San Diego Staycation - Sugar & Satire

March 13, 2018

Something I've learned as I grow into my adulthood is how important it is to do mental health check ins. If I go too long without one I can feel myself start to unravel, I'll work too hard and too often and suddenly find myself in piles on the floor, my edges frayed and tied into knots. This fall I worked on a show that required a lot of me (and everyone else), tight deadlines and a very fast pace. I rarely slept, and when I did my dreams were about the work I was doing. I'd wake up in a cold sweat wondering if I'd sent out that email or passed along the document for countersignature. My work haunted me but I craved the chaos so much that I didn't want to stop. That's how I get with my work.. I love it so much but I can feel it slowly pulling at me. Now and then, during my free hours while I was supposed to be sleeping or eating I started to find relaxation in the act of planning my future vacation. My mental health check in was saying "it's time to do something for you". So I did. I booked a 3 day staycation at the The Kimpton Solamar in San Diego's Gaslamp Quarter. And after my show ended I packed up my cute little pink carryon, my favorite books and a metric ton of bath bombs-- and made my way down to San Diego from LA.

Each day of my vacation I felt my pieces slowly join back together. From the outside it probably looked like I was doing a whole lot of nothing. In fact, I remember having a teary phone conversation about how useless I felt, staying in my hotel room all day taking baths and listening to podcasts. I tend to feel guilt when I don't have physical proof of my productivity or accomplishments. God knows mental health isn't really a tangible thing. And sometimes the sheer weight of all things I want to get done suffocates me, knocks me off my feet and stops me from getting anything done. Not only am I in pieces, but each piece is nailed to the floor. Suddenly it seems like nothing is possible. I want to write powerful words, I want to take beautiful photographs, I want to finish reading and/or writing a book. But I can't.

When those days come, when I'm so heavy with guilt about my own shortcomings, I try to focus on getting the smallest things done. The mere thought of getting out of bed and into a bath feels like the biggest victory. I feel my body moving as I push myself up and out, my feet feel heavy, like they're weighted down with bags of sand. I fall into the bath like a bag of rocks, and stay there with my eyes closed until I'm brand new. I watch the water spiral down the drain, taking all the bad out with it. Then slowly, as I stand on the bath mat, dripping wet and staring at myself in mirror I see her. Me. The one I've been trying to take care of all this time, and I smile. The bags of sand are gone, and though my pieces might not be perfect they are all there. Slowly tightening, growing back together.

"Writer" Goes on Vacation to Write, Doesn't. - Sugar & Satire

April 21, 2017

I figured something out about myself this week. It started after I wrapped my last gig on Tuesday, and then headed out to Santa Barbara for a mini vacation I'd been planning for about a month. When people asked me why I was going away I proudly told them "I just need somewhere the write." Because I had this fantasy that I'd be sitting on a balcony, staring at the ocean and words would flow out of me like earl grey out of a hot teapot. I had this idea that if I was in the right place, the right setting I'd suddenly be filled with inspiration again.

The fantasy was ruined when I realized that I'd booked a room with a shockingly expensive view of the parking lot. I took that as a sign that instead of writing my sure-to-be masterpiece, I was instead supposed to crack open a book. Sylvia Plath's, The Bell Jar to be precise. I read until I felt sick, staying up much later than I normally do, rolling her words around in my mouth like cold stones. No writing was done that day.

The next morning I woke with purpose, called the front desk and requested a room upgrade. A step in the right direction, but when I sat down at my desk I found myself staring at a black computer screen in complete silence, picking at the shift button that had slowly been worn away after years of furiously capitalizing journal entries and text messages. "I've still got time." I thought to myself, and I snapped my laptop shut and headed for the pool, book in hand. I got lost inside the pages, coming up for air only when it was time for my spa appointment. Put your judgments aside about my bougie lifestyle for a moment and remember that I was on vacation.

Afterwards, as I was walking back to my room, with the full intention of sitting down and putting pen to paper, I saw the hotel salon and decided I needed to get my hair blown out. Pure avoidance at this point. I sat in the chair while a blonde woman blew hot air into my head to make the strands smooth and soft, bragging to her about how I was a "writer", here on vacation to write. I didn't tell her that I hadn't actually written anything since my arrival the days before, but instead told her all about the "series of essays" I was working on. That I needed to be near the ocean to find something meaningful enough deep inside of me, worthy of sharing. I also didn't tell her that this mysterious "series of essays" were only to be shared on my shitty blog and hadn't been commissioned by some publishing house or online journal. Semantics.

Homemade Peach Pie - Sugar & Satire

August 23, 2016

I've got this wonderful, weird, amazing job that gives me a chance to travel fairly often. I'm very fortunate to be one of those annoying people who actually enjoys what I do for a living. Every job I take allows me to meet new people and develop close relationships with them. And it allows me the chance to get the feeling of "starting over" in a new city every few months. So trust me when I say that I'm used to packing my life up into a suitcase. To the feeling of sorting through my belongs to find the most necessary items, things to take with me to make me feel at home while I'm on the road. I know how to condense, how to conserve, and I know how to make myself cozy in a hotel room.

I've got my travel ritual down to a science. Starting with preparing my apartment for my absence. My parent's always insisted that we clean the house thoroughly anytime we were going to leave for an extended period of time, and I do the same thing now that I have my own place. I sweep the floors, vacuum, mop, was and dry every dish, and do load after load of laundry. The idea is that when I get back from my travels, that I'll have a spotless place to come home to.

But I always get a weird feeling the night before I'm about to go away. It comes to me when I've finished all my cleaning, packing and last minute drugstore runs. I curl up in my freshly washed sheets and wonder what it will be like to sleep in a bed other than my own for the next few weeks or months.

Confronting My Anxiety in Anguilla - Sugar & Satire

May 20, 2016

Let's learn some stuff.

I've been so fortunate in my life. I've met some really fantastic people, and been lucky enough to grow and learn on each job I take. I've also had the chance to travel to some truly breathtaking places, destinations I'd never even dream about visiting unless my job required it of me. One of the most recent places I visited was a small Caribbean island in the British West Indies, called Anguilla.

So let's talk about Anguilla.

It's a very small island, about a 30 minute boat ride from St. Maarten. It's 35 square miles in total and 16 miles long. It takes about 30 minutes, by car to get from end to end, and the island's main source of income comes from the tourism industry. Anguilla is absolutely stunning. White sand, turquoise water and orange sunsets. The people I met on the island were friendly, always taking the time to say good morning or good afternoon. They'd go out of their way to make sure we had what we needed, and stopping what they were doing to wish us well. The majority of the island is connected by one big road, with two lanes and a couple more stop lights. There are no building numbers, and the street names are very general. We found ourselves referring to locations around the island the way the locals referred to them. The grocery store on the west end of the island, or the cluster of buildings owned by Chris. Everyone knows everyone, and word travels fast.

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