Intimacy Issues

That's me. I love you or I don't care- there is no middle ground, no delicate dance of compromise and finesse. Tall, thick walls compartmentalize the different arenas of my life: love, family, work, expression...

Even my baby-blogs. Uptempo Plum is where I post my mushy personal musings; Demon Sauce, is where I work it like a school project. Or so it started anyway...

Lately, I've found life getting kinda blurry as my demons blast through the heart-shaped wall I so fervently bricked and cemented, spraying pink mist and mush over my perfectly pressed outfits and ruining my make-up. It's a good thing, people tell me, to explore your yin and yang and lose your mind and put yourself out there and let people in and all that crap. Therefore, in an effort to be a more fully realized person I'm taking a HUGE step and...

I'M MERGING MY BLOGS...
...crickets...

I said, I am merging my blogs. Together. Intimate-like. Like the Brady Bunch.

Still nothing...? Huh.

It's kind of a big deal. Walls are coming down, guys! Songs are written about unions like this! My Type-A Over-Achiever Barbie is letting my sensitive, brooding Emo Ken move in to the Barbie Mansion with all his knats and baggage and- stop rolling your eyes!

Well, I think is a big fucking deal and I'm pretty puffy about the whole thing. Uptempo Plum is on hiatus, past Plum posts are now integrated into Demon Sauce, and Demon Sauce will serve as my only blog until further notice. I'm choosing to go with hiatus rather than straight retirement because I'd have babies with the name "Uptempo Plum" if I could, but also in case Barbie and Ken don't work out.

Baby steps, y'all...

Insomnia? What is this BS?

OH my GOD, this is such BULLSHIT.

Insomnia.

Formerly known as the regular time I used to wake up when I had a job.

However, now as a woman of leisure and the boss of me, I fully expect my body to milk every drop from the 8-10 hours of sleep I like to get. Yes, EIGHT to TEN hours.

My Type A, over-achiever self - let's call her Barbie - fought my tumble into teenage levels of slumber for well over a year ("Get up! It's 7am! The sun's up! OTHER people are starting their commute, the least you can do is start your day! Think of all we can doooo!"). Then, one day... I slept until 11...

I woke up that gorgeous morning half-ashamed and half-elated.

Even when I pulled all-nighters on set, my inner clock was hard-wired to not sleep past 10a. My entire adolescence had been an exercise in how I could entertain myself while the rest of the girls at the slumber party slept til 11. (No joke, I usually cleaned their rooms. That's why moms LOVE me.) In college, I was the girl that worked the morning shift from 7-noon to come home and find my housemates just staggering out of bed at 1p. Every boyfriend I've ever had (Hi, all two of you!) could be dead to the world until after noon unless I poked and prodded them out of bed to their not-so-secret annoyance. I'd been a morning person for so long, it was part of my identity EXCEPT...

I evolved. It started with 11a the first morning. The next day, Sleep won out until near 1130. I continued that way for not long. Decades of mornings plus Barbie and Igor berating me led to a happy medium of a 9ish, 930ish wake-up for the last few months.

I don't remember what sleep was like when I would pop out of bed at the crack of dawn. I think I was blind to how wonderful, decadent, and nourishing it felt, because now? Even when I've been in bed for so long that Barbie and Igor throw their collected hands up in disgusted surrender, I revel in the languid pull of my pillow. I bask in my mattress as it holds sway over me. I leave Sleep like it's the best lover I've ever had: slowly, grudgingly, and always willing to do it a little more.

Don't get me wrong. I love being awake, too. I seize the day and smell the roses and all that crap but I DO IT BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 930ISH AND LATE.

This is why insomnia enrages me. I SHOULD BE ASLEEP. Even Barbie - who I finally beat into a 9am submission - is appalled we have to be awake right now. FOR NO REASON.

So now that I'm upright - because as good as my bed is at seducing me to stay and doze, when I can't sleep its a goddamn torture chamber of tangled tentacle sheets with a down comforter albatross - and fired up, I have no other choice but to start my day and be <groan> productive.

Somewhere in my head, Barbie perks up. "We're staying up?! Let's clean! You wanna write some more? We need to do a demon post! Or we could go grocery shopping! Ooooo, what time does the car wash open..."

F-bombs, incoming...

What would happen if you just didn't give a fuck? If you said what you wanted to say, did what you wanted to do, kissed who you wanted to kiss? I'm betting life would feel a lot more like you were living it instead of whatever you're doing now. Whatever I'm doing now, is probably actually more the point.

I shouldn't be this fired up- I just got out of a 2-hr long free class for writers about studio vs. indie blah, blah. The information wasn't groundbreaking, and the outlook the Hollywood-Insider-Guy painted was dismal.

Meh. I'm not even fazed by grim Hollywood Chicken Little bullshit anymore. But I got to thinking on the way home of some of the break-into-the-biz options HIG mentioned and I wondered why I hadn't tried any of them. My best reason - and it sucks - is because my shyness is arresting and I'm scared of my own shadow. How's that for Chicken Little bullshit?

It's the worst excuse, and it's a topic that's been on my mind more than the usual all-the-time-constantly that I examine myself. The WHAT-IFS. What if I suck, what if they hate it, what if he hates me, what if they don't get it...

What if I don't give a fuck? What if I tell people what I really think? I have a reputation for being honest, and I am, unless I'm lying to your face. What if I tell you I'm not interested instead of taking an hour to explain the reasons why you and I aren't such a good idea right now? What if I RSVP "No" to Evites without a benign explanation why I can't make it? What if I tell you, you're wrong, when you are?

What if I don't give a fuck? What if I do what I want to do? People think I already do that. I pole dance, and I write about blood-tinged semen and sociopathic teenage girls. My secret is, that's the tip of the glacier. I can fill reams of paper with the things I want to do and be. What if I tried more? What if I wrote and directed the short that haunts me, even though I have no money, even though I don't know how? Who gives a fuck?

Who would give a fuck if I kissed whoever I wanted? "Who haven't you kissed?" snears Igor from behind a fold in my frontal lobe. I've had make-out dreams about a friend, and I could dismiss my dreams as sweaty manifestations of the day's particular stresses but... I'm curious. So what if...?

Having given my blog addresses to family members recently, I guess I'm putting my money where my mouth is - they don't get a lot of fuck this and fuck that from me. And I guess if I don't give a fuck, it really doesn't matter. (Sorry anyway, Mama and Daddy. Don't stop loving me! xo!)

But think about it: What if you didn't give a fuck? What would you do? What would you say? Who would you kiss?