In hopes to retain SuburbanBohemian.com as a space to share my personal life’s ponderings and events, I’ve opened ILoveBeingSouthern.com as a place to separately continue with the Things I Love About Being Southern series. (It garnered a big enough following to warrant that, I thought, so we’re trying it out.) I want to have a professional presentation eventually but, for now, the basic Tumblr format will have to do. Look for updates in the next month or so.

Oh, I thought I’d try a little blog marketing, so feel free to check us out on Facebook, too. (What am I becoming?)

So there you go. Tell a friend.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

Recently I’ve gotten a little gross and self-pitying and borderline obsessive about the things I don’t have or can’t do or whathaveyou instead of my usual focusing-on-all-the-good-things-going-on-and-that-I’m-lucky-to-have mode that I’ve learned to rely on. With frustrations of money and time and having a sick child at home for 3/4 of January, it’s been easy to get a little wrapped up in the “poor me”s and general martyrdom that always seems to set in during this time of year. (And ALWAYS makes me feel worse and even stupider for subscribing to it in the first place.)

Something has to change [or I'll keep doing it until March and, by then, it will have become more of a lifestyle than a habit and we all know what that's a gateway for.]

So I thought I’d spend this month revisiting Rob Breszny’s Pronoia, as it always gives me incredible insight into my current realities and it challenges me to push myself creatively and spiritually. Don’t hold me to this [because we all know how well I do with long-term commitments] but I’d like to do one of the exercises recommended in the book for every day in February… or at least 4 times every week. I think it’ll help me flush some things out and help with this whole rewiring-of-my-brain thing I’m in the throes of.

So here’s #1:

Pg. 194, Exercise #9 “I was never the class clown. I am not a troubled but devilishly handsome wastrel living on a trust fund. I’ve never beaten up anyone, have steadfastly not aspired to write like Raymond Carver, and have never played strip Scrabble with a junkie violinist on a leaky waterbed in a Key West penthouse. There are so many things I am not and will never be and I’m glad I know about them. It helps me stay focused on exactly who I am.

What about you? Who aren’t you? Fantasize about all the things you never were and all the paths you will never take. Put it in writing.”

I never aspired to be a mathematician, a paleontologist or an orthopedic surgeon. I’ve never hustled anyone at billiards. I’ve never deliberately killed an animal. I’ve never made out with anyone (male or female) at a frat party. I was never given limitless money to spend on name brand clothing/vehicles/cosmetics/etc and I was never left home alone for the weekend in high school. I was never a coke whore living on the streets. I will never be a teenage bride or teenage mother. I was never a bigot and have never hated someone based on their creed, sexuality, race, nationality or general demographic. I will never be a prom queen. I will never be a sweater-set-and-pearls-wearing soccer mom. I have never knocked anyone unconscious. I’ve never attended a professional wrestling match and will never attend a professional boxing match. I have never had the desire to climb Mt. Everest. I’ve never been in a bitch-fight with anyone’s ex-spouse. I’ll never burn a cross while wearing a white hood in a field with a bunch of other dudes. I’ve never been a cartoonist for an animated series. I’ve never taught an aerobics class to senior citizens. I’ve never wanted to drive a pick-up truck. I’ve never apologized for saying things that I genuinely meant. I’ve never built a house of cards. I’ve never been valedictorian, student body president or spelling bee champion. I’ve never and will never made/make a solemn pledge to marry Jesus and live in a nunnery. I have never and will never stop overanalyzing the meaning of life, the meaning of my life, my purpose and the basis of reality. I’ll never be a workaholic. I’ll never pay to attend a NASCAR event. I have never been the subject of tabloid ridicule. I have never plowed a field only using an ox and a homemade plow. I’ll never have Tweety bird tattooed to my body. I’ll never attend a Motley Crue concert. I was never on a boat with a band of pirates. I’ll never and have never obsessed about my wedding day. I will never have any form of plastic surgery unless it is imperative to my health to do so (post-wreck/fire reconstruction, mammography, etc.) I will never allow my family to keep me on life-support longer than two weeks. I will never settle for mediocrity. I have never had a perm. I have never won a DDR tournament. I will never take fertility drugs. I will never play WoW. I have never tasted toe fungus. I will never work as a greeter at Wal-Mart. I will never major in philosophy and I will never listen to and believe anyone who believes he or she knows the absolute Truth. I will never be trendy enough to be incessantly angry/offended/argumentative. I have never had the desire to buzz-and-bleach my hair. I will never get a tattoo in a language that isn’t my native tongue. I will never refuse to learn from anyone, no matter how much I hate their personal beliefs or lifestyle. I have never worked as an indentured servant. I was never drafted. I was never a guest on the “Jerry Springer Show”. I’ve never been launched out of a catapult. I wasn’t conceived at a ren faire, a music festival, a car wash, a demolition derby, a public bathroom or while either partner was on the clock. I have never attended a dog fight or a dog race. I will never join a police force, a military service, or the SWAT team. I will never convert to any religion for the societal benefit of someone else. I never attended the Royal Academy of Ballet. I never hunted wild boar. I’ve never amputated someone’s arm after sedating them with brandy. I never installed a gunrack in my car. I’ve never dated a quarterback (nor have I ever had the inclination to.) I never smeared fireflies all over myself to make me glow in the dark. I’ve never had an illicit affair with a college professor. I’ve never watched an episode of any daytime soap opera. I will never be a contestant on a reality TV show. I’ve never thrown a Molotov cocktail. I’ll never voluntarily get a tongue, back, bellybutton or nether-regions piercing. I’ve never had the desire to board a submarine. I’ll never get cornrows. I never smoked a cigarette in the bathroom at school. I never travelled to Mexico to get a sketchy medical procedure from a doctor I found on the internet. I never collected farts in a jar. I’ve never played an electric banjo solo with Carlos Santana. I’ve never been attracted to “a man in uniform.” I’ll never stay in an unhappy/unhealthy relationship again. I’ve never painted the outside of my house yellow or pink. I’ve never worn khaki capri pants in public. I never dropped anything off a skyscraper. I’ll never serve as Prime Minister of anywhere. I’ve never swallowed a sword or breathed fire. I’ve never attended an execution. I’ve never mined for coal. I’ve never cleaned a septic tank. I’ve never hurled myself off a national landmark. I’ve never mauled a grizzly bear. I’ve never been to a sperm bank. I’ve never spoken in rhyme for a day. I’ll never have my own ventriloquist act. I’ve never owned a pair of clear heels. I’m never going to be a pop superstar.

I feel like these could go on forever and I’m starting to get to menial, obvious things. Maybe I’ll revisit it later. For now, this is what I’m not.

Liz Pardue-Schultz

I’m doing NaNoWriMo this year and THIS YEAR I plan on actually going all the way with it. (I’ve started about 3 times before but never made it past week 2.) The only problem is that, unlike other years, I don’t even have a premise and am pretty sure I’m going to sit down and ramble for 50,000 words, which won’t really make me feel like I’ve actually accomplished the goal. I mean, I ramble for 50,000 words every month as is; shouldn’t I at least try to make it into some sort of story arc? But then, there’s a reason I’ve never made plans to write a novel and that’s because I don’t really want to write a novel because I don’t think I’m the Novel-Writer-type so much as the Essay-and-Short-Story-Writer-type. Could be interesting. Maybe I’ll take a couple spoonfuls of NyQuil and let a premise come to me…

Anyway, yes. That’s happening. (The NaNoWriMo thing. Not the NyQuil thing.) And I’m trying to drum up business. And I’m halfway through my first book from my 15 Months of Canon Project. And I’m jumping back on the Weight Watchers Wagon, ’cause that’s been shot all to hell this month.

And that’s what’s up.

Honestly?

I don’t even know anymore.*

*Not that I really did, although I was convinced that I did up until about six or seven years ago. But now I’m certain that I don’t. And I don’t know where to start or if it’s even worth starting and it’s not bad and it’s not good and what it all boils down to is that I’m a giant wuss and no amount of begging the Universe for a pair of white-gold-dipped balls is actually changing that at the moment and that’s frustrating on top of everything else slowly stacking itself on each other. So, even though there’s a lot going on, there’s really nothing happening.
Because of me.
Being chickenshit.
And then hating it.
And then hating myself for hating it.

… And I’m tired. I think tired is coming in at a close second. Like, really long-term, weary, worn-out tired. It’s like I’ve spent since I was 13 overanalyzing and oversentimentalizing everything and then I ramped that up in the last few years with the mental workout of recovery and now something in my brain just finally powered down and now I don’t want to do any of it which doesn’t really help me because I’m pretty lazy when it comes right down to it but I kinda felt productive in my inactivity before now because at least I was dissecting and understanding everything but now that I’m not even doing that I’m really just not doing anything at all.

I really miss being able to blame my ineptitude on being completely out of my mind.

This is me with nothing to say but still feeling the need to write something. I’ll indulge with ramblings about self/pop culture/Burning Man/etc. Feel free to abstain.

~ Donald Duck has always been my favorite of the original Disney characters from the time I was a small child. This still has nothing to do with the fact that I loathe it when people try to emulate his voice. It always sounds unintelligible and just ridiculous.

~ I’ve realized that anything Nick Park is behind I’m pretty much automatically going to adore. Aside from the Wallace and Gromit productions, “Robbie the Reindeer” and “Shaun the Sheep” are just infectious with clever joy.

~ If leprechauns are so worried about people stealing their pots o’ gold, why don’t they invest it or spend it or something? Perhaps their fighting-Irish Napoleon Complex is only satiated with the knowledge that they have great wealth in a tangible form. The ego associated with material things, I guess.

~ I’ve got to learn to let go of my control issues. After hours of watching children’s television, I’ve realized that I am completely incapable of watching any cartoon without becoming frustrated in the inconsistencies and plot holes. (Honestly, though, how can Squidward’s house become flooded or tears be visible if Spongebob lives under the sea?!?)

~ After a few weeks with this writing course, it’s become evident that I blow as a writer unless I’m talking about myself. Fan. Tastic.

My professor is very encouraging but I still feel insecure when he says things like “Once again, you’ve made a stellar effort.” I know I’m working my ass off to push myself but that doesn’t mean I’m producing anything worthwhile. I don’t need praise for my effort, I just want to know that I’m not sucking in this genre.

I don’t know. The one short story I wrote for the fiction writing class I was in a few years ago that I thought was absolute garbage and was fully expecting to be mercilessly criticized for was awarded the unofficial Blue Ribbon of the semester. (The professor – a nationally recognized author – actually sketched a little one on the final draft. I kept it after all these years because it makes me smile.) So I get that all art is subjective but if I hate what I’m producing I feel really unethical accepting any sort of praise for it or trying to submit it to competitions, etc. Somehow being awarded for something I don’t stand behind feels like lying to me.

(The same thing happened with some photography I submitted to the student literary journal that last semester of undergrad. The piece I thought was my all-time best work wasn’t even published while the one piece that took the smallest effort, wasn’t that visually appealing and was honestly about to be left at home won a freaking award.)

~ The Gosselin parents are sad, pathetic people with personalities of white bread toast. Why is the media so fascinated with yet another crumbling marriage between two people who exploit their children for money? Why are we giving them any more attention or justifying/perpetuating their chosen “career” any more than we have to? And why hasn’t someone at least told Kate that her hair is unforgivable? (There; that was my superficial snarkiness coming out.) And why are these women latching onto and publicly fighting over Jon for “fame”? Really, he’s not attractive, he’s clearly just having a textbook mid-life meltdown and he’s not famous so much as highly publicized so the whole thing won’t have mattered in six months and they’ll have wasted their 15 minutes on that. Ew. (Oh, there it was again.)

~ Every year during this time I get a little down because I’m missing out on Burning Man for yet another session. It’s one of those things I’ve longed to attend for years and years now but never had the money or the time to make the drive and set up camp. I have a friend who has gone for about 5 or six years now whom I visited in Berkeley. While there, she took me to a warehouse in Oakland where a bunch of Burners live in little makeshift apartments and work on art all day. They were scheduled to have a party that night but, because it was so cold, we ended up just standing around a trashcan bonfire and chatting about various life experiences. Still, though, just being around all this incredible, innovative art (including the famed Dr. MegaVolt!) and these people who just live out these wild, pronoiac fantasies was awe-inspiring. Then, a couple years ago, I spent a while in Asheville, NC, helping an amazing performance artist I’d met at a folk art show get ready to make the long trek out there. I helped him wrap up some huge projects, like a random spiritual-and-philosophical-beanbag-toss game where the rules and challenges were subjective but always rewarding. He also has this unbelievable art car he’s transformed from an ambulance that he uses along with his stage show in which he discusses and pontificates about absurdist philosophy under the alias Mister Doctor Professor. We also spent a lot of time building a tent that could entertain masses as well as weather the daily sandstorms that blow up at the festival. And I loved every minute of it.

I know these kinds of people are few and far between and are usually the ones who are laughed at or mocked by the larger, consumerist society and I also realize that in my saying that it makes me into a TheMan-fighting cliche but I really, honestly, do not care. These Burning Man-like events and are just things you do for the sole purpose of enjoying life and exploring your own mind and pushing your limitations and/or concepts of joy, communication and creativity. These are the types of people who excite and inspire me more than any other, even if I can only watch from a distance.

So during Burning Man week I always feel a bit of longing to be out enjoying the insanity and all-night partying and unbelievable art projects (the 55-foot long, electronic, metal, flaming Serpent Mother built by the Flaming Lotus Girls in 2006 is one of my absolute favorite works of art of all time) and the insane contests (from the obscene and vulgar to the absurd and family-friendly) and just all of it. I hope it’s still going on when I finally have enough money and time to go.

This year, however, I’m going to try to refocus my energy to tapping in to the positive vibes Burning Man generates. Certainly such a large convening of ecstatic minds in celebration has to emit some incredible rifts in the global energy. I want to be a part of that somehow. Maybe I’ll paint something…

~ This morning I was enjoying my weekly cup of Decaf Hazelnut Creme coffee when the Bear started clamoring for a taste. Figuring she’d hate it, I gave her a sip to which she replied, “MMMMMMM!” and then began reaching for more. After a few minutes fruitlessly attempting to fend her off, I decided to put a tiny spoonful in a sippy-cup of milk, like a baby latte that would actually have some nutritional benefit. Suffice to say that it worked. I just have to make sure this doesn’t become a habit.

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!

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.

Last night something really really weird happened and scared the bejesus out of me. I woke up at 4:30 a.m. to the sound of a plastic bag rustling somewhere in the house. It was the kind of rustling where you can tell there’s something heavy landing on top of it, so I just assumed it was the cat. And then I noticed the cat was at the foot of the bed. When I leapt up in terror, I woke Greg up, and I quickly convinced him to check out the house while I grabbed the phone and the rubber door wedge and ran into Chloe’s room just in case some shit went down suddenly. (I love my husband, but he’s got a better chance at defending himself against someone big and scary than the Bear does. Don’t judge; it’s first instincts, people!) After ten minutes of exhaustive searching, Greg declared there was nothing to be afraid of and came back to bed. Just after we turned off the light and had laid back down, a bright light permeated the room for a second. I happened to be looking at the window at that moment and noticed that it wasn’t the kind of light associated with lightning or headlights; it was from a close, direct source, almost like a camera’s flash. Greg saw it too and wasn’t fazed, but it was enough to keep me up until sunlight lifted the veil over our little house.

Which is really unfortunate because I have a superimportant interview today with one of the guys that owns like, half of Myrtle Beach to help me get some information for this large project Greg and I are working on (again, check the personal, hidden blog for info on that, if you’re that curious/bored.) and, even though I had to pull some strings to get it, I really want to create the impression that I’m an up-and-comer, confident, independent, intelligent, and able to get shit done without having to ride on coattails. I don’t want him to feel like he’s just having to see me as a personal favor to my dad, I guess is what I’m trying to say and, even though I hate that the world is like this, in the “Good Ole Boy” system of the South, I know I have to work my ass off to get him to take notice more than I would if I was, say, my brother. Needless to say, I’ve worked for the last week researching the shit out of this guy’s EXTENSIVE history with the area, which dates back to the 1950′s when his dad came to town and basically turned it into the massive, sprawling tourist trap you see today. (For the record, this empire owns the classier hotels, restaurants, golf courses in town. Not the crappy neon-clad ones.) So I want to talk to him for the purpose of learning more about marketing to the tourist industry since he obviously knows way more about what visitors to the Strand really want than I do, but I also want to get a little more information about the state of Myrtle Beach’s tourist industry, who the leaders are in it’s development, and what sort of improvement or growth he sees or hopes to see in the future, either through the Chamber (which he’s been on the board of for 25 years) or through the efforts of independent businesses. I feel like this is all valuable info in general. However, he did make mention that he needed a couple new writers for his businesses’ websites so there’s an opportunity for that to be mentioned BUT I don’t want to even hint that I’m there seeking a job. (Although, truthfully, it’s really not important to me one way or another.) So my purpose is to “Wow!” him enough that he’s inspired to offer that sort of leg-up [and any other help] out of his own volition under the impression that I’m “one to watch” and “hold a lot of potential and promise” and worth supporting and all that. Plus, nobody likes a beggar/charity case. Anyway, because I didn’t get much sleep last night, I’m afraid that my thoughts aren’t as clear as usual and the luggage racks under my eyes make me look like a meth addict. So there’s that.

In related news, I used to work for this really talented, driven company last year who was all about supporting independent restaurants and delivering daily culinary news to the area without selling out. Although my services as a writer/reporter were no longer needed after September-ish due to economic circumstances, I was still asked to be a sales representative. I spent about three months really working hard on distributing sales packets and following up with potential clients but in January, when my massive wave of depression hit, I dropped everything in my life for about a month, including this deadline-and commission-driven side gig. After a month of not communicating with my editor/boss, I was too embarrassed and too ashamed of my unprofessionalism to check my emails from her, let alone to pick up the phone and face the music by making pathetic, sanity-related excuses. So, instead of acting like an adult, I treated my unprofessionalism with even more unprofessionalism and sufficiently burned a local bridge for no good reason. ::: sigh ::: One would think that, after a few years working the 12 Steps I’d be a little better at facing my major fuck-ups, but this time I retreated back into cowardice and made an ass of myself to one person who really believed in my potential and gave me a start into the professional writing industry. Way to freaking go.

ANYWAY, after sitting around kicking myself for it, I decided not to spend another day perpetuating this Fear and immaturity and so I sat down and wrote her a hand-written letter of apology with sincerity and nothing more. (I never expect this woman to ever trust me with any sort of job again and, frankly, I don’t blame her at ALL. I’m positive I’d do the same thing.) I extended to her an offer to get involved with the project Greg and I are in the midst of [risk and cost-free] on a totally third-party perspective where we basically feature and promote her website as a local perk without her having to do anything in return. (I thought asking permission to use her name would be better than asking for forgiveness in a few months should she find it and decide she doesn’t want to put her name on anything related to me or my work, should I make her efforts look trite and unprofessional by association. Again, I get this mentality given my previous/recent behavior.) I’m still pretty ashamed, to be honest and I’m sure I will be for a while, but at least I’ve done my best with what I could at this point and, according to the Four Agreements, that’s all I can do.

Man. When am I going to learn not to piss on great opportunities? One of these days I’m not going to be blessed with so many second chances and I’ll have nobody to blame but myself and nothing left but regret. I don’t do it nearly as often as I used to (I have a long history of blowing things… um… that sounded wrong…) but still, I do it enough to let it interfere with my life, growth, and general attainment of goals. And that’s not fair to anyone. ‘Specially me.

I know, I know. I’ve had this new blog for about two months now and it still is in it’s primitive stages. The truth is, I have no idea how to work half of these WordPress features and I simply don’t have time to read all the FAQ and figure out what I’m doing so I’ve just been updating and then going back to my life. That being said, if ANYONE reading this could please help me answer a few questions pertaining to WordPress as a program on an independent blog, that surely would help me a lot.

Like, what the heck is a “pingback” and how do I get those to go away?
How do I check my stats from here and how do I get Plugins to work on an independent website/server?

You know… stuff like that. (There are PILES more questions if you’re volunteering for the job, however. Be forewarned.)

And that being said, I’m so in love with my friend’s friend Ellie’s blog I can’t even stand it. First of all, she’s freaking gorgeous. Secondly, she picks these nuggets from her day and makes them beautiful and poetic. Thirdly, she’s one hell of a photographer. Fourthly (maybe not a word), she’s Australian so she’s got that going for her. And fifthly (definitely not a word), her blog is so fun and interactive and beautiful that it makes mine look like a 10th Grade HTML-learning exercise. This is me trying not to sound envious but instead respectful and supportive of a fellow blogger/artist/photographer/writer.

::::heeeehhhnn::::

In my development of this blog, I’m working through uncovering what theme and tone I should maintain, what angle I should play, and what sort of rhythm and routine this blog’s content should contain. I have hundreds of different options, really, and am having trouble streamlining my essays and notions into something consistent. I’m delving into all my writings and trying to pick out a singular voice or angle to really focus on and develop in the life of this new blog and then I realized… Holy crap, I write a LOT.

The more I kept looking, I realized that only about 20% of what I write actually makes it to my main blog [or to my Facebook notes feed or whatever.] Why is that exactly? Alright, well I have separate journals lying around for various topics. I have an Artist’s Way journal to document my progress while I’m doing the course and a Affirmations, Aspirations, and Beliefs journal that I keep with Greg so we can compare and discuss what we personally believe and want for our lives together and have a reference book for Chloe when she asks. I have my New Recovery 2008 journal that charts my moods since starting new medication a couple months ago and discusses my mentality on a daily basis so I can keep track of my overall progress and what areas I need to work on, where my therapy is, etc. I have my Dreams and Tarot Readings book to keep track of what’s going on in my subconscious and track my life in relation to what my spirits are telling me. I have a very small Food Diary that I break out when I need to start holding myself accountable for my lack of discipline with food that also tracks how much exercise I’m getting and whether or not I’m losing weight healthily. I also have a journal that my mentor and friend gave me when I was pregnant to write family stories and my memories to one day give to my children called Reflections from a Mother’s Heart (Or something prefabbed and sappy like that) and is filled with prompts and questions Chloe may one day ask. And, of course, while I was pregnant, I kept a pregnancy journal/scrapbook that’s tucked away with Chloe’s baby book now.

Holy crap. I must be manic, right? The thing is, I’ve always kept a handful of journals as personal reference, almost like I’m doing research and documenting my life in specific files. I’m not regimented to them on a daily basis, but I always check in with them periodically and keep them up for years.

And then there are the blogs. Ohhh, the blogs. Since 2005, I’ve had my Main Blog that I’ve used from everything to a recovery tool to a message board to a journal to validation for my thoughts. This is what I’ve moved over to here in hopes to take my daily writing in a new direction. However, this doesn’t mean that this is my only blog. I also keep a syndication of my blog at Skirt! and now at Myrtle Beach Moms so I can build in my networking and reader base, but that doesn’t really count since it’s the same content as here. I’ve kept my God Blog for about three months now and am finding it to be the best way for me to pray as I work best putting my thoughts on paper instead of trying to organize an impromptu speech to The Maker in my head in between my tendency to get distracted. (I pray like I leave voice messages: “Uh, hey, God. It’s Liz. So, I wanted to thank you so much for not letting that cop pull me over and thanks also for keeping an eye on me and my little family and um. Thanks for you know, life, and love and um… the world and everything you’ve created. Which is a lot. But you knew that. Anyway, um. Please keep an eye on Sudan these days and other areas that are hurting more than I’ve had to know and those stupid people who are out there spewing hate that I want to punch sometimes… Oh! And thanks for Obama! And sunshine! Um, I’ll talk to you later. By-amen!”) And I started another secret blog a few years ago where I write erotica and get feedback for that from other writers in that genre (or creepy guys perusing “safe” porn sites while at work.) And then there’s my other other secret blog (the “Once…” blog) where I write stories from my life as a means of flushing them out and collecting them for future use in novels or memoirs or short stories or campfires or whatever. And then of course, there’s my FitDay.com journal that tallies calories consumed and burned and lets me track my fitness and health to correlate with my tangible journal on the same thing if I don’t feel like putting pen to paper and need a calculator to magically know the calorie content of a Subway Chicken Parm.

These blogs don’t even count the few blogs that I read and comment on and the message board I’ve been a member of since 2002 and the other various forums where I’m a contributor for networking/exposure’s sake. And they don’t include the job I have with a local food syndicate, writing restaurant critiques and book reviews or the other freelance gig I recently landed doing about the same thing and compiling info on local festivities.

Ah, I’m beginning to think I have a problem.

Until I started thinking about it recently, I kinda just assumed I wrote for validation or for someone to notice me, like when I started keeping a diary in first grade because it was popular and the diary looked cool. Or when I wrote while I was in the mental hospital because I hoped to turn it into essays or a memoir one day. With all this mounting, secreted evidence to suggest otherwise, it seems that maybe I’ve actually been doing it for myself all along.

How is it that something as simple as organizing 26 memorized symbols can be such an imperative, integral part of my daily life, like breathing or eating? It’s not even so much as a passion as something I physically have to do. There have been so many nights where I’ve had to get out of bed at 1 or 3 a.m., wrap myself in a robe and get something into text, that I think I may have a real compulsion issue here. The thought that there are people who don’t write anything other than grocery lists escapes me, really, and yet I’m the polar opposite of this, always scribbling on a list or conjuring ideas for some other blathering in some other form. Maybe I have a little “crazy artist” in me after all.

I am, however, opting not to medicate or therapize this out of my system… Honestly? I think I like it.