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.
Woohoo! I feel free again! I can’t believe that I waited all this time to become a member of the elite FasTrakkers! I even wrote a song about it:
The FasTrak. The FasTrak. The FasTrak. The FasTrak.
Blue lights a-flashin’, nowhere to hide,
Transponder engage! (Oooh, Beam me up, Scotty!)
My ride’s movin’ past posted 65! (Warp speed ahead!)
Passing schmucks sitting along side! (Free at last! Free at last!)…
OK. OK. I’ll keep my day job. But that’s how ecstatic I am about being able to leave home later and get home sooner. My Express Lane pass even includes the toll roads of the 73 and works for the 91, the 101, the 10…it’s a new life for me.
We need to rename the Express Lane, the Autubahn. Yes, that German strip of federal highway where you can drive as fast as your lead foot can take you. We can learn a lot from the rules of the Autubahn, for example, rule number eight is regarding the far left passing lane. At the risk of piggybacking on one of my previous posts, again, even in Europe the far left lane is for passing only; moreover, passing a car on the right side is verboten.
Like I am driving the Autubahn as a racecar driver in a past life, I even pass the slower of the drivers on the Express Lane. Zoom! Rumrum! Zoom! Shhish! I feel victorious. Of all the past lives I believe I have had, Marine and racecar driver are by far the most exciting and believable.
So, this newly found FasTrak. The electronic toll collection system has been around for quite some time in other states, but in Los Angeles, it’s still in its infancy. Its introduction to California was designed exactly for what’s it’s named after: electronic toll collection instead of an old-fashioned toll booth. The physical collection of tolls on toll lanes slows down traffic and this ETC system was put in place to eliminate such traffic congestion. Wow, I remember in 2000 when the Vincent Thomas Bridge linking my town of San Pedro to its neighbor, Long Beach, got rid of the toll collection of two quarters all together because the bridge was paid for since it was built in 1963.
That drive over the bridge and the subsequent, smaller one, the Henry Ford Bridge, is, in its own right, a two-lane Autubahn. Given that traffic is good, driving the bridge is great fun, especially now that I don’t have to stop and throw two quarters in the booth. But I digress, once again….
These ETCs seemed like such a good idea, that Los Angeles, in all its wisdom, and all its need of generating money, decided that the carpool lanes, which were afforded to anyone traveling with two of more passengers a free pass to drive fast, were a waste of precious real estate. In the effort of promoting mass transit, Los Angeles introduced the FasTrak as a pilot program, the Metro Express Lane, late in 2012. Now, thanks to legislation mandating that all toll roads and express ways must coordinate with each other to read the same transponder signal, anywhere in this great state of California where a toll is needed can be quickly and conveniently scanned as we drive along our way. My Metro Express account even gives me freebies and discounts if I travel with passengers. All I have to do is set my transponder to the appropriate setting of one, two, or three occupants. Nice. The carpool lane idealism is not completely lost. Not that I travel with anyone else, but now I don’t have to beg people to come with me on trips just so I can take the carpool lane. I know, pretty despicable, but I’m not the only one.
I know that we Californians come late to the party, but that’s our way: fashionably late to everything. It’s how we roll…skate, surf, snowboard, chill, or whatever stereotypical term you’d like to apply to us. But once we join the party, boy, do we know how to party and we do it right like nobody else. FasTrak. It’s just another thing that makes me feel blessed to be a Californian, and even more, an Angelian.
As I sit here at midnight half-heartedly watching, “@midnight,” I yawn and say to myself, “You really need to go to sleep, Maria.” Sleep? Not sure what that is anymore, but I do attempt the task. I want to sleep. If I sleep I get to use my new iPhone app, Smart Alarm, by Sportcom. Before you poo-poo the idea, just keep reading because I am going to give my first review of my blogging career.
Smart Alarm is more than just an alarm clock that wakes you up on time. Smart Alarm analyzes your sleep, and (get this) it records your sleeping as well. Smart Alarm will give statistics of your deep sleep, REM sleep, wake time, and quality of sleep. It’s not quite accurate, I mean, it’s not a scientific sleep lab, but it’s pretty cool just the same.
I’ve always been a light sleeper, but I was a habitual sleepwalker as a child, too. My parents would tell me the stories of my sleepwalking and once, when I was about five years old, my father even caught me walking off the top bed of my sister’s and my bunk beds. I’m thankful that Daddy worked graveyard shift in those days and was checking on us before he left for his shift. Other sleepwalking stories include long conversations with my parents, especially my dad, who, as a matter of fact didn’t sleep much either. I don’t remember any of the stories my parents would tell, but one. I only remember the one because I woke up in the middle and finished my rant of jellybeans falling out of my bed and yelling at my mom to help me pick them up before they disappear (I don’t even like jellybeans…). I remember my mom calmly telling me, “Don’t worry, Maria, we’ll pick them all up in the morning.” I fell back asleep. Weird, huh? I have vivid memories of my childhood, and that one will never fade.
Now, when my dad did sleep, I could hear his snoring all the way down on the other end of the hallway – a bomb couldn’t wake up my dad. While he’d sleep through anything, I, on the other hand, am the first one to wake up during a mere 3.0 and yell, “Earthquake!” and stand in the door jam (which is not recommended anymore, but at the time was what was the standard procedure when experiencing an earthquake). Mom? She snores, too, but not nearly as loud as Daddy did….
I would pride myself on not being a snorer, and up until recently, I knew for a fact that I didn’t snore because once I heard the noise out of my own mouth, I’d wake up – I’d literally keep myself awake by my own snoring. Little did I realize that as I grow older, I am, indeed, becoming my parents’ daughter…I snore and I can prove it.
My Smart Alarm records my snoring so precisely and so clearly that it’s difficult to deny anymore. The very first night I used my Smart Alarm, I woke up to the peaceful music of, “Tender Trio,” and anxiously pulled up the menu of statistics. Next to each timed “noise” icon is a music note icon. I tap it. Oh. My. Every two minutes of every hour is snoring. Every partner I’ve had snored and kept me awake at night. Sometimes, I’d even wake him up and ask him to roll over to his side, but that was only a temporary fix. But now, I’m the one who is keeping others awake? Maybe my next partner and I can be a snoring duet and lull each other to sleep….
But last night? Not a peep! Only one – count it: ONE – sound all night and it was one cough; more of a clearing of the throat, but still, just once. I was so excited that I didn’t snore last night, that I texted my daughter, “I didn’t snore at all last night! LOL” She didn’t reply. Apparently, my daughter isn’t as thrilled about my sleep habits as I am….
So, this Smart Alarm is pretty useful. It’s a free app and while you can’t rely on it as a medical record of your sleep habits, it is a wonderful tool for charting your sleep time and, yes, your snoring.
Now what did I do differently last night before I retired than the other nights? I should probably install the food monitoring app and the activities monitoring app soon to track my life habits. With all the time I’ll spend installing, opening, recording, my time would probably be better served with a good old fashioned paper journal…. iJournal?
In this two-minute excerpt from his debate with Ken Ham, Bill Nye channels Carl Sagan and talks about the excitement of discovery. It’s quite eloquent, though I suspect it’s been edited from a number of his remarks. And I could do without the grandiose music.
Regardless, I think Nye should be saying stuff like this in lectures and not debates. Perhaps he will.
coach mz 
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