Saturday, September 6, 2014

The Discombobulated Diagnostics of Delving into the Depths of my "Should" Disorder

“You should definitely get a grilled cheese sandwich on Melrose at Greenspan’s” my friend Dev proffered most helpfully as to our upcoming weekend down time.

“When?” I asked quite sincerely, as all thoughts of abandoning four days of solitude in my bat-cave seemed utterly preposterous and ever-so out of the question.
“Why, on Saturday of course!” Dev most verily prattled ala Cary Grant, as Dev apparently rolls smashingly fabulous out of bed all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed with perfect hair and glistening teeth on any given day.

“Hmm...” I festered, scrunching up my nose.  “So, I would have to put on make-up?  And pants?” I queried skeptically with a baffled tilt of the head, ever the eremite embracing quietude, boxer shorts and a comfy Humane Society t-shirt on my beloved solitary weekends. 
“It’s just down the street from where you live, darling” Cary Grant Dev nodded.

“Pants... Seriously?   You want me to put on PANTS?” I uttered again, completely aghast and ridiculously incapable of wrapping my pea-brain around this most alien idea of traipsing about on a weekend in pursuit of this quest for Hollywood cheese.
“It’s only $3.25, and it’s delicious!  You really should definitely go!”

“If you were on Facebook Penny, I’m sure you would be nominated to take the ALS challenge and dump a bucket of ice water on your head!” I was informed by friends as I stood rather bluntly incognizant in my tiny cable network pocket. 

“You should sooo be on Facebook!” I was badgered relentlessly by even non-Hollywood friends, as if my world were somehow incomplete in the eyes of others, and I was the bad guy for not wasting water amidst a three year drought in California.

So tell me again, this helps who, how? 

Now please forgive my inherent stupidity, but can at least one person kindly explain to me how this tom-foolery works?  Is there an all-watching Facebook Mafioso-esque Overlord who monitors these “nominees” and sends Joey Pepperoni aka “The Enforcer” to collect due monies for this worthy cause? 

And if I’m to understand these online usury shenanigans correctly, if you don’t accept the ice-bucket challenge, you have to pay $100?  WTF??? 
Quite frankly, I refused to be bullied.  (Harrumph.)

Once again (as so often occurs in my attempts to make sense of the world), without so much as a side-mouthed “click-click” or a whistle, there stalwartly appeared by my side, one of my beloved High Horses snorting his hot breath on my neck; forever at the ready to give me a hoof up into the saddle.

And taking the reins without so much as bothering to acknowledge which chivalrous equine from my noble stable had ironically come to rescue me (hint to my loyal readers who know my fine stable, there appeared a shockingly wild mane of stark white hair), I stuck to my personal values and chose instead to hand-write a check to one of my favorite Animal Rescue sites. 
Now before you all huff and puff at me, please know that whilst ALS is a very worthy cause, social media does not have power over personal choices.  And this just bloody irritates the crap out of me that someone will feel the pressure to be “Liked” on Facebook and risk death for notoriety.  Fat lot of good you’ve done for a charity there, smarty-pants, for bullying people into submission and a casket.

But I digress!
“Whoa, whoa, Einstein” I patted my High Horse on the flanks comfortingly as he pranced about haphazardly; immediately recollecting why I’d chosen the name in the first place. (Some people rescue purse-fitting, shivering Chihuahuas and then dub them with such absurd titles as “Thor” or “Tank”.  My High Horse du jour happened to be titled “Einstein”, and YES, he’s not really very smart...) 

Yet thus, with a clear conscience of resolving the “Should” Disorder, temporarily disencumbered for the day by donating to a worthy cause that doesn’t threaten my sheer existence by ice water on my fabulously fierce ponytail, I continued to prance about the day all hoity-toity on my High Horse.  

Whilst my charitable purchase looks very glamorous “Chanel-ish” for a mere $24.95, I’m comforted by the acknowledgment that my humble contribution provided 28 bowls of food for shelter pets.  (I may no longer be blessed with the “earthly presence” of my heroic feline sidekick “Pretty” guarding my tail, but I still have the occasional ability to assist her unfortunate fellow four-footed rescued friends with small financial “earthly presents”.)

“So how does this ‘hand-car-wash’ system work?” Cary Grant my friend Dev asked me inquisitively, forever the debonair gentleman born of another era wherein refrigerators are still called “Frigidaire’s”, tin foil is respectfully distinguished as proper “Reynold’s Wrap”, and precocious children Cast members are categorized as being “a caution”.

“Oh, it’s so EASY!” I rallied valiantly astraddle Einstein – obviously two phenomenally brilliant creatures with all the answers to The Universe for anyone who wished to tap into our collective geniuses.

Smash cut to the back story.
Having battled the parking wars of Hell with the prostitute upstairs who shares our tandem car space, I’ve finally given up the ghost and succumbed to being bullied by her obliviousness regarding the importance of whenever I need my car.

And as I absolutely REFUSE to be late to work lest the hooker park me in EVER AGAIN (as she’s done on multiple weekends, choosing to gad herself about the town all “willy-nilly”) (if you will), I’ve resorted to parking on the street wherein my dearest Cecilia (my 1997 Toyota) has been repeatedly abused by the armies of Charlemagne as debris, icky-sticky flowers, trees and birds assault her most vehemently on any given morning or night.
Smash cut to present conversation.

“Why, I use the hand-car-wash about once a week!” I acknowledged all confidently.  “You should definitely try it!” I purported, ever the sage upon my High Horse.

And there it was...

The word “should” had erupted out of my mouth.

Like a bubble drawn in the funny pages of printed comics, it just hung there: thriving in its own balloon like an ominous dark cloud as I immediately clamped two hands over my mouth in a panic.

And thus, with the awfully uttered “should”, I’d most unintentionally sealed my unfortunate Fate for the day...

Entering a crisp five dollar bill into the change machine, I collected the tinkle of currency as I attempted to blast the bejeezus of blossoming fauna which had so brazenly assaulted my Toyota.  After all, I was a guru at the car wash! 
My father taught me at an early age how to manipulate and control the washy-thingies; when to adjust for the proper scrubby-brushy utensil-armed-doo-dad, and how to click on the final rinse to compensate for the gentle cleansing wax!

Yet most uncomfortably navigating Cecilia and my very stupid pony Einstein into a stall for a bath, the three of us were a ridiculous metaphorical trio; the likes of which should’ve stood at least a tiny chance betwixt all our ‘brain-iosity’.
“It’s but a dollop of soap on my watch” I confirmed to Horse and car after the scrubby brush tool shat unpleasantly all over my arm.  “Let’s just rinse this off” I nodded, accidentally clicking on the monster power wash water dial.

“Hmm...  Blue denim jeans and red canvas Keds shoes” I sighed, feeling very “Gilligan-esque”; ever-so unable to bail out the “S.S. Minnow” as the water poured in a torrent from the kinky tubing of the spray gun.
“30 seconds” the machine pinged a helpful notification as I stood in the stall, head to toe soaked to the core, my horsey and automobile none the worse for wear.

Whilst I’d never heard of this particular disease before, I just might have to pull out my checkbook once again...

For those of you unfamiliar with PLMD, may I share the following article to Columnist Dr. Anthony Komaroff from August 22, 2014 in a Los Angeles newspaper?
“Periodic limb movement disorder (PLMD) causes people to kick and jerk their arms and legs throughout the night.  In PLMD, leg and arm muscles may involuntarily contract hundreds of times a night.  You may not be aware of it, but a bed partner probably will be.”

(But wait, there’s more!)
“Unless a bed partner complains, people with PLMD are often oblivious to their movements.  They may wake up baffled at why they feel exhausted despite getting what they thought was a full night’s rest.”  

Good heavens!

Perhaps I “should” retire some of my High Horses.  After all, apparently innocent sleepers are being beaten senseless just trying to catch a few Z’s whilst I’m trotting about on my judgmental ponies...

And perhaps I “should” join a social media network, wherein hoaxes of people’s “deaths” are bandied about like badminton shuttlecocks with no respect or regard to human bereavement.  (Yeah, that’s never gonna happen.)

(Recent reports of my very first Actor/Mentor Dennis Haskins were overly distributed, but as to my email from him tonight, I’m delighted to report that he’s just fine!)

So, “should” I have gone to a regular car wash with professionals?
“Should” I have NOT spent $21.99 for the world’s greatest wallet whatever lived?

Personally I think that at the end of the day, all the intimidating, unnecessary bully “should” words, “should” be let go.
But not quite before Cary Grant my friend Dev sent me the following link, from “Move Over, Darling” (a 1963 film, starring Doris Day and James Garner) which he thought I should appreciate:  (You may need to view this on an actual computer, as some hand-held devices may not be compatible.)  Brilliant!

Tossing a happy coin of peace and contentment into whatever your chosen watery wishing well may be,