Sleepwalker

Apparently, I have been calling people in my sleep. In the middle of the night. Okay, just one person has confessed thus far, but think about the throngs of others that have received my nightly call-to-arms, and just didn't want to say anything. Geez Louise! I'm more messed up than I thought. On top of this disturbing news, it seems that I not only sleep-call, but I sleep-eat. I consumed only a tomato, but who's to say that I didn't dither over to the local bodega and pick myself one of those plastic-wrap nasties? You probably want to know how I know that I ate a tomato. Well, I saw the top of it sadly sitting in my sink the next morning - discarded and beheaded. The other clue to my consumption was the bloodied knife, well I say "bloodied" for dramatic purposes only, it was really only some tomato scum from that evil post-midnight romp. I hardly know myself anymore. What's happening? Am I turning into a ghoul that lives and conspires after dark? Oy! But then I thought, well maybe I could use this new sleep-walking stance to my advantage. I can call the no-respondies after dark, and maybe just maybe, they will be frightened into submission. Maybe they will get their act together when they realize that I am no holds bard, and I might, just might, sleepwalk over to them at some point when they're pulling a late one in the office. Creepy, creepy! I'm creeping myself out. But nothing is creepier than maybe being a vampire, or an after-dark fruit slayer! Or a late-night binge eater? I shudder at the thought. No, I am only a sleep-caller, the other, more unglamorous event, was a fluke, a one-off, a completely preposterous cosmic interruption where my body was taken over by aliens who had a hankering for a tomato. These aliens are foodies and had a grasp on the precipitous decline of the tomato season. Oh no. It's me, it's me. I'm the midnight-caper! I'm the thieving magpie stealing delights in the night. What a plight! I would make Rossini proud. In fact, I think that if my adventures were to have a soundtrack, they would fit nicely with his whimsical ditty - "The Thieving Magpie."

Child's Play

I'm back where I started. Or at least it feels that way. It just seems that lately, whenever I establish some forward motion, there's something that stops the chugga-chugga. And then there I am chasing my tail again. I've got to read "The Little Engine That Could" again, cause damn I could use some "I-think-I-can" mumbo-jumbo now. Geez, what do I have to do to pull over this seemingly insurmountable mountain? The woman I respected and admired a little while ago has turned out to be a lout, at least at the moment - she's out of commission. What happens in the interim of people liking me and potentially employing me, and then, these same people falling into the chasm of oblivion, one by one. It's like they're in line. They took a number. "I'll have the tenderloin, and I'll ignore Clover some more. Let's see if she can stand it, or more precisely, stand it out." Chugga-chugga - that's what I've got to keep telling myself. And that's what I had to tell myself the other night when I was sleeping at my parent's house, babysitting my furry sister - the dog, Billie, while my parents are out of town. There I was, next to pitter-patter. Oh, that Billie, she really has some amazing nails that make an amazing noise when she walks on the parkay floor. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter, my heart. Is that my heart? Or is that Billie's nails? Here I am, feeling like a child in my parent's home - unemployed, surveying my childhood at arm's length. There are my books, my Barbies, my Archie's (remember Archie and the gang?) Am I still that child unable to break loose? God no. I've always had good jobs. What the hell happened? What continues to happen? Chugga-chugga! Oh, that's right. Break the negative thought process right away, before it sprouts more negativo. Negativo to the Nth degree. No, no it will be fine. I will break out of this. Chugga-chugga! At some point, the kids will be tired of taking numbers, or the numbers will run out, and there will be no more reason to hang my tenderloin on the tender-hooks. Chugga-chugga...Chugga-chugga. Chugga-chugga! Chugga! Chugga! Oh wait pitter-patter, I think-I-can, I-think-I-can, I-think-I-can. I'm going up the mountain again. And if it weren't for my parents going away, and little pitter-patter, I wouldn't have found my dusty "The Little Engine That Could" buried under "The Story Of O," and "Ramona Quimby, Age 8." What does that say about the way my mind has been conditioned to work? No comment. Just a little chugga-chugga. I'll take a number now. And, oh look, it's number one.

Wearing It And/Or Momo

I've decided to wear what I'm talking about. In that, I had this harebrained idea the other day to make a NY Hates Me t-shirt and wear it around town. A walking billboard; that I am. What a joy it was to advertise something that could potentially benefit me, rather than pay for a label, and do their advertising for them. Screw that. I went to a place in the Village, and customized my very own tee. I asked for a lower-case "ny" next to a heart with a slash and then "me" to be scripted across my chest, and then under it, around the navel, this here site: "nyhatesme.com." And for added effect, another "nyhatesme.com" on the back-side of my tee, around the shoulder blades. "Isn't this overkill?" The man in the store demanded. "I want to be purposely unsubtle. After all, I only have the one tee now, and I need to be bold. I need more people to be aware of my site and my plight." "Uh, okay, whatever lady. You're the boss." And within fifteen minutes time, there it was, the tee to end all tees. All black lower-case lettering, big and bold, and a giant red heart with a slash. I went home, took off my elegant dress, you know the one, the one that got me respect last week, and slipped on the tee shirt. I left my apartment, first unsure, a little insecure, and then I remembered the "certainty stance." Here we go. Tee, take me to Union Square. Yah, yah! People wanted to be in the know in the Square. What's "nyhatesme.com"? Why does NY hate you? We love you! I'm going to look that up when I get home. Yes, my harebrained idea was working double-time. In fact, maybe if I wear the tee everyday once or twice a day, I will get a more of a following. What do you think? You know wear down the resistance and all that jazz. I've been wearing the shirt, and it's starting to smell a little. Wear and tear. I have to wash it, but I'm afraid that the lettering will fade, and I'm not ready to be washed-out just yet. So maybe a few more wears. I was thinking of wearing it as evening attire as well, maybe with a little belt. Watch out Bill Cunningham. I'm taking the city by storm. Fashion-wise.

And then there is Momo. My darling Momo. At least that's my affectionate term for good old Wolfy. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Whenever I feel down, I put on some Momo and I feel instantly better. Have always felt better listening to Momo since I was a little girl. I think I have every piece he ever wrote in my giant CD collection (yes, I still have CDs). So, you might think that I might be in heaven with the Mostly Mozart Festival upon us. I am. I was having a not so nice day, and then I went to Avery Fisher for a pick-me-up, and I was certainly picked up and thrown against heaven's doors. The program this evening was not all Momo, just one selection, but his peers held him in good company. Oh Momo, what you have done for my ears and my heart and my days and my nights. And all the other people in the world who have lived and died and who have loved and listened to your music. I was thinking of wearing the tee shirt tonight, but I didn't want to detract from your music. And who thinks about NY hating me, when I'm loving you so much!

Teensy Weensy

Apparently, I'm just a wee bit off. I'm millimeters away from making it happen. Just a flick of the wrist or a slight step in one direction will yield big results. The teensy weensy movement in the right direction is the mainstay logic of the motivational speaker Tony Robbins. And while I've never been a bopping head for motivational, go get 'em speakers, I have to say that Robbins' spiel made a lot of sense. In his need to improve his golf swing from abysmal to passable, he changed his movement ever so slightly, just a hair, and then all hell broke loose, or for that matter all heaven broke out and greeted him with a warm hello.

The thing that really got me was the "certainty" stance. Robbins did not call it that, but he said the difference of posturing yourself, literally and figuratively, with a stamp of certainty makes all the difference. While the difference in being completely certain and confident, and disillusioned and dejected are a couple of inches. It's is the mere difference between regal: shoulders - back, face - open, as opposed to slumped and sad. I tried on the confident stance and the dejected one back and forth, along with Robbins who had it down pat. The difference is a flick of the switch. I decided to take the confident stance out for a walk. Shoulders back, bust forward a la Sophia Loren, face open, eyes gleaming. What a response! Robbins is on to something! I got what I wanted. I got respect. I got adoration. I got taken seriously. Then a little later that day, just for a lark, I wore my slumped self out, and I was a veritable doormat. Ignored, bumped on the street without apology. I was invisible. I was a ghost. Scrooge that! I don't care if I fall over backwards in my effort to keep the back back and the bust forward. Gee, I'm even going to e-mail the contagion of no-respondies with the certainty stance. I'm on the phone following up with you. Guess what? You can be sure I'm erect. I'm now certain Clover. I'm exchanging the bad arc for the good one. I'm millimeters from making it happen. Like Robbins, I'm on the upswing.