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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

 

 

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.  

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...