amphigoria

Much, much better

2008-04-25T15:44:00.000-04:00

So it's been more than two weeks since I posted my little anxiety-freak-out entry below, and I feel worlds better now. My roommate and I did not have another strange visitor, and eventually I started to feel less tense about sleeping in my apartment. Also, my mom and my best friend both pointed out that I probably wasn't going to be able to just chill out and "find peace" as I thought I should, what with the whole slew of life changes -- leaving my job, moving across the country, moving in with my fiance, planning a wedding -- I was tackling ALL AT ONCE. So, congratulations to me for doing all of that.

And now... now I can relax. Oh god, I can relax! I'm in California now, I'm unemployed, and it feels great.

Now, please go read about my California discoveries on my shiny new JillInSanDiego blog.

Anxious

2008-04-10T12:24:00.002-04:00

Last night around 9:45, I was in the kitchen reading a magazine, and L had just gotten home from a concert. She got a drink in the kitchen, and then she was standing in the dining room when she turned to me and said “I just saw someone on our fire escape, at our door.”

“What?” I said. Unless they know us, nobody comes up to the secluded door on our fire escape, which is the only entrance to our place. And nobody ever just drops by.

“I saw someone standing at the door – I saw jeans, and then they turned around and left when I saw them. Then I heard the fire escape shake on their way down,” L explained.

My first thought was something along the lines of “How strange. Oh well.” But then I started to think about it. And L was freaked out, which fed my tendency to freak out. My legs started to shake.

Why would someone come up to our door and not knock? To our door, mind you. Not to the top of the stairs, only to realize they’d made a mistake, were looking for someone else’s back-alley up-a-fire-escape apartment. No note. Nothing.

And L had just gotten home. Had someone followed her? Why?

And why would someone come all the way up to the top of the fire escape at 9:45 at night when all the lights were on? Surely someone with nefarious purposes would wait until the middle of the night. But that’s a cold comfort. Were they casing the joint? Just curious? Maybe someone with no awareness of social boundaries, wondering what the apartment in the back looked like?

L and I cautiously went downstairs to our neighbor’s place and asked him if maybe one of his friends mistakenly came to our place instead. He said no, he and his girlfriend were the only ones home.

Despite the rickety entrance to our apartment, we’ve always felt secure there because it was so hidden. Nobody knows we’re back there unless we tell them. At least, that’s what we thought.

We barricaded entrances last night before bed. I actually booby-trapped my bedroom door. Slept with a blunt object within reach under my pillow. Overreaction? Probably. But goddamn it, I was freaked out. I didn’t sleep very well.

Why did someone come to our door last night and not make their presence known? What would they have done if they hadn’t seen L’s shadow through the window? Who the fuck are they?

I have a lot to do in the next week. Four stories to write for work, a temp to train, many items to pack. I need my brain to be fully functioning. But right now it’s incredibly fuzzy from lack of sleep, and I am so prone to anxiety that I don’t think I will be able to relax in my apartment between now and Moving Day. I don’t really know what to do.

I’m beyond on-edge. I hear people come into my office and I’m alert like a cat. Wondering what they want. What is it in my brain that thinks everyone is out to get me? I make eye contact with someone on my street and wonder if they’ve been watching L and me. Is it the lack of sleep that is making me extra-paranoid?

I would just like to relax. I would like peace in my heart. I would like not to think that I have lung cancer just because I get wheezy after a jog. I would like not to assume that the mole on my stomach is on its way to basal cell carcinoma. I didn’t used to get paranoid about sickness – why is my anxiety manifesting itself there now? Have I exhausted all other options?

L didn’t imagine someone on our fire escape, though. Do I finally have something real to be anxious about? That’s a little terrifying. What do I do?

It begins...

2008-03-18T15:42:00.003-04:00

I have a new obsession. I kind of like it, and I also kind of want it to go away for just a little while. It is occupying most of my waking thoughts, it’s the last thing I think about before going to sleep, and it has started cropping up in my dreams.

Yes, friends, the wedding obsessing has begun.

I really had no idea how much there was to think about when T and I first got engaged on the last day of September. I started looking at dresses immediately – because, duh, why wouldn’t I? – and I idly browsed a few websites of possible reception spaces. But I didn’t start seriously thinking about ceremony and reception sites until two weeks ago, when T and I realized we’d have to push up our planned May 2009 date. We discussed October 2008 (mutually deciding something along the lines of “Gah! Too soon!”), December 2008 (T’s main complaint: “Too cold.”), New Year’s Eve (Jill’s main complaint: “Too fancy and expensive.”), and finally settled on just one month earlier than our original date. So we’re thinking April 25, 2009. (Right, T?) And now that it’s March 18 and I’m realizing how incredibly far in advance sites and photographers get booked, I’m consumed with finding the perfect spot for us.

It’s extremely difficult to do this when we can’t look at sites together. Sure, I can send T photos and prices and thoughts via e-mail, and we can spend more time than T would like discussing it on the phone, but it’s no match for being able to physically visit these places together.

I’m moving to California on April 21, which means I should probably spend more time getting all my day job work done and packing at home than surfing a thousand different photographers’ websites trying to catch a good glimpse of the reception sites we’re considering. But – I think you can guess how I’ve been spending my time.

(Short psychoanalysis aside: perhaps I am such a procrastinator that instead of focusing on the things that will have more of a direct effect on my future – looking for a job in San Diego, packing up my apartment before the middle of April, writing the four stories I have on my plate at work – I am immersing myself in party-planning. This could be true.)

But it is important to find and book a wedding site! It would seem that there are approximately 1 million brides in my next-to-the-middle-of-nowhere town, all vying for a warm spring Saturday at a charming reception location, and I am but one of this flock. I want to make a decision and a deposit before I move.

So for the sake of my overheating brain, I will describe the options, but without specifics, because I feel like being vague:

1. Historical Museum – A living history farm and village with plenty of PA Dutch history. Has an awesome yellow barn on the property with pretty, twinkly lights strung from the rafters. Rental of the barn comes with grassy courtyard out back, ideal for an outdoor ceremony and/or cocktail hour. Cons: Less-than-elegant bathrooms, potentially dirty brick floor in barn (I would have to train myself not to fuss over the hem of my wedding dress.)

2. Historical Estate – The home of a general of yore. Big, rambling old farmhouse with pretty grounds. Reception would be in a big, rambling old red barn. Cons: I have no information on it yet. Don’t think there’s a plan B for a ceremony if it rains.

3. Art Gallery in town – What used to be a turn-of-the-century bakery, this gallery has several wood-floored rooms, exposed beams, twinkly lights, and off-white painted brick walls. Really, really cool-looking inside. Cons: Located a block away from Sketchy-ville, urban landscape includes ugly chain-link fence. No outdoor option.

4. Renovated Farmhouse-turned-Wedding Factory – Gorgeous old farmhouse/manor near the banks of the little local river, pretty trees and sprawling green lawns. Extra-gorgeous reception space inside with sleek wooden floors and wooden beams arching along the high ceiling. Lovely separate bride and groom quarters for getting ready before ceremony. Very convenient to hotels for guests. Cons: Driveway leading up to manor is lined with ugly-ass industry; manor is a random bright spot in a rather desolate section of L-town. Also, it’s a wedding factory. Those million brides in my area that I mentioned before? 80% of them will get married here.

5. Chapel at Private Girls’ School/Ballroom at Local Inn in Groom’s Hometown – A convenient choice: We could have the wedding ceremony at the chapel and then enjoy a short walk down the street to the inn. Cons: I haven’t been inside either space. Don’t know what food/service/accommodations are like at the inn. Kind of a far drive for my parents, who will do a lot of planning/decorating.

6. Small Bed and Breakfast, Rural Location – Pretty working farm with an earthy appearance. Located near-ish parents’ house. Have heard good things about the owners. Cons: Can’t accommodate more than 100 guests without a tent. I haven’t seen it in person yet and don’t know too much about it, other than other people’s good opinions. Not particularly convenient to hotels.

Sort of 7. T’s mom suggested this lovely little historic chapel, which is a short drive from a reputable ballroom. I don’t know what the ballroom looks like yet, and it’s quite a hike for my parents. I’m not totally ruling this option out, but it’s not as prominent in my thoughts as the other sites I listed.

So, have I spoken with the site coordinator of any of these places? Of course not. I suppose that will make it easier to narrow down – facts and figures and all that – but what I’d really like is for some great, obvious sign to accompany each place so that I can easily rule it out. Like, I visit Option 2 and find a family of rabid opossums in the barn, hush-hushed by the owners. Then I visit Option 5 and the ballroom smells like shepherd’s pie, which, for some people, might be delightful. But as for me, I think shepherd’s pie is an abomination. Or I visit Option 3 and really, really can’t get over the aesthetic un-appeal of the chain-link fence outside. Or I decide that I just can’t be another notch in Option 4’s bedpost. And so on.

However, I know that we’re just going to have to make a damn decision and be at peace with it. “I’m not the one dithering!” is what T will eventually say, while I pore over my lists of pros and cons and fret like a neurotic little woodland creature. You’d think that being aware of my indecisive tendencies would be the first step in overcoming them, but I assure you, it’s not. It is, however, an excellent source of self-deprecating humor.

So, to sum up:

…

…

…

Really, really annoyed!

2008-02-08T09:05:00.000-05:00

I need to go back to bed. I need to go back to bed RIGHT NOW! I am so utterly exhausted, thanks to my goddamn hacking cough keeping me up until 1:30 a.m., when I took a hearty swig of NyQuil, which I can congratulate for giving me one hell of a Benadryl hangover. EVERYTHING IS IRRITATING ME. My pants have stretched out and just look sloppy. My coffee is not strong enough – and it's already lukewarm! – and also leaves a nasty aftertaste in my mouth. The coffee shop where I bought the crappy coffee was practically on fire with bacon smoke, so now my jacket, scarf and hair all smell like I was born and raised in a goddamn smokehouse. Also, I’m still filled with a dry, hacking cough that makes my chest feel so tight it’s like someone just reached their grubby little hands into my chest and pulled my lungs taut. Germs, I’m looking at you. And I don’t know what the fuck is up with this, but when I swallow my cereal, it feels like it’s getting stuck halfway down my esophagus. Oh, and I spilled coffee all over myself on my way into the building this morning.

NOT A GOOD DAY.

Plus, I need to rally myself enough to write two stories about the business department, which I must make interesting. Do I know enough about business and stocks and bonds to write comprehensively? Only time will tell, but my guess is probably not.

I don’t even know what would make me feel better, other than just going back to bed for a couple of days, which may, in fact, be my smartest option. I wish this cough would go away.

Not Single

2008-01-25T14:17:00.001-05:00

I have been teased by my betrothed for calling myself "single" in my last entry. For T, I will issue a correction. I am *not* single, but when my fiancé lives in California and my roommate isn't home, I live alone, and I am reminded of my single summer in Philadelphia, when I pretty much survived on tuna salad sandwiches, scrambled eggs, and Ben & Jerry's.

Would I choke down several chocolate-iced cupcakes in quick succession in T's presence? Probably. But I'd feel a little more chagrined than I do when there's nobody but the cats to witness my poor eating habits.

Young and Hungry, Lacks Desire to Cook a Proper Meal

2008-01-24T22:06:00.000-05:00

Ah, there are times when I simply treasure being young, single, and in possession of a still-fast metabolism. Tonight after work, slumped on the floor in a heap of shivering, listless depression, I told my roommate, "I really just want to eat a whole chocolate cake." She, being a woman and also hating this cold, dark week, agreed. I imagined having a gooey, double-layer chocolate confection, the kind with icing so sweet and thin that it soaks into the fluffy cake, which is really just there to be a vehicle for the icing. In my fantasy, it was just me, a fork, the cake, and maybe Amelie.

So I made a chocolate cake. Okay, actually, I made cupcakes. They're more portable, I told myself, so I can take a few to work instead of eating the lion's share. Whatever. While they baked, I snacked on some baby carrots and some blue-corn tortilla chips and fresh salsa. Then I had several tablespoons of icing and three frosted cupcakes, and some ice cream, and a glass of milk.

I know. It sounds like a disgusting sequence. But... mmmmmm....

Someday, I really won't be able to eat chocolate cake for dinner. And I probably won't want to -- even now, I generally prefer balanced meals and good, fresh food. I'm gonna feel pretty crappy in about an hour, when I lie down for bed and my stomach reminds me that it doesn't digest baked goods without a fight. But you know what? I don't give a damn tonight. It's been an overwhelming week, and it's 17 degrees outside, and it was just me, the cake, and some Friends reruns. Reality is all right. Chocolate cake is pretty good. Tomorrow I will have some spinach.

Bye Bye 2007

2007-12-31T14:13:00.000-05:00

I feel a sense of obligation to post on this blog one more time in the year 2007. I used to feel like I had to post at least once every month, but obviously I've loosened up. Or just gotten lazy. Or busy. You pick.

Regardless, I'm considering making a resolution to post more often in the coming months. God knows I have enough clouding my mind and making me feel a little crazy. (Giant move, worrying about getting a job and having a place to live, missing my special gentleman friend so much it feels like my heart is always a little raw, feeling inadequate as a "strong woman" when I get all anxious and unhappy when I can't talk to T any time I want.) But I've never been particularly good at sticking to my resolutions -- I stopped making them years ago, in fact -- so who knows how long my determination to blog more frequently will last.

But while we're on the subject of resolutions, I am resolving to read less celebrity gossip. I've wasted an embarrassing amount of time at work turning my brain to pudding reading crap about celebrities' lives. So that must stop. I'm also going to stop biting the inside of my cheeks. And I'm going to try to stop biting my fingernails. And if I fail at these things, I'll try it some other time, because when you get down to it, tomorrow is just another day.

San Diego Fires

2007-10-22T16:08:00.000-04:00

Mother Nature is a bitch. Anyone who watches the news and sees dozens of communities get wrecked several times a year by hurricanes, tsunamis, tornadoes, floods, wildfires, mudslides, etc. would agree that there ain't no way to bargain with nature. Sometimes I wonder (and this makes me worry a little less, so humor me) if God and Mother Nature just come to blows, you know? I mean, if God created the earth, then it would follow that he created Mother Nature to handle the environment, right? And maybe sometimes she just behaves like a petulant teenager. She's all, "You think you're so damn great, God, with all your omnipotence and infinite love. Well check it out -- I'm gonna throw down some Santa Ana winds and destroy a bunch of homes, just because I CAN." And God's like, "Sigh. Here we go again."

I don't know. What I do know is that Tristan arrived safely in San Diego on Thursday, and now 250,000 people have been evacuated due to the wildfires that are tearing through Southern California. He's safe, and he's on what's all-but-an-island off the coast of the city. But the fires are spreading rapidly and are fueled by the Santa Ana winds that are expected to last until Wednesday. Having Tristan located in the middle of an area that is making national news is just astounding to me. It terrifies me, frankly, even though I am trying to trust that everything will be okay. It also reminds me that there are literally thousands of people right now who are freaking out about the state of their homes and precious belongings. Lives are so much more important than just *stuff,* but I can't imagine the upheaval, fear, and general anxiety that the residents of San Diego county (and northward) must be feeling.

I'm sending up prayer after prayer for the safety of my loved ones -- my fiance, his brother, their grandmother and her companion, as well as the five family friends I have in the area. Please, if you pray or send good vibes or whatever, pray for strength for the firefighters and volunteers who are facing a disastrous situation, wisdom for the government officials, and safety for everyone. (Especially Tristan, okay?)

Change

2007-10-08T16:02:00.000-04:00

It will be a good story to tell our children someday, or perhaps my niece, Tamara, when she faces her first painful separation from a boyfriend. I will tell her how I cried for a week straight, how much I have always hated change and how hard it is for me to look forward, not back. It will be an interesting story, something more fitting for military couples who make the commitment and then prepare for deployment.

“We got engaged on the last Sunday in September, and a week and two days later, he moved across the country. We knew it was coming – we’d been planning for it since June. The only reason I wasn’t going at the same time was because I wanted a solid year at my job, and my boss was taking a long vacation in January to get married herself. Since it was just the two of us in the office, I felt obligated to stay and not abandon ship before what should be the happiest time of her life.”

Meanwhile, I will be here at my job, pining away for my fiancé, wishing to God that I just didn’t give a shit about professional responsibility, that I could just be a total flake and leave the whole office in the lurch. Wishing that I could be with my fiancé in person for what should be one of the happiest times in our lives instead of waiting wistfully for four months before we can see each other with frequency again. We have spent the last two weeks, ever since I returned from my weeklong trip to Ireland, in near-constant companionship, and oh, it has been so lovely. The urgency of the impending separation coupled with our blissful friendship and recent engagement has made our time together just…flawless. It has been a sweet two weeks, and I think we’ve done well with enjoying the here-and-now.

But the departure date is looming, and I started crying last night, and I know that it’s only the beginning of what is sure to be a very difficult several weeks before we see each other again.

Tristan is leaving tomorrow – or perhaps Wednesday – for a cross-country drive with his brother to San Diego, where he will stay indefinitely. My plan is to move out in the beginning of March, so as to give my boss enough time after she gets back from her honeymoon lest her little workaholic head explode. I would love to say “screw it!” and just leave right now. But there are far too many loose ends to tie up before I can go: My roommate has to find someone to sublet my room, I have to give my employer enough notice that they can begin their extremely long hiring process, I should probably take the GREs again, I should decide whether to apply for grad school straight-out or wait until I’m in San Diego and see if I can get hired at a university (so as to get cheap tuition as a benefit), I should explore job opportunities more thoroughly, I have to go through all of my belongings and try to pare down so that I’m not burdening myself with a pain-in-the-ass move across the country, I have to figure out the best way to get our two cats out west… There’s more. But if I list it, my head will hurt, and you readers will get bored.

There is so much to look forward to. Tristan and I – though we’re at different stages of moving – are on the brink of a huge, exciting change, and we’ll get to explore a new city while also exploring the dynamic of living together and planning a wedding. Here are a few things I can’t wait to do:

Find a new favorite sushi restaurant (and a new favorite Mexican restaurant, and Vietnamese restaurant, and pizza place…)
Explore volunteer opportunities with the many theatres and arts organizations located in Balboa Park
Register for yoga classes and maybe even a classical acting class
Make connections with new friends
Live near the beach, and therefore visit the beach, like, every day
Create a home with Tristan, Jack and Ollie (the cats)
Develop new routines together
Etcetera

But before I can do that, I will spend a good bit of time missing these things:

Dinners at Tristan’s parents’ house
Dinners on the porch at my parents’ house
Looking forward to seeing T at marketing meetings for the theater we work with
Walking down the street for coffee and bagels on Saturday mornings in my little city
Lazily watching DVDs of The Simpsons on weekend mornings at T’s apartment
Idle naps, warm hugs, and seeing T whenever I want
The sound of T climbing the fire escape stairs to my apartment
And, well, lots of other stuff. Little things, big things, annoying things, wonderful things.

A bright side to the long separation: my friends are all ready and willing to distract me. I’ll be visiting Kate in Maryland for a weekend of shopping, drinking, and Friends Scene-It Trivia, I’ll be working with Lydia on a staged reading, I’ll spend a long weekend tasting wine as an honorary member of the D.C. crew and looking through old bridal magazines with Jess, and I’m sure my mom and I will enjoy plenty of mother-daughter shopping and chick-flick-watching time.

In a way, when I can peek around the pain in my heart, I’m looking forward to this separation as a chance for both T and me to grow as individuals before we merge our lives. I do think absence makes the heart grow fonder (which might be why the idea of being apart hurts so goddamn much – my heart is already enormously fond of Tristan, and to make room for more fondness, it just has to ache for a while), and it will be interesting to see how our relationship adjusts to the distance. I’m even, in a frightened sort of way, looking forward to facing head-on my loneliness and anxiety about being alone and seeing if by accepting those emotions, I can control them.

But first, I’ll probably cry a lot. And while Tristan is still here for a day’s more worth of hours, I’m savoring the delight of seeing him whenever I want.

Lines

2007-08-02T14:25:00.000-04:00

I went to Subway for lunch today and took my place at the end of the line behind a late-30-something guy in jeans, a white t-shirt, and dirty sneakers. He was unshaven, boyishly rugged, reminded me a little of a guy I’d had a crush on during college. He’d watched me as I walked toward him and the back of the line, and after a few moments of enjoyable silence in which the occupants of the line didn’t indulge in awkward small talk, he turned to me.

“Hot out today, huh?” he said, fidgeting with his credit card.

“Yes,” I agreed, arms crossed in my best anti-social stance.

He nodded and focused on the counter in front of us. I gazed around me, hoping to appear riveted by the monochromatic décor. In my peripheral vision, I noticed Unshaven turn toward me again.

“Think it’ll ever stop?” he asked.

Okay. That’s the best he can come up with? Do I think the heat will stop? I gave the stunning conversationalist a half-smile and said, “I suspect it will.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. When autumn comes. Changing of the seasons and all that.”

That seemed to either stump or satisfy him, because he turned his attention to the teenage girl behind the counter, who had thankfully finished with her last customer and could relieve me of the World’s Most Painful Small Talk.

Sometimes I try not to be so anti-social, but it depends on my mood, and today I just wanted to get my sandwich and get out of there. And I’d imagine that when I’m standing with my arms crossed and avoiding eye contact with anyone, I’m not emitting an “Ask me about the weather!” vibe.

And when someone mentions that it’s hot, what do you say to that? Perhaps “Is it? I hadn’t noticed. I have this neurological condition where I can’t recognize heat.” Or, “It sure is. I’ve sweat through three good shirts today, and it’s only 1:30!”

Yes, I think that’s what I’ll say next time – one or the other. Then we’ll see how quickly I drive the next Unshaven to the next unsuspecting teenager.

Adventures in Driving

2007-07-31T15:22:00.000-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, T and I drove down to Baltimore for a viewing of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. A friend, J, had rented out a private room at the Senator Theatre for the screening, with socializing, munching, and drinking arranged to amuse us from 6 to 7:30, when the movie was slated to begin. I hurried home from work – stressed and tense because I’d left later than I had hoped – changed my clothes, and T and I were on the road by 5:25.

We made excellent time, hitting no traffic and veering onto 695 E toward Towson, like the Mapquest directions advised, by 6:35. As T’s car zoomed along and we talked oh-so-intellectually about our opinions on the afterlife, I noticed our exit just as we passed it.

“Oh, we were supposed to get to off there,” I said with a chuckle. T got off at the next available exit, turned around in a hotel parking lot, and merged directly back onto the highway in the same direction we were already going. After more chuckling and “Ah…idiots” musings, we got off at the next exit and quickly drove past the ramp to get onto 695 in the correct direction. T turned around again and aimed to get on 695 West.

“Wait! Don’t get on there,” I said, with growing paranoia. “Weren’t we just coming from that direction?”

T indulged me, and pretty soon, because I was wrong and T should have just ignored me, we were turning around in the exact same hotel parking lot we were in when we got off the highway the first time. By this time, my brain was getting more and more scrambled, and I started saying “I don’t know” to any question T asked about the directions.

We managed to get back to the original exit we had missed, and as we approached the top of the ramp, T asked me which direction we should turn.

“I honestly have no idea,” I said. “I am so confused.” He picked left, then I insisted we follow the signs for Charles Street, then I announced happily that we were approaching Bellona Ave., one of the streets listed on my Mapquest directions. We turned right, because that’s what my directions said, and wound our way through a residential area, coming to Joppa Rd.

My intuitive awesomeness kicked in to say “Wrong direction again, ass,” and so I called my friend J to ask for advice.

“We’re at Joppa and Bellona,” I said.

“Yeeeeah… You’re in Towson,” J said. “You want to be in Baltimore. What direction are you headed?”

I have no effing clue, I thought. “Um… we’re going… straight? On Bellona?”

“Well, you want to go west on Joppa,” J said.

He might as well have said, “Well, you want to florb the flimcrackle Joppa.” My internal compass sucks. I informed J of this, and he recommended just retracing our tracks, getting back on 83, and taking that into Baltimore.

I told T that this was the new plan, and his head exploded.

Actually, he just turned around with minor grumbling. Back where we started, we realized that we had been heading the wrong way on Charles, and suddenly my scribbled directions made sense. With renewed determination – and a lot of relief on my part – we forged ahead. And ahead. And ahead. My relief turned to uncertainty. We found York Road, on which the Senator is located, and I called information to find out the number of the building. “It’s either 200 or 2000,” I confidently told T as I dialed, then sheepishly turned to him after my 411 call. “5904,” I said.

“Wow, you couldn’t have been more wrong,” he replied.

We turned around on York Road, since the numbers were going down and we needed them to be going up. Somewhere around 1900, I noticed that we were really close to the neighborhood where J used to live, which is in Cockeysville, not Baltimore. Then the numbers jumped to the 10-thousands, along with my blood pressure.

“What the fuck?” I cried. “Did we pass it?”

I was verging on hysterics by this point, having grown increasingly edgy as we started passing familiar Cockeysville landmarks, sure signs that we were not anywhere near our city destination.

“It’s okay, we’ll just turn around,” soothed T. “And we’ll either pass it, or find out that it doesn’t exist and this was all an elaborate joke.”

10105…10100…Twilight Zone…1940…1930…

We gave up and turned around YET AGAIN to get to 695 to 83, and we were finally headed in the right direction. As we drove, I told T that the overall price of our tickets was $12, not $3 as I’d mistakenly told him.

His laughter faded as he looked at my face and saw that I was earnest.

“Wait, you’re serious?” he asked incredulously.

(Side note: It’s not that $12 is outrageously expensive. It’s that on top of driving in circles for an hour after a 70-mile drive to Baltimore to see a movie that’s certainly playing where we live, there’s an even bigger gap between $6 and $24.)

As I took in T’s incredulity, I started to giggle. And giggle. And giggle. Until the chuckles turned into full-on hysterics, complete with tears.

“Yeah!” I laughed and cried. Gasping for breath, I asked T if he just wanted to turn around and go home.

“Hell no,” he declared. “We are getting to that movie even if we’re an hour late!”

We were only about 10 minutes late. Dudley was making out with a dementor when we arrived and took our seats in the pitch-black private room, perched above the main theatre.

We saw our friends for a few minutes after the movie ended, ate some Twizzlers and Bertie Botts Every Flavor beans, then drove home. Uneventfully. And the next time I drive to Baltimore, I’m buying a damn Garmin first.

Two Weeks

2007-07-30T13:52:00.002-04:00

I just need to get through the next two weeks. Then I have a vacation. A blessed whole week off from work, in which I will go to the beach, turn 26, possibly go to NYC, and take care of all of the life-managing that I’ll be neglecting over the next two weeks.

In the beginning of June, I auditioned for a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which opens on August 9, a week from Thursday. The auditions were fun, I liked the director, and I hoped to get cast. After my last callback, I went about with anxiety bubbling in my stomach as I waited to hear what part I’d get. As more time went by and I still hadn’t heard anything, though, I started to look forward to having my summer free. Not getting cast meant no rehearsals and therefore more time for relaxing with my boyfriend, dinner with the parents, and traveling to see far-away friends.

I think I’d all-but-convinced myself that I didn’t want to be in the show when I was notified that I’d been cast as Tom Snout, one of the Mechanicals. Fine, I thought. That’ll be fun.

And it has been. But now, with two weeks of rehearsals left before we open for our four free performances, I really, really wish I'd had that free summer instead. If I had been aware of how much would be going on at work, too, I may not even have auditioned. I don’t want to feel this worried about getting everything done, about not neglecting my loved ones while I embark on 14 days of non-stop activity and obligation and have-to-dos.

Plus – the performance space sucks. Everyone knows it. And really, the sole reason that it sucks is that it’s the end of July and there’s no air conditioning in the building. We’re performing in a converted gymnasium in a government-owned building, and I don’t care that there’s a basketball hoop hanging over the top of the set, or that the space is so huge that the actors’ shouts reverberate before being swallowed. I don’t even care that barbed wire snakes ominously around the perimeter of the grounds.

But the no air conditioning thing? Wow does that suck. And it’s not like when you were a kid, and there was no air conditioning and so your parents just opened all the windows for circulation and it was bearable. The heat in the gym is an oppressive, sticky, stuffy heat, the kind that makes all the actors and crew pretty sluggish and half-dead about 40 minutes into rehearsal. This is the kind of heat that produces indecent sweat, potential swooning and excessive crankiness. It’s like someone grabbed a tank-full of hot, muggy swamp air and released it into the building, shut the doors, left it to fester, then opened the doors two years later and said “Welcome, theatre group! Welcome to hell!”

For the past 13 years, this theatre company has offered Free Shakespeare in the park, where even if it was hot and muggy, at least there was a sky above you. If it’s outdoors in the summer, you expect it to be hot. And even then, the sun goes down and you get that wonderful, velvet summer night air. In the current space, when the sun goes down, you just get to go outside and wonder how in the hell you’re going to force yourself back onto the sauna-stage.

So. I’m just willing myself to keep going through these next couple of weeks, and then I get a break. In two weeks, my stories for work will be written, my proofing of a tedious reunion newsletter for work will be done, my volunteer editing for a really, really badly written book will be further along, and I’ll have endured the hot, sweaty rehearsals and performances of Midsummer.

Vacation vacation vacation vacation…

Youth

2007-06-26T14:09:00.000-04:00

I went shopping on Friday, ending my long afternoon at the mall in what used to be my clothing mainstay, American Eagle Outfitters. In college, I bought most of my clothes there, but I’ve realized that while my essential taste is still bohemian-casual, I don’t feel comfortable at AE anymore. I’m too old for that store now. I’m sure I could pass for a college kid, but it seems to me that the clientele at AE – at least where I live – is mainly comprised of 16-year-olds and their moms. As I stood in line on Friday to buy some cute undergarments that were super-cheap thanks to the summer sale, I examined the two tiny teenagers checking out in front of me. They were probably all of five feet tall, 95 pounds, both wearing shorts no bigger than a dinner napkin and spaghetti-strap tanks, both with nut-brown tanned skin and razor-straight blonde hair. They could have been manufactured from the “Tiny Teen” factory. When I bought my goods, the cashier, a homely Steve Buscemi lookalike, commented on the great sale prices of the various undergarments. While a little put-off that this guy was talking to me about underwear, I was more weirded-out by the thought that I was purchasing the same style of bras and underwear that some 16-year-old guy would lustily grope on his Tiny Teen girlfriend.

Definitely too old for this store.

It’s an odd feeling, knowing that kids ten years younger than me are just now learning to drive. Ten years ago, when I was the one learning to drive and my older brother was 26 and struggling to figure out “life,” today’s teenagers were still goofing off in a sandbox somewhere. They hadn’t learned long division yet.

My boyfriend, T, has a friend from high school whose little sister, age 16, was killed in a car crash on Saturday. She was just going out with a friend visiting from out of town to get a late-night bite to eat. They were simply driving, she in the passenger seat. Missed a turn in the road. The others in the car survived. She probably just wanted a milkshake and some fries, or whatever it is that teenagers eat when they go out on a Saturday night. She could have been shopping for trendy clothes at American Eagle on Friday, fitting right in with her age group. Maybe not. I don’t know what kind of clothes she wore.

This kind of thing happens all the time, and it terrifies me. Losing someone I love in a tragic and sudden way is pretty much my biggest fear. Maybe it is for most of us. But you can’t live your life afraid of what might happen – if I did that, I’d probably never leave the house. And then I would most likely find something to be afraid of in the house. But all we can do is keep living, until we don’t anymore. That’s essentially it, isn’t it?

Sixteen. My heart grieves for her family. Her brother, T’s friend, is in the Army and spent two years in Iraq. He lives in Texas now. All that worrying and praying…and they lose the baby of the family. I pray for their grief to be muted by whatever love – from God, from friends, from family – they have in their lives. I pray for love to give them comfort.

I Have a Soapbox

2007-04-17T16:32:00.000-04:00

I’m not a typically issue-driven person. Often I wish I were more passionate about causes, but I’m usually pretty middle of the road. Sure, I have strong opinions about some things – like, it’s wrong to lie, and it’s wrong to kill, and the arts are incredibly important. But I’m starting to feel a strong disgust for certain aspects of the media coverage of the horrific Virginia Tech killings.

I’ve been scouring cnn.com. This event is unbelievably tragic, and while part of me doesn’t want to know that victims were found in four classrooms and in stairwells, the ghoulishly curious aspect of my human nature wants details. But what I don’t want? Two things I absolutely do not want: pictures of the wounded being carried out of buildings, and a video on the exact type of guns used.

Let’s focus on the latter. It’s an excerpt from Anderson Cooper’s show, so this is something that’s already been broadcast into whoever whatso’s living room. In the article I was reading, there was a video link that said something like “see how fast these guns can be shot and reloaded.” In the video, the reporter is at a gun store, and the gun store employee is explaining the details of one of the guns used, saying it can shoot as fast as someone can pull the trigger. Then the reporter motions to the clip and elucidates in layman’s terms to the effect of “So you fill the clip with 15 bullets, and you can shoot them one right after the other?”

And I just cannot BELIEVE that this is on the news for all to see. It’s practically a mini-lesson on how to shoot quickly! Sure, it’s meant to elicit even more sympathy and shock – “Oh my God, he could kill 15 people without even having to reload!” But while most of us are shocked and horrified, isn’t there a chance that someone else who is completely effed in the head is watching and getting tips? For God’s sake. Let’s not show people the kind of gun best suited for massacring a classroom of innocents.

My boyfriend is pretty anti-NRA, pro-gun control. He can get on his own soapbox, and I will listen and agree and snort with derision at the NRA magazine that his roommate gets in the mail. But I’ve never really felt strongly about it. My brother used to collect guns and was in rifle club in high school. My father, a retired military officer, used to go to target practice, and I even went with him once. So I always felt a little bit like the black sheep when I expressed annoyance that there were guns in my family members’ households.

At the same time, I never really gave a crap about the “Right to Keep and Bear.” And you know what? I’m thinking I’m just plain anti-gun now. You don’t need a gun. You don’t need to shop for guns. And I would even say you don’t need to freaking go hunting and shoot guns. Let the damn deer overrun the earth – to hell with ecology!

But seriously folks. I’m absolutely appalled that a journalistic segment would include a visit to the gun shop. Why do we need to know what that gun is capable of? We already know that it was capable of murdering 32 people. 32 thinking, feeling, dreaming people. Students who had maybe stopped thinking about the German lesson and were instead remembering a meaningful conversation they’d recently had with a friend, or maybe some eye-contact they had with a crush, or maybe they were thinking about a paper they were working on for another class. Other students who were discovering how much they liked the language they were learning. Professors who had built their careers around Virginia Tech, who, years ago, smiled with satisfaction when they were offered the job, a payoff for the years of research and writing that result in a PhD. All those minds.

Guns are meant for killing. Nobody can walk into a classroom with a knife or with a bow-and-arrow and destroy dozens of lives in a matter of a few seconds.

I know horror is everywhere. There are whole countries that deal with genocide every day. The loss of innocent lives is sick and sad, no matter where it is.

We need to grieve. We don’t need a how-to on the weapons that lead to death.

Today

2007-03-08T16:53:00.000-05:00

This is not a job. This is no way to spend a day in the 9 - 5 workweek. I have done maybe 50 minutes of productive work today. Literally. And that’s just sad, and it makes me feel completely lazy and listless. When will I find something that helps me override the inertia of doing nothing?

I need a job that requires more of me, I think. And that job must require me to be active, to get up and away from the computer and to move. And I want to care about what I’m doing, really care, really work toward a goal. That’s one of things that’s so wonderful about theatre. No matter what, you have a common goal with whoever is involved. You’re all working together – cast, crew, company staff – to create a show from a script. And it’s awesome. We’re at the stage of rehearsals now for Merchant of Venice where the speed is picking up, where actors are letting the show take them where it will, where everything gels and the image of the play shifts in your mind as you understand the shape it’s going to take. I love that part. Whenever I feel tired of theatre, whenever I’d rather stay home and read a book than go to rehearsal, I’m forgetting about how much I love it when a show takes shape.

What I wish right now – wish so much that I can practically feel it straining under my skin – is that I were in a role I found challenging. I wish I were one of the actors who could let the show take me where it will. But my moments on stage are fleeting: I come on and announce something that furthers the plot, and then I leave. I am aching to be challenged by a role again, to think about a character and mull her motivations, circumstances, and intentions.

I feel almost desperate about it, and I hate feeling desperate. I don’t want to be that person. I want to enjoy what I have, go after what I want, and accept what I get.

But want and reality are different things.

More reasons to hate February

2007-02-16T15:29:00.000-05:00

As if February isn’t bad enough. I’m already dry-skinned (under my eyebrows and on my earlobes? Seriously, skin?), constantly cold, frumpy, grumpy, with hair that’s simultaneously frizzy and flat, but now I am also sore, filled with internal battle-wounds from digging my car out of the ice and snow for several hours yesterday. I anxiously watched the snow fall at work on Tuesday until I left at noon to find the roads weren’t so terrible. I got home, parallel-parked on the city street, and settled in for the predicted winter storm. The college was closed on Wednesday, so I had the day off. I read a book. I watched a couple episodes of Friends. I did some organizing in my room. Then Thursday came. I called my boss and told her I would be late, since I had to dig my car out of the snow. She laughed and said she wouldn’t expect to see me, then.

I had no idea what I was in for.

On Wednesday, a lot of my neighbors went out and dug out their cars in the late afternoon after all the snow stopped. (Then it started again, but whatever.) I didn’t want to interrupt my day of not leaving the house, so I waited. And yesterday, I chipped away at the hardened snow coating my car, scratching away about $1000 worth of its value as I unwittingly scraped away small streaks of paint. For two hours I worked, turning my attention to freeing my wheels from the hard snow covering them and surrounding my parking space. I stopped frequently and gaped at all the icy snow I had yet to remove. Then I laughed at the absurdity of it. And then I got lightheaded a couple of times from the vigorous pounding I was doing with the shovel. Then I went inside for lunch.

After lunch and a half-hearted attempt to work from home, I tackled my car again, this time accompanied by my roommate. She shoveled the snow away from the passenger side of my car, then went off to try to chip away at the inches-thick block of ice coating her car wheel. A nice neighbor helped me by hammering – literally – away at the snow-ice keeping me from the street. Two hours later, I had shoveled an escape from parking space to street. Three hours after that, I hobbled outside – aching from my hard labor – to drive to rehearsal.

The drive was horrible. Horrible and terrifying. The roads in the city are mind-blowingly bad. Solid sheets of ice two inches off above the actual road, with pitted dips and icy lumps, which results in both bumping and sliding along the danger zone.

The last time I drove on ice, three years ago, I wrecked my Jeep and ended up tipped over in a ditch. Perhaps I still have emotional issues from that, because as I was driving last night, I was hyperventilating and crying. I kept trying to calm myself down – “Breathe slowly, Jill” and “It’s okay, stop freaking out” – but I would pretty quickly end up back in the head space of terror. When I finally crawled into the parking lot at our rehearsal space, I sobbed. We're talking genuine, no-holds-barred wailing, gasping and shaking. It was ridiculous. Then I was off-kilter for the rest of the evening, exhausted and shaky. And then they didn’t even get to the scene I’m in. That’s what happened.

I fucking hate February.

Celebrity Rant

2007-01-26T10:27:00.000-05:00

I used to like Katie Holmes. I liked that she drove a Honda and lived in an apartment in Wilmington, where she filmed Dawson’s Creek. I liked that she dated Joshua Jackson in real life and referred to him in interviews as her first love. I appreciated the fact that she was raised in a big Catholic family in Anywhere, Ohio and doing high school musicals before auditioning for Dawson’s Creek. She seemed like the kind of person who would be a good friend to have.

But post-Cruise Katie? She seems like a self-important snob. Check out these photos from people.com. Doesn’t she look like a condescending bitch?

Gettin' My Pollyanna On

2007-01-15T14:57:00.000-05:00

Today began as a day of hating life and feeling sorry for and crappy about myself. (Getting cast in a tiny role when you were hoping for grandeur can do that to you.) But now I’m sitting here feeling all misty-eyed about the fact that while I might feel shitty about this, I should be counting my blessings. I have people in my life who love me and bolster me when I’m sad. I have a boyfriend who has listened to my fretting, my worries, my hopes, and has offered me help and advice countless times. I have friends who tell me I’m wonderful (that kind of ego-stroking is simply lovely when you’re full of self-doubt). And I even have a good enough relationship with the director of the show that I can admit to being disappointed and ask what I can do better next time, instead of pretending I’m thrilled with the way things turned out.

So. Feeling rejected. It passes. I can sit here full of melancholy, wondering “why not me?” or I can appreciate that I’m involved. I can berate myself and assume that I suck at life in general, or I can remind myself that I did my best and that everything is an opportunity to improve.

It’s good to get a little perspective. (It’s also good to let it out when you’re really freaking disappointed. My journal got quite the entry last night.)

Anyway. Life goes on.

The Merry Bells Keep Ringing

2006-12-06T12:23:00.000-05:00

Yesterday afternoon I took in what I expected to be a peaceful, solitary lunch at the campus café. I thought the Jays Nest, as the café is called, was harmless.

I was wrong.

I bought a sandwich, an apple, and a bottle of green tea and found a seat in a sun-soaked booth. I was looking forward to reading the latest book I’m obsessed with, and I managed to tune out the Christmas music pumping through the overhead sound system. Oh, occasionally I would hear Bing Crosby crooning Happy Holidays, or Jessica Simpson breathily beckoning Santa Claus, but for the most part, I ignored the music.

Until the donkey song.

Oh my God, the donkey song. The god-awful Christmas Donkey song. I’d never heard it before, and if I had, I’m sure my head would have exploded long ago. It goes something like “Doodle dee do, EEEE aw EEEE aw blah blah blah Christmas Donkey!”

What were the music execs thinking when they put this one on the air? When they actually set aside studio time for a demented singer to come in and make goddamn DONKEY NOISES???

I actually plugged my ears and shook with distress while this song played and I tried to read. I almost freaked out, people.

This morning, I went to get some coffee in the Blue Bean (where, incidentally, even putting a frigging shot of espresso in your daily cup doesn’t make the coffee taste any stronger than dishwater), and the song was playing again. I said, out loud, “Oh no!” and I fluttered my hands about my head. Fortunately, the song was only one violent chorus of EEE aw from the end. Unfortunately, that little bit was enough for the song to firmly take root in my head, where it is still playing. Over and over again.

Ah, I just looked it up on Google. Apparently I’m mistaken about the lyrics. They are “Chingedy ching, EEEE aw EEEE aw, the Italian Christmas donkey.” Somewhere in Italy, someone is really enjoying this song.

I want to kill myself.

Look!

2006-11-10T15:34:00.000-05:00

Coolest photo ever.

I Like Cheerios

2006-11-02T09:16:00.000-05:00

I brought some Cheerios to work today to eat at my desk. I have no milk, so I’ve been pulling fingertipfuls of the cereal from the bag and eating it dry. I just looked down and there is a smattering of Cheerios on the floor under my desk and around my chair.

Nevermind that I have a job, a car, and an apartment.

I am a three-year-old.

Another celebrity couple bites the gilded dust

2006-10-31T13:45:00.000-05:00

Alright, so I'm a fan of people.com. And yes, I am a little ashamed. But not enough that I'm not totally bummed that Ryan Phillippe and Reese Witherspoon are splitting. It's just very sad! They're both so cute and blonde and small, and they have such cute small blonde children. And, you know, they just seemed like a real classy couple. Even if Ryan Phillippe never really smiled.

Anyway. I just wanted to share my mild distress at that superficial tidbit.

I have a new job!

2006-10-10T16:20:00.000-04:00

On July 16, I sent off a last-minute job application for a position at a nearby college that had piqued my interest a few weeks prior. As I was struggling with my cover letter, Tristan read the job description and said "Wow, it looks like that job was made for you." I sent my email to HR, and when I didn't get any response beyond the typical "If we like you, we'll bring you in for an interview" form letter, I put it out of my mind. "Oh well," I thought. "I didn't really expect an interview anyway."

A month later, I got an email from the director of the department telling me she'd like to further discuss my qualifications and career goals during a phone interview. As I stared at the computer screen, baffled, Tristan said "See? I told you that job was made for you."

After discussing the position with L over the course of our phone interview, I was psyched, anxious, and hoping. L had explained that she had narrowed the applicant pool down to 15 people for the phone interview, from which she would be narrowing it down to 8 for a face-to-face interview. From there, she would bring 4 people in to meet with her colleagues, and from there, she would make her hiring decision. So it seemed like a long road ahead. I told myself that it didn't matter if I didn't get the job, because I already had a decent place of employment.

(But I really wanted the job.)

Over the next four weeks, I interviewed with L, 3 of her colleagues, HR, and L's boss. Last Thursday, I was officially offered the job, and I officially accepted! I am ridiculously excited. This is the first time since graduating college more than three years ago that I've been offered a full-time job for which I interviewed. (I'm not counting retail or temp-to-hire.) This was also the first time that I felt like I was truly and completely qualified for the position, and I actually had experience to back up my claims of awesomeness.

Plus, not only is it basically my dream job for this point in my life (I'll actually get to write and edit on the clock! And be involved in the production of all the college publications! I'll be getting paid to do interesting things at which I excel!), but the benefits are also freaking amazing. I get 4 weeks of vacation to start. Can you believe that? 4 weeks!!! And that's not counting the week off between Christmas and New Years when the college is closed!

It still feels a little unreal.

I gave my notice at work yesterday, and while I'd spent all weekend hyperactively claiming that I couldn't wait to give notice, I felt all nervous and hesitant calling my supervisor aside for a private meeting Monday morning. He was really, really cool about it. He just nodded, smiled a little, and said "Okay." Then we told HR, and then I told my team. They all looked a little distressed, which, to be honest, made me feel well-loved. I'd been feeling guilty for the last month for sneaking out to go on the aforementioned interviews (and since my office has a casual dress code, I couldn't wear my fancy interview clothes to work. I kept them in my car, lightly covered with papers and a random t-shirt so that no one could look in my windows and make assumptions about what I was up to.) and it was nice to know that nobody resented me for my decision.

I start my new job on the 23rd. In the meantime, I'm putting together a cheat-sheet for whoever takes over this job after I leave, and I'm thinking about the things I will and will not miss about RMS. In case you are interested, they are as follows:

I'll miss the 11-minute commute and the free, delicious coffee-by-the-cup. I will miss reading TWoP recaps while drinking said coffee in a leisurely manner. I'll miss smirking as the young frat-boy types discuss the latest sports stats in the kitchen and call each other "buddy." (More on them in another post.) I'll definitely miss being able to throw on jeans and a t-shirt and stumble tiredly into work. I'll even miss the energy on high-sales days.

And I'll really miss the coworkers on my team. I'll be damn lucky to find such cool, fun, and witty coworkers again. (When I told them I was leaving, I explained that I was embarking on my dream job, but that I'd already found my dream coworkers. I almost teared up as I said it, too. I'm such a sap.)

And conversely, things I will not miss:
I will not miss the mandatory sub or pizza lunches for new hires. I'm an adult, not a middle-school student. I will not miss the boring, mindless aspects of my job that a slow-witted monkey could do. I will not miss being considered "tardy" if I punch in at 8:01. And I am downright giddy about not having sit across from the Gum Popper anymore. I also won't miss having to shell out $3 practically every other week for someone's wedding/baby/birthday shower. Similarly, I won't miss leaving cheerfully insincere messages in the birthday cards of people I barely know.

Overall, though, this has been a pretty cool place to work. I've stayed here the longest of all my post-grad jobs, and I was content the longest (7 months, maybe?) as well. So, kudos and farewell to you RMS. Keep on selling those reprints, even though nobody really needs them.

And hello, liberal arts college campus. How I've missed you. I hope we're friends for a long time.

Is it creepy to be obsessed?

2006-09-13T17:33:00.000-04:00

Recently, I have rediscovered my simple adoration of reading. I've been so busy for the last few ages that I haven't read anything longer than a play or a magazine. I know that when I pick up a book, I'll start to read it, then get sidetracked by my many extracurriculars and other little details of life (like not ignoring my boyfriend...more on that in a bit) and not give myself the time to get into the story.

But I've loved reading basically since I knew that words existed, and I've missed being a bookworm. I've gone through book after lovely book in the last few weeks, and on Sunday, after reading Jess's glowing review, I started Stephenie Meyer's Twilight.

It is like a drug. All I want to do is read this book, and I haven't had nearly enough time to devote to it. I read it on my lunch break Monday instead of tackling one of several things on my neglected To-Do list. Then I devoured more of the story on Monday evening, completely ignoring the time limits I'd set for myself. Then I thought about it yesterday morning at work, and about how I just needed to get the hell through the afternoon so I could continue reading. And in my non-reading time, I am daydreaming about the characters.

What is it about this book??? I told my boyfriend on the phone yesterday that I couldn't wait to get home and continue the book, and he said, "I'm never going to see you again, am I?" Usually, spending time with him is the best part of my week. I adore him. However, I cannot rest until I've finished this book. I have told him that he is welcome to come hang out with me while I read, but he simply mustn't distract me.

So, the workday is over. I get to go home and read now! See you suckers later.

Musicians are the neatest

2006-08-25T10:38:00.000-04:00

Last week, I went to an Iron & Wine concert in Brooklyn. After the show, I met Sam Beam! I met Sam Beam! Wheee!

Tristan is acquainted with the frontman of Califone, who were one of the opening acts for the I&W show. So he gave Tim Rutili a call after the concert, Tim came and greeted us, we awkwardly followed him around like puppies, and then we turned a corner and there was Sam Beam, the man behind Iron & Wine.

I think my heart may have stopped for just a second, and then I started feeling all nervous. I have no idea why, other than the theory I have that my nervous system conspires to make me look like an idiot as often as possible. I shook Sam Beam's hand and said that it was a wonderful concert, and I know I babbled some other useless stuff, and he kindly asked my name and then followed suit with Tristan and his college chum Jon.

Oh how I wish I could be eloquent and laid back in situations like that, but, well, that's just not me.

Your legs can be hip, too.

2006-08-01T12:46:00.000-04:00

Oh for God's sake, leggings are back? Seriously? Yeah yeah, I noticed their reappearance months ago. I'll even admit that I've considered that I can wear some under a miniskirt and get another season out of my summer wardrobe, and I really might do that. But I'll also tell you that the leggings I am considering wearing under said miniskirt are a pair that I've had since I was 9 years old. (Let me tell you, leggings stretch.) Well, maybe I was 12 or 13, but I really don't remember, because I got them and then hardly ever wore them, because leggings are dumb.

I didn't realize how prevalent they were becoming again until I logged on to American Eagle's website and saw leggings linked with pants in their own category. Skirts, shirts & camis, and pants & leggings.

Pants & leggings.

Who the hell thought it would be a good idea to bring the 80s back? The 80s were a horrible, hideous fashion period, and we all have photos to prove it. Last year skinny jeans came back, and now we've got pants up to the belly button, wide belts, and ugly-ass hardware-covered handbags. Are banana clips and oversized t-shirts next? Or those strange little plastic discs that you pulled your oversized t-shirt through to cinch it at waist-level for date night? Jeans folded airtight over ankles? Dear God... acid wash?

I guess the good news is that as soon as this 80s-retro phase is over, we'll be headed for plaid flannel and Doc Martens again. And I totally didn't get enough of the Sloppy Grunge the first time around.

It's an ugly day in the neighborhood

2006-07-25T09:30:00.000-04:00

So, my downstairs neighbor seemed like an okay-enough fellow. Sure, the very first night Lydia and I moved in, we could smell incense rising through the floor. And sure, he and his ever-present friend-who-stares-a-lot often sit on the front porch watching people parallel park. And yeah, he plays techno music pretty loudly, and the beats pulsate below our living room floor. But overall, he seemed nice enough. He brought Lydia a fan on the day we moved in, and he shared his umbrella with me during a downpour as I was crossing the street.

But for the last couple of nights, he's been partying, and it is, frankly, annoying as hell. I feel like I live in a dorm again, except that in our dorms, the college cleaning service had the unfortunate task of disposing of the broken beer bottles and empty beer boxes. The neighbor, however, leaves half-empty beer bottles strewn all over the now-grimy front porch. He fills trash bags with empty lager bottles and stinks up our shared trash cans, and then he doesn't even bother to move the trash cans to the curb on trash night. Lydia and I have maybe two very small bags of kitchen trash in those heavy-duty outdoor cans, and the rest is Downstairs Dave's partying refuse.

I don't really care if he wants to party. Whatever. But I want him to shut the hell up after midnight, so that I don't have to lie awake in my bed two floors up listening to yells and giggles, willing myself to doze off so that I can deal with getting up early five days a week. Does Downstairs Dave have a job? I do not know. His frequent reveling would lead me to believe that if he does, it requires little responsibility. Or perhaps he just functions well on very little sleep, lots of beer, and much smoking out of a hookah, which he also leaves on the front porch. Someday, I am going to put his precious hookah in one of the trash cans that I haul out on Trash Pick-up Tuesday, and then I am going to laugh as he wonders what to do to pass the time until he can purchase another hookah and 24-pack of Miller-Freaking-Lite from thewonderfulworldofinconsiderateneighbors.com.

I know it could be worse. It could be way worse. But for now, sleep-deprived as I am, annoyed that I have to wade through bottles of cheap beer to get to my mailbox, I will complain about it.

Nevermind.

2006-07-10T08:42:00.000-04:00

I spoke too soon. Apparently moving one's modem to a high, flat surface does not result in sustained internet connectivity. I got home last night after about 24 hours away from my apartment, and the freaking DSL light was flashing away again.

Therefore, Verizon makes my list of Companies That Suck.

You have got to be kidding me

2006-07-08T14:31:00.000-04:00

So for almost two weeks now, Lydia and I have had the crappiest high-speed internet connection ever.

We got our DSL kit about three weeks ago, we set it up, and happily browsed the internet for about three days before it started getting really slow and, eventually, spotty and unreliable.

So I called tech support about the problem a week and a half ago when I got kicked off the internet and then discovered that we had no dial tone on our landline. Our provider fixed the landline issue quickly, but we still couldn't stay on the internet for more than 15 minutes at a time.

So I called last Sunday. I was on the phone with Ronald and then, when we got cut off, with George for an hour. They both had me run through the common troubleshooting issues, and I cheerfully complied, thinking that even if the troubleshooting tips don't work, surely Ronald or George will be able to fix the problem, or dispatch someone who can. Ultimately, George gave me a ticket number and told me to call back if our internet wasn't working within 72 hours.

Five days later, the modem was still tormenting me with its "Screw you! I'm not working! HAHAHA!" blinking DSL light.

I called tech support again today, and this time I wasn't so cheerful. I brewed up a thoroughly shrewish mood while I waited for someone to take my call in the order in which it was received. Finally, tech-rep Jordon got the brunt of my "I'm ready to cancel this whole thing and I don't want to go through all the troubleshooting tips again because THEY DON'T WORK" spiel. So good ol' Jordon asked me where the modem was physically located. I said on the carpeted floor. Jordon suggested I move the modem to a table or another flat surface off the floor. So. I put it on the radiator, the closest flat surface. The DSL light immediately stopped blinking. The internet light immediately gave me a green-for-go signal.

I was stunned. And grateful. And feeling sheepish for being so bitchy to poor little Jordan. And more than a little frustrated that neither Ronald nor George asked where the modem was and suggested relocating it. Why, Ronald and George? I could have been using the internet this whole goddamn week, but instead I was just nurturing a seething hatred for your company.

I'm going to buy a small table on which to tenderly place our picky little modem. I imagine that once winter's cold forces us to turn on the heat, that radiator will not be the safest place for our internet lifeline.

In the meantime, I hope anyone who's not technically-savvy can learn from my inconvenience: a modem nestled on the floor may not be getting its DSL signal. There you have it.

Update

2006-06-30T16:29:00.000-04:00

I need a vacation.

I have off Tuesday July 4, but not Monday July 3. Sigh. My company dangled this carrot of "If you sell $1.1 million in reprints this month, you'll get Monday July 3 off!" and sadly, that didn't happen. I can't really complain, because since I'm in production, I don't do a damn thing to sell reprints. But I still feel bummed that I have to drag my ass out of bed early on Monday.

In other news, I have an apartment! I moved into an awesome two-story place with my friend Lydia, and so far the apartment is the neatest. Well, it would be the neatest if we didn't have internet issues and no AC, but other than that, I love the place.

Alright, so this was just an update so that I get in a June post, but I'll end this with saying that I resolve to post more often. When I have more time. Ha.

Hey! It's May!

2006-05-16T16:10:00.000-04:00

Random things that have happened this past week:

Last Wednesday, I came to work and pretty quickly decided that I really, really didn't want to be there. So I told my coworkers I'd be leaving at noon for a 1/2 sick day. This white lie would be well and good if I didn't have well-meaning, thoughtful coworkers who ask repeatedly "How are you feeling? What's wrong? Awwww..." Ugh. It's nice to be cared about, but I'd rather just be left alone when I'm lying, thankyouverymuch. I did manage to psych myself into feeling dizzy and nauseous, but that was only because I guzzled a lot of coffee. So I left the office at lunchtime and blissfully spent the afternoon elsewhere. The next morning, back at work, I was greeted with more "How are you feeling? Better?"

"...Yes," I responded, averting my eyes, willing my extra-caring coworker to direct her attention to something, anything else. I wonder how obvious it was that I was totally full of shit?

And now I ardently wish that I had resisted going home early last week, because I really want to take a full sick day, but I feel that it's too soon to feign illness again. The wonderful thing about sick days where I work is that all I have to do is call in to the voicemail system and leave a message saying I'm taking a sick day, no questions asked. Except for the questions asked when I come in the next day, the sympathetic "You feeling better?" questions. Yes! Yes, I'm feeling freaking better, because I actually got to stay home for a day and deal with all the stuff that piles up when you work 45 hours a week and try to have a life on the side, which includes overcommitting yourself to extracurricular activities that you wish you were making your living off of!

And what if I really were sick? What if I had a horrible stomach virus and I spent the day violently throwing up? Do my coworkers really want to know that? "Actually, I'm not really feeling better, but at least I've gotten my head out of the toilet." Or "Well, my stool isn't bloody anymore." That would shut them right up.

Okay. So ends that rant. Another random thing that happened last week that I wish I could take back: I introduced Tristan to a stranger as my "boyfriend slash business partner."

Business partner?

He's not my business partner.

I don't know why I said that. It just came out. I was picking up a book from this woman who works at an agency that's associated with the magazine I've recently started editing, and Tristan was there with me, and before I knew it, he was my business partner. I guess my reasoning went like this: Tristan is going to help me on the magazine --> I am talking to a person tangentially associated with said magazine --> Tristan is here --> I should introduce Tristan --> he is my editorial assistant, in the loosest, vaguest sense of the term --> this woman works in a business --> "Hello! This is Tristan, my boyfriend/ business partner."

What I should have said was simply, "It was nice to meet you. Thank you for the book," while I let my boyfriend/ non-business partner remain unobtrusively in the background. He pointed out afterward that I could have not introduced him, because he will probably never, ever see that woman again in his life. I, however, feel like I have to introduce him to absolutely everyone to make up for not introducing him to more relevant people earlier on in our relationship.

So. That's that.

I am so busy this week that my head is going to explode. I am currently wondering what I've gotten myself into, what with saying "yes" to everything and really wanting to do it all. We'll see what happens. I feel a familiar sense of abundant stress coming on... I am hoping, though, that I can figure out how to deal with all of it this time. Send me soothing words of encouragement...

nonsense

2006-04-19T10:14:00.000-04:00

Hehe, I've been tagged. Here we are, six weird things about me:

1. I get hiccup-burps on a regular basis. I have no idea what causes them, but they're really not fun.

2. I am absurdly sensitive to noises. I think some people can hear annoying sounds (a nose whistling, something rattling with the vibration of a car, a dog's intermittent barking, etc) and just block them out, but I fixate.

3. I sleep with earplugs and a pillow between my knees. I can't fall asleep without them, unless I'm drunk. I started wearing earplugs because my college roommate was a snorer ;) And I've been using a knee pillow for so long that when I don't have one, I feel like I'm completely misaligned.

4. When I was younger, I had an imaginary twin sister. (I was an avid Sweet Valley Twins reader; that may have had something to do with my inventing a sister.) Usually I only talked to her in the mirror, but she knew all my secrets, and she sometimes gave me great advice, sometimes terrible, self-destructive advice. I think she was an outward expression of my conscience or something.

5. The light shining around the cracks in the door of a dark room creeps me out. It reminds me of the scene in Ghostbusters where Zool breaks through the kitchen door in Sigourney Weaver's apartment and possesses her. You see her sitting in her unlighted living room with her back to the kitchen, and then you hear this creaking, and the light behind the door is glowing through the cracks, and then Zool's clawing at the possessed, pliable door, and it's freaky as hell. ~shudder~

6. I really, really dislike garlic. I don't like how it lingers on my breath long after I've finished eating, and I don't like its pungent stench. I don't mind the subtle flavor it adds to about a million dishes, but if I can taste the pure garlicky essence, I'm disappointed.

So I don't really have more than one person to tag-- Jessie-- but if anyone feels like reposting this, then, you know, do it. :)

Weird. So very weird.

2006-04-12T12:32:00.000-04:00

So for no good reason, I told Tristan to google me this morning while we were on the phone. He did, and he asked me if I'd written a review of this local restaurant, the Lancaster Malt Brewery. I said no, because I've never had the opportunity to write restaurant reviews. He sent me the link and I checked it out, and now I'm completely baffled. I definitely wrote the review, it seems. It's only a few lines on a user-review website called dine.com. The date listed is May 7, 2000, back when I was a freshman in college. But I do not remember writing this review. At all.

So as I was staring at this unfamiliar website, I was wondering if someone, like, invented an account under my name. But that would be absurd and pointless, really. So I signed in. I typed my old college email address (blitzmail, for those of you who know what I'm talking about) and my old password, and... there I was. My info. A profile. And 24 restaurant review-blurbs.

24??? I must have been really bored on May 7, 2000. I reviewed all the places I'd eaten in Chestertown, my favorite spots in Annapolis, several Lancaster restaurants, and even a few places in Boston and Scituate, MA. What the hell?

I feel like someone else must have written all those reviews. Someone else tracked down the cafes and restaurants and diners that I've frequented and scribbled two dozen four-sentence evaluations. Someone else knows that Cafe Normandie in Annapolis has amazing brie and honey and that Jennie's diner in Lancaster is a shithole.

Man, why did Jill of the past join this thing? Jill of the future is totally freaked out.

Why do I answer the door?

2006-04-01T12:48:00.000-05:00

This morning the doorbell rang. I peeked out the window and noticed a nondescript silver car, and I thought "Oooh! Maybe it's Jenny!" Jenny's a friend from high school who lives close enough to drop by, even though it's been, like, months and months since either of us has just dropped by. And she drives a silver Honda Civic.

So I answer the door. I'm in my pajamas, which are too sheer for strangers, but I don't really care if Jenny sees me in my pjs. Plus, I can always say "I'm gonna go put a robe on, hang on for a sec." I have obviously, foolishly decided that it must be my friend at the door.

Two fellows in suits are my door. I'm sort of hovering behind the door for modesty's sake.

(Lesson 1: You never know who is going to be at the door. Cover yourself up if you don't want strangers seeing the outline of your black underwear through your cream-colored pj pants.)

The younger of the two tells me that he'd like to share a Bible verse with me. Now, I'm not the kind of person who shuts the door in people's faces. If someone came by with clown college pamphlets, I might still listen. So I'm thinking "Sure, I don't mind a bible verse." In fact, if I were more outgoing and less selfish about my precious time off from work, I might even be interested in inviting them in some time and debating theology. They ain't gonna get me, but I find different religious perspectives fascinating.

So he starts talking about the book of John, and I'm hovering behind the partially-open door, and then Alfie, our feral cat we got at the Humane League, slips out the door, desperately seeking freedom. We haven't started letting him out yet, so I say, "Oh shit!" The scripture reader smiles patiently-- or perhaps it was a grimace. Asks if I would like him to get the cat. I say "Um, yeah, but hold on, just lemme..." and I dash off to put a coat on over my sheer pajama shirt.

So I get Alfie. Put him back inside. Scripture Reader picks up immediately, and I'm standing outside in pajamas and a winter coat with two guys in suits and it's 65 degrees outside. Scripture Reader talks about how we don't focus on love enough in today's world, and I nod (because I agree) and then I tune out and listen to the birds and notice my neighbor playing basketball next door. The verse is brief and soon the missionary is giving me pamphlets about Jehovah's Kingdom, and I take them.

He asks if he can come back to visit, see what I thought of the pamphlets. I am evasive, say that I'm not home that often, but whatever. Then he asks my name, tells me his (Sasha, not Scripture Reader), and off they go.

I wonder what the percentage is of people who say "No, you cannot come back and I actually do not want your pamphlets." Or "Unless you would like me to throw them in the trash, you should keep them." Or "No, I don't want to hear a bible verse." Or "I'm in my fucking pajamas!" Of course, people who are in their pajamas may opt not to answer the door. Perhaps what I should have said when I answered the door was, "Oh, I thought you were someone else. Bye bye then." Or, ahhh the obvious... "Now is not a good time."

One time when I was a kid all of eight years old, I answered the door. My parents weren't home, but my babysitter, my fifteen-year-old cousin Megan, was right behind me. There were two elderly (well, maybe in their fifties, which is elderly to an eight-year-old), well-dressed women waiting expectantly. They started their speech, and I remember them talking about wastefulness in the world, pointing at these coins in plastic cases sitting on our front steps. I had dug those coins up out of our front yard just a few days before and had left them out front, hoping it would rain and wash the dirt off of them. Apparently, though, it was clear to the women on our stoop that they were simply trash left out front to destroy God's green earth.

When the women left, I had no idea that they were Jehovah's Witnesses. I had no idea what a Jehovah's Witness was. I knew who God and Jesus were; I was a Sunday-school educated little tike. But I remember wondering how I was supposed to feel about them, if I was supposed to believe what they were saying, if I was supposed to be impressed by them.

I'm sure that later, when I told my parents about the surprise visit, they shared knowing glances but indulged me in my retelling anyway.

I don't think I'm going to answer the door anymore. Or maybe, I should just go all out, answer the door only when I'm in a towel. If I had answered the door in a towel, do you think the JWs would have asked to read a scripture anyway? Would it have passed through their minds that the only thing separating them from a stranger's nudity was a bit of terry cloth? Would they have asked me to put something on? Who would be more embarrassed, me or them? Do you have any right to be embarrassed if you willingly answer the door in a towel?

Well, that settles that. I'm going to go put on my towel and wait by the front door.

I am not from the magical land of Tir Na Nog

2006-03-17T16:40:00.000-05:00

I've always wanted to be a little more Irish than I am. While it is in my heritage, muddled in the family tree somewhere, I'm more British and Greek than I am Irish. But because of my red hair and pale skin, people have often assumed that I'm full-blown Irish. Today in the company kitchen, a co-worker said "You're Irish, right? Is this a big day for your family?" The real answer is "Only a little" and "Not at all," but I told Mr. Co-worker "Yes" and "Not really, I'm more Greek than I am Irish." He thought that was fascinating, that I am Greek.

I've always been interested in people's ethnic backgrounds. When I was a wee lass, my mom pointed out that pale redheads are often of Irish background, so from then on, I asked anybody with red hair if they were Irish. The answer was usually yes. But my mom also pointed out that I wasn't evenly split between Greek and Irish, as I'd thought. The truth was that my dad's mom was Scots-Irish, my dad's dad was all Greek, and my mom's parents were both of British descent. So my Irish background came from Scottish ancestors anyway.

But I still wished I were mostly Irish. I practiced an accent in my room, wondered if maybe I could fake it. I felt like an imposter celebrating St. Patrick's Day, because I'm not Irish-American. I gave envious sidelong glances to Irish classmates, people with last names like O'Connor and Coyle.

Somewhere along the line I got over it, though I still kind of wish, just a little, that I had an authentic reason to celebrate St. Patrick's holiday.

Someone else at work just asked me if today is a big celebration for me. Man, I'm really glad I refrained from wearing my green knickers and magic shamrock hat. Boy, if I had, my co-workers would probably wait expectantly for me to break into Gaelic while I toss out gold coins.

Alright. I'm gonna go celebrate my sort-of-Irish heritage by going out for sushi.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

All cold and no warm make Jill something something

2006-02-28T20:55:00.000-05:00

So it's the end of February, the month I hate most. Historically, it has sucked, mostly because winter is vile, but also because crappy things just tend to happen in February. (See this page for another well-explained condemnation of February.)

So, since it's February, and since there's still another month of dreariness and cold (I used to think March was a good month, seeing as it heralded the coming of spring, but I realized that March is just as bad as February. In fact, it's worse, because winter is still hanging on like the little frigid bastard that it is, even though you're thinking "Hey, it's March! Spring will officially be here soon! I'm going to have a picnic! And wear flip-flops!" Then reality forces you to think "Oh fuck, it's 32 degrees? Rassfrassasumnabitchgrumblegrr..."), and since I'm feeling snarky, I'm going to list ten things that peeve me, just BECAUSE.

1. Drivers who pull out in front of me and then drive below the speed limit. If you're in such a hurry that you have to cut me off, speed the hell up!

2. Someone else's radio at work on low volume set to the pop station. As repetitive and instrumentless as pop music is, it's ten times worse to hear only little staccato bits of the shittiest parts of the songs. Shudder.

3. Snapping gum. Almost as bad as the radio.

4. Small talk about the weather or traffic. How about instead of "Sure is cold today," we say "Would you rather eat a ketchup-slathered piece of cheesecake or a mustard-glazed macaroon?" You'll find out more than that you both dislike scraping frost off your car windshields.

5. Poor grammar in general, but these things especially make my skin crawl:

*The phrase "should've went." Should have gone. Duh.
*The phrase "I drug that file to this folder." You dragged it, you jerk.
*"Alot." It's two words. Two! A lot, as in, that's a whole lot of being wrong.
*The use of "I" after a preposition. The secret is not between you and I, it's between you and ME. Try it this way, if you're struggling: Take the other person out of the sentence. Would you say "That cookie is for I?" No, you wouldn't, unless you are an idiot.

6. Inexplicable rattling. My car is full of random little rattles, and sometimes it makes me want to drive it off a cliff while I hit the "eject" button and parachute safely to the ground. Except that my car does not have an eject button, so driving off a cliff would be a most foolish decision. However, if my car did have an eject button, I'm sure it would rattle inexplicably.

7. Bathroom chatter. I can deal with "how's your day going" while I'm washing my hands, but if I'm in a stall or the other person is in a stall, I do not want to chat.

8. Paper cuts. They freaking hurt!

9. People who use email as their main form of communication with clients and fail to proofread what they're sending. I understand typos -- we all slip up with the typing now and then, but I work at a company where the sales reps do a great deal of corresponding through email, and geez... If I were a client and I got something like this: "Thank you for you order I am looking froward to working with you. I am faxing you a release form please sign it Thanks alot and have a good day1," I might feel a little less confident about giving this person my money. Particularly since we are part of the publishing industry, I feel like my co-workers oughtta be a little more careful. That said, they are very nice people and are better on the phone than I could ever hope to be.

10. My own sloppiness. I just looked down and realized there is chocolate smeared on my desk chair. I am a damn slob.

Three more hours till March. Who's excited?

wax on, wax off

2006-01-13T11:36:00.000-05:00

I have really been in a funk this week.

I have an article due for the paper. I can get away with a 300 word summary of the meeting I attended. 300 words! That's nothing! Why am I such a slackass? Instead of writing that in, oh, half an hour the other night, I browsed the website of someone I've only met once and who is obviously a brilliant overachiever. She sacrifices sleep for her many activities at which she is doubtless superior.

Sigh. When I was a junior in college, I took on basically every activity I was possibly qualified for, assuming officer roles in three clubs and an editor-in-chief position for the student magazine. I stage-managed a show, tutored in the writing center, and signed up for the maximum amount of course credits allowed (though I did drop 18th century lit). I was so busy I only saw my long-distance boyfriend about once a month and barely had time to eat and drink and shower and sleep. (On a side note, during second semester I gave up washing my hair for a few days. It was a combination of laziness and curiosity.) When I went home for winter break in December, I experienced an overwhelming sense of peace when I looked out at all the farmland surrounding my neighborhood, which up until that point, I detested. It was the flat open space that soothed my busy brain. I had a month to relax before all the activities started again.

Second semester I pretty much burned right out. Several months later during my senior year, I got into a groove that felt pretty good; I wasn't so absurdly busy that I forgot to phone home to reassure my mom that I was alive. (She would leave worried messages when she didn't hear from me after 10 days.) I think I struck a good balance between being busy and having time to enjoy simple existence.

Since graduating three years ago, though, I haven't been able to rediscover that balance. Right now I'm working my 40 hour workweek, coming home exhausted, and zombie-ing out in front of an hour and a half of Simpsons. (Save for the evenings I spend with Tristan, which involve little productivity but at least include the boy I like.) I wish I had the energy to come home and... do stuff. Sort through my photos, design a webpage, write a story, read something enriching.

I miss theatre when I'm not doing it, too. But when I am involved, I'm tired and crabby. My relationship with theatre should really be a separate blog entry.

So. I recently said that I gave up New Years resolutions years ago. I think, however, that I would like to resolve to feel more productive in my creativity this year. And I want to do at least one thing every month that educates me. (I'm starting small, okay? Laziness is hard to overcome.)

In non sequitur closing, Glamour magazine says messy updos are in, and I can't even pull that off. My hair is *made* of mess, and I can't pull it into a messy updo! wtf? Sure, I know I'm not a model and I don't have professionals making my messy updo look perfectly carelessly askew (though wouldn't that be nice? I could really go for someone else picking out designer clothes for me to wear and doing my makeup for me.), but shouldn't I be able to put my hair into a satisfying, non-crappy-looking ponytail?

Peace out.

2005 Wrap-Up

2006-01-09T17:41:00.000-05:00

A week into 2006, I finally get around to posting this:

1. What did you do in 2005 that you had never done before?
Went to New Orleans. Had a significant role in a show at a semi-professional theatre. Had a significant role in the office of said semi-professional theatre. Bought an average car from a smarmy, overpriced dealership-- unfortunate decision on my part.

2. Did you keep your New Year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I stopped making resolutions years ago.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Mike Duck's wife Stacey. First of the direct college friends to become parents.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
Well, my family cat Yang, who had been with us for 14 years. That was sad. No humans, though, thank goodness.

5. What countries did you visit?
None but the U.S. I did get out of Lancaster a few times, though, to Chicago and New Orleans by plane and various MD, DC, PA, & NJ trips by automobile.

6. What would you like to have in 2006 that you lacked in 2005?
Ah, this one is easy: my own apartment. I fear it may not happen, though, since I can't afford it yet. But in ten months once I climb out of my hole of debt and manage to save a couple thousand bucks, who knows?

7. What dates will remain etched in your memory and why?
August 15, because that's my birthday.

8. What's your biggest achievement of the year?
Learning to be comfortable with where I am, I guess. Even though that only happened in the last few months of 2005. Oh, and getting a real job with benefits.

9. What was your biggest failure?
Perhaps not enjoying the aforementioned significant role in a semi-professional theatrical production. It should have been so much fun, but instead it stressed me out and I was just counting the days until it was over.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Not really, besides a monstrous sinus infection in June, for which I took antibiotics that made me vomit. But that's not really even worth mentioning, so forget it.

11.What was the best thing you bought? Oh, I would love to say my car. It was certainly the most expensive thing I bought. But honestly, the $20 pair of jeans I got at Target have been invaluable.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
Um. Hm. Is is terrible that I can't think of anyone? How about everyone I love, for continuing to be so lovable?

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and disgusted?
I was very disappointed in my sister-in-law for a while.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Bills bills bills debt debt debt. I ran up a hefty credit card bill my first year out of college, and I've been working on paying it off for two years. Granted, I spent the better part of 2005 working for $7 an hour, so making a significant dent in the debt has been slow going.

15. What did you get really, really excited about?
Hm. Chicago with Tristan. Proofreading at work. (No, really.) I would love to say the trip to New Orleans, but I was exhausted and working a lot and also sick, so the anticipation was a little muted.

16. What song will always remind you of 2005?
Panthers by Wilco. Also, pretty much anything by Beck.

17. Compared to this time last year are you:
a) Happier or sadder? Probably about the same, really. I'm more content now, but at this time last year I was getting excited about a new relationship that was full of potential, so I was pretty happy.
b) Fatter or thinner? A few pounds thinner, I guess. I lost some weight when I was stressed out last spring and it never really came back.
c) Richer or poorer? Richer. I was making $7 an hour, remember? God help me if I weren't a little richer now.

18. What do you wish you had done more of ?
Writing. Always writing, but I find it so difficult to actually do. Traveling, too. I'm afraid of falling into a working rut and never fulfilling my wanderlust.

19. What do you wish you had done less of?
Freaking out about the oh-so-nebulous future.

20. How did you spend New Year's Eve?
I went to a wedding at a swanky hotel in Philly. It was smashing.

21. Did you fall in love in 2005?
I sure did. Tee hee. :)

22. What was your favorite TV program?
The OC was the only prime time show I watched, but it certainly wasn't my favorite. I have to go with Friends reruns, because I continued to feed my collection of season DVDs and I was never disappointed.

23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
No. I can't say I hate anyone.

24. What was the best book you read?
Harry Potter & the Half-Blood Prince has to be my choice, because it's the only one I can think of off the top of my head. I wish I'd done more reading, too.

25. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Beck, I think. I was obsessed with his music last spring.

26. What did you want and get?
An iPod. I'd been talking about it for a good six months and finally got one in July. Super-cheap, too, thanks to Tristan's computer purchase.

27. What did you want and not get?
A bright blue VW New Beetle. Screw Consumer Reports and epinions.com. Who cares if the car is historically unreliable? That's the car I wanted, and I should have gotten the damn thing instead of my practical Toyota.

28. What was your favorite film this year?
It's not a 2005 film, but I finally saw The Godfather in its entirety, and I thought it was awesome.

29. What did you do on your birthday and how old were you?
I went to the pool with my mom and niece and nephew, then went to Target and bought myself some stuff, then went out for sushi with my boyfriend. It was a very lovely day for turning 24.

30. What one thing would have made your year measurably more satisfying?
Getting a full-time job with benefits sooner than I did. I feel like I'm far behind in the getting ahead game, and I wish I'd been making more money sooner in the year. Working at the theatre was an interesting experience and a great resume-builder, but I would love to have paid off my debt sooner.

31. How would you describe your personal fashion in 2005?
Easy going with layers. I love jeans, tank tops, and flip flops. I love to dress up, too, but I always look better in my mind than I do in real-life. Now I just stick with what works.

32. What kept you sane?
My boyfriend, whose presence automatically makes me feel calmer inside, and anyone who would listen to me freak out about the future (friends, my Mom). I wish I could say writing, because that's always been such a wonderful outlet for me, but there were times when writing in my journal just felt like too much effort.

33. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Pssh. Not a one.

34. What political issue stirred you the most?
Pass. Sorry.

35. Who did you miss?
My best friend from college, who was several states away for most of the year and who I was used to seeing or talking to at least every other week.

36. Who was the best new person you met?
Well, a couple of weeks ago at a Christmas soiree for Tristan's work, we sat with a woman named Hazel Jackson, who was the first black woman to teach at a local high school and at a local university. Hearing a first-hand recollection of the days of segregation from a determined, good-natured old woman was a better history lesson than I ever endured in school.

37. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2005.
I learned to let go of the past, basically. I was carrying around some hurt and disappointment in 2004 that was doing me a lot of bad and very little good, and I discovered as time progressed that the crappiness of 2004 had made me aware of all the wonderful things still waiting. I also stopped longing for college and realized that those days are over, but it doesn't mean life has to suck.

38. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
Oh come on. I can't even sum up a year in my own words, let alone someone else's verse.

Blog Year In Review

2005-12-15T18:40:00.000-05:00

Kevin did this in his Live Journal and it seems interesting enough, plus I'm putting off finishing a boring-ass article for the paper. Here are 12 months of 1st sentences from my blog:

January: I think that if the end of the year is any indication of how the following year will be, I might just be in good shape.

February: It's one in the morning and I have to be up in seven hours.

March: All I want to do today is daydream.

April: I feel like a shell of me.

May: So another month has passed, and I still have no idea where the time goes.

June: I'm sorry.

July: I was just thinking about one of the weirdest moments of last summer, which was in itself a weird, weird summer.

August: 1. Initials: same as Jesus Christ

September: Yep, that's my car.

October: How I loved this cat.

November: I will be bummed if I have a month hiccup in blog posts.

December: So. In September I bought my first car.

I do not think "so" makes a good stand-alone sentence, which is why there are two periods in the first sentence of December. Just fyi.

All that doesn't really sum up my year all that well, but maybe I'll do that some other time when I'm putting off the article writing.

Crippling Buyer's Remorse

2005-12-06T13:43:00.000-05:00

So. In September I bought my first car. It's my sixth for driving but first for owning.

And now I know: Buying a new car and hating it cannot be likened to buying, say, a new sweater and hating its itchy wool. One can return the offending sweater for a full refund or store credit, assuming one isn't an idiot and hasn't already removed the tags. One cannot, however, return a vehicle without losing thousands, literally thousands!, of dollars. At least not in my case.

I bought a 2002 Toyota Echo. Good ol' dependable Toyota. I went the practical route: I did plenty of research, I read years of Consumer Reports reviews, I checked market value, and I decided I wanted the Echo because it was economical and cute. It is those things. It is nothing else, though.

Alright, it drives well, I'll give it that. In fact, I really like the way it handles. And I do get good mileage, but it's probably not any better than a new Corolla. I like the color-- dark green. I like the sound system-- considerable bass and coherent treble. But let me tell you what the car does not have: a clock, interval wipers, a way to adjust the mirrors without rolling down the windows, or anything power at all besides steering. This car is as stripped down as it gets.

I bought my Echo from a certified dealership, and it was way overpriced. I rationalized it because they give a two-year warranty. I even argued with the salesman in a very polite way: he explained that other places don't give a two-year warranty and that factors into the retail price, and I asked him, if their cars are wonderfully dependable, why are they so proud of their two-year warranty?

The salesman, Ben, didn't really seem to know what he was doing. I think he was new and had recently memorized his "how to sell a car to suckers" script. He frequently got up to confer with his nameless, faceless manager, who I suspect may have literally cracked a whip, as my mom and I sat hopelessly glued to our chairs. Every time Ben came back in, cologne wafting through the doorway, he would say "Great news! My manager says..."

He could have said "Great news! My manager says he'll up the price and kick you in the head for free!" and I might still have simply nodded, befuddled and overwhelmed.

I am a sucker. I signed away my $4000 insurance check on a car priced $4000 above blue book. It was dumb. Dumb dumb dumb dumb dumb. My mom and I walked out of the dealership completely dazed, not entirely sure of what just happened. All I was sure of was that I owed a lot of money to Citizens Bank and I would be in debt to them for four years.

So, now I have this car that I'm paying too much money for (it's not absurdly high, but it's more than I had planned to pay), and I don't like it. I want a car with power door locks and interval wipers and power mirrors. I want a car that doesn't inexplicably rattle because its interior is so damn cheap. I want a Volkswagen New Beetle, as I have since I wrecked my Jeep two years ago, but that's another issue.

Last week I resolved to do something about my dissatisfaction and I went back into the dealership, hoping to trade the Echo on something I *really* liked. But, hahhahaha... it's funny how dealerships work. Sure, I only bought the Echo two months ago, but wouldn't you know that the moment I signed the paperwork my car plummeted in value, and now, for a down payment, I only have what the car is worth, which is roughly equivalent to how much I still owe on it.

Ah, wait, I do have something else: an undying fear of dealerships and salespeople, a fear so severe that I start to shake with nerves the minute I'm in their cramped little offices filled with dealership propaganda. I'm going to have to conquer that terror before I make any future trades. I will not be suckered again. No sir.

So, while we're on the topic of cars, is anyone looking to buy an '02 Toyota Echo? Great fuel mileage! Toyota dependability! Adorable small car, green metallic, very clean! Low mileage: 28K! Great news!

Seriously though, it's a good little car. Who wants it?

Tomorrow is December

2005-11-30T20:35:00.000-05:00

I will be bummed if I have a month hiccup in blog posts. Last year I didn't write anything in my paper journal during the month of October, and I still notice the lack.

So, here's nothing.

Rest in Peace little kitty

2005-10-07T10:31:00.000-04:00

How I loved this cat.

Yang Coste

August 1991 - October 2005

I made up a song about him once. It was to the tune of "Home on the Range." Hey, I was twelve. What can I say?

Now he's resting in peace forever under his favorite tree in the front yard. I will always miss this wonderful cat.

Aw Jeez

2005-09-12T10:10:00.000-04:00

Yep, that's my car.

I'm pretty damn sick of saying goodbye to cars I've gotten used to. Incidentally, or not so, I was the innocent victim (again). Saturday afternoon, I was just attempting to drive through an intersection when I noticed a big-ass Dodge pickup (dark green, with a cap on the bed) coming the opposite way and starting to turn left at the intersection right the hell in front of me. I said to Jessie in the passenger seat "Oh my God that truck is turning!" and then, well, bang bam crush. I had a fleeting hope that slamming on the brakes would actually stop me just in time, but no such luck. The airbags didn't deploy, but Jessie and I lurched forward and I'm sure we'll be sore for a couple of days, but thank God no one was hurt in the destruction of yet another Jill vehicle.

The brief story of the other car, whose driver was at fault: There were four of them altogether- the driver and three passengers, wearing paint spattered jeans and matching green shirts (they must have been working for a contractor or something) and none of them, not one, had a license. Fortunately the car was insured and registered, and I have that dude's information.

But come on!!!! What the hell was the driver thinking???? If you don't have a license and are foolish enough to get behind the wheel of someone else's car, at least don't do anything dumb and illegal!

I'm really really hoping that the claims adjustor won't declare my car totaled. I just can't afford a car payment right now, and I'm sure the most I would get for my 1995 Subaru with 170,000 miles on it would be around $2500. One cannot buy a car with $2500. One can take a lovely vacation on $2500, but one cannot buy a reliable vehicle.

I'm not a reckless driver. I'm not the world's most careful, always obeying the speed limit driver, but I'm not a dumbass. And yet I've managed to wreck three cars. None of them was my fault, but it doesn't exactly make me feel good that I've been in three serious accidents in the eight years I've been driving.

(On a random side-note, I knew someone in high school who wrecked his car three times in his first eight months or so of driving, so I shouldn't complain too much.)

All that said, I'm incredibly, incredibly grateful that no one has ever been hurt in the collisions I've been a part of. Thank God for that. Now, my next car needs fake-wood paneling so I can knock on it whenever I think "I haven't had an accident in a while."

gotta get in an August post

2005-08-30T22:20:00.000-04:00

1. Initials: same as Jesus Christ

2. Name someone with the same birthday as you: Ben Affleck, who was cute once

3. Where was your first kiss? My driveway

4. For or against same sex marriages? I'm always for sex

5. Are you homophobic? What?

6. Are you bisexual? Oh for the love of--

7. Do you believe in God? Aye

8. How many US states have you been to? Half of them- 25. But three of them were just drive-throughs.

9. How many of the US states have you lived in? 5.

10. Have you ever lived outside the US? three weeks here, two weeks there...

11. Name something you like physically about yourself: fingertip callouses

13. Where do you want to go to college? I have a sneaking suspicion this survey is aimed at high-school aged whippersnappers...

14. What is your dream car? VW Beetle. Preferably new and blue.

15. If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go? where the wild things are

16. Have you ever had someone of the opposite sex over at your house while your parents were gone? Uh, yeah.

17. How many concerts have you gone to? Oh Christ I don't know. Many many.

18. Do you download music? Yes. From iTunes. I'm a sucker.

I'm feeling selective, and there are too many questions to begin with.

28. Have you ever crashed a car? Yes. Yes I have.

29. Has anyone more than 10 years older than you hit on you? Yessirree.

34. What was the last movie you watched? Godfather 2, I think.

36. Where was the last place you went besides your house? Giant. For groceries. I used the self check-out.

37. Have you ever seriously vandalized someone else's property? If it was given to me, does it count?

38. Have you ever hit someone of the opposite sex? I slapped some kid in the face in 6th grade.

39. Have you ever sung in front of a large number of people? Yuh-uh. I had a solo in Fiddler.

40. What's the first thing you notice about the opposite sex? If they's got all they teeth.

41. What really turns you on? Geek-chicness

42. What do you usually order from starbucks? Star-who?

45. Say something totally random about yourself? I have a dog-bite scar on my face.

46. Do you have an iPod? Yes.

47. Has anyone ever said you looked like a celebrity? I used to get Nicole Kidman back when we had matching firey afros, and I've also gotten Sigourney Weaver. And Natasha Lyonne twice last summer.

48. Do you still watch kiddy movies or tv shows? I will happily re-watch The Chipmunk Adventure anytime.

54. What magazines do you read? Time, Paste, Glamour

55. Do you think these surveys are stupid? Well, yes. I'm remembering why I haven't completed one in about 4 years.

61. What's something that really annoys you? Loud, sloppy chewing, irregular ticking, regular ticking, lone crickets, the sound of someone chewing their nails, popping gum, snoring... something and then some

62. What's something you really like? Laughing

65. Have you ever surfed? No. I am scared of surfing, because I fear the greatness of the sea.

68. What's the latest you have ever stayed up? Alright, this survey is definitely not for adults.

Yeah, that's good enough.

heheheheheheheee

2005-07-21T23:39:00.000-04:00

I snagged this from an AIM buddy's profile. It's hee-larious.

http://mirror.randomfoo.net/memes/2005/06/Tom_Cruise_Kills_Oprah.mov

Point? What's that?

2005-07-20T23:42:00.000-04:00

I was just thinking about one of the weirdest moments of last summer, which was in itself a weird, weird summer.

I've been on a jeans-buying quest lately, which is an event, and I have a couple of pairs that I've been trying on tonight for lack of anything better to do. (That's not true, there's plenty of better I could be doing. Let me rephrase that to "lack of any motivation to do anything better.") All of my outfit changing reminded me of the weird moment of last summer. There's your preface.

So I was trying on outfit after outfit in my little walk-up in Philly last July, there was no air conditioning and very little air circulation, and there was a guy I hardly knew typing on my AIM screen name to another guy I hardly knew. So guy number one, Jeff, was my age and from Strasburg; I'd met him in the coffee shop a couple of months before. Anyway, Jeff was visiting Philly and had slept the night before in a public park in Center City. I gave him shelter for a few hours; we got Chinese food and watched "Sweet Home Alabama," because I wanted Chinese and Jeff said he liked girly movies. I was planning on hanging out later that evening with the guy on the other side of the AIM conversation, Dominic, and as I tried on many different pairings of shirts, jeans, and skirts, Jeff typed to Dominic and said obnoxious things. I kept trying to bat him away from the computer, especially when he told Dominic that I was changing my clothes repeatedly (in another room, incidentally. This was not a peep show for random near-stranger Jeff). We were fighting over the computer like bickering siblings, and part of me really wanted to get him the hell out of my apartment. I also felt sorry about kicking him out, because that would mean he'd be sleeping on a park bench for the second night in a row. Then again, did I really want to give floorspace to a guy who willingly sleeps on park benches?

Um. So that was random. Eventually I settled on an outfit, Jeff sought out a park bench, and Dominic bought me some fries in a bar in his neighborhood.

On another note entirely and now in the present, what the hell is up with the denim mania at the mall? Is this happening everywhere? Suddenly the salespeople are all pushing the jeans, offering ridiculous amounts of help on picking a rise, size, rinse, and fit. At Express, a male employee who was obviously new and eager to please asked me what brought me out shopping that day. You know, he seemed like a nice enough fellow, but I didn't want to make small talk. Especially about my shopping motives. I wonder, if I had told him how little money I make, would he have discouraged me from spending it? Surely not!

And at American Eagle... Jesus, I don't know if I can ever face going back there. The salesdude was painfully excited to help me find a pair of jeans. I had but two pairs in my arms when he bounded up and exclaimed, "I see you're buying some jeans!!!" I replied, a little taken aback, "...yes." Then he proceeded to show me all the different types, asked me how I like my jeans to fit, pointed out this ridiculous pair with shreds and holes and embroidery and ribbon and, I don't know, tinsel and christmas lights, and I had to explain that they weren't really my style. I sort of giggled as he continued his spiel- did he have any idea how absurd he seemed? It was a freaking comedy sketch! Fortunately, some unwitting young woman had a genuine question and she pulled him off my ass.

I need an invisibility cloak for when I go shopping. Now that would freak out the pushy salespeople.

I stand corrected

2005-06-22T14:08:00.000-04:00

My dad fixed the hot water problem. This week is looking brighter by the day! Now if I can conquer these allergies and get up the nerve to cut the frayed apron strings with the theater, I'll be virtually unstoppable.

waaaah.

2005-06-20T20:54:00.000-04:00

I'm sorry. I really need to whine, because I'm very tired and crabby.
I spent too many hours today in meetings dealing with theater issues that I wish I cared about.
Our hot water heater broke, so my dad bought a new one, and now my hot water is gone twice as fast. Most likely my dad will not bother to take this new hot water heater back because he won't feel like dealing with the hassle when it's just me who's complaining. I've always taken excessively long showers anyway, but come on. Going from hot to lukewarm in 7 minutes is ridiculous.
I don't care about either of my jobs, and I feel like that's putting me in a perpetually bad mood. I just don't make lemonade, ok?
I'm effing sick *again,* and it pisses me off that my body can't go ONE NIGHT without proper sleep.
I've lost my favorite bracelet, as well as at least one other item a week. Sometimes I find these things. Sometimes I don't.
The internet access in this house is spotty, which is even more annoying than not having the internet. Again, something my dad most likely will not deal with, because it's not like our internet has entirely crapped out. Yet.
Alright, so I need to make some changes, and I've known this for a while. Soon I'll be in a better mood, though, and these irritations will seem less catastrophic and more minor, which they are.

I did quit the coffee shop today. So if nothing else, that's a first step. I'll probably never have a nicer boss, but I'm hoping that I'll stop hating anyone who asks "What's a breeve?" or "Lattes are cold drinks, right?" or any number of dumbass moron questions.

Well, cheers and goodnight.

I'm still bad at titles.

2005-05-27T16:44:00.000-04:00

I wonder when I stopped writing.

I found a slew of notebooks and loose leaf papers, all covered with my adolescent script, all stories and ideas and character sketches. Some are ridiculously lame. Some are quite cute. Some I could re-work now, if I am still a writer.

I emulated the young adult books I read, from happy teenage friends echoing Jessica and Elizabeth Wakefield of Sweet Valley to poor, dumb co-eds being chased by malevolent nobodies, a la R.L. Stine. I wrote out entire stories based on my own fantasies about my various crushes: in one story, CJ (someone I'd actually forgotten I had a crush on) and I get stranded with some of our friends in some magical land of stone and water. In another, I actually go out with CJ for a year. In yet another, my best friend dares me to walk up to my epic middle-school crush, Shawn, and kiss him. Sometimes I would rewrite the stories and give all the characters different names. To protect the innocent.

Maybe I stopped writing when I came to Lancaster and died for a little while. I have some incredibly bleak and unfortunately trite poetry from winter of my freshman year, and after that I have serious journal entries. I stopped fictionalizing my own life and stuck to the basics in a blue binder.

I kind of wish I'd channeled all my high school unhappiness into stories. Continued writing out my fantasies in dialogue and description.

I wonder why I am not that kind of a writer anymore. I wonder why it's not the way I pass my free time. I wonder why I can think and dream and observe and not get it down on paper the way I see it.

I wonder how much of who we are when we are children remains once we are not.

"Time passes. Listen. Time passes."

2005-05-22T21:17:00.000-04:00

So another month has passed, and I still have no idea where the time goes. I thought the free time would positively pour over me once I was done with the show, but it doesn't really feel that way. Maybe my subconscious is still stuck in the inertia of doing a show and I haven't quite gotten used to my freedom yet. I had a dream the other night that I had another performance and I was so pissed off that our director just wasn't letting us go. But. Not so. It's over, I've been able to connect with my friends more, and I saw a bunch of college friends this weekend at Jonathan and Gina's wedding.

I'm tempted to get really sappy here and ramble on about how much I love my friends. Even the people I don't talk to very often I'm still completely comfortable with. I guess it comes from having shared a dorm with these people, having shared meal after meal with these people, having sat in my pajamas in various dorm rooms and listened to music or watched something goofy or grudgingly made an attempt at playing Smash Bros. with these people.

I slept over at Lindsay's after the wedding, and sharing a room with her is still as natural as... I don't know, organic granola or something. It's soothing slipping back into the roles we played years ago.

It's strange, this growing up thing. Friends of mine are getting married, are married, some are having babies. Other friends already have their MAs, others are getting PhDs. God, remember when we were all just applying for college, before we even knew we could meet so many people worth holding on to for as long as possible? When our high school rooms were still decorated with ribbons from 1994 and the troll dolls we collected when we were nine? Well, that's what I had anyway.

I have no point to this. "It all seems like yesterday and at the same time so far away." It sounds so contrived, but whatever. It's true.

It's just so damn bittersweet.

oh, the places you'll go...

2005-04-27T17:55:00.000-04:00

Okay, last summer I decided that theater wasn't where my heart was. I just didn't want to work in the professional theater world. But because it's something I know and something I can do well, I keep finding my way back to it, even when I know it doesn't make me happy.

In February, I auditioned for a production of Our Town being done by the same (struggling) theater company I had just taken an administrative job with. I was being ridiculously underpaid, but I took the job because I thought it would look good on my resume and also because I worried that if I didn't take the job, the director (and also my brand-new boss) wouldn't even consider casting me. In fact, the date of my audition was one day after I was to let the board of directors and co-artistic directors know whether I would take said ridiculously underpaid administrative job. (Now that I've gotten to know these people, though, I don't think it would have mattered. They seem professional enough to compartmentalize their employees and their actors.)

So I took the job. And I auditioned. And I got the part I wanted. When Gary, the director/my boss/co-artistic director of Seventh Sister, had called and asked if I wanted to audition, I thought "Yay! It will be so fun to act again!" I didn't really take into consideration that the the last time I acted, I wasn't working full time, and I didn't have 19 performances altogether. I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

What I was getting myself into was this: Working all day and going to rehearsal until 10 every night for the last four weeks. I don't even know where April has gone. It arrived, things started turning green, I started wearing flip-flops again (even on cold days), and now it's almost May and we've opened the show. I've slacked a lot at my job, because I figure something's gotta give, and I'm fucking exhausted, and to be completely honest, I just don't care that much about my job.

And that's where I feel like a huge jerk. This company is really struggling, almost drowning, and they know it. Their office is disorganized chaos, their systems for doing things only half thought-through, their computer is old and decrepit, their internet is dial-up, they print out their sixteen different types of tickets on sixteen different colors of paper and then the office monkey (me, in this case) has to cut them up on a paper cutter with unreliable measuring marks and so old it looks like it came from my fourth grade art classroom. And I would really love to be the person who helps them get back on track, but I'm getting paid so very little and I've already spent plenty of time working for theater for almost nothing. I'm not really at the point right now where I can just be content making so little money that I actually qualify for Medicaid. So every time we have a staff meeting, I'm thinking in the back of my mind how I really want to get the hell out. But on top of that is the fact that I really like Gary and Mary (the co-artistic directors) and I want this theater to succeed. I love that there's a theater in Lancaster working to put out art that makes you think instead of art that you can buy themed t-shirts and pins for.

But I also really want a job where the systems are already in place and there's someone who can train me. And I also really want a job that involves editing and writing and publications. And I also really want to make enough money that I can afford to live on my own. So. That's that.

Our Town has gotten really good reviews, and it's actually going really well. When I'm at the theater and waiting in the wings, I feel fine. I don't have time to think about what I'd rather be doing, because doing a show is about being in the moment. It's in the hours leading up to the performance that I think about how I can't wait for this show to be over, how I can't wait until I can tell my boyfriend "Yes, I am free tonight" and tell my friends "Yes, I can come to that party." How I can't wait until I finish a workday and actually stop thinking about theater for an evening. How I can't wait until I can eat dinner at Tristan's house again, because his mom is an awesome cook.

I can't be consumed by the theater anymore. It doesn't leave me with enough self left, and I'm just not okay with that these days. I need my self in good working order so I can figure out what's next.

And that's that.

overkill

2005-04-22T11:45:00.000-04:00

I feel like a shell of me. Like there's nothing left to give. I want *me* back.

Two more weeks and this show will no longer run my life.

Argh!

2005-03-12T13:51:00.000-05:00

Sweet Christ, why do I still live with my parents? It's days like this-- I came in late last night and didn't sleep a whole lot-- that I just want to laze around and not feel guilty, not have someone come into my room to chide me for coming in late and being lazy. It makes me wish I worked 7 days a week so that at least I wouldn't have lazy days to be shat upon.

It's not that terrible. I love my parents, we've always had a good relationship, they're generally pretty cool. But come on, so I came home late for, like, the first time in a month. Can't they just let it slide instead of bonding together against me to reprimand me for not calling them? My mom wants me to call her at 2 AM if I'm not home yet, and that just seems completely counterintuitive to me. Call you and wake you up? So then you can lie awake worrying about me driving home at 3 in the morning, when you could have just been sleeping? I wish we'd been through all this in high school. I wish I'd been a huge pain in the ass so that they would appreciate how remarkably tame I am now. I know they vascillate between "Well, she's 23, it's okay if she stays out late, she can do what she wants" and "Well, she's under our roof and we can't sleep when she's out."

It makes sense. I get it. I respect it. Just stop drilling it into my head, for the love of God. It's drilled!

I really should find a real job and get my own goddamn apartment. If my parents move, which they might since Dad is looking for work elsewhere, I either have to go with them or get my ass in gear and get a frigging job. Or move to Boston and go into horrible debt for grad school in the frigid, frigid North. I don't make enough money at my embarassingly-close-to-minimum-wage jobs to live on my own in Lancaster. And really, if I stayed in Lancaster and actually paid rent to live here, I'd deserve to be taken out back and pistol-whipped.

I don't know. I want a cookie.

i don't wanna

2005-03-01T12:52:00.000-05:00

All I want to do today is daydream. I suppose I have a lot I could be doing here at work, but instead all I can accomplish is spacing out. I've looked through a stack of headshots and resumes, which is rather like the voyeuristic pleasure of looking through someone else's yearbook. I only know one or two of the faces that cross my path in this stack of photos, but I know the plays, the roles, the heights and weights and hair colors and miscellaneous talents (prolonged headstands, cockney accent, guitar, manual driving).

Today one of my two brothers entered his mid-thirties. Ten years ago he turned 24 and I thought about turning 14 in the summer. Now I have an occasional brainfart and have to count back the years to remember how old I am. Five years ago I was in high school. Right? Wrong. Five years ago I was a freshman in college. Right? Right. I am twenty and three years. This is how we can stay twenty forever: just add on the next year. Twenty and four years. Twenty and sixteen years. I guess you have to stop once you hit 40, though, since twenty and twenty years is just confusing and pretentious.

I am wondering why I'm rolling around again in this feeling of antsy-ness, preoccupied by the desire to be doing something, anything, else. I'm not an administrator, though my job title will fool future employers who read my resume. Right now I just feel like a kid with too much clutter on her desk, which is probably closest to the truth.

this year

2005-02-20T12:33:00.000-05:00

It's a February night, cold but not unbearable. I am far from city lights and the sky is breathtakingly clear. The boy beside me has a camera slung over his shoulder. Sounds are scarce this late in winter, but it's not cold enough to freeze the noisy stream bubbling nearby. I'm incredibly comfortable, with the cold, with the boy, with the quiet; I haven't enjoyed simple existence this much in a long time.

If I am lucky, and I think I might be, this feeling will persist through the change when the weather warms again. But for now, I don't even mind shoveling the snow that is forecast for this evening.

barfly

2005-02-19T15:23:00.000-05:00

I wonder what we were thinking when we drank
tequila last year and shared sob stories, yours
subtle, ongoing, mine explosive and over.
We were escaping, but it wasn't a time for escaping
nor for contemplating. It was a time for confronting,
for action, dramatic change. Instead
we drank to confusion, sharing
every thought that came to mind, even
the ones that were supposed to be secret.
I wonder what we were thinking, side by side
on the sofa with dangerous ideas and possibilities.

I forgot my sweater, strewn over the back
of a black chair, incriminating.
A reminder of what even tequila
could not accomplish.

nightfight

2005-02-07T23:48:00.000-05:00

It's 11 PM when my parents get into a fight because no one emptied the dishwasher today. I retreat to the basement, browse the must-glazed cardboard boxes full of dated schoolbooks, rifle through my brother's high school yearbook from 1988, idly run a hand over the punching bag I got for Christmas when I was fifteen and angry. It's quiet down here but for the hum of the water heater, busily warming the water rushing over the dirty dishes in the fateful dishwasher upstairs.

My feet get cold in the basement, and when I go back to the kitchen, Dad is getting himself a glass of water. We say nothing; I wonder if he is so angry about the dishes because he is stressed by other things in his life. I wonder if it's because he is still paying for his 23-year-old daughter's car insurance. I want him to tell me if he's tired and pissed. I know that's not what it's about, but I am thinking about so many things that it seems a real possibility.

I want anyone to tell me if they're pissed. There's no point bottling it up or bitching about it to someone else; it does no one any good. Tell me if you're upset. That's all you can do. Communicate.

I think about the various fights I've heard muffled through the walls over the years, and I think about the friends who've told me about their own parents' unspoken tensions, and I think about the unspoken tensions I've faced myself. I wonder about the ability to get so angry for such small reasons at people you know you love dearly.

All we can do is try to face each other and the truth and the love. The best we can do is just to try.

unfinished

2005-02-01T01:00:00.000-05:00

It's one in the morning and I have to be up in seven hours. That's fine. But I'm tired, and I should have gone to bed when that first wall of fatigue hit me two hours ago. Now I will lie awake and think about the things I have to do when I get up in seven hours. I should have mailed those letters today. I would like to go through my favorite plays and spend a day reading them, paying attention to their words like I did a year and three months ago when all I had was that writing on a page. That's what I'd like to do instead of what I have to do.

Family, Family

2005-01-09T19:20:00.000-05:00

I love hearing my dad talk on the phone to my older brother Paul, the firstborn. Paul gave my parents hell when he was still under their roof, but now when Dad talks to him, he always gets this soft, open look on his face. He calls his almost-34-year-old son "hon," and usually signs off with "alright buddy." And I don't know, there's just something about it that makes me think about how Paul is dad's first kid, that first bundle of wonder. How essential emotions for a certain thing maybe never change.

And on another note, Paul has more credit card debt than I do. That makes me feel good. Of course, he has a ten year head start...

D'oh.

Actually, I am Irish

2005-01-05T20:58:00.000-05:00

Why oh why oh why am I so unmotivated??? I gave myself a list of things to do today, and I just haven't accomplished anything! Augh! I don't even have any clever excuses for my abominable unproductiveness! "Yeah, I haven't applied for that job/internship/program/trip to space yet because I... uh... hey, who wants ice cream?"

I have a deadline Friday. An actual deadline for two very brief columns. One is about potatoes. Who doesn't like writing about potatoes? Potatoes are fantastic! Slice them, dice them, bake them, use them to paint-- they're full of possibilites. And fluffy goodness, when they're baked.

That's right. I just talked about potatoes in my blog.

Hey, who wants ice cream?!

New Year's Day

2005-01-01T19:58:00.000-05:00

I think that if the end of the year is any indication of how the following year will be, I might just be in good shape. It's a shaky theory, but in December 2003, I was miserable, and 2004 turned out to be just about the most awful year in my history. Now December 2004, however, was quite a lovely month. I'm hoping it means 2005 will not be another soul-crushing year filled with sadness and bad decisions.

Sometime in November I catalogued all the horrible things that have happened to me and many of my friends and loved ones in 2004, and seriously, I'm still sort of bewildered. And the world got one more ass-kick with the tsunami last week. Listen up 2005: I have high expectations for you.

I have to say, though, that it's quite interesting to look back over the year and think about how much has changed. I'm definitely not sorry that these last twelve months are over, but they've challenged me in some useful ways. I did some stupid stuff, and even as I was doing it I was thinking "this probably isn't the best way to handle how I'm feeling." It's kind of nice to look back at the "I wish I hadn't" moments and appreciate that I've learned from them. Yeah, I've grown a lot over the last year, learned what I can and cannot deal with, learned that I deserve a hell of a lot better than I was tolerating, learned that despite the mistakes, I'm still an alright kinda girl. And for that growth I'm grateful.

But 2004 can still go rot in hell.

Waving with completely fake fondness

2004-12-31T18:40:00.000-05:00

On past New Year's Eves, I have often reflected fondly on the goings-on of the past twelve months. Not tonight.

Good riddance, 2004.

Six Months Ago Moment

2004-12-19T21:21:00.000-05:00

I'm looking at the way he has his hair flipped over one side of his scalp; it's umkempt yet smooth enough to fall almost neatly next to his cheek. It's light brown, but in the late afternoon sunlight it's almost blonde. We're sitting on his roof and I'm telling him things, random things, like the way my mom says "mmhm" sometimes for no apparent reason. I don't know if he's listening or not. It doesn't matter. I feel like sharing whatever stream of consciousness comes to mind, and today it doesn't feel like it's terribly important that someone intently listens to every word. We watch birds fly over our heads and listen to the boys next door get ready for a night of drinking after a day of work. Our interaction is tentatively comfortable, with occasional long pauses that don't feel awkward to me. Maybe they do to him, but he's not making a move to go anywhere.

I know I won't see him again for a long while after this, and that too doesn't matter. Our moments together are only moments, not the promise of something stronger or longer, and I can make peace with the knowledge that they stand alone in time.

Commercials I Hate, #1

2004-12-07T23:54:00.000-05:00

That maudlin piece-of-crap Yasmin birth control commercial.

We start out with Pretty Girl on a date with Supreme Jackass. She looks disgusted. Next she's on a date with Another Jackass. Cue a second look of contempt from Pretty Girl (heretofore known as PG, for typing and readability purposes). Then Speeding Jackass charges up to the curb in his sport utility Wrangler at the end of the date, seemingly dancing in his seat to the neverending party in his mind (or pants? who cares). PG manages a queasy, thank-god-I'm-still-alive grin (but I personally detect a hint of "teehee, that was almost fun").

And then...

After all these wrong choices, she finds him. Mr. Preppy. He's cute, he's bashful, he shoots her "aw shucks" looks, which she returns in kind while they sit in his car, reluctant to say farewell. Then they take about a year to get that gentle, no-tongue-involved first kiss out of the way. Mr. P gets out of the car, walks around the back (which PG follows in the rear-view mirror with her doe-eyes), and comes to the side to open PG's door while she waits demurely biting her lip in the passenger seat.

They stroll up to her front door holding hands, her dress flowing attractively around her legs. At the front door they exchange more awkwardly darling looks and take another year to briefly touch lips again, both smiling shyly as they lean in toward each other for that sweet, meant-to-be moment.

I hate this commercial. It's got eight-too-many delicate looks that convey "you're everything I ever hoped to find!" and two-too-many "I'm nervous, and he's dreamy" lip-nibbles. I want to bang PG and Mr. P's heads together.

And I tell you what, she's not gonna need any of that birth control if they keep on kissing that way.

Quiet Night

2004-12-01T22:30:00.000-05:00

I feel like no one is at home.

There is a photo of someone I do not know:
Unsmiling, foreground.
Papers stacked haphazardly on a mostly barren bookshelf.
A phonebook.
Cough medicine, brand X. Red.
File folder. Blurry sticker on the back.
Gray computer tower. Maybe humming imperceptibly.
Blank cds on a spindle.
Dark curtains.
Fake wood paneled walls, unadorned.

Someone coughs in the dark.

Anyone have directions?

2004-11-26T22:06:00.000-05:00

A little less than two years ago, I was at graduation's doorstep. I had "You call my name but I gotta make clear/ I can't say baby where I'll be in a year" (from Aerosmith's "Sweet Emotion") quoted in my AIM profile. It was basically my "I think I'm afraid of committment" warning to the guy I was seeing, but the point is that I was so excited about not knowing what was coming next. Not knowing where I would be in three months, six months, a year. I was busy finishing two theses and working on final papers and portfolios, and graduation was still this surreal thing waiting on the not-distant-at-all horizon. Life was supposed to be exciting after that. My bachelor's degree was supposed to bring me great things.

I didn't know then where I would be in a year, and I still don't. The difference now is that I'm sick of it and soon my head will explode, or perhaps deflate. Sink in on itself until there's nothing left, brain having atrophied and skull disintegrated. That's what my bachelor's will have gotten me.

I'm in the midst of applying for grad school, and on the one hand I'm breathing a sigh of relief at the prospect of being in a solid place with a solid purpose (getting A's) again. But on the other hand I'm fretting that I'm only fleeing back into the cozy arms of education because I'm afraid to really step out into the real world. Education is what I know. The rest of it, I don't. And it's terrifying to think that in the eighteen months I've been out of school, I haven't kept a job for more than six months.

This is what I have done:
Learned to be a framer * Gotten my heart broken * Totaled my well-loved, heart-still-beating Jeep * Spent a week in Paris * Spent a summer in Philly * Become a barista in a small-town coffee shop * Moved out and moved back home twice

I don't know. On a good day I think I've had an interesting mixed bag of experiences over the last year and a half and isn't it cool that I've lived three different places and met such a variety of people and so on and so forth.

Tonight, though, I'd just like to know where I'm going.

Chick Lit

2004-11-22T23:39:00.000-05:00

I've read a lot of books, and I love to stay in bed all day and plow straight through a novel. (I don't really love the pathetically lazy feeling that overcomes me when I realize the day is gone, but come on. Ultimately I decide books are worth it.) Today I enjoyed an afternoon of fluff reading a Jane Green novel, this time Babyville. This woman gets acclaim for being the Queen of Chick Lit, acclaim for these unputdownable, frothy, literary treats. And frothy brain candy they are. I've spent a couple afternoons with Mr. Maybe (I've reread it twice), a day with Bookends, and an evening with Straight Talking. And now that I've just about finished Babyville, I'm a very frustrated reader: not only have I found a smattering of really pointless typos that a good proofreader should have noticed, but I've also discovered that these books are filled with characters who are just maddeningly unlikeable.

(So why do I continue to purchase Jane Green books, you wonder? Yes, I wonder that too. Perhaps because I know that they are a guaranteed afternoon of mindless reading and actually quite a good commentary on the desperation of singletons and the futility of failing relationships.)

Back to the irritating, spineless, self-denying characters. In Mr. Maybe it was almost charming, perhaps because it was my first Jane experience and I could almost relate to main character Libby's chameleon girlfriend qualities. But soon enough she was dating a total shmuck and telling herself it was what she wanted. Seriously, three chapters easily of her denying what she already knew, that this guy was a worthless chump. Plus, she was overly hateful to her overly obnoxious mother. For christ's sake, not everyone hates their mother and not every mother is as overbearing and nitpicky as this June Cleaver from Hell. And on the friend front, Libby's best friend Jules is obsessed with her weight and every calorie she puts in her mouth. She calls Libby to complain about the enormous bowl of cornflakes she had for breakfast. I wanted Libby to tell Jules to get some goddamned therapy already.

I'm going to gloss over Straight Talking and Bookends, mostly because I haven't re-read either of those and I don't feel like being thorough enough in this impromptu Jane Green bashing to refer to any of those undoubtedly annoying characters.

Now in Babyville, we've got Julia, who is a crazy, horrible person in a loveless long-term-live-in relationship with her spiritless and broken Nice Guy, Mark. We're not meant to find Julia a terrible human being, in fact the narrator even stresses that point, but she's just not well-developed enough to be a sympathetic character. Sure, we know Mark and Julia's relationship is crappy and neither of them have enough balls to make the break. And the description of their union is written with enough depth and realistic observation that reading it is actually rather depressing. Made me glad I was single, let me tell you.

Julia is obsessed with becoming pregnant. She buys approximately 6 to 10 pregnancy tests a month. She makes Mark carry juniper berries in his wallet for fertility (why he can't say "Um, no" is beyond me). She freaks out at people who have already been blessed with a precious little child. Okay. She's just an unlikeable lunatic. And Mark is a pansy. It's that simple.

Maeve is a high powered career chick who insists that she doesn't want a baby EVER and doesn't want a loving relationship EVER. She's independent! For fuck's sake. She too spends at least three chapters (after finding out she's pregnant and enjoying the company of the father) denying what she already knows. Nope, she doesn't want this baby. Why hasn't she gotten around to scheduling an appointment at the abortion clinic? She sure doesn't want this baby, no sirree, so what on earth has possessed her to procrastinate on such an enormous thing? She just can't figure it out, no sirree. And she definitely doesn't want to be in a relationship with the father. Hell no. She loves spending time at his house while he cooks for her and dotes on her, but they're just friends. Really. She swears. Certainly no potential for lovers there, not even after they share bonding eye contact at the first sonogram of the baby she's (duh) decided to keep.

Augh! Maybe it's true, maybe we do this to ourselves outside of fiction. Maybe we tell ourselves one thing to deny another or refuse to admit what's in our hearts because once it's acknowledged, it's irrevocably "real." Sure. Go ahead and let your characters do that too, but stop bashing your readers over the head with it after about ten pages in.

And that's all. Now I'll get back to reading about Sam, Julia's friend, who has obvious post-partum depression but refuses to admit it and is instead blaming everything on her husband.

I Should Be Doing Something Else

2004-11-07T00:23:00.000-05:00

So it's Saturday night and I'm spending it in the warm glow of my computer, thinking about all the organizing and bill-paying and grad-school-application-filling-out I had planned on doing today. Truth is, I can waste time better than anyone else I know.

Some weekdays, I don't go to work until one, and I get up at nine, have coffee, shower, putz around on the internet, and before I know it, I'm rushing around trying to find something to wear and running ten minutes late. Then I burst into work breathing heavily from my sprint from the parking garage, and I think about how most everybody else in the office has been there since 8 AM and would possibly drown kittens for the chance to have just one morning free.

If I were late to work because I got wrapped up in a good book or because I was doing research on how to finance my post-graduate education, I could feel good about my existence. Somehow, though, saying at the end of the day, "Well, I didn't do this, this, or this, but I certainly did check my email 756 times and drink two very tasty cups of coffee. And, ah yes, I bathed." does not instill me with confidence in my ability to get things done.

Maybe I'm just extra hard on myself, but I have a feeling I'm pretty goodgoddamn skilled at being unproductive.

Sometimes I waste time on fantastic things, like fiddling on the guitar and pretending that I'm a folk-star. But I usually decide to pick up the pick when I'm putting off something more important.

Eh. Oh well. Pastimes are important, right? Even when they're overshadowing something that deserves more prominence?

So yes, tonight I should be doing any number of other things. But instead, I have created a blog, the internet-sanctioned box of self-absorption.

Maybe tomorrow I will get something done...