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.

EEK!

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!

>>><<< 

Hmm...

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,

~P

http://youtu.be/IK_PLJZeLW4

 

Chickens for Everybody!

 

Bundled up in three layers of clothing underneath my winter woolen long coat and turquoise knitted scarf as I observed my fingers once again turning purple, I marveled at our cable network lady who stood idly by, clad in nothing more than Capri pants, open-toed sandals and a sleeveless top amidst the Siberian conditions, as she most casually checked the social media on her phone.

OK, so maybe she was having a menopausal hot flash (I can relate!), but to demand that the stage be freezing to the point of an entire crew’s discomfort beyond the usual frigidity seemed a wee bit cruel.

Yet having been vampirifically invited across the threshold by the Producers (most Stand-Ins are by nature warm-blooded mystical creatures, but there exists strict limits as to our accessibilities) to once again attend a Table Reading in “The Lucy Bungalow” (!!!), I couldn’t have been more pleased to be sat off to the side for a miniscule part of delivering one line, which (blissfully!) was received with the genuine warmth of laughter. (Hey, all due credit must be given to the Writers – I’m just a vessel.) 

But what truly startled my ‘barometric pressure’ that afternoon (and most certainly unnoticed by anyone else in the room), was a slight-of-hand magic trick that almost made me say “Oooh!”

Mere moments before we began the cold read of the script, our network cable lady dropped down into her designated chair (a foot or so to my right), still most focused intently on her phone. 

Yet in the blink of an eye (without even looking up!), she managed to magically snatch up her folded paper name placard away that was apparently a few inches too close to my menial existence.

(Is this your card?!?!  WOW!)

But as I’ve been informed by popular culture (well, the movie “Spiderman” was on free TV a few weeks ago), “with great power, comes great responsibility”. 

And as I’m certain that the cable lady bears a terribly heavy load to deliver a successful show to her network, I’m content to disappear back into Siberia on stage, embracing the warmth of our Crew and whatever low-budget Hollywood magic we may create.

>>><<< 

“Thank you for your order!” the website replied – a scheduled due date of arrival approximately a month and a half later.

Wait, what???

Neither confirming nor denying that I may have possibly consumed a ‘small’ quantity of alcohol that Friday evening when I randomly clicked on an item, I sat rather baffled that in this day and age, ANY item on the World Wide Web could possibly require so much transit time. 

But what the heck!  I was well on my way of mentally creating my very own Network (I call it “PNN”), where I’ll only be willing to hire a handful of trusty Directors; sound stages shall be left to AD’s discretion as to appropriate temperatures, and four-camera sit-com Stand-Ins would earn a MASSIVE wage increase for having to repeatedly perform all of the work that the Actors do!

“I shall wield my eventual power with great gentleness” I vowed solemnly, wisely and vodka-logically in the comfort of my Sanctuary.  “By golly, I’ll glad-hand and make eye contact ala George Clooney with every Crew member that I hire!” I postured confidently and ever-so generously.  “And never shall I snatch and grab my name placard!” I concluded venerably.

(Hey, it was a Friday night.   Allow me my brief delusions of grandeur.)

>>><<< 

Cowering most nervously in the presence of the hand-stamped package in my snail mail box sent from the Ukraine (where was my Clooney bravado to be found?) I wasn’t quite sure as to National Security proper protocol...

Should I contact the CDC for prevention of possible airborne diseases?  Would I need to phone the FBI, the CIA, or NSA?  Or at the very least, would I require a gas mask and a proper body-scrubbing by strikingly handsome EMTs with six pack abs?  (Well, a girl can dream!)

Fantasies aside, I left the package unattended on my coffin table for two days.

>>><<< 

“Well, just looking at the stamps, I’m guessing you probably fed an entire village somewhere in the Ukraine” my friend April offered optimistically as we shivered on stage once again.

“Chickens for everybody!” I chimed in agreeably, secretly hoping that indeed my simple on-line purchase (maybe $21.00?) from a fair trade market might have warmed the hearts and hearths of anyone else on the planet that also happened to find themselves with icy cold purple fingers.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, so what did you order?” I hear you, my kind readers asking as I type.

May I please introduce you to (as specified) the “8.7 regular size Cigarette Holder long wooden Audrey Hepburn style”:

 

(Oh, it’s so AWESOME!!!)

And in my due diligence as a future CEO at “PNN” where everyone will be appreciated for their kindest contributions to whatever tasks they perform, I so too wished to thank the Artisans for their lovely craftsmanship, inquire as to what care should be taken, and seek out the details of my lovely “Cigarette Holder long wooden Audrey Hepburn style” accoutrement.  (Not so easy, as the return address label was printed entirely in Cyrillic.) 

Yet you have to love the World Wide Web as I was actually able to contact the vendor, and have thus received the following reply:

“Hello.

“The mouthpiece is acrylic, middle part made of beech wood and brass tube on the edge.

“To clean inside you can use this type of tobacco pipe cleaners:

(Insert lengthy helpful http link)

“Also it can be polished anytime with soft cloth to preserve it in original condition.

“That is all.

“Thank you, Ivan”

(Not an actual photo from Ivan mind you, just my mental picture, and yes from the Ukraine.)

>>><<< 

Frankly, I suppose I’ll never have great power (or warmth aside from the occasional hot flash, FFS) until I win the Lotto and get “PNN” up and running, but blissfully, nor will I have great responsibility to that end.

And for now, as I re-pack my heavy winter woolen coat and gloves to prepare for Siberia once again this work week, I’m taking solace in the thought that I shall be received with warmth and comfort by my Crew.

But just between us, kind readers?   

I think the beech wood wand chose me.

(Wow, I REALLY need to stop watching "Spiderman" and “Harry Potter” marathons!!!)

May your barometric pressure be pleasing to you this week,

~P

 

A Fractured Fairy Tale

 

Once upon a time, on a gloriously simple, phenomenally gentle Sit-Com located far, far away (well, in The Valley), a beautiful, talented, young (albeit somewhat notoriously ‘scattered-brained’), Actress starred as an ingénue on a television show six years ago.

And as The Universe tends toward It’s (shall we say “unique”) sense of humor, I had been hired as her Stand-In.

Quite frankly, in my underling role, I couldn’t have been more thrilled that for a change I would be subbing for a minor player.  No stress!  No drama!  And LOADS of time on my hands to Rip Van Winkle the days away if I so chose! 

Unfortunately, as the beautiful Princess was equally comfortable playing the Court Jester -- regaling her loyal subjects with whatever cock-eyed thought popped into her head at any given moment –- I thought it best to stay alert and do my job to the best of my abilities lest the King (aka the Director) who was positively enchanted by the ingénue, suddenly deem me an ugly duckling; too stupid and unworthy of trying to stand in the Actress’s glass slippers.  

“Are you comfortable crawling through the tiny enclosed area, Pen?” my First AD kindly asked me the day prior to pre-shooting, as my Actress was supposed to squiggle “underneath the house” on a separate set specifically designed for filming.

“Umm...  I think so...  yes, of course!” I nodded positively; secretly praying that my out-loud answer might convince the ‘inner me’ too.

>>><<< 

Zipping up my given Charlie Brown ‘Great Pumpkin’ orange protective jumpsuit the next day to cover my regular clothing, I stepped aside backstage for the Special FX man who appeared to have one of his arms ‘disarmingly’ slung into a sling with a plaster cast.

“Really?” I eyeballed him skeptically, whole-heartedly hoping that he was just messing with my head before I crawled into the creepy coffin box.

“It was just a minor pyrotechnic mishap” he winced with embarrassment.  “I’d rather not get into the details...” he added, clearly suffering from a post-traumatic flashback as he ‘sense-memoried’ the event.  “But I’m only here to make the tunnel seem all cob-webby” he recovered himself with a smile.  “I promise I won’t set you on fire while you’re trapped in there.”

(“Have a shiny red apple”, said the wicked Queen innocently.)

>>><<< 

Now, I truly believe that there occur multitudes of moments in Life where we are all presented with opportunities to rise above our fears.  Why, we could be eaten by a wolf on the way to Grandma’s!  Tossed into an oven as retribution for our gluttony!  Discover a monster under the bed!  (Oh, the irony of the delayed realization that I named my new mattress which most literally SUCKS the stress out of my body at night ala Dracula, “Vladimir”!)

But hey, nothing like a little blood-curdling terror during camera blocking when you’re snow white in the face, yet still mining for comedy, right?!?!

 
“Let’s load Penny into the chamber” our Director suggested.  (What am I, buck-shot?  Are we hunting wild game?  Look out, Bambi!) 

Unfortunately, standing deer-eyed wide in front of the cramped opening, my hands sweating and my mouth disproportionately dry as dust (save for the inopportune occasional acid reflux backwash of utter dread and claustrophobia), my feet remained firmly planted immobile as if clad in cement boots.

“Everything OK there, Pen?”  My AD appeared by my side, acutely aware and rather concerned that my face had shifted to a ghastly, ghostly pale and that I had apparently morphed into something unrecognizably un-human.  “Flag on the play!” she shouted to the Director as she requested a Stand-In for the Stand-In.  “Let’s at least get you freed from that jumpsuit!” she assisted me helpfully as I walked ‘Zombily’ out of my clothing, OFF the set, and directly OUT the exit door until I could shake off the creepy heebie-jeebies coursing through my veins.

(I do hope, kind readers, that you weren’t expecting a true “Cinderella” story here from me.  After all, that would be a much more Grimm tale indeed.)

But I digress!

>>><<< 

Smash cut to six years later:

“We should probably get you guys some knee pads if you don’t already have them for when you’re doing the ‘army trenches crawl’ through the ‘air vent’ set”, our Second AD made a note to talk to our Stunt People.  “I’m not sure how we’re gonna fit four adults in the tiny space where four KIDS barely fit, but we’ll do our best!” he smiled, ever the optimist.

And I had to admit, I was somewhat optimistic too!

After all, I’d crept through some seriously darkened tunnels in my personal life over those six years; but with the help of family and friends I’d managed to successfully Rapunzel my way out of captivity!  (And if worse came to worst, all I needed to do was let down my hair, form a red-headed stair, and get myself the heck outta there!)

Granted the scene was a two-part bugaboo; the tight quarters would certainly be unpleasantly uncomfortable too, and mostly I felt like Pinocchio as my legs weren’t properly bendy to my will with the Velcro strappy knee pads over my pants as I wobbled all ‘young Forrest Gump’ gimpy to the set.

Additionally,  I wasn’t particularly comforted by the fact that whilst the woodsmen Construction Crew had thoughtfully built make-shift steps for my three amigos entering stage right, I stood forlornly in the dark (stage left) at the chest-high gaping dungeon, unable to load myself into the chamber  (not out of fear, mind you,  but rather an obvious inaccessibility into the mine shaft, FFS); until our Prop Asst. (my very own Prince Charming!!!), heroically knelt by my side with an apple box for my ladder; his sturdy shoulder at the ready for my ascent; a sparkly twinkle in his valiant smile.  (OK, perchance I hallucinated-fabricated the “twinkle” since the painters had JUST turned off the fans to dissipate the noxious fumes and maybe I was feeling kinda Dopey…  But this is my story and I’m sticking to it!)

Now, having successfully camera-blocked ‘Part A’ of the claustrophobic two-part scene (*WHEW!!!*) which was really rather simple (all that was required were four entrances of four people and setting focus shots for a page or so of dialogue when the Actors hit their marks), I took great pride in the fact that I’d managed to contain my Anxiety, was able to breathe through the discomfort (and paint fumes), and had accomplished (in MY mind) a Herculean Feat from whence sonnets would be written and ballads be sung of praise and courage!

“And let’s reset for ‘Part B’” the King (aka our Director) engaged the troops, as the cameras moved in tightly towards my only open airway.  “I know it’s narrow in there Penny, but can you maybe lie on your left shoulder and flatten yourself against the set a bit more so we can squeeze all four of you in on one camera?” he asked politely as two more of our Second Team awkwardly spooned their way behind me.

*thump thump*

Surreptitiously sneaking one hand out of the Death Chamber for confirmation that Oxygen still actually existed on our planet, I tried ever so hard to do my job to the best of my abilities...

 

“What page are we on?” a third co-worker asked out of the blue, wildly oblivious to my debilitating discomfort as he piled into the tunnel on top of us.

*thump thump thump*

“Oh bother...” I Winnie the Pooh poohed, as I tried to comfort myself; imagining myself merely stuck with my head in a jar full of “Hunny”, splaying face-down on my side from the invasive lenses of our High Def cameras as I buried my head underneath my ponytail.

 

*thump thump thump thump thump*

“Can you squeeze in any closer?” the King casually wondered as I lost all ability to breathe or speak, reduced to nothing more than a tell-tale-thumpy-heart slash sobbing puddle of tears and Anxiety, weeping uncontrollably beneath my helpless Rapunzel tresses.

“We have to get Penny out of there NOW!” were probably the last words I heard that made any sense to me whatsoever as I found myself relentlessly gripped by the menacing claws of a full-blown Panic Attack.

>>><<< 

But a fairy tale (horrific as it may be), does by the quasi definition, indeed require a happy ending, does it not? 

 

And thus I searched for mine.

“Don’t apologize” the King spoke quietly as he pulled me in to a comforting Papa Bear hug.  “I had the EXACT same reaction when I had to get an MRI.  You freak out, but then you freak out even more that people are seeing you freak out!”

I recall too, my dear friend Gilda helping me out of the claustrophobic tunnel, her hands trembling whilst she attempted to placate her OWN Anxiety, offering me tissues for all of the snot dripping down my face (yeah, that’s how we all wish to be viewed in High Def); a thoughtful bottle of water from a Stage PA; a cup of orange juice, and the recommendation that I ought to eat a banana as our Camera Coordinator ping-ponged me outside of the stage to sit on the patio and breathe in the open space.

And after about twenty minutes, this little Red (writing) Hood was almost ready to tackle the Big Bad Wolf! 

Almost…

“They’re moving on to the Cold Open in the bedroom” my beloved friend and co-worker April gave me a heads-up as I ever-so professionally tried painfully unsuccessfully to thumb through my script, multi-tasking as I attempted to stand up on my Pinocchio-wobbly legs.  “I gotcha covered, Pen” April smiled with a maternal flick of the wrist as I sat back down.  “No worries!” she sailed off sunnily as she grabbed my character’s signage and effortlessly took my place on-camera.  (Was I still hallucinating, or did she have a valiant “twinkle” in her teeth too?!)  

Well, I suppose there’s never exactly the ‘happily ever after’ we all hoped for, but we can certainly make the most out of our story book endings if we try.

Yes, the ingénue went on to win an Academy Award, but even SHE had a rough trip up the steps to accept it…

(Easy there, Princess!)

 

And whilst I’ve been offered a Network show this fall (oh, the temptation of THAT shiny red apple!), I simply cannot (in good faith) recklessly abandon the people who’ve already hired me, in the pursuit of a fairytale Network show which just might easily be cancelled after the first episode.

So suffice it to say, I do know now in my heart that I’m in a very safe place (the UPM even gave us ‘hazard pay’!!!), where despite all the huffing and puffing of Hollywood, no one has the power to completely blow me down.

(Well…  Except for creepy dungeon-like tunnels…  That’s a fucking deal breaker!)

Continuing my pursuits of dreaming HUGE and wishing you a happily ever after,

~P