Words Will Be Enough

I had to stop blogging for a bit. To collect my thoughts. To prevent myself from writing things I'd regret. To live life instead of thinking about life.

I was wrong a few posts ago when I said I was done crying. I wasn't. I've cried a few times since then. I'd like to say I'm done now -- I feel like I am -- but I won't make that promise. I'll feel completely fine for long periods of time, and then suddenly feel wrong again. I woke up Saturday feeling fine, and I've been okay since then. Hopefully it'll stick this time.

I could tell you what's happened with Brian in excruciating detail, but I won't. It's not going to help me heal. And it's not helping him any, either. I know he'll understand if I continue to write about him. He'll support my right to use this blog to vent. And I won't stop altogether, because that's not my style. But this blog isn't about him. It's about me.

I will tell you one thing about him... He's gone.

I don't mean from my life; I mean from the country. He's in the armed forces, and he is now on another continent. For a while.

It's probably the best possible thing that could happen for me right now. I can't call him and ask him the same questions ad nauseum (the sorts of "but why?" questions that he's been so kind as to put up with thus far). I can't text him. He was never in reach, but I feel like he's finally been put at a distance. And it's exactly the sort of aid I've needed to get over him. The kind I haven't had before. I'm glad for it. Almost relieved, in fact, that some of the decisions I would've made are being prevented. It'll help us to be friends in the long run.

I'm going to write him letters while he's gone, but I'm not expecting responses. He's going to become my "Mr. Henshaw". I'll write the things I need to write without worrying who's reading them the way I do with this blog. I know I can tell him anything, because I already have. And not having regular responses will be good for me. Not having written things to look back on and agonize over, but rather ones sent off into the void... also good. I hope he doesn't get annoyed by the whole thing. But I'm not too worried about that. I think he'll be happy for any contact he has to the USA while he's gone.

Other than the little I've scribbled to him so far, I haven't written anything lately. I haven't worked on my novel because my emotions were clouding those of my characters. I just kept wanting to kill off characters. Or create situations in which the main character was feeling what I'm feeling. I'm taking space from it so that I won't ruin it. I care too much about what I've written so far to muck it up by using it as therapy.

I'm actually supposed to go to a write-in tonight, where I was planning on picking it up again. But it's been so long since I've just been home for a night... so I'm skipping it. And I'm blogging instead.

I forgot that I missed this. Writing, I mean. It's only been, what, 9 days since I wrote a real post (I'm not counting that filler thing about what celebrities I get compared to... wasn't really my style)? I'm sure many of you didn't even notice the absence (which is fine... I read so many blogs that I often don't notice when people stop posting for weeks at a time). But I noticed it. I've considered forcing myself to blog, but I'm terribly against that. I've said it before, and I'll say it again; I don't blog for you guys, I blog for me. And if I have nothing to say, then I'm not going to say anything at all.

And when I have a lot to say? Well, then you get the mini-novellas that I'm sure you've come to expect from me.

Actually, it feels like longer since I've posted, as I was making a conscious effort not to mention Brian. Censoring myself makes it feel like I'm not really writing at all. It feels too... calculated or something. I don't know.

I have been busy, though. I mean, I've made time to blog in the past when I was busy, but I've had enough distractions that I was able to convince myself that I didn't have time for it. I've been going out and visiting people. I go out to the bar with the TnT cast after every performance.

When I'm not out of my apartment, I'm watching Battlestar Galactica and writing notes for Brian about my reactions to the episode. It's like live-blogging, but with paper and pen. Whenever something pops into my head that I would've texted Brian (or said to him if he'd been in the room), I pause the DVD and write it down. It takes longer to watch an episode than it normally would, but it's kinda fun for me. Makes it feel like an active thing as opposed to just sitting around watching DVDs all day. (By the way, it's an INCREDIBLE show, and I highly recommend it. Also recommend Firefly, which is the other series Brian lent me before running off to fight the bad guys.)

I've started reading It's Called a Break-up Because It's Broken, and I HIGHLY RECOMMEND IT if you've gone through any sort of break-up and/or heartbreak, even if you were the one who did the dumping. I wish I'd had it during my break-up with Ex #1. It's really, really helpful. Of course, the authors of the book would tell me to stop writing to Brian, but I think I've recovered enough that it's possible to do it now. The hurting I was going through before has lessened significantly. And letter-writing doesn't make me cry the way phone calls would have. It feels like it's helping me heal. I'm gaining closure, and I'm redefining our relationship as one of friendship. In some weird way, it's helping me let go. Counter-intuitive, I know... but I believe that you should "do what works", so I'm going to keep doing it as long as it's working. If it's not working, then I'll become a better student of the book and stop writing him altogether.

(Huh. Wasn't planning to talk about Brian at all, and here I've done mostly that. Ah well. This is where my extemporaneous style brings me, I suppose. Writing about things I didn't intend to write about.)

Anyway.

I'm frustrated that I still have not been assigned a character to train for in Tony n' Tina's. Remember when the director had me watch the nun at a rehearsal? Yeah, that didn't stick. He gave me a new character to watch at last week's rehearsal, bringing my total up to three. I don't think he has any clue what he wants me for. Maybe that's a compliment. I'm versatile, and he knows he can put me in a bunch of places? I don't know. I'm just worried that he's going to keep changing his mind and I'll be on waitstaff until the day I leave.

Speaking of leaving, it's coming up soon. I'm leaving my day job on August 1st. I'll probably stay in TnT for a week after that. But my lease here ends August 15th, and my grad school orientation starts on August 18th. When I originally got this offer from grad school back in February, it seemed so very, very far away. And now it's almost here, and I have so many things to try to squeeze in before I leave.

Part of me feels like a lot has happened since February. But really, I can sum it up in two subjects: Brian, and TnT. That's it. That's all that's changed. I mean, of course I'm over-simplifying (as the last few months worth of blog posts can attest to), but that's the meat of it...

Anyway.

I've made good friends at work recently. Three guys at my day-job eat lunch with me every day now. It's nice to be just one of the guys without having to worry about any of them being The Woodwork Guys. Two are engaged, and the third has a serious girlfriend whom he intends to marry. So for once, I'm the one who carries the label As Good As Gay (or, I suppose, As Good As Male). And I'm just fine with that.

We talk about things that could get us fired if mentioned at the office under the clauses of the sexual harassment policy in place, but that doesn't bother us. For someone of my level of naïveté, I'm not very shy about subjects I'm willing to broach in public settings. Maybe it's because I don't know better... In any case, it makes me fit right in when surrounded by guys with filthy minds and raunchy mouths. That, and the fact that I will jump right in when gauging the physical attractiveness with females in close proximity (the guys call this rating procedure "verifications"). And sometimes before heading back to work, we take a detour through a department store cologne section so that the boys can "musk up". And we have a large collection of private jokes that we discuss in code on our work email accounts. It makes the day go by a bit faster.

I watched the Tony Awards at a bar on Sunday night. I talked the bartender into changing the channel on one of the many televisions dedicated to sports for me. I cheered obnoxiously whenever people I liked were shown. ("You go, Deanna Dunagan! Bring it home to Chicago, baby!") I actually know someone who won a Tony this year, which is exciting. Todd Rosenthal won for set design for the play August: Osage County. He designed the set for a production of The Comedy of Errors that I was in a couple of years back, which is how I know him (not well, but still, I know him in real life). I'd call to congratulate him, but I lost his number when I lost my phone... Oh well.

This was the first time in the past 5 years that I have not donned some sort of fancy dress to watch the Tonys. If I owned a television, I would have. I intend to again in future years. It makes the whole thing more fun if you dress up.

Last night I hung out with some of my novelist friends in the 'burbs playing the video game Rock Band and generally acting like idiots. It was a good time. Of course, I didn't get back to my apartment until nearly 2:30am, and then had a couple of emails that I urgently had to answer... I was pretty useless at work today as a result.

Tomorrow will be intense. I'm going to my day-job from 8:30-11:00am. I have to be at TnT at 11:30am to get ready for a matinee. Then at night, my friend Amanda and I are going to see The Swell Season (Glen Hansard & Markéta Irglová, a.k.a. the people from Once who won an Oscar for "Falling Slowly" this year). And after that, I promised I'd go see my coworker (one of the engaged ones) work his night gig: he's headlining as a DJ at some bar.

Thursday I'm going to the "Air One - Blogger Meet Up Chicago" (note: if you are a Chicago blogger and haven't heard about this, let me know and I'll get you the info... there will be hors d'oeuvre's, cocktails and an Italian lesson at the event... and potentially some SWAG), which I've been looking forward to for awhile.

Friday and Saturday I have TnT performances. Sunday will be my first real free day since... Well, I think since I was in Omaha. That'll be nice. It'll give me more time to watch Battlestar Galactica.

Wow. It felt really good to just type all of that. I have a feeling it was painfully boring, but I don't care. I needed to organize my thoughts. I need this.

I love being a blogger.

*sigh*

I feel better.

Alright, I'm going to go watch a little BSG, clean my apartment (yeah, right), and go to bed early (probably a lie).


May you be able to write your cares away.

~A~



P.S. The title is from the song "All the Words" by The Bridges. Their album just came out, and you should totally buy it. They rock. Hard.

P.P.S.
All the words that you said
Made you matter in my head
I was tied to the thought of you
Thinkin’ back to the day
That I found you on my way
To a place I was goin’ to

Simplify all these years
In another round of tears
I’m so lost when it comes to you
Broken in and again
Now you’re everywhere I’ve been
So it’s hard to deny the view

Did you know I had you goin’?
You got your heart back
It was stolen
And there’s nothin’
I can do at all

And it’s still there
On the road we had
And it’s alright
Keep the memories tied to your heart dear
And the words will be enough
~ The Bridges, "All the Words"

Someone Else's Clothes

I haven’t worn a swimsuit in public since 2003. It was on a trip to a beach in Italy, while I was studying abroad. It was a one-piece, and I wore a skort over it (for any males reading this, shorts + skirt = skort. Basically, it’s a skirt with a leg divider built in. It’s the clothing equivalent to a spork). Before that, it had been a couple of years since I’d put on that swimsuit. I don’t even have it anymore. It’s not like I need it.

I’m just not very comfortable with my body. People keep saying that Britney Spears looked appallingly bad at the VMAs this year. I keep thinking, “Her body is more toned than mine. My God, what would they say about me if I wore a bikini?” That’s why I’ve never owned a bikini. I don’t want to be judged the way people who wear bikinis are judged. I’d rather just avoid the scrutiny altogether.

Another reason that I won’t be wearing a bathing suit any time soon is that I’m at an awkward weight right now. I’ve been wearing skirts and dresses a lot lately. This has nothing to do with wanting to dress up. My pants are tighter than they used to be. There have been a few days recently when I’ve tried on more than one pair of slacks before leaving for work in the morning, only to discover that they’re all uncomfortable. I don’t want to spend money to buy more pants, and I don’t feel like actively trying to change my weight. Therefore, I’m going to stick with empire-waist dresses and elastic-waist skirts. I also bought a shirt last week that’s two sizes larger than I normally wear from that store. That was a bit shocking. But I’d rather wear a shirt that fits than one that has the tag-marking I’m used to. After all, no one sees the size. They just see the shirt.

My weight fluctuates a great deal. I go through phases in which my pants are falling down and I have to resort to skirts for an entirely different reason. Most of my youth I was underweight (I remember calling up a friend to excitedly announce that I had finally hit 100 pounds about a month before I graduated from high school. Note: I’m about 5’6”). I didn’t start putting on meat until I got to college (and now I’ve been safely over 100 pounds for quite some time. I’ve been very far over that at points. I doubt it physically possible that I could ever be that low again, which I consider to be a good thing. I looked like an Auschwitz victim). These days, I yo-yo a bit, which I’ve grown accustomed to. Since I’m not willing to change my eating habits (mostly junk, and about 70% carbs) or my exercise habits (sedentary unless movement required and very against working out and/or running… In my mind, running is punishment for when you’ve done something wrong in gym class; it is not a pastime), I must accept that I have no say in what my weight will ultimately be. Of course, that doesn’t stop me from complaining any time I gain or lose more than I’d like. I’m very willing to whine about it.

My family thinks I complain too much. Not about weight, specifically. Just as a general statement.

I’m actually going to visit my family soon, which will be strange. They have recently moved from the house I grew up in to a house several states away. It’s incredibly odd to think that my family has moved without me. The house I’m going to see them in will never be my home (no matter how much my mother has tried to convince me otherwise). I was going through some strange abandonment issues because of the situation a few months ago. I think I’m over them, but we’ll see once I get to their house. I’m not imagining that it will be a fully comfortable experience.

I’m not even sure what I’m going to do once I’m there. Help them unpack, probably. I won’t be able to do the things I used to do when I visited them, such as hit up my old haunts and call up the friends I haven’t seen in ages. Aside from my family, I don’t know a soul in the whole state. My mother says she’s going to take me shopping for a Halloween costume. Maybe that’ll help pass the time.

I don’t have a good Halloween costume idea yet, although I have been trying my hardest. I’ve considered Alex Mack, Daria, and Beebe Bluff, among other options. For some reason, childhood memories seemed like a good inspiration this year. I was also considering being a competitor from Legends of the Hidden Temple, but after I suggested it to a friend, she quickly snatched up the idea and is now going as one half of The Red Jaguars, with another of our friends filling the spot of the other half. Drat.

Italians don’t celebrate Halloween, so when I studied abroad I was unable to dress in costume (we were in and out of museums that day… actually, that might have been the same day as the beach excursion… or I might just be lumping all my memories together). So my friends and I started deciding on what we could be without costumes (as Wednesday Addams explained in The Addams Family movie when she wore her standard ensemble on Halloween, “I’m a homicidal maniac. They look just like everyone else.”). Our costumes included Opus Dei member, pedophile, closet porn addict, Fascist, and other things that, for one reason or another, could be considered “scary.”

Halloween is my favorite holiday. I suppose that’s in part due to me being an actor (which is also why I love April Fools Day). It’s also because it’s great to be something you’re not. I’ve heard it said that we’re more honest when we’re wearing masks. I don’t know if that’s true. I just know it’s fun wearing someone else’s clothes.

I like having “clever” costumes, although I know that most people just roll their eyes at me. I have no desire to be something run-of-the-mill. I like the idea that when people tell their friends about the party the went to, the say “oh, and there was one chick dressed as _________.” It makes me feel a little bit special, which I like. Past costumes have included an alarm clock, a piece of gum, a magnet, a bag of jellybeans, a Macarena dancer, a rainbow, and a Von Trapp child.

I was talking to the fellow I’m seeing and his roommates about my possible costumes for this year. I found an adorable yellow and black dress while shopping the other day. I was considering wearing it with a pair of wings, a wizard’s hat, and a wand, and going as a Spelling Bee. I asked for their opinions. One of them turned to me and said, “Depends. How hot is the dress?”

When I asked for other ideas of what I should be, I kept getting answers about sexy female movie characters (and mostly from movies I haven’t seen), such as the chick in Underworld. I’m not doing that. Sorry.

After a certain age, Halloween for females stops being about dressing up to be scary or goofy, and becomes about being unabashedly slutty. To quote the movie Mean Girls, “Halloween is the one night a year when girls can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it.” It’s true. It’s the day that women can dress up as scantily, skimpily, or skankily as they would like, and not have to defend it. It's a costume. It’s a character. It’s acceptable.

I hate that I am expected to wear something that makes me look attractive. What’s the point? I spend most other days trying to look more attractive than I am. It feels like Halloween should be an opportunity to do otherwise.

At the same time, if I don’t take advantage of this annual free-pass-skank-day, then I feel like I can’t compete with all the females who do. I feel as though I’ll be invisible in some way. And I will have wasted this chance to focus on being pretty/sexy/hot. It’s like wearing khakis and a cardigan to the prom. It might seem like you’re making a statement at the time, but wouldn’t you end up regretting it? Maybe I would be missing out on some essential part of my life as a young adult. It almost seems like a rite of passage. And I hate that men don’t have to deal with this. No one is disappointed if a normally attractive male shows up at a party dressed as something that doesn’t make him seem more desirable.

For the record, I am against costumes that have words like “sexy” in the title. Sexy Librarian. Naughty Nurse. Dirty Girl Scout. These aren’t Halloween costumes. These are prototypes of characters in soft-core porn. It just isn’t right.

I accidentally watched part of a soft-corn porn flick on television once a couple of years ago. I was flipping channels and saw that there was a Lord of the Rings parody on. I didn’t know at the time that Cinemax turns into a completely different kind of channel at night. I wasn’t expecting Lord of the G-Strings. I was on the phone with a friend at the time, and only semi-paying attention to the television, which I had put on mute. A few minutes later, I screamed in horror as I noticed what was playing in the background. I yelled “Oh my God! I’m watching porn!” My male friend laughed so hard that it’s amazing his lungs remained in his chest.

I’m a relatively naïve person when it comes to things like pornography. I led a pretty sheltered childhood. I wasn’t allowed to watch PG-13 movies until I was 17. I learned the word “flirting” when I was a freshman in high school (a senior boy had to sit me down and explain it to me). I didn’t know what the other “f-word” meant until my senior year. Boys were never interested in me, so I didn’t know anything about the rituals of dating until college. Things were always going on around me that I was completely oblivious to, such as drug use, sex, and the like.

I’m not particularly bothered by my innocent nature. There are many things that I have not done, and I’m alright with that. The way I look at it, I’ve been like a Barbie doll, still in the box. At times, yes, it feels like I’m suffocating inside a plastic tomb and I wish someone would just take me out of my prison and play with me. But Barbie is far more valuable while she’s still in the box, in mint condition. She’s rare and desirable. I think I’d regret it if I were to rip the cardboard cage to shreds. I don’t plan to stay trapped in the box forever, but for now it feels like the right place to be. I’m happy, healthy, and safe from a world of things that I’m not quite ready to deal with.

As I was writing that last paragraph, I started hating that I was saying it. I make it sound like I’m some sort of object. A used car, whose value will decrease with mileage. I don’t actually think that. I do have self-worth, despite my damaged self-image. It also made it sound like I’m depriving myself of things because I feel should. That’s not it at all. If I’m staying unacquainted with anything, it’s because I want to. If I felt forced, I’d fight against it. Maybe that’s part of the reason I don’t hop out of the box… Because everyone else does.

I’m anti-lemming. I will be whatever it is I want to be, and will ignore the social trends. Occasionally, I will fight against them simply because I feel that someone should. Like in 5th grade when my mother couldn’t convince me to wear jeans because “all the other kids wear jeans.” I spent most of that year wearing leggings as pants. And then I entered into an overalls phase. And from there went to capris, clam-diggers, pedal-pushers, and flood pants (this was before these styles came back into fashion… I was inspired by the movie Dirty Dancing, and suffered through an unfair amount of teasing for wearing pants that were “too short”). I refused to be a conformist. Of course, I wear jeans now… when they fit.

Maybe the way we dress in daily life is a costume of sorts. Do we choose what we wear so people will know who we are? We can project an image of what we want to be, or who we think we should be. The clothes we choose are a form of self-expression, after all (that’s why Barbie was popular in the first place… put on a different outfit, and she’s a whole new toy). Perhaps on occasion we hide behind it (I suppose that by being clothed at all, we are hiding our bodies, but I was speaking figuratively... as though every person has the ability to put on sheep's clothing and pretend to be something that isn't a wolf).

Perhaps that’s part of why I take off my pants when I get back to my apartment. I don’t have to worry about what image I’m projecting once I’m alone. I’m the only person who sees me in my underwear (well, one of my former roommates did on more than one occasion… like the night she came home when she was supposed to be out watching a movie. I was sprawled out on the couch wearing underwear and a sports bra that read, “I Support the Belles”, a reference to my college mascot. I thought someone was breaking into my apartment and was terrified that I was about to be attacked. And there I was, utterly defenseless, and barely clothed. This is why you should never watch Law & Order: SVU by yourself in the dark). I don’t have to worry about anyone judging me in my underwear, which is good, because my bra and undies never match. Ever. I have exactly one set of matching undergarments, and I never remember to wear both components on the same day. Why should I have to? As my mother always says, “No one will see, no one will know, no one will care.”

My word, this has been a disjointed blog entry. But I suppose that’s par for the course with me. I hope you didn’t hate it.

May you always be comfortable, no matter what you’re wearing.

~A~

Guilty Pleasures & Deadly Sins

I love bad movies. Some of my favorite movies are ones that I am completely willing to admit are terrible. I own Teen Witch. I own Win a Date with Tad Hamilton (although that one was a gift… but I’ve watched it more than once). I own To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar (I haven’t watched it in the last two years since buying it at a Wal-Mart for $5. Mostly, I bought it because I thought it was funny that Wal-Mart was selling it). I own Grease 2 (which I think I actually prefer to Grease… I hope that’s not blasphemous to my musical theatre buddies who might be reading this). And I own and love the movie “America’s Sweethearts” (highly underrated. It’s actually very funny).

Here’s the thing… I don’t think of these movies as “guilty pleasures” at all. I don’t feel guilty about them. If I owned Showgirls, then I might feel guilty about it (I watch it whenever it’s on television), but that’s because of both horrid acting and also the fact that it’s basically soft-core porn. Really, I think I just don’t understand the concept of guilty pleasures. To quote Sheryl Crow (oh no… WHY am I quoting Sheryl Crow?), “if it makes you happy, it can’t be that bad.”

I recently had a conversation with a friend of mine regarding his newfound love of the Disney Channel. He says that it’s filled with happy material, and that it has a positive impact on his life. I don’t watch the Disney channel (which is in some part due to the fact that I don’t presently own a television), but I respect that. It makes him happy. Who am I to judge?

I got into a fairly heated argument with someone last winter about my love of the television show Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. She said it was self-important, and just a vehicle for Aaron Sorkin (the show’s creator) to vent about his political agenda. Here’s what I don’t get: why on earth would you go off unprompted on a tirade against something that I clearly love? Isn’t that just a whole string of comments that could easily be left unsaid?

I also don’t feel guilty about my preferences in music, which have recently come under scrutiny by some of my friends. I like Corinne Bailey Rae, Mandy Moore, and the occasional piece of Fefe Dobson or Aqua. I listen to Basement Jaxx, Fastball, Fountains of Wayne, Motion City Soundtrack, Jewel, Liz Phair, Semisonic, Something Corporate, and many other artists that others might scoff at for a variety of reasons. At this very moment, I’m listening to the song “Hang on, Little Tomato” by Pink Martini, which I find to be particularly lovely. And I don’t think I should have to be ashamed of that. That music cheers me. And a cheerful me is something that you should be encouraging. I’m quite fun to be around when I’m cheerful… not so much when I’m defensive. I’m just saying…

Also, take note: if you EVER say a negative thing about Natalie Imbruglia in my presence, I will most likely be unable to continue speaking with you. I’ve already told the fellow in my life that if he ever commits such a heinous act, it would surely be just cause for a break-up. My music is something that I wear close to my heart, and when people diss it and dismiss it, they might as well be putting down something that I have created myself. It breaks me down from the inside. I am offended to a point that seems almost irrational. Almost.

Anyway. I see nothing wrong with liking movies of questionable caliber, frivolous music, self-important television, and the like. And I hate it when people feel the need to change my opinions on those things, or try to make me feel bad about liking them. So please, if you are ever considering such a thing, don’t. Even if you’re just teasing.

As it turns out, I don’t take teasing very well. I don’t understand it. I was raised in a house where making fun of other people got you in trouble. I survived a childhood of constant mocking and oceans of tears. I don’t think it’s funny when people tease me. It just seems hurtful.

I will never understand how some people think that teasing is a good way to flirt. If a guy starts off teasing me, I assume he’s a jack-hole, and I don’t feel the need to ever speak with him again. Not a good way to start things off. Before we started dating, my ex-boyfriend started making fun of Canada (knowing full well that I have a great love for our neighbors to the North… I started watching Degrassi” back in the 80s when it came on after Ramona, and I’ve loved Canada ever since). He thought it was a good way to rile me up. All it did was piss me off (my mother hates it when I use that phrase… she says it isn’t ladylike. But sometimes, it’s just the right way to explain my emotional state. So forgive me if I’ve somehow ruined your opinion of me by saying something crass). It made me want to keep my distance from him.

I actually got into a rather heated discussion with a coworker a couple of weeks ago when he started teasing me about being a Shakespeare geek. You just shouldn’t do that. Honestly. I will never understand the thought process behind it. I didn’t understand it in elementary school when a boy would yank on a girl’s pigtail because he liked her, and I don’t understand this verbal equivalent to it. It just seems counterintuitive to me.

Shakespeare, by the way, is most certainly not a guilty pleasure. His work is really rather brilliant, and not overrated. Shakespeare is, in fact, one of a handful of topics that I could speak on for hours, if allowed. Other subjects that fall under that elite heading include Harry Potter, mythology (especially Greek and Roman), musical theatre, and names (I actually started writing a book on names once, but everything I wrote was lost. Apparently, I have horrible luck when it comes to things I’ve written suddenly disappearing. Anyway, I was never able to talk myself into starting it all over again). None of these subjects are things I feel guilty about. It’s not like they’re vices.

Why aren’t vices considered to be guilty pleasures? If ever you should feel guilty about something, shouldn’t it be drinking, or smoking, or gambling, or drugs, or what have you? Those all seem like things one might feel guilty over. I have had a couple of friends with serious pornography addictions. If that doesn’t sound like what a “guilty pleasure” should be, then I don’t know what does. Surely, wanting to watch Die, Mommy, Die is a far less noteworthy event. It’s not like it’s a deadly sin.

Speaking of which, did you know that Dante invented the seven deadly sins? They’re not actually in the Bible or anything. I mean, they are technically all in the Bible as things you should not do, but not in list form. And yet, somehow they’ve been adopted into general Christian dogma. It’s actually rather strange that something like that occurred, but I blame people for being stupid and confusing fiction with religion (a la Scientology. Or Jedi-ism. I hope I didn’t offend any Jedi with that. I’m certain that I offended Scientologists). But it is a tremendous list. I can certainly ascertain a connection from each item on it to fire and brimstone.

Let’s see how guilty I am…
Envy: Of course. I’m envious of other people’s appearances a great deal. Occasionally, I envy their talents (especially if they can play an instrument with brilliance). I don’t care as much about their possessions, but those can make me jealous every now and again as well.
Greed: Not too bad. It is a part of my life, but obviously not a big one, as I can’t even come up with an example.
Gluttony: I took four pieces of pizza at a work function on Wednesday, even though I usually only eat two. Why? Because they were free. Subsequently, I became ill (after only eating two and a half pieces… I saved the untouched piece and ate it for breakfast the next morning). My eyes were definitely bigger than my stomach.
Lust : The temptation exists, but I don’t really act on this one… But that deserves a blog entry all to itself. I will not be writing that tonight.
Pride: Check. I have a blog, which I think is proof enough that I’m prideful. After all, I think my writing deserves to be read. And I take pictures of myself a lot.
Sloth: I’m one of the world’s best procrastinators (I say “best” because I’m successful at it… I get my stuff done, I just do it at the last minute). That comes from my lazy streak, and also the fact that I work better under pressure (the pressure of a deadline seems to work especially well).
Wrath: I have my moments. Who doesn’t? It’s hard to be a passionate person without having wrath. My words can get downright violent. And I stay bitter about certain things for years. The way I think on it, bitterness falls under wrath.

In general, though, I’m not a big “vice” person. I’ve never picked up a cigarette. I’ve never touched drugs. I didn’t start going out and drinking until after I was 21 (well, 22, actually). I like to think that the D.A.R.E. program worked on me (if D.A.R.E. needs a spokesperson, I’m there). When I asked a friend recently if I had any vices, he answered by suggesting “chocolate?” But really, I don’t even eat chocolate very often (except when it’s in ice cream… like chocolate chip cookie dough… mmmm). Um, does cuddling count as a vice? Because I’m all over that one. Otherwise, I’m hard-pressed to come up with something.

Maybe that’s pathetic a little bit. Maybe innocence is a form of emptiness. I worry about that sometimes. Am I not living my life to the fullest because there are so many activities that I refrain from? I try not to dwell on it, as it could get depressing. Luckily, I have The Monkees, The Beach Boys, and Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass to cheer me up. And I don’t feel one iota of guilt about that.

May your days be guilt-free and bright.

Much love,

~A~

Honestly Sincere

When I was in fourth grade, I wanted to be Harriet the Spy. For those of you unfamiliar with the character, she was a young girl who kept journals of everything she encountered because of her desire to be a writer. She watched people whenever she could, and she wrote down her observations in a harshly opinionated manner. Of course, eventually, her secrets got out. Her journal winds up in the hands of her peers, who were quite rightly furious. She inadvertently attacked every one of her classmates with her honesty. They formed an alliance against her, and made her life miserable. Eventually, they forgave her, but it was a painful journey.

Now, don’t get the wrong idea from that. I’m not sick. I didn’t want to be Harriet because of this friendless, isolated, and tormented existence (although I think I identified with her because of it). I wanted to be able to experience the world as she did. I’ve always had a lively imagination, a love of writing, and a strong sense of curiosity (some would call it being nosy; it’s a subtle distinction, along the lines of whether I’m gullible or trusting… “curious & trusting” is far preferable to “nosy & gullible”). What I didn’t have was her boldness and her courage. For example, she hid in a dumbwaiter in order to get a closer peek into the life an eccentric rich woman. That takes guts.

There is one other thing that I have in common with Harriet. My honesty has a way of getting me into trouble. It’s been happening a great deal recently. I hurt one friend because I was too blunt with my words, and came off sounding like a nasty person who was lecturing her (that was today, actually). I hurt a relationship because I gave a friend information that he would’ve rather not known. I hurt another friendship because I shared something about myself that he wasn’t ready to handle. And I’ve hurt myself by saying the things I’m thinking, when it would be far better for me if they remained thoughts.

I’ve been in awkward situations more than once because I told one of my male friends that I had a crush on him (I used to carry around a card in my wallet that said “Never Fall in Love with Your Guy Friends.” I kept it for years, until I actually started dating one of my guy friends. I don’t know what happened to it after that). That ended up failing particularly badly in the instance when the male in question was dating my best friend (I was in middle school. And I had a crush on him long before she did. She was just the one with enough Harriet-the-Spy gusto to ask him out).

I manage to hurt myself and others with my honest nature more often than you’d think. I embody the antithesis to the adage “honesty is the best policy.” It’s not true. Silence is the best policy. If you can’t be silent, then omission is a good way to go. And if you can’t omit, then as a last resort you should go with honesty. Lying almost never works out (if you don’t believe me, rent a season of Seinfeld, Friends, Frasier, or any other 1990s sitcom, and I’m sure you’ll see a multitude of fictional examples that will back me up. You can learn a lot from watching characters fail miserably), so it’s best to avoid it all together.

I would also like to quote the character of Cal from the movie The 40 Year Old Virgin on this matter: “Yeah, you should definitely tell her, because I saw this movie called Liar, Liar, and the message was ‘don’t lie.’ And that was a smart movie.”

Another reason I’m honest is because I’m a lousy liar. No one believes me when I say that (it does sound like the sort of thing a habitual liar would say), but it’s sadly true. And for an actor, I’m extraordinarily horrible (I mention this only because people use the fact that I’m an actor as some sort of proof that I must be an expert in the field of lying. It’s completely different from being in character. The two really have nothing to do with each other). I wear my emotions on my face, and it’s very easy to figure out that there’s something going on.

I have recently discovered that my most successful poker face is a smile, as I have a tendency to smile through many different emotions. I smile when I’m frustrated. I smile when I’m happy. When I’m frightened, I smile. When I’m relieved, I smile. I smile when I’m pissed as hell at you. I smile when I’m about to cry. I smile when I’m offended (when I’m extremely offended, I start to laugh… Don’t ask me why. Beats me). I smile buckets full when I’m really depressed (so far only one person has been able to see through the smile-mask and ask me what was wrong, and he only did it once. I think I broke down into hysterical sobbing as soon as he asked). And I smile when I’m lying (or omitting). See? It’s the perfect poker face (just like Kenneth on 30 Rock). Okay, so not perfect. I have a lot of different smiles. If you were to pay attention, you’d probably be able to sort out which is which.

Anyway. Since I am learning that I would benefit from holding my tongue more, I’m attempting to do just that. I’ve started censoring myself to prevent undesirable effects from occurring. While I’m still figuring it out, it makes for some strange conversations. I’ll often start to say something, then think the better of it and cut myself off mid-sentence. Of course, all that serves to do is intrigue whomever I’m speaking with and make them think that what I was about to say was incredibly important. Or they take it as some sort of challenge to discover what I’d both spurred and stopped. Often, it’s just something that I’ve determined, after consideration, doesn’t need to be said. Sometimes I decide that it would be less embarrassing for me not to say it. Or, after thinking too much about it, I worry that there could be some other potential negative consequence that might result from it. If ever you are engaged in such a conversation with me, just know that if I’ve stopped saying something, it’s probably for the best. And try not to get offended.

Another trick I’ve learned is to be able to blame honesty on something else, such as a “bad day” or “lack of sleep”. I find that alcohol is particularly good for this. I’m not much of a drinker, so I only recently discovered something that most of my peers have known for quite some time: drinking is a fantastic excuse. Seriously. It’s hard to come up with something else that’s an equivalent cure-all for bad social situations. That stupid thing you said last night? You’d been drinking. Calling your ex to find out why he dumped you? You were obviously drunk. Trying to proposition your friend? You don’t remember it because you were so wasted.

I’ve only used the alcohol thing a couple of times. Like when I tried to tell a friend to break up with a significant other… The next day it was a non-issue. The friend didn’t seem to remember it, and I figured if it ever came up in conversation I would chalk up my actions to the Stoli-and-Sevens I’d had immediately prior to our chat.

Alcohol has certainly facilitated some important discussions in my life, though. I wasn’t anywhere near drunk, mind you. But somehow, when both you and the person you’re talking with have it in your system, alcohol makes conversations more acceptable. A recent exchange I had was one I would’ve been comfortable having sober, but the person I was speaking with needed a few beers before the possibly offensive subject was broached. Thank you, beer, for being the excuse we needed to get that topic off the ground.

I’m willing to have a lot of strange conversations without any aid, though. In fact, I ask people things on a regular basis that they’re not comfortable with, mostly because I’m too naïve to know that I shouldn’t be asking them. Like in a recent phone call to a male friend when I asked what sort of underwear he preferred. Despite his generally forthcoming nature, he seemed flustered for a good fifteen seconds out of sheer surprise that I had asked him something of that nature so casually. I didn’t understand what the problem was… I was just curious/nosy/being a good spy.

The flip side of this is that I’m willing to answer most questions without getting too self-conscious. I have recently responded to questions that are EXTREMELY personal. I won’t be doing that in this blog (there are some things about myself that I just don’t want on the internet). But I understand curiosity. And I’d rather be asked and answer than volunteer information that might prove awkward. It’s easier to share things if they are prompted by another action or solicited by a pointed question.

There are some things, though, that I don’t share. They’re the sorts of things that don’t come up in daily chats, and that I would never go out of my way to bring them up. And so today, I mailed them to Post Secret. I mailed four postcards. One of them I made over a year ago. Two I made in February. I made the final one a couple of days ago. And I finally decided it was time to mail them. I doubt any of them will get put online, but I know that the guy who does Post Secret does exhibits at museums on occasion. I like to think that someday, somewhere, someone out there might end up reading these things that I hold so close. Does that make me some warped form of exhibitionist? I hope not. It’s more like a Dear Mr. Henshaw thing (see previous blog entry).

Back to the problems with my honesty… A friend pointed out to me today that I meddle. This is true. It’s part of that Savior Complex I mentioned previously. I tell people exactly what I think they should do (just another form of being too honest). I feel like people will be better off if I’m there to help facilitate the right sorts of events in their lives. Like Dolly Levi (please tell me you’ve seen “Hello, Dolly!”), “I put my hand in there.”

A friend of mine once said she wanted a job as a “professional realist.” She thought that she should be paid to help stage interventions involving people who were not seeing the world in a rational way. She could tell a screechy tone-deaf girl that she’ll never be a jazz singer, and that she should keep her day job. She could tell the guy who spends all his time playing video games that he’s 32 years old and it’s time to move out of his parents’ basement and get a job. That sort of thing. And frankly, she’d be rather good at it. If she were to tell me that I am wasting my time writing blog entries, I might just listen.

Maybe that’s the sort of job I should get as well. I’d be able to put all this truth-telling and hip-shooting to good use. Until I find a dream job such as this, I’m going to continue to censor, consider, and reconsider some of the things I say before I say them (well, more realistically, as I say them. I’ll learn eventually).

May your days be filled with comfortable silence.

Sincerely,

~A~

P.S. Yes, the title is a Bye, Bye Birdie! reference, and you win points with me if you caught that.