I love cheese. I love my Sargento Mexican mixed cheese; my Philly creamed cheese; my Daisy sour cream cheese; my Deli-sliced cheese; my Provolone cheese; My Romano grated cheese…I love cheese. My doctor hates it for me.
After a spinal cord angiogram three months ago, for reasons totally unrelated to my cholesterol levels, it was discovered that I have fifty-percent stenosis in my right carotid artery. The surgeon says, “Don’t worry too much about it; it’s pretty smooth.” My family general practitioner says, “Lay off the cheese.”
I’ve been a vegetarian (NOT a vegan) for about 20 years. I occasionally have what those in the food circles call, “vegan candy” (extra-crisp bacon), but who doesn’t love bacon?!? My daughters make fun of me when I order the veggie burger with bacon. I would make fun of me, too. It sounds (and probably is) counter-productive. You’d think that a vegetarian would not have any concerns with high bad cholesterol or fat, right? Wrong.
I’m not really a vegetarian by choice, that is, I discovered that I don’t or can’t digest animal meat very well. I’ve read somewhere that those with B+ blood types are geared towards a vegetarianism lifestyle, while those with A and O blood types readily digest meat products more easily. I don’t know where I read these Trivial Pursuit tidbits of information, but I remember thinking to myself that I wasn’t a hipster freak for the inability to digest what everyone else in both my Italian and Mexican families could digest: braciole; carne asada; braciole di maiale; carnitas; pollo; pollo (yeah, that’s chicken in Italian and Spanish).
From the age of at least four years, I vividly remember eating dinner each evening with my family — chewing on one of the above mentioned meats — and thinking to myself, “I’m eating a cow [pig, bird].” But Momma’s meatballs are so darn good! I wonder if I intuitively knew that meat isn’t jiving with my body make-up? Could be.
I’m still struggling with high cholesterol, but I maintain an active lifestyle and, for the most part, try to avoid my beloved cheese — at least cheese in excess! Don’t worry Doc, I plan on sticking around for a minute.
Dedicated to my colleagues in DTLA who can probably relate and John Leguizamo
I believe I’ve found my kindred spirit in John Leguizamo.
Many fans believe that Leguizamo is Puerto Rican, perhaps because of his second self-written stage performance of Spic-O-Rama in 1993, which won the Drama Desk Award and four CableACE awards, and a lot of us stereo-type Latinos and Hispanics from New York as Puerto Rican, mostly because of Spike Lee’s, Do the Right Thing, and because of the fact that many Puerto Ricans (and Cubans) frequent the East Coast more than the other Latinos and Hispanics (side note: my old-fashioned, old-school, single until her death, from the Italian First Ward of Newark, New Jersey, Aunt Filomina once asked, with confidence in her voice, if my Mexican fiancé, here on the West Coast, was Puerto Rican, because that’s all she knew in her limited world; God rest her soul), but Leguizamo is from Columbia.
I already knew that I absolutely love John Leguizamo’s work and I’ve been a fan of his since his stage performance, Mambo Mouth in 1991. I honestly never paid too much attention to Leguizamo’s earlier work before Mambo Mouth and I’ve never been a fanatic of anyone. His performance in Luhrmann’s 1996 production of Romeo & Juliet as Tybalt made Leguizamo one of my top five favorite performers. And as an English Language Arts teacher of cinema and Humanities in the performing arts, his appearance in The Bronze Screen documentary of Latino and Hispanic performers sealed my feelings of Leguizamo’s sincerity of his craft.
But not until now did I ever connect with a person with whom I have no personal knowledge or dealings so much. I knew that I wanted to see John Leguizamo’s latest HBO-filmed stage performance, John Leguizamo’s Ghetto Klown, and I set my reminder and DVR for Saturday night’s eight o’clock night premier. I watched it twice in a row. I identified. I wanted to reach into the television screen and yell at John Leguizamo, “How do you know?!? How do you know about me?!?” I began to realize that maybe, just maybe, this is what I’ve been searching for all this time in my quest for motivation, inspiration, and reasons that I couldn’t write my next post. This is it.
Last week I was in a deep depression. The week ended in the passing of a dear and good friend and colleague – suddenly, without notice, she has a brain tumor, emergency brain surgery, and never wakes up. What made me believe that my friend would come out of her coma if I just visited her and spoke to her like we always have? What made me believe that placing a beautiful rosary in her hand and massaging her head would wake her? What made me believe in a miracle? After I visited her and seeing all of the support of friends and family and the hope in her mother’s eyes, I thought for sure that our Amy would pull this one off. The next day, Amy passed at 4:43PM. How could I have been so naïve and so simple-minded and really believe that my prayers would pull her through? This incident topped off my depression like no other could. It sounds incredibly selfish, I know. I’m not one to wallow in self-pity, or one to put my depression above tragedies. Usually, I put on the face and wear the personality of a happy-go-lucky, I-don’t-give-a-crap, jokes-about-everything, f-you gal who can find humor in the most uncomfortable situations. But when I’m home alone in my empty nest, I withdraw. I drink a lot of fine spirits (many new cocktails that I really should trademark) and black, strong coffee (I like my coffee black and strong like my soul…). I don’t eat much of anything because I’ve never been a stress-eater like the rest of my family. I am quite the opposite, and if I’m not hungry, I don’t eat. I haven’t been hungry since October 2013 when my life turned around, the stress of everything heightened, took over, and my depression worsened.
I’ve always believed, although it is a self diagnoses, that I am a little, just a bit bi-polar. This belief makes it easier to enjoy myself when I force myself to go socialize or watch comedy on television. For some reason, I still feel guilty when I laugh or enjoy myself with anything or anyone. Of course, this is when my maniac takes over and my energy is so high that I scare myself. I even asked one of my friends if my hyper-activity drains him at all…you know, like how after watching John Leguizamo and his awesome energy sometimes drain you?
Thrice in John Leguizamo’s Ghetto Klown, Leguizamo refers to his depression and what happens to him when he becomes depressed:
…and when I’m depressed, Oh, my God, I’d sleep too much, then I’d drink too much coffee, and I can’t sleep at all, and then, and then I’d drink too much, and I’d lay around thinking about death…and…I hate myself, and I’m disgusted with myself, and I can’t leave the house ‘cause I repulse myself. But, yo, when I hit bottom, that’s when I write.
THAT’S ME! I shouted out loud…. And then laughed hysterically – mostly at myself.
Today was a normal depressed day. My day was consumed with a pot of coffee – strong and black, water, and home-baked cookies. I was saving cookie baking for when one of my daughters came to visit and hopefully bake with them, but I needed something to dip into my coffee. I’m not hungry, though, but I wanted cookies. Please don’t ask me to explain. It is what it is. So, I started mixing…then I ate half the batter while the oven pre-heated. (Don’t judge. You do it, too.) Next I grabbed the baking sheet that was in the oven and began to drop the batter onto the sheet. “Ooooh, these are gonna be good with this coffee….” I thought to myself.
“Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!” Eight minutes later, first batch is done. I pull out another baking sheet to drop another batch of dough on it. The first cookie batch is cooled a bit and I grab one to eat and dunk into my Marines decorated coffee mug…. Oh. My. Gawd. Disgusting. These taste like…like…like…umm…like…FISH (as I eat the entire cookie)! Wait. What?!? Fish? Why fish? Oh, yeah! This is the cookie sheet that I decided – a long time ago – to make my “fish only” baking sheet. Now, one would ask, “How can you forget that?” (And I know some of you are thinking, “Why a “fish only” baking sheet,” but that’s not relevant right now.) And that’s a fair question. But being a vegetarian; moreover, someone who rarely cooks, let alone bake, I rarely eat fish, and the only fish I eat is beer battered fish. I know, it figures, right?
So, now I have a batch of fishy cookies nicely placed on a dish ready for another victim. Yeah, when I forgive myself for the waste, I will toss them in the trash. But for now, they sit there to remind that I need to laugh at myself; I need to snap out of this depression; I need to write; hence, this piece I’m posting this evening.
Thank you, Mr. John Leguizamo, for the motivation. Thank you for the identity crisis revelation. Thank you for being a “Ghetto Klown.” I can’t claim the term, “ghetto,” but I certainly can, and will, claim, as one of my new titles, “Klown.” If you find yourself using a baking sheet that you’ve baked fish on to bake cookies, check yourself: You may be depressed.
Inspire: to produce or arouse (a feeling, thought, etc.)
Many thanks to all of you for your inspiration, suggestions, and honest feedback. I received so many different topics from elevator etiquette, to teachable moments in the classroom, to coaching sports, to, “Oh, inspire me!” The blogosphere is still somewhat a mystery to me, but I will do my best to accommodate and write about your suggestions.
My older daughter and I went to Macy’s the other day so she could buy a Bare Minerals starter kit. She knows how much I hate the mall and how much I hate the depressing fact that I can’t buy everything I see, but she also knows that I would do anything just to spend some time with her, and to be fair, she likes to hang with me — that’s why she asks me to tag along.
We only make one stop and that’s at the Cosmetics Counter. We’re greeted by a lovely salesperson, Claire. Claire spent quite some time with us and after about an hour, my daughter was set with her starter kit — perfectly matched shading and all. Claire said something that made me think about my blogging (paraphrasing Muhammad Ali), “If you have the skill, but not the will, you won’t amount to anything” (“Float like a butterfly; Sting like a bee!”). I was impressed she even knew who Muhammad Ali was, let alone putting out there some prolific quotation for MY inspiration. So, how does one inspire another? There are so many things one can do to inspire another, and most of the time, it comes naturally, without effort, and with sincerity. How, then, can I be an inspiration? When I put effort and thought into something, I want it to inspire others. It’s similar to the discussion I had with my mom (now there’s an inspiration!) about how really difficult it is to be a comedian. When I’m not trying to be funny, I am; when I’m trying to be funny, I’m not. At least that’s how I experience it. I know that most of the time when I am funny, people are laughing AT me, but nonetheless, they’re laughing and I made them laugh. There’s a certain satisfaction in knowing that I made someone smile and laugh. Ask my friend, Gina Manning; She’s experienced it up on the stage and knows how rewarding it can be. You really should catch one of her shows.
One of the best pieces of advice I can give anyone about inspiring another is to laugh at yourself. If you can laugh at yourself, you allow for inspiration to naturally shine through. I know, I know — “But you said inspire ANOTHER, not yourself.”
You are an inspiration to others just by being you, by being the best you, by leading the laughter (albeit with minor self-deprecation), and by putting on your best face for others to see. When I’m up in front of 40 to 50 high schoolers in one class, sometimes I look into their eyes and see the, “entertain me,” look, or the “teach me something,” look, or the, “who the hell are you?” look. Most of the time, though, I see pure honesty and young adults looking for inspiration and yearning for knowledge. THEY are MY inspiration…and they’re looking to me? I wonder if I’ve inspired any of them to do the right thing, to study harder, to read more, to analyze everything, to ask questions, to be leaders, to be happy, to be all they can be and more. Have I? I have to believe that I’ve inspired them, because I always remain myself with them: honest (sometimes brutally honest); real; outspoken; caring; and yes, sometimes frustrated with them, myself, the system…but still, I am always myself. I can’t be anyone, but myself in the classroom. I can’t be fake — those teens see right through fake. So, what do they think of me? What have I inspired in them? What have I inspired in you, my reader? Can I inspire you to be yourself… be your true self… and not allow anyone to falsify who you are, or mold you into anything you don’t want to be? Laugh. Laugh a lot (“a lot is TWO WORDS!”). When you’re smilin’, keep on smilin’/The whole world smiles with you/And when you’re laughin’, oh when you’re laughin’/The sun comes shinin’ through (Joe Goodwin, Larry Shay, Mark Fisher). You are the inspiration that this world needs. You are the inspiration that this world craves. You are the inspiration that this world loves. You are the inspiration with whom the world laughs. You, and only you.
Dedicated to Claire at the Del Amo Macy’s Cosmetics Counter. Thank you for your inspiration.
I’m a writer. No, really — I’m a writer. Sometimes I question my abilities to write, but recall that I’ve written some pretty good stuff over the years, but I never had the moxie to publish anything. Well, that’s a lie. I was published in a poetry magazine…ok, not a real magazine. OK, not really a magazine at all. It is a free publication featuring a bunch of Literature teachers’ attempts at emulating Keats, Shelley, Williams Carlos Williams, or Frost during a workshop. I was pregnant with my first child at the time and alluded to having gas in my poem…but nonetheless, I was published.
So, writing. As my subject heading suggests, this is my first writing assignment, not from any master teacher or professor, but an assignment from yours truly — me. I decided, in light of all things considered in my life at this time, at this moment, that I needed to assign a productive activity for myself. Sure, I have all my degrees and just finished another graduate course at the tune of $99 for one credit, but this is different. This is different because this is a new beginning for me. A new career, perhaps, that I can really enjoy and share with the world. Sounds a little over-stepping, but, it could happen. Just like I could, one day, be Queen of the World…. Alright. Wishful and unattainable dreams. But my ADHD makes me digress…. “Blame on it my ADD, baby!” This I do often. And I love ellipses. Ellipses are the greatest grammatical invention EVER! I should know because I am the self-proclaimed Grammar Goddess (never liked the “nazi” label – goddess is so much more sexy, don’t you think?).
What is the purpose of blogging, anyway? I could write that the purpose is to inform, entertain, share, express, waste time…. But the truth of the matter is that there really isn’t any set purpose of blogging. Twenty years ago, the term, “blog,” didn’t even exist. So, am I a blogger now that I wrote this blog? Maybe. Will I get paid for this blog? Not a cent. Will I make a career out of blogging? I hope so. Give me your feedback in the comments section. Tell me about what you’d like to read and what interests you. I’m open to all suggestions, opinions, and criticism. No holding back.
coach mz 
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