Morning People, Part Two

I woke up early last Friday morning at 3:30am to the sound of laughter coming from the girl (and her guest) staying in the apartment below me. We’ll call my downstairs neighbor - Sasha.

Did Sasha have a late night? Did she just get in? Does she realize it’s 3:30am and the walls of our building are thin?

Thinking she had partied late, (as that being the only reasonable explanation that this night owl can think of for that type of ruckus at this hour), I started to drift back to sleep. Only to be awoken again by the sound of a car pulling up and her apartment front door slamming shut.

I peaked outside my front window and saw a van filled with people with backpacks getting out of the car and loading up Sasha’s luggage. Oh my God, it’s a group of morning people. They are getting a head start on the weekend and by the looks of those backpacks, they must be planning on doing something outdoorsy. About this time now it was 4am. 4am.

Dear girl living below me,

Could we be any more different?


Now you may be thinking, “Come on Theresa, get a grip. Don’t you remember what it was like to get up early for a ski trip or a weekend getaway? How fun it was to get up early because we were excited to start our latest adventure?”

No I do not.

You see, no matter what the adventure is, when I get up that early, well, my whole day is ruined. You know that cardinal rule, “never wake up a sleeping baby?” You know what happens when you wake up a sleeping baby, right?




I’m the kind of girl that watches sunsets, not sunrises. If I am going to get up early for anything other than attending to, say, a newborn, well, I just don’t know if it’s worth it. If I am going to be sleep-deprived, it will only be because I am giving and nurturing the gift of life.

But as long as I am single, childless, and selfish….

Now if you are reading this blog at 3:30 in the morning, you either A) just got in from your local bar night or B) you are getting up with the roosters to excitedly start your new day, or C) you have no choice because you are taking care of a crying and screaming baby.

If you are B) you are a FREAK SHOW. I mean that in the most lovingly way possible.

My older sister, Lynn, is B), a freak show.

Growing up, sharing a bedroom, I would wake up to the sound of her blow dryer as she got ready for junior high. Pretty soon the humming of the dryer would lull me back into a deep sleep. I wouldn’t get up and get ready for school until the last possible minute which explains why I didn’t look so pretty in the morning.

But not Lynn. She still, to this day, not only gets up to be at work at 5:00am, she still styles her hair at that ungodly hour.

When we took a trip to Vegas once, that’s right, Vegas- the city that doesn’t do mornings, and a place where I could exist and roam freely in my natural habitat, Lynn still got up early. She took a shower, blew dry her hair and was ready to go while I laid in bed sleeping. Once she noticed I moved a little in my bed (this means we are secretly up- Donahoe girls don’t move in our sleep unless we are awake) – she kicked me.

“It’s 9am!!” she announced.

“IT’S VEGAS!” I told her.

Why couldn’t she just go down to the hotel’s coffee shop, grab a muffin and read the newspaper until her vampirish sibling woke up from her slumber?

And finally, last, but not least, the grandmother of all morning people in my life is…..

My mother.

My up-early-in-the-am-turn-on-the-heater-start-grinding-the-coffee-beans-so-she-can-get-her-alone-time-in mother.

If my sister and I didn’t get up on our own in the morning, my mother would tap her fingernails on our door and exclaim: “open up your peepers!”

After she has her first cup of coffee, she is ready to chat and it’s only 7am. She says after having four children, she can’t sleep in.

To all you non-sleeper-inners, I say get over it. I say when you wake up automatically at 6am, just lay there in bed until the moment passes. Then lay there some more. You don’t “have to” get up and start doing stuff. Who made up those rules?

Just relaaaax….you are getting verrrry sleeeeeepy….

Pretty soon you will be fast asleep again. Trust me it works.

And if it doesn’t.

You’re a freak show.

But I hope we can still be friends.

AND speaking of FRIENDS…

In this scene, Rachel is not a morning person either. Enjoy.



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L6IE8EpfnwU&feature=related

It’s such a funny scene, it has its own Facebook Fan Page:

https://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=222519478237&v=wall&viewas=0#!/group.php?gid=222519478237&v=wall

Morning People

I walked into Starbucks one morning, (and by morning, I mean 11am) and read the following sign posted on a corkboard above the cream and sugar:

40th Anniversary Community Walk.
Lindley Meadow, Golden Gate Park
San Francisco. Saturday, 8am.

Then I read another one:

Writer’s Workshop Series
Saturday- 9am to 5pm

And another one:

Rowing Club!
Saturday, 8am.

Stop. Now just stop!

That is the weekend. You know that part that comes at the end of the work week, when all you want to do is sleep in, chill and relax? Well, at least that’s what I want to do. I mean, just reading all those flyers made me tired.

Maybe it’s age, I don’t know, but after working a forty hour week the last thing I want to do is get up early on a Saturday. So unless you are a parent of small children, (nature’s little alarm clock), I don’t get it.

I had the privilege of sleeping in until 10am on a weekday recently and it was pure heaven.

I could hear birds chirping and lawn mowers going. Flowers looked brighter and the sky was bluer than ever. I felt awake and alive.

I’ve never been a morning person. In the first grade I was made to be a “late bird” in school, meaning I arrived later than my sister who was an “early bird”. I am not sure why they staggered our arrival times, but I like to partly blame my condition on the Martinez Unified School District.

After that, the late bird label just stuck. I just had such a hard time getting up in the morning. And Saturday morning cartoons? Forget about it.

In junior high and high school I always performed terribly in my first two periods of classes. One year I had math first period. I don’t have to tell you that I got a "D" in that class. "D" as in "Donahoe-Don't-Do-Dis!"

You would have thought I would have outgrown my allergy to mornings, but it stayed with me well into my twenties.

From ages 24 to 35, my work hours were sporadic as it was feast or famine in the entertainment industry. One day I would have to be on a movie set at 7am and then the next day I wouldn’t have to be at my desk job until 1pm. That’s how I survived those years.

I also loved going out dancing at clubs or going to concerts any night of the week. Getting home at 3am was no big deal. As long as I didn’t have to be up early the next morning.

I wasn’t always so lucky with that type of flexible work schedule. One time I worked on a movie set where I had to be there every morning at 6:30am for two months and that schedule just about killed me. You would think that my body would switch over and that if I went to bed early, I could get up early.

You would be wrong.

What would happen was, is that I would fall asleep at 8:30pm and then wake up at 2am and then toss and turn and then eventually get up and be miserable, arrive to set with my bloodshot eyes and work another 12 hour day. I just couldn’t catch up on my sleep. No matter how early I went to bed.

Morning air just feels different. Unless it’s the dead of summer, it’s cold and brisk and uninviting as if to say, “go back to bed you worthless human being, we don’t want your kind around here.”

And don’t get me started on how often I have slept through my alarm clock.

These days I work a nine to five job.  But more like a ten to six job, (God bless my boss who is also not a morning person).

There is a message in society that says that those of us who aren’t morning people are lazy. While that might be true of some people, I would say that is not true for most of us who experience nauseous, aka “morning sickness”, when we first wake up and we are not even pregnant.

That’s right, if I get up early in the morning, I sometimes feel literally sick to my stomach. I don’t feel rested.

Maybe it’s because I’m a creative person that I hate mornings? Most artist types I know don’t care for mornings either, they just tolerate it.

Recently, in the San Francisco Chronicle this quote was printed in Leah Garchik’s Public Eavesdropping column:

“Morning people may rule the world, but evening people rule the arts!”

Amen!

and...

Good Night!

©Alessandro de Leo

Girl Interrupted

My desk was piled high with bills, unopened mail, and stack of unread Hollywood Reporter magazines. A free weekly subscription that was being mailed to me as a perk for being a Screen Actors Guild Member was turning into nothing more than a free subscription to dust collectors weekly.

But What I Really Want To Do Is Write

Not that I don’t miss acting, but writing has taken a front seat lately. Although not really, since life has gotten busy. I took a look around my studio apartment and stared at the ideas and thoughts I have for more short stories. My old diaries were out as a reminder to pull from those memories. Call sheets from movies I worked on were propped up against my desk, letting me know I need to put those experiences down on paper as well. And yet I hadn’t blogged in over a week, and that last one was only a photo blog.

Baby Needs a New Pair of Shoes…and a Smart Phone.

“You still have one of those phones?” a fellow actor asked me last weekend as I gave him a ride to a film set. He stared at my Samsung flip phone. “I used to love that phone,” he said in a misty sort of way. Alright, I can take a hint. Baby doesn’t want to become obsolete.

I worked on a film short last weekend that is being entered into a speed filming competition and will be screened at a film festival next month in Los Angeles. For my role as the antagonistic office worker, the wardrobe department requested I bring “upscale business attire” and I own little of the sort. I hate shopping, but all of a sudden the race was on to buy slacks and tailored tops. For those that know me, know I would rather putt around in jeans and tennis shoes all day. But I did it. I took a deep breath, ran into Express and started loading my arms with anything I could get my hands on. It was a speed shopping competition as far as I was concerned. Get in, try it on, and get out. And I did it. I walked away with two pairs of slacks, three shirts, and a sweater. The next morning I arrived on set and I looked good. You see when push comes to shove, baby can do it. She just needs a deadline. And a brand new pair of shoes. And apparently new phone.

R.I.P.?

Have You Ordered Your Starbucks Trenta Today?

My co-worker went to the Bucks and came back with this:

And then I read this:

Proceed with caution!

In Loving Memory - Rascal The Cat

"Rascal" April 1997 to January 11, 2011

Rascal  (pronounced Rascale) was a rescued kitten found hidden in a bag in a dumpster behind Costco- my sister's place of work.

Rascal came home to live with us and become a little brother to our much older 17 year old cat -Geraldine.

Rascal was a friendly playful kitten who would jump high when he was just a baby.  He also attempted to nurse from Geraldine, who, had been fixed and never had children of her own as he brought her new found energy during her last days.

Rascal outlived his younger brother Sven, who died at age 7 of liver disease and he also outlived his brother - Caesar, the pug.

Rascal's fur was silky smooth as he was a very clean and sophisticated cat.

Rascal used to meow at my door in the middle of the night and would sleep with me on my twin size bed.  Of course, I always accomodated him.

When strangers tried to pick him up, he would play possum and make his body dead weight. He was very smart.

Rascal is survived by his younger brother Jack the cat, his mama Sharon, his auntie Theresa and Lynn, his dad, John and his uncles Mike and Steve.

On January 11, 2011, Rascal went to Kitty Heaven.

Rascal you will be missed.

Rascal and me in 2007

The A to Z Writer's Challenge

Writer's Challenge from The Red Dress Club:

"Your assignment this week was to write a 26-sentence piece, fiction or non-fiction, with each sentence starting with the letters of the alphabet in order."

95% of this story is fiction.
5% is non-fiction
The non-fiction part?
The actual email at the end.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A new email from OK Cupid was waiting for Margaret when she got home from work one day.

Brushing past her concerns that this latest email, again, would be written from another loser, she began to open the email but then stopped herself short.

"Courage is all I need," she told herself, "maybe this next email that awaits me will be from my future husband."

Deciding to put it off, Margaret got up and made herself dinner instead.

Even though she wasn't hungry, dinner would be easier to digest than another piece of correspondence that would crush her hopes and dreams of meeting the right man.

Forever, it seemed, that she had been waiting to meet the man of her dreams and at age 33, her biological clock was ticking.

"Goosebumps," she told herself as she ate her macaroni and cheese, "I will know that I will have met my future husband if his first email to me gives me goosebumps."

Hastily, she finished her dinner and decided to give the email another attempt.

In her inbox she stared at the subject line, "Hello Cutie" and she wondered if this guy was being charming or stupid.

"Just in case this guy is a jerk, I am going to put this off a little while longer," she told herself as she got up and away from the computer, once again.

Karen, her older sister, who met her husband right out of college, and never had to deal with this, just then, called Margaret on the phone.

"Little sister," said the soothing voice over the line, "how are you?"

"Miserable," Margaret replied.

"Never give up hope," Karen encouraged her as she knew exactly what Margaret was talking about.

"Obviously you have never been through this long of a waiting period, or you wouldn't be so cheery," Margaret snapped back.

"Please, girl," Karen said, "do you think being married is easier than being single? Quite the contrary!"

"Really, I don't have time for this lecture right now," Margaret said and hung up the phone.

She looked at the stuffed animal on her bed that looked like a cross between a skunk and a Zebra.

"Tell me what to do Xavier," she asked the stuffed pet.

"Undo your past heartbreak and open this email," Xavier told her.

"Very well," Margaret said, and clicked it open and read it.

"Wow, you are beautiful, we should get coffee sometime and by the way, do you smoke weed?"

Xavier and Margaret locked eyes at each other as she pounded the delete button on her keyboard.

"You are definitely a skunk," she told Xavier.

"Zebra, darling, I am a Zebra and never give up on love," he told her as Margaret got up and walked away.

Confessions of a Cat Sitter

I didn't realize the toll the holiday season had on me. I may not hop a plane and travel to other parts of the country during Christmas, but I do pack a bag and live out of a suitcase as I cat-sit for alot of my travelin friends. When my neighbors see me leaving the apartment with my luggage they think I am heading for the airport, but really, I am just heading a few miles away to give the felines lots o love...come to auntie Theresa.

Bianca

Okay, this is the first holiday season that I did not take care of Bianca, but only because her mommy got married and moved further away. Miss you Bianca! You moody little thing -you only let me pet you with broad strokes on your back and nowhere else...

Miss

Thank you Miss for being easy to take care of. Thank you for coming and sitting on my lap while gazing up at me lovingly...

Ditz

WHY DON'T YOU LOVE ME? GET OUT FROM UNDERNEATH THAT GUEST BEDROOM DRESSER DRAWER AND COME TO AUNTIE THERESA!

Jasper

If you want auntie to get up and feed you, you can use your meow. I won't be offended. Must you stare at me until I wake up? Don't be shy....


Oh gawd, I've become a cat lady!

Twas The Night Before Christmas - A Rewrite

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even my spouse;

My stockings, they hung in the shower with care-
In hopes that my kitty cat wouldn’t scratch there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of Wii Games danced in their heads;

And ma in her 'kerchief, and I in my sweats,
Had just settled down and were feeling no frets,

When down by the tree there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away from my husband, I flew like a flash,
Tore open the mace and hid all the cash.

A glare in my eyes at the new fallen lamp
Gave fire inside me more than a camp,

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
A miniature grin and a cat with no fear,

With sharp little paws, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment this cat was so slick.

More rapid than bunnies his running began-
And he traveled and sprinted like he wasn’t a friend;

His little round neck was wearing a bow-
And the drool on his chin was as white as the snow-

His eyes how they twinkled, his whiskers quite merry-
His claws were like daggers, his teeth were quite scary-

As trinket of mine, he held in his teeth-
And I noticed our kitty had knocked down our wreath,

He had a smug face and a big fat belly,
That shook when he ran like a bowl full of jelly.

He was the chubby and plump, the feline from hell-
And I screamed when I saw him, in spite of myself-

A look in his eye and a twist of his head-
Soon let me know that I was better off dead.

He spoke not a word, but went straight for the couch-
And he scratched up the corners while posing a slouch-

He sprang to his feet and cried and meow’d-
And away he had run to the bathroom quite loud-

I crawled back in bed and said to my spouse-
Go back to sleep dear, it was only a mouse.

copyright- Theresa Donahoe

Why I Never Believed in Santa Claus

Hello. My name is Theresa Donahoe and I never believed in Santa Claus.

As a little girl, my parents didn't play the Santa game. When I became an adult I asked my mother why she and my dad didn't do the Santa thing and she responded:

"It was the 70's and you didn't lie to your children."

And let me tell you something.

I never missed it.

You see, children don't really care about Santa Claus. Not really. They care about getting stuff and we don't really care who it comes from as long as we get the stuff.

I remember my dad one year opening up a department store catalog, handing it to me and said, "circle what you want".

I was thrilled. I circled a lot in that catalog! I didn't necessarily get everything I wanted but I was glad I had a vote.

Another year my parents decided it was too much work to wrap the presents. They both worked full time and they had four kids. So, instead, they simply numbered the gifts and then gave each of us a list of corresponding numbers and we would match up our numbers to the presents. So if I got numbers 1 through 10, I looked for gifts numbered 1 through 10. Again, as long as I got the stuff...

Another year we had a money tree. My parents put money in envelopes with our names on it and decorated the tree with them. All four of us tore the tree apart looking for our individual envelopes and afterwards we counted our loot. And we loved it. Off to the mall!!!

As a little girl in the 70's I don't ever remember being asked in school by my teachers "What did Santa get you for Christmas?" Instead, the question we were asked was,"how did you spend your Winter vacation?"

I don't recall talking about Santa in the schoolyard with all the other little girls.

We all knew it was a scam.

I never wanted to sit on Santa's lap in the mall. The thought of sitting on some creepy old stranger's lap terrified me!

These days my extended family only buys presents for the under-18 year olds. This means I only shop for my two nieces. This gives me plenty of time to not stress out over the holidays. The adults simply enjoy eachother's company.

Santa Schmanta!

My name is Theresa Donahoe.

And I never believed in Santa Claus!!


but I do believe in Jesus...

My World According To Spam

According to my email spam account, the world promises me that:

*A beautiful Russian bride name Veronika is hot for me!

*Dr. Ahmed Ibrahim wants me to call him immediately for funds that await me!

*Tis the season to be merry, I can meet my match! Calling all singles!

*Making my male appendage bigger is easy!

*I can become a certified ultrasound technician!

and last but not least...

Another beautiful Russian bride named Tatiana could be mine!

Well, quick! What am I waiting for?

Operation: MESS

They say when organizing your living space, "everything has a place". 

I've never been good at this. Growing up, I would leave a trail of stuff behind after using it.  I might as well have left a sign that read: "Theresa was here". My mom would constantly tell me: "put it back where it belongs!"

But where does it belong?

How does this happen to me?  I spend a weekend cleaning and by the following Wednesday,  the MESS angels are back to greet me. Hello.

They say, "when cleaning your home, to go through each corner and work your way through."


IN THIS CORNER......weighing in at 5 pounds, is a box full of stuff that was brought up from the storage room (for some reason).  But now it just sits in the corner.and has become part of the decor. I believe old shoes are in there and I am scared to see what else I might find.

AND IN THIS OTHER CORNER.....weighing in at approximately 3 pounds is mounds and mounds of old bills that need to be filed away...please, before the year is over!

I take a quick look around and from my bed I see the following:

*A window fan leaning against the wall that I took down in September. I should probably put that in the closet.

*A chair with coats and sweatshirts hung over them.  You mean that's NOT the equivalent of a hanger?

*Another chair with misc.stuff on it like another sweatshirt, old diaries (meant to write a memoir blog with them), old movie call sheets (meant to write a short story with those), and some file folders (that came with a side table I bought for 5 dollars at a garage sale).

*My desk piled high with junk mail, magazines and books I mean to read completely covering the top. Who needs to dust when you have clutter?

My sister even bought me a year's subscription to "Real Simple" magazine once, which had a lot of tips on how to organize my stuff.

Too bad it was added to the paper pile growing on my desk.

I should have a fireplace, because I have alot of kindle.  Er uh, I mean alot to recycle that is.  Save a tree and all.

Okay, enough writing. Let's start cleaning!

Anyone Speak French?

Someone left me a comment in French.  What does this mean?

Il ya évidemment beaucoup de choses à savoir à ce sujet. Je pense que vous avez fait quelques bons points dans les reportages également. Continuez à travailler, excellent travail!   Is any of it profanity?

One Night In The Hipster District

On a Monday night one of my 20-something year old friends, M, asked me to stay over at her place because she was in the mood for company. I said “sure”, grabbed my toothbrush, changed into my sweats and headed out.

10 minutes later, I arrived in her dimly lit quazi-urban-business-district-neighborhood and parked my car outside a Korean restaurant at a meter that would go into effect at 8am the following morning. Across the street was a tall cement building with a neon red sign that flashed the misspelled word “Phychic”.

With pillow in hand and an overnight bag, I rang the doorbell to M’s old apartment building. She answered the door and led me up the steep stairway to the second floor, where I got a whiff of that “old building” smell.

Donning the walls in the living room were a mish mash of multi-colored wall blankets, grandma’s old stitch art and something that looked to be a paper mache eagle that hung in the corner above a small television set equipped to only play DVDs and VHS tapes.

Leaning against the walls were a cello and some random acoustic guitars belonging to her 23 year old hipster phantom roommate who was never home.

“I haven’t seen her around lately,” M told me. “Thanks for coming over.”

M heated up some macaroni and cheese for me in her kitchen. I took my bowl of late dinner into her living room and chatted with her as she folded laundry.

As M talked about the trials of loss she was recently experiencing she mentioned that she wished for more people around her these days. When I asked her if her roommate had been there for her at all during this rough time in her life, she responded:

“Yeah, well, she gave me a hug and then made me a playlist on her I-tunes called, “Get Well M.”

When we were ready to call it a night, M pulled out a futon for me from her roommate’s bedroom that was right next to the living room where I would be sleeping. We gathered blankets to ensure my comfort and warmth, especially since most of the rooms in the apartment had a window opened a slight crack so that M could enjoy the fresh air. Her fresh air was my igloo.

“There’s also a heater here,” she showed me assuredly, pointing at the manual wall heater.

As I got ready for futon, I brushed my teeth in her “old, but isn’t it cool?” bathroom complete with fading floor tile and a scratched up bathtub. “Landlords must love this generation,” I thought, “they won’t insist at all on upgrading this place.” As I flossed away I noticed some cassette tapes and a tape player sitting on a shelf. These had to belong to the hipster roommate. I asked M about it.

“Your roommate plays tapes?”

“Yeah,” she replied sarcastically, “isn’t it ironic?”

Well, that all depends.

i•ron•ic ˌ(ī-ˈrä-nik ) also i•ron•i•cal:

“Poignantly contrary to what was expected or intended.”

The hipster-critic online dictionary describes cassettes being as ironic as:

“…another recycled toy for a bored generation that otherwise stands for nothing but faux-nostalgic brand uber-consumerism.”

Alanis Morisette describes ironic as: “rain on your wedding day.”

Curled up in my blankets I laid there staring at the street light reflection that spilled onto the living room walls. I thought about the day for awhile and as I tossed and turned my 40 year old body, I begin to drift to sleep.

Not long after that at about 11:30pm I heard the slam of a door below me. Half asleep I thought maybe it was the neighbors. Then I heard the shutting of a door to my right and saw the lights go on underneath the bottom crack of the door.

It was the phantom hipster roommate.

I pretended to be asleep as she opened the door again and tip toed over me, through the hall and into the bathroom. A few minutes later she tip toed back out, walked past me and shut her bedroom door again. There was a pause for a moment. And then I heard singing.

“Oh no,” I thought. “Is this what it’s going to be like all night?”

It wasn’t. Phantom open her bedroom door again, turned off her light and skipped past me, huddled down the front stairs and slammed the door into the night. I peaked outside through the front living room window, but Phantom was gone. I missed her. I never saw her face.

The next morning M asked me, “was she here last night?”

“Yes,” I said, “she came by.”

M went to the bathroom and then came out.

“She took her toothbrush.”

Ah, just another Monday night in the Hipster District.

It was a rather cold morning that I wasn’t prepared for. I thought about borrowing a coat from M for the ride home when I noticed a bag of old clothes next to the wall heater. They were left there from Phantom to be given to Goodwill. Inside it was a big green long coat lined with a furry cream colored fabric. I tried it on in front of M and we laughed.

I looked in the bathroom mirror at my reflection. It was too big for me, but very warm, so I took it.

We said our goodbyes and while M got into the shower, I packed up, folded the blankets, rolled the futon up, and walked down the steep set of stairs. Wearing my new oversized hipster coat, I walked to my car just in time before the street meters started working and drove off to my boringly normal residential neighborhood to get ready for work.

Life at 40- The Holidaze

"All this year's been a busy blur, don't think I have the energy.." - "Christmas Wrapping" by The Waitresses
------------------------------------------------------------------------
This is how I feel right now. Except for me, it's just been this week that has been a blur. The first official week of being 40 years old and I have been greeted with:

*A cold and other ailments that are still lingering.  My throat started hurting last Friday (my actual birthday) accompanied with cramps.  The cramps are gone, but the blowing of my nose every 5 minutes lives on....

*A brochure in the mail from John Muir Hospital that read, "Problem With Bladder Leaks?"  No, but I am having a problem with the mailing lists I have been put on.

*North Korea possibly trying to start WW3 - I will always remember my 40th birthday with this current event

Well, at least I got to spend last weekend celebrating my 40th birthday on the coast with my family (official blog pending).  Then I came home and stayed in bed, away from work, for two days.   When I told my mom this, she reminded me I get this type of flexibility in the workplace because I work for the Government.  I gotta admit- working for the State has its perks. It doesn't always suck.

I arose on Wednesday to go to work for a couple of hours and still felt light headed.  Later on that night I met up with some friends from dance class to have another 40th celebration dinner.  I requested garlic mashed potatoes from the chef and he did not disappoint:

After dinner, Tati insisted on putting all forty candles on the cake Peggy made me. Someone call the fire department:

Tati also made me a birthday hat. I know you can't tell from this picture, but the hat has a kitty on it and it reads my 40 year old birth announcement: IT'S A GIRL!

So nice of them to whip up a dinner for me so close to Thanksgiving. I was surprised that people were around during the holidays.  I also received scented candles from Newman, chocolate from Tom and Rachel and flowers from Tati/David & Cynthia:

And that was my Thanksgiving EVE...

On Thanksgiving Thursday, I picked up my 86 year old grandma (who lives 20 minutes from me) and we ventured out into the snow to the town of Antioch to my brother's house.  

After being in the car for about an hour and 15 minutes we arrived.  We I lounged around until the turkey and (more mashed potatoes!) were ready.  The Dallas game hummed in the background as teenagers occupied the upstairs for most of the day and only came down to greet us adults when necessary.

I love teenagers. I wish I still was one. They are like cats. You have to let them come to you.  Here kitty kitty kitty:

After our bellies were full and our conversations were satisfied, my grandmother and I headed out of Dodge Antioch only to be stuck in the snow traffic for two hours before we were arrived home and safe in our beds.  Darn the holidays can be rough! You know you live close to your family when a measly two hour drive can ruffle your feathers, instead of say, a 7 hour plane ride (TSA pat-down time not included).

I woke up this morning and started blowing my nose again.  I haven't lifted a finger all day.  Well, except to type this.

Happy Holidaze!

In Loving Memory

“39” breathed her last breath on November 19, 2010 at 12:00am when she lost her long-fought brave battle with 40. May “39” rest peacefully.

“39” was born November 19, 1970 in Oakland, California and was the youngest of four children. “39” worked as a State employee in the Management Services Division for the Regional Water Quality Control Board in Oakland.

“39” is survived by her nieces, “9”, “13” & “19”. She also survived by her cousins, “26” & “30”.

“39” is preceded in death by her parents, “66” & “68” and her siblings, “41”, “43” & “45”.

Private services will be held on Friday, November 19, 2010 at an undisclosed location along the coast of hwy 1 in Santa Cruz County .

Please send virtual flowers and Starbucks gift cards to Theresa Donahoe’s Facebook page.

Failed!

Well, I already forgot to write in my blog every day. So much for NaBloPoMo - "National Blog Posting Month".

Is this why I did poorly in school? My lack of follow through?

"Does not live up to full potential. Sometimes I think Theresa is not with us" - 4th grade report card

In Ms. Smith's 4th grade class is when my grades started slipping. Up to that point I had received straight G's in elementary school. That's right- we got G's instead of A's.

G= Good
S= Satisfactory
N=Needs improvement.

I got my first "S" in Ms. Smith's class.

The problem that year was that I had a seat by the window. Rule #1 - never put baby in a corner and  Rule #2 - never, ever, under any circumstances put little Theresa Donahoe by a window.

I would daydream incessantly as Ms. Smith rambled on and on about something or the other and then one day my drifting attention span caught her attention.

It was just like any other day, school started, I sat down and at some point stopped listening. I gazed out window yonder to escape the mundane-ness of  fourth grade. Soon Ms. Smith's voice became a blur and was about as intelligible as the school teacher in Peanuts. "Waaa waaa waahh waah..."

As her mumbling got louder and louder, it didn't occur to me that she was coming right at me...louder and louder...I still stared at the window. Nothing would break my gaze with nature and sunlight. "Waaah waaah waaah"...louder and louder....

Finally she was right in front of me and SNAP! She abruptly pulled the blinds down to the window and I jumped slightly in my chair.

"Sometimes I think Theresa is not with us..."

Ironically, that was the same grade I started developing my writing skills. That was the same grade that Ms. Smith told me, "Oh Theresa I just love your stories."

But she didn't like my daydreaming. She didn't realize that the same imagination that wrote those stories was the same one that caused me to look out the window to keep myself from being bored in her class.

Here's to you Ms. Smith. May I reach my full potential.

Confessions of a White Mexican

“Habla Espanol?” I was asked the other day.

I always give the same answer.

“Un poquito.” (“a little”)

It still surprises me when I get this question, because you see, to most people, they only see my fair skin. Only those of Mexican descent seem to sniff me out.

“You are Hispanic, aren’t you?” A young woman asked me.

Shocked, I nodded. “Yes, how did you know?”

“I know my people,” she said confidently.

I was born a Carlos Murphy. I am part Mexican, part Irish and other things white. But all this really means is that I can celebrate Cinco de Mayo and St. Patrick’s Day. With genes like mine I should be a devoted Catholic with a drinking problem. But I’m not.

As far as showing any true signs of “mex-nicity”, I cannot tell a lie. You see I wasn’t really raised en el barrio. I was raised in a two-story house with a swimming pool.

I’ve never been to a quinceanera, I didn’t grow up eating mole, and, much to my boss’s, (Senorita Torres) horror, I have never had a tres leche cake before. She learned this soon after she hired me.

“You have never had a tres leche cake?” She gasped.

“No.”

“You are such a white Mexican!” She declared.

“Do you subscribe to Latina magazine?” She prodded.

“No.”

“You are such a white Mexican!” She repeated.

“Do you want my latest copy of Latina magazine?” She tried again.

I paused.

“No.” I decided.

“Theresa, you are such a white Mexican!”

What can I say? It was my great grandparents that came to this country from Mexico. Mi familia has been in the Estados Unidos for quite some time.

And it shows.

My grandmother was born in Southern California and learned English in elementary school. Her family moved to the Bay Area where she met my grandfather, also of Mexican descent. They got married and then did something totally illegal and against Mexican law.

They only had one child. My mother.

I am surprised they didn’t get kicked out of the Catholic Church for their sin.

Even though, growing up, I was told I was half Mexican, I didn’t really know what that meant. I even told my mother, “but you don’t look Mexican.” She replied, “that’s because I am your mother.”

I think I thought the term “Mexican” meant “different” and to me, having a mom with a darker complexion than myself was normal. It was all that I knew.

One time she brought home two dolls for my sister and me to play with. One was white and the other one was brown. I grabbed the brown doll because she reminded me of my mother. I named the doll Heidi.

Not “Conchita”, or “Rosa”, or “Consuelo”. But Heidi.

My grandparents didn’t teach my mother Spanish and the only reason why I know any Spanish at all is because I took two years of it in high school. But I can do the best Nacho Libre accent around. I can say the following sentence in perfect dialect:

“My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”

My only true “Mexican” memory I have growing up is of my great grandma Ortensia making tortillas from scratch. They were sooooo good. I do remember my other great grandma Lupe, sitting in a wheel chair and speaking no English. But they both died when I was quite young.

My sister and I had ponchos when were little. Does that count as Mexican? But it was also the 70’s and I think everybody had ponchos back then.

Why do people give me grief for not being Mexican enough? What about the rest of me? How come no one has ever asked me, “Theresa, you don’t play darts and drink whiskey? I thought you were Irish!”

Now, what’s that all about?

It is what it is. I will not apologize for not liking spicy food that burns my tongue and upsets my stomach. Or that I converted from the Catholic Church to a non-denominational Christian one. Or for the fact that when I use the word “cousin,” I really only mean “my first cousin on my father’s Irish side.”

My name is Theresa Ann Donahoe.

And I am a white Mexican.

Birth Order Predictor Quiz

I took a Birth Order Predictor Quiz and these were my results.  Although, not entirely accurate, I was tickled that they got me on my first try:

You Are Likely A Fourth Born

At your darkest moments, you feel angry. At work and school, you do best when your analyzing. When you love someone, you tend to be very giving. In friendship, you don't take the initiative in reaching out. Your ideal jobs are: factory jobs, comedy, and dentistry. You will leave your mark on the world with your own personal philosophy.

The Birth Order Predictor

Blogthings: Learn Something Surprising About Yourself

It's That Time of Year Again!

The best television reality show of all, SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE, is having auditions right here in Oaktown!

This is me outside the Paramount Theater while others are on the inside getting their groove on!

Why don't I audition? Cuz I'm too old and even when I was in my prime, I couldn't do all the fancy tricks the youngsters are doin these days!

DANCE!

Last Will and Testament

When I was in my early twenties, I asked a 50-something co-worker the question, "at what age do people stop describing you as being young?"

This question did not sit well with her and she refused to answer.

But another middle-aged co-worker overheard our conversation and leaned over and whispered to me:

"When you turn 40."

As my thirties come to a close next month, I feel the need to mourn the death of my "youth". How will I do this? Will I wear sackcloth and ashes as they did in biblical times? Will I give away any clothes left in my closet deemed "too inappropriate" for my more mature age group?

I know. I will start the mourning process by writing a will.

Last Will and Testament

I, THERESA DONAHOE, residing at OAKLAND, CA, being of sound mind, do hereby make, publish and declare this to be my Last Will and Testament and do revoke any and all other Wills and Codicils heretofore made by me.

1.1 - I leave my "how to have youthful skin" secrets to my female friends that are still in their thirties. In the wise words of my Mexican Grandmother: "moisturize, moisturize, moisturize." And don't forget to moisturize your neck.

2.1 - I leave my "dance all night at the club" energy to Brandileigha Stracner, who, at age 25, still has a lot of good clubbin years left in her. Stay out as late as you want and don't come home till 3am for as long as you can. Don't believe you have to work a 9 to 5 in order to be a grown up. You don't.

3.1 - I leave all of my cute shoes that absolutely have no arch support to Christine Beitsch. That woman can walk in anything. Of course I only maybe have one pair of cute shoes left.

4.1 - I leave all of my size four pants to Goodwill. Come, take them away before I try to pathetically muffin-top my way back into them!

5.1 - I leave my "I don't have to worry about anything because I am too young to be in charge" attitude to my 19 year old niece, Brittany. How I envy you.

6.1 - I leave my "I don't have to worry about anything cuz I'm the baby of the family" attitude to.......well,....no one. That one's a keeper and continues to serve me well. Muuhaahaaa. Maybe I will leave that one behind when I turn 50.

OMG. Am I really gonna turn 50 in 10 years??

WHY GOD WHY??