Unsolicited Advice on Getting Over a Cold

Today I'm finally getting over a cold -  And thank goodness because I can't be sick this week. First of all, it is summertime and simply aesthetically inappropriate to be bundled up on the couch sipping hot tea with the lights out while my neighbors grill by the pool. Second, I have tickets to Yankees-Dodgers tomorrow night, a phenomenon that only comes around every few years and must marked by drinking too much beer and making up chants that rhyme with "Mattingly". So, yeah. Cannot be sick.

Lucky for me I am expert at this. Having three years experience of being uninsured with no company sick time, I have mastered the art of holistic healing and, since colds are going around lately (and are pretty much always going around all the time), you yourself may very well be under the weather right now and could benefit from the following wisdom.

  

Heidi's 12 Completely Unsubstantiated Rules for Kicking a Cold: 

Before you even begin, you have to engage in positive self-talk because it promotes healing. No stomping around and moaning, "But I have a date tomorrow! No one wants to have a cocktail with a sweaty phlegm-monster!" Instead, focus on the benefits. Like how fever gives your cheeks a perfect flush and how delicious your cooking is when you're too congested to taste anything. Once you've established this, start taking the following steps...

1. As soon as you sense something cold-ish coming on, stay home from work. I know it makes you feel like a hero to push through your discomfort but everyone around you hates you. The ones with small children double-hate you. Stay home.
2. Turn off your phone. We both know you don't want to talk to anyone. And anyway, you're sick and not making much sense so you're of no help to anyone who calls you needing something. Also, this keeps you from going on Instagram and lamenting all the cool stuff that other healthy people are doing.
3. Take a shower. This also helps with the positivity thing. You'll feel less like a funky-smelling germball and being clean and warm will help you sleep. I cannot cite any sources for that but the data is out there somewhere. Probably something about your brain and circadian rhythms and associations with childhood pre-bedtime baths. Whatever. It's science.
4. Put on sweatpants. This is exactly the occasion that sweatpants were created for. Really, it's the only occasion that sweatpants were created for but you don't feel well so I'm not gonna harp on your personal style. Sweatpants are instantly comforting and since your body is fragile and you have the added stress of either living alone and taking care of yourself or being shunned by family/ roommates who don't want you to breathe on them, you deserve as much physical TLC as possible. Clean, though. Dirty sweatpants are a classic nod to unemployment and basically the opposite of comforting.
5. Sleep. Logical progression, duh. Should be obvious but you're sick so your linear thinking is off, I get it.  Also, if you have a dog, use him/her as a heating pad or body pillow to ease any muscle aches. If you have a cat... ha! Yeah, right. Your cat is gonna lay wherever it damn well wants to, and likely on your head, even though you have a debilitating headache. Just be grateful it's cuddling with you, idiot human.  
6. Drink citrus-y stuff. All day long. Don't ever stop drinking. Also, Sprite is not citrus.
7. Take 2 spoonfuls of this  weird stuff . It's gross and it works. You're welcome.
8. Watch Dumb and Dumber. Laughter is the best medicine and whatnot. THERE ARE NO SUBSTITUTES. Except maybe episodes of 30 Rock, Seasons 1-3.
9. Eat a steak. A guy I know who used to live in Japan told me it's a cultural thing there to eat a giant steak when you don't feel well so I totally do this. Roll your eyes but my Honda will go 400,000 miles if I take care of it. These people know what they're talking about.  
10. Take a shot of brandy. This ancient healing method is passed down from my grandmother, who maintains that it will "Cure what ails ya!". Some may question whether this borders on dysfunction but it definitely doesn't because grandmothers are naturally right about everything. 
11. There's nothing inherently medicinal about this but if you have a sore throat (and even if you don't) eat ice cream. Dairy is bad for colds (Again, no specifics but, science) so some people may suggest Popsicles but that's laaaaaame. I recommend Trader Joe's Chocolate Coconut Milk Ice Cream. It's scrumptious and be warned that if you buy it from my local store and they run out I will cut you.  
12. Drink more. I'm not kidding. Rule #6. And sleep. Why aren't you sleeping? 

And that's the recipe, folks. Foolproof. If you follow these rules, I guarantee that you will feel better in 3-4 days, which is likely the same amount of time it would take you to feel better if you didn't follow these rules but I dare you to prove it. Happy healing!

The Book of Questions: Don't Look Back, Say Yes to Drugs

Friends! I'm back! I've missed you. It's been a rough little sabbatical. I've had 4 writing projects in the works and apparently that's three too many because my brain went on lock-down recently and I have had the worst writer's block... so bad that I dreamt last night that I had a term paper due for work (??) and it had to be 3 pages long on any topic I wanted and I could not think of a single thing to write about and I was bawling and wailing "Why can't I think of anything?! It only has to be THREE PAGES!!" A topic would occur to me and I would sit for a moment and try to write about it but nothing would come so I just continued pacing and brainstorming and crying for the entire dream. 

Obviously, I'm due for an intervention. And who better to step in and cure my writer's block than our deranged old pal who wears the same shirt everyday and stands a little too close, Gregory Stock, PH.D, author of the oddly provoking Book of Questions! I have prepared two for today and already these are getting the creative juices flowing so hopefully this will dam the stress dreams for tonight. 

#127 If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be? 

God it is just soooo like a therapist to prompt you to rewrite history!*

I'm not a fan of this question. I don't think it's healthy to wish to change your past, obvious exceptions being if your entire family was murdered In Cold Blood- style or if you are any of the characters in The Wire. It seems to me that no one's life is perfect but you play the cards you're dealt with positivity and determination and hope and in time that shapes you into a strong yet modest individual who's known for chiming in with good zingers around the dinner table. 

My family's generally pretty happy and I really enjoyed my childhood so I guess if I had to change something, I would have my parents win Powerball so they never had to work and we could be independently wealthy and just chill out and go to Disney World once a month? But then I probably would have grown up to be an insufferable brat who's never had a real job and delights in trashing hotel rooms, so maybe I take that back. 

I suppose it would have been cool to be groomed from a young age at a famous performing arts school where you sing all day and Intro to Choreography is considered a math credit. I would've basically gotten a diploma for doing all the things I did in my spare time anyway, which is more or less the American Dream. But then I probably would have grown up to be a socially inept bore who takes karaoke too seriously and references "Jan" in stories like you're supposed to know who Jan is, so I take that one back, too. 

I guess in the end the only thing I would change is I would give myself a horse. I always wanted one so I'm choosing to indulge myself and, besides, it would have reinforced core values like caring for something outside of myself and the importance of a disciplined routine not to mention how it might have animated one of life's most triumphant metaphors if I ever fell. Really the only drawback is that when I left for college my parents would have been stuck with a pet that cost them thousands of dollars annually in food, lodging and maintenance whereas in reality they were just stuck with my cat, who cost about $5 a week in canned giblets and in fact contributed to the household by trapping mice. So I guess everything works out for the best. Which just brings me back to my original instinct, not to mourn the past. You lose, Dr. Stock!

#81 If you were to discover your closest friend was a heroin dealer, what would you do? 

Alright, we all know the answer Dr. Stock is angling for so for his benefit here goes: I would be outraged! I would be scandalized! I would collapse right there on the corner of Main Street and Huckleberry Lane and the green grocer would revive me with smelling salts while the paper boy runs to get the doctor. When I regain my senses, I would report my friend to the authorities and he'd be hauled off to jail in the back of a paddy wagon, gripping the bars with tears streaming down his face as I'm given a key to the city for helping to keep our streets drug-free for future generations.

In all seriousness, my friends would never secretly deal heroin. They would tell me about it and offer to get me on board because they are thoughtful and generous individuals who have my best interest at heart. What better side job for an artist than dealing drugs? Flexible hours, wads of untaxed income, and it doesn't require any brain power that distracts from your craft. Also, as an actor, I'm a natural salesperson. Confident. Self-motivated. Results-driven. I would be an asset to the company, really. In fact, when I was fresh out of Peace Corps and flat broke, a friend of mine gave me a lead on a pharmaceutical sales job and my Dad begged me to take it for a year just to bank some money and then do whatever I want. I didn't do it, I took a teaching job for $19K a year instead so this would basically be my chance to make it up to him. Let's face it, it's the same general idea except better because I wouldn't have to go door to door with a rolling suitcase like I'm peddling encyclopedias. Also, I have no desire to do heroin so there's no threat of me consuming all the product and then having to go on the lam when it's time to pay my supplier. The more I think about this, the more I really feel like I'm a good fit. Drug lords, hit me up on LinkedIn!  

And there you have it, Friends. How would you answer Gregory Stock, PH.D?

*Kidding. I love therapy! If I had insurance I would go all the time. Until then, I rely on fortune cookies.

Hiatus!

Lovelies! I'm so sorry I've been  MIA! I've been working on a screenplay that I'm very excited about but I'm afraid it's occupying every one of my spare minutes and brain cells. 

I'll resume regular blog posts very soon, and to whet your appetite for my return, allow me to share that I had a dream last night that Ellen Degeneres gave me a pair of really long, tacky plastic earrings that were specifically designed to be worn from the top of the ear, which meant that I would need to pierce the cartilage of each of my ears in order to wear them... Ellen wanted me to put them on right away and she was ready right then and there to pierce my ears with a rusty safety pin and I was totally freaking out inside but didn't want to hurt her feelings by refusing her gift so I was weighing the pros and cons of drilling holes in my ears to appease her when I woke up. I don't know what that's all about because I am for sure not that polite in real life and would without hesitation tell Ellen that I appreciate the gesture but she needs to stand down with her tiny germ-encrusted spear and her unreasonable gifting expectations. 

I also dreamed that my agent and I were discussing the current state of stand-up comedy and I said, "I feel like so many comics these days are all, 'I hate Frappuccinos! Frappuccinos SUCK! Ha!' and I'd rather be all, 'I love Frappuccinos! Aren't you so obsessed with them, TOO? Ha!'" I'm very pleased with this dream because, although it seems to be expressed by some Starbucks-obsessed valley-girl, it legitimately speaks to my comedic philosophy, which is that I like to joke around from a place of love that laughs with others, not at them. Mostly, though, I like this dream for the fact that it is evidence that my brain is engaging in philosophical reflection while I'm asleep. I expect this gives me a leg up on all the lemmings who are merely sleeping when they're sleeping and this is a source of great satisfaction for the Type A over-achiever in me.

Also, I've never had a Frappuccino. I prefer hot black mud slung into a to-go cup. Am I missing something?

Sweet dreams to you until we meet again in a few weeks! 

XO

Home Sweet Home

Two weeks ago my parents mentioned that they were planning to put their house up for sale. Last week they emailed to say they officially listed it. Yesterday  it sold. And while my mother and father are celebrating this quick turn-around with champagne and high-fives, I would like to stop the party train and acknowledge an abrupt loss of personal history.

My family thinks I'm crazy. They can't identify anything upsetting about this. My mother feels she's being relieved of four thousand square feet of cleaning. My father feels he's being relieved of an acre of landscaping. My three brothers unanimously agree that they feel nothing at all and don't know why I'm so affected. To be honest, I don't know why I'm so affected, either. All I can come up with is that my time in that house fell at a unique point in my personal chronology. We moved there when I was a freshman in high school. The house we left was the house I was raised in and so the move, for me, coincided with my cross-over from childhood to maturity. The new house was a clean slate and was the backdrop for all my "coming of age" experiences. I shed my childhood twin bed and progressed to a large adult bedroom that I decorated with pictures of Grace Kelly, my grandmother's writing desk and a vanity where I could do my hair and makeup away from the bathroom I shared with three boys. I could entertain friends, do my homework, write in my journal. I landed my very first job working at Marshalls and filled my double closet with all the latest trends, bought with my own money. I was given my own phone jack and for the first time in my life could take personal calls in private. I became a lady in that bedroom. 

What's more, I became an artist in that bedroom. There, I timidly rehearsed my first significant audition, making the cut for my high school's prestigious theatre program. Later, I drilled solos for the summer company I toured with and, later still, confidently prepared to sing the National Anthem at a ten thousand seat stadium. For years I paced that bedroom running through monologues, recitations, choral pieces and musical numbers. I practiced choreography, memorized lines and assembled costumes. It's the bedroom where I packed my Caboodle with stage makeup and hair accessories and cassettes of vocal exercises. It's the bedroom where I pasted scrapbooks of every production I did and it's the bedroom where I lay awake staring at my poster of the New York City skyline, fantasizing about a future in which I would command a world class stage, never anticipating that that might one day be in the realm of possibility.   

I haven't lived in that house for a very long time. Since moving West, I barely even visit. For my brothers, this has been enough to erode their attachment but for me there's still a filament that connects me to that bedroom and losing it feels like losing the dreamer who emerged there. I know that sounds melodramatic and, yes, it's just a house. Home is where the heart is and I'll get over it soon enough but for now... for now, I'm sad.  

Dreams: Riding in Cars With Boys

Last night I had a dream that it was opening night of an adult summer camp production of Singin' in the Rain and I was directing. Because I take pride in my work and the summer camp presumably gave me an 8-figure budget, I had brilliantly conceived a production in which all the musical numbers happen at the same time on multiple open-air stages however the sound system had failed and so the audience of thousands was picnicking on a hillside watching silent chorus numbers and booing me. I was a nervous wreck pacing back behind the crowd and I turned to signal the sound team when I was stopped by two giant, lanky, Muppet-like dogs that were covered in fleas and open sores. I felt bad because they seemed so forlorn but I didn't think I should pet them because they looked diseased and as I was evaluating this a guy approached me and somehow I instinctively knew that he had rescued the dogs and was nursing them back to health and I immediately developed an all-consuming crush on him. His face was tanned and deeply creased and his hair was really wiry and greasy and I remember thinking that the look in his eyes was a little creepy but that I shouldn't judge someone by their appearance and so I stuck out my hand to introduce myself but as I did, I sneezed and blew snot all over my face. I was so embarrassed and I tried to clean it but it was chunky and the more I tried to wipe it away, the more it smeared and I was about to run when Crazy Eyes offered me a packet of mini tissues.  I wiped my face and he took my hand and I left the production to follow he and his dogs into the back of a rusted-out van and we drove away while he played me songs on a broken guitar.

I probably don't have to map out the takeaway here. My dating life has clearly plummeted from simply "pitiful" into a menacing danger zone. Apparently I have reached a new low in which I am susceptible to walking away from gainful employment to climb into rusted-out vans with the first available leather-faced weirdo who offers me a tissue. Well done, men of Los Angeles! You've corroded the last of my dignity. My father will sleep like a baby tonight. I have no tools to navigate this uncharted world of desperation, so if any of you out there have any tips, tricks or Mace, all assistance in restoring my self-worth is appreciated. Until then, I'm keeping my cell phone charged and using the Buddy System.