Not Quite Merry and Bright

Here's a quirky fact about me: after years of being an alto in various choirs, I have difficulty remembering the melodies of carols. I always sing strange harmony parts that I've picked up at one time or another. There are some songs that I flat out don't know the melody to (such as It's a Marshmallow World in the Winter, or whatever that horrid wreck of a song is called... had to learn it in a choir, but didn't know it outside of that). It's very strange. And with the possible exceptions of the harmonies I know for Angels We Have Heard on High and Silver Bells, alto lines are boring. Usually, they're just a sequence of of notes that are lower than the melody line by thirds or fifths. Either that, or they consist of three notes sung in a random, somewhat repetitive order. I'm always a little nervous about singing carols as I walk around town, because I'm so worried that I'll accidentally start singing the alto part and people near me will just think I'm tragically tone deaf.

Generally, I'm a big fan of Christmas-time. People always seem a little cheerier than normal. A little more generous, perhaps. It's contagious. But this year... I don't know. It's like it isn't quite clicking into place for me.

My family was driving around today, and we all started snapping at each other. We stopped for lunch at a rest area with a food court. I wasn't hungry, so I sat down at a table by myself as everyone else ordered their meals. I sat and begin to question whether the car trip had put me in a bad mood, or if I was in one already. I started getting upset without much cause or warning. And then the speakers playing holiday music started emitting a woman's voice singing, I'll Be Home for Christmas.

Before I knew what was happening, there were tears streaming down my face. I tried to stop crying, but I couldn't. I ran up to my parents and asked if I could wait in the car. They started asking if one of my brother's had taunted me, and if that was the cause for my tears. I mumbled something about the song. My dad handed me the keys, and as I hurried away I heard him explain to my mother that I wanted to be in Michigan for Christmas. Not in Connecticut.

I climbed into the back of the mini-van and just started sobbing. One of my brothers called me on his cell phone to ask if I was alright, so I said I was. I tried calling a friend on the phone, but he didn't answer. After a few minutes, my mother came into the car and asked if I was okay. I gave her an "I don't want to talk about it" brush off, and she sat there with me until my dad and the boys returned.

This is the longest period of time I've spent away from Michigan in my entire life (and that includes the semester I spent abroad). When I was four, we moved into the house I call "home", and now I haven't been there since the first week of August. And I don't know if/when I'll be back. It just feels... wrong. Something is different. Missing. Lost. I've been with my family for two days, but I feel like I'm still waiting to get home.

I have a nasty crying-induced headache now. As I've mentioned before (see A Little Water Clears Us), when I start crying, it stays in me for awhile. The rest of my family is downstairs watching television together, but I wanted to get away from that. So I'm in "my" room, breathing somewhat erratically and trying not to relapse into my liquid state.



I'm sure it will be better tomorrow, once we start celebrating. We'll take on our old traditions, and things will start fitting together again.

And now, for one of my signature lists:

- Truffles
My dad makes chocolate truffles. He's let me help him since I was a wee child. I don't remember when it started. I don't really remember my brothers ever getting involved. It was more between my dad and me. Earlier today, my dad was searching for his recipe, and when I showed signs of excitement, my mother said she didn't know I helped with the truffles. No idea how it has escaped her attention for almost twenty years.

- Cinnamon Rolls
My parents made cinnamon rolls every Christmas Eve while they were Santa-Claus-ing, and we'd have them for breakfast on Christmas morning. Once we grew out of the Santa thing, my brothers and I began helping. Now we make batches upon batches, and give them to neighbors as gifts.

- Carols
My dad is a phenomenal pianist, and he likes to play every carol imaginable while the rest of the family sings. Of course, now that we're in Connecticut, my aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandmother aren't here to sing... So it'll really just be me and my mother. And maybe one of my brothers. Not quite the same.

-The Over-Wrapped Present
This one has been absent for the last couple of Christmas celebrations, so maybe we've grown out of it. Every year with my brothers and I, someone would give someone else something in which the wrapping was more fun than the gift itself. Like a Russian-doll inspired wrapping job with a box in a box in a box. Or putting a small present in a huge box, and including some large books from around the house inside to make the box heavy in case they tried to shake it to guess what it was.

- The Last Present
We exchange presents on Christmas Eve, and for some reason it's a big deal to give the last present of the night. We've never even verbalized this; it's just understood. This was my dad's specialty, but occasionally others of us will try to fight him for the honor. We'll hide presents around the room. Once nothing is left under the tree, someone will say, "Wait! I've got one more." Once that's unwrapped, someone else will have one more... One year, I hid three presents under Santa hats around the room, which I broke out after I thought everyone else was done. My dad still "won", by putting a present for my mom on top of a bookshelf (and it was a HUGE gift in clear sight. No idea how no one saw it). Last year, he hid something between chairs in our family room by cleverly NOT wrapping it, but instead leaving it in a plastic bag. Somehow, it didn't register that it was a gift at all. I only bought one present per person this year, so I won't be in the running to give the last gift. Ah well. Maybe next year.

- The Pickle
This is a new thing for us. There's this urban legend that in Germany families hide a pickle somewhere in the Christmas tree, and the child who finds it gets an extra present. My dad claims that this is a fake tradition that doesn't actually exist in Germany, but we think it's hilarious nonetheless. So last year, my mother put a hamburger dill in the Christmas tree, and it was really just a race to find it before the dog did. This year, I bought a pickle ornament at Christkindlmarket (a German Christmas fair in Chicago), but when I got here I realized that the tree is much smaller than we used to have. In Michigan, our family room had a high ceiling, allowing for thirteen foot trees. This year, the tree is not much taller than the giant mutant beanstalks I call brothers. So maybe we won't hide a pickle. But I'll still get a kick out of seeing the ornament.

- The Emotional Breakdown
It seems that every holiday, someone in my family has an emotional breakdown. Before the holiday is over, someone has run out of the room crying. Sometimes there's a fight. Sometimes it's completely irrational. At least one time it was alcohol-induced. A few years back on New Year's Eve we had a huge family blowout (and we were in Paris at the time... it was miserable), in which I think every one of us was screaming, crying, and verbally attacking the others. I've had a few Thanksgivings in the past where I was the insane one (the relative I was named after died on Thanksgiving, and I've always wondered if I have a negative feel for it because of that. Also worth noting: she died after being hit by a car while crossing the street, which made me getting hit by a car especially terrifying for my mother). New Year's Eve is traditionally mine. I had more than one argument with my mother about why I wouldn't "toast with the family" (my family is big into social drinking, so I stopped drinking as a form of rebellion when I was younger), and someone ran to my room to drag me downstairs minutes before the ball dropped. But this year, it looks like I've got Christmas wrapped up.


May you feel at home for the holidays.

Much love,

~A~


P.S. The origin of the word "merry" was as meaning "blessed", not "joyous/happy/festive" as it has evolved to signify. So have a blessed holiday season (and know that I mean it as two syllables... bless-éd is so much more fun to say). After all, blessings are what the winter holidays are all about.

P.P.S. I had a dream last night about eating a salami sandwich and then feeling guilty about it. Do other vegetarians dream about meat? Or is it just me?

Impractical Interests

Let's begin with another episode of "what Angela dreamt last night":

I got a phone call from someone saying that the person playing "Kate Monster/Lucy the Slut" in the Broadway musical Avenue Q AND one of her understudies had gotten sick, and the other understudy was like 8 months pregnant. They needed someone to be her backup in case anything happened, and for some reason, they wanted me to do it. Even though I didn't remember auditioning for it. And I'm not Equity. And I don't know the script aside from what's on the cast recording. And I've never worked with a puppet. The producers seemed convinced that they could teach me.

The next thing that happened in the dream (presumably after some fiery rehearsal time) was me finding out that the pregnant understudy had to be rushed to the hospital for some reason (labor?), and I had to take over the role. Somehow, the audience was all people I knew. My family was in the front row (as, in real life, my family is almost always in the front row... my mother is very particular about that). The first act flew by. I was terrified that I was going to sing the lyrics to "There's a Fine, Fine Line" in the wrong order for some reason, but I didn't. I did, however, go up at one point (going up = forgetting lines... or just mentally misplacing them), but my scene partner (I think it was Trekkie Monster... no clue what scene it was) fed the line to me rather nicely, so it worked out. And I apologized profusely backstage. The second act seemed more difficult than the first. I wasn't doing anything wrong, but I couldn't remember what I was supposed to be doing until I was actually doing it. Sadly, my alarm clock went off before the curtain call, so I'm not sure how the show ended.

(Feel free to analyze in the comments section.)

And now, we return to our semi-regularly scheduled programming.

I was offered an acting gig this week. It was going to pay $50 per performance (with the possibility of additional profit sharing). And I turned it down. I had to pass it up because the performances are the same week as auditions for graduate school (I'm not even sure that I want to go to graduate school right now, but I'd like to keep my options open), and I felt like I wouldn't be able to give either event all of my attention if I were trying to do both. So it's a little sad. And I would've liked the money. And something to do theatrically. But it's probably for the best. Everything happens for a reason.

It was flattering to be asked, though. Seriously, it's a great feeling when someone really wants you to be in a show. This one is a cabaret sort of thing, and they wanted me to do a 10-minute monologue for it, and it sounds like they wanted me to sing as well. That gave me sort of a boost. Someone in this city thinks I have talent. How lovely that is!

Anyway. I shouldn't be typing this right now. I should be packing. But I never pack when I should be packing. I'll probably goof off on the internet until around 1am, and then start cleaning my apartment. And once I can figure out where most of the things are that I would want to pack (around 2am or so... or maybe I'll take a nap and start at 4am), I'll start packing. And I will inevitably forget something of questionable importance. Last time I went home, it was socks (I borrowed them from my mother the whole time I was there). I'm just going to pray it isn't Christmas presents (which I'm bringing not wrapped. Why waste money on wrapping supplies when I'm sure my mother has them stocked in abundance?)

I have to be fully packed and out the door with suitcase in tow at 7:30am. I'm leaving for Connecticut tomorrow directly after work. I'm headed to see my family for nine days. As much as I love them, that's going to be rough, as we have very little in common with each other. Last time I was home we sat around drinking and watching movies. One of my brothers is in Nicaragua right now, so at least he'll have some interesting stories to regale us with. And I'm sure I'll go into Story-Mode for awhile, entertaining them for as long as they'll allow me to do so. I haven't told my brothers about my car accident yet, so that'll be some interesting new material.

But yes, nine days is a frustrating length of time (I had originally anticipated seven days, which I thought was more than enough... but my parents are graciously funding my air fare, so there was little I could do about it). Particularly since my flight schedule for that trip ruined my ability to go to Michigan for New Year's Eve, as I had been planning. And I'm not the only person who's disgruntled about the fact that I won't be there. In fact, I think I'm more upset by the guilt from disappointing others than I am by my own disappointment. But such is life.

By not going to Michigan, I'm missing out on seeing a few of the people I hold dearest, so that's horribly depressing.

And now I'll leapfrog over the paragraphs that would connect my thoughts, and hop directly into what I really want to discuss...

I have this new problem in my life when it comes to males. Usually the problem is either "too many" or "too few". Right now, the problem is a world of unlikely, impractical, and impossible. The males in my life have pretty much all been forced into the unfortunate category of "as good as gay" for one reason or another (you might want to refer to my post Flipping the Switch for background). Why? They're taken. They're in other states. I don't actually know them in real life. I made them up for my novel. You know, normal complications like that.

I dislike the feeling of a crush, as it's all-consuming and often puts me in a downtrodden sort of state, as the fellow I aim my attentions toward always seems to be the one who doesn't realize I exist. Instead, I'm a big fan of the concept of being "interested". You can be "interested" in a thousand people at once, and you never have to get hung up on any of them. It's really just a matter of recognizing the potential for something more.

And being interested as opposed to crushed has saved me from many emotional train-wrecks since I implemented it, but it comes with its own problems. The biggest of these is that there are more chances for heartbreak. It's not just one guy that isn't reciprocating your interest. It's three. Or five. Or twenty. And the worst problem is when you're interested in someone (or several someones) with whom the potential should be ignored (or where it doesn't actually exist at all).

It used to seem that the greatest pain in being crushed/interested in someone would come if they weren't reciprocating the crush/interest, but from my experiences as of late, that isn't the case. It's far less pleasant if the other person seems potentially interested, and you think it might work out quite well if it weren't for the major obstacle in your way. Some unavoidable, unconquerable obstruction preventing you from getting to know each other better or seeing where the other person might lead you.

But the identifying tag of "as good as gay" (AGAG) is here to help, not hurt. It's in practice to prevent me from entering into any glaringly bad situations. It's a wall. A guard. A layer of protection.

It's meant to sew up my heart before I bleed to death.

Admittedly, there are some problems with the AGAG label. The first of which is that it occasionally gets applied where it shouldn't. I recently read something comparing it to a job interview... I can't remember where, so I'll paraphrase.

Let's say that a woman has a close male friend who is interested in her but whom she sees in a strictly platonic light. She says, "You're a great guy, but I don't like you in that way."

This is basically the equivalent of a man interviewing for a job and the company saying, "You're well qualified, and you have a great résumé, but we're not going to hire you. But we will be using you as a standard to measure all the other applicants against." And then they go on to hire someone who is obviously less qualified, whom they attempt to train to be the right sort of applicant, but it won't work out. And even after he's been fired, the original applicant won't get the job. Some other loser will. But the company will call him on occasion to complain about the person they hired instead.

It seems rather foolish when you look at it from that angle, doesn't it? But platonic friendship isn't the only reason that a guy becomes AGAG, so this comparison isn't enough to make me eliminate the tag from my vocabulary.

The other problem with the "AGAG" label occurs when it gets applied too late. For example, a girl becomes crushed on a guy, only to find out later that he's gay. It's hard to erase all those feelings she had with that revelation. Yes, it's helpless, hopeless, and pointless, but she'll pine away for him a little while longer. She probably won't even admit to it, but she'll do it.

It's the same way if she suddenly finds out that her best friend was interested first. Or if the guy is interested in her best friend. Or if he has a girlfriend. Or any other of the myriad of reasons that being interested in him would be a horrible idea. Doesn't matter. The fantasy is already there, and it's hard to stamp that out. As the movie When Harry Met Sally claimed, once the possibility of a romantic/sexual relationship is on the table, it pretty much ruins the potential for a normal platonic friendship. (Although I disagree with the movie's idea that men and women can't be friends... I've mastered the platonic thing with a few male friends of mine, and it's working out quite well.) And as good as I am at talking myself out of things (and trust me, I am rather adroit in that area), this is one concept that I struggle with: how to forget that you fancied someone.

So without going into any more detail than I already have, I'll just say that my love life is just as screwed up as everyone else's. I will be leaving certain males on the AGAG list as opposed to going gaga over them and becoming agog (yay wordplay). The end.


May your intuition lead you away from romantic roads that will turn out to be dead ends.

~A~


P.S. I was walking through a department store doing Christmas shopping, and the overhead speaker paged a "Tyler Durden". No, I didn't mishear it. So all you Fight Club fans, if you want to get in on some underground action, you might want to head to Chicago.

P.P.S. I'm starting to get tired of my own Decemberized playlist... I'll keep it up for a little while longer. By the way, I recommend "Together We'll Ring in the New Year" by Motion City Soundtrack. Might as well take advantage of the list as long as it's up.

P.P.P.S. I didn't proofread this, as I'm completely hyper-active right now and couldn't be bothered to sit still long enough to read it before posting. So please forgive the errors. Maybe I'll go back and read it tomorrow... but no guarantees.

Dialogues & Somniloquies

I've been stuck inside my apartment all day with spurts of horrible cramps. I'm sorry if that's TMI for any of the males who read this, but I'm in pain right now and can't get my mind off of it. As I type this, I'm using my laptop as a sort of makeshift heating pad for my midsection. It's not really helping, but I figured it was worth a shot. GAH! PAIN! It's like my body is warring against itself.

And so is my mind, actually. There are two different posts that I want to write, and I can't decide between them (being decisive has never been my strong suit). I guess I'll just sort of squish them into one and pray that the result isn't too jarring. So here goes.

The last few days have been marked by long conversations and vivid dreams.

I ran into my college friend Charlotte as I was wandering around downtown looking for boots earlier this week. Strangely, she was out doing exactly the same thing. We walked around for awhile, chatting more than shopping. We discussed our simultaneously similar and divergent love lives at length. It was exactly what I needed. It's lovely to talk to people who are completely removed from your situation, but still know you as a person well enough to understand what's at stake and why you've handled things the way you have thus far (did any of that sentence make sense?).

The horizon of my love life isn't completely empty, stagnant, or static, but I haven't felt right about spewing anything here. First of all, it concerns at least one person who may or may not read this blog (he knows the address, although he reads it somewhat sporadically). Second, I haven't sorted out everything mentally yet, so trying to compose anything would be more of a goulash than an actual stream of thought. Third, once I do sort everything out, I feel I owe it to certain people to discuss it with them before discussing it with the electronic world. Lastly and least importantly, I suddenly feel the need to censor myself, now that I know that certain friends have access to this (including a brother, an ex, and a couple of coworkers... no offense, John & John). It was easier when mostly strangers read this. I didn't care so much what they knew.

Suffice it to say, I have a friend who is "in love with" me (his words, not mine), and words like that tend to complicate lives.

Moving on.

I went to my company's holiday party on Friday. The party was held at ESPN Zone. It's a cross between a restaurant and an arcade, but with only sports-related games and no prizes. Instead of letting free alcohol flow and creating the awkward drunken social environment that one might normally associate with the holiday season, each employee was given a card pre-stocked with game credits. We got to leave work at 11:45, but were paid for the full day. And on top of that, we got a free meal out of it. Long live corporate America!

Really, it was a splendid idea for a holiday party. I enjoyed letting loose with my coworkers in a fun environment. Everyone was acting silly, which is normally territory that only I dare to enter. My boss' boss' boss' boss (I'm incredibly low on the totem pole) complimented my skills on a game (more on that shortly). My boss offered to buy drinks for my department, leading a coworker to say, "This is the best day of work ever!" as his giant mug of beer arrived. I played games against people who apparently work in my building but whom I swear I've never laid eyes on in the past.

One of my coworkers beat me at air hockey. One beat me on dirt bikes. And I think all of them beat me at basketball. Not only am I completely lacking in skill at sports, but apparently I'm devoid of the ability to master their artificial arcade-style counterparts as well.

Anyway, I played this game called Pump It Up. It's similar to DDR, except it came out like a week before (and won a lawsuit against DDR which is why that had to change to a plus-sign configuration from the x-shaped one). I'd never played before, but I gave it whirl. I beat three coworkers in a row. A guy who worked at the place said I was quick learner. He then demonstrated his own warp-speed skills in a special mode in which he used BOTH boards, and occasionally had to hit four buttons at once (meaning both hands and both feet became necessary). It was so insane and incredible. And one of those things that I could never, by any stretch of the imagination, ever physically accomplish.

(As a side note, I've decided I really want Monica's power from Heroes. She's a mimic. Anything she sees someone else do, she suddenly knows how to do. It's a great power, especially since it makes you more of a genius than a freak. Possibly the best power ever. Except for maybe having a "save game" function for your life. That would be awesome... whenever you screwed up, you could just "revert to saved". Brilliant.)

Non-coworker Ben (of the purely platonic pudding) challenged me to a game of table hockey (imagine foosball, but with hockey players), which he used as a platform to metaphorically slaughter me. So I brought him over to my turf and schooled him in three consecutive rounds of Pump It Up (I got three As, he got three Fs). After that we had a lovely, lengthy discussion, that spanned from the bar to beyond the L stop. As a result of it, I've decided that he and I are going to be good friends.

Saturday night I had dinner with John, a friend from college (it recently occurred to me that I know a large quantity of Johns). We've been living in the same city since August, but this is the first time we've actually been able to see each other. After dinner, we walked around talking in the blizzard for a long while until we were both covered in a layer of white and losing feeling in our toes. John is among the extremely small contingent of people who has figured out the art of teasing me without incurring my wrath. A rare skill indeed. He's fun to be around, which is why it's strange that we don't hang out more often. Every time I get on the phone with him we talk for long periods of time, but then I guess that happens more often than not with me.

And now for the unconventional section of the post (not that there's ever any convention utilized here...):

I've had more frequent dreams lately than usual, and they're all pretty strange. Maybe it has something to do with the accident? I don't know. I've been waking up in the middle of the night a lot (not all that unusual, sadly), so I've been remembering multiple dreams per slumber period. I had two dreams last night that I feel are worth mentioning, despite the fact that I haven't properly analyzed either of them, if only because they were somewhat lucid. I remember them both rather vividly, and I'm curious as to what I'm trying to tell myself subconsciously. If you have a guess, feel free to share it.

In the first, I was at a formal, old-fashioned sort of party. The kind that you might see in a movie version of a Jane Austen novel. It was the middle of winter, and everyone was in intricate ball gowns except for me, and I was in a contemporary party dress. A friend introduced me to an attractive man, who started staring at me to the point that I became uncomfortable. He approached me and asked me to dance. I said no, because everyone was doing some sort of complicated waltz-like thing that I'd never done before. He insisted, and he said I needed to change my shoes. So I took off the high heels I'd been wearing, and put on socks, and then he put a pair of Keds on my feet (my favorites!) and laced them up for me. Suddenly, swing music started playing, and I sort of knew what I was doing. We began swing dancing, with him spinning, twirling, and flipping me in ways that made me feel more like a baton than a dance partner. It was a blast. One by one, the room, the people, and the snow all melted away, and we were left standing outside in a field in the middle of spring. Then I woke up.

In the second dream, I was on some sort of a boardwalk or pier or something, running around with friends like I did when I was a child, without a care in the world. I had a kindergarten mentality throughout the dream. Between spurts of running, we were all reading things from scraps of paper (lists or something) and laughing wildly. We went to get ice cream, but the stand was running out of strawberry, so they only partially filled my gigantic cone. I started eating the cone first, saving the best for last. I offered a bite to a friend of mine (who, in the dream, was played by Prince Harry of England... no idea why... don't think it's important, but figured I should mention it). He took a bite, and promptly threw the entire cone into the water. He laughed as I yelled at him. I tried to kick him and hit him (again, kindergarten mentality), but he just batted away my hands and legs and kept laughing. I couldn't understand why he would do that when I hadn't gotten to eat any of my ice cream yet. If I weren't so angry, I surely would've been crying (they say not to cry over spilled milk, but spilled ice cream is an entirely different matter). He said that it tasted bad, and that he'd take me to a different stand he knew about that had better ice cream. So we separated from the rest of the group in search of this superior ice cream that he most definitely owed me, but by the time we got there, it was closed. He offered to break into the ice cream stand, but I told him not to because I didn't want to get in trouble. Next to the stand, there was narrow, lemon-lime shack with a door on the front. We walked over to it and discovered that it was unlocked. When we opened the door, there was just a staircase in front of us. We walked upstairs, and there were three rooms. One of them had a bed and a trunk in it. We began trying to open the trunk. And then I woke up.

I woke myself up from both of those dreams by talking in my sleep. I do that a lot. I think it's hereditary, because my mother and one of my brothers do the same thing. My mother cries and screams in her sleep as well. I don't scream. When I'm about to scream while sleeping, I swallow first for some reason. The swallowing wakes me before I yelp. I also have a cousin with a history of sleepwalking, but I'm not sure if that's connected.

There's actually a really lovely word for sleep-talking: somniloquy (I swear I'm not making that up, although spell-check dislikes it). I rather like that, as it sounds sort of theatrical. Even in my sleep I'm a performer.

A friend of mine once claimed that he heard me singing in my sleep. I thought he was joking, but to this day he swears it to be true. He said he didn't recognize the melody, and he thinks I may have made it up. He couldn't decide if it was cute or creepy. Neither could I.

I want to go on and make more sense of this entry (edit it and whatnot), but I really can't. Pain, pain, pain. Every few minutes while writing this I get a lightning bolt through my body. In light of the way I'm feeling right now, I'd say I've done pretty well with getting out what I wanted to, even if it's somewhat jostled. But I'm not even going to reread this before posting tonight... So please forgive any glaring spelling, punctuation, or grammatical errors that you may have noticed.

May you have outlets to discuss your problems, awake or asleep.

~A~

P.S. The band Semisonic has a song called "Singing in My Sleep". It's actually about hearing someone else singing to you while you sleep, and not singing while you're asleep... but I reminded myself of this in the post. I enjoy the song, and Semisonic in general. Overlooked group. People only seem to know "Closing Time" and "Chemistry". The lead singer, Dan Wilson, is doing a solo thing now. He's a Grammy-winner, because of co-writing that ubiquitous Dixie Chicks song last year... but anyway. Semisonic. Yes. Good group. Look them up.

P.P.S. GAH! PAIN! Will it never stop?!

Charming Insanity, Bad Wrists, & Dream Splits

25. I sat next to an insane guy on the L today who was sort of adorable. He looked to be in his early thirties, and was dressed nicely. If he hadn’t opened his mouth, I never would have looked at him twice. He leaned over and asked (at an inappropriately loud volume), “Do you have to time young lady? Or middle age lady? Old lady? What kind of lady should I call you, I don’t know…” After I told him it was five, he started asking other people on the train different questions. He asked a man how to tie his necktie into a Windsor knot. He asked a woman who was wearing a horrible red fur thing around her neck on if it was made of “rabbit foots” (it did look like that, actually). And then he started asking if we agreed with his psychiatrist that he shouldn’t be allowed out of the hospital because he was “too friendly”. And then he said he couldn’t remember why he’d gotten on the train and that he’d really like to go “back home to the loony bin.” And then he whipped out his harmonica and started playing for us. I think some of the people on the train weird annoyed, but I found him to be oddly charming. I think the ladies sitting behind him found his antics endearing as well. I hope he gets back to the hospital safely.

26. Everybody has a body part that they dislike more than anything else. I think for a lot of people it’s their noses (I have no problem with mine). I hate my wrists. They’re boney, they’re weak, and they make me feel awkward and vulnerable. I try to avoid wearing bracelets and watches, as that would draw attention to them.

27. For several years now, I have had a recurring dream of being able to do the splits. I get it every couple of months. In the dream, I always think, “Wow! I really can do the splits! Just like in that dream I always have… I guess my dreams are prophetic.” But then I wake up, and I’m disappointed. I wonder what a psychologist would say these dreams represent. I could do the splits when I was a kid. I don’t know why I can’t any more, but when my legs divide any further than a 90-degree angle, I’m in pain. I honestly believe that one day I’ll wake up after having had this dream, and I will magically be able to do the splits. It will happen.

Fateful Birthdays

I’m sitting at my computer drinking Jolly Ranchers (Midori & cranberry, my new signature drink) out of a waxy paper cup. I don’t believe I’ve ever had the desire to drink alone before, but it seemed like a good occasion.

Today is my birthday. As of 7:33am, I will have completed my 23rd trip around the sun.

I’ve always rather liked my birthday. 10-25. A dime and a quarter. Seems sort of perfect. And 1984 is a fun year to have been born, as I enjoy leap years and prophetic literature.

I love that I was born in autumn. It’s by far my favorite time of year. It’s such a festive season. Colored leaves are like nature’s confetti. They’re beautiful while still in the trees, and when they begin to drop it’s almost like a constant fall of rain (and I’ve mentioned how much I love rain). I find it to be simultaneously calming and exciting. I want to cocoon myself in a big pile of leaves. If I weren’t in a city, I’d grab a rake right this very minute.

My birthstone is Opal (although the “alternative” is Rose Tourmaline. And the closest to my birthstone that I’ve ever received as a gift was Rose Quartz. That’s a pity, as I rather like opals). My birth flower is either Camellia, Cosmos, or Calendula (marigold), depending on where you look. I was born in the Chinese Zodiac year of the Rat.

I share a birthday with Adam Pascal (the original Roger in “RENT”), Barbara Cook (another Broadway star), Pablo Picasso, Georges Bizet, Michael Boatman (I only know who he is because I was addicted to Celebrity Mole... and I’m not ashamed of that), Helen Reddy (she is woman, hear her roar), Ciara (yick), and Conchita Campbell (the girl who plays Maia, the clairvoyant child, on The 4400).

And here’s something interesting. I was born on the same day (and in the same year) as two people I met in college. All three of us ended up in the extremely tiny theatre department of a very small Catholic women’s college. That’s the kind of coincidence that could tempt you to trust in horoscopes.

Now, generally, I don’t believe in horoscopes or the zodiac (what’s the difference? I honestly don’t know what those words actually mean). First of all, I’m fairly certain that they’re against my religion (“Thou shalt have no other Gods before me” and all that). Second, I think that there are more than twelve different types of people in the world. Additionally, they seem vague, and mine was always wrong, anyway. I’m not a good example of what a typical Scorpio should be. But a few years ago, I learned a little more about the Zodiac, and now the time has come to revisit the new concept I was introduced to…

Cusps.

I’m not really a Scorpio at all. I’m on the cusp between Libra and Scorpio, which is apparently a completely separate sign. We’re called Scorlibrans (or Librium Leepio), and our sign is known as The Cusp of Drama and Criticism. That title alone sounds pretty dead on like me, doesn’t it? We’re also dubbed “The Indecisive Assassin”. Yup, me to a tee.

Here are some quick descriptive words about people who fall on this cusp:
- Aesthetic
- Alluring
- Artistic
- Charismatic
- Compelling
- Critical (while maintaining a sense of personal infallibility)
- Culturally Aware
- Deep-Feeling
- Diplomatic (and they have skill for seeing all sides of any situation)
- Exhibitionistic
- Honest
- Imaginative
- Indecisive (“with the head guiding and the heart denying, or vice versa”)
- Insightful
- Manipulative
- Passionate
- Procrastinating (with a tendency “to delay things or mull them over for so long that it proves to be costly”)
- Sensuous
- Stubborn
- Talkative
- Theatrical

And a few things that people on this cusp are NOT:
- Confident
- Decisive
- Laid-back
- Secure

Likes:
- Abstract Reasoning
- Approval (they have a need to be well-liked)
- Arts (art, music, literature, theatre)
- Peace and harmony
- Preaching (and they are willing to speak on almost any subject)
- Truth
- Well-Developed Thoughts

Dislikes:
- Generalizations
- Lacking control
- People who equate sexuality with sensuality

Now, as I said, I’m hesitant to put any stock into these things… But nevertheless, I feel the need to share with you a couple more of the eerily spot-on descriptions of someone born within my little stretch of time (October 19-25).

“… tensions and disappointments of life can at times prove too much for them, such that they retreat into isolation.” (Someone obviously wrote this down after observing me for a month.)

“There may also be ailments of the back, kidneys, and stomach.” (In case you’re unaware, I have diagnosed medical problems with my back and stomach.)

Every piece of cusp-related information I’ve just shared with you is something that I believe applies to me. Crazy coincidence? Or destiny?

Take what you will from that. Moving on.

My birthday takes on a different significance as I age than I thought it would. I don’t feel old, but yet I feel that I am one step closer to death.

What I am about to admit is something I’ve only shared with a handful of people in my life, but in the spirit of birthday honesty, I’m going to share it with you.

When I was younger, I had some sort of prophetic recurring dream that I would die at the age of 27. I don’t generally believe in signs, but I’ve had dreams that paralleled reality before, so I can’t ignore this. I have a hard time imaging that I’ll live to see 30 (which might have something to do with why I’ve talked myself out of wanting children or marriage, but that’s a can of worms that I don’t intend to open right now).

Twenty-seven seems to be a famous age for deaths. Especially for musicians. Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison (The Doors), Kurt Cobain (Nirvana), Brian Jones (The Rolling Stones), Robert Johnson (blues musician), Gram Parsons (The Byrds), Al Wilson (Canned Heat) and Peter Ham (Badfinger) all died at 27. Nick Drake died at 26, and Tim Buckley at 28, so I guess they’re honorable mentions. If I were a famous musician, I’d say my fate was sealed.

As it is, I’m neither famous, nor a musician, so maybe I’m wrong.

I’m not really upset about the idea of dying at 27. Around eighth grade (10 years ago, when I had the dreams), I just sort of accepted it to be true. Actually, believing I’d die at 27 made me less worried about dying sooner. It’s a strange, backward sort of logic, but it helped me at the time.

From about the age of 7 to the age of 13 I was terrified of death. I was afraid to go to sleep at night because I was so convinced that I wouldn’t wake up in the morning (hmmm… I may have just unlocked the root of my insomnia… Thank you, alcohol. Perhaps I should drink while typing more often… I may have just found a way to get through NaNoWriMo).

It got pretty bad the summer after fourth grade, when my Omama (grandmother) died. Death became real in a way that it never had before. Tangible. Terrifying.

I had a major breakthrough at a Chenille Sisters concert (a group that my parents were groupies of… My parents are awesome) later that year. They sang a cover of “What a Wonderful World”, and I started crying. I realized that the world was a beautiful place, and that I was missing out on it if I was always living in fear. (Yes, this was a revelation I had at the age of 9. I swear. I was a strange child.) I’ve had a great affinity for that song ever since. (I actually had a similarly affecting experience in college involving the song “Here Comes the Sun”. I have deep love of that one as well.)

Anyway, I’m not as afraid of death now. If I live longer, that’s tremendously good. If I was right all along and I now have fewer than 5 years left, I’m okay with that. Sorry for being morbid, but I needed to get that off my chest.

Twenty-two was an eventful year. I adjusted to city life. I worked on a couple of shows. I took a couple of classes. I went through a couple of boyfriends. I got a job. I got a promotion. I moved into my very own apartment. It was a year of metamorphosis, to be sure. There were a lot of ups and downs, but I reached the end of it (gracefully, I hope) and I'm still standing.

Twenty-three isn’t very exciting (it's two years before being allowed to rent a car... and, um... in the title of a horror movie starring Jim Carrey), but I suppose that happens more as you age. At the end of the year, you’re another year older. That’s all you can say for your life after twenty-one. I guess what twenty-three really represents is another chance. A whole year's worth of time to do better than I did this past year.

I feel like this would be a good time for me to make resolutions of some sort. Why wait for the new year? Actually, this IS a new year… Unfortunately, I can’t think of anything to resolve to do at the moment. And the alcohol is beginning to cloud me a little (I think I’m on my fourth since beginning to type this entry… Hopefully this isn’t full of typos by the time I’m done).

I think it’s time for me to go to bed. After all, it’s 2:30am and I have to leave my apartment at 7:45am. And then I have a full day of work. And then a full night of partying.

May every birthday be a new beginning for you.

Much love,

~A~


P.S. Isla Fisher and Sascha Baron Cohen’s baby was born. Early reports said that it was a boy named either Satchel or Sadler James. Luckily, this is not the case. They had a baby girl, and have named her Olive. Not perfect, but the least of the evils.

P.P.S. “Here Comes the Sun” just started playing on my iTunes. Perfect. :)