Very Bland Food Mood

Ingredients

• 1 hella cheap friend date with lots of cheese
• 1 tired yet worth-it self date with lots of laughs
• 1 delicious multi-employee date with lots of carbs
• 1 proud fellow college graduate group date with lots of piano titling
• 1 folksy show date with a lotta blood and harmony
• 1 Saturday night Facetime date with a +44 number

Instructions

Hi. Welcome to Boredom. Those ingredients all sound lovely-- very anti-Recipes for Disaster-- but let it be known that: There are 2 dates with yourself above. There are 0 dates that are actual dates. There are 9 episodes of Freaks and Geeks and 1 entire season of Garfunkle and Oats that you watched surrounding those dates (OK, in the last 2 days) and that's barely alright. And these were some of the most exciting things that happened to you in the past two weeks. But guess what your +44 London friend told you via Facetime today, as you both spent your Saturdays lounging in sweatshirts? 

"You need the boring times so you can really notice when the exciting stuff happens."

Right, right right! Cool, so it's like, what would that list above look like if your life weren't so boring? Probably something like:

• Using your 40% employee discount at the new restaurant in your restaurant group with your buddy who you saw twice already this week
• Buying a ticket for a 10:30pm UCB improv show online before your work shift to force yourself to go after work, even though you had horrible stomach cramps and were alone
• Finally getting a few of your fellow hosts to agree on a date and time to get your restaurant's burger, plus some tasty but let's be honest really buttery extras sent from the kitchen, and stuffing your face into a coma right before your afternoon improv class
• Volunteering to help out at this year's Northwestern Acting & Musical Theatre Showcase, even though it meant you had to take the closing shift at work, and switch an audition time, leaving you with one-a-dem 14 hour days
• Paying $15 at the door instead of the $10 online that you'd planned on paying to see your friend's show, thanks to poor planning, though the $4 cup of wine (yes, cup) was a great addition to enjoying this new folk rock musical loose adaptation of Antigone... which very well could've been bad, but was thankfully really frickin' awesome
• Talking with one of your best friends who you never get to see because she's at school in London for the next year and a half, but sometimes she interrupts your day with surprise Facetimes and sometimes you can answer and this is one of those times

Ughk. Those sound so bland, some horrible. I mean, they did actually happen to me and are true, but when you put them that way... they don't seem exciting at all. Some even seem mildly unpleasant-- like most of my recipe ingredients! If I'm in this flat, daily humdrum drudge, I guess it's better to look at the even remotely positive occurrences as exciting and awesome, which, apparently to me, translates to various hot dates. I don't know why. That's how I typed them.

You deleted Hinge, Anna, you are happier now, don't go back.

Aw, come on now-- did we really need to bring back Bitchy Emma Stone? She used that GIF last week!

Ohp, nope, now she's crying. It's OK, nooo no it's OK, Emma: Adele's "Someone Like You" doesn't really make everyone cry. It's simply an SNL sketch's worldview that your character has agreed to. Listen, dear: Once you agree to a truly boring life, very little can make you cry like that. Plus, every teeny little, seemingly usual activity will rock your world like a party hurricane, and the only tears you'll be crying are tears of joy for all the fun you're having! I mean, let's get real here: You have delicious ice cream in your hands and in your belly. You're spooning Turkey Hill by the spatula-ful and honestly missing your mouth. Could you ask for a better time?!

(Potentially yes, and that would be the time you spend discovering the dark comedy mecca that is "Freaks and Geeks", good sweet Lord on high where has this been all my life. Everyone-- everyone-- was on this show. I am and will be pained now and for every minute of my life that this show was canceled after 1 season. The acting is superb, the writing is courageous, the depiction of Michigan is spot on depressing.)

Anyways, I'm so glad Emma can always help me out in dissecting the minutiae of life.

You may feel bummed that nothing very exciting is going on in your life, but, at the end of the day, look how many hot dates you had up there. That's a lot of cheese, laughter, decadent Michelin-Star-rated carbs, constant piano accompaniment to bright young talent, a damn fine show, and London all wrapped in a bow just for you. Theoretical Boredom Fake Dates rock!

Oh, shut up, Emma.

Crazy Stupid Ice Cream, for Actors

Ingredients

• 9 episodes of "Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt" in 1 sitting
• $420 spent on 2 acting classes
• 40 7th-grade girls in a musical about a 24-year-old half fairy man-- fairy above the waist and mortal from the waist down-- whose highly desirable shepherdess girlfriend catches him kissing his fairy mother who looks like she's 17
• Starting Improv 201 the day after you finish Improv 101
• Deciding to watch "The Last 5 Years" right before you leave on a first date
• The sentence "I've started watching a bunch of TV, though, and that's been fun." in response to someone asking what is new in your life

Instructions

The sexual undertones in a story about a man who is fairy from the waist up, mortal from the waist down, who is accused of cheating on his fiancee with a much younger woman whom he claims to be his mother are STRONG. I love drama teachers who have such confidence in their student actors. Only in an esteemed all-girl private school in New York City, am I right?

Watching my not-so-little-anymore 12-year-old friend (slash child I used to babysit), while sitting next to my super supportive, ultra sophisticated late-30's friend (slash her mother and my ex-boss), laughing at this rarely produced Gilbert and Sullivan musical performed by girls cross dressing with commitment and singing their hearts out about subject matters beyond their years, I was... I was... 

Hmm, you're waiting for me to say "inspired," aren't you? See, I was so happy watching them: fully entertained, engaged, appreciating their comedic interpretations along with their naive ignorance of the play's wry political wit. However, after I hugged my favorite cross dresser goodbye, leaving her with her new fan club (she played the male half-fairy lead and murdered that Upper East Side auditorium), chatty hyper girlfriends, and sincerely adoring parents, I walked down Lexington Ave. with a sudden stupid sadness. I'd spent less than 2 short hours in a bubble: I was with a real family who introduced me to their parent-friends as a part of that family; I partook in an elite Park Ave. community, with women in pearls and children in Ralph Lauren; I was surrounded by beaming (& the usual few bored) parents and their giggling gangly children with their wiggling wangly friends, hugging and smiling and begging to walk home alone after the cast party. But when I stepped through that utopian school door, I was me again. I was the 23-year-old who, before getting on the train, stops at CVS to buy a quart of sugar-free slow churned vanilla ice cream because I know it's on sale and that quart will accompany me back to my empty apartment like the boyfriend I don't have. 

It's not about the boyfriend, sheesh! Good goodness, I miss my family! Or do I miss being a kid? Or do I miss school, structure, guaranteed productions? Folks congratulating me on my portrayal of a boring ingenue or my handbell solo? Or do I just want to cross dress and sing Gilbert & Sullivan?

You know, probs all of the above. I think I'm going insane. This is the longest I've ever been in NYC without leaving, and let me tell you, I cannot stand STILL anymore. You want to know how long it's been? 3.5 months. 

Exactly, Emma. It's not long. At all. But I'm a baby! I fly for free! I live an hour-and-a-half flight away in Ohio where all the Midwestern families grow-- plus I was on tour for 3.5 months last year, plus I had my broken-foot-homestay last summer, plus I took trips to Costa Rica and South Carolina. I don't stay here, that's not my thing. So, yes, I'm getting antsy over here. Though I fly for free, my financial "situation" doesn't allow for me to simply jet pack around the world, missing work and begging my fellow broke actor friends to join me. No, no, when I have the courage and religious reasoning to ask for a few days off of work, where am I headed?

Amherst, Ohio, baby.

Too many people get down on me for not taking advantage of my free standby flying privileges, and-- trust me-- I get it. I should fly to Spain tomorrow because it's my day off, I've never been there, and that's exactly how this works. But when Easter knocks on my door, there's nowhere I'd rather be than the Sandstone Capital of the World. 

Any other time, though?... I know that, as excited as I am to go home, I will miss New York all too quickly once I'm back in that suburb of a suburb. Though I clearly miss my family, as shown in the solace found in a CVS ice cream sale, I do not want to spend quality time in Ohio. That's right, just like Anna Kendrick's character Cathy in the new movie/old musical "The Last 5 Years." As a wee tot of 15, I used to belt those lyrics, "I'll get on my knees, and pray I can state in my next bio, 'I'm never gonna go back to Ohio!'" in the shower like I was someone who knew how to belt. 

Please, by ALL means, bring my family to me or wherever I may travel to! Just not Ohio. As I reminded when I was crippled and confined in my mother's living room for a month this summer, I left Ohio for a reason. That's right, just like Anna Kendrick's character Cathy sings in the movie you can rent instantly on Amazon Prime, "When we get to my house, take a look at that town, take a look at far I've gone-- I will never go back, never look back anymore."

This insane, antsy feeling I have has more to do with wanting to flee the city. For those of us who haven't reached their goal here in the Big Apple-- or Chi-Town (as no one calls it) or the City of Angels-- and reach instead for all the improv classes and ice cream deals this city has to offer, those lyrics HIT us in the FEELS. A lot of actors have escaped their hometowns or homestates for anywhere else. Though we complain about our shitty rent and how often the 7 train shuts down, we are so grateful to smell the shit. Call us masochists or idiots... both are true.

So what if watching TV has become my new favorite pastime? It's for my career! What's it to you if I use Forever 21 as my personal auditions closet because their only return policy is store credit? "Baggy clothes" and "Peter Pan sweater set" auditions deem it necessary! To the outside world, actors are crazy. I never find these things weird until someone else judges them, though; I am proud to work night shifts for my Forever 21 Closet cash. I deem to no longer fill other voids of my life (social, romantic, escapism) when what's actually missing is the crux of why I'm here: a job that I want. The other day, it hit me: Reflecting on Saturday night's solo date with Netflix, I asked myself, "Ugh, Anna, if you had a boyfriend, would that solve the current stage of the 'New York City Lost' drudge you're in? Would it?" NO. No? No. NO! It wouldn't! But what would?

Boom. Acting.

Thanks, Ryan. But it's true, no matter how corny it sounds: I'm not going to be satisfied until I'm doing what I have dedicated my short life to doing. (Am I talking about my height, or not?) I can escape home or even to Spain all I want, but the real adventure I'm looking for is in my career. Which brings me one step closer to being in a movie with you, Ryan. You're welcome, Ryan.

So, sure: I may blubber alone on my futon at 4pm on a Wednesday while watching a little movie called "The Last 5 Years" (you may have heard of it); I may hold back a sniffle in a CVS after leaving the joy of other families; and I may be staying afloat solely due to my large tax return, because I spend all that's not rent on improv and acting classes. BUT: I got to play a sassy murdered prostitute living inside the head of a troubled detective this past Saturday. Because that's the character a casting director assigned me for our class. No innocent teenager or quiet ingenue... A complex dead whore. New York City, we're movin' on up. See you soon, Ryan and Anna K. 

Love,
Crazy Stupid Love

The movie.

Those GIFs. Are from the movie. 

PS: That's Movie #2 I'm forcing you to watch for full completion of this recipe, as well as all 13 episodes of "Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt."

*Note: TL5Y should only be watched by yourself in the comfort of your own home, and finish the whole Kimmy season before deciding whether or not to tell the whole world that it's outright offensive. THERE GOES YOUR WEEKEND. 

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!