatever demon you’re told to channel. youre the guy directors have been known to disparagingly refer to among one another as The Talent. You’re the longshoreman of the heart. You have a list and you carry it out. carry the message like a barrel on your back. sometimes you get hurt. It’s a dangerous job, but a proud one, and so worth it. sure, you had to rummage through the cesspool of human emotion to get there. but your legacy is as permanent as any of man’s fragile art can be. immortal, you flicker on all our myriad screens, forever, ours, reminding us of how infinitely small and great we all are.”
I am not an alcoholic or an addict, but I have loved them for a very, very long time, and the experience of loving and watching addicts and addiction has informed me, in particular those who have spent long periods sober and then gone out and relapsed. I know, as much as any non-alcoholic/addict can, how much ‘one day at a time’ actually means. There has been a lot of conversation about PSH and his death that just feels unsettling to me, throwing around words like ‘junkie’ and turning this into a circus rather than a deep loss. BUT, I have also seen a lot of articles about harm reduction approaches (learn more about those here) and naloxone, a medication which can reverse overdose and save lives if administered in time (learn about that HERE) – and that makes me feel more hopeful. But still, enough beautiful people have died from addiction and I want it to stop taking people, damnit.
And then, of course, there are the little things. Getting a hole in my brand new (cranky) tights this morning; a tense conversation about a new project at work this morning; feeling food hung over because I ate too much crap yesterday at the super bowl party. And, well, I think I’m just cranky. Bad attitude. Want to be home in bed, under the covers.
And, I want to not have to wait any more to find out if this IUI worked. Which is a real turnaround from yesterday, when I was feeling calm-cool-collected about the 5 sleeps/four days until I would take a test. Today? Not so much. My bitterness towards people who already have babies feels like it got seriously upped over night, and I am feeling very little in the way of positivity. Its not even that I don’t feel positive about this try working . . .I’m pissed off I even have to wait.
So, as you can see, I’m a real ray of sunshine to be around.
Of course, there are some ‘symptoms’ to report, none of which I can take at all seriously because of the progesterone bullets in my vag. So, sore boobs and shooting boob pain and exhaustion – all of which might be signs of an eminent end to my crankiness or might all be for naught – mean I am even crankier than I otherwise could be.
Lucky for La, tonight starts 6 day-a-week rehearsals for the show she’s in. She has no idea how good she has it.