So, anyone with half an ounce of sense probably could have looked at the "angry" entry and told me it would work out all right. Ounces of sense are in short supply on four hours sleep, though.
It turned out fine. I'll post the link when the show goes up, and you can judge for yourself. The essay went over pretty well, and I didn't throw up (a very real possibility at one point) and although it wasn't the most fantastic essay ever written by anyone, it was entertaining and made a very nice bridge between the two guests on the show. (Well, three guests - a duo was interviewed together.) I ended up quoting the first guest, nearly verbatim, since I'd taken a class from him, and then the duo that went afterwards ended up quoting me in their interview! It made for a very cohesive evening.
I actually enjoyed performing the essay, which is crazy, because for two days it made me sick. Now I'm thinking about writing and performing more, which is also crazy because I clearly turn into a harridan/insane person/bitch from hell/lacking any smidgen of self-confidence during the writing process. No, not during the writing as much as the critique/revising process.
But you tend to forget the pain of the creation and focus on the end result, right? Isn't that what happens when women give birth? I'm not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing...
I can't believe I went from feeling like I'd been kicked repeatedly to such a happy buzz of success that I am thinking about finally writing my one woman show, but somehow it niggles at the back of my mind.
I guess I'd better get through the holidays first.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Angry
I am exhausted from going to bed at two and getting up for the gym at 6. But I'm also angry at my sweetheart, and I'm not sure exactly how this is going to pan out.
The crux of the matter is an essay I wrote. My pumpkinhead produces an interview radio show about Chicago theatre (The Callback) and each week the show features a ten minute personal essay about whatever topic or theme that week's guests are discussing. Usually the essayist has a week or two to write an essay, have it critiqued, and re-write it.
I've had 36 hours. Three separate people have given me feeback, all more than once on more than one draft. I've torn this thing to Tuesday and back. I have to read this *(^&^$^*% essay in front of people tonight, all four and a half pages, and I have lost any conviction I ever had in it. Plus, three to four hours of sleep doesn't help with confidence.
And I'm furious at my boyfriend for going all stern and "professional" at 2 o'clock in the bloody morning when I was beyond frustrated.
Anyway. Interested in the Callback? Want to hear me fail miserably? Check out the following to listen to the shows. Mine won't be up for a while, but it will give you an idea. www.callbackchicago.com (I can't get this stupid link thing to work today.)
The crux of the matter is an essay I wrote. My pumpkinhead produces an interview radio show about Chicago theatre (The Callback) and each week the show features a ten minute personal essay about whatever topic or theme that week's guests are discussing. Usually the essayist has a week or two to write an essay, have it critiqued, and re-write it.
I've had 36 hours. Three separate people have given me feeback, all more than once on more than one draft. I've torn this thing to Tuesday and back. I have to read this *(^&^$^*% essay in front of people tonight, all four and a half pages, and I have lost any conviction I ever had in it. Plus, three to four hours of sleep doesn't help with confidence.
And I'm furious at my boyfriend for going all stern and "professional" at 2 o'clock in the bloody morning when I was beyond frustrated.
Anyway. Interested in the Callback? Want to hear me fail miserably? Check out the following to listen to the shows. Mine won't be up for a while, but it will give you an idea. www.callbackchicago.com (I can't get this stupid link thing to work today.)
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
How Do You Like Your Blue-Eyed Boy, Mr. Death?
My grandmother died. She was 91, and she'd been sinking into oblivion for months now, a gradual decline from three years ago when she broke her hip. She had a good life, a long life, and until the hip, she had a great time. After the hip broke, she did not have a good time. She was frightened of dying and just aware enough of how her faculties were slipping to be upset by it. She would mumble and then get agitated that she couldn't make herself understood. I saw her in October, a frail, tiny shrunken woman, and it was the first time I'm not sure she recognized who I was.
Last Christmas I went to see her and her face lit up when I came in the door. She was already into good days and bad days by this point, but this was a good one. We sang Christmas Carols with the man who'd come to play piano for them. When we chatted, she asked how Chicago was. I told the nurse she'd been a beauty queen (Miss Marion 1933) and she got this impish look in her eye and said, "You know why I won? Dresses back then had a shift under them, and I went out in just the shift." So apparently Grandma was sporting the slip dress way back in the day. As I left that day, the nurse said, "You must be a favorite of hers, the way she lit up when you came in." I said, "Well, she's certainly a favorite of mine."
The funeral was Wednesday before Thanksgiving. I know she was older, that she was in poor health, that we knew she was nearing the end, but it was still sad. Good, but sad. I got to be a pallbearer, which felt helpful. A death touches you differently when you help carry the body. My grandmother had asked that all the grandchildren be pallbearers. It just so happened I was the only girl (some of my cousins couldn't be there), and I'd like to think my Grandma would have liked that.
During the service, which was exceptionally simple and short, the minister talked about something I knew but had never thought about. My grandmother was christened, confirmed, married, had all her children confirmed, and was buried from the same church. The pall we used over her coffin had been bought for the church as a memorial for my grandfather's funeral nearly twenty five years before. It was a deep moment, the passing of this woman, and we lost a connection to all that has gone before.
I am glad for my grandma's sake that she has gone. No matter what I (or you) may think of an afterlife, she was by the last few months merely suffering, not living at all. But I am surprised to find I really miss her, now that I know I can't ever see her again. I am not sure how well I knew her, as of course I missed a lot of her life, but I liked her. I did love her, but more than that, I genuinely liked her. She was spunky and feisty and enjoyed her life. She wasn't afraid of love or work or pain. The gentleman who took her to the hospital when she was having a stroke (a close friend) told me she said to him, "I never cry, but I feel like crying now," and when he told her to go ahead, she just sobbed. I don't like to think of her that scared, but I love that she held on without giving in as long as possible, and I am so grateful her friend was with her when she couldn't hold it back.
She was a flirt, from first to last. She married my grandfather, the story goes, because he was the first man to tell her no. She called him to break a date - a bandleader had asked her to a dance, and she always loved to go out with that bandleader because while he was directing the band, she could dance with everyone else. My grandfather told her that if she broke the date, it was their last. One of her nurses from her nursing home came to the funeral and told us she used to flirt with this nurse's husband, then wink, point to the nurse, and say, "Don't tell her."
I loved doing things she enjoyed because she was fun to watch when she was happy. I wish I'd been older a little sooner, but as I got to driving age I would go over to see her and take her out to lunch - by then she was carless, so I was "springing" her, I'd say. Once, she let me take her to visit her old friends, and it was one of the happiest days of my life to watch her chat and flirt and show up unexpectedly on friends' doorsteps. Her best friend came to the door and was so thrilled and delighted to see her I think they both had tears in their eyes. "Oh, Libby," she sighed, "the bridge club just isn't the same without you."
I was her namesake. I'm Elizabeth after her, though she was always called Libby. I had her car for a few years, too, which I named after her mother: Inez. On the way to the gravesite I was sitting next to my nephew, Ward, who is named after my grandfather, Edward, and I realized we were next to each other the way they would be soon. It was a graveyard full of the names of the attendees.
It's odd enough that she's really gone. But strange things will bring her back to me, little slivers of memory that I thought I'd lost, and then I tear up. Thanksgiving, 1999, My sister-in-law and I went over to pick her up to drive her to our house, and she was thrilled we were there because she thought she'd just be stranded for the holiday. (She had been told someone would pick her up, but she got confused.) I remember knocking on the door several times before she heard us, and being frightened something had happened to her. Then she was so happy we'd come, and we were so happy she was fine, and I can remember her standing on the red carpet in the dining room telling us she'd just be a minute getting ready. The dining room, in the midst of her tea cup collection and in view of her kitchen, where she made blueberry pies (huckleberry pies, really) and fed us Froot Loops as children and drank copious amounts of blush wine and hosted Thanksgiving feasts for thirty, maybe fourty years.
She hasn't lived in that house for 8 years, and much of her left this earth months or even years ago, but I miss her. The only consolation I can think of is that it's better to miss her than not to have appreciated her, for we all find the dirt farm eventually. At least she remains as she can, feisty flirt that she is, sharp and happy in my memory, with that mischevious twinkle firmly glittering in her eye.
Goodbye, Libby.
Last Christmas I went to see her and her face lit up when I came in the door. She was already into good days and bad days by this point, but this was a good one. We sang Christmas Carols with the man who'd come to play piano for them. When we chatted, she asked how Chicago was. I told the nurse she'd been a beauty queen (Miss Marion 1933) and she got this impish look in her eye and said, "You know why I won? Dresses back then had a shift under them, and I went out in just the shift." So apparently Grandma was sporting the slip dress way back in the day. As I left that day, the nurse said, "You must be a favorite of hers, the way she lit up when you came in." I said, "Well, she's certainly a favorite of mine."
The funeral was Wednesday before Thanksgiving. I know she was older, that she was in poor health, that we knew she was nearing the end, but it was still sad. Good, but sad. I got to be a pallbearer, which felt helpful. A death touches you differently when you help carry the body. My grandmother had asked that all the grandchildren be pallbearers. It just so happened I was the only girl (some of my cousins couldn't be there), and I'd like to think my Grandma would have liked that.
During the service, which was exceptionally simple and short, the minister talked about something I knew but had never thought about. My grandmother was christened, confirmed, married, had all her children confirmed, and was buried from the same church. The pall we used over her coffin had been bought for the church as a memorial for my grandfather's funeral nearly twenty five years before. It was a deep moment, the passing of this woman, and we lost a connection to all that has gone before.
I am glad for my grandma's sake that she has gone. No matter what I (or you) may think of an afterlife, she was by the last few months merely suffering, not living at all. But I am surprised to find I really miss her, now that I know I can't ever see her again. I am not sure how well I knew her, as of course I missed a lot of her life, but I liked her. I did love her, but more than that, I genuinely liked her. She was spunky and feisty and enjoyed her life. She wasn't afraid of love or work or pain. The gentleman who took her to the hospital when she was having a stroke (a close friend) told me she said to him, "I never cry, but I feel like crying now," and when he told her to go ahead, she just sobbed. I don't like to think of her that scared, but I love that she held on without giving in as long as possible, and I am so grateful her friend was with her when she couldn't hold it back.
She was a flirt, from first to last. She married my grandfather, the story goes, because he was the first man to tell her no. She called him to break a date - a bandleader had asked her to a dance, and she always loved to go out with that bandleader because while he was directing the band, she could dance with everyone else. My grandfather told her that if she broke the date, it was their last. One of her nurses from her nursing home came to the funeral and told us she used to flirt with this nurse's husband, then wink, point to the nurse, and say, "Don't tell her."
I loved doing things she enjoyed because she was fun to watch when she was happy. I wish I'd been older a little sooner, but as I got to driving age I would go over to see her and take her out to lunch - by then she was carless, so I was "springing" her, I'd say. Once, she let me take her to visit her old friends, and it was one of the happiest days of my life to watch her chat and flirt and show up unexpectedly on friends' doorsteps. Her best friend came to the door and was so thrilled and delighted to see her I think they both had tears in their eyes. "Oh, Libby," she sighed, "the bridge club just isn't the same without you."
I was her namesake. I'm Elizabeth after her, though she was always called Libby. I had her car for a few years, too, which I named after her mother: Inez. On the way to the gravesite I was sitting next to my nephew, Ward, who is named after my grandfather, Edward, and I realized we were next to each other the way they would be soon. It was a graveyard full of the names of the attendees.
It's odd enough that she's really gone. But strange things will bring her back to me, little slivers of memory that I thought I'd lost, and then I tear up. Thanksgiving, 1999, My sister-in-law and I went over to pick her up to drive her to our house, and she was thrilled we were there because she thought she'd just be stranded for the holiday. (She had been told someone would pick her up, but she got confused.) I remember knocking on the door several times before she heard us, and being frightened something had happened to her. Then she was so happy we'd come, and we were so happy she was fine, and I can remember her standing on the red carpet in the dining room telling us she'd just be a minute getting ready. The dining room, in the midst of her tea cup collection and in view of her kitchen, where she made blueberry pies (huckleberry pies, really) and fed us Froot Loops as children and drank copious amounts of blush wine and hosted Thanksgiving feasts for thirty, maybe fourty years.
She hasn't lived in that house for 8 years, and much of her left this earth months or even years ago, but I miss her. The only consolation I can think of is that it's better to miss her than not to have appreciated her, for we all find the dirt farm eventually. At least she remains as she can, feisty flirt that she is, sharp and happy in my memory, with that mischevious twinkle firmly glittering in her eye.
Goodbye, Libby.
Friday, November 02, 2007
Never Brag
So, I really had been running for about two, three miles a day for about 6 weeks, but as soon as I mentioned it out loud, BAM! I got sick. Horribly, hacking, coughing nastiness sick. I admit, the first day I knocked off running because I was just in the mood for a break, but the rest of the week, I WANTED to go run and just couldn't even get out of bed.
I skipped performing one of my shows at one point, I was so out of it - my voice wasn't working very well, so my very gracious and phenomenally well-prepared understudy went on. Thank goodness she was there.
I went back to running last week. It was great. Unfortunately, we're just hitting that point where it's too cool to run outside. I mean, I know lots of people run outside in freezing weather - I see them all the time in snow and ice, jogging away, but not me. Nosiree. It doesn't seem healthy for someone who ALWAYS has a runny nose in cold weather.
But other than that, I am shocked at myself for so much running. I mean, I've been running every day for two months, minus a week for sickness and a day off here and there (never more than one day off in a week, however). Is this the same girl that laughed out loud three years ago when her trainer explained the best time for cardio would be in the morning before eating breakfast? I thought it was comical, and I looked him in the face and said, "That probably won't be happening." And yet it is!
Granted, the most I've run is 4.5 miles. And that only once. I normally do 2.5 or 3, and push it to four if I'm feeling extra strong or I have a lot of time. But it's an interesting habit for me to develop, fairly late in life. My dad was always a runner when I was growing up, still is, except his knees have gone, so the doctor has decreed he can only run every other day. He always did 3 miles, no matter what (at one point, he did 3 miles in 21 minutes...which I find amazing). Sometimes we would get in the car to go somewhere, and find ourselves taking some odd, circuitous route, and when I finally said, where on earth are we going? My dad would explain he was clocking the mileage on some new route. He nearly always came home from work and went out to run right away - never in the mornings, though, unless it was a weekend.
But I always HATED running of any kind! I was a walker, when I deigned to exercise, which was pretty seldom, actually, over 30 years. When I turned thirty I just somehow thought, hmmm. I weigh about 15 pounds more than I want to. Why? Oh, that's right, I have never done anything about it. So I joined a gym and went the elliptical/weight lifting route for a while. Except I hated weightlifting. Still do. The whole point is lifting weights should never be easy - if it gets easy, you have to add more weight. So I never like it because it never gets any easier.
While I was away for the summer over a year ago, a friend set up a gym-free cardio plan for me which involved running intervals. I didn't take to it initially, but when I got back to Chicago and the autumn weather was warm and sunny and I wasn't doing a show for a month or so, I started running the plan - 30 minutes in odd intervals of walking and running. And slowly, very slowly, I got to where I could run more than the interval. And I cracked a mile one day, then two. Not that I would run a mile and stop. My route was usually 3 miles, and I walked however much of it I couldn't run. I kept running off and on through the year. Then in Septemebr I decided the only way to really get in shape was to exercise every single day, even if it meant getting up early to do it.
This is too long a post, but seriously, I am shocked to find myself being disciplined enough to be consistent. And I like running! Crazy! I find it much easier to convince myself to go run for 30 minutes than to ever lift weights. (I should, of course, go back to doing some mild weightlifting, but I can't face it yet. Ugh.)
In the interest of fairness, I should mention I'm slow. Sooo slooowww. A friend told me he used to make his running a game - he got a point for every male he passed, and half point for every female, but lost a point when he got passed by a male, or two for being passed by a female. (I don't deny this is sexist - it's not my game, people.) After his story I realize I get passed by EVERYONE. I mean it, everyone passes me, and I rarely, rarely pass anyone else...unless that person is walking. I've passed walkers who blew right past me minutes later when they went back to running. I am slow.
But I'm still at it, and I cannot believe it. I got up at 6:30 this morning so I go get to the gym and run?! Crazy!!
Eventually my plan is to scale back to running 3-4 times a week. After all, the bad knees run in the family. But for the moment, I'm just trying to be consistent, to build up after 30 years of never exercising much at all.
I skipped performing one of my shows at one point, I was so out of it - my voice wasn't working very well, so my very gracious and phenomenally well-prepared understudy went on. Thank goodness she was there.
I went back to running last week. It was great. Unfortunately, we're just hitting that point where it's too cool to run outside. I mean, I know lots of people run outside in freezing weather - I see them all the time in snow and ice, jogging away, but not me. Nosiree. It doesn't seem healthy for someone who ALWAYS has a runny nose in cold weather.
But other than that, I am shocked at myself for so much running. I mean, I've been running every day for two months, minus a week for sickness and a day off here and there (never more than one day off in a week, however). Is this the same girl that laughed out loud three years ago when her trainer explained the best time for cardio would be in the morning before eating breakfast? I thought it was comical, and I looked him in the face and said, "That probably won't be happening." And yet it is!
Granted, the most I've run is 4.5 miles. And that only once. I normally do 2.5 or 3, and push it to four if I'm feeling extra strong or I have a lot of time. But it's an interesting habit for me to develop, fairly late in life. My dad was always a runner when I was growing up, still is, except his knees have gone, so the doctor has decreed he can only run every other day. He always did 3 miles, no matter what (at one point, he did 3 miles in 21 minutes...which I find amazing). Sometimes we would get in the car to go somewhere, and find ourselves taking some odd, circuitous route, and when I finally said, where on earth are we going? My dad would explain he was clocking the mileage on some new route. He nearly always came home from work and went out to run right away - never in the mornings, though, unless it was a weekend.
But I always HATED running of any kind! I was a walker, when I deigned to exercise, which was pretty seldom, actually, over 30 years. When I turned thirty I just somehow thought, hmmm. I weigh about 15 pounds more than I want to. Why? Oh, that's right, I have never done anything about it. So I joined a gym and went the elliptical/weight lifting route for a while. Except I hated weightlifting. Still do. The whole point is lifting weights should never be easy - if it gets easy, you have to add more weight. So I never like it because it never gets any easier.
While I was away for the summer over a year ago, a friend set up a gym-free cardio plan for me which involved running intervals. I didn't take to it initially, but when I got back to Chicago and the autumn weather was warm and sunny and I wasn't doing a show for a month or so, I started running the plan - 30 minutes in odd intervals of walking and running. And slowly, very slowly, I got to where I could run more than the interval. And I cracked a mile one day, then two. Not that I would run a mile and stop. My route was usually 3 miles, and I walked however much of it I couldn't run. I kept running off and on through the year. Then in Septemebr I decided the only way to really get in shape was to exercise every single day, even if it meant getting up early to do it.
This is too long a post, but seriously, I am shocked to find myself being disciplined enough to be consistent. And I like running! Crazy! I find it much easier to convince myself to go run for 30 minutes than to ever lift weights. (I should, of course, go back to doing some mild weightlifting, but I can't face it yet. Ugh.)
In the interest of fairness, I should mention I'm slow. Sooo slooowww. A friend told me he used to make his running a game - he got a point for every male he passed, and half point for every female, but lost a point when he got passed by a male, or two for being passed by a female. (I don't deny this is sexist - it's not my game, people.) After his story I realize I get passed by EVERYONE. I mean it, everyone passes me, and I rarely, rarely pass anyone else...unless that person is walking. I've passed walkers who blew right past me minutes later when they went back to running. I am slow.
But I'm still at it, and I cannot believe it. I got up at 6:30 this morning so I go get to the gym and run?! Crazy!!
Eventually my plan is to scale back to running 3-4 times a week. After all, the bad knees run in the family. But for the moment, I'm just trying to be consistent, to build up after 30 years of never exercising much at all.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Wow
I'm having fun, mostly. The weather is gorgeous, I'm up to running between 2 and 3 miles a day, my recent bike accident has only produced bruises, the kid's show I am doing has a phenomenally lovely cast, and my fiance remains steadily awesome, eliminating much second guessing.
But trawling around on facebook and the internet, I see, well, a lot of people that I miss. (And it could be you, reader.) Also, I am enjoying just enough of my days to realize how little I enjoy working at a desk unless it's payday. Ironically, this month is financially quite tense as I am working much less at a desk. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.
My mother is full of completely irrational and impractical schemes for the weekend of the wedding, like having everyone over to our condo for breakfast on Sunday morning. HUNH? How, pray tell, will we have time to cook? Aren't we all a little BUSY being in a wedding on Saturday?
Anyway, she's away in Africa at the moment, so I will try to avoid that headache for a moment.
But back to the people I miss.
I miss them.
Hmm. That was succinct.
Maybe I should have lunch and continue this later.
But trawling around on facebook and the internet, I see, well, a lot of people that I miss. (And it could be you, reader.) Also, I am enjoying just enough of my days to realize how little I enjoy working at a desk unless it's payday. Ironically, this month is financially quite tense as I am working much less at a desk. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.
My mother is full of completely irrational and impractical schemes for the weekend of the wedding, like having everyone over to our condo for breakfast on Sunday morning. HUNH? How, pray tell, will we have time to cook? Aren't we all a little BUSY being in a wedding on Saturday?
Anyway, she's away in Africa at the moment, so I will try to avoid that headache for a moment.
But back to the people I miss.
I miss them.
Hmm. That was succinct.
Maybe I should have lunch and continue this later.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
White shoes
Ok, how did life get so busy and frightening? And why do my white shoes look so very odd? I mean, I know it's after Labor Day, but these are Keds, people.
First, having big life discussions is scary. When you and your (still somewhat prospective) life partner sit down and make a timeline for a) buying property b) having children and c) whatever else you want, it's pretty overwhelming. Because I can't deny the fact that I am getting older, and I feel trapped between all the things I have yet to accomplish for myself and the compromises inherent in having a family. Let me break that down for you:
I have so little money, really, it's pitiful. This shortage is partly due to my attempt to be a working actress, which still doesn't yet pay. It may, oh, how I want it to, but then again it may not.
It's hard to have children with no money.
It's even harder to buy property with no money.
So it feels like if I ever want property or children, I have to give up on being a working actor. Oh, I don't have to give up acting entirely, I just have to get a 9-5 real job, one that brings in the money more consistently.
But I can't help it, I still hope the ACTING can bring in the money. I mean, that would just solve everything. Then my life gets to be a) AND b), not a) OR b).
That's what I want, I want an AND life.
When I sat down (ok, lay down) and had this monumental conversation this weekend, I realized I'm closing in on needing it make the acting pay. I'm not talking about fortunes, I mean a living wage. I'm running out of time to call this a profession.
Because if I can't, I come to a crossroads, and no matter which way I go, I'll spend some time thinking about the direction I never got to explore. Maybe, knowing me, a lot of time.
Come on, wheel of fate.....no whammies, no whammies....
First, having big life discussions is scary. When you and your (still somewhat prospective) life partner sit down and make a timeline for a) buying property b) having children and c) whatever else you want, it's pretty overwhelming. Because I can't deny the fact that I am getting older, and I feel trapped between all the things I have yet to accomplish for myself and the compromises inherent in having a family. Let me break that down for you:
I have so little money, really, it's pitiful. This shortage is partly due to my attempt to be a working actress, which still doesn't yet pay. It may, oh, how I want it to, but then again it may not.
It's hard to have children with no money.
It's even harder to buy property with no money.
So it feels like if I ever want property or children, I have to give up on being a working actor. Oh, I don't have to give up acting entirely, I just have to get a 9-5 real job, one that brings in the money more consistently.
But I can't help it, I still hope the ACTING can bring in the money. I mean, that would just solve everything. Then my life gets to be a) AND b), not a) OR b).
That's what I want, I want an AND life.
When I sat down (ok, lay down) and had this monumental conversation this weekend, I realized I'm closing in on needing it make the acting pay. I'm not talking about fortunes, I mean a living wage. I'm running out of time to call this a profession.
Because if I can't, I come to a crossroads, and no matter which way I go, I'll spend some time thinking about the direction I never got to explore. Maybe, knowing me, a lot of time.
Come on, wheel of fate.....no whammies, no whammies....
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Sigh
I sent my mother pictures of the wedding dress I bought. And her comment to my Dad was, well, it needs to be altered.
Yes. I think about 99% of all wedding dresses are altered. (Another 75% of them are altared. Ha!) Why is this such a surprise? Or for that matter, why does this reflect badly on the dress? Because let me assure you, this comment does indicate dissatisfaction with the dress. My mother has infinite code words, like a real estate agent hiding the true nature of a house, to obfuscate and mask her displeasure, but the displeasure is clear even when its causes are not. The sentence, "Well, you're the one who needs to be happy with it" might as well end with, "because I certainly am not."
I know what you're thinking, you think I'm being paranoid. Perhaps. And in the end, it doesn't matter because a) I've already bought the dress, and b) she's not the one wearing it. But it's sort of the same niggly fretfulness I have about my lovely finance. I'm not entirely, 100% sure my parents adore him. I think they like him, I think they're happy for me, but there are a few well-placed silences that could have multiple causes, and I can't quite decipher them.
Let me be clear that the same a) and b) apply. I love the man, I picked him, no one has to marry him but me. If they DON'T adore him, I'm still going for it. And the reticence I notice might be more because they don't want to lose their little girl (though, at 33, I would think they'd be more than happy to get me off their hands) or because who wants their artist daughter marrying another artist? We are definitely signed up for a hard row to hoe together. A nice architect might have made things a little easier, especially one who lived south of the Mason-Dixon line.
I love and respect my parents, so I can't help that their opinion matters to me. But they've never come right out with that opinion. A friend of mine wanted to know, "Can't you just ask them?"
Hahaahahahahaahahaahaahaha.
No. They're from the South. Direct questioning is not effective. It's like going deer hunting and asking, "Why don't you just walk right up to the deer and shoot it?" Because it runs away, silly.
Anyway, they like my honey. I know that. He's funny, and caring, and he clearly cares about me, and they know I love him enough to marry him, and anything they don't say is to stay out of the way of our chance at a happy marriage. Which I can appreciate.
All of which is why I would really have been glad if my mother REALLY LOVED my wedding dress.
Maybe once it's been altered.
Yes. I think about 99% of all wedding dresses are altered. (Another 75% of them are altared. Ha!) Why is this such a surprise? Or for that matter, why does this reflect badly on the dress? Because let me assure you, this comment does indicate dissatisfaction with the dress. My mother has infinite code words, like a real estate agent hiding the true nature of a house, to obfuscate and mask her displeasure, but the displeasure is clear even when its causes are not. The sentence, "Well, you're the one who needs to be happy with it" might as well end with, "because I certainly am not."
I know what you're thinking, you think I'm being paranoid. Perhaps. And in the end, it doesn't matter because a) I've already bought the dress, and b) she's not the one wearing it. But it's sort of the same niggly fretfulness I have about my lovely finance. I'm not entirely, 100% sure my parents adore him. I think they like him, I think they're happy for me, but there are a few well-placed silences that could have multiple causes, and I can't quite decipher them.
Let me be clear that the same a) and b) apply. I love the man, I picked him, no one has to marry him but me. If they DON'T adore him, I'm still going for it. And the reticence I notice might be more because they don't want to lose their little girl (though, at 33, I would think they'd be more than happy to get me off their hands) or because who wants their artist daughter marrying another artist? We are definitely signed up for a hard row to hoe together. A nice architect might have made things a little easier, especially one who lived south of the Mason-Dixon line.
I love and respect my parents, so I can't help that their opinion matters to me. But they've never come right out with that opinion. A friend of mine wanted to know, "Can't you just ask them?"
Hahaahahahahaahahaahaahaha.
No. They're from the South. Direct questioning is not effective. It's like going deer hunting and asking, "Why don't you just walk right up to the deer and shoot it?" Because it runs away, silly.
Anyway, they like my honey. I know that. He's funny, and caring, and he clearly cares about me, and they know I love him enough to marry him, and anything they don't say is to stay out of the way of our chance at a happy marriage. Which I can appreciate.
All of which is why I would really have been glad if my mother REALLY LOVED my wedding dress.
Maybe once it's been altered.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
I did it.
So, I made the coconut cake. Half a coconut cake. With no actual coconut on top, but whatever. And now I have just eaten the last piece, and will start getting Serious about health and exercising. Not because I am unattractive, no. I'm a moderately sized person. Nice features. But there's no getting around the fact that in 7 months, I will pay someone loads of money to take endless pictures of me and my family and friends. And I will spend the rest of my life being confronted by said photos. And cameras are not always kind. So I'd like to insure, however vain it may be of me, that when I look at the photos in the future, I am happy about them.
So begins the vanity that is getting ready for a wedding.
In a more cheerful vein, recently I have vowed to be less worried and fretful about the wedding. The guest list was the worst part, but since we ended up coming to a place where we think we can afford the people we think are coming, why remain upset? I haven't had to delete my friends in order to accomodate my parents friends, so why work at remember how nasty the whole conversation got? Why not just let it fade into the background and move on?
So begins the vanity that is getting ready for a wedding.
In a more cheerful vein, recently I have vowed to be less worried and fretful about the wedding. The guest list was the worst part, but since we ended up coming to a place where we think we can afford the people we think are coming, why remain upset? I haven't had to delete my friends in order to accomodate my parents friends, so why work at remember how nasty the whole conversation got? Why not just let it fade into the background and move on?
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Double back
I had lunch with a friend yesterday who admitted he actually reads this blog (wow) and I had the surreal experience of talking about something I already wrote. As if I've already become someone who repeats the same stories over and over. Also, I feel I should be more entertaining if people I run into in daily life are perusing. Here's my chance to be the more scintilating version of myself, me with the witty and urbane complexity a script can provide, and mostly I just bitch and moan in a particularly dramatic, self-indulgent way.
But I realize that's pretty much what I do anyway! I had a golden opportunity last night to downplay something, and I completely blew it. In fact, I didn't even recognize the opportunity when it came along. A brand new fellow cast member and I have a mutual acquaitance. She asked, how do you know X? All I had to do is say, oh, we met doing a show, or wow, I've known him for a long time. But what did I do instead? What, you ask?
No, you don't ask, you already know. I said, "oh, we dated once a long time ago and he broke my heart and dumped me."
Which, actually, isn't exactly true and I then had to back pedal to make myself less ridiculous. I had to back pedal because I couldn't just keep my mouth shut. What happened is we went out, he got bored so we stopped going out, and I went into a completely pointless tailspin. Pointless because he wasn't a very good match for me. But that didn't stop me being dramatic...NO! And deciding I would never date again.
It makes me roll my eyes at myself.
In the meantime, I have two problems.
One: I cannot get myself to do any work. For about 7 days now. I am FINALLY relieved of the stress of the position working for 3 lawyers full time when I only come in part time. Hurrah. After four months of wall to wall work that I couldn't keep up with, for people I wasn't very fond of, I am back to my low stress, part time pinch-hitting position. I do overflow work and when I don't have any, I work bit by bit on a huge project.
Except I can't make myself work on the project and I'm doing a trillion other things instead. I know I can get away with this for a while, but it will bite me in the butt sooner or later.
Problem Two: Coconut cake. I made one this weekend, and it was amazing. But I took it to a party, and had to leave the party early, and I only got to try a little of it. So I am secretly obsessed with the idea of making another cake, or at least making a half a coconut cake, so I can eat as much of it as I want. I am trying not to do that, as it will play havoc with the idea of losing weight for the wedding, or really, just being a healthy person. (It's hard to exercise enough to counteract eating an entire coconut cake.) Healthy people, it's undeniable, do not eat entire cakes at a sitting. There's something called moderation. But the insidious coconut cake will not be banished. I'm not a huge fan of coconut, we just had a bunch in the house and I wanted to use it up. But now...
What do you think, gentle readers? Should I make Coconut Cake #2 this coming weekend? Will I look at wedding pictures in later years and wince, thinking, if only it hadn't been for the coconut cake?
But I realize that's pretty much what I do anyway! I had a golden opportunity last night to downplay something, and I completely blew it. In fact, I didn't even recognize the opportunity when it came along. A brand new fellow cast member and I have a mutual acquaitance. She asked, how do you know X? All I had to do is say, oh, we met doing a show, or wow, I've known him for a long time. But what did I do instead? What, you ask?
No, you don't ask, you already know. I said, "oh, we dated once a long time ago and he broke my heart and dumped me."
Which, actually, isn't exactly true and I then had to back pedal to make myself less ridiculous. I had to back pedal because I couldn't just keep my mouth shut. What happened is we went out, he got bored so we stopped going out, and I went into a completely pointless tailspin. Pointless because he wasn't a very good match for me. But that didn't stop me being dramatic...NO! And deciding I would never date again.
It makes me roll my eyes at myself.
In the meantime, I have two problems.
One: I cannot get myself to do any work. For about 7 days now. I am FINALLY relieved of the stress of the position working for 3 lawyers full time when I only come in part time. Hurrah. After four months of wall to wall work that I couldn't keep up with, for people I wasn't very fond of, I am back to my low stress, part time pinch-hitting position. I do overflow work and when I don't have any, I work bit by bit on a huge project.
Except I can't make myself work on the project and I'm doing a trillion other things instead. I know I can get away with this for a while, but it will bite me in the butt sooner or later.
Problem Two: Coconut cake. I made one this weekend, and it was amazing. But I took it to a party, and had to leave the party early, and I only got to try a little of it. So I am secretly obsessed with the idea of making another cake, or at least making a half a coconut cake, so I can eat as much of it as I want. I am trying not to do that, as it will play havoc with the idea of losing weight for the wedding, or really, just being a healthy person. (It's hard to exercise enough to counteract eating an entire coconut cake.) Healthy people, it's undeniable, do not eat entire cakes at a sitting. There's something called moderation. But the insidious coconut cake will not be banished. I'm not a huge fan of coconut, we just had a bunch in the house and I wanted to use it up. But now...
What do you think, gentle readers? Should I make Coconut Cake #2 this coming weekend? Will I look at wedding pictures in later years and wince, thinking, if only it hadn't been for the coconut cake?
Monday, August 13, 2007
Ah, yes
My grandmother recently moved out of her house, the house in which she has lived since 1941 when she got married. No one in my family thought she would ever leave that house, and she certainly talked as if she didn't relish the idea. In the last year, however, her health really has worsened to the point that a 5 bedroom house in the country just wasn't a feasible residence.
She's had her name on a list at an assisted living place for about two years, and has found excuses every time a room came up not to take it, but suddenly, in June, a room came free and she snapped it up.
I went to visit her, and far from being sad or angry at the move, she seems suddenly sprightly! She was introducing me to her friends, chatting up the staff, going to exercise class in the mornings. After I visited with her, I went to the house to help with some of the final cleaning. It was strange, seeing the place mostly empty.
But here's the strangest part. It wasn't sad. I thought it would be sad, but it was all sort of hopeful. As if, tied together, my grandma and the house were sinking, but separated, they both have possibilities. Someone has bought that house, and might have a joyful life in it. It will get cleaned and spruced up and taken care of, and so will my grandma!
It can be an unexpected happiness to let something go.
She's had her name on a list at an assisted living place for about two years, and has found excuses every time a room came up not to take it, but suddenly, in June, a room came free and she snapped it up.
I went to visit her, and far from being sad or angry at the move, she seems suddenly sprightly! She was introducing me to her friends, chatting up the staff, going to exercise class in the mornings. After I visited with her, I went to the house to help with some of the final cleaning. It was strange, seeing the place mostly empty.
But here's the strangest part. It wasn't sad. I thought it would be sad, but it was all sort of hopeful. As if, tied together, my grandma and the house were sinking, but separated, they both have possibilities. Someone has bought that house, and might have a joyful life in it. It will get cleaned and spruced up and taken care of, and so will my grandma!
It can be an unexpected happiness to let something go.
Change of Scene
I thought it would be nice to talk about something besides the wedding, so I won't detail any of the nightmares I've had about it in the last week. Although I will say they've been vivid and frequent.
Hmmm.
What to say....
I'll get back to you.
Hmmm.
What to say....
I'll get back to you.
Friday, August 10, 2007
So true
I know you won't believe me, but honestly, I really, truly wish I could elope. And I know you're all thinking, well, Elsbeth, you can do whatever you want to. And while that should be true, there are just some demands on a southern girl living away from home that can't be denied. I've won a few battles, and am trying to gear up to lose a few, but the person I really don't want to cheat out of a wedding is my fiance. Who will turn 40 this year, and is the last of several of his groups of friends to get married. And who dutifully or joyfully or resentfully went to all of those weddings and cheered on the brides and grooms. Who is the youngest by 14 years of all his siblings, and pretty much gets treated as the baby by them all.
And by god, that man deserves an event where everyone is there for him.
That said, I actually almost told my dad this past week that we were eloping and we'd call him when and IF we ever have children, since that's what he cares about.
This to a man I have called my best friend. This wedding stuff is for the birds.
And they just don't let you do it as simply as you want. I mean, even if we went the happy meal route, we'd probably find we had to keep the meals in silver chafing dishes.
I'm still trying to keep it sane. Originally, I wanted to do away with attendants, but since I have realized no bridesmaids = no one to hang out with as I'm freaking out before my wedding, I went for 2. TWO, I tell you, it shouldn't be this hard to find an inexpensive dress for them!
No wedding favors. Sorry, I just think there is no need for me to hand out an object so that people can remember they went to my wedding. If they forget, so be it.
I'm already tired of bitching about it. I'm gonna change the subject.
And by god, that man deserves an event where everyone is there for him.
That said, I actually almost told my dad this past week that we were eloping and we'd call him when and IF we ever have children, since that's what he cares about.
This to a man I have called my best friend. This wedding stuff is for the birds.
And they just don't let you do it as simply as you want. I mean, even if we went the happy meal route, we'd probably find we had to keep the meals in silver chafing dishes.
I'm still trying to keep it sane. Originally, I wanted to do away with attendants, but since I have realized no bridesmaids = no one to hang out with as I'm freaking out before my wedding, I went for 2. TWO, I tell you, it shouldn't be this hard to find an inexpensive dress for them!
No wedding favors. Sorry, I just think there is no need for me to hand out an object so that people can remember they went to my wedding. If they forget, so be it.
I'm already tired of bitching about it. I'm gonna change the subject.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Aw, shucks
This will be a revelation for approximately three of you:
I got engaged. (I keep meaning to call habermas girl to tell her...)
Now, it was romantic. We were in Key West (neither of us had ever been there before), it was beautiful and lovely and my beau did a beautiful job of chosing a time and a place that make a good story.
It's just that, when you get married, you end up having to have a wedding. And while I enjoy attending weddings, and plan to be thrilled with my own, I've never longed to PLAN one.
Also, the wedding will be, well, a long way away from where I curently live. So that makes planning more awkward as well.
But, still, I am getting married, and we've actually picked a place to have the wedding.
I have to stop talking about it right now. Because I've spent all day reading brides posts on theknot.com and I must admit it mostly makes me want to vomit. "Where did you get YOUR monogrammed tea towel favors??" "Oh, I luuuuv the way my bridesmaid's dresses look, and my colors are champagne, olive, and peach!" I mean, I have to trawl through these looking for recommendations for service people like photographers, bakers, etc, but you should read this stuff! AGH! How many people are happily married today who never had the following ridiculous things:
1) Wedding favors. Do guests need a small trinket to remind them YOU got married?
2) A wedding logo or monogram. Seriously. AND people make AISLE RUNNERS from these. So your wedding is a design event, and you brand that wedding with these images. How about the image of you in a dress and your groom in a tux? Isn't that enough wedding branding for you??
3) I will call down the rage of the recently wed now, but...matching bridesmaids dresses. And from the photos, many women force their nearest and dearest to wear really elaborate dresses, that probably cost $200-$300. That's INSANE!
4) Along the same lines, all the women today had a cutesy gift made up in order to ask their bridesmaids to be bridemaids. Like a cookie bouquet. I feel sort of guilty about this one - I mean, I just called my friend and my sister-in-law and flat out ASKED them. I didn't know I was supposed to use it as an excuse to make a huge production.
5) Chair covers. What, you'd prefer it didn't look like a chair?
6) A color scheme at all. Sure, your flowers will look prettier if they match, but is it necessary to have a four color SCHEME??
I am just skimming the surface here. I wish I could have an insanely beautiful intricate SMALL wedding, but I have certain impediments.
1) Money
2) Time
3) Common Sense
I have a feeling the next nine months are going to be full of decisions that will drive me nuts.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Katy Trails, and I'm trailing too
Where have I been? Under a pile of obligations. Two family trips later, I'm still vunerable to manipulation and sighing over a seemingly bizarre shift in the advice of my hitherto greatest ally - my Dad. It's like going over to your coach during a rough quarter and having them tell you, "You know, you should take up knitting."
Ok, it's not like that, but I haven't got time for the whole story.
I've got too many balls in the air, too many side dishes on the plate. And it's snowing. It's April, and yet it is snowing.
Also, my office has come up with the genius idea of having me stand in for the lady on maternity leave. I currently work no more than three days a week, sometimes less. My schedule changes, sometimes daily. But they expect me to get 5 days of work packed into those brief times I'm actually in the office.
I'm trying to be calm about this, but the added stress comes a terrible time. I just started rehearsals for a new show. I have to memorize a 67 page script. I have to rehearse and perform about 30 miles outside the city. And yet I have no car. So now I will pretty much spend from 8 am to 12 midnight away from my house five days a week. And one day a weekend.
It would have been nice if something could have gone on autopilot, but apparently that isn't to be.
Now, I've left myself less that six minutes to tell you about something I actually ENJOYED, something I relished! My lovely beau and I tried to bike the Katy Trail this past weekend. The Katy Trail is the old railroad from Missouri through Kansas and Texas (MKT - nicknamed "Katy" for the KT). It's flat, because a train used to have to travel it. The Trail runs from St. Charles, MO to Clinton, MO, but we didn't bike 220 miles in two days. We didn't end up biking that much at all, but the unseasonable cold made us more cautious. You know, this cold weather is the PITS.
It was a lovely time, made all the more lovely by the brilliant, the resourceful, the enchanting Habermas Girl! You know, finding out the people you've always adored remain both interesting and friendly is worth at least sixty miles of biking.
All right, part II tomorrow, and I'll tell tales of midnight bike rides and theose dreaded beasts, scourge of all riders....steep hills...
Ok, it's not like that, but I haven't got time for the whole story.
I've got too many balls in the air, too many side dishes on the plate. And it's snowing. It's April, and yet it is snowing.
Also, my office has come up with the genius idea of having me stand in for the lady on maternity leave. I currently work no more than three days a week, sometimes less. My schedule changes, sometimes daily. But they expect me to get 5 days of work packed into those brief times I'm actually in the office.
I'm trying to be calm about this, but the added stress comes a terrible time. I just started rehearsals for a new show. I have to memorize a 67 page script. I have to rehearse and perform about 30 miles outside the city. And yet I have no car. So now I will pretty much spend from 8 am to 12 midnight away from my house five days a week. And one day a weekend.
It would have been nice if something could have gone on autopilot, but apparently that isn't to be.
Now, I've left myself less that six minutes to tell you about something I actually ENJOYED, something I relished! My lovely beau and I tried to bike the Katy Trail this past weekend. The Katy Trail is the old railroad from Missouri through Kansas and Texas (MKT - nicknamed "Katy" for the KT). It's flat, because a train used to have to travel it. The Trail runs from St. Charles, MO to Clinton, MO, but we didn't bike 220 miles in two days. We didn't end up biking that much at all, but the unseasonable cold made us more cautious. You know, this cold weather is the PITS.
It was a lovely time, made all the more lovely by the brilliant, the resourceful, the enchanting Habermas Girl! You know, finding out the people you've always adored remain both interesting and friendly is worth at least sixty miles of biking.
All right, part II tomorrow, and I'll tell tales of midnight bike rides and theose dreaded beasts, scourge of all riders....steep hills...
Friday, January 26, 2007
Drinking on an empty stomach
People, I am surprised I made it home last night, honestly. And the reason I was completely unsteady on my feet and joyous at incredibly small details, not to mention essentially asleep while seeming to be awake, the reason was a single drink. One, people. Granted, it was a kick-your-behind martini big enough to count as two martinis, and as promised, it did indeed kick my behind. The bigger factor in Elizabeth's oh-so-inexpensive toastness was the lack of food. I know this, absolutely: I should not drink without eating. But it was late, and we'd just finished the first run of my new show with an audience, and by the time I enlisted someone to pay for the food (I myself having one dollar of cash on me, and knowing the nightmare of group payment situations with a card), the kitchen had closed.
I think the restaurant/bar across the street hates us, by the way, since it took far, far too long for us to get a drink. Then, you see, I had to drink it much faster, to get it down by closing time.
Regardless, I drank my one drink and about half-way through, everything became somewhat fuzzy and much more entertaining. I became less capable of walking around and longed only to lie down in the restaurant and sleep.
I figured it was time to go home.
Now, at noon the next day, I can feel the alcohol still lingering in my bloodstream, probably because it so rarely gets free reign like that. It's enjoying the stay.
I am such a lightweight.
I think the restaurant/bar across the street hates us, by the way, since it took far, far too long for us to get a drink. Then, you see, I had to drink it much faster, to get it down by closing time.
Regardless, I drank my one drink and about half-way through, everything became somewhat fuzzy and much more entertaining. I became less capable of walking around and longed only to lie down in the restaurant and sleep.
I figured it was time to go home.
Now, at noon the next day, I can feel the alcohol still lingering in my bloodstream, probably because it so rarely gets free reign like that. It's enjoying the stay.
I am such a lightweight.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Happy New Year!
I have been having a frustrating life recently. Now, I should note that in comparison to, say, political prisoners or people captured by mad stalker-killers, my life carries on like a great big party. But in the normal day to day, I have a few rants building up, some of which may be familiar.
1. PLEASE DO NOT RUN INTO CYCLISTS. I don't even understand the car that tried to pull out right as I was passing it this morning. The car was poised to pull out, and HAD to be looking behind to see when the cars cleared, and as it was broad daylight, I had to be visible, but somehow, as I tried to clear the car, it started to move in my direction! THEN the person driving the car made gestures at me! What, exactly, was I meant to do differently? Magically take flight? Suddenly disappear from the trajectory on which I was clearly embarked the last time the motorist looked back? Should I let them pull out onto me because I am not a car?
2. If I wrote you a memo in a business context, wouldn't it be smart to read it? That action would stop you from asking questions WHICH WERE ALREADY ANSWERED IN THE TEXT OF THE MEMO. Although then I wouldn't have the joy of wasting time by answering the question twice.
Seriously, I need a new day job. Which leads me to:
3. Gloating is unattractive. Accidental gloating is even more irritating, because not only are you rubbing something in, you don't even have the common decency to recognize that someone might have a different experience. I grant you, this happens to all of us on occasion, but there are certain topics that shouldn't be raised in certain groups of people. Case in point: young actors bragging how lucky they are to be supported (financially and emotionally) by their parents. To other actors. Who are clearly NOT supported by their parents. Listen, folks, I'm at least partially happy for you and all, but could you shut up about it? Also, can I have permission to bitch-slap the next person who wonders out loud why I have to balance my own checkbook, something they've never considered since mommy and daddy pay all their bills?
Ok, that clears the shelves a bit. Those are all petty (except for the bike thing - I really would not have enjoyed getting hit by a car this morning), and hopefully I can return to a feeling of happiness and well-being. I myself am pretty fortunate, all told.
I won't explain why, however. I don't want to rub it in.
1. PLEASE DO NOT RUN INTO CYCLISTS. I don't even understand the car that tried to pull out right as I was passing it this morning. The car was poised to pull out, and HAD to be looking behind to see when the cars cleared, and as it was broad daylight, I had to be visible, but somehow, as I tried to clear the car, it started to move in my direction! THEN the person driving the car made gestures at me! What, exactly, was I meant to do differently? Magically take flight? Suddenly disappear from the trajectory on which I was clearly embarked the last time the motorist looked back? Should I let them pull out onto me because I am not a car?
2. If I wrote you a memo in a business context, wouldn't it be smart to read it? That action would stop you from asking questions WHICH WERE ALREADY ANSWERED IN THE TEXT OF THE MEMO. Although then I wouldn't have the joy of wasting time by answering the question twice.
Seriously, I need a new day job. Which leads me to:
3. Gloating is unattractive. Accidental gloating is even more irritating, because not only are you rubbing something in, you don't even have the common decency to recognize that someone might have a different experience. I grant you, this happens to all of us on occasion, but there are certain topics that shouldn't be raised in certain groups of people. Case in point: young actors bragging how lucky they are to be supported (financially and emotionally) by their parents. To other actors. Who are clearly NOT supported by their parents. Listen, folks, I'm at least partially happy for you and all, but could you shut up about it? Also, can I have permission to bitch-slap the next person who wonders out loud why I have to balance my own checkbook, something they've never considered since mommy and daddy pay all their bills?
Ok, that clears the shelves a bit. Those are all petty (except for the bike thing - I really would not have enjoyed getting hit by a car this morning), and hopefully I can return to a feeling of happiness and well-being. I myself am pretty fortunate, all told.
I won't explain why, however. I don't want to rub it in.
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