January 12 - Ch-ch-ch-ch Changes

There are three certainties in life - death, taxes and change.

Death...happens. There's nothing you can do about it.

Taxes are annoying, but they're not the end of the world. You can get help with them if you need it, and there are plenty of online resources to guide you.

Change...change is the tricky one. You don't always know when it is coming or in what form. It can be good, it can be bad, it can be frightening or it can be exciting. It can be all of the above all at the same time. The only thing we really know about change is that it happens. Constantly.

So, like death and taxes, I think it is advisable to embrace change. If you just ride the wave of change, you may find it takes you to some amazing places.

The times, they are a-changin' my friend. And I'm looking forward to where the wave will take me this time.

January 11 - The Homestead

I have a houseguest staying with me this weekend, which means I went on a cleaning rampage this morning. Said houseguest is of the male persuasion and told me repeatedly before his arrival that he doesn't really care about that sort of thing and/or probably wouldn't really notice if my apartment was clean or not. But for some reason, it was important to me to clean all of those silly things that I hadn't cleaned in a while so that my apartment would look...kept. Or something. Before he arrived.

This bugged me. I'm normally not a total neat-nick. If something looks dirty, I'll clean it, but I'm not the sort that is in the habit of mopping the floors every week on Sunday just because that's just part of the routine. And often times, I'm honestly too busy to keep that kind of schedule. Tech weeks, for one, when I'm only really home for about six hours a day, during which I have to sleep, shower, and feed my cat. Mopping the floors just falls down the list of priorities. I'm okay with that.

So why should it bother me so much when someone is coming to visit that my house look kept?

And I figured it out.

I know a lot of other really busy people, too. People with jobs and families and extra-curricular activities. And their houses manage to get cleaned with some regularity. When I go visit friends or family, there isn't a nice layer of dust on the television screen - someone cleans that. And it may be that we all have this need to clean right before other people come over and if it weren't for other people visiting on occasion, we'd all be fine living in our own squalor. But something inside me says if all of these other people can lead their lives and keep up their schedules and manage to keep their houses clean, I should be able to, too. Like I'm behind the curve if I can't. Or something.

So I cleaned today. Like, "vacuumed my mattress and scrubbed the bit of my bathroom floor right by the tub where the grout was starting to look...grout-y," cleaned. I don't think my houseguest has noticed (though in fairness, this houseguest has not stayed with me before so wouldn't really know the difference anyway). But I do feel better about myself with a clean apartment.

January 10 - Celebrity

Celebrity is an odd thing.

I am not a celebrity, nor do I claim to be even close to one, so I can't imagine what it's like for those who actually have to live with it on a daily basis. I can only imagine that it is an odd thing.

For the purposes of this blog, I'm talking mostly about artists - actors, sports stars, musicians - and not so much about politicians. I think the celebrity that a politician experiences is a bit different. I think that when they run for office with the intent of representing those around them, they do give up a bit of the privacy that should be afforded other citizens. If you're representing me, if you're saying you are the best role model for the geographic area in which you live, I'd like to know that you are a good role model. In other words, you're asking for it. I don't think the same can or should be said of artistic celebrity.

I know, I know, people are going to argue that artistic celebrities asked for it, too. I disagree. I am an actor. I want people to come see the shows that I am in. I want them to feel things when I have a big emotional release on stage. I don't want them to know that my kitchen is a mess or who I'm flirting with that week or what my family holidays are like. That is none of their business and should not affect my performance or how they view me as a performer. I'm inviting you into the life I live on stage for two hours, not the other twenty-two hours of the day in my regular life. I'm also not holding myself up as some model citizen who represents my fellow citizens. I'm an actor, playing a role, doing a job, in a specific place, for a specific piece of time. I don't claim to be perfect, so those aiming to model their lives after someone should probably look elsewhere.

That being said, I've been talking about celebrities with a girl friend of mine recently, because she has gotten somewhat sucked into the world of crazy fan girls. She is not a crazy fan girl, but has seen a lot of crazy fan girl art inspired by a particular actor that she likes. And we both kind of have to say, "What the...?" You name it, it's out there. Some of it...I don't even know how people think this stuff up, but it makes me feel better about wanting to see every thing David Tennant has done because I know I am aware of the line between wanting to seek out his art and making a life-size body pillow of him dressed as the Tenth Doctor that I sleep with every night. I do not have the body pillow, nor do I want it. That would be weird. Seeking out his art is not. I think*. 

But what must that be like for the celebrity? To know that people are drawing pictures of you (as a fictional character sometimes, sometimes not) fulfilling whatever fantasies they might have about you? Making out with fictional character siblings. Killing fictional characters from other films they didn't like. Photoshopping out your actual significant other and putting themselves in instead? What on earth must that feel like? Imagine if right now, there were thousands of people out there making fan art of you doing things you would never do and in some instance, things you don't approve of. How does that make you feel?

I realized a couple of years ago that actors are just people, like the rest of us. Silly that it had to be a "moment" or "realization," isn't it? We think we have a right to know everything about their lives, but we really don't. I don't care what your justification is for thinking it is okay to stalk them or take their clothes or demand they hug you when you see them randomly on the street. They are just people, like anyone else. Their jobs just make them more recognizable when they are out in public. The up side of this realization for me is that in general, I don't get so flustered when meeting celebrities. Yes, I'll jump around like an idiot, overflowing with excitement when they are no longer in earshot, but I'm pretty good at keeping it together during the face to face. (I likely wouldn't be with David Tennant, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it, shall we?) I know what it is like to have audience members I don't know compliment me after a show - it's lovely, so given the opportunity, I'll say complimentary things to actors I like. But I don't expect them to invite me to parties afterward, or hang out and chat. It's awesome if they do, but I don't expect that. They have people that they know who they want to hang out with instead. They're people - it's what we all do.

Anyway. I guess if you can take anything away from this post it should be that we're all just people, doing the things that people do. We all have the right to do the things that people do, and maybe we should think about how our actions affect others. Because really, we're all just people. It sounds so simple, yet so odd. We're all just people.

Anyway.

*(I apologize to those with fangirl fetishes who may be offended by this paragraph.)

January 9 - A Thought

Sometimes, I think I should carry a bag of oranges or apples or carrots in my car to give to the homeless people at stoplights who ask for money. I wonder how many of them would take it.

January 8 - Twitterstories (Part 3)

This morning, I posted a bit of bait on both Facebook and Twitter to see who would play along. I posted, "Once upon a time..." Three threads started, one on Facebook, and two with Twitter friends. Here are the results of a day in Twitterstories.

The first two chapters of a Twitterstory with NicLake:

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Kitty. On weekends, she enjoyed sleeping, blogging, and dancing on her now-bootless foot. Until one day when she was trying to do a handstand while skateboarding, a bird landed on her elbow and said, "I have a secret for you!"

"Oh joy!" shouted Kitty. "What is it?" 

The bird replied, "Your skateboard has the power of time travel! You can go to any point in history. There's just one catch, though. For every Earth day you are gone, you will age one Earth year. Where would you like to go first?" 

Kitty thought for a while. Aging a full year for every day made it difficult to choose. Then it clicked. "I know! I'll go visit my birthday every year, but in a different location. I'll surely live long enough to see some fun things then. First, to my golden birthday! Surely, that was the best one!" 

"Alright then," said the bird. "Off you go!" 

With a whir and a spin, the skateboard took off. "Here we are!" said the bird. 

"Oh, I meant my golden birthday, but in Rome...wait a second. I'm really IN Rome. Ancient Rome! What the heck, skateboard?!?" 

"Sorry," replied the bird. "It's not very precise. The skateboard time circuits were fried in an accident involving the last owner and a jar of peanut butter. Trust me, you don't want to know. Anyway, don't worry! You're disguised as a Roman priestess. Come, let me show you your palace." 

And they were off! Riding through the streets. Citizens and vendors jumped out of the way, startled, as a beautiful priestess seemed to glide through their midst. One small girl reached out her hand to touch the robes of the flying priestess, grabbed them, and held on tight. "What the..." She was whisked off her feet, and Kitty snagged her and gently placed her on the hidden skateboard.

"Hang on," she whispered. By the time they reached the palace, the girl's knuckles were white from clinging on so tightly. 

"You live here?" she asked. 

"I think so," Kitty replied. They stepped off the board and climbed the steps. When they reached the top, they saw..."Er, no " 

At the top of the stairs was a statue of the Great High Priestess of the land, who looked startlingly like a girl Kitty had gone to school with and despised, because she broke Kitty's lunchbox in first grade. "How did she get to Rome?" Kitty wondered aloud. 

The bird grew suddenly fidgety. "Well, there are some other items that also allow for time travel. Like your skateboard. This one had a broken lunchbox with her when she arrived here. It allows time travel, and ceases the aging process all together!" 

Kitty's brain was churning. She couldn't remember this girl's name, as hard as she tried but the fire inside her grew. "I must retrieve my lunchbox," she growled. 

"What's a lunchbox?" asked the young girl.

Chapter 2

Kitty was lounging on a comfortable bed, being fed grapes by servants, when she noticed one of her manservants did not have the required six-pack abs for the job. "Odd," she thought. "He doesn't fit the part." "You there," she exclaimed. "What is your name?" 

"My name, m'lady? It's Rory." 

"Rory? Rory the Roman?" asked Kitty. "What Roman names his kid Rory? Are you sure you're from here?" Rory looked away and Kitty caught a glimpse of something in his ear. "Wait, hang on. Is that... a radio?!?" Rory knew he was caught, so he drew a knife from his boot and lunged at Kitty. 

"For Esmeralda!" he cried.

Kitty froze, but the remaining servants did not. They intercepted Rory and tackled him to the ground. "Esmeralda!" cried Kitty. "That was her name. Speak, Rory! Tell me her plans!" Rory squirmed, but could not speak due to the servant's arm around his neck. "Release him," she said, "but be ready for anything." 

Rory stood slowly baring his teeth like a dog. "You know nothing of Esmeralda, nor shall you ever," he growled. For a moment, the room was silent but a high-pitched whine grew increasingly louder. Rory's head shook, and then he collapsed to the floor, unconscious. The servants panicked and fled. Kitty, the bird, and the girl stood mouths agape. "What has Esmeralda become?" Kitty cried. 

The bird glided to Kitty's shoulder. "You and Esmeralda aren't the only Travelers. We apologize for not being more clear. We brought you here to undo the greatest curse of all, unleashed by a traveler with a Walkman." 

"We? Who's we?" asked Kitty. 

The bird hopped from Kitty's shoulder, & in a flurry of shoulders, transformed into a tall, slender man clad in black robes. "It is a royal we. The elders of this land need your help to escape the tyrrany of the Walkman. Can you help us?" he implored. 

"But... you're... a bird?"
"Apologies, I didn't properly introduce myself. My name is Vander. I am one of the seven Ravens. We were sworn to protect this land from its enemies, but I'm afraid this new power is too much for us. We need you to be the one to end this threat. Will you help us?"
Kitty shifted nervously. "Well, I was only trying to get to my birthday..."
"But you'll never have another birthday if the Walkman succeeds! Please, help us!" blurted the Raven.
"Well, if I must, I must get back. But we must hurry. Every day I spend here is a year back in my time!"
"Don't fear," said the Raven. "I have one more gift for you that will help you find and defeat the Walkman." From the deep folds of his glorious robe, he pulled a blue iPod Touch.
"Wha... how did you get that?" Kitty asked.
"As I said, you were not the first," Vander said with a smile.

Stay tuned for further adventures!

January 8 - Twitterstories (Part 2)

This morning, I posted a bit of bait on both Facebook and Twitter to see who would play along. I posted, "Once upon a time..." Three threads started, one on Facebook, and two with Twitter friends. Here are the results of a day in Twitterstories.

The first chapter of a Twitterstory with WarmongerSmurf:

Once upon a time, there was a sandwich. The fairest sandwich in all of Sandwich Kingdom. It brought to mind all the finest things around it. Its lettuce made the grass seem greener; its crunchy bread made the air seem crisp. All of the peasants in the land revered the fair sandwich. For not only was it fair, it was the only thing that held the fearsome Pizza Lord at bay.

The Pizza Lord had come to power during a darker time when dark rivulets of grease lanced through the fields. Peasants toiled in the cheese mines, in constant fear of being sauced. Sir Pepper of the Roni clan arose from the cheese mines to take back the land from the Pizza Lord. He and his faithful squire, Black Olive, rode to the gates of Pizzalda. They branished their breadsticks, demanding entry.
"You shall not pass!" roared the Anch Ovies at the gates.
Quickly, Sir Pepper and Black Olive lunged forward with a mighty cry, assailing the Lord's fearsome warriors. But they were no match for them; and sadly the salt breath of the Anch Ovies overcame Black Olive. As he shriveled and dehydrated, he bade Sir Pepper, "Avenge me, milord. Seek help in the East; avail yourself of the wisdom of the Wizards of Sandwich."
Sir Pepper knew the Wizards of Sandwich all too well. He sought their wisdom once before when his local oracle had been on vacation. They were a mysterious sort, given to speaking in vagueries and metaphor. But they and they alone held the secret to thwarting the Pizza Lord's power. They and they alone knew how to counteract salt breath.
Sprak the Wizards, "Seek steel in the Stainless Cavalcade. Cleave tyranny with the spinning wheel." And silent they fell.
Sir Pepper wracked his brains. "I must find a map to the Stainless Cavalcade," thought he. "Perhaps I can find one..."
"Or perhaps I can guide you," spoke a quiet voice from the shadows. A Sandwich, fair and mysterious, had followed him to the Wizards.
"Are you the Sandwich of Panin?" he asked.
"The Sandwich of Panin, I," spake the Sandwich. Her will was strong, to disobey the Law of Disassociation. She faced exile for her intervention, but knew in her fillings that the Pizza Lord must be stopped. "I know the way to the Calvalcade." With that, she turned and together they sought the shining wheel the Wizards spoke of. Panin knew the way, past the Shredders, the deadly Mandoline. It was a difficult journey, but Panin was not unprepared. For every obstacle, Sir Pepper was amazed by her cunning and imagination. She was artful; she would wait instead of rush, misdirect instead of confront. Battles were won without drop of sauce shed. Sir Pepper found himself humbled by Panin's grace and vowed that he would never again lunge heedlessly into battle, imperiling lives as he had with Black Olive. The Lord would be slain, but no others lost along the way.

Panin forged ahead, never making her plans known, but never stumbling, never faltering. Finally, they recovered their prize. A shining disc of stainless steel spinning from its handle. At last, a weapon to cut the Pizza, a weapon to end the suffering. "For Olive and the others, let us slice our enemy to shreds!" cried Sir Pepper.

And so they returned, only to be greeted by a sight - the peasants, from the old and sun-dried to those fresh off the vine, all were pleased to see their heros return, and excited for the adventures ahead. And there was much rejoicing.

Stay tuned for further adventures!

January 8 - Twitterstories (Part 1)

This morning, I posted a bit of bait on both Facebook and Twitter to see who would play along. I posted, "Once upon a time..." Three threads started, one on Facebook, and two with Twitter friends. Here are the results of a day in Twitterstories.

The Facebook tale:

Once upon a time
In a nursery rhyme
Lacking in mud and grime
Lost among the sands of time
Drinking a vodka-soda with lime
I strangled a wandering mime
I listened to some Sublime
Well, MissKitty
I know it's a crime
But I cannot stop
At one single rhyme!

Thank you to everyone who played along!

January 7 - All The World's a Stage

I reached out to the Twitterverse for topic suggestions for today, and one of my dear Canadian friends suggested I write about my favorite role and why it was my favorite.

I can't.

I can't pick just one role, or just one production. It's like trying to choose which of your children you love best. And with a couple of notable exceptions (or perhaps not so notable), every role I have played was my favorite at that time, and all for different reasons.

I loved "Get Up, Stand Up" in college, because it was my first college play, the energy was amazing, and the cast and director were phenomenal. I swore then that the director spoiled me for all other directors. I have since had at least six other directors do the same. And the fun part of that show is that one of my fellow cast mates has gone on to do some really fun things.

I was over the moon to be cast in "Angels in America" in college, because it was my first mainstage show. I was one of three women called back for Harper, but ended up playing Prior 3 and the crazy woman in the park instead. I loved the crazy woman because I could do whatever I wanted. One benefit to playing supporting characters, I found, is that often the director isn't paying as much attention to you, so you have a little more room to play. You can engage your imagination fully and create this whole life on your own and only when you push it too far will the director tell you to reign it in. I loved that freedom. And I loved that show - it was a TO DO in the town and I was honored to be part of it.

I loved Francis in "Five Women Wearing the Same Dress." She and I were so ideologically opposed, but I had to take her in and love her and treat her with the respect she deserved. That director also spoiled us - we had a long rehearsal process, full of all sorts of things to help us build and flesh out these characters that really bonded us as a cast. Alan Ball came to see that production. I asked him after the show if I had done his character justice and he replied that I had. And when the whole production was over, Francis was the first character I had played for whom I had to have a funeral. She had become such a part of me that I needed to have a little ritual to say goodbye to her and thank her for everything she had shown me.

Carolyn in "Coyote" was probably the first major release I remember having on stage that came from a purely organic place. This organic release lead to an on-stage kiss with a woman that wasn't in the script, but the director kept in the show because it was a beautiful and tender moment. I was proud that I was able to create something like that, and completely humbled to have the opportunity to do so.

Zoe in "Mix Tape" was my first feature film role. A lot of that film was shot in my neighborhood, and to this day, when I walk past those locations, I think to myself, "We made a movie in there. And I changed my clothes in the back room." Zoe had spunk and style and wasn't going to take any garbage from anyone. I also got to add the word "fucknut" to the script, which made the director giggle. I loved loved loved that cast and director. Two of my fellow actors have since won Oscars (for sound editing, I believe), and one is easily recognizable to anyone who liked "Grey's Anatomy" back in the day. I put together a playlist on YouTube so you can watch the whole thing there in installments, if you would like.

I was a member of a theater company for a while, and played a lot of different roles on that stage that I loved. We did a lot of sketch comedy, so they were small parts, but tons of fun. Sally in "Merry Non-Denominational Holiday, Charlie Brown." The woman who screams and gets beaten up in some short Halloween piece. Squeaky Fromme in our serial killer's remake of "Tonight" from "West Side Story." The only one who could hit the really high notes in our four minute "Sweeney Todd" spoof. Various sluts in the Valentine's Day shows. These were fun because they were quick characters - jump in, be big, wear crazy clothes, and jump back out again. We sang fun songs and did silly dances and were crass and crazy and loud. It wasn't earth-shattering change the world theater, but it was a blast.

With that same company, I played Simone in "Real Aural Talent," which will forever be known as the show for which I shaved my head. That was liberating and enlightening. Simone was a blast, too. She was a performance artist, so I got to be physical and dramatic and wear funky clothes. The play was not well reviewed, but at the time, it was my favorite thing in the world. And again, I adored that cast.

And somewhere along the way, I walked in to an audition for an MFA thesis film at Columbia College. I still remember my audition - how I entered the room, what I did, what I was wearing. I wanted that film so badly, and I nailed it. I was cast as Celia in "Leftover Voices," which was maybe the most brilliant experience of my life. At least up until that point. It was a fully improvised film (and turned into a full length feature, as opposed to just a 40 minute thesis piece), with a beautiful, long rehearsal process, and one of the most giving, supportive, amazing directors I've had the privilege to work with. Celia took over my life, and I took over hers, to the point where things I didn't think I could do as an actor came perfectly naturally once the camera was on and Celia was in my shoes. I took a week off of work for that shoot. It was one of the hardest and one of the most wonderful weeks of my life, and luckily for me, it fell right on top of my birthday. I honestly felt like the luckiest person in the world to get to do that film. I wish more had happened with it.

And then, a few years ago, I fell into an acting school here in Chicago, which opened me up to whole new depths that I didn't even know were there. I played a whore and a murderer in a couple of short plays on their stage and again, was blown away by the people I got to work with. People dedicated to this craft. People who collaborated with one another. People who supported one another. My characters were ultimately flawed, but so honest and so true in their characterizations (thanks to gorgeous writing and directing) - I was safe. That stage for those shows, and even when doing scenework in class there (I really need to be in "The Goat, or Who is Silvia?" when I get older), was a place to feel everything - EVERYTHING - and be loved for it. I don't know how many people have a totally safe space like that. I hope everyone does because there is nothing in the world like it.

More recently, I was in productions of "Hamlet" as Gertrude, "Devour" as Jill and "Down & Derby" as Roleen Joleen. In all three of these shows, I felt like I was doing good work and that everyone around me was doing good work. Everyone from my fellow actors to the director to the stage manager to the designers and so on. Everyone came together on those shows to make them...brilliant. And every one of those shows pushed me to do things and try things and learn things I didn't think I could do.

So in that respect, they are all my favorites. This is what is brilliant about theater to me - I get to learn new things all the time. I get to feel everything that humans ever feel. I get to work with amazing artists who are understanding and supportive and hysterically funny and whose dedication pushes me to be better all of the time. There are those who say that "the Earth without art is just eh," and it's true. In these productions, I get to live fully and truthfully. I get to dig into myself and pull some sort of beauty out of the human experience. And I get to do that with other people who are over the moon about whatever I find in there. They see it, embrace it, and give something back in return.

To me, performance is about being human. As human as humans can get, and how lucky am I to get to explore that? We're all in it together - this crazy humanity thing. So let's make something beautiful out of it.

January 6 - Everything I Really Need to Know...

I've often said that everything I really need to know, I learned from my mom when I was about five. I have very fond memories of my mother baking when I was a child. Cookies at Christmas, brown bread for fun, pizza-sized cookies for special occasions. I think we had more homemade birthday cakes than store bought ones growing up. I grew up thinking that bakery baked goods were the easy way out. If you cared about someone, you baked the cake yourself. I remember the kitchen smelling good and being warm and developing a technique for licking the beaters from the electric mixer to make sure no batter was wasted. Baking was just something that we did, and the house always had the ingredients to make something if you wanted to.

One year, I wanted to make my mom a Black Forest walnut cake for her birthday, because it was her favorite, so I called my great aunt to get the recipe. Recipes, in my family, are basic outlines only. As she was walking me through the steps, I remember her saying something along the lines of, "Two teaspoons of vanilla, but we're a little vanilla nuts in this family, so I usually put in about twice that." In my heart, this meant baking was something fun, something personal, and something to share with those you love. I felt honored to now possess this recipe, and to give it my own spin.

At some point along the way, I learned that many, many chefs are afraid of baking. Baking, apparently, has this reputation for being difficult and precise and unforgiving. I can't help but giggle at that. Baking? Scary? I'd be terrified of burning a $27 cut of steak, but futzing with a cookie recipe is no big deal. No, not every cookie will turn out exactly the same, but who cares? It's sugar! We all love sugar.

Recently, my mom made a comment about how odd it is that I like to bake. I don't think I would be the baker I am today without my mom. The fun and creativity and love that come out in baked goods all come from my mom. Everything I need to know...

And someday I'll figure out how to say thank you. In the meantime, I'll make some cookies.

January 5 - And We're Off!

We had our first round of auditions for Hamlet: The Series today. It is real now.

I have to admit, I was nervous when I got up this morning. What if everyone who comes in is better than me and the director regrets his casting choice? What if they're all terrible and we don't find anyone? What if nobody shows up? What if I should have been off book, but I'm not? What if the people I read with are weird about physical contact? What if I just plain suck on my own?

And then I was late getting there, too, so the first couple of people I read with got to experience Kitty Shaking So Badly She Couldn't Hold Her Script.

The thing is, and they tell you this before big auditions, the auditors want every single person who walks through that door to be amazing. We want to be able to put together a cast in ten minutes. We want to have too many choices. We're on your side. And it's true. I wanted everyone to be brilliant. I wanted everyone to be better than me.

Some of the people who came in were really good. Some were very new to Shakespeare. Some people who scheduled auditions didn't even show up. The polite ones let us know they wouldn't be coming. Others...

In any case, I feel better now. I'm excited for the project. I'm more confident in my ability to do this role. And I can't wait for more auditions tomorrow because every opportunity to work on this play is a blessing. Any day I get to act is a good day.

Here's to round two!

January 4 - Restless

I'm restless today and have too much on my mind, so this will be a bit scattered. Sorry about that.

I have a friend who is starting her year off by getting chemotherapy for breast cancer. Which sucks. She is being strong and positive about it, and they caught it early so I am very hopeful, but still. What a way to start a new year. And it makes me feel oddly helpless. I want to be able to make her better. I want to be able to make her know she will be fine. I don't know how to do that. So, of course, my mind jumps to the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer, which I did twice. It was an amazing experience both times and part of me says I should do it again, but would walking 39.3 miles over two days actually help my girl friend? Shouldn't I maybe be taking her out for a milkshake after one of her treatments instead? Or both?

Which brings me to my physical condition. I'm recovering from a broken ankle. Today I get eleven hours of time in a normal shoe, and the podiatrist told me at my last appointment that everything is healing beautifully, and exactly as it should, so he feels good about my recovery. But it still hurts. Going down stairs hurts. Something about the extreme flexing of the foot that is required when walking down stairs still hurts. I don't know if that's a muscle weakness thing because I couldn't flex my foot like that for four weeks while I was in the walking boot and I just need to work it, or if there's something actually wrong. And pressure on the part of my ankle that broke still hurts, too. I can't sit cross-legged very comfortably for long periods of time, which is disappointing because that was one of my cat's favorite laps to sit in. He's been a really good sport about adapting to my other lap forms, but I know he'd like that one back. I'd like to be able to make that lap for him. And I'd like to get past this fear that there is something wrong down there. I'm tired of thinking about my ankle all of the time. I'm tired of the persistent thought in the back of my head that I have to be careful. I'm tired of feeling like I can't move and jump and skate and dance like I used to for fear of re-injuring myself. I just want to feel normal again.

So if I did sign up for the Avon Walk, would I be able to do it? I know it is more about the fundraising than the actual walking, but I still would want to put in a good effort. The second time I did the walk, I only did the first marathon because my hip was all kinds of messed up from when I was hit by a car. After the first day, it had locked up so tightly, I couldn't move for a couple of days. Do I want to sign up for something that will cause that kind of stress on my hip and my ankle? And how selfish is it of me to be thinking about these sorts of things while my friend is in chemo?

And the fundraising bit takes me to my own financial situation. It's nothing that anyone else needs to worry about (it's not even really anything I need to worry about) and I don't want to go into detail on the interweb, but I'm annoyed today.

So I feel ineffectual and selfish and annoyed today. I know all of this will pass. All of this will sort itself out. "Everything will be all right in the end, and if it is not all right, it is not the end." I would just prefer that today was next Friday instead of today. Next Friday should be good.

Enjoy your day!

January 3 - Bonus Tidbit

Normally, you wouldn't look at her twice. She just kind of blends in with the background, wearing largely monochromatic clothing, little to no make up, dull shoes.

Recently, she broke her ankle and has had to wear a walking boot for the past few weeks. As time passes, she has to wear it less and less, but there always comes a time in the day when she must trade in her snow boot for the walking boot.

Today, she is wearing black trousers, a crisp white button down shirt, a black sweater vest, a thin black tie, and black boots. When her alarm goes off, she raises her pant leg to change shoes, revealing a bright blue knee sock with "Geek" written on both sides in orange.

Suddenly, she is the most interesting woman in the room.

January 3 - What is this Whole Blogging Thing Anyway?

Hi.

So I was kind of disappointed in the blog I wrote yesterday. I was disappointed in it while I was writing it and had to go back and fix things to get rid of these habits I've started forming. Habits may not be the right word, because I don't know that they've been going on long enough to be considered habits, but they are somethings. I noticed something as I was composing yesterday's blog, though, that bothered me and I don't think that fixing it fixed it. And I bring this up for two reasons:

1) I am sorry about the crappy blog yesterday. There are so many things to say about sandwiches and what makes a good sandwich and what it feels like to eat a delicious sandwich and what happens when you bite in and get that huge chunk of jalapeno that instantly clears your sinuses and it starts to hurt but then leaves this incredible flavor in your mouth that sends you right back to the same sandwich knowing you'll get another blast of sinus pain but you kind of can't wait for that because you know that is what makes this sandwich the best part of your week. I didn't do sandwiches justice yesterday, and I didn't really do that restaurant justice yesterday, so to the sandwiches, the restaurant, and those of you yearning for great literature about sandwiches, I apologize.

2) I have become self-conscious of my writing style.

Now, I say this fully aware of the fact that there are probably plenty of you out there who don't think I have a style. I could maybe be classified as stream of consciousness, or conversational, but I am certainly not journalistic, which I think is the direction a lot of blogs have taken these days.

Now, I also say this fully aware of the fact that I am making sweeping generalizations. I do not read all of the blogs on the interweb. I don't even read that many of them. But I have looked at some that are written by people or groups of people who actually make money off of their blogs and have large reader bases and subscriber bases and whatnot and I have to think that they are doing something right to be in that position. I am not in that position. Would I like to be? I don't know. Maybe. Someday. I think I would have to have more interesting things to say, or more useful things to say. Or the ability to draw. Or the desire to put more pictures in my blog. People like looking at things with pictures.

But I have noticed that a lot of these blogs are written in what I consider to be newspaper article style. I'm guessing that at least some of these authors want to be considered experts of some sort, and want to think of their blogs as places other people can go to get good, reliable information on some topic or another. They want to be resources. Some succeed, like the tech blogs. Some...need to be taken with a grain of salt, like the lifestyle coach type blogs. I don't want to belittle anyone's life experience, and I'm glad these sorts of epiphanies are shared for those who need them, but they're not necessarily the be-all-end-all in the "how to live your life" category. My experience may be vastly different and while I appreciate yours, I'm not necessarily going to subscribe to everything you say. Just as I don't expect you to subscribe to everything I say.

But newspaper article style to me is short sentences, one or two sentences per paragraph, the important stuff at the top so if people lose interest and stop reading before the end, they still got the point. This is fine for newspaper articles, tech blogs, things where facts are the important bits. What I don't understand are the bloggers writing lifestyle or opinion type pieces who follow this pattern. But a lot of them have a lot of subscribers, so I find myself trying to write my blogs the same way. The thing is, my brain doesn't compose things that way. I write paragraphs until they are done. Some of my sentences are short. I will employ run on sentences when it feels appropriate to do so for the sake of making some point about how all of the rules you learned in high school English classes are simply guidelines and can be broken if needed, like when Shakespeare breaks from iambic pentameter to illustrate a character's now frazzled state of mind. I start sentences with "and" or "but." And I will use curse words when they are the best words to use in a given situation.

I'm not writing newspaper articles. I'm writing blogs.

So I guess I just sort of wanted to put the caveat on here that these blogs over the next year may not look like blogs you are used to. Some may be long and rambly like this one, while some may be short and vague. I don't pretend to be an expert on anything except maybe my own brain, so that is what I am going to talk about. If they're too long, or look to dense, you don't have to read them. If you want to follow along on this journey through the variances of the human existence, you are more than welcome.

I'll talk to you tomorrow.

January 2 - The Quest for a Vegan Sammich

About ten and a half years ago, I became vegan. If you read this blog or know me, you already know this. But as this post is going to be about food, I think it is important to mention. I don't eat anything that comes from an animal, and I haven't for a really long time.

Most of the time, I try to cook for myself to make sure I'm eating healthy, balanced meals. Sometimes, though, life gets in the way and I find myself with nothing good to bring to work for lunch, so I rely on the plethora of restaurants around my office for sustenance. Sadly, not many of the restaurants around me are very vegan friendly. My co-workers who are not vegan can get pizza or burgers or Italian food or sandwiches from any one of about six sandwich shops. I, however, have about two places to choose from. Maybe three if I feel like a slightly longer walk.

Sometime last year, though, I noticed a Vietnamese restaurant around the corner from my office, and thought I should try it sometime - find out if they have anything vegan and give it a whirl. As it turns out, they do have vegan options for lunch - the most amazing vegan pho you've ever had, and a vegetarian sandwich that can be made vegan if you get it without the red peppers that are sauteed in butter.

This restaurant has restored my faith in humanity. Not only is the food amazing, but the people are so friendly! I took my mom there for lunch one day, and the owner and our waiter both introduced themselves and sort of doted on us. Now, whenever I go in, I'm greeted by name and they ask after my mom. And the food is so amazing. I can't even begin to tell you how delicious it is - the words just don't exist. Or how nice it is to be able to get a vegan sandwich that has protein in it and vegetables and the bread is soft with a crunchy flaky crust. It's brilliant. If I could eat no sandwich for the rest of my life but that sandwich, I would die a happy sandwich eater.

So if you're in the market for a good vegan sandwich, I know where to find one. And will happily go with you if you are the sort that is afraid of trying new restaurants on your own. Unless you are the creepy sort. Then we should get take out so you can go your way and I can go mine, but we each have a delicious sandwich to get through the day.

January 1 - An Idea

Happy New Year!

As seems to happen fairly regularly, I'm sick for New Year's Day. My guess is that it is because I tend to be more social this time of year and am therefore exposed to more germs and whatnot from more people who are also likely sick. The end result, though, is that while it is the first day of a new year and I feel like I should be doing things to make sure my year starts off right, I really don't feel like doing anything.

I know that New Year's Day is sort of an arbitrary time to start things - it's a Tuesday this year, for crying out loud - but resolutions are a tradition. I feel like I should participate in traditions from time to time, though I'm not big on resolutions. I should work on being nicer to myself. And I have already started working on my self-reliance process. But I don't know; I feel the need to do something today.

So I'm blogging. And it occurred to me that this might be a good year to try to document. I have a lot on the horizon - new friendships to explore, a broken ankle to finish mending, work trips, and the character of Hamlet to inhabit. And that's all in just the first couple of months.

So what if I tried to blog every day in 2013? BED2013? Write every day - WED2013? Kind of misleading acronyms. BEDTY?

I miss writing. I miss this creative outlet, and maybe blogging will get the creative juices flowing so I write music again or collaborate on a screenplay or something. I don't know. And there may be days when I just write one sentence. But I think I want to try this on a whim. Write something every day. I can't promise it will all be good, but I can promise I will do my best to make it happen.

I might need help with topics from time to time, though, so if there is something you want me to write about, let me know. And if anyone wants to join me in this, you are more than welcome.

Happy 2013, everybody! And happy writing!

I Don't Understand

I don't understand.

There was a school shooting today, at an elementary school in Connecticut. I know don't that the final count is in yet, but at least eighteen children were killed.

Eighteen children, between the ages of five and ten years old.

Children who were learning their ABCs. Children who were trying to make sense out of adding fractions. Children who were making little clay turtles in art class. Children who had play dates or dance classes after school. Children who went to school today to learn things, talk with their friends, and swap peanut butter sandwiches at lunch.

And all I can say is I don't understand it. I don't understand the mindset that would compel one human being to take another human being's life under any circumstances. I don't understand the universe wherein depriving another living thing its right to existence is justifiable. I don't understand the circumstances of the shooter's life that made him think opening fire on a room full of five year olds was his only option. I just don't understand it.

A lot of people online are calling for greater gun control laws, and crying out to the government to step in. Shouting, "See? We've been right all along. Won't you listen to us now?" I don't want to do that. This, to me, is not a political issue. This is an horrific day for the parents, friends, and loved ones of everyone who was in that school.

I know for the greater social consciousness, it is probably better that the perpetrators of such horrific crimes die at the time of the crime. I know I would not feel safe knowing he was still alive. But oddly, I can't help but wish we had just a few minutes to try to find out what was going on in his head, in his words. What brought him to this conclusion. What was going on in his life that at 20 years old, he felt he had to go kill children. How does someone get so messed up so young?

My guess is that he is going to be painted as a loner, somewhat anti-social, though maybe very bright. I was somewhat anti-social growing up, sometimes considered a loner, and very bright. Yet I somehow managed to make it this far knowing that taking the life of another is not okay. Hell, I'm vegan and feel guilty killing bugs. But I wish we could have known what it was about this boy on this day at this elementary school. Maybe if we had more information, we could have helped him make a different choice. Or maybe if we had more information, we could reach out to other kids in similar circumstances before the idea of mass murder enters their heads.

Or maybe I'm just being naive.

I don't understand it, and my heart aches for the friends, families and loved ones of the victims.

Boot

I basically have two things on my mind as of late - boys and boots. I'm not going to talk about the boy stuff on this blog, so let's talk about boots.

Sadly, I'm  not talking the fun kind of boots, though. I'm talking the big, clunky walking boot they give you when you break your ankle. Because yes, I broke my ankle. Saturday, November 24, I took a fall exactly wrong during the derby play I'm in and snapped my ankle. I finished the scene and stayed on stage until it made sense for me to exit and then cried like a baby. I didn't know until the following Monday that it was actually broken, though. It's not a terrible break - it's not the weight-bearing bone that broke which is why I get a boot instead of a cast - and the bones pretty much stayed where they should so my podiatrist is expecting a fairly easy recovery.

It's just going to take a while.

The sort of fascinating thing about the boot is that I get to take it off and see my foot every day. I am watching the swelling go down, the bruises appear and start to fade away. Okay, only one bruise is starting to fade away and for the most part, my foot looks like a zombie foot, but it is an interesting process to physically watch a broken bone heal (from the outside anyway).

But when I'm not being fascinated by it, I'm largely annoyed. The boot is not comfortable. Getting around is not fun. I did laundry last night and had to do it in pieces because I barely trust myself on the back gangway stairs in broad daylight wearing normal shoes, much less in the dark wearing a boot. I think I made six trips up and down those stairs last night and it wore me out. I keep wondering if the extra effort I have to put into such simple tasks like walking is burning extra calories.

And probably the worst part is I feel like I can't talk about anything but the boot. What it's like trying to get around in it. How I hope it doesn't snow before I'm done with it. How it's not a very good all-terrain boot. How no matter how hard I try, sometimes there just isn't a single comfortable position in which to sit while wearing it.

I apologize right now if boot talk dominates my conversation for the next 4.714 weeks.

So that's that. The ankle really hurts today, despite the three Advil I took before I left the house. But the sweat-absorbing socks they gave me to wear under it are both sparkly clean, thanks to the six trips up and down the stairs. I'm more optimistic some days, thinking, "Well, these are the cards I've been dealt for now, so let's make the best of it." Today is not an optimistic day. Hopefully tomorrow will be better.

Help

I know a woman who is rather intuitive. Recently, she said that she has a feeling I will meet my life partner someday, but it will likely be a while. I, apparently, need to finish my self-reliance process first.

Now, I know this is not a prediction set in stone - it is something to be taken with a grain of salt. I find myself remembering that it has been quite a while since I've actually seen her, so maybe the timeline is skewed. But the bit about self-reliance has kind of lodged itself in my brain and I keep mulling it over and over and over.

I am an extremely self-reliant person. Just about anything that I need to do (or want to do) I can, will, and/or have done by myself. I've traveled domestically and internationally on my own. I shop alone. I go to movies, eat in restaurants, went to the ER after I fainted, hell, I even bought my car by myself. There is nothing that I feel I couldn't rely on myself to get done.

But then it occurred to me that maybe that's not the point. Maybe part of my self-reliance process is learning when not to be. I'm terrible at asking for help; I know that. I like helping other people and being useful, but more often than not, when someone offers to help me, I respond, "No, it's okay. I've got it." I forget that they like the opportunity to help and be useful, too.

I'm not going to go into why I have problems asking for help. I am all too aware of the reasons and this blog doesn't need to be a whine fest. But I know what the issues are. Don't worry.

So then life presents me with a broken ankle. What a perfect opportunity to practice letting people help me, right? It's a lot harder than one would think. When it first broke (I didn't know it was broken yet, just that it hurt like a mo-fo), the people around me offered to help me get home and to help me down the stairs and whatnot. I realized that I don't even know how to lean on someone who is helping me walk because I can't put weight on one leg. They kept saying, "No, really. Lean on me," and I didn't know how. How sad is that?

So I'm going to try to use this opportunity to learn how to ask for help and how to let other people do things for me. My first baby steps involve using the cane a coworker brought in for me, and calling the building guys at work so I can use the elevator to get up to and down from the third floor. Yes, I can get around without the cane, but it's nicer to use it. Yes, I can navigate stairs (I have to at my apartment), but if there is someone there who can help, I'm trying really hard to make a point of asking. Just so I get used to it and get over the associated feelings of guilt with asking someone to alter their normal schedule for my benefit. Most people are happy to help, and if they can't, they'll say so. Most people actually like you better if you ask them for help, believe it or not. So I'm practicing. I'm learning.

And I'm secretly compiling a list of things I would ask my Cabana Boy to do for me if I had one. Interested applicants should email me with qualifications*.

Tee hee.

*Nude photos are not qualifications, though a nicely sculpted chest is a requirement for the position.

A Non-tradtitional Thanksgiving List

I am thankful for my need to diet because it means I have always had enough to eat.

I am thankful for the pain in my muscles and joints because it reminds me I am alive, I am mobile, and it is never too late to do something new.

I am thankful for my squishy tummy and round thighs because they provide a warm, happy sleeping spot for my cat.

I am thankful for the bullies who made my adolescence miserable because the freedom from them makes me appreciate my life now.

I am thankful for my acne scars because they showed me how to face the world even when I didn't want to.

I am thankful for every unkind word people have spoken to me because they show me what kind of person I choose to be instead.

I am thankful for the misery, frustration and irritation I face every day because it motivates me to learn new things, try new things, and push for a better future.

I am thankful for the sadness of loss because it means I loved.

I am thankful for the bad in my life, just as I am thankful for the good, because it is the combination of these experiences that have brought me to this place in my life and made me the person I am. And if I was not here, I would not know you. And mostly, I am thankful for you. Let me say that again.

I am thankful for you.

Have a safe and happy Thanksgiving.

Reclaiming Our Words

If there's one thing we've learned from the interweb, it is that the English language is kind of screwy. We pronounce things funny, our verb conjugation is all over the map, we make grammatical rules only to break them, and current popular culture dictates how many letters of a given word are actually even necessary to get one's point across. And for all of it's crazy, zany fluidity, I love the English language. I love watching it change and mutate and circle back around. I love using words that lots of people don't, or using them in an unusual context. I almost always say, "Morning," when I greet someone for the first time in a day, regardless of the time of day. I've gotten in the habit of saying either "brilliant" or "beautiful" before thanking people, as a sort of short hand  for, "You did a brilliant job. Thank you for your efforts." I love playing with my native language.

But for all of my love of this language, there are a couple of words that seem to have drifted far enough from their original meaning that we have to be very careful about how we use them now and that irks me because they are good words.

The first one I can remember that was given a new connotation I didn't like was "play." When I was a kid, we would call our friends on the phone and say, "Can you come play?" and it meant, "Do you want to go outside and frolic or come over and play a board game or in general pass the time in an innocent, pleasant manner with me while we perhaps use our imaginations?" It was an invitation to hang out with your friend and have fun. Then, sometime probably around third or fourth grade, when it became more common knowledge that girls and boys had different body parts, "play" took on a sexual connotation. To play with oneself was something you weren't supposed to do. Ever. And by extension, if you were to then play by yourself (a perfectly innocent action), your classmates might tease you for playing with yourself (our first foray into double entendre). To ask your friend, "Do you want to come play?" suddenly took on a tawdry meaning and you had to ask instead, "Do you want to hang out?" or suddenly, you were the class pervert, even though we barely knew what a pervert was or what true perversion entails.

How sad to lose the word "play" and substitute it with "hang out." "Hang out" conjures an image of sitting on a couch watching a movie and being generally apathetic. "To play" conjures an image of jumping and laughing and using one's imagination to create something completely new. How boring that the introduction of sex into our world as children robbed us of the ability to use the word "play" in polite society.

Around the same time, and for similar reasons, we lost the word "like." Like is a fairly simple word. We "like" things on Facebook as a sign of approval of the existence of those things. We like pizza. We like chocolate. We like lots of things. But when it comes to liking people, the word suddenly became horribly taboo. I would like to blame sitcoms in the 80's that pointed out that there is a difference between liking someone and like-liking someone. Our default setting seems to have switched so that liking someone automatically means like-liking them, or showing some sort of romantic interest. I know people who are as afraid to tell someone they like them as they are to use the other "l" word - love. Why? "Like" is a notch down from "love." To like someone means (to me) that you enjoy their company and would probably help them move if they really needed it. It should be a nice, low-pressure word. I think a lot of us default to liking people in general until we're given a reason to not like them anymore, like an "innocent until proven guilty" type of situation. So why has it become so terrifying to tell someone, "I like you?"

You know what? I like you. Doesn't mean I want to get married and have children with you, or that I lie awake and night thinking of what you look like naked. It just means that on the spectrum of how I feel about you, there are more positive feelings than negative ones, and I enjoy chatting with you from time to time. I would like to reclaim the word "like" as a means of expressing appreciation for the existence of another human being, with no sexual over- or undertones whatsoever.

"Relationship" is another lost word. The default meaning of "relationship" now is a romantic one. "I"m in a relationship" means "I dedicate a lot of my time to maintaining a sexual relationship with one specific person and anyone who is not that person should back off and not try to get to know me, do nice things for me, or expect me to do nice things for them." I don't know about you, but I have lots of relationships in my life, some good, some bad. Some more good than others. None of them (at the moment) is of a sexual nature. I'm okay with that. I still dedicate a lot of time to the people I am in relationships with and I make sure to do nice things for them and they do nice things for me. But none of these is an exclusive relationship that would limit either party's ability to meet new people, do new things, or dedicate time to others. I think it is rather dismissive to say I am not in a relationship because I am. I am in several. Whether or not I'm sleeping with any of these people is irrelevant to the fact that they mean something to me and require my time and attention.

I would like to reclaim the words "play," "like," and "relationship."

I am in plays with some regularity. I go to rehearsal and play with my characters and my fellow actors and my directors and the space we're in and we all create something wonderful and magical through having a safe space wherein we can play. Perfectly innocent playing. I want that word back.

I like you. I would like to start a relationship with you wherein we chat from time to time because I enjoy our conversations. This should not make you feel pressured or objectified. I want those words back.

Most of all, I want to bring back some of the innocence of our language in respect to words that really are innocent and lovely and non-threatening. In this great big beautiful language of ours, can we please reserve some words from the world of double entendre? Not everything needs to be tawdry or suggestive or sexually charged. Sometimes people just interact as people. I want the words back to be able to do that because there are some really amazing, brilliant, wonderful, intelligent people out there with lots to say and I'd like to be able to chat with them.

Four Lessons We Can Learn From Zombies

I know, I know, I'm woefully behind in my television viewing. I have just started watching The Walking Dead, and am only four episodes in. It's good; it's just not the kind of television show where I can watch an entire season in one sitting (like I can with, say, Doctor Who). It's just a different energy.

But I have noticed a few things while watching The Walking Dead, and I'm almost starting to think we've got zombies pegged all wrong. Sure, they want to eat your brain, but there are a lot of important lessons to be learned from zombie behavior that might actually help us non-zombies survive the apocalypse a little longer if we just paid attention. So here we go. It's a list blog! A list of the top four lessons we can learn from zombies.

4. Patience

I think this applies to both the slow-moving zombies and the super-fast ones. Zombies are patient. They may not get you right now, but they will get you eventually. And/or, if they just wait long enough, you're bound to slip up and make a loud noise or saw your own arm off, which will weaken you and make you an easier target. Yes, zombies may grunt and growl a bit if a meal gets away, but they're not really in a hurry. They know they'll get you.

Non-zombies, however, are in an almost constant state of panic and urgency. Get away NOW. Eat NOW. Kill the zombies NOW. Shut the annoying guy up NOW. Humans are much, much, much less patient than zombies and it often leads to their downfall. They forget to barricade a door, or they make too much noise, or they waste all of their ammo firing off useless shots at nothing. There is a lesson to be learned here - if you just wait a minute, slow down a little, take your time and think before you act, you will prevail.

3. Persistence

Zombies are nothing if not persistent. What else do they have to do? They want your brain, so they're going to come get it. If that means using a rock to slowly chisel away at the brick wall that stands between them and your brain, they will use a rock to slowly chisel away at the brick wall that stands between them and your brain. They have the time, they have the motivation, they are going to get what they want.

All too often, humans just plain give up. Oh no! The car won't start! Better abandon it and take off on foot. Even though it is highly likely that there is another abandoned car nearby that either starts or has the parts in it to be able to fix the first car. I think this goes back to point number 4, and humans being in an almost constant state of panic. This "starting one task and abandoning it as soon as it starts to get difficult" leads to sloppy work, an easy to follow trail, and an even greater sense of futility and frustration. Whereas, like with point 4, if humans would take the time to come up with a well-constructed plan and then stick to it, they might actually be able to accomplish something.

Granted, plans don't always pan out the way one would hope. In that case, adaptability is a good thing. But just because it rains on your parade once doesn't mean it will every time. A good plan is a good plan. Don't be afraid to revisit previous ideas that hit bumps in the road. The bumps may not be there the second time.

2. Teamwork

This might sound odd for an introvert to sing the praises of teamwork, but there are times when it is a useful tool, and zombies know this better than anyone. One zombie against a plate glass window does nothing. One hundred zombies pressing against a plate glass window is going to shatter the window and allow access to the sweet, sweet brains on the other side. And how often do we see one lone zombie in a field or a garden, ambling toward a house, get gunned down in a heartbeat? Whereas if you put twenty zombies ambling through that same garden toward the house, the people inside panic and run and trip and it's suddenly dinner time.

Humans have this tendency to think that they can handle things on their own. Or, that it's best to send one or two people off to fight the zombies while everyone else stays somewhere safe so even if those two people die, at least there are still some people alive. You know what? Those two people will likely die or get scratched and then what? Their loved ones back at camp are suddenly fighting to keep zombies alive or forced to shoot them in the face, neither of which is a very appealing option. Whereas if a greater number of people had been there to fight the zombies in the first place, the biting/scratching might not have happened.

No, it is never a pleasant thought to send people into battle, especially women and children. You know what? Kids are going to be scarred anyway. They've already seen their world fall apart around them. It would be nice to think that by playing games with rocks and sticks in the woods that you're still allowing them to have a "normal" childhood. Honestly, there is nothing "normal" about the world after the apocalypse, and you're not doing them any favors by pretending nothing is wrong. Why not, instead, offer them the opportunity to feel in control by learning to defend themselves, confronting their fears and prevailing? In the battle for survival of the species, every set of available, trained hands is an asset.

1. Focus

Zombies want brains. Simple as that. They will do anything to get brains. They are not bothered about personal hygiene, relationship issues, financial concerns, rearing young, or anything else that tends to distract the living. Zombies want brains, so they spend their entire existence in pursuit of brains.

Humans...well, humans tend to think that multi-tasking is a good thing. "While I'm fighting these zombies, I have to make sure I look sexy so Mr. Hot Pants over there will want to screw me when we have a free five minutes even though Mrs. Hot Pants has been dutifully doing our laundry for weeks." And then Mrs. Hot Pants finds out about it and there is a big "thing" that ends with Mr. Hot Pants "going it alone," which means he'll be turned, and then both you and Mrs. Hot Pants have to fight to decide who is best equipped to shoot him in the face now that he's a zombie and whether or not it is appropriate to shoot him in the face with his kid watching. You know what, people? Get over it! You're trying to survive at this point. Everything you knew before is irrelevant. There needs to be a new set of rules installed because it is a new society. And the number one priority is Make Sure People Don't Die or Get Turned Into Zombies. If that means you need to keep your libido in check, check it. If that means you have to figure out a way to deal with a cheating spouse that doesn't entail "feeding him to the wolves," per se, figure it out. If that means trusting the person of a different ethnic background who you're kind of scared of because you're a racist bigot when you have to choose between them and a zombie, trust the living person! If you clear all of the other stupid junk out of your consciousness and focus on Making Sure People Don't Die or Get Turned Into Zombies the way that zombies focus on obtaining your brain, you'll last a lot longer. Focus, people. Focus.

I hope that some of these tips will be helpful to you, should the zombie apocalypse ever happen. If it doesn't, though, you might still want to see how they could apply to your everyday non-zombie-fighting lifestyle. There just might be something useful in there*.

*Except the bit about training kids to fight zombies. Let's hold off on that one until it's absolutely necessary.

This and That

I woke up this morning with a scene from "Harold and Maude" in my head. You can see it by clicking that link, or if you're nervous about clicking links in blogs, it's the scene where Harold and Maude are sitting in a giant field of daisies. Maude says she would like to be a sunflower, Harold says he would like to be a daisy because they're all alike. She points out that each one is actually different and remarks that a lot of the world's sorrow comes from people who are individuals (like each individual daisy) allowing themselves to be treated as a group (the whole field). Not a very good summary. I'd suggest watching the clip because it's so lovely and ends with a Cat Stevens song. Actually, go watch the whole movie. It will embrace your heart and heal your soul. I can wait. This blog will still be here when you get back.

Did you watch it? Good, yes?

Moving on.

I woke up with that scene in my head, and it struck me as an important thing to keep in mind. I am "this" (an individual flower) and I need to not let myself be treated as "that" (a generalized group).

This week is tech week for the show I'm in and I want to say right from the start that I love this show. I have learned so much and pushed myself and the whole environment is collaborative and beautiful and exciting and new. I would not trade one minute of time spent on this show for anything - I am so fantastically lucky to be a part of it. That being said, tech week is showing me exactly how much "this" I am as opposed to "that."

I am not a typical actor. I am an introvert, who happens to be a talented performer.

I say this because I look around at my cast mates, chatting with one another, making jokes, goofing off on our down time during tech rehearsal and notice that I'm not doing that. I'm just trying to keep my focus where it needs to be so things can run smoothly.

But I find myself feeling a little bit bad or guilty or whatever, too, that I'm not using this time to bond with my cast mates. This is an amazing group of beautiful, talented, intelligent women. And I find myself sitting on the sidelines watching them sing songs to one another or practice yoga. The part of my brain that still believes in the extrovert ideal is screaming at me, "Go join in! You have stories! You are flexible! You know that song!" while the introverted side of me is saying, "Wow, there's a lot going on right now. I don't even know where to start." Ultimately, I don't go crash the conversation or join in the yoga-ing. And then I beat myself up for not trying harder to get to know these women, just like I beat myself up for trying too hard when I do throw a story or anecdote into the mix.

It's a rough spot to be in. But I need to remember that there are all different kinds of actors. There are quiet ones who really turn it out on stage. There are boisterous ones who suffer from extreme stage fright. There are those who laugh and joke and sing during down time. There are those who crochet pillows or read books. I am the quiet sort. I like to use down time to not be "on." That is okay. Even if it makes me different from all of the other beautiful, amazing, talented, intelligent, wonderful people working on this show, I don't have to follow their behavior patterns to be an effective part of this process. I can (and hope I do) contribute in my own way. Because my daisy may be smaller and fatter and slightly left-leaning, but that does not make it any less beautiful, magical, or brilliant than anyone else's.

Down and Derby

I am sore.

Everywhere.

I am beaten and battered and bruised.

I am most likely insane for tackling a project like this, that asked me to learn to roller skate - derby skate - at this stage in my life, having never skated before, with only about six months to train, but...

I am happy.

I am strong.

I am fearless.

I am pumped up and excited and achy and tired and thrilled and overwhelmed and so beyond lucky to get to do what I do.

I am in the zone on the floor, not concerned with the size of my ass or the curve of my thigh. I am a blocking machine, looking for space to sneak my jammer through the pack. I am part of something that is bigger than any individual part.

I am a force to be reckoned with.

I am looking forward to the next bout.

I am looking forward to the next spill.

I am looking forward to seeing my team mates tonight and doing the whole thing over again.

I am Roleen Joleen. I am Jodie Fister. I am Maggot Thatcher. I am Lynn Destructable. I am a Larkin City Misfit Maverick.

Beast mode. Beast Mode. BEAST MODE!

Crushes

It's that time of year again.

The leaves start changing, the air gets cooler, and I start to fantasize about having someone to snuggle with when it's not quite cold enough for the heat to come on in my apartment yet.

Now, please, don't take this as some sort of lonely girl battle cry for attention because that is not the intent of this post. I'm not lonely. I just got my apartment back to myself two weeks ago and I am loving it. There is nothing better than coming home to find only my cat and my stuff waiting for me. It's brilliant. But I have long had this sort of dream of finding some ridiculously hot yet moderately stupid boy toy who could help keep me warm when the heat isn't on yet, but who would realize come holiday time that we really don't have that much in common with one another so we should part amicably and I can go back to my life of just my cat and my stuff.  It's not that I'm lonely; I just hate being cold.

Which is a terrible premise for a relationship, I know. Admittedly, I'm too busy to be able to dedicate that much time to another human being at the moment anyway. I've got tech week coming up, followed by a show opening, and as much as I'd like Boy Toy to be there when I need/want him, I realize that even to make a fling work, I'd have to be there when he needed/wanted me, too, and I can't promise that right now.

But I do find myself especially prone to developing crushes on people this time of year, in large part because of that silly little dream. Most of them are completely ridiculous crushes - he's taken or lives too far away or the age difference is ridiculous or he's famous and doesn't know I'm alive. I will admit, they are kind of fun to have, though. It's nice to get that little butterfly feeling in your stomach when a particular someone says hi.

In the past, I have tried telling these people (some of them, anyway) that I have these little crushes. It never ends well. These people usually then feel really odd around me because they don't feel the same way, so our friendships become strained and we drift apart and I get to feel a little bit dumped even though we never dated. So I know it's kind of the coward's way out, but in regard to the silly little harmless unrealistic ridiculous crush I have right now, I'm not going to say anything. At least not for a little while. I'm going to enjoy the little butterflies when they come, and use blankets to keep me warm. It's such a lovely time of year - why spoil it with an unnecessary break-up?

Giveth vs. Taketh

There is a lovely moment in an episode of South Park ("Spontaneous Combustion") where the minister at the church is eulogizing Kenny and says something along the lines of, "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Sometimes the giveth seems a little disproportionate to the taketh. There seems to be a lot more taketh-ing going on, but there it is." And then they go on to pray for the Broncos to win. It's a lovely moment, and one that has been on my mind as of late.

I've been posting recently about being positive and I'm sorry, but today is not one of those days. Today, I am a cynic. Consider yourself warned.

In light of all of the positive energy I've been trying to pump into the universe lately, the negative energy spewing in my general direction seems a little disproportionate. Or, perhaps in better terms, I feel like my giveth-ing is rather disproportionate to my taketh-ing in recent days/weeks/months. And the truth of the matter is, I'm worn out. Completely worn out. I don't know how much more giveth-ing I have in me at the moment. I need to recharge.

One thing I particularly like about myself is that I am very easily amused. My best guy friend remarked on this a couple of weeks ago when I was laughing hysterically in public about a picture I had seen earlier in the day. And I am the sort that notices the small things. For example, I thank the Parking Gods every morning when there is a space for me on the street for which I don't have to pay. And I thank Them again when I return to my car and find it in the same spot with no ticket on it. I was absolutely giddy yesterday watching a short video of a man blowing up 1500 ping pong balls with liquid nitrogen in a one-liter drinks bottle (and at the fact that he called it a "drinks bottle"). The point is, it doesn't take a lot to make me happy.

For about the last month, I have been without that which is most precious to me, so I realize that I may be a bit on edge coming out of the gate. Nonetheless, the fact that I have given this thing away for the benefit of another would seem to suggest I should be racking up some good Karma points, yes? One would think? Instead, there was an incident yesterday that still gets me so angry my hands start shaking when I think about it. Someone else getting so upset with me for something so stupid, and in the end, I was the one who had to give in to the demands of the other because I am the less-squeaky wheel. Truth of the matter is, while I may not be entirely blameless in the occurrence, it is really a matter of me standing up for myself and being called a bitch for doing so. Literally. "Fucking childish bitch," actually, who apparently needs to grow up.

Side note: One of my high school English teachers thought they should teach kids a class in creative cursing because to always fall back on "fuck you" smacks of a simple mind. And it starts to lose meaning after a while. Had this person said to me, "Grow up, you festering spittoon of snake belch," I might have some respect for this person's point of view (I also might have laughed). But to get so upset about something so minor and resort to, "Grow up you fucking childish bitch," just makes me weep for the state of our language. And for the fact that this person has children who will likely not be any more creative in their insults than their parent.

And I sort of have to ask, "Why?" I do a lot of very nice things for a lot of people a lot of the time. And I don't even get "festering spittoon of snake belch" in return; I get "fucking childish bitch?" Is that really fair? All of the things that I do for other people, and I get a parking space on the street six blocks away from my office today? Is that really fair? Is this what my Karma points have added up to? Like when you play Skee-Ball at Chuck E. Cheese's for six hours and get 2000 tickets which you find out you can trade in for a miniature plastic comb? Really? Is this how the Karmic savings plan works?

And then I have to check myself and remind myself that really, the Universe owes me nothing. I am lucky to exist. I am lucky to have my own apartment and a brilliant family and some amazing friends and my health (for the most part - I'm really sore just about everywhere from skating three nights a week, but by the same token, I'm really fantastically lucky to get to work on this project that has me skating three nights a week). I am a lucky person. And there is a lot of good around me. And the Universe owes me nothing.

It just might be nice if the Universe gave me something every now and again just for fun, to even out the giveth-ing and taketh-ing. Something with slightly greater significance than a free parking space. I know, it's a lot to ask for. Nevermind. Pretend I didn't ask.

(It's better if it's a surprise, anyway.)

Lists and Happy Things

People seem to like blog posts made up of lists, so I thought I would make one today. But first, some background.

I've been thinking a lot lately about being positive. Which sounds weird, to sit around and think, "How can I be a positive person." Because being positive is a choice and it is one that must be made daily if one wants to consider oneself a positive person. I would like to be a positive person. I would like to be thought of as a positive person. I would like to pump positive energy into the universe. So I find myself very conscious of my positive choices as of late.

(Now, I'm not saying I want to be so sickeningly sweet in my life affirmations that I give you cavities, but I'd like it if people were happy to see my face when I show up somewhere as opposed to thinking, "Crap, here she comes. Brace yourself." I've read a lot of those affirmations and they strike me as very Martha Stewart, while I'm more of an Erma Bombeck. I'm trying to be realistic in the happy things so my course of positivity is sustainable. Like gradually changing one's eating habits instead of trying some new fad diet.)

I think that there are a lot of ways to be positive, though I also think many of them are often overlooked. For example, when you get together with your friends, do you talk about the happy things in your life, or bitch about the bad ones? Not that there is anything wrong with an occasional bitch session, but is that all you do? Do you find the negative in everything and use that to bond with the other people around you? "He was so supportive when I was going through that stuff with the idiot at work. He listened to be complain for hours." While you are pumping positive energy into him in a sort of roundabout way in those sentences, I'm betting a lot of negative energy was released in his general direction while getting there. And he's probably a little wiped out from it, if he's anything like me. Yes, it's necessary to talk through bad things. Yes, it is exhausting to talk about nothing but bad things for weeks on end.

So I've made a choice to be more careful with the words I use in various situations. I'm on The Twitters now, and I'm trying to be very careful about what I say there. When I'm having a bad day or something is irritating me, I try really hard to not post vague tweets about the stupidity of others. I, instead, started a little game called "Make Kitty Gigglesnort" which inspires my friends to go find funny things on the interweb and post them on Twitter. This doesn't mean I'm ignoring the bad things; in my mind I'm just choosing to spread something positive on the interweb instead of spreading something negative. Does that make sense?

There is something particularly annoying going on today, but I don't want to dwell on that, or speak ill of another person on the web, or fill this space with all of the stupid. Instead, I'm going to make a short list of some very happy things in my life to try to spread the positive. So here's my list. It goes to eleven.

1) The weather this time of year does fabulous things for my hair.
2) I got to hang out with a friend last night who I haven't seen in quite a while and we had a lovely time.
3) Tea exists in close enough proximity to me that I can drink it daily.
4) I should be able to reclaim something I lost very soon.
5) It got there in time.
6) There is an adorable fuzzy face waiting for me every day when I get home.
7) I get to meet a new friend next week and go bowling.
8) I reintroduced lentils into my diet yesterday and they were brilliant.
9) The roller derby show is doing amazing things for my self-esteem. And I was able to turn around on my skates the other day.
10) Today is Friday.
11) You.

Enjoy your Friday. Go out and make somebody smile. Chances are, the same will then happen to you.

Dreams

I have a lot of big dreams, but in this case, I'm referring to actual literal dreams. The little movies you watch while you are asleep that some people think are windows to your soul and what is going on in your life. I had a lovely one last night.

I've dreamed about David Tennant before, several times. The most notable two were the one where I was able to get back into the same dream after my cat woke me up and explain to him that I was pretty sure I was dreaming, and the one wherein I offered him advice on flinging cheesecakes with a slingshot at some press event. It's pretty safe to say my dreams about David Tennant are PG rated at worst - they are not sex dreams. They are dreams about meeting a brilliant person and sort of discovering my own brilliance in the process.

So last night, I dreamed that I met him. I don't remember the exact circumstances of the encounter, except to say that there were a lot of other people there, none of whom I remember. I think some of them were supposed to be my friends, but in the sort of "work colleague from a job you don't actually have" sort of a way. We were going to a dinner somewhere and I sat in the back seat of the car with David Tennant and another person in between us, who leaned forward to chat with the people in the front seat and I was sort of stuck, petrified, having to talk to him (how terrible, right?). The conversation started out really awkward, as I probably know more about him than he knows about me, and I had that feeling of, "Oh, the poor man would rather be talking to anyone else but me just now." But we managed to find some common ground and he was a really good conversationalist, so we chatted along just fine in the car. When we got to the restaurant, we were all sitting around this giant, square table. There was one chair left at the corner, a yellow upholstered chair that looked like a surrealist's take on an antique chair with a much longer area for sitting that one would normally find. I knew he needed a seat and figured he was probably tired of talking to me by now and wanted to chat with the other people in the room, so I started moving away to find somewhere else to sit, but he pulled up another chair for himself, swung the crazy yellow one around the corner of the table and insisted I sit in the crazy yellow chair next to him. Rather close next to him. I think we were both very aware that he is a married man with kids, but he was still flirting and playing and close enough that I could feel the stubble on his chin. Nothing inappropriate happened - just to be clear. But it was lovely to have this person be not afraid of physical contact with me.

The dinner went really well and it ended with me feeling like I had a new friend. A good friend who would be my friend for a long time. And then, as happens in dreams, we were all back at someone's house where I was chasing a fire-engine red cat with black paws through the yard. This was my cat. I caught her and introduced her to David Tennant, who was friendly with her, and she took off again. Then things got weird. As in my cat would go up behind another cat, bite the cat's rear end, and assist in extracting...I don't even know what, icky things? From the other cat's rear end. She did this to two other cats and then went for a particularly shaggy dog, from whom she extracted a complete other dog. The original dog was significantly less shaggy after the extraction, too.

And then I woke up.

I liked this dream because it had the feel of a normal "getting to know someone" process - the awkward start, the thrill of something new, the comfort of a lasting friendship. I might be reading too much into this, but it was a dream about meeting my hero and not being intimidated or squished by his awesomeness. I would like to think this means maybe I'm recognizing some of my own awesomeness and/or I'm recognizing that my heroes are just people, too, and as people we all kind of want the same things - love, compassion, comfort, and a fire-engine red cat with black paws who can pull one dog out of another dog's rear end.

Miss Vicky

I had a friend named Miss Vicky. Well, Vicky, technically, but we worked in the costume studio in college together, and everyone who worked there was "Miss" whatever. Miss Kitty. Miss Vicky. And it stuck.

I remember being terrified of and intimidated by Miss Vicky when I first met her. She was larger than life with a huge laugh and a brilliant smile that filled the room. For an introvert making the life decision to be an artist instead of a chemist, meeting someone like her was a little bit shocking. I didn't have friends like her in my circle prior to that. But I learned while working with her in the costume studio that she was brilliant in every sense of the word. Beautiful in every sense of the word. She was hysterically funny, tremendously supportive, and one of the few people in my life who I believed when she told me she loved me. The woman was love. She was laughter. She was light and beauty.

Vicky was the kind of person you wanted in the audience at any of your shows because her laughter would inspire others to laugh, too.

Vicky was the only person to ever tell me my butt wasn't big enough (as she was fitting me with a bustle for a period costume).

Vicky noticed things, like how I would twirl in this really awful dress as the curtain went up to add some life and motion to the scene, which she knew I would do if she gave the the twirly dress.

Vicky was also one of the only people from the group I hung out with in college who stayed in touch after college not only to invite me to her parties and shows, but also to attend mine when she could. She showed an interest in my life years after we graduated and I had sort of dropped off of the radar of most of my other college friends. I would comfort myself when going to their parties by reminding myself that Vicky would be there, too, and if nobody else there notice I was in attendance, at least Vicky would be happy to see me. With her brilliant smile, her "Hey, there, beautiful lady," and a fantastic hug.

One year ago today, Miss Vicky lost her battle with ALS.

I know she wouldn't want me to be crying. Sorry, Miss Vicky.

The day she died, I was at a wedding for two of my other friends. The day my college theater friends celebrated her life, I was at a trade show in New York. I don't know where she is buried, so in many ways, I don't know that I ever really got to say goodbye to her. I did my best to let her know throughout her life while I knew her that I loved her dearly. And like I said, she was one of the very few people in my life who I honestly believed when she said she loved me.

I miss her.

I didn't see her very often, but it was comforting to know that there was such a person in the world. It was comforting to know there was someone in my corner. It was brilliant to have a friend that I could just be nice to.

I know she wouldn't want us to mourn too long or feel sad that she is no longer with us. One of our mutual friends suggested we all wear silly hats on Vicky Day and I think I may have to wear one to my rehearsal tonight just because. But I can't help but think about all of the people who missed out on getting to know her. It makes me sad she never had kids - the world could use some little Vickys running around. It makes me sad I won't get to ask her for advice on the style of my wedding dress (if I ever get to wear one), or that I won't get to wear an original Miss Vicky design to the Oscars someday to help spread the word about what a brilliantly talented woman she was.

But I was lucky enough to know her. I was lucky enough to hug her. I was lucky enough to love and be loved by her. And I am lucky that I will never forget her.

Love and laughter to you always, Miss Vicky.

Brain Overheating Random Blog

It's that time of year again. The time of year when Chicago turns into a sauna for about two weeks. Everyone complains that it is too hot to move or function and we get all sorts of humidity jokes and comments about frying eggs outside and that sort of thing. Personally, I love it. Not the egg jokes, though. Those get old.

See, I'm the sort that would rather be too hot than too cold. When it's too cold, I get panicky. When it's too hot, it's like an excuse to sit still and read a book and eat ice cubes (or ice cream or popsicles or watermelon or whatever). There is an odd calm about being too hot for me. It makes us all slow down a bit. And as Chicago is a bit cold for my taste much more of the year than it is too hot for my taste, I treasure these sweltering couple of weeks when it's too hot to sleep. I refuse to put in an air conditioner (even though my cat would probably appreciate it) because my skin needs a chance to stock up on warm before the thermometer plummets and we're back to talking about wind chills instead of heat indices.

I will admit, though, that when it is too hot to sleep, I don't sleep well and my brain function becomes somewhat impaired. Which is why this particular blog entry is going to be somewhat disjointed. Sorry about that.

One of my cousins is getting married on Saturday. I tell you this, because it will factor into the random story I am about to tell which will lead to what motivated me to post today in the first place. It is also important to note that the cousin getting married has a younger sister who is not getting married anytime soon (to the best of my knowledge) and that these cousins are from the same side of my family as several other cousins, many of whom are married and a couple of which are not.

So I had a dream last night that I was going to my cousin's wedding. Except the cousin who is actually getting married was not there. One of my cousins who is already married was there re-marrying her wife, wearing a really sassy, flattering white dress. I, too, was wearing a sassy, flattering white dress, but for some reason, nobody seemed to mind. Meanwhile, the sister of the cousin who is actually getting married but was not present in my dream, was having her engagement party in the back row of the church. Which might have just been a room at the YMCA or something. And by "engagement party," I mean she was opening "Congratulations on your engagement" cards while sitting in the back row. She had to sort of scramble them up when it was time to go participate in her sister's wedding. Which was not her sister's wedding, but her cousin's remarriage to the woman she is already married to.

And the odd thing about this dream (because apparently, it wasn't strange enough to begin with) is that while I was dreaming it, I was fully aware of how hot and humid it was in my bedroom and how unsatisfying the rest I was getting felt. I woke up thinking I was very not rested and wouldn't it be nice to spend the entire day in my bed, but then I remembered the dream and realized I must have gotten some decent sleep if I got to a dream state, right?

So in my morning crankiness, in my toasty warm apartment, I decided it was too hot to blow dry my hair, so I pulled it back in two barrettes. And my right eye decided it would have none of this whole "contact lens" thing today, so I put on my thick-rimmed black-framed eyeglasses. My legs didn't want anything to do with "pants," so I threw on a sort-of pencil skirt that I have and a black tank top (my little black sweater is currently living at my office so I can look office-appropriate when I get there, but be comfortable on the commute). And my feet couldn't handle the thought of socks, so I slipped on a pair of ballet flat sneakers that kind of look like two-tone wing-tip shoes. All in all, I left the house feeling rather like a schlub. Hair not done. Eyes not done. Sort of the minimum amount of clothing I could get away with wearing to the office. There was almost no effort put into my physical appearance today on account of the heat.

But the funny thing is, as I was walking in to the office, I caught a glimpse of myself in a window and realized that in certain circles, my outfit today would qualify as adorkable. All I'm really missing is bright red lipstick and I could give Monti on Master Chef a run for her money. I certainly don't look as schlub-ish as I originally thought I did, and I oddly don't look like someone who just recently completed another trip around the sun. Looking at me, you'd probably not guess my number of revolutions around the sun correctly. So yeah. What started out as an odd day with an odd dream and an odd outfit turned into something kinda sorta cute. Can I be on "New Girl" now as Jess' sister or something?

Told ya. Random brain meltiness. Sorry.