Six degrees of Sandi Davis/done

Sandi's adventures provide great stories

My husband and I just celebrated our wedding anniversary. The card I gave him describeds me very well.

A couple is watching TV and the woman is talking telling her husband some kind of trivia about the actor. The man is thinking, "I want my own TV."

I have had run-ins with celebrities my whole life, but when I worked as an entertainment writer I met so many celebrities that if IMDB didn't exist, I'd be lost.

For 15 years, about every other weekend I was somewhere watching a movie or three set to come out in the next month or so and interviewing the cast and crew. That way, my newspaper would have a story about the stars and a review from their own critic on opening day. 

It's a good system.

I did the junket for "The Princess Diaries 2: Royal Engagement" in 2004. I was excited to get to interview Julie Andrews and Anne Hathaway (who won an Oscar Feb. 24), so much so I forgot all about some guy named Chris Pine.

I saw 2009's "Star Trek" in 2009 with no recognition. It stayed that way until I saw "Princess Diaries 2" on TV. My jaw dropped. I had interviewed the new James T. Kirk five years before. 

One day in 1995, I met NBC's weatherman Willard Scott, my governor, one of my senators, a state congressman who played football at my alma mater and Jesse Jackson Sr. Yes, all of them in one day.

By the way, if you ask Willard Scott if he's a meteorologist, he answers, "No, I'm a Baptist."

At the junket for the movie "Evita," I had a one-on-one interview with Antonio Banderas about his role in the movie. I heard his publicist telling him who he was speaking with next, and I walked into the room.

He sang "Oklahoma!" to me, full voice. The whole song.

I stood there, trying not to drool, and listened.

He kept motioning me to sit down, and I kept shaking my head, "No."

When he finished the song, I told him that was our state's song and I had to stand. He told me he knew every word to every song in the musical. We had a nice chat, and he gave me an autograph.

Yes, that's nice, but Antonio Banderas sang "Oklahoma!" for me.

And yes, I interviewed Madonna too.

Remember the movie "Twister"? It was partially filmed in Oklahoma and I went on the set visit and saw an old friend, actor Bill Paxton.

He's from Fort Worth and is one of the nicest guys. During the junket, he and I joked about the tornado drills we endured in elementary school, to the disbelief of the writers not from Tornado Alley.

I was dressed in jeans and a shirt that day.

A week or so later Paxton and company were in Oklahoma City for the world premiere of "Twister" and we ran into each other again. This time I was in a full-length gown, hair done, wearing makeup. We wound up at the after party doing vodka shots from the ice sculpture. There are photos, somewhere.

A week later I was back on Los Angeles doing the junket for the secret-agent spoof, "Spy Hard." I had just finished a one-on-one with Leslie Nielsen and had some free time so I decided to visit the hotel's hot tub. I was wearing a my bathing suit, a hotel robe and flip-flops, my hair pulled on on top of my head. I was waiting at the elevator.

The doors opened and Bill Paxton stood there with his publicist. We locked eyes and started laughing. 

"Are you stalking me?," I asked.

"Yes," he said. 

The other people on the elevator couldn't understand why we stood there hugging and laughing.

You can't make this stuff up.

The point is this. My carry-on luggage literally rattled from all the medicine I had to take with me. I was using a cane. My memory was (and still is) like Swiss cheese, but I had fun.

And now that's all that's behind me, I can recall these things that happened to me, and annoy my husband with them while he's watching TV.

The lights are on and no one's home. DONE

When the world gets to be too much, Sandi pulls in the welcome mat and hides behind her front door.

I am a big fan of historical and period fiction. While this means I can run categories of European royal titles on "Jeopardy," it also has given me a good grasp of their etiquette too.
What it means is this: If I don't feel well, I am not "At Home."
A century ago and well before that, ladies and gentlemen of leisure could choose to not be at home. Their servants would accept flowers, gifts, cards and invitations but allow no visitors. The maids and butlers were the bodyguards of their day, protecting their people from unwanted intrusions.
Unless you count my barking dogs, I don't have servants*, but this small detail does not stop me.
My car may be in the driveway, you may be able to hear music coming from my house, but knock on my door and there will be no answer but barking. Call my phone, get voicemail. Send an e-mail, no reply.
I am taking the day off from humanity. I turn off all ringers, computers, cell phones, tablets -- anything that will disturb me.
There are days when I simply cannot deal with anything. I don't want to talk to anyone, see anyone, hear any news, read anything current.
I am guilty of peeking through curtains to see who is standing on my porch, but I don't answer the door. They can leave a note.
There is nothing wrong with this. We all have days when we simply cannot cope with the world and we are entitled to absent ourselves from it for a day. Or two. Or five.
When we have a better grasp on things, we can return the calls, the e-mails. A simple explanation of, "I wasn't feeling well" should be enough for anyone who pries.
I think for those of us with all forms or arthritis, auto-immune diseases and other syndromes, not being "at home" is an idea whose time has come.
In these times of being expected to be available 24/7, sometimes it simply is not possible.
I raise the drawbridge to my castle on a regular basis and these days I don't need a really good reason. It can be the obvious: I feel like hell, or I am exhausted. It can be depression, or just that my psyche cannot handle one more bit of bad news. On the other side, maybe I want to play with my dogs, or feed the birds and watch them.
The first few times you let people stand at the door and knock, you will be tempted to answer it because that response has been pounded into each of us. Guess what? You can ignore it. Caller ID makes it simple not to answer the phone. The harder thing is to not listen to the messages. Checking out of e-mail and Facebook is becoming almost impossible for some, but do it. It's good for you.
Take those days of solitude to take care of yourself. Stay in bed all day with some nice scented candles lit to set a mood. Pull out the books you've promised yourself you would read, and do it.
Fix yourself your favorite foods, watch your favorite movies. Baby yourself. You deserve it. I know this, because I know I certainly do.
So, roll up the welcome mat. Turn off the porch light. Take some time to heal your frazzled self inside the safest place you know: your home.
You'll feel better for it.
*Since I don't have children, it's easier for me to institute the "not at home" policy at my house. For those of you with children, a little instruction and you may have your own servant/bodyguards who will greet visitors and help them without getting you involved. They also can take phone messages and keep them for you when you feel like dealing with them. They may enjoy feeling like they have a more active part in help you recharge.

Simple question causes "Fines" DONE

Simple questions causes "Fines"
When it's difficult to answer an easy question


Who would ever image that the simple sentence "How are you?" could mean so many things?
There is far more than a double standard here.
I have discovered no matter how bad you feel, healthy people really just want you to say "Fine." They have no inkling of the degrees of "Fine" that exist.
The majority of people do not understand what it's like not to feel well for more than a few days, unless they've gotten the flu that's going around this year. Even then, that kind of sick, and our kind of sick are nothing alike.
People with RA, chronic fatigue, Lupus, Fibromyalgia or any of the many syndromes we deal with, have a completely different standard of feeling well.
Most days, if I can get up, get dressed, put on make-up and go out somewhere for more than a few hours, that is a red letter day, especially if I didn't spend a week in bed resting up for it.
That's the day I am "Fine."
Then, there are days that I think are good if I turn on my laptop, sit in bed in my pjs and cruise the internet for a few hours, TV on the the background and dogs on the bed for company.
I'm doing "pretty well" those days.
Lastly, there are the days that are so bad you simply stay down and endure until you feel better.
I don't answer people those days.
Frankly, it's been so long since I have felt tradionally "Fine" I'm no longer quite sure what is involved.
I admire the people I know who actually are up out of bed, dressed and ready to take on the day by 7 a.m. Really. Wow.
My friends who work all day, every day -- which I used to do -- impress me. I did it for the best part of 35 years, yet I can't imagine doing it now.
I am slowing revving up my writing career again, and I have wonderful things to do. However, just when I believe I'm doing better and can do a little more, my body gives me a harsh reminder that I am not ever going to be "Fine" again.
All that said, I am trying to think of a way to answer the question "How are you?" with something that isn't a lie, but an answer that will let them know I'm the best "Fine" I can be on that day.
"Okay," is a wishy-washy answer, "Fair to middlin'" is one good where I live, "Still above ground" is a perfect answer to someone who doesn't mind a bit of sarcasm.
"Well" is a contender. It could imply I was going to say more, like "Well, other than the screeching pain in my back, I'm okay," or "Well, what are the other options?"
I also try to dodge the question with something like "Ask me later," or "It's too early to tell" or my current favorite, "I'll keep you posted."
But, the big question is: how am I today?
"Well, ask me later. If I'm still above ground, I'll keep you posted."

Sandi's time is as precious as anyones DONE

My time is as valuable as my doctors', or "It's just a jump to the left."

Nothing, nothing is as annoying as waiting on a doctor who is late for an appointment with you.
It's not fair.
All my doctors have receptionists who call me a day or so before an appointment to ensure I remember exactly what time my appointment is, and to remind me to come a little early if labs or paperwork is involved. They happily remind me if I don't call and cancel the appointment I will be charged anyway.
So, I keep my word. I show up, sign in, pay my money, fill out my forms and start waiting.
It seems, once inside the reception area, I am at the mercy of the nurses, physicians assistants and the doctor. They prove Einstein was right: time is relative. My time becomes less important than theirs.
Occasionally, I've gotten called from the waiting room within a few minutes of my assigned appointment time. Now, doesn't it seem that I should be seeing the doctor right then?
Never happens. I see nurses who take my vital signs and do all the interviewing about how I've been. They make notes in my chart and take it with them when they leave me in a cubicle, waiting for the doctor.
It's then that time stops completely.
I've waited up to four hours for a doctor to drop in to check on me. There always is some excuse, some of which are perfectly reasonable, but mostly, it's just bad time management.
I swear, someday I am going to prepare a bill to hand to my doctor when I've been kept waiting long enough to feel like my time has been wasted.
It's not unreasonable to turn the tables. I could call the doctor's office the morning of my appointment and say I will be there at our specified time, and if I haven't been seen in a reasonable amount of time, I will start subtracting money from my bill.
I have no problem paying for lab work or for equipment used in my appointment, but my time is as valuable as the doctor's, and when mine is wasted, I think I'm entitled to recompense too.
Perhaps everyone who is as tired of this treatment as I am can get together with me and we'll make a plan on how to be treated fairly.
Then, we can all do the arthritic version of the "Time Warp" in celebration.

The war inside rages on, or the invisible battlefieldDONE

I've had arthritis a long time and it's been a long battle.
Basically it's your body against your strength of will, aided by drugs, therapy and rest.
It's a dirty war because you never leave the battlefield and the skirmishes can go on for years.
The best days are the ones when you discover you're winning, you've beaten back the disease and slowed the damage.
The worst is when the sickness is rampaging through your system and you're out of energy and ammunition. You simply lie where you are, waiting for relief via steroids or morphine or something with an unpronounceable name.
There are no negotiations and cease fires are rare.
In this war, we pray for our version of the military -- our doctors, and our version of black ops -- researchers.
We wait for the next magic bullet and hope its powers to contain or destroy are what the doctor ordered.
We endure the "injuries" (aka side effects) with stoicism and hope. We rejoice when some people get better, we feel their pain when they don't.
We mourn with friends and family when a loved one has lost their fight and we remember them as the brave, honorable warriors.
Many of us show our battle scars -- our limping gaits, twisted fingers, swollen knuckles, oversize knees, ankles and wrists. Others have rashes and sores that are ever present and hard to explain.
Then there are those of us whose scars are on the inside. People can't see my spine is stacked like a toddler's building blocks, or that my damaged nerves cause never-ending pain.
Our good friends, our allies, know we don't sleep much, or we can't seem to stay awake, that we forget things all the time, that we cry with frustration when the money runs out before the doctor bills are paid or the prescriptions are bought.
Still, we soldier on. We do what work we can. We rejoice when we win those hard fought battles and are stoic when the going is rough.
We hang on with courage, we use our strength of will to meet our daily goals, whether they are simply getting up and dressed at some point in the day, or doing the laundry and helping cook a meal.
Our battlefields may be invisible to the healthy among us, but the rest of us believe eventually we will win the war.
What can friends and family do? They can be our USO. They can cheer us up, listen when we whine, comfort us when spirits are low and keep believing we are doing the best we can with what we have.

The war inside rages on, or the invisible battlefield

Vomiting from coast to coast/DONE

Welcome to the holiday season, the time when we tend to overdo everything. Most people put on a few pounds from all the amazing food available and way too many of us drink a bit too much and pay dearly for it the next morning.
There really is not much worse than a hangover, unless it's really overdoing it and spending the shank of the night driving the white Honda.
Vomiting is simply awful, and most people can avoid it 90 percent of the time.
Not me.
I have had arthritis a long time. I have been on so many drugs I can't remember all of them but I do know this: I have been on every non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drug( (NSAID) that has been on the market. For example, I was on Motrin while it was a prescription.
They may have worked for a time, but they always stopped, and I always was put on a different one.
I didn't know it then, but while it helped with inflamation, it also did a number of my stomach lining, giving me gastroesophageal reflux disease (GERD).
If you add this to the sad fact I have one of the fastest gag reflexes on record, it means I can pretty much vomit at will. 
Before Gerd was so fashionable I spent a fortune on allergists and digestive specialists. I was told by one, the best diagnosis he could come up with for me was "You have a funny tummy." (Say this was an upper crust British accent and it sounds much better. I always smiled when my British doctor said it).
Whatever the reason, I spent years retching from coast to coast at all the best places. Whether traveling as an event coordinator, movie critic or travel writer, I have emptied the contents of my stomach in the best joints around, including the friendly skies.
I became a master both of heaving and hiding it. I could do a phone interview at my office, talking to movie stars or rock gods, taking notes and throwing up in my trash can with no one the wiser.
It was not fun. I tried all sorts of anti-nausea drugs and some worked for a time, but not always. The first drug that really worked was the original "Little Purple Pill."
When I started taking it, it was $10 a pill. Now, it's everywhere. And, while it soothes my unruly innards most of the time, it still doesn't work 100 percent of the time.
I've used barf bags on airplanes, drink cups in darkened theaters. 
One would have thought I'd become thin as a rail, but the addition of steroids to the mix nixed that.
Oddly enough, I was out on disability before acking finally drove me to the  ER, and it wasn't because I was throwing up blood. It was because I couldn't stop gagging.
Every time I wound up in an ER, my potassium had tanked. I'd get a bag full of saline and potassium and a wide variety of drugs that those docs hoped would stop that nasty gag reflex. 
Once, I impressed the nurses with my prescience. I could tell them with pinpoint accuracy when I was going to be sick, and to get me one of those lovely basins. It was strange to have an audience, to know my gastro-intestinal system so well.
These days NSAIDS are banned for me, and that with the addition of potassium and B-vitamins to my diet, I haven't been sick. I don't know if this is coincidence or dumb luck, but I do feel better knowing I can now talk to celebrities face to face without the fear of heaving up my dinner at their feet.
The final insult? To this day I can't drink anything too acidic -- especially wine. A small glass of red wine is not equal to a night full of tequila shots and beer.
With that, I'll save the biologics for another day. 

Pain management or purple prose?DONE

There is pain, and there is PAIN.
If you're reading this, you or someone close to you  is dealing with pain on a regular basis.
Whoever you are, I hope your pain is easily controlled, something you can ignore and go about your business, because there are too many of us out here who have pain that doesn't behave in any predictable manner.
Most people dealing with chronic pain (it's considered chronic if you've had it 90 days or more)  have their own coping strategies, things we do while waiting for the medicine to kick in.
Because I am a writer and words are my tools, I try to find ways to describe the pain so someone who thinks pain is a headache or a bruised shin gets a picture of what it feels like inside my skin.
There are days when it feels like a blacksmith is using a red-hot pincers to lift up my kneecaps and hammer equally hot nails inside.
There are the mornings when I literally roll out of bed and tell my husband "I feel like I've been beaten with hammers."
The weather can be a vicious enemy when fronts come through. We had a major one come through recently. I was sitting in an office waiting for my rheumatologist to come in and I knew when the barometric pressure started changing. Imagine you have firecrackers taped around your kneecaps and the fuses are lit. That explosion is unbelievable. Then imagine someone is shoving a chisel into your shoulder joint, or your rib cage is full of C4. Those are some big time explosions too.
Ow!
For some reason, today I feel like my bones are being held together with barbed wire.
I know it sounds like I should be writing a screenplay for a slasher movie but it's how I keep my sanity.
If I make fun of the pain, it makes it a little smaller in my brain and a smaller foe is always easier to manage.
And, it beats swearing -- though if I'm alone the language coming from me would probably make a sailor blush.
And, when all else fails, I lie down. "Home and prone" with heat is my last defense. Generally if I combine it with listening to music or trying to conjure up memories of some of my favorite experiences, I can live through it until those pain killers start taking off the edge.
So, right now, I'm propped up in bed with pillows behind my back and a netbook in my lap. I'm wearing headphones and am listening to my favorite playlist on a  free music website.
I've got about 10 more minutes until the pills should start working, so I thought I'd share my woes with you guys.
If you'd like to share your coping strategies, I think it's a good idea. The more we share, the more we can discover something better to try.