Cocktail Party

I got an invitation yesterday. A lovely watercolour of a white front door with red flowers blooming around it, overlaid with see-through paper printed in a refined font with lots of flourishes, invited me to a cocktail party in honour of my cousin and his fiance, who are getting married in June. The party is in South Carolina, in a little town called Trenton. Trenton is only about four streets wide by three streets long, and that's not an exaggeration. It's where my great grandmother held court until she was buried at the Ebeneezer Baptist Church. She likely had some reservations about being buried in the Baptist Cemetery, as she was a loyal Presbyterian, but according to my grandmother (her daughter), somehow all the cemeteries are Baptist.

I can't go to this cocktail party, but I wish that I could. A longing came to me like a flock of birds settling in a tree. There's something about that place that seems to own me. The streets are named for my ancestors, the town is full of my distant cousins, and even forgetting those connections, there's something necessary about celebrating a family event. I may exaggerate the historical significance of the place, since I didn't grow up there and have very few memories of that community, but the fact is that the nucleus of my mother's family is there, like the hub of a wheel.

My feeling of identification with the location is, I'll admit, Romanticizes. Another cousin was a teacher at the high school in this area for years - a school that until very recently, held separate proms for black and white students. I find that idea mind-boggling, but that's part of the reality of that community. The South is a complicated place, and I love its complexity, but I can't deny I am naive to much of its limitations.

So I have an acknowledged advantage when I think of home - I think of the fine and the beautiful things. I may be hundreds of miles away, I may live in a much more liberal place, but I appreciate a community that throws parties for its young brides and bridegrooms, and I appreciate that my family has been a part of that community for a very, very long time.

And while I may not agree with everyone's politics, I sure wish I could fly down and have a drink with those people.

Other worlds

So I'm broke. What else is new? What's new is that I shouldn't be broke. There are checks for work I did over three months ago that should be in my hot little hands. But they aren't. I can see the downside to non-equity acting. I am beginning to believe that no one ever gets paid in this business, that all agencies simply prey on your willingness to take crap because you "have to start somewhere" and if you finally make noise, they replace you with another eager young thing.

But I have to admit, the sums of money coming to me seemed massive at first, until I realized the very prosaic uses to which those sums must be put - debt, savings, health insurance. Depressing. I don't even have credit card debt, the way so many of my fellow 30-somethings do - I should by all rights be ROLLING in money! I live within my means! I give at least a paltry sum to charity!

The biggest problem with the three-four month wait for money you make on acting gigs is this: by the time the money comes through your door, you have spent it in imagination so many exotic and fabulous ways that having to put it in safe and reasonable places feels anticlimactic. You've had endless time to think about that money, to make plans for it, split it into happy sub-monies that will make so many accounts bigger. You've cut the pie over and over, trying to work out how to feed all the many, many guests.

Of course, some people have literally spent the money before it comes. I've only sort of done that. Heh.

Domesticity

Mardi Gras: so Hank made me gumbo and we played Scrabble last night. Frighteningly domestic - I might as well be sixty-five. I lost at Scrabble. I'm a better loser than most people - games are games, it takes special circumstances to make me feel bad about losing. I feel bad about failing in life, but not losing a game.

I can't help feeling a little guilty at how much fun something simple like our evening was: kick-ass, slow-cooked gumbo (chicken, sausage, AND shrimp), and a friendly round of word jamming. It is actually word jamming, since we play on a Travel Scrabble, which makes you snap the tiles into place so sudden movement won't jar them.

Part of the fun of the evening was allowing myself to eat. I am dieting - back on the wagon today - because I head off to NYC for some auditions in late March and want to look my best. I don't consider myself fat, not at all, but I'm trying to be as trim as is possible. It's a cattle call - I refuse to be dismissed for an extra five pounds. So the poundage is on its way off. I took a break in the diet for Mardi Gras, however. While I was at it, I made sure to eat pancakes yesterday, too. It was heaven. I've been making supremely healthy choices for about two weeks now, I can't tell you how gratifying it was to eat without compunction. Raaaahhhh.

So now I'm back to being good for the next three weeks. It's not torture, I don't starve myself. In fact, it's nice to put the brakes on for a change. Then, when the diet is lifted, food tastes so scrumptious, so decadent.

I'm looking forward to eating bacon again. Apologies to the Jews and Muslims, but bacon is delicious.