Primary Care Facility Needed in Shinuhayr, Armenia

I recently became involved with a humanitarian organization called Real Medicine Foundation. It happened quite by accident. And now it’s become a passion. It started with an invitation. A friend of mine was having a small coffee and chocolate pairing fundraiser for Real Medicine Foundation’s latest project--renovating a primary care facility in one of the poorest sections of Armenia. And in order to make it happen, we need everyone’s help.

If you’ll journey with me for a moment, I’d like to give you some more information about Real Medicine Foundation and our current efforts to establish a primary care clinic in the village of Shinuhayr, Armenia.

The Country Director for the Armenia project, Nairy Ghazourian, in a recent email from Armenia wrote, “I was truly saddened by Shinuhayr. It's devastating! The weather is freezing below zero and the way these people and children live is unimaginable! We have much work to do here!!!!”

The link below will give you detailed information about the region and its dire need for a health care facility.
http://www.realmedicinefoundation.org/initiatives/IN1-23.asp

The organization that is working towards this goal is called Real Medicine Foundation http://www.realmedicinefoundation.org/. It is a humanitarian organization that provides support to people living in disaster and poverty stricken areas. We believe that "real" medicine is focused on the person as a whole by providing not only the physical treatment, but also emotional, economic and social support.

The Real Medicine Foundation was founded in May 2005 inspired by lessons we learned after working for months in the tsunami relief efforts in Sri Lanka. We established a children's clinic in an area devastated by the tsunami. The clinic remains open, fully functional and very effective in healing the physically and emotionally displaced children of the region.

Since 2005, the organization has grown to include Real Medicine USA, Real Medicine Asia (with branches in Sri Lanka, India, Pakistan, Indonesia, Armenia and Myanmar/Burma), Real Medicine Africa (with projects in Mozambique, Kenya, Uganda and Nigeria), Real Medicine South America (with projects in Peru), and Real Medicine Europe (so far in Germany).


And please save the date for June 12, 2009 when we’ll be holding a photography fundraiser to benefit the Armenia Clinic.

We’d like to begin renovations before the June fundraiser, but in order to do that we need your help. No amount is too small to help out. Would you consider a donation?

Check donations for the Armenia Clinic can be mailed to:

Real Medicine Foundation
P.O. Box 1044
Studio City, CA 91614

Please notate “Armenia Project” on the bottom of your check.

Again, thank you for your consideration. Together, we can all make a difference in the lives of those who are in need.

Organ Damage

I keep waiting for the big card to drop from the sky. The one that says “haven’t you learned your lesson?” To which I will answer: apparently not.

It’s called your gut instinct and when it speaks: listen to it.

And when its alarm blares. Run.

I was asked a simple question the other day: Why I make the same mistakes over and over again?

The answer is just as simple: to learn my lesson. But some of us are stubborn. I don’t just lead that group, I’m miles ahead. Learning my lesson doesn’t just require burning my hand on the stove; the burn has to be third degree, with puss oozing out.

I’ve been MIA the past couple of months. I’ve been thrown into the boot camp of fuck ups. I’m covered in mud, a couple broken bones, possibly some organ damage. Some days I’m unrecognizable.

Wait...listen...my gut is speaking again.

If I weren’t still catching my breath from the punches thrown, I would listen.

LOST IN JAPAN

We were on a quest for green tea powder and, as usual, were lost. An employee on the 7th floor of the department store at the train station left her section to guide us to a pamphlet where the map and various departments were translated into English. It was a relief to be able to understand something. Very little was labeled in English, even fewer people spoke the language, and the only Japanese words my parents and I knew were arigato-thank you, and hi-yes.

If she had left it at that we would have been more than grateful. But she didn’t. Standing behind us as we awaited the elevator, the last thing I saw was the top of her glorious dark hair as we stepped in and turned to face her. She was bowing.

Of all the spectacular castles, samurai warrior homes, Buddhist temples and Shinto shrines, it is this that left its indelible mark on me. Like every ancient land, Japan’s history is abundant with epic lore, but what’s set Japan apart from other countries is the Japanese’s’ attention to detail; raised sidewalks painted yellow like Lego bricks to guide the blind, choices of varying pillow sizes and complementary tea bags in hotel rooms, heated toilet seats, wet towels before every meal and people who will step away graciously from where they are working to guide you when you are lost. And as if that isn’t enough, a level of respect towards others worthy of the many deities whose shrines and temples dot the verdant hills and rice fields of the place described as the “land of the rising sun.”

Leaving Me Behind

They say that sometimes when you give advice it’s because you need to hear it yourself. It happened to me today. Comforting someone whose pain I understand. All I could think was if only she could just shift her perspective a little and see what I saw, she wouldn’t be so hard on herself. But I understand her pain because it is my own.

I told one of my best friend’s the other day that my biggest fear is losing the people I love, or getting left behind. To me it’s the same thing. I don’t even like getting left behind by the people I don’t love.

Lately I’ve been feeling left behind. And yet, I know that there is an outpour, an overflow of love around me.

Yesterday, I came home from a gallery exhibit to find my five year old Chihuahua terrier unable to carry weight on his hind legs. I called up a childhood friend who is a veterinarian. I described his symptoms and she told me to rush him to emergency. For the first time in my life when faced with a crisis I didn’t lose it. I picked him up and calmly drove to emergency. Don’t get me wrong. I thought my heart was going to explode. But my cooler response has become a defense; I have to learn to do this myself, I’ve been by myself for most of my life. But I really wasn’t. My girlfriend was with me the whole way.

Monty is okay now.

Six years ago when one of my cats collapsed I called my then boyfriend sobbing. His voice was my guiding light. I lost my cat that day, but as I sat at the veterinarian consumed by grief, he walked through the doors, drove me back home, and for the next several months helped nurse my pain.

I know I’m lucky. Which isn’t to say that the fear is still not there. It is. But what I’ve learned is that more than being afraid of other people leaving me behind, I’m afraid of leaving myself. I saw it today. Someone who has left herself behind. I’m praying she turns around and waits.

I have some catching up to do myself.

The Mystic in the Theatre

We are two weeks away from opening "Waiting."

I'm re-reading The Mystic in the Theatre by Eva Le Galliene for inspiration. A college professor of mine had recommended it. It's about Eleonora Duse, one of the greatest stage actors of the early 20th century.

The book is out of print but there are plenty of used copies floating around.

Highly, highly recommend it.

Vanity and its Price

A major department store was having a friends and family sale today. I walked over after work (5 min).

Wandered the cosmetics department (2 min).

Targeted a specific brand (10 sec.)

Was deterred from the counter by women wearing too much makeup (2 min).

Wandered into handbags (1 min).

Wandered back to that specific brand (1 min).

Sat down in the chair and was told by different employee that she was an Academy Award nominated makeup artist (30 sec).

Academy Award nominated artist asked if I was in my thirties.
Nodded to Academy Award nominated makeup artist.
Was told by said Academy Award nominated artist that I needed to use a heavier moisturizer so the lines in my forehead would not set.
Told Academy Award nominated artist only botox took care of that.

Listened as Academy Award nominated artist “guided” me through applying smoky eyes. Told AANMA that I needed to recreate the look next week.
AANMA told me she didn’t have time to write down everything she was doing.
Asked AANMA what film she was nominated for and made mental note to look up said film and verify fact.
Forgot name of said film.
Told AANMA that if I needed to walk around and see if I liked the look.
AANMA asked if I had any intention of buying or if I had come in just to have my makeup done.
Told AANMA I wouldn’t buy something I couldn’t recreate at home.
Wondered why AANMA was applying makeup on department store clients instead of Academy Award Nominated movie stars. Thought that perhaps AANMA had told AANMS that she needed more moisturizer so lines on face wouldn’t set and AANMS had AANMA fired (30 min).

Bought three items that cost over $100.00. AANA asked me if I would like to buy more (2 min).

Looked like a drag queen in the bright sunlight outside of department store. 10 min walk to parking garage that felt like two hours.

Total time spent experiencing makeup application and purchasing product -- a little over an hour.

Expected recovery time before venturing to another makeup counter—several years.

APRIL 24TH REMEMBRANCE--THE ARMENIAN GENOCIDE

In 1915- one and a half million Armenians were slaughtered by the Turks.

It was the first genocide of the twentieth century.

To this day, Turks deny the massacre.

In memory...of those who died..

We will continue to carry the torch...

The Writer and that Big Annoying Block

A couple months ago I shared the first twenty-one pages of my novel with my new writer’s group. It was an opportunity to hear fresh perspectives after work-shopping it for years with a majority of the same writers through UCLA extension classes. I would finally hear the reaction of people who hadn’t grown through my process, who were unfamiliar with the characters; exactly what an agent or editor would be looking at the first time they picked up my book.

The consensus, articulated with generous support, was that while the first five pages caught the reader’s attention, soon the pacing slowed. How long would the reader be able to stay with me until a payout? The advice was to finish the novel, which it almost is. But no one, least of all me, wants to read something where there isn’t an emotional investment in the characters. So determined on figuring out what was missing, I handed the pages to a friend who’s been one of my “readers” since I first began writing this book.

Ultimately what it came down to was this; in the fear of not having a full length novel, I had begun to “pad” it with unnecessary information. Both my girlfriend and her husband, who she shared the pages with, agreed that they wanted to know more about what my main character felt and less about the environmental details. It made complete sense. I had expressed to her a year ago my concern about my editing technique. For every five pages deleted from my novel, I would add a paragraph. Fearful that I would no longer have a novel but a loooong short story, I had begun to fill in random back-story.

Crisis resolved, right? Not. I now had complete writer's block. I knew what I need to do, but I didn’t know how to do it.

The other day, after rehearsal for my show, I drove to West Hollywood for a book release party. All I knew about the book South Beach: The Novel was that it had a received a favorable review in the New York Times and the author, as well as the friend who was hosting the party, were donating proceeds from the sales to AFFMA, the film festival I have been involved with for the past year.

I arrived close to midnight. Just in time to see most of the crowd leaving. After saying hello and goodbye in one breath to several familiar faces, I bought a copy of the book and approached the author, Brian Antoni.

I am never star struck by actors but authors make me giddy. I don’t know what it is. I am also amazed at the generosity of writers. As he flipped open the front cover to sign it we started chatting, and I told him briefly about my own literary struggle. “Don’t give up,” he said and went on to describe his own adventures in getting published.

Arriving home that night, I couldn’t sleep. I turned on the light and finished reading Jeannette Walls' poignant memoir The Glass Castle. Disappointed that I finished the book so quickly I picked up South Beach: The Novel with “please let this be good” anticipation. Before retiring for the evening at five in the morning, I met some of Antoni’s characters: Gabriel Tucker and Jesus. South Beach: The Novel is exactly what I needed at this stage in my process. Loaded with conflict and outrageously funny, the book does what mine needs to do. It moves. Somehow it has managed to release the pressure I'd placed on myself. It's clear Antoni had fun writing his novel.

Yesterday, I turned on my computer and for the first time in over two months, I went back to work on my own novel.

The Demon Child and My Angel

People who have pets, like new parents, talk incessantly about them. Okay, maybe not all people. I would but I’m trying to hold on to some degree of pride. Having said that, my story begins in a familiar way…

I took Monty out for his evening walk the other night. Just hang in there. I promise this isn’t about anything cute he did.

We were just turning a corner where a family of four were unloading their car. The little boy shrieked in glee (yes, he actually shrieked). “Little dog,” he sang before kickboxing his way over to us. Every bone in my body stiffened as I watched the sole of his tennis shoe come up near Monty’s nose. I was ready to grab him by the scruff of his neck and throw him against a parked car. I was waiting for a reaction from the parents. Maybe something along the lines of “Sweetheart, that’s not very nice. You’re scaring the little dog.” But these parents apparently though their child’s antics were normal.

It gets worse. The little boy then shrieked, “he bit me.” So, not only was the little brat a demon, but he was a lying demon. It was then that the father finally pulled his head out of his butt. I waited expectantly for something, maybe the father envisioning the iron bars his child would one day be behind if he didn’t intervene.

He blinked. And stuck his head back in his butt.

I picked up my pace to escape the demon family when the little girl, yes you guessed it, shrieked past us, sending Monty racing into a corner of someone’s lawn.

Now I’m pissed but I’m still struggling with saying something, partly in shock and partly because I don’t think it’s my place to draw attention to the fact that demon children’s parents are failing miserably at their jobs.

Just when I think we’re home free the little demon boy bounds back up and asks if he can pet my "puppy." I had to restrain myself.

In the calmest voice I could muster I said, “He’s a little scared right now, so no, I don’t think that petting him such a great idea.” Pulling my little baby close to me and trying not to get down on my hands and knees to apologize for being a horrible mother, I turned around and walked away.

From behind, I heard the voice of demon boy’s mother say, “He’s not scared…” I didn’t hear the rest. I’m glad I didn’t. I was afraid I would turn and say something horrible.

Something like…use birth control next time.

Coming to a Theatre in Los Angeles--soon!

About three years ago a small group of actors (four to be exact) got together and decided to set some things in motion. After months of pouring over plays stacked in our bookcases and on the shelves of Samuel French, we settled on "Catholic School Girls." Staging rights were granted but eventually as the way things sometimes work, other projects came up and "Catholic School Girls" fell through the cracks.

We eventually reconvened after losing one actress and gaining another with the prospect of staging “Women of Manhattan” by John Patrick Shanley. We were granted rights to the play but with a stipulation. Absolutely no advertising. I’m sorry--will someone please explain the purpose to that? What would be the point? We're supposed to pay for rights to a play and then--what?--stage it for our pets? Needless to say, we sent the women of Manhattan back to the East Coast.

Once again playless, and frustrated over the lack of strong female roles, we debated about writing something ourselves. But my friend Julie got an even more brilliant idea. She approached a screenwriter friend, Sarah Thorp who said she would love to write an original play with four female characters. So three years later, after some cast changes—here we are.

Coming in May 2008 to a theatre in Los Angeles.

"Waiting" by Sarah Thorp.
Directed by Julie Fergus.
Starring: Julie Fergus, Kris Kane, Shelby Medlang and Me!

Girl Scout Cookies Should be Banned

I am trying to lose weight. I don't care what anyone says, I'm the heaviest I've ever been. It sucks for my self esteem.

Usually when I’m in rehearsals for a show I don’t think about food. But writing is a different story. I justify the frequent trips into my kitchen this way: I am using brain cells as I struggle to find the right adjective to describe the subject of my latest freelance assignment. And aren’t I burning more calories walking to the kitchen then sitting and staring at my computer screen?

Here’s the problem. ‘tis the season for girl scout cookies. You name it—I eat it; Thin mints (false advertising, there’s nothing “thin” about them), Tagalongs, Trefoils…The only ones I’m not a huge fan of are Samoas (the coconut ruins it for me). But if they were the last box of girl scout cookies in sight I wouldn’t hesitate to wrestle for them.

I thought I would solve this problem of gaining weight by resuming my workouts. I’m failing miserably.

When I first adopted Monty we would take frequent hikes at Runyon Canyon. That was in the brief period I call my “live like a working actress” phase. Now, I refuse to get out of bed early enough to hike before work. Monty is in worse shape than I am.

So last night we took a longer than usual walk down Wilshire Blvd. I thought it the perfect opportunity to rediscover my blossoming Miracle Mile neighborhood. But getting reacquainted with my neighborhood does not mean spending ten minutes staring at a man making copies at the local Kinkos. Monty insists on examining every corner of every block we walk which leaves me, in most instances, staring at a crack in the sidewalk. Thanks to my dog I now know every crack in every building within a mile radius of my home.

So we returned home and I left for the gym. Which would have been fine and dandy. But an hour later, proud that I had not passed out while speed walking on the tread mill, I ended up back in my kitchen. And don’t ask me how this happened but an entire box of thin mints has disappeared.

Compassion and its Mother--Humanity

In the February 19, 2008 edition of the New York Times, Patricia Cohen writes about the recent rise in suicides among the baby boomer population. MIDLIFE SUICIDE RISES, PUZZLING RESEARCHERS.

As another presidential election nears, this is another topic that ties in strongly with health care.

Why, as the world’s richest country, is our health care system such an embarrassing failure? Why are all the think tanks and brainchildren of this nation not devoting more time to solving this crisis?

Why are health insurance companies’ deep black holes of muck and mess? Last year, seventeen year old Nataline Sarkysian lost her life when CIGNA Health care denied a life saving transplant until media got wind of her story and protests were staged. She passed away the day the approval came through.

Last week, my girlfriend's sister-in-law underwent a mastectomy. At thirty-seven years old, doctors had discovered cancerous lumps in both breasts. The insurance provided through the company she's worked for for the past six years (this is no mom and pop business, we're talking a multi billion dollar corporation) will only cover part of the surgery.

Perhaps our government needs to focus on spending some of our tax money on additional courses in our schools, which we all know are also getting gypped from fair funding. How about we add another required class? It's label: Who is Compassion? And what happened to its mother-Humanity?

BORED AND HENNAED

I'm finally at peace with the fact that one career I will never succeed in is as a hair stylist. Over ten years ago, I bought a home hair color kit and proceeded to dye my hair the color of a carrot right before my first trip to Europe.

My foray back into the realm of hair care was equally unambitious this time around. I hennaed my hair this week. The henna was bought in India, over 6 years ago. Feels like a lifetime. My dream was to have a little party where tea would be served, a Bollywood movie viewed, and the henna body art ceremony I had witnessed at my girlfriend's wedding (the reason I traveled to India), recreated.

Upon return from my vacation, which was extended due to a stay in the hospital with a 104 degree fever, the henna was stored in a drawer and only saw the florescent light of my bathroom early this week.

Except--why was the powder green? After all, isn't henna supposed to be a lovely burgundy? I thought I would ignore this seemingly trivial fact and be courageous, determined it would work. The once a month drives to Pasadena to see my stylist were time consuming and exhausting, not to mention the hole it had been burning in my pockets. And frankly, I was bored.

I mixed moss colored powder with water and applied it to a small portion of my hair--towards the back and buried deep between curls. And then I made a panicked phone call, which has still not been returned, to a friend who planted the idea in my head when I saw her on New Year's and commented about her lovely auburn hair. Unswayed, figuring that if my hair did turn green I could always use my artistic sensibilities as an excuse (sadly, us artists get away with a lot more due to the fact that everyone thinks we're crazy anyway. All par for the course.)

An hour later I washed out the section. I'm not sure if my disappointment was over the fact that my ugly dark roots were still there or that I wouldn't have an exciting story to share at my conservative job about the reason my hair was the color of broccoli.

After a brief Internet search, which could have alleviated all my anxiety if I had turned on the computer before boldly applying the thick green paste to my scalp, not to mention the amount of time that could have been saved, I discovered that henna is in fact a green powder (it's been in a sealed packet the past six years. How was I supposed to remember this?) and that it needed to be blended with some sort of acidic liquid (the suggestion was lemon juice) in order to be activated and release the pigment that would make me look like Jessica Rabbit.

The lemon juice was easy. It was "donated" from the restaurant I work in (another perk besides the free food).

The result--well, I didn't come out looking like the green giant but it ain't Julia Roberts either.

Sigh...And my hair smells kind of...well, herbal.

Looks like another field trip to Pasadena.

Was I Writing a Novel?

Novel? What novel? Was I writing one?

There’s a diagnosis for someone with my condition-ADD. Unable to sit still, to concentrate on one project. My latest novelty is freelancing for an ethnic newspaper. Somehow, in the process of seeking publicity for my newest cause (an organization called Children’s Music Fund --more on that later) I was recruited to write for The Armenian Reporter.

The timing couldn't have been better. I had just been placed in a class at Steppenwolf West. Several months had passed since the closing of the William Saroyan double bill at Luna Playhouse. I was dying to get back on stage. I was bumping into people asking what I would be acting in next.

After the Steppenwolf audition in December, I was biting my nails. Please let me get in. I need to feel something. I need to be someone apart from me.

You can imagine my thrill when over a month later I receieved the placement email.

Of course I conveniently almost forgot that acting classes cost a lot of money.

Then this surprise stepped in. His name was Paul, an editor at The Armenian Reporter. "How do you feel about freelancing?" he said.

Somehow, one article turned into another and before I knew it I wasn't even waiting for Paul's assignments. I was pouncing on a story the minute I read or heard anything from anyone.

It's been a learning experience. My passion was never journalism, I've always preferred writing fiction. But the process has allowed me to grow as a writer. Each interview is another story, another person whose vision and life opens my own to limitless possibilities.

My first assignment was a story on the musicians from The Apex Theory who, like the phoenix, were rising from their ashes, reamerging with a fresh new sound and a new moniker, after the breakup with their lead vocalist.

Then there came the article about the Armenian Police Advisory commision (PAPAK), whose mission is to facilitate the interpretation of Armenian Cultural norms by dispelling misunderstandings that may arise from cultural differences.

Along the journey, I learned how to make gelato from Zankou Chicken heir Steve Iskenderian's Creme de la Creme.

And what great story doesn't have the element of love? Because of Eniseh Youssefian I experienced a wedding proposal in a movie theatre and attended the wedding of Maro and Levon Parian where performance troops juggled gigantic balls, and the feast was presented to the guests in giant seashells.

In the horizon, my path will cross those of a priest whose life is immersed daily in the extremes of human emotion, whose day may begin with a baptism and end in a funeral. I will meet a father whose daughter didn't come home one night, who now talks about her murder at the hands of a man she once dated, with the hope of saving other women from abusive relationships.

These are stories that need to be told. If even one affects someone's life--then I have done my job.

As for my novel. I'm trying to trust my process. To believe that when my characters decide to say so--it will be so.

The Year

All I asked for this year was that my five year old Chihuahua terrier mix Monty, stop peeing on my carpet. Not too much to ask for, right? I came home from Christmas Eve dinner last night and guess what? Yes, you said it.

As I write this, Monty sits on the hardwood floor of my living room directly in the path of a sliver of sun. Three feet in front of him stands my black cat Espresso Bean, gazing out the window.

My orange and white tabby, Gus periodically attempts to cover the pee stain on my rug by digging up the carpet.

Hey, whatever it takes.

Last night I spent Christmas Eve with a slew of extended family. My parents’ home looked like something out of architectural digest revels in the holiday season. My mom is an entertainer in a class by itself and that includes being a superb chef. We’re talking stuffed John Dory, sarmas, grilled vegetables with sun dried tomatoes and herbs, stuffed mushrooms. The list goes on.

Each dish was labeled in detail on gold bordered cream cards so that everyone knew exactly what they were piling on their plate. Not that it would have mattered. I’ve yet to see someone turn down my mother’s cooking.

My cousin, Ara was in town from St. Louis where he’s completing his fellowship in pulmonary surgery.

My God sister, Arlene, her husband, Jack and their daughter, Alexia were there. Jack offered advice on the male sex (he clarified a lot), Alexia danced, and Arlene’s beautiful laughter could be heard throughout the house.

I complained about the usual—becoming a year older. Then I thought about the night before. I was on the phone with my girlfriend, Serineh, an ER physician who has been one of the most loving, supportive links in my life this year. She waited exactly ‘til midnight and was the first to wish me a happy birthday.

And I thought of my work holiday party--of my manager, who is winning her war with ovarian cancer, receive a standing ovation. My eyes filled as I watched her in awe—her quiet, resilient spirit. Her desire to fight for life.

Then I looked down to see my co-employee’s eight year old granddaughter staring at me. I smiled and she reached up. Within moments her little arms had enveloped me.

“Are you okay now?” she asked.

“Yes, sweetheart. I am”

I am more than okay now.