And here it is. My last day in Vegas. The day that seemed lifetimes away only a few weeks ago. The day that I've been longing for since...well, since about the time I showed up last September. No, no, that's not true. When I first arrived, I was full of hope and ambition and determination to figure out where I might fit in this City o' Sin. And the first two people I met here, Jess the Chanteuse and Vina the Mail-Keeper, are two of the finest people I have had the chance to know in my life. The first band I saw here, Santa Fe & The Fat City Horns, put on one of the best live shows I've ever seen. My first dance partner at said show, Lloyd, showed me that music can keep a person young well beyond his or her years (Lloyd must be around 75 or 80, and during a 90 minute show, he is on his feet dancing for at least 60 of them minutes). My first audition was one of the nicest audition experiences I've had in the last decade or so. All in all, my first month in Vegas was pretty damn cool.
And then October rolled around.
Vegas has a way of offering the best while handing over the worst. It has a way of turning some shiny gem into some tarnished junk. Vegas offers glamour and glitz while doling out longing and loss. It shows you beauty all along the Boulevard while hiding the ugliness of the off-ramps. It promises Fun & Fantasy but leaves you with Regret and Reality, a vicious and blinding Reality, one that swallows entire homeward-bound planeloads of people who understand that What Happens in Vegas Doesn't Always Stay In Vegas. No, that debt goes home with them, along with the headaches, hangovers, and hard-to-remember bits. Not to say that there aren't oodles of humans having fun in this town. Hell, this is Fun City!! Except...it's also Foreclosure City and High School Dropout City and Casino-run Justice City.
But it is no longer My City. Not that it ever was. I never found my place here. In 10+ months, I haven't dropped a single dollar on a blackjack table nor stuffed a buck in a g-string nor tasted a drop of alcohol. And this city revolves around such activities. Really, the only thing here that made sense to me was the music scene. The music I experienced here was amazing, and I once again felt in-the-right in calling myself a Singer, a word I haven't used to describe myself in far too many years. The phrases "I sing" and "I am a Singer" are worlds apart, and I thank Vegas for helping my find my way from one to the other. I thank Jess for that, as she helped me rediscover my voice and my most basic need to use it. She introduced me to musicians who taught me about the business (which is not a great business to be in these days, not in this town) and let me get onstage with them to sing. And then I met this piano player who wanted to put together a duo with a girl singer, and it looked like maybe my lounge-singer dreams might take flight. Diva Las Vegas!!
But in true Vegas fashion, after months of rehearsal and hours of prep-work on my part, I got dumped by my piano player. Last week. Via email.
Yes, Vegas holds out the shiny goods then snatches 'em away once you've decided to GO FOR IT, once you've rearranged your life in order to accommodate it's needs. Alex worked round-the-clock, 7 days a week in this town, then had to spend 7 months and thousands of dollars defending himself against false arrest and trumped-up charges brought against him in a successful attempt at intimidation. We were set to move to Seattle on March 1 until I met this piano player 5 days before Moving Day, and months later (plus this 6-week, return-trip to Vegas for the sole purpose of finishing what we couldn't finish because the piano man had a last-minute, 2-month gig that he took in April), I get the blow-off because he doesn't like rehearsing and is really better off as a solo. That's Vegas: Land of the Duped, Home of the Dumped.
And so, we're outta here. But we go not with a whimper, oh no! Over the years, this town has provided much in the way of free food, free rooms, free everything. Once upon a time, Alex had big pull in Vegas. He could make a phone call to any number of casinos and get comped. And we took advantage of it in a big way. Then that arrest happened, and his juice pretty much dried up. No more rooms, few free meals. But being who he is, he's still got connections. So last night, as we wondered what to do with our last night in Vegas (we're leaving at the crack of dawn tomorrow, so tonite doesn't count), Alex made a call and got us box seats at the Pearl (inside the Palms) to see (ohmygod it's sooooo good I can hardly believe it) DURAN DURAN!! And they were AWESOME!!! 4 of the original 5 band members were onstage (with a new guitarist, a sax player, and a super-hot lady backup singer), and they put on a helluva show. John Taylor, DD's bassist, was my second childhood crush (after Rick Springfield), and that crush lasted for years. Last night, as they were playing "Planet Earth" and John was smiling into the crowd, I realized that my schoolgirl crush lives on. Alex and I were singing along to almost all of the songs (some were new to us both), and our seats were right near the stage, allowing us to see every performance detail. The songs seamlessly flowed from one to the next, Simon Le Bon's voice was pitch-perfect and clear, Roger Taylor's drumming was pounding in my chest, and Nick Rhodes (looking just as sad and sweet as ever) produced entire orchestral movements on his keyboards. The crowd was older, certainly older than the last show we saw at the Pearl (Fall Out Boy, my brother's boy band, whose crowd was 90% teenage girls), but they were rockin' out, especially during the encore, which was a medley of some of their classic hits. It was a beautiful reminder that Life Goes On, and you never know where it might take you. I mean, these guys are what, 50 years old? And they've lived some crazy lives, I'm sure. But here they were, in 2009, playing music together and clearly thrilled to be doing so. And me and my man, we were rockin' along with them, loving every second of our last night in Vegas.
And so we leave Las Vegas, not whimpering, not a la Nic Cage, but rockin' out, looking forward to the adventures ahead. This water-baby is saying goodbye to the desert and returning to the Atlantic coast. I truly have no idea what the future may hold, but I'm excited to find out. And now that this time in Vegas is at it's end, I am thankful for it. It has taught me a lot about myself and the world I live in. It brought my long-term partnership with Alex to new levels of commitment and reward. It reminded me that I cannot live without art, without being the artist I am meant to be. It brought unimagined challenges that forced me to get tough and stay empathetic (I think empathy is a good thing, no matter what those Congressmen say). Plus, I got to be here as a red state turned blue, SWEET! I wouldn't want to repeat this year, not for a million bucks. But, I have not a single regret. So I come out a winner. Now I just have to figure out how to turn it all into a one-woman show.
It's time to finish packing and load the car and GET THE HELL OUT OF THIS GODFORSAKEN DESERT!! We're on the road at sun-up, should be reaching the east coast by Thursday. First, we've got to get through Arizona and New Mexico and Texas and Oklahoma and...
And if you're still reading this, thank you. I can't tell you how much it means to me to be able to share this with you. The writing shall continue, tho I suppose the name of the blog should change. A water-baby in Jersey City? I'll work on it.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
What is a marriage?
So, it's official: Alex is my husband. And I am his wife. It's official, according to no official capacity, other than the power vested in the 2 of us. Allow me to explain...
On July 5, 1996, Alex got down on one knee in front of the reflecting pool at Boston's Christian Science Center, and he asked me to marry him. And I said yes. Now, we were kids at the time, fully aware that a wedding was a big deal, certainly too big a deal for us back then. But we were also fully aware that we wanted to spend our lives together. So we agreed to be engaged indefinitely, until we could handle/afford a wedding, allowing our engagement to show the world how committed we were to this relationship.
Fast-forward through the years, through shifting cities and careers, through unstable personal economies (and eventually, unstable global economies to match), through ups and downs and twists and turns and highs and lows galore...and we're still here, unmarried, but even more committed to this relationship. (Perhaps we two should be committed?) We've had the marriage-talk numerous times over the years, and it went from never seeming like the right time or the right conditions, to wondering, why bother? What does a marriage offer that we don't already have?
A marriage offers one thing that we don't have: an opportunity to celebrate this relationship with the many people who have been a part of our lives since before we knew each other and in the years since. A wedding! Now, Alex and I have never agreed on the wedding aspect of our marriage. Me, I want a big party! I want to be wrapped in love and good wishes from our family and friends. I want a day that brings together the various elements of our lives for the sole purpose of celebrating what we've accomplished together over the years, along with celebrating all that lies before us. Alex just wants to get married by Elvis, not tell anyone until a few days before, figuring that hardly a sole would show up. Two entirely differing desires on the wedding-front. The one thing we both agree on: we don't feel any need to sign legal documents making our union "official". After all, what could be more official than the past 13 years of struggle and sacrifice being borne out, with no legal obligations between the two of us to make things work? Truthfully, I am afraid of the legal aspects of a marriage. I don't know why, it's simply the truth. I am afraid of messing with a good thing. And I am afraid that once we are legally bound to one another, it will diminish somehow all the struggles that we will surely survive and overcome, making me wonder if we would have stayed together if we weren't somehow contractually obligated to do so? Whatever, my fears are what they are, perhaps they are in no way reasonable, but they exist. What also exists, thanks to this lovely year in Lost Wages, is a firm distrust of our legal system. The last thing I want entering into this relationship is some notion of "law".
But I hate calling Alex my BOYFRIEND!! A boyfriend is transitory. A boyfriend is of-the-moment. A boyfriend is NOT a guy who stays true for 13 years and makes huge sacrifices and loves your family and always considers you to be his top priority. Alex is not my boyfriend. He is my partner-in-crime, he is my other (somewhat better) half. He is the first one I turn to, the first one I run to, the first one I think of...always. He is no boyfriend. But what's the right word for him? "Partner" doesn't feel right, "fiance" implies an impending nuptial date. I call him "my old man", which is perfect for Meg the Blues Singer, but not appropriate most days of the week. Really, the only word I know that correlates with our level of commitment is "husband". I want to call Alex my husband! But I don't want to get married! What's to be done?
Seeing how unconventional our relationship has already been, Alex and I decided to continue with the lack of convention and get married in a way that made sense to us. See, we had been planning on doing the whole Elvis thing, for real. We decided sometime in February, as our lives were imploding around us, that we wanted to celebrate the fact that we were not only staying together, but the hard times were actually bringing us closer. And, since we were in Vegas, we decided to go ahead and get married by Elvis. For real. We were going to do it on April 7, the original date of Alex's preliminary hearing, the date which our lawyer assured us would bring the end of our legal woes. What better way to celebrate the end of this horrid chapter and the beginning of the rest of our lives than at the Viva Las Vegas Wedding Chapel? Which seemed like a good idea at the time. We even bought some mail-order wedding bands, which we figured we'd someday upgrade, but for the moment, who cares? And then, the DA asked for a two-week continuance. We certainly didn't want to get married BEFORE the end of this hell battle! 2 weeks later, another continuance. How to plan a wedding based on a justice system that expects us all to live our lives on hold until Justice is good and ready to get to work? By this time, we had already decided that we were heading to Seattle on April 28th, no matter what the judge had to say. So, the wedding got postponed. And then we went to Seattle, where the two of us were in the wedding party of our dear old pal, Zoe. And being a part of that wedding made me want it for me & Alex. Standing on the alter watching our friends exchange their vows, we had our eyes locked on each other, knowing that we were saying those vows to each other. I didn't want to get married by Elvis in Vegas, with no friends and no family to celebrate us! And when it came down to it, Alex didn't really want it either. And so, when we drove back to Vegas a month ago, we talked about what we wanted, and what it comes down to is this:
We want to call each other by the only proper terms we know: husband and wife.
We want the past 13 years to stand as proof of our love and commitment to one another.
We DON'T want to legally tie the knot to satisfy the US government in any way.
We DON'T want our marriage to be for anyone but the two of us.
So this is what we decided:
13 years after Alex asked me to marry him, 13 years to the day of my saying yes to his proposal, Alex and I exchanged rings in a private ceremony with no witnesses but the two of us, with no higher authority than our own. We both vowed to love each other NOT out of obedience or obligation but out of our inability to do otherwise. Alex read some excerpts from notes he'd saved over the years, glimpses of our past which only made more impressive the place we currently find ourselves. I said a few words and made a few promises. And then, by the power vested in us, we pronounced ourselves "Husband" and "Wife". And, since we are in Vegas, our first dance was themed accordingly: Barry Manilow's "I Can't Smile Without You" (chosen by Alex, and surprising both of us with it's length). And our second dance was a little song I had put together backing tracks for (think: karaoke) so that I could sing to him:
Time after time, I tell myself that I'm so lucky to be loving you
So lucky to be the one you run to see in the evening, when the day is through...
I only know what I know, the passing years will show
You've kept my love so young and so new
And time after time, you'll hear me say that I'm so lucky to be loving you.
And so, I have a husband. And I am a wife.
You can call us what you'd like. After all, no authority other than our own has blessed this union, nor even recognized it. And this is not to say that we will never go ahead with an actual marriage. Or at least a big party. But in the meantime, recognize that this union is far more grounded than many marriages, and that with nothing other than our love for each other and our commitment to each other, we have lived in un-wedded bliss for 13+ years. And we're looking forward to the next 13. And the 13 after that. Until we're finally old enough and done enough to live out our retirement dreams of a houseboat in Amsterdam....
When we spoke of marriage, and all the married (and divorced) couples we know, we recognized that one of the best and healthiest marriages we know of is that between our good friends, Mark & Steven. Mark & Steven began dating about the same time as Alex & myself, but they went ahead and got married in a big ceremony in upstate New York, way back in 2001. New York State did not then, and does not now, recognize gay marriage. But few relationships I know of are healthier or more committed than this one. I hope my husband and I can be as much of an inspiration to other non-legally marrieds as Mark & Steven have been to us.
Now, this Wifey needs to get some boxes packed, because one week from today, WE'RE OUTTA HERE! One week from today, the car will be packed and our asses will be getting out of Vegas and heading back to the east coast! Can't wait, can't wait, can't wait...
On July 5, 1996, Alex got down on one knee in front of the reflecting pool at Boston's Christian Science Center, and he asked me to marry him. And I said yes. Now, we were kids at the time, fully aware that a wedding was a big deal, certainly too big a deal for us back then. But we were also fully aware that we wanted to spend our lives together. So we agreed to be engaged indefinitely, until we could handle/afford a wedding, allowing our engagement to show the world how committed we were to this relationship.
Fast-forward through the years, through shifting cities and careers, through unstable personal economies (and eventually, unstable global economies to match), through ups and downs and twists and turns and highs and lows galore...and we're still here, unmarried, but even more committed to this relationship. (Perhaps we two should be committed?) We've had the marriage-talk numerous times over the years, and it went from never seeming like the right time or the right conditions, to wondering, why bother? What does a marriage offer that we don't already have?
A marriage offers one thing that we don't have: an opportunity to celebrate this relationship with the many people who have been a part of our lives since before we knew each other and in the years since. A wedding! Now, Alex and I have never agreed on the wedding aspect of our marriage. Me, I want a big party! I want to be wrapped in love and good wishes from our family and friends. I want a day that brings together the various elements of our lives for the sole purpose of celebrating what we've accomplished together over the years, along with celebrating all that lies before us. Alex just wants to get married by Elvis, not tell anyone until a few days before, figuring that hardly a sole would show up. Two entirely differing desires on the wedding-front. The one thing we both agree on: we don't feel any need to sign legal documents making our union "official". After all, what could be more official than the past 13 years of struggle and sacrifice being borne out, with no legal obligations between the two of us to make things work? Truthfully, I am afraid of the legal aspects of a marriage. I don't know why, it's simply the truth. I am afraid of messing with a good thing. And I am afraid that once we are legally bound to one another, it will diminish somehow all the struggles that we will surely survive and overcome, making me wonder if we would have stayed together if we weren't somehow contractually obligated to do so? Whatever, my fears are what they are, perhaps they are in no way reasonable, but they exist. What also exists, thanks to this lovely year in Lost Wages, is a firm distrust of our legal system. The last thing I want entering into this relationship is some notion of "law".
But I hate calling Alex my BOYFRIEND!! A boyfriend is transitory. A boyfriend is of-the-moment. A boyfriend is NOT a guy who stays true for 13 years and makes huge sacrifices and loves your family and always considers you to be his top priority. Alex is not my boyfriend. He is my partner-in-crime, he is my other (somewhat better) half. He is the first one I turn to, the first one I run to, the first one I think of...always. He is no boyfriend. But what's the right word for him? "Partner" doesn't feel right, "fiance" implies an impending nuptial date. I call him "my old man", which is perfect for Meg the Blues Singer, but not appropriate most days of the week. Really, the only word I know that correlates with our level of commitment is "husband". I want to call Alex my husband! But I don't want to get married! What's to be done?
Seeing how unconventional our relationship has already been, Alex and I decided to continue with the lack of convention and get married in a way that made sense to us. See, we had been planning on doing the whole Elvis thing, for real. We decided sometime in February, as our lives were imploding around us, that we wanted to celebrate the fact that we were not only staying together, but the hard times were actually bringing us closer. And, since we were in Vegas, we decided to go ahead and get married by Elvis. For real. We were going to do it on April 7, the original date of Alex's preliminary hearing, the date which our lawyer assured us would bring the end of our legal woes. What better way to celebrate the end of this horrid chapter and the beginning of the rest of our lives than at the Viva Las Vegas Wedding Chapel? Which seemed like a good idea at the time. We even bought some mail-order wedding bands, which we figured we'd someday upgrade, but for the moment, who cares? And then, the DA asked for a two-week continuance. We certainly didn't want to get married BEFORE the end of this hell battle! 2 weeks later, another continuance. How to plan a wedding based on a justice system that expects us all to live our lives on hold until Justice is good and ready to get to work? By this time, we had already decided that we were heading to Seattle on April 28th, no matter what the judge had to say. So, the wedding got postponed. And then we went to Seattle, where the two of us were in the wedding party of our dear old pal, Zoe. And being a part of that wedding made me want it for me & Alex. Standing on the alter watching our friends exchange their vows, we had our eyes locked on each other, knowing that we were saying those vows to each other. I didn't want to get married by Elvis in Vegas, with no friends and no family to celebrate us! And when it came down to it, Alex didn't really want it either. And so, when we drove back to Vegas a month ago, we talked about what we wanted, and what it comes down to is this:
We want to call each other by the only proper terms we know: husband and wife.
We want the past 13 years to stand as proof of our love and commitment to one another.
We DON'T want to legally tie the knot to satisfy the US government in any way.
We DON'T want our marriage to be for anyone but the two of us.
So this is what we decided:
13 years after Alex asked me to marry him, 13 years to the day of my saying yes to his proposal, Alex and I exchanged rings in a private ceremony with no witnesses but the two of us, with no higher authority than our own. We both vowed to love each other NOT out of obedience or obligation but out of our inability to do otherwise. Alex read some excerpts from notes he'd saved over the years, glimpses of our past which only made more impressive the place we currently find ourselves. I said a few words and made a few promises. And then, by the power vested in us, we pronounced ourselves "Husband" and "Wife". And, since we are in Vegas, our first dance was themed accordingly: Barry Manilow's "I Can't Smile Without You" (chosen by Alex, and surprising both of us with it's length). And our second dance was a little song I had put together backing tracks for (think: karaoke) so that I could sing to him:
Time after time, I tell myself that I'm so lucky to be loving you
So lucky to be the one you run to see in the evening, when the day is through...
I only know what I know, the passing years will show
You've kept my love so young and so new
And time after time, you'll hear me say that I'm so lucky to be loving you.
And so, I have a husband. And I am a wife.
You can call us what you'd like. After all, no authority other than our own has blessed this union, nor even recognized it. And this is not to say that we will never go ahead with an actual marriage. Or at least a big party. But in the meantime, recognize that this union is far more grounded than many marriages, and that with nothing other than our love for each other and our commitment to each other, we have lived in un-wedded bliss for 13+ years. And we're looking forward to the next 13. And the 13 after that. Until we're finally old enough and done enough to live out our retirement dreams of a houseboat in Amsterdam....
When we spoke of marriage, and all the married (and divorced) couples we know, we recognized that one of the best and healthiest marriages we know of is that between our good friends, Mark & Steven. Mark & Steven began dating about the same time as Alex & myself, but they went ahead and got married in a big ceremony in upstate New York, way back in 2001. New York State did not then, and does not now, recognize gay marriage. But few relationships I know of are healthier or more committed than this one. I hope my husband and I can be as much of an inspiration to other non-legally marrieds as Mark & Steven have been to us.
Now, this Wifey needs to get some boxes packed, because one week from today, WE'RE OUTTA HERE! One week from today, the car will be packed and our asses will be getting out of Vegas and heading back to the east coast! Can't wait, can't wait, can't wait...
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Sayonara, Seattle
I am writing this on my last day in Seattle. Maybe not, most likely not, my last day in Seattle EVER. But tomorrow, the Buick will be packed up with whatever stuff it brought here a month ago, and Alex and She-ra and I shall begin the long drive south to the hot hot desert. Hot, indeed: It was 122 degrees in Vegas last week. 122 moisture-free degrees. Oh man, oh man, oh man…
I don’t want to leave Seattle. Not even a little bit. This place is magical when the sun is out, and wow, is the sun out! The sun has been for most of this month, and I have taken full advantage of it. I have taken full advantage of being in a place where I can walk and bike and hike and do it all with friends! Take last week, for example: On Saturday, I shared fantastic tapas with my boys while my lady mixed mojitos behind the bar, with Judd Hirsch munching away at a table behind us. Sunday brought me and a college buddy to a dirty-crunchy-hippie music festival, where we listened to bagpipes and rockabilly and stoners singing for their supper. Monday took me and my crew across Puget Sound to a friend’s organic farm, where we barbecued and walked in the forest and sat on the porch watching the world go by. Tuesday I spent walking through Seattle to a waterfront sculpture park, where a girlfriend and I sat at the intersection of Love & Loss, talking about the journeys that brought us there. That night, it was karaoke with more college buddies, where I brought the house down singing “The Man That Got Away” in my best drunk Judy (Garland, that is). Wednesday, I hiked a favorite trail with my best friend and tossed bits of bagels to the birds at the summit. On Thursday, I was back across the water to build chicken coops on yet another organic farm, this one complete with 29 chickens, 12 baby turkeys and a very pregnant she-goat and her very bully Billy, then it was back to Seattle to celebrate my girl’s 24th (again) birthday. And yesterday, me and my lady had a picnic on a West Seattle beach, looking out at the still-snowy Olympic mountains while turning lobster-red in the mid-day sun, wondering what life would be like if this was the place where our families lived, if this was the place we’d always called Home. That was how I spent this last week in Seattle. Doesn’t it sound magical? Doesn’t it make you wonder why the hell I’m leaving this place? It certainly makes me pause and consider the what-ifs. What if I stayed…?
But I won’t stay. Because I’m not ready yet. For a long time, Seattle has been the place that I want to return to after I’m done doing all the things I want to do before I settle down. And I’m not there yet. I’m not done with New York. I’m not done with my Big City Dreams. I don’t really know what I’m looking for out there, but I know I haven’t found it, and I know that I will regret it if I stop looking. I have lived this long with no regrets, and I refuse to take the easy road now, now when I am on the verge of something, something big and beautiful, I don’t know what that something is, but I know that it’s out there, somewhere, and I know that I need to struggle in order to find it, I know that I need to throw myself in to hardship before I can have a little easy, and Seattle is easy, Seattle is peaceful, Seattle is a place for me to catch my breath and enjoy the good life. I’ve been gone for 6 years, and this place still loves me. And when I’m ready for it, it will welcome me back gladly. It will throw its arms open and embrace me and all that I am and all that I am not. But I’m not ready for it. I need to go back to New York, a city that doesn’t have a clue who I am, even though I lived there for 5 years. I need to go back to that New York energy, that New York pace, that New York ambition, I need to get my ass kicked some more and see if I can start kicking ass back, I need to be a Nobody and do my best to become a Somebody. And if it doesn’t happen, I need to know that I tried, I need to know that I gave it everything I’ve got so that if I come back to Seattle, it will not be with my tail between my legs but with battle wounds that I am proud to call my own, scars that will heal but will always remind me that I am a warrior and that I can survive anything. I need to leave Seattle because I need to finish New York. But first, oh man oh man oh man, first I need to go back to Vegas. ARGH!!
I am dreading the return trip for many obvious reasons, but there are some bright and shiny joys waiting in the desert for me. Namely, there are Jess and Vina, my voice teacher and my mailman, both of whom I am lucky to call my friends. And of course, there’s the whole purpose of my return, the whole point of leaving Seattle NOW instead of 2 months from now when I’ve got a place to live back east: There’s the piano man with whom I’m gonna rehearse and hopefully book some jobs, some non-Vegas jobs, some I-get-to-be-a-lounge-singer-and-live-out-some-of-my-dreams type o’ jobs. I have to remind myself that this return to the desert is entirely MY doing. Alex has no purpose in being there, other than being with me. He would be glad to never set foot in that town again, with its crooked cops and its more crooked casinos. Alex is going to Vegas for me. Isn’t it ironic? And our return will be brief, a month and a half of hiding from the sun and drinking water by the gallon. After a month and a half, the Buick will get packed up once again, and almost a year after saying goodbye, we will make that cross-country return to New York City and all the family and friends who are waiting for us. And from there, who knows? I can’t even begin to imagine. All I know is that tomorrow, it’s Sayonara Seattle. And my heart is breaking. And I wish I could just squeeze this country together until its two oceans almost meet, so that my two hometowns could be side-by-side. Or, I wish I could just be satisfied with what I’ve got right here where I am.
There’s an Ani DiFranco song that sums up Seattle for me. It’s appropriately entitled “Grey”, appropriate because this place is nothing but grey for 8 months a year (I must remind myself). The chorus goes like this:
What kind of paradise am I looking for?
I’ve got everything I want, but still I want more.
Maybe some tiny, shiny key will wash up on the shore…
I’m not ready to say goodbye, but I’m not ready to stay. So, I will make the choice to remain unsettled. I will make the choice to go seeking out satisfaction in hard-to-satisfy places. I will make the choice to take the hard road and see where it goes. And someday, maybe it will bring me back here. Someday, when I’ll be ready.
I don’t want to leave Seattle. Not even a little bit. This place is magical when the sun is out, and wow, is the sun out! The sun has been for most of this month, and I have taken full advantage of it. I have taken full advantage of being in a place where I can walk and bike and hike and do it all with friends! Take last week, for example: On Saturday, I shared fantastic tapas with my boys while my lady mixed mojitos behind the bar, with Judd Hirsch munching away at a table behind us. Sunday brought me and a college buddy to a dirty-crunchy-hippie music festival, where we listened to bagpipes and rockabilly and stoners singing for their supper. Monday took me and my crew across Puget Sound to a friend’s organic farm, where we barbecued and walked in the forest and sat on the porch watching the world go by. Tuesday I spent walking through Seattle to a waterfront sculpture park, where a girlfriend and I sat at the intersection of Love & Loss, talking about the journeys that brought us there. That night, it was karaoke with more college buddies, where I brought the house down singing “The Man That Got Away” in my best drunk Judy (Garland, that is). Wednesday, I hiked a favorite trail with my best friend and tossed bits of bagels to the birds at the summit. On Thursday, I was back across the water to build chicken coops on yet another organic farm, this one complete with 29 chickens, 12 baby turkeys and a very pregnant she-goat and her very bully Billy, then it was back to Seattle to celebrate my girl’s 24th (again) birthday. And yesterday, me and my lady had a picnic on a West Seattle beach, looking out at the still-snowy Olympic mountains while turning lobster-red in the mid-day sun, wondering what life would be like if this was the place where our families lived, if this was the place we’d always called Home. That was how I spent this last week in Seattle. Doesn’t it sound magical? Doesn’t it make you wonder why the hell I’m leaving this place? It certainly makes me pause and consider the what-ifs. What if I stayed…?
But I won’t stay. Because I’m not ready yet. For a long time, Seattle has been the place that I want to return to after I’m done doing all the things I want to do before I settle down. And I’m not there yet. I’m not done with New York. I’m not done with my Big City Dreams. I don’t really know what I’m looking for out there, but I know I haven’t found it, and I know that I will regret it if I stop looking. I have lived this long with no regrets, and I refuse to take the easy road now, now when I am on the verge of something, something big and beautiful, I don’t know what that something is, but I know that it’s out there, somewhere, and I know that I need to struggle in order to find it, I know that I need to throw myself in to hardship before I can have a little easy, and Seattle is easy, Seattle is peaceful, Seattle is a place for me to catch my breath and enjoy the good life. I’ve been gone for 6 years, and this place still loves me. And when I’m ready for it, it will welcome me back gladly. It will throw its arms open and embrace me and all that I am and all that I am not. But I’m not ready for it. I need to go back to New York, a city that doesn’t have a clue who I am, even though I lived there for 5 years. I need to go back to that New York energy, that New York pace, that New York ambition, I need to get my ass kicked some more and see if I can start kicking ass back, I need to be a Nobody and do my best to become a Somebody. And if it doesn’t happen, I need to know that I tried, I need to know that I gave it everything I’ve got so that if I come back to Seattle, it will not be with my tail between my legs but with battle wounds that I am proud to call my own, scars that will heal but will always remind me that I am a warrior and that I can survive anything. I need to leave Seattle because I need to finish New York. But first, oh man oh man oh man, first I need to go back to Vegas. ARGH!!
I am dreading the return trip for many obvious reasons, but there are some bright and shiny joys waiting in the desert for me. Namely, there are Jess and Vina, my voice teacher and my mailman, both of whom I am lucky to call my friends. And of course, there’s the whole purpose of my return, the whole point of leaving Seattle NOW instead of 2 months from now when I’ve got a place to live back east: There’s the piano man with whom I’m gonna rehearse and hopefully book some jobs, some non-Vegas jobs, some I-get-to-be-a-lounge-singer-and-live-out-some-of-my-dreams type o’ jobs. I have to remind myself that this return to the desert is entirely MY doing. Alex has no purpose in being there, other than being with me. He would be glad to never set foot in that town again, with its crooked cops and its more crooked casinos. Alex is going to Vegas for me. Isn’t it ironic? And our return will be brief, a month and a half of hiding from the sun and drinking water by the gallon. After a month and a half, the Buick will get packed up once again, and almost a year after saying goodbye, we will make that cross-country return to New York City and all the family and friends who are waiting for us. And from there, who knows? I can’t even begin to imagine. All I know is that tomorrow, it’s Sayonara Seattle. And my heart is breaking. And I wish I could just squeeze this country together until its two oceans almost meet, so that my two hometowns could be side-by-side. Or, I wish I could just be satisfied with what I’ve got right here where I am.
There’s an Ani DiFranco song that sums up Seattle for me. It’s appropriately entitled “Grey”, appropriate because this place is nothing but grey for 8 months a year (I must remind myself). The chorus goes like this:
What kind of paradise am I looking for?
I’ve got everything I want, but still I want more.
Maybe some tiny, shiny key will wash up on the shore…
I’m not ready to say goodbye, but I’m not ready to stay. So, I will make the choice to remain unsettled. I will make the choice to go seeking out satisfaction in hard-to-satisfy places. I will make the choice to take the hard road and see where it goes. And someday, maybe it will bring me back here. Someday, when I’ll be ready.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
I Feel Pretty
I love Seattle, for so many reasons, in so many ways. This has always been a good city for me. I first came here as an escape from a Philadelphia butcher shop, and while it took time to for this place to feel comfortable to me, it immediately felt better than where I was coming from. Seattle was my Adult starting grounds: it was my first paid acting job, my first hike in the mountains, my first review in the paper, my first time living clean and sober. I made wonderful friends here, was a working actor with good notice from the press, and generally lived a good life. So why did I leave?
I left because there was too much else I wanted to do, and Seattle became far too comfortable. I was happy but not satisfied, and I knew that if I didn’t leave, I would always wonder, What if…
And now, it’s been 6 years since I called Seattle home. I’ve been able to make it back for a few visits, and the longer I’ve been gone, the more I’ve come to love this place. And one of the things I love the most: in this town, I’m a total hottie.
I don’t consider myself to be beautiful. I’m attractive, certainly, and I clean up pretty darned good. But I am not the kind of beauty that turns heads when I enter a room. Rather, mine is a kind of beauty that sneaks up on a person. Mine is a kind of beauty that grows as one grows to know me. Like, I might know a person for months, and my beauty is never considered; then all of a sudden, in the middle of a conversation, I change and morph in that person’s eyes and my beauty is discovered. And this is partly due to the fact that I have lived in places flooded with beauty. Different kinds of beauty for different kinds of places. For example, New York is a city of international and exotic beauty. Everyday in that city of skyscrapers, I would be struck blind by the beauty of 6-foot women and 6-foot men. There’s an easiness about beauty there; it doesn’t require much makeup or tanning salons or bleached blonde hair. Rather, it is a beauty that comes from confidence and world-travel and intellectualism. It’s a beauty that matches the marvels of Manhattan. In New York, I am short and average-looking, with really cool hair. In Los Angeles, beauty is judged quite differently. Its beauty is a combination of healthy living and plastic surgery. The beauty of the mountains and the ocean seep into one’s skin, but the ideals of The Industry seep into one’s mindset, so that in addition to an organic diet and a hardcore fitness routine, much time and energy is put into painting on the proper appearance. It’s naturalism enhanced by technology, and there are strict standards for what beauty is allowed to be. In LA, I am short and chubby and underdone, with really cool hair. And then there’s Vegas. Vegas is LA taken to extremes. There’s nothing natural about Vegas, and natural beauty is unrecognized as beautiful. Vegas is a city of strippers, and that is what beauty boils down to. It’s about tiny waists and huge boobs, it’s about tons of makeup and huge hair, it’s about teeny bikinis and 4-inch heels. Vegas is porn-star beauty, it’s the Fantasyland of Beauty, it’s about pleasing the senses immediately and leaving before the sun rises, exposing the truth underneath the false lashes and silicone implants. In Vegas, I am unnoticed in everyway, except that I am female and therefore cannot help but be objectified. But beautiful, I am not. Even though I’ve got really cool hair.
And then we come to Seattle. Seattle is a contradiction of beauty. The city itself is the most beautiful place I’ve ever lived. It is also the ugliest. When the sun comes out and exposes the mountains and the water and the bluest sky imaginable, this place is like Heaven on Earth. But the sun comes out for only a few months a year. Most of the time, this city is grey. Most of the time, the sky is a flat grey ceiling that hangs so low as to make a girl feel claustrophobic. Most of the time, it is cold and rainy and colorless. And that cannot help but sink into the people here. There’s a greyness about everything here, and even when the sun comes out and fills the world with colors unimaginable, the grey has seeped deep into the skin and remains long into August. And this is a city that respects what is natural, this is a city of granola and yoga and letting your hair grow: bearded boys and hairy-pitted girls are everywhere. This is the city that gave birth to the Grunge scene, and grunge is something this place does well. Makeup on women is not the norm, nor are outfits that show skin. It is a city of naturalism, almost to a fault. It is a city where casual is the dress code. And it is a city where I am beautiful. It is a city where I turn heads. It is a city where men and women flirt with me and dance with me and ask if I need a ride home. I didn’t notice this much when I lived here, perhaps because I was as grey as any other inhabitant. But since I’ve left and come here to visit, it has been clear: In Seattle, I’m a total hottie. And it’s funny, because while makeup is never required here, I wear makeup. Not everyday, not if I’m taking a bike ride or running errands or going to a friend’s place for dinner. But when I’m going out to a restaurant or seeing a show or meeting friends in public, there I am with my lipstick and mascara and blushed-up cheeks. In Vegas, I never wore makeup. I never wanted to be noticed. But here, I am happy, and I feel good about myself, and so I put a little effort into my beauty routine, effort which is in no way expected, effort which would turn off many of the dirty-crunchy-hippie types who thrive here. This doesn’t bother me in the least, because I know that in Seattle, I am beautiful. In part, it is because I am happy. In part, it is because I’m coming from the desert and have no grey in my skin tone. In part, it is because I show more skin than the average inhabitant and therefore shake some life into some people. (Seattle is a very liberal town, while also being quite conservative: cleavage is a no-no, though drag queens are celebrities.) Whatever the reasons, I like it. I like feeling pretty. I like feeling noticed. I like feeling as though I’m not a disappointment when I walk into a room. Call me egotistical, and I’ll agree with you. But understand that beauty is rarely a goal for me. I can count on one hand how often I shave my legs each year; I often don’t wear makeup because “I have to wear makeup for my job, so why should I have to wear it when I’m not working?” My wardrobe expands only at Christmas when family members gift me with new clothes. But that’s the thing about Seattle: I am beautiful as is. I don’t need the makeup or the miniskirt to turn heads (I just like the added affect). In Seattle, I’m a total hottie. And I love this town.
So, why am I leaving again?
I left because there was too much else I wanted to do, and Seattle became far too comfortable. I was happy but not satisfied, and I knew that if I didn’t leave, I would always wonder, What if…
And now, it’s been 6 years since I called Seattle home. I’ve been able to make it back for a few visits, and the longer I’ve been gone, the more I’ve come to love this place. And one of the things I love the most: in this town, I’m a total hottie.
I don’t consider myself to be beautiful. I’m attractive, certainly, and I clean up pretty darned good. But I am not the kind of beauty that turns heads when I enter a room. Rather, mine is a kind of beauty that sneaks up on a person. Mine is a kind of beauty that grows as one grows to know me. Like, I might know a person for months, and my beauty is never considered; then all of a sudden, in the middle of a conversation, I change and morph in that person’s eyes and my beauty is discovered. And this is partly due to the fact that I have lived in places flooded with beauty. Different kinds of beauty for different kinds of places. For example, New York is a city of international and exotic beauty. Everyday in that city of skyscrapers, I would be struck blind by the beauty of 6-foot women and 6-foot men. There’s an easiness about beauty there; it doesn’t require much makeup or tanning salons or bleached blonde hair. Rather, it is a beauty that comes from confidence and world-travel and intellectualism. It’s a beauty that matches the marvels of Manhattan. In New York, I am short and average-looking, with really cool hair. In Los Angeles, beauty is judged quite differently. Its beauty is a combination of healthy living and plastic surgery. The beauty of the mountains and the ocean seep into one’s skin, but the ideals of The Industry seep into one’s mindset, so that in addition to an organic diet and a hardcore fitness routine, much time and energy is put into painting on the proper appearance. It’s naturalism enhanced by technology, and there are strict standards for what beauty is allowed to be. In LA, I am short and chubby and underdone, with really cool hair. And then there’s Vegas. Vegas is LA taken to extremes. There’s nothing natural about Vegas, and natural beauty is unrecognized as beautiful. Vegas is a city of strippers, and that is what beauty boils down to. It’s about tiny waists and huge boobs, it’s about tons of makeup and huge hair, it’s about teeny bikinis and 4-inch heels. Vegas is porn-star beauty, it’s the Fantasyland of Beauty, it’s about pleasing the senses immediately and leaving before the sun rises, exposing the truth underneath the false lashes and silicone implants. In Vegas, I am unnoticed in everyway, except that I am female and therefore cannot help but be objectified. But beautiful, I am not. Even though I’ve got really cool hair.
And then we come to Seattle. Seattle is a contradiction of beauty. The city itself is the most beautiful place I’ve ever lived. It is also the ugliest. When the sun comes out and exposes the mountains and the water and the bluest sky imaginable, this place is like Heaven on Earth. But the sun comes out for only a few months a year. Most of the time, this city is grey. Most of the time, the sky is a flat grey ceiling that hangs so low as to make a girl feel claustrophobic. Most of the time, it is cold and rainy and colorless. And that cannot help but sink into the people here. There’s a greyness about everything here, and even when the sun comes out and fills the world with colors unimaginable, the grey has seeped deep into the skin and remains long into August. And this is a city that respects what is natural, this is a city of granola and yoga and letting your hair grow: bearded boys and hairy-pitted girls are everywhere. This is the city that gave birth to the Grunge scene, and grunge is something this place does well. Makeup on women is not the norm, nor are outfits that show skin. It is a city of naturalism, almost to a fault. It is a city where casual is the dress code. And it is a city where I am beautiful. It is a city where I turn heads. It is a city where men and women flirt with me and dance with me and ask if I need a ride home. I didn’t notice this much when I lived here, perhaps because I was as grey as any other inhabitant. But since I’ve left and come here to visit, it has been clear: In Seattle, I’m a total hottie. And it’s funny, because while makeup is never required here, I wear makeup. Not everyday, not if I’m taking a bike ride or running errands or going to a friend’s place for dinner. But when I’m going out to a restaurant or seeing a show or meeting friends in public, there I am with my lipstick and mascara and blushed-up cheeks. In Vegas, I never wore makeup. I never wanted to be noticed. But here, I am happy, and I feel good about myself, and so I put a little effort into my beauty routine, effort which is in no way expected, effort which would turn off many of the dirty-crunchy-hippie types who thrive here. This doesn’t bother me in the least, because I know that in Seattle, I am beautiful. In part, it is because I am happy. In part, it is because I’m coming from the desert and have no grey in my skin tone. In part, it is because I show more skin than the average inhabitant and therefore shake some life into some people. (Seattle is a very liberal town, while also being quite conservative: cleavage is a no-no, though drag queens are celebrities.) Whatever the reasons, I like it. I like feeling pretty. I like feeling noticed. I like feeling as though I’m not a disappointment when I walk into a room. Call me egotistical, and I’ll agree with you. But understand that beauty is rarely a goal for me. I can count on one hand how often I shave my legs each year; I often don’t wear makeup because “I have to wear makeup for my job, so why should I have to wear it when I’m not working?” My wardrobe expands only at Christmas when family members gift me with new clothes. But that’s the thing about Seattle: I am beautiful as is. I don’t need the makeup or the miniskirt to turn heads (I just like the added affect). In Seattle, I’m a total hottie. And I love this town.
So, why am I leaving again?
Monday, May 11, 2009
Always a Bridesmaid
On Saturday, I marched down the aisle in one of my best friends’ weddings. This year, I will march down a total of three aisles in three very different weddings, all of them to celebrate the union of two people who hadn’t even met by the time Alex and I were shacking up in our 3rd or 5th or 7th apartment in our 3rd or 5th or 7th home-base city. All of these weddings, I am in support of. All of these marriages, I have the greatest confidence in. All of these couples, I am terrifically happy for. Yet none of them are for me.
On Saturday, I watched Zoe Fitzgerald become Zoe Cauley. It seemed, indeed, to be the happiest day of her life. And I’ve known her for many days. I met Zoe the same day I met Alex, way back in 1993, in the broken-down building known as the Charlesgate in Boston’s Back Bay. It was the first day of Freshman orientation for Emerson College, and Zoe was my roommate, along with Molly and a host of mice and cockroaches who lived in the walls and vacationed in our bags and shoes and garbage cans. Destiny brought Zoe into my life; hormones were responsible for Alex’s entry. On that first day of a new life in a new city, I was getting to know these two girls who would be seeing me naked for the next 9 months, this Zoe from Manhattan who was bashful as could be, and this Molly from Maine who papered the walls in Motley Crue. We three were making nice and skirting around the issues of cohabitation which we would spend the next 9 months trying to balance (what with Molly’s sorority girls and me & Zoe’s smoking boys a fixture in room 309), when suddenly there entered into our room 2 boys on a mission. The one was clearly the leader: “Hi, I’m Alex, and this is my roommate, Jim. We’re walking around the dorm trying to meet hot girls. How you doin’?” We three hot girls were immediately of one mind: IN YOUR DREAMS! Who did this guy think he was, with his slicked-back hair and his South Jersey accent? I had just escaped Jersey, no WAY was I gonna move to New England just to hook up with some guido-wannabe with too much confidence and not enough fashion sense! When Alex and Jim (who was dressed head-to-toe in Miller Light gear, and who managed no words but looked at the three of us as though we were a mirage) finally took their leave, we three girls laughed and wondered if this was what college was all about. It was. But on that day, we could not have dreamed that Alex would soon become a best friend to all of us, and we could not have dreamed that Zoe and I would become The Little Debbies, the two girls surrounded by a whole flock of boys who were our buddies, who perhaps fell in love with the both of us at one time or another, but who always saw us as a unit, as the two girls who could speak a boy’s language and always be one of the guys without ever losing our femininity. On that day, I could not have dreamed that Zoe would become like a sister to me, that she and I would grow so close as to no longer need language to communicate, we needed only a look or a touch or even a thought to tell each other what we were feeling at any given moment. I could not have dreamed that one day, I would find myself placed on the opposite side of a ballroom from Zoe, in a 15th century castle in a tiny Dutch town, that I would be blindfolded and spun in circles and then released with the goal of finding my girl across the way, my girl who was also blindfolded and spun in circles, my girl who was seeking me out as I was seeking her, in an exercise that we were the first to attempt on that day, in that class, in that grand room that was so silent I could hear nothing but my breath and my heartbeat and my feet sliding over the polished hardwood floors, I could not have dreamed that this exercise in apparent futility would take less than a minute for the two of us to complete, as we slowly and silently stepped one foot then the other towards that place that felt like home, towards that energy that called through the darkness and the emptiness, towards the safety and comfort and beauty that we found in each other, until we heard “STOP” and were told to stand still and remove the blindfolds, and there she was, not two inches in front of me, that bashful Manhattanite who was never bashful around me, that lovely girl with whom boys fell madly in love within minutes of knowing her, that miracle of a girl who was mine as no one had been mine before.
Now, it’s hard to have a friendship so close, so intense, so other-worldly, and not have it get confused. There was an element of ownership to our friendship, and we didn’t like to have to share each other, which made things tough, as we were pretty freaking cute, us Debbies, and we both had our admirers, and each of us was longing for love, the only kind of love that we couldn’t provide for each other. And who would have guessed that I would find that love in that guy from South Jersey, that over-confident dude who smoked too many Marlboro’s and had the fashion sense of a homeless man. Who would have guessed that within a month of knowing each other, Zoe and Alex and I would become a trio of sorts, the two Little Debbies and their favorite bad-behavior boy. Alex was the boy whom we would turn to first, the boy who always found a way of making everything seem like no-big-deal and made us laugh in the face of overdue papers and curious love affairs. Alex was never the guy I imagined falling in love with, which is probably the only way it could have happened. And it did. And on July 5th, 1996, Alex asked me to marry him. And I said yes.
Fast-forward to May 9th, 2009. There we were, Alex and I, in the wedding party of our Little Debbie and her Prince Charming, whom Alex brought into Zoe’s life way back in the Fall of 1999. Zoe Fitzgerald, that bashful Manhattanite, was now ready to say her I Do’s to William Cauley, a man so opposite her in so many ways as to be her most perfect companion. Her bashfulness was in contrast to his outgoing nature, her softness a counterpoint to his brass. And in him, she found the home she had been seeking for years. His love for her was so complete, so intense as to have been overwhelming at times to those of us who had watched Zoe try to find her voice in a crowd; his love was so powerful that it made us want to protect her, to try to find the gentleness that we felt she needed. But it turns out that his love was exactly what she needed in order to find her voice, as was never clearer than when she said her vows on that altar with more confidence than I had ever known from her. There we stood, Alex and I, along with our lady Caroline, who moved in with me and Zoe in our Chinatown flat back in ’96, Caroline who became Zoe’s roommate after Alex became mine, Caroline who has lived all over the world and yet has always managed to remain in my heart as My Lady. I watched her try to hold back her tears as Our Girl became a Wife, knowing all of the history that has passed between us three ladies, from the time we first met in that Dutch castle before the floods moved us to that German boys’ camp, to the time Caro and I drove cross-country in order to make it in time to a performance of one of Zoe’s plays. I watched her smile as Zoe’s voice rang out with her I Do’s and Forever Is Today’s, and right beside Caroline stood Alex, whose eyes rarely left me during that ceremony. I looked into his eyes as the vows of our friends were spoken, knowing that we were speaking them to each other, knowing that we have journeyed to Heaven and Hell and lots of places in between and have always managed to come out of it together. Together, forever. That is our plan. That has been the plan since that July 5th evening almost 13 years ago, when Alex got down on one knee in front of the Christian Science Center reflecting pool and asked me to be his wife. And I said yes. And on Saturday, we walked down the aisle to help our friends celebrate their love and their commitment to Forever, knowing that commitment is a bitch and Forever is an eternity and Love is a 4-letter word, and knowing that it is the most beautiful pain-in-the-ass imaginable. And I knew that Alex and I were both thinking, We should get married. Why not? We should have our friends and our families celebrate our love and our commitment and our past/present/future together. Why not? We should be able to call each other something more significant than “My boyfriend/girlfriend” or “my partner” or “the guy I’m living in sin with”. Why not?
Yet here I am, always a bridesmaid, never a bride, and it’s entirely by choice. What am I afraid of? Or what am I waiting for? Or why should I care? I mean, it’s not like Alex and I need to prove anything to anyone. We’ve survived far more than any of these couples saying their I Do’s this year, and we’ve stayed together without any legal or societal pressures to do so. We have proven our commitment again and again, so what’s the point of getting married? That is generally the way our few scattered discussions of marriage have ended. Except…
I never would have imagined back in 1993 that I would be a bridesmaid at the wedding of that Bashful Manhattanite. And I never would have imagined that I would look across the aisle at that South Jersey boy, whom I’ve loved since long before I finally told him so, with a desire to be the ones speaking those words. But here I am. And yes I was. And maybe we will. Someday. But for now, I will continue on to the next march down the aisle, this time at the wedding of my brother and the love of his life, and from there down the next aisle to celebrate my friend and the guy that almost let her get away. Perhaps someday, these people will return the favor and walk down an aisle for me. But for now, I am content to be Always a Bridesmaid, Never a Bride.
On Saturday, I watched Zoe Fitzgerald become Zoe Cauley. It seemed, indeed, to be the happiest day of her life. And I’ve known her for many days. I met Zoe the same day I met Alex, way back in 1993, in the broken-down building known as the Charlesgate in Boston’s Back Bay. It was the first day of Freshman orientation for Emerson College, and Zoe was my roommate, along with Molly and a host of mice and cockroaches who lived in the walls and vacationed in our bags and shoes and garbage cans. Destiny brought Zoe into my life; hormones were responsible for Alex’s entry. On that first day of a new life in a new city, I was getting to know these two girls who would be seeing me naked for the next 9 months, this Zoe from Manhattan who was bashful as could be, and this Molly from Maine who papered the walls in Motley Crue. We three were making nice and skirting around the issues of cohabitation which we would spend the next 9 months trying to balance (what with Molly’s sorority girls and me & Zoe’s smoking boys a fixture in room 309), when suddenly there entered into our room 2 boys on a mission. The one was clearly the leader: “Hi, I’m Alex, and this is my roommate, Jim. We’re walking around the dorm trying to meet hot girls. How you doin’?” We three hot girls were immediately of one mind: IN YOUR DREAMS! Who did this guy think he was, with his slicked-back hair and his South Jersey accent? I had just escaped Jersey, no WAY was I gonna move to New England just to hook up with some guido-wannabe with too much confidence and not enough fashion sense! When Alex and Jim (who was dressed head-to-toe in Miller Light gear, and who managed no words but looked at the three of us as though we were a mirage) finally took their leave, we three girls laughed and wondered if this was what college was all about. It was. But on that day, we could not have dreamed that Alex would soon become a best friend to all of us, and we could not have dreamed that Zoe and I would become The Little Debbies, the two girls surrounded by a whole flock of boys who were our buddies, who perhaps fell in love with the both of us at one time or another, but who always saw us as a unit, as the two girls who could speak a boy’s language and always be one of the guys without ever losing our femininity. On that day, I could not have dreamed that Zoe would become like a sister to me, that she and I would grow so close as to no longer need language to communicate, we needed only a look or a touch or even a thought to tell each other what we were feeling at any given moment. I could not have dreamed that one day, I would find myself placed on the opposite side of a ballroom from Zoe, in a 15th century castle in a tiny Dutch town, that I would be blindfolded and spun in circles and then released with the goal of finding my girl across the way, my girl who was also blindfolded and spun in circles, my girl who was seeking me out as I was seeking her, in an exercise that we were the first to attempt on that day, in that class, in that grand room that was so silent I could hear nothing but my breath and my heartbeat and my feet sliding over the polished hardwood floors, I could not have dreamed that this exercise in apparent futility would take less than a minute for the two of us to complete, as we slowly and silently stepped one foot then the other towards that place that felt like home, towards that energy that called through the darkness and the emptiness, towards the safety and comfort and beauty that we found in each other, until we heard “STOP” and were told to stand still and remove the blindfolds, and there she was, not two inches in front of me, that bashful Manhattanite who was never bashful around me, that lovely girl with whom boys fell madly in love within minutes of knowing her, that miracle of a girl who was mine as no one had been mine before.
Now, it’s hard to have a friendship so close, so intense, so other-worldly, and not have it get confused. There was an element of ownership to our friendship, and we didn’t like to have to share each other, which made things tough, as we were pretty freaking cute, us Debbies, and we both had our admirers, and each of us was longing for love, the only kind of love that we couldn’t provide for each other. And who would have guessed that I would find that love in that guy from South Jersey, that over-confident dude who smoked too many Marlboro’s and had the fashion sense of a homeless man. Who would have guessed that within a month of knowing each other, Zoe and Alex and I would become a trio of sorts, the two Little Debbies and their favorite bad-behavior boy. Alex was the boy whom we would turn to first, the boy who always found a way of making everything seem like no-big-deal and made us laugh in the face of overdue papers and curious love affairs. Alex was never the guy I imagined falling in love with, which is probably the only way it could have happened. And it did. And on July 5th, 1996, Alex asked me to marry him. And I said yes.
Fast-forward to May 9th, 2009. There we were, Alex and I, in the wedding party of our Little Debbie and her Prince Charming, whom Alex brought into Zoe’s life way back in the Fall of 1999. Zoe Fitzgerald, that bashful Manhattanite, was now ready to say her I Do’s to William Cauley, a man so opposite her in so many ways as to be her most perfect companion. Her bashfulness was in contrast to his outgoing nature, her softness a counterpoint to his brass. And in him, she found the home she had been seeking for years. His love for her was so complete, so intense as to have been overwhelming at times to those of us who had watched Zoe try to find her voice in a crowd; his love was so powerful that it made us want to protect her, to try to find the gentleness that we felt she needed. But it turns out that his love was exactly what she needed in order to find her voice, as was never clearer than when she said her vows on that altar with more confidence than I had ever known from her. There we stood, Alex and I, along with our lady Caroline, who moved in with me and Zoe in our Chinatown flat back in ’96, Caroline who became Zoe’s roommate after Alex became mine, Caroline who has lived all over the world and yet has always managed to remain in my heart as My Lady. I watched her try to hold back her tears as Our Girl became a Wife, knowing all of the history that has passed between us three ladies, from the time we first met in that Dutch castle before the floods moved us to that German boys’ camp, to the time Caro and I drove cross-country in order to make it in time to a performance of one of Zoe’s plays. I watched her smile as Zoe’s voice rang out with her I Do’s and Forever Is Today’s, and right beside Caroline stood Alex, whose eyes rarely left me during that ceremony. I looked into his eyes as the vows of our friends were spoken, knowing that we were speaking them to each other, knowing that we have journeyed to Heaven and Hell and lots of places in between and have always managed to come out of it together. Together, forever. That is our plan. That has been the plan since that July 5th evening almost 13 years ago, when Alex got down on one knee in front of the Christian Science Center reflecting pool and asked me to be his wife. And I said yes. And on Saturday, we walked down the aisle to help our friends celebrate their love and their commitment to Forever, knowing that commitment is a bitch and Forever is an eternity and Love is a 4-letter word, and knowing that it is the most beautiful pain-in-the-ass imaginable. And I knew that Alex and I were both thinking, We should get married. Why not? We should have our friends and our families celebrate our love and our commitment and our past/present/future together. Why not? We should be able to call each other something more significant than “My boyfriend/girlfriend” or “my partner” or “the guy I’m living in sin with”. Why not?
Yet here I am, always a bridesmaid, never a bride, and it’s entirely by choice. What am I afraid of? Or what am I waiting for? Or why should I care? I mean, it’s not like Alex and I need to prove anything to anyone. We’ve survived far more than any of these couples saying their I Do’s this year, and we’ve stayed together without any legal or societal pressures to do so. We have proven our commitment again and again, so what’s the point of getting married? That is generally the way our few scattered discussions of marriage have ended. Except…
I never would have imagined back in 1993 that I would be a bridesmaid at the wedding of that Bashful Manhattanite. And I never would have imagined that I would look across the aisle at that South Jersey boy, whom I’ve loved since long before I finally told him so, with a desire to be the ones speaking those words. But here I am. And yes I was. And maybe we will. Someday. But for now, I will continue on to the next march down the aisle, this time at the wedding of my brother and the love of his life, and from there down the next aisle to celebrate my friend and the guy that almost let her get away. Perhaps someday, these people will return the favor and walk down an aisle for me. But for now, I am content to be Always a Bridesmaid, Never a Bride.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
I'm Baaaaaaaaack..............
So, it’s been awhile.
I guess Life is like that. At times, we’ve got so much to say, we can hardly get it all out. At others, each word takes a Herculean effort. Such has been my story. I look back over the history of this blog: See how verbose I was in September! And April went by without a word. September was a month of discovery; April I spent holding my breath and praying for peace. And somehow, I find myself in the month of May, wondering how I got here, wondering what lies ahead. I am cautiously hopeful, but Hope is a 4-letter word. I have had my hopes dashed again and again in these months gone by. Yeah, HOPE paid off for me in November, with Yes We Can and Yes We Did. But Hope broke my heart in January. Hope kicked my ass in February. Hope spit in my eye in March. And in April, Hope embraced me, told me it loved me, and then cheated on me with that prissy whore, Despair. And still, here I am in May, inching towards Hope’s outstretched hand, trusting that this time, this time it’s for real, this time it’s for the long haul, this time I’m The One, and the Siren Songs of Despair and Anxiety and Doubt and Anger and Defeat will not steal my Hope away, will not prove me wrong once again, will not leave me feeling used and abused and rooted in the muck of Misery. Yes, my friends, that is what the past months have felt like. Yes, my friends, it really was that bad. And yes, my friends, I am once again feeling hopeful, reluctantly so, I must admit, but hopeful nonetheless. And it is my hope that I will once again use this space to relate to you my adventures in the Wild West. It is my hope that I will dig myself out of my somewhat self-imposed isolation and throw myself open to the possibilities of Love and Friendship and hey, what’s that thing called Fun? All the kids are doing it, I’m told….
I will not try to put into detail the downs and further downs of 2009. There’s too much to say, and honestly, I can’t wrap my head around it. I have written many blogs in my mind, but everything felt too confused and contorted to put down in writing. How I wanted to share with you my adventures in Los Angeles, with Fish Frys and birthday parties and theatrical events that reminded me of what I want to do onstage. How I wanted to share the awe-inspiring experience of seeing Cirque du Soliel’s “LOVE” with my mother-in-law, one of the biggest Beatles fans I know. How I wanted to share the ongoing drama of Alex’s court proceedings, with continuance after continuance and the bullshit that is the Justice System. But it all over-whelmed me. It was all too much. And now, it’s all behind me. On April 28th, we had the pleasure of hearing a judge say, “Case Dismissed.” We’d been waiting for those words since the beginning of October, when Alex was arrested on 8 bogus charges. We’d been waiting for those words since January 5th, when the DA decided to file 14 felony charges against Alex, again all bogus. We’d been waiting to hear those words with the same anticipation that I imagine a dying man has when waiting to hear about an organ transplant. Because, truly, this court drama felt like Life and Death to us. If Justice prevailed, then all charges would be dismissed, and we could get out of Limbo and start to live again. But as there was no Justice from the moment Alex was arrested, we half expected that somehow Alex would be found guilty and spend his life behind bars. And frankly, that felt no different than Death. But it worked out, the DA decided not to pursue the case (realizing there was nothing to pursue, as Alex broke no laws), and we can close this chapter of our lives. Except…How do you live with your Life on the line for 7 months, and then just pick up where you left off? I was expecting to feel this wave of relief that would melt into sheer joy and optimism. Instead, I feel nervous. It’s like I’ve got Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder or something. I am terrified of what’s around the corner. I want to Live, but I’m afraid that in doing so, I will invite calamity. And it’s worse for Alex. His whole body has been in knots, his whole life has been in question, and he is having a hard time believing that he can relax, that he can feel safe and at peace.
But we’re trying. On April 28th, after hearing the judge say “Case Dismissed”, we packed up the car and said goodbye to our desert abode. We left behind our call-girl neighbors and our industrial park neighborhood and began the drive north to the anti-desert. Yes, we drove to the rain forest, the Pacific Northwest home that we so loved for the 5 years we lived here and said goodbye to in 2003. I write this blog in Seattle, looking out of my 5th floor window to the flat grey ceiling that is the Seattle sky for a solid 8 months each year. The rain is coming down lightly and steadily, there is no blue above me, no sky to be seen, and it is the most beautiful sight in the world. We are in Seattle for the month of May, and it is exactly where I need to be. I would love to be here for the summer, but alas, I have to be back in Vegas in June (I will write another blog to answer any questions that may have arisen there), and then we’re heading back east in July (there’s no way to express my joy on this last count, other than to say, OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODI’MSOEXCITEDTOGETBACKEASTANDSEEALLMYFRIENDSANDFAMILYANDPICKUPWHEREILEFTOFFANDGIVETHATCITYONELASTSHOTANDMAKETHEMOSTOFITTHISTIMEANDOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODI’MSOEXCITED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) So I am grateful for this month-long gift of moisture (my skin is so happy!) and nature (my heart is so full!) and friendship (my soul is so hungry!) and I am, again, cautiously hopeful about the road ahead. I am cautiously hopeful that this month will begin to bring peace and joy and self-love and a reminder of how very lucky I am to be alive, to be a part of this world, to have been born Meghan Mary McLynn on that April 26th all those years ago (yes, I just celebrated my 27th birthday again, with a trip to the Grand Canyon that I would have loved to share with you, if only I had the words to do so). I am cautiously hopeful that this month will hold up a mirror to my strengths and talents, that it will leave me no choice but to embrace myself and feel at home in myself again. I’m lucky to have such wonderful friends here who want nothing more than to help me be Me. I spent a day at a spa with Zoe, learning to relax again. I spent mornings doing yoga with Caro, learning to feel strong again. And I spent an afternoon building chicken coops in the Port Orchard rain with Angela, learning to laugh again. These are my ladies, who’ve loved me since before I knew I should love myself, and they are a miracle. And then I’ve got a whole crew of friends in this town to drink tea with and go hiking with and ride bikes with and eat ice cream with and….This is a time of healing, of renewal, of rebirth. It is spring, after all. I arrived in Seattle just as the blossoms opened, just as the cherry trees exploded into cotton candy. And on the day I arrived, the sun shone brighter than anything I’ve seen in Vegas. Some things are meant to be, and I am meant to be full of Hope, sans caution. I look forward to filling you in on the journey.
I guess Life is like that. At times, we’ve got so much to say, we can hardly get it all out. At others, each word takes a Herculean effort. Such has been my story. I look back over the history of this blog: See how verbose I was in September! And April went by without a word. September was a month of discovery; April I spent holding my breath and praying for peace. And somehow, I find myself in the month of May, wondering how I got here, wondering what lies ahead. I am cautiously hopeful, but Hope is a 4-letter word. I have had my hopes dashed again and again in these months gone by. Yeah, HOPE paid off for me in November, with Yes We Can and Yes We Did. But Hope broke my heart in January. Hope kicked my ass in February. Hope spit in my eye in March. And in April, Hope embraced me, told me it loved me, and then cheated on me with that prissy whore, Despair. And still, here I am in May, inching towards Hope’s outstretched hand, trusting that this time, this time it’s for real, this time it’s for the long haul, this time I’m The One, and the Siren Songs of Despair and Anxiety and Doubt and Anger and Defeat will not steal my Hope away, will not prove me wrong once again, will not leave me feeling used and abused and rooted in the muck of Misery. Yes, my friends, that is what the past months have felt like. Yes, my friends, it really was that bad. And yes, my friends, I am once again feeling hopeful, reluctantly so, I must admit, but hopeful nonetheless. And it is my hope that I will once again use this space to relate to you my adventures in the Wild West. It is my hope that I will dig myself out of my somewhat self-imposed isolation and throw myself open to the possibilities of Love and Friendship and hey, what’s that thing called Fun? All the kids are doing it, I’m told….
I will not try to put into detail the downs and further downs of 2009. There’s too much to say, and honestly, I can’t wrap my head around it. I have written many blogs in my mind, but everything felt too confused and contorted to put down in writing. How I wanted to share with you my adventures in Los Angeles, with Fish Frys and birthday parties and theatrical events that reminded me of what I want to do onstage. How I wanted to share the awe-inspiring experience of seeing Cirque du Soliel’s “LOVE” with my mother-in-law, one of the biggest Beatles fans I know. How I wanted to share the ongoing drama of Alex’s court proceedings, with continuance after continuance and the bullshit that is the Justice System. But it all over-whelmed me. It was all too much. And now, it’s all behind me. On April 28th, we had the pleasure of hearing a judge say, “Case Dismissed.” We’d been waiting for those words since the beginning of October, when Alex was arrested on 8 bogus charges. We’d been waiting for those words since January 5th, when the DA decided to file 14 felony charges against Alex, again all bogus. We’d been waiting to hear those words with the same anticipation that I imagine a dying man has when waiting to hear about an organ transplant. Because, truly, this court drama felt like Life and Death to us. If Justice prevailed, then all charges would be dismissed, and we could get out of Limbo and start to live again. But as there was no Justice from the moment Alex was arrested, we half expected that somehow Alex would be found guilty and spend his life behind bars. And frankly, that felt no different than Death. But it worked out, the DA decided not to pursue the case (realizing there was nothing to pursue, as Alex broke no laws), and we can close this chapter of our lives. Except…How do you live with your Life on the line for 7 months, and then just pick up where you left off? I was expecting to feel this wave of relief that would melt into sheer joy and optimism. Instead, I feel nervous. It’s like I’ve got Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder or something. I am terrified of what’s around the corner. I want to Live, but I’m afraid that in doing so, I will invite calamity. And it’s worse for Alex. His whole body has been in knots, his whole life has been in question, and he is having a hard time believing that he can relax, that he can feel safe and at peace.
But we’re trying. On April 28th, after hearing the judge say “Case Dismissed”, we packed up the car and said goodbye to our desert abode. We left behind our call-girl neighbors and our industrial park neighborhood and began the drive north to the anti-desert. Yes, we drove to the rain forest, the Pacific Northwest home that we so loved for the 5 years we lived here and said goodbye to in 2003. I write this blog in Seattle, looking out of my 5th floor window to the flat grey ceiling that is the Seattle sky for a solid 8 months each year. The rain is coming down lightly and steadily, there is no blue above me, no sky to be seen, and it is the most beautiful sight in the world. We are in Seattle for the month of May, and it is exactly where I need to be. I would love to be here for the summer, but alas, I have to be back in Vegas in June (I will write another blog to answer any questions that may have arisen there), and then we’re heading back east in July (there’s no way to express my joy on this last count, other than to say, OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODI’MSOEXCITEDTOGETBACKEASTANDSEEALLMYFRIENDSANDFAMILYANDPICKUPWHEREILEFTOFFANDGIVETHATCITYONELASTSHOTANDMAKETHEMOSTOFITTHISTIMEANDOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODI’MSOEXCITED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) So I am grateful for this month-long gift of moisture (my skin is so happy!) and nature (my heart is so full!) and friendship (my soul is so hungry!) and I am, again, cautiously hopeful about the road ahead. I am cautiously hopeful that this month will begin to bring peace and joy and self-love and a reminder of how very lucky I am to be alive, to be a part of this world, to have been born Meghan Mary McLynn on that April 26th all those years ago (yes, I just celebrated my 27th birthday again, with a trip to the Grand Canyon that I would have loved to share with you, if only I had the words to do so). I am cautiously hopeful that this month will hold up a mirror to my strengths and talents, that it will leave me no choice but to embrace myself and feel at home in myself again. I’m lucky to have such wonderful friends here who want nothing more than to help me be Me. I spent a day at a spa with Zoe, learning to relax again. I spent mornings doing yoga with Caro, learning to feel strong again. And I spent an afternoon building chicken coops in the Port Orchard rain with Angela, learning to laugh again. These are my ladies, who’ve loved me since before I knew I should love myself, and they are a miracle. And then I’ve got a whole crew of friends in this town to drink tea with and go hiking with and ride bikes with and eat ice cream with and….This is a time of healing, of renewal, of rebirth. It is spring, after all. I arrived in Seattle just as the blossoms opened, just as the cherry trees exploded into cotton candy. And on the day I arrived, the sun shone brighter than anything I’ve seen in Vegas. Some things are meant to be, and I am meant to be full of Hope, sans caution. I look forward to filling you in on the journey.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Oh, to be rich & famous...
Clearly, I watched too many cartoons as a kid. Wanna know how I know this? It's because, as an adult, as I spray my tub with Scrubbing Bubbles Shower Cleaner, I truly expect to see an army of cartoon bubbles whirling over the rings of soap scum, bringing a blinding gleam to the surface below. And no matter how many times over the years I have sprayed my tub, no matter how many times I have seen, not happy cartoon grime-busters dancing and singing my tub to a shine, but a plain white film sitting & awaiting my scrub-brush and biceps, still I am disappointed. Still, I expect the Cartoon Clean Team to come flying from the can, armed and ready to attack the filth, with their bristley bottoms and militant might. Alas, it is up to me and my elbow grease to keep my bathtub clean. (And what's "elbow grease" all about? Where did that phrase come from? My elbows, no matter how hard they may be working, tend to be dry and ashy, requiring a decent dose of Vaseline to keep them in good order.)
Remember those dreams you had as a kid, the dreams of fame and fortune that seemed infinitely impossible yet decidedly deserved? I used to think that I would know I was famous when one of two things happened: 1) A rest area (now known as a "service plaza") on the New Jersey Turnpike would bear my name (who is Molly Pitcher anyway?); or 2) A pinball machine would bear my image (oh, the fun I would be!). I used to think I would know I was rich when I could afford a driver to take me anywhere at anytime. (I never expected to find myself sober enough to drive myself to 7-11 at 3am. Who'da thunk...) Now, I'm not sure how I would measure fame. But I'd know I was rich if I had someone else's elbow grease scrubbing my soap scum. And, if I was rich AND famous, maybe someone would create a shower cleaner in my honor, with actual cartoon bubbles doing the work for me. Meg's Mighty Minions. That'd be flippin' sweet.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Life Happens
"Life is what happens when you're busy making plans."
It has officially been 6 months since I moved to Vegas. 6 months. That was the time-frame given to this adventure. Alex and I signed a 6-month lease, which ended 2 days ago. The plan was to re-evaluate our living situation after the Superbowl, then decide if we would be Staying in Sin City or Leaving Las Vegas (hopefully with more grace than Nic Cage). Well, the decision was made long before the Superbowl. The decision was made somewhere on the Caribbean, sometime around the New Year. And the decision was made to get outta here. Nothing was happening for me, and Alex is relatively unwelcome at the majority of casinos in town, so why stay? The decision was made to return to New York, mainly so I could give the Big City another go, see if this time I might have the balls and the determination to get my career on track. We figured we'd give ourselves 3 years, each of us fighting it out to succeed in our chosen non-traditional professions, and then see where we were at. This decision was not an easy one. After all, New York is insanely expensive, which is largely why I am not there. And, well, it's freaking HARD to live and work in that city! Especially as a wannabe actor with the beginnings of age spots. But when I balanced out all the wants and needs and could-be regrets of my 33 years, New York seemed like the place to go. Done. Plans made.
Then we got back to Vegas. And life blew up. Now we had legal conundrums to consider, now we had court dates and lawyer fees to work around. How could we go back to New York at the end of our lease, knowing there was a hearing in Vegas on April 7th, not knowing whether that date would be an end or just another middle? Yet, how could we stay in Vegas, a city that has kicked Alex in the teeth repeatedly and ignored me entirely? This place felt like Purgatory; we could do nothing but wait, for who knows how long, for who knows what outcome. And so, we made plans. Again. This time, we decided to head to Seattle. Not for the long haul, but for a period of, say, 3-6 months. Alex could work up there, and I could audition and hopefully do a show or two. Plus, I've got lots of theatre-friends in Seattle, so this horrid isolation I've felt since leaving New York would disappear. I'd have people I could talk to who would understand me, the Artist Me, not the Housewife Me that I've reduced myself to. Seattle is certainly not close to Vegas, but we could fly back for the hearing in April, and if this case goes to trial, we'd at least be on the same coast. So, Seattle. Done. Plans made. We would leave Vegas at the end of our lease, find a sublet in Seattle, and take it from there. And, man oh man, did that plan make me happy! I've been wanting to spend time in Seattle for awhile now, but couldn't really figure out how to make it happen. See, I'm not ready to LIVE there. Seattle is my other hometown, but it's the place I think of when I think of settling down. You know, staying put for more than a few years, maybe getting a house and a dog. It's the place I imagine going to in, say, my 50's. But to spend a few months there now, with all my friends and the mountains and the water and the theatre scene, well, that seems like bliss. I giddily called my best Seattle girlfriends to let them know they could expect me in mid-March, I sent emails asking friends if they knew of any sublets or auditions, I scouted the Theatre Puget Sound website for summer shows that would be casting in the spring. My plans were made, I was ready to go, and man, was I thrilled to be leaving.
"Life is what happens when you're busy making plans."
A week ago, I got an email. "Hey Meg, just got your card from your Mom. I'm a pianist/singer, just ending a contract on a cruise ship, coming back to Vegas, and I'm looking to start a jazz duo with a girl singer. You interested?" What. The. Fuck. See, all my life, or at least since I started listening to Billie Holiday as a teenager, I've dreamed of being a lounge singer. I've dreamed of wearing beautiful gowns and singing jazz standards while sitting atop a grand piano. When I came to Vegas, I was hoping to find some such opportunity. Nada. Old-time Vegas was all about lounges and big-band sophistication. Today's Vegas is all about party bands and DJ's, it's all about background music and high-energy noise. Which is fine, but not what I was hoping for. I've met plenty of musicians here, really cool and friendly, but no one in need of a girl singer. So, I made my plans to get outta town, and then BLAMMO, Life happens. Well, nothing has really happened. Nothing more than a possibility. But that's the closest I've come to Opportunity in a mighty long time. On Friday, I met with Jimmy the Piano Man, we sang some songs together, and I had to consider my options. I mean, I am DONE with Vegas, but how can I walk away from the possibility of getting to be a singer? Meg McLynn, The Singer!!! And so, once again, Alex and I had to make some decisions. And we decided that we're staying in Vegas. At least through his hearing. Mid-April. We'll re-evaluate then. And maybe head to Seattle (and I SOOOOO want to go to Seattle). Or maybe stay in Vegas. Clearly, it's too early to make plans, as Life changes on a dime.
So, on Friday, the day before Alex and I had planned to put our belongings and our cat into the Buick, the day before our lease officially ended, Alex called our landlord and asked if we could stay awhile longer. (No problem: the owner has lost tons of money with his investment properties here, our apartment is on a short-sell with the bank, so what does it matter when we leave?) I sang songs with Jimmy the piano player, then went to my voice lesson with Jess. And Friday night, I went with Jess to the Stratosphere, a big needle-like casino where she had hired a band for a private party. She wanted to introduce me to the band, plus there was another band playing upstairs, old friends of hers, that she wanted to check out. I put on some makeup and a pretty dress, and I had one of those nights that I'd been wishing to have since I showed up in this town. For one thing, I met some really cool musicians. For another thing, I had quite a few men flirting with me (it doesn't happen often, but it sure feels good when it does). But the best part: I got to sing. I got to sing onstage. I got to sing with a 3-piece in front of a small but enthusiastic audience. I sang "Don't Get Around Much Anymore", which I've never sung onstage before, but I don't know what key I sing any songs in, so I made Jess rattle off tunes until she named one that I knew the lyrics to and she could give me the key (G). I forgot the lyrics as soon as I began, but I played it off well enough. I was nervous, so I didn't cue the band at all, but they were fine without me. And I definitely was a change of pace from the sultry, smoky-voiced girl singer working with the band. I was high energy and loud and...whatever, I had SO MUCH FUN!! And, someone gave me a hundred dollar tip, so I couldn't have been that bad. Screw that, I was good!! I was me, I was the most ME that I've been in many, many months. I sang in my style, and I looked straight into the eyes of the crowd, and they were with me. And that's where I'm supposed to be.
I'm not Leaving Las Vegas. Yet. Life seems to be happening, on some level anyway. Perhaps I'll spend another 6 weeks here and nothing will come of it. But it's worth a shot. And having one night of feeling like Me, well, it was worth the 6 months it took to get there.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
My Jesus Year
I've been thinking about numbers, doubles, parallels...
It was on my last birthday that someone welcomed me to my "Jesus Year". Jesus was 33 the year that he, you know, died and rose again. 33 was his last year on Earth, his big year of miracles and persecution and water-to-wine and whatnot. 33 was one hell of a challenge for The Man. It was also the year of Resurrection. It was a year which, by my standards, kind of sucked and kind of rocked, depending on how you look at it.
Now, I'm no Jesus. The ways in which I might resemble The Man are few and far between. I'm good people, sure, but I certainly ain't no miracle worker. However, I've been thinking a lot about my "Jesus Year", this year of 33, this year of double numbers. 33 has been a tough year, REAL tough. Not "crucified and was buried" tough, but tough enough that I don't ever want to have to do it again. In thinking about 33, I've been thinking about double numbers, 22 and 44 and 88 (crossing my fingers). And I'm seeing parallels that give me pause.
11. 11 was a decent enough year. 5th grade, no real disasters to speak of. Except for my hair. 11 was the year of The Most Unfortunate Afro. Really, my afro began at age 8, when, unable to handle my too-thick, waist-length hair, my mother took me to a shopping mall hair salon and handed my prized locks over to an unskilled day laborer. In a matter of minutes, my beautiful hair went from long-and-unruly to round-and-unruly with a series of ill-aimed scissor-slashings. "Shoulder length" doesn't exist with hair like mine. What appears to be shoulder length when wet becomes Bozo the Clown round when dry. My afro began at age 8, and it didn't begin to grow out until almost age 13. But 11 was the most unfortunate year of The Afro. It was the year that puberty kicked in, and my skinny kid body began to get round like my hair. 11 was the year the Ben Von Klemperer shouted out on the playground, "Hey Meg, why is your butt so big?" 11 was the year that my K-Mart clothes really began to look cheap, as they tried to accommodate themselves to my still-growing legs and my growth-stunted torso. 11 was the year of Mister Huff and orange Tic Tacs and refusing to wear a bra. 11 was the beginning of my Bad Girl phase, the year of smoking found cigarette butts and stealing cheap beer from the fridge. 11 was my Ugly Year, my year of awkward changes and strange new thought patterns and the roundest afro any white kid could ever grow. 11 is not a year I'd like to repeat.
But for my double-number years, 11 was a good one. And the parallels between 11 and my other double-number years are few and far between. 22 and 33, well....
22 began in the best way. It was my senior year of college, one month before I graduated (with honors!). I loved Emerson. I had amazing friends, loved my classes, was well-respected by my peers and my professors. It was also a year of Killer Hair. Anyway, on my birthday, I came home to find my Boston Chinatown apartment packed full of people. My friends had thrown me a surprise party, and holy crap, was I surprised! It was a great night, a night when I felt loved by many and was full of hope for the future. At the end of the night, when everyone had gone to their respective homes, I got to lay next to Alex and know that he loved me. It was perfect. There was no way I could have known then that this was the beginning of one of the hardest years of my life. See, 22 was the Year of Philly. It was the Year of the Butcher Shop. It was the Year of Too Many Street Drugs and Way Too Little Sleep. I started 22 surrounded by people who loved and respected me, I started 22 as an actor with a future, I started 22 in a city I was at home in. And months later, I was ridiculed for being a "college girl", I was doing no acting, and I was living in a suburb where there was nothing to walk to and working in a crumbling section of a city where I felt lost. The only "friends" I had were my co-workers at the butcher shop, an older couple who I had little in common with but seemed cool enough, until the night when they proposed that me and Alex engage in a little wife-swapping with them. (Which might have been cool, if I was into fat bald guys and Alex was into really fat balding ladies. Which we weren't.) 22 was a year of hitting rock bottom and wondering if I would ever feel happy again. 22 was a year of hiding under my covers and making few phone calls, because really, what did I have to talk about? The price of chicken leg quarters? The stench of hog maws and souse meat? The quality of Philly dope versus Boston dope? 22 was a year of false accusations and fighting to prove my innocence. 22 was a year of struggling to hold onto some sense of who I was. And 22 was a year of deciding that ENOUGH IS ENOUGH, going through withdrawal and getting clean, packing my bags and making a March move to a new corner of the country. Seattle. 22 ended with a sense of relief, a sense that things could only get better because I had seen the worst. 22 ended with a sense of Beginning, a feeling that I was closing an ugly chapter and beginning a new adventure.
33. I'm still in the thick of it, perhaps too much in it's midst to be able to see it clearly. But the similarities between 33 and 22 are impossible not to see.
33 began in the best way. It was my final year of grad school, one month before I graduated (no honors this time, but only because my program didn't work that way). I loved Columbia. I had amazing friends, loved my classes, was well-respected by my peers and my professors. I also had killer hair. This time, there was no surprise party to welcome me to 33. Rather, I threw myself a party at my brothers' East Village bar, Angels & Kings. I sent out an email to lots of people and was surprised to see how many showed up. The place was packed! I was overwhelmed with love, and I danced and laughed and felt like a queen. And in the wee hours of the morning, I got to lay next to Alex and know that he loved me. My Jesus year began in celebration. Months later, I moved from the city I adored, where I was surrounded by people who loved me and thought of me as a pretty kick-ass actor, to a city where I knew no one and felt like a foreigner. This time, there's no butcher shop. In fact, there's no job. There's no suburb, but I still can't walk to anything. There's no acting. There's no sense of Who I Am. There's also no dope, which is a good thing. But this year has undoubtedly been One Of The Hardest Years Of My Life. It has been a year of false accusations and trying to prove one's innocence (this time, in an actual courtroom). It has been a year of persecution, of poverty, of hiding under covers and ignoring the phone. (After all, what do I have to talk about? The price of chicken at Trader Joe's? The stench of the sewage after a desert rainstorm? The quality of Vegas Grimaldi's versus Brooklyn Grimaldi's?) It has been a year of isolation and doubt, a year of "Is this what my life is to be?" And it is now becoming a year of ENOUGH IS ENOUGH, packing my bags, and making a March move back to that favorite corner of the country. Seattle. And when 33 is finished, I am hoping it will bring a sense of relief, a sense of survival. I am hoping it will be the end of an ugly chapter and the beginning of a new adventure.
My Jesus Year reaches completion in a matter of months. I don't see any crucifixion in my future, though I suppose it's too early to rule anything out. Before it ends, my lover will have to go to court to learn his fate. The persecution of this year is mine only by default. It is his innocence which must be proven, it is his life that hangs in the balance. He is also in his Jesus Year, after all. He and I are tied together, though, so my Fate rests with his. (I'm talking about Alex, not Jesus. In case you were confused.) If 33 continues to parallel 22, then all will work out as it should, and Alex and I will have much to celebrate as 33 turns into 34. Jesus never made it to 34, but he made it to a much better plane of existence, if you're into that kind of Heavenly thang. I'm not looking for miracles, I'm just looking for peace, for a little happiness, and for a chance to be Me. I want to go to auditions and do shows and make a little money and remember who I am. I'm no Jesus, that's for sure, but I am kind of awesome. At least, I should be. I used to be. And I plan on getting there again. Maybe at 34. And that sounds pretty much like Heaven.
Friday, February 13, 2009
My Lucky Day (a Friday the 13th ponderance)
What is luck? I guess it's all a matter of perspective...
The other day, I took Alex out to Valley of Fire State Park. It was a lovely day, blue sky, temps in the 50's. I took the scenic route, which goes through Lake Mead National Park. Gorgeous desert landscapes, layers of mountains in every direction, and once in awhile, a bend in the road reveals the clear blue waters of the lake in the distance. Alex has been a part-time resident of Las Vegas for 4 years, but until recently, he never saw anything beyond the casinos. I've been telling him about how incredibly friendly the people of Las Vegas are, but he's only seen the people who work and hang out at the casinos (not generally the friendly sort; more the desperate and embattled sort). I've been telling him about the beautiful homes and neighborhoods away from The Strip, but he's only left The Strip to drive out to border-town casinos. I've been telling him about the beauty of the desert, but he's only been aware of the desert by the heat and arid conditions outside of the climate-controlled casinos. Alex has really never experienced Las Vegas, beyond what the average weekend warrior has experienced, anyway. But this past month, I've made it my mission to expose him to some of the beauty of Las Vegas. It's been necessary, as this town has been kicking him in the teeth for months now. It's been kicking both of us in the teeth, really, but my teeth-kicking has been more by default. It's what a partnership is about, I suppose: When he feels pain, I feel pain. When he gets knocked down, I do my best to lift us both up. And the truth is, he's been knocked down so many times in the last number of months that it's been hard to know which way is up. My entire concept of justice has been blended into fiction, and the idea of stability seems like a very foreign concept. 2008 was an incredibly challenging year, and thus far, 2009 makes '08 seem like a bit of a cake-walk. It's been hard to believe, at times, that life can be beautiful, that hard work pays off, that we are protected by the law rather than it's innocent targets. But I have refused to give up, and at times, when Alex has been able to see nothing but ugliness, I have made it my mission to show him all that we have that is worth fighting for. Because, as much as life has really kind of SUCKED in a lot of ways, we are so very lucky. We have so many good people in our lives. Here in Vegas, Alex has a whole bunch of guys who, on that October night he spent in jail, were calling to ask how they could help, ready to come to the courthouse with bail money in hand. I've got a voice teacher who has refused to accept money from me, even though she needs new brakes and a root canal that she can't afford. Across the country, we've got friends who have asked if we'd like them to fly out here, just to offer support. My girl Liz spent a week out here with her shoulder entirely covered in snot, as I couldn't remove my sobbing self from her arms, and she made it clear that she'd hold me up as long as I needed. Our families are wonderful, letting us know that whatever happens, they are here for us. And perfect strangers are praying for us. Seriously. There's an entire convent in New Jersey praying round-the-clock novenas for Alex. They don't know him, nor do they know why he needs help; all they know is that a friend of a friend is in need of support, and so he is in their prayers, 24 hours a day. (I actually worried for awhile that these prayers might be doing him some harm. I mean, he's an atheist, so perhaps a convent of nuns praying for an atheist might have a reverse effect? But he is so very honored by the selflessness of these women, he is so very grateful for their support and generosity, so it can't be a bad thing. Can it?) When I think about it, we have SO MUCH to be grateful for, even as we are living through what is by far the most trying time in our 13 years together. And that's saying a lot, considering the lives we've lived. But there's no question, in our shared existence of ups and downs, we've reached a new depth in the downside. And we've learned things about each other, and perhaps the most important thing we've learned is that we can get through anything, as long as we're doing it together.
Anyway. Back to Valley of Fire. I've been wanting to show Alex some of what is beautiful about this place we are currently forced to reside in (we would have left weeks ago, if it were not for legal matters which are keeping us here). I've taken him away from The Strip, where he's had a chance to meet these friendly people I've been telling him about. I've driven him to new neighborhoods, with actual sidewalks and houses and no sounds of slot machines (which, strangely, Liz found to be very soothing while she was here). And on Wednesday, I drove him out to see the beauty of the desert. We drove for two hours, and around every bend in the road, there was something to be amazed by. The colors of the desert, the blacks and golds and purples, and especially the reds. Rich red rock bursting out of the sage-covered earth. Stunning. The Valley of Fire takes it's name from this rock. It's a color that seems so foreign, as if we'd found ourselves suddenly roaming through the empty wilderness of Mars. I was here for the first time two weeks ago, when Liz was visiting. She and I could hardly walk 5 feet without stopping and shouting out, "Where are we??" It was entirely un-Earthly. We climbed the rocks, with their little nooks and crannies perfectly sized for our toes and fingers, we dug our feet into the red powdery sand, we sighed aloud and shouted out HEEEEEYYYYYYYYYYYY, then listened to the silence that followed, a silence so deep that it sounded almost like static, a silence so full that it felt almost deafening. I wanted to take Alex here, to help him forget, for even a few moments, the hellish reality we've been struggling through for these many months. I wanted him to see how beautiful life can be, if you just open your eyes to it. The night before, I had seen the most amazing moon I'd ever experienced in my many years of moon-worship: It was pumpkin orange, sitting low on the horizon, just above the brass of the Wynn, and it was bigger than the Wynn itself. AMAZING. I called Alex, who had been driving back from California, through 200 miles of nothing but desert, and he hadn't even noticed it. So lost in his thoughts, he hadn't seen the huge ball of fire in the otherwise empty sky. Sigh. But with me by his side, oohing and aahing every shift in the ever-shifting landscape, the Valley of Fire was making a big impression on him. He was already planning our next visit before we ever stepped out of the car. And when we did step out of the car, he raced to the rocks and began to climb. He climbed with the joy and fearlessness of a child, while I stood on the ground like a worried but joyful mother. Here he was, the man that I love, the man who sees opportunity everywhere and fears next-to-nothing. I grabbed my camera to capture the moment, a moment when I am certain his thoughts went no further than the present place and time, a moment of relative peace during these months of stormy uncertainty. A car pulled up and asked him if they could take his picture. Picture taken, the car drove off and Alex began to make his way down so we could do some exploring. He slid along the smooth red stone, which covered his black clothes in a fine burnt powder, then he jumped the last few feet to the ground, at which point he landed on something that pitched him forward with vicious velocity onto his knees and hands. He went down hard and was clearly in pain, so I helped him over to a rock where he could sit and we could roll up his pant leg to see how badly he'd scraped himself. I figured it couldn't be that bad, as he could put some weight on his leg and he didn't tear his jeans at all. But what bad luck, as soon as we arrived, for him to fall down. Obviously, he wasn't going to be up for much hiking, which was highly disappointing. While he was cursing himself for taking a fall, I slowly lifted the bottom of his left pant leg. There was no blood dripping down, so it couldn't be that bad. But then, well...
If you're squeamish, skip ahead to the next paragraph.
But then, I felt something squishy, somewhere below his kneecap. And when I looked, I discovered that the squishy thing was the flesh that was supposed to be covering his kneecap. HOLY CRAP!! I told him to stay still, I'd go get the car, and I ran, my heart in my throat, thinking, "We're in the middle of the f*&%ing desert!!! There's no hospital within 50 miles!!!" I pulled the car around, sat him in the backseat, and slowly removed his pants, asking him PLEASE, DON'T LOOK! I was terrified that he'd see his injury and pass out. But of course, as the pants came off, he looked. And the reality hit us.
I got him into the backseat and drove to the Visitor's Center, where I was told that Vegas was our best chance for medical care. Vegas would be an hour's drive minimum, and having spent some time in Vegas Emergency Rooms, we knew that we could then be waiting for many hours more before being seen by anyone. Alex called a friend to ask which hospital he goes to in town. (He actually called and said, "Hey, is your hospital public or private?" as we don't have any insurance. His friend thought he was having a political debate or something and later told Alex, "Next time you need a hospital, don't ask if it's public or private, say I'M BLEEDING AND NEED A HOSPITAL!" But even as he was in searing pain and putting pressure on his lacerated knee to keep it from bleeding, Alex was in control enough to consider the financial ramifications of his fall. That's my guy!) He was then advised to skip Vegas and drive 60 miles in the opposite direction to Mesquite, an Arizona/Utah border town, as he would probably be seen much sooner. So, there I was, doing 85MPH on I-15 North, with Alex bleeding in the backseat from the goriest wound I'd ever seen in my life. The whole time, he kept saying, "I'm fine, baby, just do the speed limit, don't worry about me, I'm fine." But I couldn't help but worry. I mean, (gory sentence coming up) I just looked at his kneecap without any skin on it! And after all the hell of the previous months, I didn't know if this might send him over the edge. But amazingly, he was calm as could be. He handled this incredibly trying situation with grace and poise, just like I've known him to do many times before.
Finally, we arrived at Mesa View Regional Hospital and pulled up to the emergency entrance. There was a nurse there who asked if we needed a wheelchair, and she quickly returned to help us. It wasn't until he was getting out of the car that the real bleeding began. And man, did he bleed! The nurse was highly impressed with the severity of his injury, and she wheeled him inside and immediately took him to a trauma room. NO WAIT!! There was not a single person in the waiting room, a sight I have never seen in an ER. I had to fill out paperwork, and I could hardly hold the pen, I was shaking so much. It wasn't until I sat down that I realized how upset I was, and I forced myself not to cry. I just wanted to be with him! The receptionist was wonderfully kind and told me someone would be out to update me soon. I paced around for no more than 5 minutes before a nurse came to speak with me. She told me that they were going to do some x-rays, and that I was welcome to come back, but it would be pretty gory and maybe I'd rather... "I just want to be with him," I told her. I could handle gore, but I couldn't handle being away from him. So she took me to his room, and there he was, propped up in a bed, with an antibiotic IV in his arm, surrounded by nurses and interns, all of whom seemed wowwed by how well he was handling things. "If I saw a gash like that on my leg," said one nurse, "I would pass out!" But Alex was cracking jokes, making everyone laugh, asking them if they could give him a copy of the pictures they were taking so he could show people. (The printer they used was running low on toner, but they gave us a copy of their pic, which shows Alex's green leg oozing yellow blood. A nurse and I made up a story about how he landed on an alien rock with seeped some Martian lifeform into him. As I had my own camera, I took a few pics myself. Pretty gory stuff) Here was the guy that I met 15+ years earlier, the guy that could handle anything Life threw at him with a sense of humor and a rosy outlook. I hadn't seen much of that guy during this season of our discontent, and I couldn't help but somehow feel a bit happy, as I watched the doctor injecting him with Lydocaine, as I watched him clean out the wound, as I watched the stitching and the pulling and the putting-back-together of my lover's leg. How could I feel happy in a trauma room?
And here's where I question, What is luck? Alex is a gambler, so clearly, I've thought a lot about luck over the years. But Alex doesn't gamble based on luck; he gambles based on ratios and probabilities and numbers. Luck comes into play, certainly, but he doesn't rely on it. So, what is luck? When Alex saw how badly he was injured, we thought it was bad luck. But in the trauma room, when the X-rays revealed no broken bones, and when (amazingly) they showed that Alex was barely a hair's width from tearing the tendon, an injury which would have required surgery and hospital stays and traction and months of care, it felt like good luck. When we were in the middle of the desert wondering whether to drive an hour+ to the ER in Vegas or the ER in Mesquite, it felt like bad luck. But when we were at the hospital, receiving the best care anyone could ever hope for, it felt like good luck. When I turned off Alex's phone so that the ringing wouldn't disturb the doctor examining his injury, it felt like bad luck. But when he later turned on his phone and had a series of returned calls from people he'd been trying to speak to for weeks, it felt like good luck. When Alex fell off that rock, it felt like bad luck. But as we were driving the 80+ miles back to Vegas that evening, all we could talk about was how very lucky we were. Honestly, it felt like he took that fall, and our luck changed. For the better. Finally.
24 stitches later, Alex is on crutches and in a knee brace. He's in pain, and I am playing nursemaid. But somehow, it's all okay. It helps put things into perspective. As bad as things are, they could be SOOOOOOOOOOOOOO much worse. We are so very fortunate, with our friends and our family, and especially, with each other. We love each other, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, till death do us part. And not a lot of people get that. Yeah, I'm ready to have a little bit of easy in my life, I'm desperate to feel a sense of peace and productivity. But I have no doubt that it's out there, and I have no doubt that I can handle whatever challenges Life throws my way. (Though, for real, I think I've been challenged enough for one decade, at least.) Whether it's Luck, or Fate, or the Power of Prayer (seriously, we've had so many people praying for us, it HAS to be doing some good), we've made it this far. And I'm pretty sure that the really good stuff is just around the corner.
And, this water-baby is ready to leave the desert. There's a rainforest up north that I want to check out for awhile...
Monday, January 26, 2009
A job for me...someday.
The latest Vegas audition listing:
Cools Entertainment is looking for specific individuals for atmoshere dancing and part of a new show for a center strip casino:
-Female 300+ pounds, tattoos and piercings a plus
-Female little people
-Female 60+ years in age ( if you have a cane or walker thats ok too )
-Male cross dresser
-Female asian dancers will be topless in most numbers.
I suppose I can start bulking up. I'm getting older as I sit here. The years should make me shorter. So, in a few decades, I can be a candidate for a few of those positions. Gonna get me a fancy walker...
Cools Entertainment is looking for specific individuals for atmoshere dancing and part of a new show for a center strip casino:
-Female 300+ pounds, tattoos and piercings a plus
-Female little people
-Female 60+ years in age ( if you have a cane or walker thats ok too )
-Male cross dresser
-Female asian dancers will be topless in most numbers.
I suppose I can start bulking up. I'm getting older as I sit here. The years should make me shorter. So, in a few decades, I can be a candidate for a few of those positions. Gonna get me a fancy walker...
Friday, January 16, 2009
Oh, to be a Chicken.
I've heard it said that when a bird poops on you, it's good luck. Now, I'm not a superstitious person. I think this one came about as a means of trying to make a person feel better about getting pooped on. 'Cause, seriously, what's crappier than getting pooped on? So, last week I went to the mail place to visit Van. He wasn't in, which made me sad. His Ex was there, and I think she was giving a Russian language lesson to the guy she was sitting across from. I didn't want to interrupt to ask about Van (especially since the two have been going through a divorce--extra fun when you own a business together!!--and she was concerned at one point that I might be "the other woman"). But I had a package slip in my mailbox, so I approached the counter and smiled and handed it to her. She didn't really look at me, just took the slip with a limp hand then sat, as if deciding whether or not the slip was legit. "What's the name?" she said, her Russian accent perfectly complementing her cold tone of voice. The guy sitting at the counter said to The Ex, "I think her package is in the back, don't you?" in a manner that I found a bit disconcerting. Was there a Russian mobster in the back room or something? The Ex seemed confused, but the guy kept it up, "Yeah, send her to the back to get her package." Umm, what the...but then I listened, and I heard chirping. Lots of teeny little chirping sounds coming from the back room. "I think he wants you to see what's in the back room," The Ex mumbled, in a none-too-friendly way. I hesitated, finding the whole situation to be kind of weird. But the teeny chirps got me, I had to see what was making that noise!
I headed back and turned into the room, windowless and dark but for a lamp on the floor, pointed into a grey basin. Two little girls looked up when I entered, and one immediately approached me, saying, "This one is Cheep Cheep. She's the only one I know because she's the only one that's pooped on me." In her hand was a tiny baby chick, no bigger than the hand itself. And in the basin, there were her sisters and brothers (but Cheep Cheep's human-friend told me that most of the babies were girls, that's just the way they get made). There were at least 20 of them, mostly golden fuzz, though about 6 or 7 were black and grey. They chirped away in the basin, the heat of the lamp upon them like noon-time sun in the winter desert, bouncing off of each other as they tried to hop to a new spot. Here, in this dark room, these chicks knew nothing other than the chick-filled, grey-walled world they inhabited, with the occasional super-huge human head hovering above in the darkness. They had no understanding of the world I lived in. Beyond my gargantuan head, they saw only darkness, a starless night that extended deep into Forever. And for a moment, looking down on their tiny beaks and teeny legs, I wanted to trade places. Shrink down to a golden fuzzy newborn (with no understanding of the life of egg-laying servitude that lay before me, or the possible appearance on some day's dinner table) and bounce around in wonder, feeling the warmth, eating the seed, pooping wherever I may please.
"Do you wanna hold her?" I was brought out of my daydream by Cheep Cheep's human, who was holding her hands towards me with the baby chick staring out from her fingers, probably wondering, "What the..." "Oh yes, I wanna hold her!" Though I admit to being nervous. I've always been nervous around babies, human, chicken, all of 'em. I was the baby in the family, see, and it wasn't until I was a troubled teenager that I first found myself with a baby being offered to me, "You wanna hold him?" Hell no, I didn't want to hold him! I was terrified! What if I broke it? Really, it was the idea of a newborn, all that powerful life-stuff ahead of him, that freaked me out. I was a teenager, and thoughts and fears of child-rearing were a common lunch-table topic for me and my too-old-too-young girlfriends. Having a baby thrust towards me had a physical effect: my body suddenly went cold, the sounds of the room were warped, and my mouth had the texture of damp cotton. It was all I could do to squeak out a "no" and take a step backwards. But behind me was a wall, and the baby came closer, insisting to be held, until I had to find a way of raising my voice and making my "No" mean no. (It was another 14 years before I finally gave in and held a baby, my nephew Dylan, who was born just a few days before my "You seriously STILL haven't held a baby?" birthday.) Babies freak me out! But the fuzzy animal babies, well, I'm a sucker.
I took Cheep Cheep into my hands ("Don't squeeze or she'll pop!" the little human told me) and stared down at her little head, no bigger than the tip of my thumb. So cute! She was vibrating with energy, her little eyes looking this way and that, as the world outside of the heat-lamp began coming into focus. I tipped my head down towards her, until the tip of my nose could rub the top of her head. I wanted to eat her up, she was so cute! So tiny, so new, so full of wonder. Oh, to be a baby chick... And then she pooped on me. Right in my hand. And I was done with Cheep Cheep.
As I washed my hands in the bathroom, I looked into the mirror, and I smiled. Life is funny, you know? I went to get my mail, and a chicken pooped in my hand. You never know what life's got in store for you. 30 minutes later, I would be walking into the beginning of what's been a really hard week (I'm still waiting to cash in my A-Bird-Pooped-On-Me good luck). But at that very moment, washing Lucky Poop off my hands, I couldn't help but marvel at the very idea of being alive. Every day is a new adventure, whether I want the adventure or not. It can be hard to appreciate, when the adventure is of the Novice level. It can be hard to navigate, when the level is at Expert. Rarely am I prepared for the obstacles, the bends and turns along the way. At times, I manage tricky terrain like a mountain lion. At others, I manage to screw up a straight path. And for all the days I wish I could just be a baby chicken, there are days when I am revelling in my humanity.
But, if anyone's out there, doling out the Lucky Poop payroll, I can really use some good fortune right about now...
I headed back and turned into the room, windowless and dark but for a lamp on the floor, pointed into a grey basin. Two little girls looked up when I entered, and one immediately approached me, saying, "This one is Cheep Cheep. She's the only one I know because she's the only one that's pooped on me." In her hand was a tiny baby chick, no bigger than the hand itself. And in the basin, there were her sisters and brothers (but Cheep Cheep's human-friend told me that most of the babies were girls, that's just the way they get made). There were at least 20 of them, mostly golden fuzz, though about 6 or 7 were black and grey. They chirped away in the basin, the heat of the lamp upon them like noon-time sun in the winter desert, bouncing off of each other as they tried to hop to a new spot. Here, in this dark room, these chicks knew nothing other than the chick-filled, grey-walled world they inhabited, with the occasional super-huge human head hovering above in the darkness. They had no understanding of the world I lived in. Beyond my gargantuan head, they saw only darkness, a starless night that extended deep into Forever. And for a moment, looking down on their tiny beaks and teeny legs, I wanted to trade places. Shrink down to a golden fuzzy newborn (with no understanding of the life of egg-laying servitude that lay before me, or the possible appearance on some day's dinner table) and bounce around in wonder, feeling the warmth, eating the seed, pooping wherever I may please.
"Do you wanna hold her?" I was brought out of my daydream by Cheep Cheep's human, who was holding her hands towards me with the baby chick staring out from her fingers, probably wondering, "What the..." "Oh yes, I wanna hold her!" Though I admit to being nervous. I've always been nervous around babies, human, chicken, all of 'em. I was the baby in the family, see, and it wasn't until I was a troubled teenager that I first found myself with a baby being offered to me, "You wanna hold him?" Hell no, I didn't want to hold him! I was terrified! What if I broke it? Really, it was the idea of a newborn, all that powerful life-stuff ahead of him, that freaked me out. I was a teenager, and thoughts and fears of child-rearing were a common lunch-table topic for me and my too-old-too-young girlfriends. Having a baby thrust towards me had a physical effect: my body suddenly went cold, the sounds of the room were warped, and my mouth had the texture of damp cotton. It was all I could do to squeak out a "no" and take a step backwards. But behind me was a wall, and the baby came closer, insisting to be held, until I had to find a way of raising my voice and making my "No" mean no. (It was another 14 years before I finally gave in and held a baby, my nephew Dylan, who was born just a few days before my "You seriously STILL haven't held a baby?" birthday.) Babies freak me out! But the fuzzy animal babies, well, I'm a sucker.
I took Cheep Cheep into my hands ("Don't squeeze or she'll pop!" the little human told me) and stared down at her little head, no bigger than the tip of my thumb. So cute! She was vibrating with energy, her little eyes looking this way and that, as the world outside of the heat-lamp began coming into focus. I tipped my head down towards her, until the tip of my nose could rub the top of her head. I wanted to eat her up, she was so cute! So tiny, so new, so full of wonder. Oh, to be a baby chick... And then she pooped on me. Right in my hand. And I was done with Cheep Cheep.
As I washed my hands in the bathroom, I looked into the mirror, and I smiled. Life is funny, you know? I went to get my mail, and a chicken pooped in my hand. You never know what life's got in store for you. 30 minutes later, I would be walking into the beginning of what's been a really hard week (I'm still waiting to cash in my A-Bird-Pooped-On-Me good luck). But at that very moment, washing Lucky Poop off my hands, I couldn't help but marvel at the very idea of being alive. Every day is a new adventure, whether I want the adventure or not. It can be hard to appreciate, when the adventure is of the Novice level. It can be hard to navigate, when the level is at Expert. Rarely am I prepared for the obstacles, the bends and turns along the way. At times, I manage tricky terrain like a mountain lion. At others, I manage to screw up a straight path. And for all the days I wish I could just be a baby chicken, there are days when I am revelling in my humanity.
But, if anyone's out there, doling out the Lucky Poop payroll, I can really use some good fortune right about now...
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Back to reality...again.
A new year. A new beginning. And yet, seems I'm swimming in the same old muck.
But at least I got away for awhile!!
A week on a cruiseship. Wow. What a trip. I ended 2008 in Guatemala, started 2009 in Belize. And in both places, I got a chance to see how the locals live. Which was an excellent reminder of how good we've got it here in the good ol' U S of A. At least, it was a reminder for me. I may be wading through heaping tons of debt, but my floor ain't made of dirt. And all that debt is a result of opportunities that most people never even dream of. I kept wondering, as our insanely large cruiseship pulled into these ports, what do the locals imagine this boat to be? Here comes this giant floating city, full of people who want to buy discounted diamonds (every port we went to had a Diamonds International store, and many of our fellow passengers made it their first stop). How does a kid living in a tin-roofed shack make sense of this? I have a hard time making sense of it myself. For an entire week, I lived on a boat with 2000 passengers and 1000 crew members, with nothing to do but eat massive quantities of food, listen to any number of live bands or DJ's, and spend the days wandering around a new country. It was weird. I didn't really know what to expect. The first day, I was in awe of everything. So much food! A big theatre right on the ship! Shuffle board! Ping pong! Entertainment everywhere! But after a few days, it was all rather repetitive. The entertainment was fine, nothing spectacular, pretty cheesy, actually. And the people were...well, I didn't meet many people. There were a lot of families on board, multi-generational, little kids and grandparents, everyone moving in bunches. Not many people in our age range. And I often felt, overhearing conversations, that there were not many people I could relate to. For one thing, everyone seemed to be buying diamonds! All the ports we pulled into were rather empty of anything to do besides shop. Well, they had lots of excursions you could take to go explore the area a bit. And if you wanted to do anything besides shop, you'd better take an excursion. We took a couple, but we were on a budget so we were rather limited. My parents gave us some excursion money as a Christmas gift, so we checked out some Mayan ruins in Belize and did a tour of the port towns in Guatemala. They were the cheapest tours we could take. And they were great. Really fascinating. An excellent glimpse of how the locals live. Except we were stuck on a bus with people asking embarrassing questions of our tour guides, like, "Where does the middle class live?" "Do kids go to school?" "Do bodies get embalmed before they get buried?" Sigh. I'm pretty sure "embalm" isn't a word familiar to our Guatemalan tour guide. She had a beautiful, gold-capped smile, and a fair grasp of the English language. But come on! And there were lots of complaints on the bus about the fact that we didn't stop anywhere to shop. Seems that's what people like to do on cruises. The whole time on the boat, there was a constant sales pitch. "Come to the gift shop! Buy your raffle tickets! Don't miss our port shopping talk with Jenna! Today at noon, emeralds on sale in the main lobby! Make a deposit on your next cruise, receive a free gift!" Every time we sat anywhere, the cocktail servers were on us, "Today's special cocktail is The Ball Drop, only $9!" Even soda cost $2 a glass, but they did offer a $50 unlimited cup at the top of the cruise. Alex consumes massive quantities of soda, so he bought the cup. And every time he asked to get it filled, he was met with an angry look. I'm pretty sure all drink servers were told NOT to refill those cups. Especially in the restaurants. There were 9 restaurants on the ship, only 4 of which were free (the other 5 had a cover charge of $15-25 per person). 1 was the buffet, another was a burger joint, and the other two had table service. We generally did the buffet for breakfast and lunch, as it was easy. But for dinner, we'd put on some nice clothes and head to one of the better free establishments. And as soon as we were seated, a server would present a bottle of Pellegrino and a bottle of Evian, asking which we'd like. "Just tap water, please," I'd say, as we were determined not to spend money on things like water. Dirty look from the server. Then another server would approach, "What kind of wine will you be drinking tonite? Or would you like to celebrate with champagne?" "No thank you, but I'd like a diet Coke, please," and Alex would present his unlimited Coke cup, knowing that they wouldn't offer to fill it if we didn't force it on them. Again, dirty look. I'm guessing the servers got a commission. I don't know, but it actually made for an unpleasant experience. One server, after we said No to the wine, said, "Pass pass pass" in a snarky manner and walked away. That was our first night. Now, I know that most people going on a cruise are there to party, and they plan on spending a good deal of money. But we got this cruise for free and had no money to spend. So to spend a week listening to overhead announcements about the great deals available on precious stones, or buy 2 get 1 free Bingo, or special deals on your next cruise, well, it was pretty unsavory. Kind of like being at a non-stop Timeshare pitch. By the end of it, when we got our bill, I'm pretty sure we had the lowest tab on the boat. All we bought was a couple of low-priced excursions, some overpriced Tylenol in the gift shop, and our daily service charge (which, at $10 per person per day, seemed rather low to me, the only thing on the boat that was underpriced). Don't think we'll be offered another free cruise anytime soon. Though our cruise director, Boozy Soozy, did everything in her power to get us to buy our next trip.
But the trip was very good for us. We went to some beautiful places, got to see the bluest water I've ever seen, spent days in the sun and nights under the stars. It was an entire week of no phones, no computer, no ability for Alex to work. It kind of felt like the first time I'd seen him in months. Sure, we're together every day in Vegas. But his work consumes him, and I've got no life to speak of in Vegas, so our time together has been rather distracted and unsatisfying. Now, we had days of nothing but each other, and it was exactly what we needed. We finally had a chance to talk about the future a bit, life after the Superbowl. We came to Vegas with a 6-month lease and said we'd figure out the next step along the way. But there's no time to talk when we're in Vegas, no time for Alex to turn off the job. So, there were many hours spent under a starry sky, trying to make sense of the life we're living. What do we want to do? Where do we want to be? What can we afford? Let me tell you, these conversations were not simple. The more we talked, the more complicated things became. But we definitely have a better sense of what's what. Not that I'm prepared to speak out loud any decisions made (or pondered anyway). But I do know that change is a-brewin'. It's all rather terrifying, but I have faith that things will work out. 2009 has to be a better year than 2008. Doesn't it? Please??
I am unable to comment any further, due to pending legal matters. But let me just say this, turns out our troubles are far from over. Happy freaking new year.
But at least I got away for awhile!!
A week on a cruiseship. Wow. What a trip. I ended 2008 in Guatemala, started 2009 in Belize. And in both places, I got a chance to see how the locals live. Which was an excellent reminder of how good we've got it here in the good ol' U S of A. At least, it was a reminder for me. I may be wading through heaping tons of debt, but my floor ain't made of dirt. And all that debt is a result of opportunities that most people never even dream of. I kept wondering, as our insanely large cruiseship pulled into these ports, what do the locals imagine this boat to be? Here comes this giant floating city, full of people who want to buy discounted diamonds (every port we went to had a Diamonds International store, and many of our fellow passengers made it their first stop). How does a kid living in a tin-roofed shack make sense of this? I have a hard time making sense of it myself. For an entire week, I lived on a boat with 2000 passengers and 1000 crew members, with nothing to do but eat massive quantities of food, listen to any number of live bands or DJ's, and spend the days wandering around a new country. It was weird. I didn't really know what to expect. The first day, I was in awe of everything. So much food! A big theatre right on the ship! Shuffle board! Ping pong! Entertainment everywhere! But after a few days, it was all rather repetitive. The entertainment was fine, nothing spectacular, pretty cheesy, actually. And the people were...well, I didn't meet many people. There were a lot of families on board, multi-generational, little kids and grandparents, everyone moving in bunches. Not many people in our age range. And I often felt, overhearing conversations, that there were not many people I could relate to. For one thing, everyone seemed to be buying diamonds! All the ports we pulled into were rather empty of anything to do besides shop. Well, they had lots of excursions you could take to go explore the area a bit. And if you wanted to do anything besides shop, you'd better take an excursion. We took a couple, but we were on a budget so we were rather limited. My parents gave us some excursion money as a Christmas gift, so we checked out some Mayan ruins in Belize and did a tour of the port towns in Guatemala. They were the cheapest tours we could take. And they were great. Really fascinating. An excellent glimpse of how the locals live. Except we were stuck on a bus with people asking embarrassing questions of our tour guides, like, "Where does the middle class live?" "Do kids go to school?" "Do bodies get embalmed before they get buried?" Sigh. I'm pretty sure "embalm" isn't a word familiar to our Guatemalan tour guide. She had a beautiful, gold-capped smile, and a fair grasp of the English language. But come on! And there were lots of complaints on the bus about the fact that we didn't stop anywhere to shop. Seems that's what people like to do on cruises. The whole time on the boat, there was a constant sales pitch. "Come to the gift shop! Buy your raffle tickets! Don't miss our port shopping talk with Jenna! Today at noon, emeralds on sale in the main lobby! Make a deposit on your next cruise, receive a free gift!" Every time we sat anywhere, the cocktail servers were on us, "Today's special cocktail is The Ball Drop, only $9!" Even soda cost $2 a glass, but they did offer a $50 unlimited cup at the top of the cruise. Alex consumes massive quantities of soda, so he bought the cup. And every time he asked to get it filled, he was met with an angry look. I'm pretty sure all drink servers were told NOT to refill those cups. Especially in the restaurants. There were 9 restaurants on the ship, only 4 of which were free (the other 5 had a cover charge of $15-25 per person). 1 was the buffet, another was a burger joint, and the other two had table service. We generally did the buffet for breakfast and lunch, as it was easy. But for dinner, we'd put on some nice clothes and head to one of the better free establishments. And as soon as we were seated, a server would present a bottle of Pellegrino and a bottle of Evian, asking which we'd like. "Just tap water, please," I'd say, as we were determined not to spend money on things like water. Dirty look from the server. Then another server would approach, "What kind of wine will you be drinking tonite? Or would you like to celebrate with champagne?" "No thank you, but I'd like a diet Coke, please," and Alex would present his unlimited Coke cup, knowing that they wouldn't offer to fill it if we didn't force it on them. Again, dirty look. I'm guessing the servers got a commission. I don't know, but it actually made for an unpleasant experience. One server, after we said No to the wine, said, "Pass pass pass" in a snarky manner and walked away. That was our first night. Now, I know that most people going on a cruise are there to party, and they plan on spending a good deal of money. But we got this cruise for free and had no money to spend. So to spend a week listening to overhead announcements about the great deals available on precious stones, or buy 2 get 1 free Bingo, or special deals on your next cruise, well, it was pretty unsavory. Kind of like being at a non-stop Timeshare pitch. By the end of it, when we got our bill, I'm pretty sure we had the lowest tab on the boat. All we bought was a couple of low-priced excursions, some overpriced Tylenol in the gift shop, and our daily service charge (which, at $10 per person per day, seemed rather low to me, the only thing on the boat that was underpriced). Don't think we'll be offered another free cruise anytime soon. Though our cruise director, Boozy Soozy, did everything in her power to get us to buy our next trip.
But the trip was very good for us. We went to some beautiful places, got to see the bluest water I've ever seen, spent days in the sun and nights under the stars. It was an entire week of no phones, no computer, no ability for Alex to work. It kind of felt like the first time I'd seen him in months. Sure, we're together every day in Vegas. But his work consumes him, and I've got no life to speak of in Vegas, so our time together has been rather distracted and unsatisfying. Now, we had days of nothing but each other, and it was exactly what we needed. We finally had a chance to talk about the future a bit, life after the Superbowl. We came to Vegas with a 6-month lease and said we'd figure out the next step along the way. But there's no time to talk when we're in Vegas, no time for Alex to turn off the job. So, there were many hours spent under a starry sky, trying to make sense of the life we're living. What do we want to do? Where do we want to be? What can we afford? Let me tell you, these conversations were not simple. The more we talked, the more complicated things became. But we definitely have a better sense of what's what. Not that I'm prepared to speak out loud any decisions made (or pondered anyway). But I do know that change is a-brewin'. It's all rather terrifying, but I have faith that things will work out. 2009 has to be a better year than 2008. Doesn't it? Please??
I am unable to comment any further, due to pending legal matters. But let me just say this, turns out our troubles are far from over. Happy freaking new year.
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