Pumpkin & Booze: a Cure to Colds and Young Adulthood

Bonjour, & bienvenidos to a month after I said I'd be finished with this blog. Anyone surprised? No? Great, let's eat.

Ingredients

• Parents
• Compliments
• Pumpkins
• Celebrities
• Parties

Instructions

When you are an early 20's female in NYC, all of the above are potentially problematic. Take the glaring example of pumpkin: 

Yeah, this article interesting, click it..

Why does this innocent gourd deserve such fiercely loaded judgment &, thusly, protection? You don't see my listing pattypan squash or zucchini or kabocha up there-- why do they get away scot-free? 

I mean, the real reason is because I didn't go home to Ohio to have homemade Krieg's Itz the Berries annual kabocha frozen custard or Homemade Mitchell's Ice Cream's special zucchini fall flavor. SHIT no. I went home to get some PUMPKIN. TWICE. DAMN STRAIGHT. So that's why that's there. And also to provide a sweet transition to: parents.

Indeed, I flee-ed to the Cleve a few weekends ago, thanks to the extra time awarded to me by the national holiday celebrating massacres and a man compelled by Spanish greed-- thanks to it, but not because of it. No, I would've been forced to fly home whether or not I was able to spend more than 12 hours there. My mother made a bold move: she pulled her "I never make you do anything" card to require my presence at my cousin Kelly's wedding shower. A card that, sadly (really only for her), is 100% valid; my mom historically never makes me do anything. The closest she's come has been not letting me do something. I wasn't allowed to participate in both my high school senior spring play and the annual Lorain International Princess Pageant, which I'd wanted to do because this same cousin Kelly won 3rd Runner Up & thus local celebrity as the German Princess in 2003. Now, I'm not saying that the bridal shower of one of my top favorite cousins is not worth a card pulling. It's simply that you'd think my mom would pull this highly valuable, pretty much one-time-only card on, I don't know, her inevitable retirement party or making me move my crap out of her basement. Nope; she's selfless. And, even if I could only be in Ohio for 5 hours, I was to be at Quarry Hill Winery in Vermillion, OH at 1pm on Saturday.

Obviously, this meant that when I woke up Friday morning with a sore throat, congested head, and body aches, I was going to have to suck. it. up. I drank an entire 56 oz jug of orange juice that day. I also performed in an improv show downtown that started at 10:30pm and then got to bed at 2am, with my alarm set for 5:50am the next morning.

Now, don't hide what you're thinking-- "if you couldn't breathe out of any nostril, barely got through work, and felt dizzy in Candy Land all day, why on earth would you go perform in an indie improv show in the East Village?!" No one was making me do it. However, one does not simply bail day-of when they're part of a 7-person team and 2 people already said that they couldn't make it days ago. Also, it was in a really great venue, OK?!

But still.

I successfully wake up at 5:50am, though mainly because I can't breathe. Zombie-like, I travel train & bus from Queens to New Jersey to my gate just as boarding began, which is fine since I fly standby and we get the leftover seats. Unless... there are none. In a haze, I sit there wondering why my name isn't being called, until I finally notice the crowd of others waiting. 

I dedicated myself to <4 hours of sleep and a trip to New Jersey but DIDN'T EVEN BOTHER to check the flight availability before I left the house? Honestly, at this point, I don't know who I am anymore (though that could've been the snot and lack of sleep). The 67 available seats-- that there were yesterday at 9pm, clearly the most relevant time to now-- are now 2 seats, and instead of being 3rd I am now 25th on the standby list. But they (my dad) don't call me the Luckiest Pass Rider in the World for nothin'. Oh, right; that's who I am: Economy Plus on an impossible flight.

Ohio ETA: 10:50am
My bed ETA: 11:35am
Departure for wedding shower ETA: 12:30pm
Shower at a winery with homemade apple cider sangria: 1 to 5pm
Pumpkin frozen custard + farm apple stand ETA: 5:15pm
Comcast On-Demand so I can finally watch "Mr. Robot" ETA: 6pm
Sleep: 9:30pm

10:00am: WE'RE GOING TO A MOTHA-F*#$IN' ISLAND

Oh, you thought that after exhausting my sickly narcoleptic body through 3 hours of sleep, a flight, a 40 min nap, and 4 hours of pure adrenaline partying that I'd not be expected to go to "the Key West of the North" in the middle of October? Then you must've forgotten my mother's card. Ah, yes, when you wrap it all together, my mother was using her untapped parenting power to force her 24-year-old square & stuffed-up daughter to party non-stop. 

At 11:15am, we board the Miller Ferry to Put-In-Bay Island, the "crown jewel of Lake Erie"-- indeed, the Key West of the North. Other than being the favored locale for the Scherach & Rupp families (mine) to drink and eat (mainly drink) in a marathon-like fashion, PIB actually holds awesome historical significance. I grew up thinking that Oliver Hazard Perry's famous Battle of Lake Erie won the War of 1812, but now I'm not sure if that's true. It was a major battle, though, and it was from the harbor called Put-in-Bay that Perry sailed to defeat the British fleet and gain command of Lake Erie. Perry was one eloquent dude, and through this battle he gifted America with "We have met the enemy and they are ours..." and the less widespread "Don't give up the ship" that was printed on his battle flag, which I think is pretty badass-- and which PIB's Perry's Monument has printed on a lot of T-Shirts and tote bags, so sue me if I want one.

<3

Adult children know when to power through. I don't drink the traditional starter/breakfast drink of a Bloody Mary stuffed with a pickle and meat stick at a dive called Joe's Bar. I do drink a hot mulled spice wine at the boiled down Oktoberfest, as Oktoberfests on a summer destination island of 138 permanent residents on a Sunday football afternoon tend to boil down to. At one point, I become so focused and intensely enraged at this bigoted, white-haired redneck (I'll say it if it's true) singing and playing guitar on top of a round bar fully surrounded by Cleveland Browns-clad Ohioans cheering him and his backwards insensitive jokes on... so intensely focused probably due to my cold meds. Yet, in the spirit of a family wedding shower, I hold back from interrupting his act and possibly angering a crowd of tipsy Midwestern football fans. Sometimes you have to hop into a 10-person golf cart, sip a mini plastic cup of wine, and let it go. 

There's nothing like drinking Pink Catawba Wine, of the Catawba Islands of Lake Erie,
in convenient plastic cups.

I not only survive but also feel surprisingly better; must be that fresh lake water air. I wake up for the last hoorah-- being fitted for a bridesmaid's dress for cousin Kelly's sister (also known as my cousin)'s wedding. Then, my mom and I stop at the "nice" mall before going to the airport, and if you were wondering where the other ingredients were coming in, they occur here.

Parents: While sitting at Panera, my mom asks if I've been flossing. If not, I should, because my breath smells; she barely got through our order at the counter. Thanks. Also, I'm to "stop it, with your hands." I've got this sub-conscious twitch with my right hand that I've been trying to lessen, but leave it to one's mother to stomp it out without any explanation other than a firm "stop." Walking around, my mother notes that I am wearing 2 different socks, which my dad had already managed to mention within an hour of my being home two days ago. With different different socks.

Compliments: While on the phone outside of Teavanna, where my mother is purchasing some Oprah Chai Tea only because it's on sale, because it is UNREAL expensive, a young woman smiles at me and quietly offers, "I love your outfit." I'm taken aback by a few things: 
1. her confidence to say something not 100% direly necessary to a stranger; 2. her unknown reasoning of why this kind thought was important enough to interrupt my phone call; and 3. that someone complimented my entire outfit. I am not an icon of fashion and this was so important enough. I smile a slowly formed (due to shock) smile and thank her genuinely. 

The next compliment I receive from a stranger-- I forgot that that must happen a lot in Ohio!-- is at the Cleveland Airport. It's been a textbook beautiful, sunny, perfect day thus far with my mother and the dress and the mall, so when the middle-aged TSA security agent who checks my boarding pass and ID looks from my ID to me and says, "You lowered your ears... It's cute!", I bumble through initial shock, again, to a "thank you, " smile, and laugh. As my chuckle begins, though, I realize how freaking weird & potentially inappropriate it is for this TSA agent to tell me that my haircut is "cute," but at that point I'm taking off my belt and shoes for some other guy. 

This is fine; I excuse it on the basis of this is Ohio and things are different here than in New York, where I typically yell obscenities or shout "Shut up!" to any male stranger who says anything complimentary to me. The other day some jackass young guy was loitering in the Duane Reade check-out area. I couldn't get past him, so we did that fun little dance, which he soundtracked throughout with his creepy, "Oh, hello," "You wanna dance?" and "Hey, good day to you, too, beautiful"-- shit like that. As I finally got around him, I yelled, in front of a long line of customers, "Shu-ut up!" over my shoulder and proceeded to pay for my bag of pretzels. I'm not proud of how much I shout or swear at catcallers in public, because that's honestly not the best way to handle the situation-- but, for this shy Grandma-like Midwestern gal, that's simply what comes out.

Celebrities: An angel from my improv class is a swing (like an understudy, but for many character tracks) in "Hamilton," which is currently the hottest ticket on Broadway in years-- sold out until at least January with those tickets at $200+. It tells the story of Alexander Hamilton using rap and hip-hop, told by a non-white cast, and one isn't to listen to the soundtrack before watching it onstage. It is nearly impossible to see, and I had fully accepted I'd see it in, like, 2 years. But this talented angel happened to be on that night, so he offered my class a few standing room tickets for FORTY DOLLARS. I'm still in shock that I saw it and had such a great view! Anyways, back to the important part: He takes the 3 of us who attended backstage, where I see my female friend who is a swing, and. Also. So You Think You Can Dance Season 3 finalist Neil Haskell, aka also a swing who was on that night, aka also the high school celebrity crush obsession of my friend Lindsey and me circa 2007 to 2009. One never imagines they'll meet their first celebrity crush and I'm now standing 10 feet away from him. It was, honestly, bafflingly funny and unreal to me, because when we were "obsessed" with him, we were 16 and never dreamed of meeting him, so that gave us permission to be silly and playfully dramatic about it. But there he was.

We were 16. Come on.

And then. Then suddenly there also was. In addition. JENNIFER ANISTON.

Perhaps you don't know, but I am, not playfully, obsessed with "Friends." It was monumental in my formative years. As I've mentioned before, I timed out the completion of the 10 DVD box-sets from 7th grade to my high school graduation, so that as I was leaving my best friends at the finale of our childhood, I would simultaneously watch the "Friends" finale with my best friends at a party; I'd had it planned for years. It was an emotional mistake that will forever embed "Friends" into every fiber of being of my adolescence. Without any agency of my own freewill, "Friends" will always be my favorite show and Jennifer Aniston one of my favorite actors. 

Imagine being flanked on the same stage by two people who, on two totally different levels of celebrity, were strangely both largely emotionally tied to your high school years. Lindsey was also my "Friends"-watching confidant, so I began sending strong SOS signals to her from my beating heart. I felt like I was going to puke, in my own little world, unable to hold a conversation. I walked over to my female swing friend and her boyfriend-- also my friend-- and told them what was going on with my body/mind/vomit. She says,

"Oh my gosh! You have to tell him."

Both her boyfriend and me: "NOOO." 

She proceeds to say that "OMG he's so weird, he'll love it, you have to, when else would you ever get to blah blah blah" and of course she's right-- why the hell not? Since she walks over to get him from the other side of the stage, I know she's definitely already primed him. When they all try to be civil and introduce me like I'm a normal person, I shake his hand and then cut the crap.

"OK, so, just being honest/just so you know/you should know (I blacked out, I don't know), you were my first ever celebrity crush."

Continue black out. All I remember was mentioning Lindsey and spouting a few unnecessary lies, such as that I was 14 that summer and that it was the first reality show we'd ever watched-- as if these made it more innocent-- and also as if that would make it less awkward-- as if it even needed to be awkward. I distinctly did say, "It was a weird summer." 

I didn't meet Jen, but I didn't want to; it wasn't my time. Not yet. But Neil Haskell, hottie of 2007 to roughly 2009, did ask me where I studied improv, twice, and took a picture with me where I was trying to make some sort of cool ironic face but instead look like I'm crying. 

No, if I'd have known I was to need to make a good impression, I wouldn't have worn my box-like Limited Too jacket, thanks for asking.

Anyone keeping a scoreboard of how difficult it is to be a 24-year-old white lower-middle-class female in a big city, that's another tally in the Inconsequential and Annoying category. 

What this recipe shows is that my parents, though states away, are still so actively involved in my life that they can smell my breath and force me to suck up a cold for family time; that, despite popular belief, young women can be intelligent and still love pumpkin; that discerning how to react appropriately to compliments from strangers is a complicated and difficult issue for young women; and that, at this time, I am not emotionally fit enough to meet celebrities on the spot. It appears there is learning and growing to be done!

Wouldn't it be nice if we were all as poised as Jen? As financially independent as Jen? As trained at taking compliments as Jen? As not required to go to events when she's ill or tired as... Oh, no. Jen's life is not perfect. And if I want to be a successful and respected actor like her, that means that partying even when I don't want to doesn't have an end in sight... 

Better get me a Bloody Mary with a meat stick.




For a taste of what PIB is like when I'm not sick, here are different shots of my mother and I eating and drinking in the span of 1 day:

And this doesn't even show the winery.

11,551 Island Dressing

Ingredients

• $2.75 (or $116.50; depends on how you take your Metrocard)
• 2 miles
• Only 1 pharmacy
• Only 1 grocery store
• Only 2 churches
• Only 1 Starbucks
• An outdoor gym with outdoor gym machines
• A fleet of red trolley busses
• Carrot jam
• Remnants of a smallpox hospital now riddled with cats

Instructions

What do FDR, Gristedes, and New York City's 6th oldest house have in common? 

BOOM: TRAM.

TRAM.

TRAM.

Sorry, I got a little carried away there. I meant

ROOSEVELT ISLAND TRAM.

Roosevelt Island is an island-- one of Manhattan's many small, seemingly sparse, sometimes forgotten moons. It doesn't have a beach and you shouldn't expect mojitos and daiquiris on the reg'. But it does have only one Starbucks, and that's enough to get me listening.

(Of course I know that the line for that one Starbucks must be annoying as balls-- Gosh!!)

If you haven't ever been to Roosevelt Island, what are you doing. Seriously. What are you doing right now that is more important than visiting a hidden gem of history, mystery, beauty, privacy, Mayberry? A "new town in town" (quote from the '60s) where everyone knows your name (gross generalization we made today)-- where, as a visitor, you run into the one sole person you know that lives on the island within your first 10 minutes there. That is actually true. And the island does actually have remnants of a smallpox hospital now riddled with cats. And merely one Duane Reade. And, as its primary/only grocery store, a Gristedes-- how very Manhattan. It's indeed part of the borough of Manhattan, actually-- didja know that?

Didja know that NYC bought the island in 1828 to create a "city of asylums," including a prison and a building literally called the Lunatic Asylum? That, in the Lunatic Asylum, famed journalist Nellie Bly way early originated the plot of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" by posing as an "insane" Cuban immigrant and then publishing "Ten Days in a Madhouse?" 

Didja know that the one of the island's previous owners' great-great-grandsons, Jacob Blackwell, built the Blackwell House, which is now NYC's 6th oldest house? And that Great-Great-Grandpa Blackwell's wife was another previous island owner (John Manning)'s daughter, and that Manning was banished from NYC to his own island on charges of "cowardice" due to surrendering Fort James while the governor was away?

Didja know that you can buy Carrot or Beet or Rosehip Jam in Polish Foods section of the "Mega" Gristedes?!

Didja know that the tram only costs ONE METROCARD SWIPE?

Anyways, back to the Mayberry-esque feel of Roosevelt Island: the population of 11,551 seems very large for what we saw. Folks milling about Main Street (the only street; how jaw-dropping cute), families darting on playgrounds, couples relaxing on the park lawns, a Subway being the only fast food. We saw one Chinese place, one Italian, one Japanese, and one all-around American restaurant-- + one NYC-normal street-fruit stand, one hot dog/pretzel cart, and one subway station. The population number almost matches my hometown's, which is a suburb of a suburb and owner of a movie theatre with one screen. 

Alright, I've now fallen asleep approximately 3 times whilst trying to upload some sweet ass pics from my FDR Island Adventure today, clearly to no avail. That's what happens when you only take 1 narcolepsy pill but walk a 2-mile island in the 90-degree heat under a blazing sun. I'm even chewing gum to keep me awake-- yeah, chewing gum while accidentally falling asleep in uncomfortable, unnatural positions... My writing involves a fair amount of personal risk. Physically dangerous. Some might call it a choking hazard. 

And this is what daily blogging looks like.

"If you like piña coladas, and getting drunk in the rain..." "It's five o'clock somewhere..." "Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama... I wanna take you down to Kokomo. We'll get their fast and then we'll take it slow. That's where we want to go-o-o... Way down to ROOSEVELT ISLAND USING THE AERIAL TRAM."

Get there now. It's an island with one Starbucks, and I'm not going to say it again.

(Oh, here we go: Team Tram!)

All-Natural, Grass-Fed Human Laws

Ingredients

• 1 person, other than the performers, in the audience of your improv gig... and it's your roommate
• 1 actual 16-year-old in your commercial audition (for a 16-year-old)
• 1 totally separate actual 16-year-old playing your friend in your filmed scene (as a 16-year-old)
• 2 overnight shoots
• 2 times that you throw up in front of your date
• 2 weeks until your day job starts
• $3 for a bottle of water
•  3 career aptitude tests
• 3 teenage tutoring clients
• 4 days as the only woman with 3 straight guys
•  $4 pints of pre-made margaritas
• 4 days in New Jersey

Instructions

1, 2, 3, 4. The simplest numbers... a pattern as old as time (not really, technically.) Today's recipe is brought to you by the idea that all of life's greatest mysteries can be solved by life's simplest lessons-- lessons so basic, so ingrained that they're easily forgotten. But enough with this flippancy! Castrate your carelessness! Do you see that list of ingredients up there? You don't have time for this forgetful nonsense-- you must dig way down deep and selflessly extract some Laws of Nature, or else you'll continue to be subjected to date vomits, shocking career test results, and countless days in New Jersey. 

Lucky for you, I spent the last 2 weeks excavating incredibly simple, inherently necessary human lessons to help you process this batch of ingredients. I know we're working with the basic numbers 1 through 4 so far (totally arbitrarily, by the way), but, since you've all been such good kids lately, I thought I'd spoil you a bit with DOUBLE the amount of Natural Laws-- that's right, double that arbitrary number of 4! Get these 8 Laws into your body, because summer is almost over; the ocean can't wash off your mistakes much longer.

Law #1:

Anything in a script that takes place during the nighttime will be shot during the nighttime. 

(That means that, even though you have narcolepsy, you can’t avoid overnight shoots. Welcome to the rest of your career!)

Law #2:

Drinking on an empty—entirely empty—stomach is never a good idea. 

(That means that, even though you weren’t hungry, that little voice in the back of your head telling you to eat something all day was right. Ms. Monday Fun-day, say "Hellooo!" to Ruined Tuesday!)

Law #3:

When you’re 5’1, roughly 100 pounds, cute, and blonde, don't be surprised when you keep getting type cast as a high school cheerleader. 

(That means that, even though you are 24 and never were anything remotely close to a cheerleader in terms of both physical ability and popularity, you’ll finally be able to live out that childhood adult dream. Cue Hilary Duff's "What Dreams Are Made Of!")

Wanna play a game called "Spot the Real High Schoolers?" 

Law #4:

When you don’t get a weekly paycheck, you don’t get weekly money. 

(That means that, even though you’re tutoring at $90/hour, you won’t see that lump sum of money until the middle of next month when your paycheck comes. Another dinner of homemade, bulk black bean/quinoa/lentils/rice mash, please!)

Law #5:

People like it when you treat them like people. 

(That means that, even though there is one sole woman hanging with you and your boys, you can still tell your boner stories and make explicit sex jokes! Does this mean you really needn't mention how she's cool "not like most girls" and you don't have to reassure her that she’s funny-- no, like, really funny--  at some point, completely out of context? MIND BLOWN!)

 

Law #6:

Deals on alcohol are no different than deals in the clearance section. 

(That means that, even though it’s $4 Margarita Monday, you don’t really want those margaritas. Mmm, this drink tastes not nearly as good as how quickly it was prepared!)

Law #7:

Career aptitude tests make you feel bad about your life. 

(That means that, even though you already know what you want to do and are simply taking a few tests for fun, seeing "Clergy" as your top match is confusing and upsetting. Ooo, here, a "Vice President," you say?? Ain't nothing like knowing I should aim for 2nd best!)

Law #8:

Any venue's drink minimum also applies to you. 

(That means that, even though you've decided not to drink for a while [see above] and you're performing at this comedy venue, you're not special so you're not exempt. That's right, "strongly encouraged" actually means "if you don't, you're an a$$hole!")

NO. No, YOU'RE NOT.
BUY THE $3 WATER BOTTLE.

... Fun stuff, right? I can see that your body is adapting to the rediscovery of these innate truths, and I hate to interrupt enlightenment. So, I'm going to let you sit motionless & affected for a bit while I go make myself a smoothie. You be careful out there, ya here? There's teenagers in these hills... Let's not make the same mistakes they're making. 

Post Script

We've hit the final countdown, lovers. There are only FIFTEEN (15) more recipes left before we hit the mark! It's only taken 2+ years, too! In honor of true & tangible DISASTER, these last 15 recipes will be coming at you daily. That's right. I said DAILY recipes for complete and utter total devastation to your livelihood. I'll see you on the flip-side on September 17th. 

Thanks, Michael.

REM & Coke: Lime Wedge and Pillow Optional

Ingredients

• 1 NYC restaurant host
• Crap damaged hypocretin
• A Lenten bedtime
• National Sleep Awareness Week!

Instructions

If... 

Please excuse me while I drop my head back and gape my mouth open for five minutes. 

Sorry about that. Now, what do these ingred...

Please excuse me while I consciously subject myself to a predictably open-ended and regrettable supine break atop my made bed. 

Oh, shit. Is that... what is that buzzing? Did something bad happen-- it's always something bad, isn't it?! Buzzing, ringing, vibrating... Ah, my phone! Alarm? Agh, what time is it? Is it time to wake up, or is my phone doing something else? What else do phones do?! PHONE CALL. My phone is ringing, I should reach for it, yes, it says a name-- my roommate's. Oh! Answer it, Anna!

"Hello?"

(What I mean to and think I sound like:

What I actually sound like:

 )

My roommate says something about me letting her into the apartment. I grumble something in regards to "yes," pull the phone away from my ear to realize where and when I am in time, and then make an unclearly motivated return to the phone to repeat my "yes." I ghost walk through the hallway to the front door, fumble with the lock, and, just as I swing open the door, gain alertness. No need to apologize, roommate! You saved me from a ~three-hour uncomfortable, unrestful, lights-on collapse. So, thank you. Thank you for waking me up.

... I'm not being sarcastic. Seriously! I don't even know how to be funny (or any civilized, socially appropriate adjective) when I'm in that weird state of sleepy, so it would be really impressive if I were being sarcastic. I have about three basic emotions in my wheelhouse while narcolepting: thankful, pained, angry. Mix 'em together and it's a solid languish. 

(By the way, this actually happened in real time whilst writing this article. That's some real life reporting. I'll take my Pulitzer now.)

While my roommate-- let's call her "Cascade", as I've had two people mishear her name for that, and now I really want that to be someone's name-- happens to be wonderfully understanding of my narcolepsy and its accompanying unintended aggression, not everyone easily accepts my extreme personality changes. 

Cue: Year 2 of Knowing You Have Narcolepsy:

2:30pm: I get to work at the restaurant. 
2:40pm: A manager asks if I'm OK. He half-jokes that it's less about looking pleasant in front of customers and more about being pleasant around those I'm working with. 
3:00pm: The maitre'd asks if I'm OK. She says I'm not my normal self-- all because I didn't say "hello" to her first when she came in, like I usually do. Do I always have to be June Cleaver over here?! I'm fine. 
3:30pm - 4:15pm: ... I begin to think my manager and maitre'd may be right. How did they notice it before me? What is it?
4:30pm: Mid-stuffing a dinner menu, I freeze. DAMN IT. I forgot to take my Modafinil stimulant this morning! How on earth?! I never forget! Whatever; June will have to power through.
5:00pm - 5:30pm: Dinner starts. I am pushing, not powering. I mention to my maitre'd that I realize I forgot to take my medication. She laughs.
6:00pm - 8:00pm: I gradually lose focus and stop talking. My typically energetic Cleaver-ful walk slows to something of a death march. My fellow hosts notice, of course. One is not happy, while the other asks questions about narcolepsy. Eventually, I am in my own little world.  
8:00pm: The closing manager says he'll be keeping me later and "you're OK with that?" I am not OK and I am not OK with that, but I couldn't even look at him. "Of course you're OK with that," and he walks off.
8:45pm: The maitre'd checks in with the other hosts to see if they can handle coat check on their own. Non-Understanding Host makes sure to let her know that they definitely still need me.
9:00pm - 9:35pm: I am slurring my words. I lose the ability to walk straight and have to support myself by leaning on the podium. After I slowly amble back from a trip to coat check, with all three watching, the maitre'd smiles and asks me if I'd like to leave. "THANK YOU" streams like tears from my mouth, but she follows with a teasing, "Next time, remember to take your medication," and a little laugh. All I can muster is, "Hey, this is much less fun for me as it is for you."
9:36: I am sent away with a "Feel better!" and drunkenly descend the stairs to the basement. How funny would it be if they found me sleeping in the locker room hours from now, I thought, actually considering it for a second. Then they'd know. 

Why this story? Why is this significant in Year 2 of Knowing You Have Narcolepsy? For the first time, I felt embarrassed. For the first time, my narcolepsy made me want to cry. For the first time, I felt it publicly, actively, and visibly affect my work performance-- for a job not at a desk! And I felt like, for certainly not the first time but the first known to me, no one cared.

Over the 4.5 hours of dinner service that night, I never once spoke with my manager about it. I'd only told one of my four managers that I even have narcolepsy-- what was I supposed to do, walk up to another one in the middle of service and say, "Hi, I have narcolepsy and right now I'm fighting an rarely extreme attack. May I please go home and sleep?" I was trapped. And how could they care, really, without knowing what narcolepsy is? These are good people I work with. Everyone in the restaurant business is tired-- we all haven't sat down in 7+ hours! 

Plus, in our Host Meeting the week before, we'd been told to not ask when your shift is over. And I always follow the rules.

At first, I thought this said "Superhuman." Hit me in the feels.

I am a good employee, (typically) motivated, kind, bubbly-- that's why they noticed June's change in demeanor in the first place. Yet, I felt like 2 out of the 3 people who knew what was going on thought I was acting like a baby. I adore my fellow employees, and still do, so I thought perhaps this was all in my head. However, the next day I greeted the maitre'd and she responded with: "I'm glad to see you're in a much better mood."

PEOPLE. People of the free world who have high school degrees or college degrees or advanced college degrees: narcolepsy is not a MOOD. Narcolepting (a phrase I feel no one else uses in the narcolepsy community, and so I'm just gonna say that I made it up) is not like waking up on the wrong side of the bed; I'm always on the wrong side of the bed. It's not like PMS; people understand PMS. It's not like being hangry; food and planning will not cure it (no matter how hard I try). Actually, it is somewhat like all of these things combined, in different ways, but at the end of the day it is an uncontrollable, unavoidable state, ready to attack at any time. It's not caused by any sort of personal flaw but rather one's brain's lack of hypocretin.

Hypo-WHAT now? This shit got cray. 

Hypocretin is a boss chemical in your noggin that regulates wakefulness, REM sleep, and other dope things like appetite and happiness. Those of us with narcolepsy largely lack it, which is cool because it gives us something to blame weight gain on and not cool because of everything else. Here, I happen to know a lot about the subject, so let me help explain it to you better:

I'm kidding, I have no idea what that means. This is all I understand:

So, yeah, folks: narcolepsy is an autoimmune neurological disorder that affects chemicals in the brain. Genetics. Science. Facts. My bad mood is not my fault. 

If what you're thinking is that I think I've found a way to blame weight gain, fatigue, and bitchiness on a tiny little chemical out of my control... then you're right. 

Oh, shucks, I can't lie to you: I still struggle to accept that I shouldn't and can't compare myself to others without narcolepsy. I still walk a fine line between motivating myself to "make a better me" and pushing myself too far. I still beat myself up. Not literally. What if I did mean literally? Would you call the cops? 

Anyways, Year 2 of Knowing You Have Narcolepsy is all about the struggle: figuring out the ying-yang between laziness and acceptance; dedicated perseverance and unrealistic goals; blame and, well, blame. How much can I blame on my narcolepsy/my lack of hypocretin cells? I'm learning to adopt all of the "lifestyle remedies" so I can blame everything that's left on my disorder. No, really, stay with me: honestly: that was poor wording: lemme try again: for example, my Lenten promise this year is regulating my sleep schedule, which I should've been doing all along. I force myself to sleep 8 hours a night, 12am-8am. I've also Lentenly promised to eat healthier and practice yoga every day. So NOW what, narcolepsy?! It's all on you. 

What parts of my fatigue are due to me and me alone? I have no freaking clue, but I have a frickin' clue, which is a lot more than the clue I had last year and the mystery I had before then. In the past year, I've met people with narcolepsy in Central Park, walked for the Narcolepsy Network in Battery Park, submitted a personal essay on narcolepsy as a writing sample to a publisher, told managers and too many first dates I have narcolepsy, met the Julie Flygare, and learned that narcolepsy is an autoimmune disorder! And that info is what changes everything. It helps recipients of this:

become recipients of this:

Autoimmune-screwed hypocretins bring me one sweet step closer to understanding what the freaking frick is up with my mind and body. Seeing as it can take some people as long as 10-15 years to even be diagnosed after symptoms appear, I don't take my sweet step lightly. I STOMP, y'all. 

In closing, in honor of National Sleep Awareness Week and Suddenly Sleep Saturday, in memoriam for all of the sleep we've all lost all those unnecessary times: take sleep seriously!