~ I have my first audition in five years with a professional theatre here in town. While I’m excited to be getting back into theatre, I’m petrified as I haven’t acted in about 3-ish years, I haven’t sung anything except karaoke since my vocal register changed (pregnancy wreaks havoc on EVERYTHING) and, after thorough review of every performance I’ve ever given, I’ve pretty objectively realized I’m not much to look at on stage, nor do I have any level of awareness or implementation of any techniques I may have learned in my 5 years of arts school education. I’m afraid I’m going to look like one of those idiot ‘American Idol’ contestants who’s too deluded to realize they should stick to something else.

~ I just got back from a seriously blissful weekend in Atlanta. While the trip was primarily to visit with my husband’s family, I spent about half the time visiting with my own family and friends which was just incredible, almost to a degree I wasn’t expecting. The Bear and I drove my mother’s behemoth 1998 Suburban down for the 6-hour trip a day early (we had piles of babythings to return to my cousin who gave them to us mistakenly believing they were through with having children) and spent a night and an extra evening visiting with one of my oldest and dearest friends (it’s interesting; I haven’t known her longer than any of my other childhood friends, but she’s the only good friend I can say I’ve been close to the longest.) in her AMAZINGly posh little neighborhood in the Highlands area of Atlanta. The Bear and I stayed with her and her poor, unassuming fiance who was so tolerant of Chloe’s incessant excited squeals while he was recovering from a very very recent oral surgery that I feel I owe him a kidney or something. Anyway, being able to catch up and spend some actual “hang-out-and-talk-about-stuff-other-than-general-catch-uppery” time with her was a rare treat and then being able to see her again the next night at her family’s Football Marathon Extravaganza was even cooler. (Best meal I’ve had in years. Literally. Her brother smoked melt-in-your-mouth barbecue and this crazy Bacon Explosion - we called it the Coronary Log - that was woven bacon wrapped around sausage wrapped around bacon and smoked into a magical, life-shortening log of majesty. And then her dad provided home grown Georgia peaches for homemade peach ice cream that almost made me start speaking in tongues.)
Aside from getting to have a social life with real, actual friends who aren’t obligated to be around me for familial or occupational reasons, I was able to visit with my siblings one morning for a mind-altering breakfast at the Flying Biscuit where I devoured an organic pumpkin pancake stack drizzled with maple syrup and pralines that, also, made me consider going into the priesthood or taking Jesus as a groom. We hit the Decatur Book Fest which wasn’t nearly as cool as I was expecting (I was hoping for book sales galore and only got indie authors hawking their wares en masse) but I did get to meet the guys from Mental Floss and yell at them for monopolizing all of my productivity and spare time with their addictive informative site and intriguing trivia. Plus, I got one of the founders to sign a book for me! Whee! The highlight of this whole thing, however, was that I got to spend some time with my siblings who I always just assume want to be around me to see my daughter. However, when my brother seemed genuinely excited to hang out with us sans Bear later on that evening I’m not sure I’d been so touched in a very long time.

And THEN, as if my weekend wasn’t emotionally rich enough, I got to stop off at my cousin’s incredible little bungalow in Roswell, Georgia where he and his wife made us lunch and their daughter spent two enamored hours bringing the Bear into hysterical giggles I haven’t heard other than when she’s being tickle tortured (Always go for the feet with little wet wipes. Works every time, even during frantic sobs of age-associated protest.) I tend to gravitate toward my cousin as a means of shared sanity as we both have been the ones in our families who have absorbed that swept-under-the-rug dysfunction and have had the residual emotions manifest in our mental states. Because of our shared experiences with years of therapy and learning how to implement those tools into the sanity surrounding us, we have a lot in common in that we look at things objectively and are often the ones accused of being melodramatic or just insane by those who would rather blame and ostracize the “crazy one” for familial craziness instead of beginning a process of self-evaluation and transformation themselves. (::Sigh::) Nonetheless, while both of us have reached a point in our lives where we’re emotionally self-sufficient and no longer willing to sit around and whine about being victims or other cowardly shows of general laziness, we have a mutual understanding of the ability to look at dysfunctional insanity and disassociate with it on a personal level, which is something I often feel very very alone in. It’s always nice to be able to get together with him and compare notes although sometimes I feel bad that our conversations usually go that direction before moving on to anything else, simply because we see each other so rarely and it’s such a sense of relief to have someone who understands who is also within the family. (Luckily, both of us have fantastic spouses who are objectively level-headed but still always on our team… even if we’re wrong… That being said, there’s something to be said for having someone who can understand and relate to my exact situation because he’s witnessed and experienced the exact same things from the exact same people. There’s definitely a sense of validation there.) And he’s always the first family member I send an email to when I’m dealing with great emotional upheaval or conflict in my personal, family-related life as he’s distant enough to deal with the situation objectively but close enough that he can make observations about the usual participants and the roles and persuasions they embody within the family dynamic.
All this being said, that poor guy has gone through far faaaarrr more family insanity and mental fuckery than I eeever have (selfishly, I’m unbelievably thankful for this) so, while his life experiences are always to caricature-esque extremes, I feel like I can really learn a lot from his journey to self-realization and his ability to emotionally liberate himself and find happiness in his own life. It’s very inspiring, although heartrending to hear, let alone to physically observe.

So yeah, it was a great weekend for me and a surprisingly emotionally refreshing one to boot. Granted, the Bear has gotten to an age where she’s really selective about her choice of activity and hates being redirected with a passion (It’s so bad that if we try to pull her off a staircase she’s been playing on for ten minutes in public, she’ll fling herself on the ground and begin screaming and kicking. This happens no matter what personal agenda goals of ours conflict with hers, even to the more minute detail, like changing her diaper when she would rather sit and play with her toes. It’s EXHAUSTING.) so it was really hard to go along with the adamant plans of the in-laws without flat out refusing. There were a few times that they were intent on doing a certain thing at a certain time and were inflexible about it, which is perfectly fine and honestly completely understandable and even relatable to us as people who used to have lives with plans and agendas but, being that we have a child who often restricts our freedoms and abilities to do anything according to regimented plans we were constantly trying to assert our inability to participate, which was taken more personally than intended. We were adamant in insisting the group go on without us and enjoy their time in town while we joined them while we could but that usually backfired on us as well. So we found ourselves stuck in awkward positions such as the Sunday morning incident when we took the Bear to a hot, overcrowded zoo filled to the brim with Labor Day Family Vacationers during which she only showed interest in - again - climbing stairs, running after her peers and… that’s about it, actually. As predicted she showed little to no interest in the animals who were barely visible in their tiny but hilly entrapments and, after realizing that we had plans different than hers, began fussing about everything. She didn’t want to be carried, she didn’t want to walk, she didn’t want a juice box, she didn’t want anything in particular but to scream and insist on pushing the stroller up and down a massive ramp and then scream more at us when we tried to thwart her plans. In addition to battling an oncoming migraine that lasted the rest of the evening, I was practicing breathing techniques to restrain myself from angrily reminding everyone that I did say this would happen and that we would definitely have been better suited for her to have visited in the early-to-mid afternoon, after her nap when all the other kids were still taking theirs and she could have a little more breathing room like my husband and I said at the beginning. (I’m sorry to sound like a ruthless bitch here but we do, after all, spend all our time with this little person. We do have a general idea of how she functions and her inability to adapt to anyone else’s plans. It’s a flexibility we’ve been forced to learn in order to keep screaming meltdowns to a minimum and maintain some semblance of sanity.) When the Bear fell asleep in the car before we left the parking lot and was awake by 1:30 p.m. within an hour of us laying her down for a nap, I was even more frustrated by the validity of my prediction. (It was the one time in my life I honestly wished I could have been wrong just to avoid more of the I-told-you-so’s-and-why-doesn’t-anyone-listen frustrations.) ::sigh:: And, of course, when we insisted that the rest of the group stay and get their money’s worth out of their visit, we were met with genuinely well-intended “of course nots!” which were appreciated but not out of character and was even more of a reminder that this often happens in such situations that could easily have been avoided. I’m definitely not saying that it doesn’t royally suck to have a child who is such a prima donna and demands her way on schedule all the time (it totally does), but, knowing that this is the sort of person who is often among the most popular in this sort of family gathering, I would think that those around us would try to accommodate that for the sake of everyone’s sanity at the least. The weirdest part of all of this is that it’s beneficial to EVERYONE involved when concessions are made to keep her happy as we are all given more time to enjoy ourselves and nobody’s having to run off to quell her fussiness, so, again, the insistence on ignoring our always-accurate warnings is beyond me. Especially since there have been a surplus of consistent examples to back my assertions’ accuracy. Still, though, we’re frequently ignored when we attempt excuse ourselves from late-night public dining ventures (again, always from the best intentions from this group of people who just want to include us) and other out-of-synch plans that inevitably end with elevated stress during an epic meltdown.

However, I was incredibly grateful at the offer to take the Bear off our hands for an evening while me and the hubs enjoyed a night out on the town (Don’t go see “Extract”, by the way. Not much to talk about at all and I’m not even sure it’s worth a DVD rental in six months. Seriously disappointing with a protagonist story very similar to that in “Office Space” without nearly as much relatable humor and sense of direction or varied levels of emotion. Everything just felt hollow and forced and, while the cast was full of individually appealing personalities - Mila Kunis is funny, quirky and hot, as always. Jason Bateman is handsome though a bit bumbling and uncertain… as always. Beth Grant is a particular highlight, returning as one of the most hilarious obnoxious bitches imaginable which, despite her real-life sparkling personality, is what she’s simply genius at. - , together they were just like an eclectic collection of thrift store furniture “finds” that are divine by themselves but look like an apartment in a schizophrenic’s mind when flung into the same room. Not an ounce of chemistry in the whole group. So there’s my mini review.) And I was secretly relieved that the in-laws were the victims of Poopocalypse II later in the evening as I’m not sure my heightened exhaustion and end-of-day stress could have handled such an involved event while keeping myself from breaking into tears. (Again, a 6-hour trip with someone who loathes confinement more than myself is taxing of multiple days’ worth of energy and emotion.) Greg and I went to an actual party with real adults that had other stuff to talk about than having babies and then we went out to a movie and stayed out until midnight. I cannot remember the last time we did that together. 11:30, sure. But midnight? Not since I was pre-pregnancy. Amazing.

~ So I’m gearing up for a big week here. Recovery laundry and babycare from this recent trip, a last-minute monologue cramming session, a trip back to Myrtle to return my mom’s car this weekend… it just don’t stop, apparently.

The people who are valued the most in the history of humanity are those who have had the audacity to promote hope and joy. These are the people who continue to remain optimistic when there is no logical reason for it and, ultimately, the ones responsible for moving humankind forward at all. For whatever reason, I’ve always assumed that these people were superior to me and the majority of other humans, somehow able to promote optimism without seeming naive or oblivious. But I recently realized that even with something as simple as an unsoliticed smile to a stranger or dropping all my change and a couple bucks into a bum’s streetcorner mug, I’m perpetuating this same type of pure, untainted joy. I, too, am part of the rebellious, revolutionary, optimistic, joyful elite that is vital to the survival of humanity.

I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of anything more empowering.

I’ve been invited to play in the Homecoming Alumnae Volleyball Game at my old high school this fall. I’m totally excited about the chance to play again as I haven’t played in yyyeeeaaars and, aside from being really pretty good at it, I absolutely loved it.

The problem is that, while I’m already significantly older than most of the other competitors simply because I graduated 8 years ago, it’s already decided that me and my class will be the oldest ones there. This is due to the fact that my class was the first to go through this particular high school, as it opened its doors our freshman year. So, instead of counting on the really old people like normal Alumni functions, the late-twentysomethings are the geezers here.

Now, I could sit around for the next six weeks being scared out of my mind to stand next to 20 year olds in Spandex shorts or I can decide to push myself a little harder and get in amazing shape by the end of October. Since the latter definitely seems more appealing in addition to being healthier all around, I’ll be doing that. And now my workouts won’t be driven by that abstract goal of “well-being”, but something completely selfish, superficial, and generally awesome.

I’m excited. Even if that means that the next month will basically be a montage not unlike the one from the last “Rocky” movie where he’s all old and trying to get back in the game.

Luckily, there’s more going on in my life than just a weight-loss regiment. Whew.

~ The Bear had the funniest moment the other day that I think is universally funny and not just my-baby’s-better-than-everyone funny. She’s developed all these words for animals and their respective sounds (Refresher: “Kak! Kak!”= duck/bird, “Eeow” = cat, “RAAR!”= bear, “Ar! Ar!”= dog, “oooo”=cow) which she uses at every opportunity. Well, we’re eating and watching some Powerpuff Girls when a commercial comes on for Zoobooks (which I cannot believe they still make) and suddenly Chloe is going nuts trying to keep up with the melange of animals they’re flashing across the screen. She’s pointing and screaming, “Eeow! Ar! RAAR! Kak! Kak!” desperately trying to keep up and really just sounding like a crazy person mimicking a barnyard. I thought I would die with the giggles but didn’t want to interrupt the moment by trying to find the camera.

Chloe’s been picking up a new word every day and it’s getting hard to keep up as she’s still very very loosely pronouncing these things. For example, every night before she goes to bed, we settle down and watch these old Disney sing-alongs my mom bought for me when I was a kid. This one song about a train came on (Casey Jr. from “Dumbo”) and suddenly she perked up, started pointing at the screen and repeating, “Do! Do! Do!” I kind of thought she was just expressing excitement about the song until the one part when they say “Toot! Toot!” and she did it at the exact same time and then started applauding herself. It was pretty cool.

She’s also making these amazing correlations that are pretty advanced. Yesterday we were watching something with butterflies in it (I swear we’re not constantly in front of the TV) and she looked down at her shirt and pointed to the butterflies along the border and looked up at me in recognition. I was stunned, actually, as the butterflies on the screen didn’t look very much like the ones on her shirt and yet she was still able to not only recognize the similarities but remember that she was wearing something with butterflies on it. I dunno, maybe it’s only impressive to me…

Oh and despite last Sunday’s debacle, she still LOVES to be outside. If we’re not outside at least once a day she goes into hysterics, pointing at the door and sobbing, so we’ve made it a habit to go for a post-nap walk, despite the incredible heat. Yesterday we hit another local park and even though we rode the swing for a few minutes and tried the slide a few times, what she really wanted to do is walk on the mini swinging bridge. And so, for the NEXT HOUR she walked back and forth across the bridge, sometimes going down the stairs and then going back up. When the heat finally got to be too much and she was covered in sweat and had rosy cheeks, I picked her up to take her to the car. Needless to say, she screamed and wriggled around frantically the entire way.

I have to admit that ultimately this makes me really happy. She’s not going to be one of those kids who plants herself in front of the television all day (we’re not doing the video games thing unless it’s a handheld thing and we use it exclusively for road trips. That’s what my mom did and she produced four well-rounded children capable of using their imaginations and easily making new friends. That’s example enough for me) and maybe I can get her into camping and hiking when she gets a little older. This is something I know her dad isn’t going to be happy about, but he’ll get over it.

~ After writing that thing about Hunter S. Thompson I sat down and wrote a blog entry about how pissed I am that what we call the 20th century American canon contains so many whiny, privileged white guys who “rebel” against this society that their fathers have created by turning into lush vagabonds and then basically perpetuating the same selfish, racist, sexist morality they were raised in. That’s not revolutionary. The other thing is that you can see this same behavior in today’s society with bands like Limp Biskit (remember them?), and Disturbed and Nickelback and all that noise. They’re just doing the same thing that Salinger and Thompson and Kerouc did but with more profanity and a different wardrobe. Meanwhile, really talented writers are given the shaft and aren’t considered neo-classic lit because the list is dominated by these carbon copies of nothing important. Gross.

ANYWAY, I wrote a rather lengthy essay about it and when I was done I realized that, with a little research and editing, it might not be terrible. I might look in to getting it published somewhere notable, which would be new and different from me. It’s scary to know you’re going to start getting rejection letters from nationally-recognized publications as opposed to just little indie ones.

~ Also, I’m having another essay published in next month’s ‘Sasee’. While I’m glad to have the publicity and the opportunity for a broader audience, I’m starting to get sick of submitting these really self-indulgent essays that focus on my overanalyzed feelings about stuff that only pertains to me. I’ve gotta start pushing myself.

~ Which leads me to this Second City writing class I’m taking. Now, before the class started, I wrote the professor and told him to give it to me straight. I’m poor and I want to get my money’s worth, so if something I submit blows, I want to know. I told him not to worry about hurting my feelings because as long as it was objective constructive feedback, I was grateful to have it. And honestly, he’s been great about pointing out my flaws and telling me how to fix them and, even though he doesn’t have to waste time on it, he’s been complimenting my strengths.

However, it seems I’m incapable of writing for stage. After a few weeks of this, everything I’ve submitted has received the message, “Great dialogue but there’s no action or showing of these emotions or events. These could be acted in the dark and have the same effect.” Even when I try to do things bigger and more adventurously, it always comes out the same way. I guess being used to writing for text hasn’t lent itself to creating real activity for people and I always feel limited by dialogue choices in a script because it’s so stripped down. I feel like my mind is just not capable of thinking that way, kind of like how I do in math. When I’m doing/writing the problem/script I think it’s okay but when the professor points out what I’ve done wrong I’m always smacking myself in the forehead and thinking, “Yes! Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?” And honestly, I have no idea.

And it’s starting to get a little frustrating, especially considering how long I’ve been involved with theatre, how long I’ve been writing, and the fact that this is just a beginner’s class.

~ I have my first audition in 3 years on Sept. 9. I’m really excited but kind of freaking out as I feel like I’m really really out of practice. I spent years upon years learning techniques and methods and all that and I still feel like they’ve evaporated from my mind over time, even though I did a lot of student scenework in my last few years of undergrad. Plus, as strange as this sounds, my voice has shifted a lot and I’m not sure where it sounds best as far as the “showtunes” sound goes. I used to have a whole repertoire from which to pull audition material but when I was trying it out this week it just sounded awful. That seems kind of weird considering I know exactly what songs I can do at any karaoke bar but I realize I can’t get up and sing “Dream On” if I’m vying for a part in “South Pacific” or “A Christmas Carol.” Although I did think about singing the first part of Green Day’s “Hitchin’ a Ride” for it as it comes across as very showtune-y.
:::sigh::: At this point I just don’t know. But I have a few weeks.

~One of the perks of our new town is that the local cable package includes LOGO! So I can finally watch Rosie’s “Big Gay Sketch Show”! Hooray!

On New Years Day, I sat down and did a New Year reading with my Tarot deck. I made sure to write down what card I received for each month on my calendar and have been paying attention to my happenings to see if they’re synching up. So far, they’ve been synchronized only in loose interpretations and retrospect.

It’s no secret that I’ve been over the moon in these last few weeks. Aside from being on a high from us finally moving forward and finally getting away from a town I loathe and finally feeling rewarded for our efforts to change our situation, I’m just in love with my new home. Aside from Sanford being a genuinely wonderful little town, I’m back in North Carolina again, which has always been where I call home, even though I was away for half of my life. (I don’t think I could ever be in South Carolina long enough to consider “Carolina” USC or automatically think that the State Fair is in Columbia. Even after being gone a decade, I still told people, “Well I live in Myrtle Beach now, but I’m from North Carolina.” Kinda pathetic, I guess.) And, although I knew all this time that there were things I missed about North Carolina that South Carolina and/or Myrtle Beach simply doesn’t have, I’m finding that there are dozens of traits about the NC that I’d completely forgotten about altogether. A part of me feels like a kid again, running around in my acre-sized backyard with my brother and sisters… it’s incredible.

Chloe and I drive out of town while Greg’s at work, riding over rolling hills on country roads and gazing out over beautiful farms that all seem hand-selected from a decorator who said, “Okay, the theme here is classic, rural Americana. But I want extra charm!” There are old farm houses pushed back away from the highway, nestled under sprawling oaks with oversized ponds and self-sustaining gardens in the backyard. After years of driving through dusty, flat, dilapidated countryside, I’d forgotten how much I missed that. (Plus, I do love the knowledge that these little farm towns are literally 15 miles away from the state’s biggest, most prestigious cities. It brings it all back down to earth, really.)

We also go on walks around our little neighborhood where Chloe waves to every person we pass and yaps back at every dog. We sometimes walk down to the waterfront of the large pond that sits at our subdevelopment’s entrance and skip stones or point at ducks. (These are days I wish I had my own kayak, even if it’s just to take her out on the water for 10 minutes.)

In the evenings I feed Chloe dinner, give her a bath, and then sit with her on our couch while she watches a Disney Sing-Along-Songs DVD my mom converted from the original tape she bought us in 1986. As she sits, mesmerized and enrapt, I enjoy the way the setting sun shines through the thick leaves off our back deck, breathe deeply in complete relaxation and always, without fail, fight the urge to sob with gratitude and bliss.

I’ve not been bashful about admitting that this is easily one of the best moments of my life. I know, it’s all painfully overdramatic and pretty gross in my gloating of how awesome I feel and how things are going wonderfully for me. I’m even kind of getting repulsed and bored with myself and my own Mary Tyler Moore cheerfulness to an extent, so I’ll be literally amazed if anyone - frequent reader or not - has made it this far. And I also know it can’t last in the ebb and flow of life’s cycles, so I’m absorbing and milking every moment while I can. Although I’m on the edge of my seat with excitement about having a real autumn for the first time in 12 years (not counting my semester in Melbourne, AUS) I know better than to waste my days looking forward to the next thing coming.

But right now, for this one moment, everything is exactly what I’ve dreamed of for us.

Anyway, as I was unpacking more boxes, I came across the calendar that had my 2009 Tarot predictions on each page. When I went to hang it on the wall of my office I flipped to August and abruptly gasped with amused surprise and recognition, feeling my heart swell with even more blubbering, gushing gratitude.

At the beginning of this year, I drew the upright XXI Major Arcana card - better known as “The World”

Of course.

————————
In case you’re not into Tarot meanings here are some good definitions in addition to the one hyperlinked above:

A Brief Description

A Longer But Less Action-and-Foreward-Movement-Based description

And the Wiki Description

Because I have so much to cover in a very very short amount of time (We still don’t have the Internet at our place so, again, I’m doing all this from the Lee County Public Library where they limit my compy usage to 1.5 hours daily. That’s just inhumane…) I’m going to give you a bulleted list of topics and you can scroll down to the one that interests you the most. See? I keep my readers in mind. Don’t say I never did nothin’ for you.

Also, I’ve been having blog-and-Internet withdrawal so please excuse me if this is rather rambly and self-indulgent. 

1) The Move
a) Elated
b) Nervous
c) Confused
d) Kinda Wistful
2) Meeting People
3) The New Projects

1) The Move
Oh man, it’s like I’ve said before: I’m positive there has never been a single human being more excited about moving to a small town in North Carolina than I have in the last couple weeks. I’m sure the novelty of it all will wear off but, Holy Crap, I feel like I’ve wandered into Pleasantville. I ventured out last Saturday, got myself a little cup of coffee, and checked out the local farmers’ market which was really more of a Stuff Old People Grow in Their Backyards Market, which is actually even better in my book. Anyway, while I was wandering around downtown buying a local paper and taking pics of the town for this here blog, I was delighted to find that every single person who passed me bothered to engage in mini conversations. Not just “Hi, how ya doin’?” but “Good morning! What on earth are you taking pictures of?” type conversations. I’m one of those people who thrives on getting to know local, grassroots culture so this was particularly exciting to me.

Sanford is a pretty cool little town, to be honest. It’s not one of those places that dried up once a Wal-Mart came to town and has one of those downtowns where people actually patronize and enjoy. There are tons of cool old houses where people throw block parties for anyone who wants to swing by. There are two local theatres, including one that I’m auditioning for in the next week but I’ll get to that later. Plus, the whole city is only 45 minutes from the Research Triangle area (Chapel Hill, Raleigh, Durham) and the Triad (Greensboro, Winston-Salem, High Point) so we’re close enough to the awesome forward-motion of city life without having to deal with the traffic and higher rate of crime, etc. (I was jazzed when I realized that we get the free weekly Independent Arts newspaper all the way down here! Culture! Life! Things happening! Whee!)

Also, in talking with some of the local people, this is one of those rare towns where kids are still kids. In Myrtle Beach it wasn’t uncommon for 11 year olds to be talking about giving blow jobs and where to get drugs, but here the kids still believe in Santa Claus until they’re 10 and don’t have cellphones until they start driving. Obviously, they grow more aware of the world as they get older (there’s drugs and sex everywhere) but it’s at a more traditional pace, which I’m a big fan of.

Again, I’m sure the novelty of small town life will wear off eventually but at the moment I’m loving the relief of not having to deal with godawful tourist traffic, not having to look at rundown outlet malls and shady strip clubs everywhere I go, not having to be blinded by neon signs and hideous billboards en route to EVERYWHERE. Getting to be around people who take pride in where they live and strive for better educations than a GED. It feels like I’m back where I started from originally and strangely, that’s exactly what I want right now.

So we’re in the process of unpacking everything in this cute little 2-story, 3 bedroom house in a quiet little neighborhood and are feeling unbelievably optimistic about the whole thing. I like it.

2) Meeting People
It occurred to me that, while living with a small child who isn’t in school, I have the potential to spend the next year in almost complete seclusion. Knowing my history with depression, this sounded like a good way to sink into a state of lonely hopelessness, which is something I prefer to avoid at all costs.

SO! I’ve taken it upon myself to push aside all my weird social anxieties, actually reach out, and meet some people. First, I emailed a local blogger who writes a lot about living a green lifestyle while being a mom. I just wanted to pick her brain about what Sanford life is like, if there were any places she could recommend in the way of preschools, family physicians, etc. Knowing that it’s totally weird to send a probing email to a stranger, i wasn’t really expecting much in the way of a thorough response. However, a few days later I received a 4 page email detailing everything from her preferred childcare centers to where not to get my hair done (apparently they employ drunk stylists). I was doubly impressed that she withheld any discussion of religion or spirituality because she didn’t like to push that sort of thing on people but if I wanted to know more about her church or what sort of spiritual gatherings are in the area, I was more than welcome to ask her about it. Even more impressive was the fact that she picked up on my mention that I wrote in my blog about depression and alcoholism and she casually recommended a psychiatric facility that members of her family had found success with. I was touched and refreshed with the knowledge that there are people here who don’t mind going out of their way to help complete strangers.

Additionally, one of my good friends takes an acting class once a week in Charlotte with a gal from Sanford and sent me her number. Once again, I pushed all my weird insecurities out of the way (By the way, it’s come to my attention just how unbelievably awkward I am, but I’m planning that as a post later on.) and just called her. She and her husband had me and mine over for cards and drinks last night and I was really relieved at how good of a time I had. We all seemed to get along, seemed to be like-minded, seemed to have a lot in common (although her kids are significantly older than mine) and, even though I don’t think we’ll be connected at the hip or anything, it’s so so nice to know someone else in town.

Although this merges into my next bulleted segment, I’ve also made it a point to join a couple Meetup groups and will be attending a tribal bellydance party in a couple weeks. I haven’t been part of a bellydance community in about 2 years but I miss it a lot and would love to meet other people who are into it and may be interested in traveling to events, etc. I’m thinking once I get settled I may attempt a book club in the area but that’s a few months off. Anyway, the point is that I’m trying, dammit.

3)The New Projects
At the moment, I’m having so much momentum from the move and the possibilities of new opportunity that I’m not sure where to put my immediate interest. The thing is, I’ve been wanting to get my writing career back on track and pay attention to working on a byline and getting a portfolio under my belt. (I just picked up an old Playboy from my collection a few days ago and realized that Sloane Crosley has been getting published WAY longer than I’d originally thought. Since she’s around my age, I kind of strangely consider her a peer and a bit of a pace-setter, although this usually leads to unnecessary comparisons between her career and mine and then the ensuing frustration that I’m not anywhere close to where I’d like to be.)

And then I just decided to do my first theatre audition in like, 3 years, so I’m preparing a monologue and short song for that. I’ve really wanted to get back into theatre but was really hesitant with the knowledge that it will eat a LOT of time and evenings with Greg. After talking about it and getting his encouragement and blessing, I’m going ahead with it and I guess we’ll navigate through our schedules if I’m actually presented with an opportunity for a role.

After taking the GRE, I’ve been looking at psychology degree programs and/or counseling certification programs. I’m ELATED to be in North Carolina as the university educations accessible from my location are incredible and seem ideal for what I want to do. This is something I probably won’t have the freedom or funding to get into for another year or so but I know I need to start working on applications and financial aid sooner than later so I’m not crunched for time.

And then there are countless extraneous things I’ve just been putting off for various reasons like working on scrapbooking these hundreds of photos from the last year and getting this website up and running and following up on my applications for grants for this book I’m writing. I don’t know how I plan to actually do all of this but I know I want them all to fit into my 5 Year Plan (such a ridiculous stereotypical idea…) and I know that means I actually need to do them. It just feels like everything’s been on hold since we’ve been waiting around to see if we’d be moving, so I hope that I can actually get back to living once we get settled in.

And THEN I noticed that there’s this old movie theatre for sale in downtown Sanford that flickered back to life that crazy dream I have of opening a mini multiplex that would consistently feature 1 indie/foreign flick, 1 children’s flick, 1 old film and 1 recent film and lend itself to a plethora of audiences. (I’ve written about it before but can’t seem to find the entry about it at the moment.) I’d love to do stuff like have a “Wizard of Oz” week where we play the movie all week and then have a big “Wizard of Oz” party on the last night. Same with “Rocky Horror” or “Tommy” or “Grease” or “Sound of Music” or any array of cool cult-y classics. Anyway, I’m going to call the realtor in charge to ask what the going price is…
… A girl can dream, right?

So that’s life in brief. Again, I’m using a compy that’s not my own so I don’t feel right posting pics at the moment. It’ll happen soon but I’m sure isn’t pertinent or urgent to anyone’s well-being so I’m not terribly worried about it at the moment.

In brief though: We’re happy. We’re optimistic. We’re relieved. We’re grateful.

These are all incredibly refreshing feelings.

There are two main things that people believe they are so far better at than they actually are: singing and being funny. However, if there is anything more painful and awful to watch than someone who mistakenly believes they can sing, it is someone who truly believes they are funny and desperately are not.

This is why I’m terrified to chase my real, secret dream of becoming a comedy writer… but I’ll get to that in a minute.

I say that these are the “two main things” (aside from, say, being well-read or knowing how to act or something else that is completely subjectively judged) because these are the two things that everyone has access to attempting every day of their lives and that throngs and throngs of misguided people flock to various auditions for in hopes to find success in these coveted crafts. It’s far harder to be convinced that you’re a brilliant doctor if you’re killing people left and right or that you’re a fantastic pilot if you can’t even turn a plane on, right? Those are things that require actual evidence of talent and capability in order to acheive success at. But people who mistakenly believe that they are great singers or groundbreaking comedians aren’t required to have any sort of tangible evidence that they have any competence or training in their field so they’re more likely to hurl themselves toward it in complete delusion. Maybe it’s because those who can entertain are considered heroes in our culture, maybe it’s because those people who are mistaken about their talents think that fame and recognition for these likable talents will make them feel loved, but whatever the case, these are the two things that people in any social class or setting attempt to demonstrate constantly, whether to small audiences or on a nationally-syndicated television show. And they come in droves as those most willing to make colossal asses of themselves.

This starts on a basic level, which we’ll call Level 1’s (The Socially Unfunny.) Usually there is one person around who loves to think of him/herself as being “witty” and “sarcastic” and will also brag to new friends that these are among their best qualities. And, while they may actually have learned the definition of “sarcasm,” their development of the implementation of the technique apparently stalled immediately afterward. (Typically around the early 90’s.) Level 1’s are incessantly interjecting commentary that is not only insipid and predictable but is almost nauseatingly unfunny. True, the comments they make are technically “sarcastic,” but they are in the very most primitive form, indicative of the exhausting Chandler character on ‘Friends.’  Usually, this behavior is found in children ages 10-17 who have just learned about the idea of sarcasm but still have no grasp in irony. (And, for the record, this was definitely me for the majority of my adolesence. Another problem cured through sobriety!) However, when this person is any older than 18, it just becomes obnoxious.  

For example, if a friend of one of these Level 1’s (L1) was to trip and fall in front of the L1, the L1 would automatically be inspired to say something like, “Hey, next time why don’t you try walking?” or “Walk much?” Sometimes the L1 will take it to an L1.5 response and hint at irony, like “Look out for that sidewalk; it likes to shift.” Another example of an L1.5 response would be if, say, a frequently-unkempt person had decided to skip a bath for a day and told their L1.5 acquaintence, only to be told, “And that’s neeeeeever something you’d do. Because you’resoooohygenic. ” [Insert I'm-totally-kidding-wink here.] Any of these variations are categorically Level 1, though, because they are agonizingly dull, uninspired, obvious and outdated. (Because I was a candidate of L1 status as a drunk, it serves as yet another strong reason as to why I should avoid the booze.)

The Level 2 gang is only slightly advanced in that they understand the basics of generalized wit, sarcasm, and perhaps even humor-inducing elements/formulas but their voices and attempts are based on the trends of popular contemporary comedy styles. These people are funny enough to stand out in small groups of people and L2.5’s may even attempt a career but ultimately won’t be able to make any name for themselves or find any real success because they are simply carbon copies of real talent. An L2 probably adorescomedy and is capable of reproducing various styles of humor that are all relevant to current pop culture. For example, an L2 can mimic the Random-Humor style of “Monty Python” just as well as he can cite obscure references like “Family Guy” has earned vast recognition for [beating to death.] Although it’s an easier format, many L2’s are popular for their ability to channel the revolutionary (at the time) Awkward-and-Silly humor that Adam Sandler introduced and Andy Samberg continues today. And, a very advanced L2.5 may even be able to grasp the absurdist satire styles that create such shows as “South Park.” All are popular subgenres of comedy for a reason and, recognizing this, an L2 is happy to jump on board.

And the very worst of these egomaniacal Unfunnies are the Level 3’s. L3’s are so convinced that they are humorous that they have committed their lives to treating the world to their humor. These are the types who are capable of thinking outside of the box but their attempts at humor fall into the unsuccessful subcategories of comedy like Pretentious Humor, So-Abstract-Nobody-Gets-It Humor, So-Twisted-And-Disgusting-That-You’d-Have-To-Be-Soulless-To-Laugh Humor, or So-Overwrought-With-Intention-That-Nobody-Gives-A-Shit Humor. Similar to the Level 2.5’s, the L3 often copies popular styles of humor although on a more elitist level. An L3 is more likely to mimic the Uncomfortable-And-Awkward-Situation Humor as popularized by shows like “The Office” and “Kath and Kim” (The UK and AUS originals, of course. This type of humor requires subtlety in order to really be effective and if there’s anything Americans cannot seem to grasp it’s exactly that. Oh, and the idea that we’re not a theocracy… but that’s another conversation.) and even in the groundbreaking “Napoleon Dynamite” (most recognizable by it’s overquotation from L2’s.) These people believe they are the next Andy Kaufman, that they are going to shake up the way we all accept humor, that they are going to redefine the comedy world, and the only reason that they haven’t been able to touch the masses is because they’re ahead of their time and nobody recognizes their greatness yet. But L3’s are not destined to become actual comedians because they are chronic Unfunnies and the only genuine humor they display is the sad fact that they cannot see how terrible they are and the complete irony that their life often matches the exact crappy comedy they’re writing/performing.

I am petrified that I’m destined to become a Level 3.

I’ve always secretly dreamed of being a writer for SNLor some comedy-based performance company in general. Then when Tina Fey started stepping out I became even more excited with the realization that women are finally starting to get taken seriously as brilliant comedians capable of entertaining masses on an intelligent level. Although I’ve been performing on stage since I was 6-ish, I’ve come to the realization that I’m just not that funny to watch, really. And when I’m watching recordings of my performances I am literally sickened by all my terrible artistic choices and the opportunities I missed and my general cluelessness when it comes to creating a presence. With that in mind, I was fortunate enough to write and perform with a quite successful comedy troupe in Melbourne, Australia a few years ago and just adored it. I enjoyed collaborating on ideas with others, I loved feeling like my work was something people really enjoyed and I became intoxicated with pride and glee when a line or sketch I’d written garnered laughs and applause. Again, when I watch my performances from those shows now I blatantly cringe at my awkward stage persona (and the sad realization that I don’t even have the brilliance to make that work for me, like the dozens of awkward comedians we love because of their weirdness) but I really started getting excited at the idea that maybe some of my thoughts were original and maybe I wasn’t completely idiotic to the comedic cues of social consciousness.

The problem is, I’m 99.9% positive I’m not a funny person. I mean, I can feed right in to obvious jokes and can even adjust these responses to match the demographic preferences of my immediate company (so, I’m pretty L2, even though I’m not as blindly confident as the aforementioned L2’s in the descriptions) and there are times when I’m genuinely on a roll about something and have people chuckling more than usual, but when it comes to real, uniquely stylized humor, I’m completely inept. No unique voice, no original thoughts or concepts, nothing that doesn’t fit some preconceived, overused everyday format.

And this gets even more frustrating in my daily life as I’m a bit addicted to really bright, insightful and/or progressive comedy in almost any form. While I love to read popular humor writers like The Sedaris, The Eggers, Sloane Crosley, Jenn Lancaster, Erma Bombeck, Everyone at The Onion, etc. and I looooooovewatching/following stand-up comedy like I’m a paid reviewer (Patton Oswalt still being my favorite; I’m almost to groupie status with my collection of essays and speeches and bootlegs… I like that he’s intelligent and well-read and expects his audience to be so as well instead of catering to the lowest common denom crew. It’s admirable.), I’m constantly becoming discouraged with the realization that I am not as brilliant as these people I’m so in awe of. Sure, half the sketches on SNLthese days are so terrible a 3rd grader on heroin could’ve written them, but for the most part, comedy has made a massive comeback since the Great Comedy Massacre of the late-80’s-early-90’s. And I feel like a prepubescent white kid trying out for the NBA for even daring to think that I could work in this industry.

Thank God I’m not clueless as to my inabilities because I would HATE to be one of the previously discussed idiots blindly plunging forward in a ridiculous confidence. But on the other side of the coin, I’m wondering how much of that is realistic and if, by some wild chance, my fear is actually holding me back from even so much as attempting to contemplate researching the ability to begin this dream. (No, seriously. I’m that hesitant.)

So today I’m at a party in the Chicago area and happened to fall into a conversation with a woman who was very good friends with a woman who started as a performer at Second City, where she met The Fey (cut to me having a Gat-damned heartattack) and from which she transferred to SNL. When H.R.H. Fey decided to begin her own empire of genius, this woman (we’ll call her K.) was invited to come with and is now a writer for ‘30 Rock.’ (This was the part where I lost my bowels.) Trying not to gush (I mean, this was a person who knew a person who knew Mrs. Fey. It’s not like I was touching Her garments or using my hair to wash her feet.) I mentioned how much I loved the show, admired The Fey’s work and influence on the industry and had always really wanted to get into that sort of thing but was limited with my lifestyle and location for the time being. After I told her I’d had a little experience working and writing with a real, legit troupe she casually mentioned that she’d be happy to send a message to K and ask for any insight into getting into the industry, if she’d be willing to take a look at some writing samples and offer criticisms, etc. I was mortified at how childishly excited I became at a mention of a chance this woman might mention me to someone who knows someone who knows someone that will more than likely turn into absolutely nothing at all. This woman had never met me, will probably never see me again, has never read any of my work, and honestly was probably doing the typical just-being-nice-because-I-mentioned-a-connection thing. Still, I turned into a moron but was able to create an adult persona until I was able to attack Greg with the embarrassingly non-existant “news.”

And then I started thinking, What if, by some wild freak chance, this woman I met today was serious and wrote to K and I somehow got in contact with her and was asked to send some writing samples or something equally improbable… What then?

What I mean specifically is “What the fuck are you going to give them? What do you have to offer at all?” Greg and I have agreed that we’ll up and move anywhere it takes for the other to realize their dream no matter how ridiculous. So relocating or taking a dream job or any of that isn’t my question in this case, mostly because I literally never think it will ever be a reality.

So it all comes back to me not ever wanting to be a clueless, arrogant L3. Sometimes I so wish I had that idiotically blind superego that so many untalented artists have, like Adam Levine who literally believes that Maroon 5 is the greatest band on the planet. (He said this with no irony intended. At. All.) Because even though those guys look like giant arrogant idiotic douchebags, their crazy confidence has made them successful and able to express their art and bring it to the masses… which is exactly the objective. (Although when Tenacious D parodies these guys’ attitudes, it’s just amazing.) But I can’t do that. I can’t go out there and proclaim to be the next Bill Hicks and tell show producers that I’m going to pwn the industry and be the greatest writer they’ve ever worked with. Hell, I can’t even confidently convince someone that my best essay will make them crack a smile. So charging headfirst completely assured that I have any talent at all is a LIE.

My husband and I have always made the promise to each other that if there’s something we’re aspiring to do or be that we are blatantly incapable of, we would be honest and tell the other so as not to cause the other person years of rejection and heartbreak. This, of course, was decided while watching one of those American Idol season premiers where they show the god-awful singers who were never told the truth and are just making themselves look ridiculous on national television. And yes, I love my husband enough to save him from public shame and humiliation.

So anyway, this evening I sat down and told him to be honest about whether or not he thought this was a valid, obtainable dream to even attempt going after. Not that I don’t want to be a columnist or pen a memoir or get my counseling degree, but if the opportunity arises for me to reasonably chase my wild dream I’d prefer to go after it above anything else. And he said I was hilarious. And then I asked him if I was creatively hilarious or just run-of-the-mill hilarious. And he said I was creative and I catch him off guard with quips all the time. And then I asked him if I was innovative and capable of creating new, unique premises and executions of comedy and he said, “Um, sure.” so I asked him to give me an example of a time that I’d had a unique, original thought that wasn’t just a riff or takeoff on someone else’s… And then he started rubbing his temples and chuckling and asking God why he couldn’t just have a wife that nagged him about normal things.

So that’s why I’m awake until 3 a.m. wondering if my fears are valid and if they’re even going to matter in the long run. (Either way, worry isn’t doing me any good. I know this.) And then I wonder if I’m ever going to be able to get a really incredible opportunity without feeling completely undeserving of it.

I have no idea how to begin change. I don’t know how to persuade people to make little sacrifices. I don’t know how to lift the veil of material-obsessive illusion from those around me and convince people that they’ll be happier paying attention to others outside themselves. I don’t know how to try to raise and maintain awareness about the desperate need for privileged peoples to share just a little of what they have with those who need it and, unlike us, do not have the opportunity to get out and get it for themselves.
This frustrates me more than anything I’ve ever encountered and has actually started stunting my ability to socialize.

I know that I could ramble sob stories to people, like the story of the woman found by Compassion International in West Africa who is feeding her children bowls of salted soup every day, or the woman in Haiti who is treating her kids to “cookies” for meals, which are simply lumps of dirt that she has molded into cookie shapes and let bake in the oppressive sun. But I know rambling about these on a soapbox just makes me a “bleeding heart liberal”, easily dismissable and somewhat laughable in my endless causes. But countless stories like these exist and, while I think the human spirit can easily be drained at the prospect of tackling every single one of these cases, I get so frustrated when people just don’t give a crap at all. There’s nobody in America who just isn’t aware of global poverty but it isn’t on the forefront of our minds and while it seems that the root of the problem is people’s assumption that it isn’t their responsibility, the real truth is that the majority of us have no concept of what real poverty actually is. We have no idea what it’s like to have nothing and have no hope of obtaining anything more than the bare minimum we need to survive. (See my tirade on this in my tiny rant about our brainwashed society of empty illusion. God, I’m so melodramatic sometimes.)

And as impassioned as I feel about it (this isn’t a recent thing, by the way. This has been growing exponentially in the last couple years) and angry I am at the general apathy around me, i get increasingly frustrated at people en masse, which isn’t helpful or healthy at all. I know there are people working to make ends meet and living paycheck-to-paycheck here. I know there are people who have had medical crises and will spend their lives paying that off. I’m not an idiot; we’re one of those families. But still, I wish I could get more people to realize that if they “sacrificed” one night of partying/drinking and gave it away to someone who needed it, we could create tremendous global change. (This goes back to the whole “I deserve to treat myself because I exist” mentality I’ve discussed.) If everyone in the middle-to-upper class “sacrificed” one pair of new [unnecessary] shoes, one new video game, one cutting-edge electronic device (that they’ll wait in line for overnight and will find completely irrelevant within two years), one ordered-in pizza, one date night at the movies and dinner, one pair of concert tickets, one month of an extended cable package, one new handbag, etc. and gave that $30-$50 to someone who needed it, the impact would be incredible. Christ, think of the result one month of that could have on the economic status of third-world countries, or even our local charities. Hell, even if those people who can’t afford to give anything went to their local blood bank every six weeks or gave their old clothes and junk to Habitat for Humanity or a women’s shelter or the Salvation Army or something in that vein, that would be a tremendous effort. And none of those are ridiculous or unrealistic scenarios, I don’t think. I don’t expect everyone to sell all their possessions and live in squalor - I don’t believe in anyone living in poverty; that’s the point. But just the idea that everyone’s putting in a little effort, you know? Even if it’s for the wrong motivations (tax deductions, etc.), it’s still a gift.

Sure, I think it’s pathetic that some people feel justified “giving” by purchasing something from a trendy mass-manufacturer that gives a measly 5% to some charity and I hate it when people only support a cause because it’s trendy (like that celebrity-based charity that gives money toward helping kids learn how to meditate… really?), but you know what? At least they’re helping, if only a tiny bit.

:::sigh::: I really could go on about this all day. In fact, I kind of did yesterday to my best friend, who listened patiently while I expounded on my frustrations and general crisis with rampant materialism and the American mentality of more=successful/worthwhile/important. She listened patiently while I exhausted myself and frantically apologized for tirelessly rambling and I know that if I were to preach like this to everysingleperson, I’d become exhausted and demoralized. I just wish there was something I could really do on a broader scale, if only to quell my raging exasperation with the materialism idolization thing we’ve got going.

And the worst part is that, if I somehow had the capability of starting some sort of charity, I know I’d have to play the game, too. I’d have to “dress like a professional” with trendy attire and impeccable cosmetic detail so that potential donors would take me seriously and not cast me aside as some dirty hippie with wild, impossible ideals. I’d have to throw expensive parties and events to lure people into my scheme and weasel my way in through the very societal expectations that I loathe in the first place. It’s exhausting to think about.

I know right now the only power I have is to do what I’m doing and stick to these sort of beliefs regardless of what other people are doing. I know that I can visualize and imagine a progressive society of giving, selfless people who feel content with themselves as humans because they pay attention and offer help to other humans. And right now, that’s about it. I know for my self-preservation I have to learn to accept and love the people who inevitably will never budge from self-servicing lifestyles, but I’m not big enough to ignore the fact that it suuuuucks.
——————————-
For the record, here are a few charities/organizations that I really believe in and give to when I can. I’m not talking about these to be a martyr or something; I just think they’re causes worth mentioning since I’m on a roll here:

Compassion International is a means through which I sponsor a teenage girl in Peru for just $30 every month. They’re Christian-based which really turned me off originally, but they’re not all about shoving Jesus lessons down everyone’s throat so much as they’re for genuinely helping people who need it and redirecting those people’s gratitude toward a Higher Power. For many people, having a God creates a life-renewing hope which is something that many abused, starving children desperately need. So I’m definitely for that.

I looooooove Ten Thousand Villages which is a retail chain that only sells fair trade stuff made from artists around the globe in order to help them afford houses, food, medicine, etc. It’s so much fun to shop there, I don’t even care that they’re a charity, really. It’s like World Market but not so corporate-y and the stuff they sell is just amazing. Their online shop is just as rad and the stuff there makes great gifts for the holidays.

Tom’s Shoes is more on the trendy side these days but who gives a crap? They’re an organization who supplies shoes to children who need it for every pair that they sell to people like us. When my sister worked in Uganda, she got to see this organization at work and was really inspired and relieved to learn that they’re legit.

Citizens Against Spousal Abuse (CASA) is a local organization that I think is just amazing. Not only do they provide women and their families a safe house to stay in, but they also give everyone who stays in the house real counseling and set them up with a place to live and a new job before releasing them back out into the world. I was a volunteer there briefly and was amazed by what I saw, although they’re one of those groups who always need help keeping a stock of toiletries and clothes for women who may have fled or those who don’t have anything to wear to a job interview. Plus, the safe house they have grows increasingly small as more abused women learn of the organization, so they’re constantly working to keep their heads afloat. I swear if I won the lottery, half of it would go to helping them out.

St. Jude’s Children’s Research Hospital is another one of those celebrity-driven causes but it’s one I believe in simply because I know someone who was saved through their efforts and the money donated from outsiders. Plus, I know if my child was stricken with a life-threatening illness I’d hope that people would help us out as much as they could.

After all the scandal that erupted after Sept.11, I’ve become really hesitant to give money to the Red Cross but I always give blood - even though I haaaate the process - because that’s the one thing they have no hope of embezzling (unless they’re vampires…) Plus, there are so so many people who need blood every day that I often get phone calls from the local blood banks making sure I’ve given recently because they’re in such short supply.

And then there are the little ones I give to when I can. I give bags of clothes to Goodwill and leftover household-y stuff I never use to Habitat for Humanity (although I’d love to help them build a house one day.) I performed in a benefit show for the V-Day Organization which I dream of working for one day (seriously, they’re just amazing.) And every so often I join a group and make/serve dinner at the Myrtle Beach Homeless Shelter who provides dinner to anyone who wants it, even if they’re not staying in the shelter. (There’s a woman who comes every week and gives a $10 donation just to sit and talk with the people. She’s my hero.)

I do believe in acting locally and thinking globally but I’m more likely to give to organizations who help those without hope of getting out of their situation and aren’t likely to abuse the generosity of others. Also, I usually have a real problem supporting those groups who are about “raising awareness” but not actually doing anything for anyone like the Global Awareness Project who professes that their mission is to “showcase humanitarian, environmental and cultural activities in local communities and worldwide”, which really consists of them throwing art parties showcasing local artists/arts school teenagers and creating masturbatory films involving said designer-clothing-clad teens discussing how they could potentially raise awareness about global issues… and then not doing anything at all to support that. At. All. (Seriously, if you visit their “About Us” page, it’s complete drivel that makes no sense of their “mission” whatsoever. I’ve attended some of their events so this isn’t just blind speculation. They also travelled to some Latin-American country to spend a few days making minor art projects with underprivileged schoolchildren. What a fantastic expenditure of funds.) And then there were those Live 8 Concerts which were just supposed to raise awareness about global poverty by having celebrities tell billions of fans that, oh yeah, people are starving. AND THAT WAS IT!!! Okay, I know the whole thing was amazing to concertgoers because it was free but would it have killed them to charge people $5 at the door at the 10 locations where the concerts were simultaneously held? Seriously, a supercheap concert with huge musical acts is pretty much the same as a free one and, since the artists were already playing for free, they could’ve donated it all to these people we were supposed to be made aware of. Sure, they had 10 million people sign a greatbig petition to hand to Tony Blair saying “let’s do something about poverty!” but then they backed up that supposed passion and hope for change with nothing. What an incredible wasted opportunity.

So yeah. That’s what I’ve got. I’m going to go try to meditate my anger away now.
/tirade.

Freshly heartbroken (and, incidentally, spiraling into a belligerent insanity in response) and struggling with typical early-20’s wanderlust, I went to Australia with the mentality that this would be a semester of reckless abandon. Flinging my inherent self-consciousness by the wayside, I plunged into the wild, adventurous [often foolish and some potentially dangerous] indulgences of hedonism I’d only previously fantasized about, free from the confines of social accountability. Don’t get me wrong, I spent a few days nerding out and visiting historic sites by my own volition but mostly I was interested in freeing some part of me that I thought - at the time - might have been the “real” me who’d been hidden under general insecurity. (Oh, to be in late-adolescence and to so believe in the pretentious myth of oneself…)

This whole mentality put a strange damper on the relationships I encountered, as I sort of convinced myself that all these temporary acquaintances were somehow not legitimate. I had no trouble making a general ass of myself in front of these people as they were only surface-level, stand-in friends with whom I would enjoy my time but never really forge any sort of bond with. This even included the small group of people I was working with as part of a sketch comedy troupe; while they were all amazing, colorful people, I was assured that there was nothing “real” going on, that we were all just working together for a common cause and any interest in each other was superficial for the sake of a productive work environment. While I felt a real fondness for many of them, I had already designated myself as an outsider who was easily replaceable and meant to portray only a caricature of a certain widely-mocked nationality. I assumed everyone else was doing the same. Perhaps my subconscious knew better because, after a while, I found myself becoming crippled with panic attacks before attending rehearsals, sitting on the staircase around the corner from our rehearsal theatre and trying desperately to convince myself that I was worthwhile, bright, humorous, and deserving of their company. Often I would wildly overcompensate by putting on a brash, arrogant, faux-wordliness air in which I would conduct my every maneuver, hoping this would throw everyone off the scent of my complete insecurity.

The weird thing about all of this is that, while this was most definitely the most mentally unstable, tragically misguided and destructive part of my many attempts at recovery since 2003, somehow some of these amazing people saw right through all of it and proudly called themselves my friend. While I was out making the greatest ass of myself imaginable, there were genuinely wonderful people who not only weren’t totally disgusted by my flagrant hypocrisy, my wild grandeur and my general self-centeredness, but actually invited me to be in their company. By the time I left the country that summer (or late-autumn, depending on which continent you’re on) I had acquired a handful of some of the best friends I have ever had (even now!) and was aching with the amount of time I’d wasted trying to keep their lifestyles and reality some sort of parallel universe or mere colorful backdrop to be used at my disposal.

It has been four years since I have seen most of them. I was scheduled to go back to Melbourne in late 2006 but, due to the general disorganization of the Australian Immigrations gang, I was stopped at LAX and sent back home. (Although I did have a lovely impromptu visit to Berkeley where I crashed with a never-before-met-in-person friend for a couple days and fell in love with the Bay area.) Shortly afterward, I became pregnant and was unable to use my plane ticket, much to my utter heartbreak.

Still, these people have continued to stay a part of my life and have shown more devotion and love to me than most of the friends I’ve had in my short life. One came to stay with me and my family over the holidays, a few keep in touch via email, Facebook and the occasional phone call, and a couple of my dearest girlfriends sent a fantastic care package when they found out I was expecting my daughter. One came to Canada with her band last summer but, gas prices being what they were, I simply could not afford to go up and see her. I still hear from many of them at least once monthly and they have become one of the aspects of my recovery that I am most grateful for. I’m not sure where I did something so right as to acquire these sorts of people into my life but I’m more than ecstatic that I did.

My heart hurts this time of year as it was during late June that I left Melbourne and saw this handful of dear friends last. (This pain only intensified after my failed attempt to return.) At least once every month I have a dream in which I am riding around Melbourne, on my way to visit friends, seeing places and the sorts of creative, artistic people I fell in love with while I was there. There’s still the wild dream that we’ll somehow be able to move there and build a life in a culture so much more laid-back than our own and even though my husband has expressed an interest in pursuing this dream, there simply hasn’t been an opportunity for us to make it a reality. (I have a feeling this dream won’t dissipate anytime soon.) My heart is always elated with the blessing of this present friendship but aching with the knowledge that it can’t be revisited on a personal basis any time soon. I hate that I can’t show these people the selfless love from me that they deserved when I was abroad and I loathe that there may never be a time in the next decade that I can afford to travel back and enjoy a leisurely, festive visit of “just hanging out.” The harsh reality of this set in a while ago, but it hasn’t started to weaken just yet.

Whatever the case, that place and these people are still with me and this is more than I’d hoped for when I first landed in Australia. Just little artifacts and this tiny bit of memory and joy are what I have for now, but that’s enough to make me more grateful than I am about almost everything I’ve ever experienced. And, of course, the hope of returning to all of it again.

I just learned that my brother reads my blog. This is touching to me on a number of levels, the first being the obvious realization that my sibling gives a crap about what I’m doing and will subject himself to reading my self-indulgent blatherings in order to keep up.

After the years of working to ostracize my family when I was stupid, adolescent, selfish and perpetually drunk, I’ve sort of settled into the belief that I’ll always sort of be the weird black sheep of the family. I completely understand why, in the years of aftermath since, their hesitation to bother with trying to be a part of my immediate life - let alone subjecting themselves to any more of my self-centered antics - has been palpable at best. The common (and often justified) belief that real change can’t happen in anyone is enough to keep most people at bay and, through the way I’m treated and perceived at family gatherings, I’ve sort of learned that this is the bed I’ve made for myself. I’m pleasantly surprised and touched to see that my past hasn’t permanently run off everyone who matters to me.

I guess what I’m saying is that while spoken forgiveness is wonderful, evidence of it is levity-inducing.