Advertisements

Category Archives: sad

And that, kiddos, is why we never, ever count our chickens.

Today there was a sadness. It’s a heart-hurty kind of day.

So this afternoon I was eating my lunch and playing around on Facebook (as I do) and saw this.

This is a cat that was available at one of our local shelters.

Who, exactly, does he look like?

OMG IT IS DUMBCAT’S THINNER YOUNGER TWIN!!!!

OK, so I had about ten minutes to make a very important decision (because I had to get back to work.) I was not planning to get another cat. The last great cat experiment did not turn out well. And poor Dumbcat. He WANTS a friend, but he’s so timid. (I also love having two cats, but his feelings are more important than mine.)

But this was Dumbcat’s TWIN. And listen, Lynx Point Siamese cats? They’re not something you see every day. Also? He was a polydactyl. He had extra toes. JUST LIKE DUMBCAT. And his name was VERY similar to Dumbcat’s really real name; enough so that it was spooky, actually. I wouldn’t even have to change his name. He’d fit in just fine (assuming he liked me, and I liked him, and he and Dumbcat got along, and such.)

I’m not the most impulsive human. But look at that face.

Yeah. I was gone. I was smitten.

I called the shelter. Yes, he was still there; yes, they were open; no, they couldn’t hold him, but they had very little traffic today, why didn’t I come in around 3:45, he’d still be there. I could bring him home today, actually. Neutered. All ready to go. Yup yup yup.

I jetted back into work. Scared my boss with “OMG THE BOSS! There is a CAT-RELATED-EMERGENCY can I leave early?” After she was talked down from thinking my cat had perhaps called me while I was on my lunch break (what, it might happen, he has thumbs) and said he was dying or something, and I explained the situation, she was very understanding (I have a wonderful boss, who is also my friend, and she is a bigger cat-lover than I am.)

All systems go. I had butterflies upon butterflies. Butterflies all up in my butterflies.

You see this isn’t going to end well, right? I started this on a down-note. I spoiled you before you began. I didn’t want to get your hopes up.

I went down the scariest little roads on my way there. (WTF, GPS, seriously? There HAD to be a less circuitous and less-likely-to-get-me-killed-by-yeti way to get to that shelter.) I ran in. The lady at the desk was all, “Go on back! He’s around the corner in the cat-room!”

I ran in.

His cage was empty.

I stood in front of it for a minute. This didn’t compute. She’d JUST SAID he was there.

There were two viewing rooms in the cat room. I peeked in them.

There he was. Up against the glass. He saw me and walked to the glass. And bashed into it with his face. In a very Dumbcat-like-way.

The two women in there ignored me. I knocked on the glass. They were both wearing scrubs; I assumed they were employees.

Amy: making an ass out of YOU and ME for almost 40 years now.

“I’m here for him,” I said.

They smiled and one said, “Did you fill out an application?”

“Not yet!” I said. “He’s mine – don’t give him to anyone else, ok?”

She nodded. “She has dibs!” she laughed.

I went out. I filled out the application. And halfway through, the lady at the desk said:

“Oh, someone else is taking that cat you want, by the way. You don’t need to finish filling out that application, if you don’t want to.”

I stopped. I got very cold. I looked at her.

“No, I…I told the employees back there I was here for him. I…”

“One of those people is an adopter. She got here a few minutes before you did. She decided she wants him.”

“They’re not both employees?”

“Nope.”

“But…one of them told me to fill this out? One of them said I had dibs?”

(But did she? Or was she saying the OTHER chick had dibs, and I misunderstood? What the hell was going on at this shelter of chicanery?)

The woman at the desk shook her head. “I mean, you can go back and see what’s going on, but it’s a done deal, I think.”

I went back to the cat room. The two women were now playing with OTHER cats. My boy was in his cage. He looked at me with his wise blue eyes, which were ever-so-slightly crossed. I thought about taking his cage card and going up front and lying and saying, “She said I could have him.”

Because he was mine, right? I came all this way. Wasn’t he mine? He was meine Wassermelone, right?

I’m not the devil. I couldn’t.

I went to the visiting area again. The same two women looked at me. I knocked and opened the door a little. The one who apparently WASN’T an employee (was just, randomly, wearing scrubs? What a calvacade of errors this place was, or maybe I was) looked up, annoyed.

“I’m sorry. Are you planning on taking the Siamese? I…I’m here for him, they told me he’d be here, I’m so hoping…it would mean so much…”

“Yes. Most likely. I am DECIDING. THANK YOU,” she said. And made that dismissive tut-noise. And looked at me pityingly.

And I walked up front and stood by the front desk because if I walked out without her deciding and she chose otherwise, what an asshole I’d be.

And a few minutes later, the front desk lady was all “HE’S ADOPTED” and that was that. No “I’m sorry” or “we really should have told you to come sooner” or “we’re sorry, we would have held him for you” or SOMETHING.

I sad-Charlie-Browned to the car. Where I wept. And cussed. And then wept some more.

I know. I KNOW. All things are meant to be, and blah blah blah, and it probably wasn’t the right TIME, or the right PLACE, and listen. I believe in all of that just as much as anyone you know. I really, really do. I live by that as much as I can.

But oh. Oh, I so wanted him. So very, very much. Because someday, Dumbcat will no longer be here. And this cat was two. And had a good long life to live. And I imagined him being Dumbcat’s younger friend, and making Dumbcat happy in his older years, and then having a cat when (shh, I don’t like to think about this) Dumbcat is no longer here to make me laugh every day.

So I cried in my car. Because some dismissive girl who got to the shelter just before me got him. And will she appreciate him like I would? I don’t know. Maybe. All I know is, she called him “she” three times while I was gathering up my things. And he’s a HE. So that’s a worry.

Then I went shopping to make the hurt stop, but only found ONE SHIRT so that didn’t help. And then my cable broke. And I got some shitty news. So it was a snowballing day of badness, and I’m going to take a cool shower and go to bed early because effffff.

Dumbcat waiting for me at home and wanting to be especially cuddly was nice, though. I told him about his long-lost brother. He just purred and headbutted my spleen.

I don’t want another cat. I want another DUMBCAT. Or, at least, one that looks enough like him that when that inevitable day comes that he is no longer headbutting my spleen, the hurt won’t devastate me as much as it might.

(Shush, I know there’s only one Dumbcat, let me have my fantasy, ok? OK. Great.)

So, if any of you are out and about in the world and see a homeless Dumbcat, and he’s looking for a home…you let me know. I’m totally willing to travel. Just promise me he’ll be there when I show up, ok? I don’t like crying in the car. It makes my glasses all fog up.

This one would be good. He looks sufficiently freaked-out enough to join my household.

This one would be good. He looks sufficiently freaked-out enough to join my household.

Advertisements

So let me say before we part: so much of me is made of what I learned from you.

I moved here in September 2002. I started looking for something to do in the area not long afterward; I knew if I just stayed home all the time and did nothing, I’d not only drive myself insane, I’d drive my poor roommate there with me.

I called one local theater and they called me back, but something there seemed off, so I decided that one was out. Then I went to see Cloud 9 at another local theater, and I fell crazy in love. With the theater – an old firehouse that just felt like a theater, the minute you walked in – with the actors, who did the best version of the show I’d ever seen – and with the direction, which was brilliant. This was the theater I wanted to work at. This was where I was meant to be.

The other theater was five minutes from my house in an area I was comfortable with and had a parking lot; this theater was twenty minutes away (in normal, non-rush-hour traffic) in a somewhat-sketchy area I knew nothing about, had on-street parking (and never enough of it) and meant I had to (GULP!) drive on the HIGHWAY.

I’ve never taken the easy way, have I? Nope.

I signed up in the lobby in the volunteer book and thought if I heard from them at all, it wouldn’t be soon. A couple weeks later, I got a call from someone at the theater. “You said you have experience running a light and sound board on your sheet,” she said. “Yes…?” I said. “YOU DO? Want to run the light and sound boards for our next show in a couple of weeks? We could REALLY use you,” she said.

(Side note: she now runs the box office at the fancy theater here, yo. Love you, J.!)

I walked in petrified. I didn’t know these people. Was this even a good idea? I mean, yes, I needed to get out of the house, and I missed theater. But these were STRANGERS. It had been YEARS since I ran the booth for a show. What if I screwed up? These people were GOOD. They might HATE me.

I think I said about three words to anyone for that entire show. I was this scared little mouse in the booth. But I didn’t screw up the lighting or the sound. And the next thing I knew, I was stage managing the next show of the season. And then the next show. And sometimes running either the light or sound board or both. Doing props. Working backstage. And when, a year later, they asked me to be on the board of directors. I don’t know if I was ever happier.

I moved through positions on the board: trustee at large, secretary, vice president of production, artistic director. I worked on show after show after show. I stage managed, produced, worked box office, worked the light and sound boards, did crew work, acted (a little, and not well, I know my limitations, people), ran auditions, worked hospitality, publicity. You name it, I’ve probably done it.

Eight years, I’ve been on the board there. I’ve met some of my closest local friends while working there. I’ve learned so many things there, had so many opportunities to do things I’d never gotten to do before. I’ve seen such amazing work happen on that stage. I’ve laughed until I’ve cried and cried until I’ve laughed. I took such pride in being the artistic director of one of the oldest community theaters in the area. I did good work. I worked very hard to put up shows that I believed in, that people would both enjoy and that would broaden their horizons, sometimes a little, sometimes a lot, as well as make us money.

Being on the board led to my job as a theater reviewer. It led to my current full-time job; I met friend A. there, and he sent me the job posting, and now I work with him. Being on the board led to me knowing most of our local actors; knowing more theater than I ever thought I would; being someone that came up in conversation as part of the local theater scene, a theater scene I could not be more proud of.

Tuesday night was my last official board meeting.

I chose to step down. It was my choice. It’s been an amazing eight years, but it’s been a lot of work. A lot of time. A lot of time I haven’t had for myself. A lot of times where I missed other things, other opportunities. I’m starting to wilt. It’s stopped being fun. And I’ve always said, when something stops being fun, you have to stop doing it, not only for your own sanity, but for the people around you; your mood directly affects them.

I know it’s for the best; it’s opening up a whole new world for me. I have plans for all this time. I have things I’ve been putting off that I’ll finally have time to do. I’ll be able to sleep more. My stress level will be lower. This is for the best.

But just because something’s for the best doesn’t mean that it’s not hard, walking away from something that’s been such a part of your identity for so long. Nine years. Almost the whole time I’ve lived here. The theater’s been my main social interaction for all those years. It’s been me. I’ve been Amy, who works at the theater. It’s hard not to feel a little lost, even if it is the right thing, and I’m doing it for all the right reasons.

I’ll be the artistic director for a little less than a month, still. The new artistic director doesn’t start until next month. This was my last board meeting, however; I accidentally bought a ticket to see Neil Gaiman on the night of our annual meeting next month, so this is it for me. (Sorry, I’m not missing Gaiman. I’d have to hand in my geek card if I did. Plus…well, goodbyes are sad; goodbyes at the annual meeting, in front of all those people? SUPER-sad. Plus also pretty embarrassing.) I could always go back. I could always work at another theater. If I get bored, if I start missing theater, maybe I will, but I’ll be taking a good long break first.

This is the right thing to do.

I handed in the keys that have been hanging on my keychain for eight years tonight. I said my goodbyes, which weren’t as sad as they probably should have been. I know this is the right move for me.

I did, however, sit in the car for a little bit and look at the theater, and say a goodbye to it privately. The woman who, nine years ago, sat in her car, afraid to go in; the woman who, nine years later, sat in her car, afraid to leave.

Nine years there, eight of them on the board. The next time I come back, I’ll be a patron. Or a volunteer. I won’t work there anymore.

Just because something’s the right thing to do doesn’t always mean it’s the easy choice to make.


On Loss

The art of losing isn’t hard to master; 
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

They say you learn to be better at something, the more you do it. It becomes ingrained; it’s like breathing, or putting one foot in front of the other, or riding the proverbial bike. You learn something, you become quite good at that thing. You’re an old hand.

I don’t know if you ever learn to be good at losing things you love. You learn to be quieter about it, maybe; to not cry and wail in public, to keep the tears inside, to stiff-upper-lip the whole thing. It’s not seemly, you see. Not for adults. Children can cry over such things. Adults need to carry on. It is what we do. Or, at least, what we’re supposed to do.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I think back on things I’ve lost over the years: a beloved necklace, left behind in a move; a thirteenth-birthday gift, stolen from me on a bus; a lighter, given to me by a loved one, plucked from my pocket without my knowledge. And things less tangible, more esoteric: my heart, my trust, and at times, my mind, over one or the other or both.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

You can move past the loss of things. Things are…things. There will always be more things. You can replace what you’ve lost; if not with the exact thing, then something similar. Our lives are too weighted down with things, anyway. It’s amazing what you can live without, if you must; we can live on a shoestring, if it comes down to it.

It’s the people you lose that haunt you. It’s the people you’ve lost that fly behind your eyelids when you’re trying to sleep; the people you’ve lost, either to something like death, or to something less final, but somehow more painful. People lost to time, to stupidity, to misunderstandings piling up onto one another to make a wall you can never climb, an insurmountable obstacle separating you from where you want to be; people lost to fate, perhaps, if that’s your thing, events set into place long before you even arrived, blinking blindly, on the scene. The things unsaid follow you like lost children, tugging at your hem; the things you might have done to stop this endless numbing empty loss echo in your mind like catcalls down a long hallway.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

The boy with the ice-blue eyes and the musician’s hands who disappeared when my back was turned, when I was distracted with other things. The best friend who, behind my back, decided to do everything she could to ruin my life, all while smiling to my face. The poet who, one day, disappeared without a word. The friend who knew me better than anyone and chose a road I couldn’t travel with him, no matter how badly it ripped me in two to watch him go.

Maybe it’s not that you learn how to do something, if you’ve done it over and over, but you learn how best to handle it. You learn not to give all of yourself to someone, because if you put everything you’ve got into someone, and they leave, you’re the one who’s lost. You haven’t just lost them, you’ve lost all you’ve put into them. Every bit of it. And you are empty inside, because you’ve lost that part of yourself; that part of yourself you were with them, the things you did together, knew together; the things you shared with them. You learn to wall yourself over, to protect the parts of yourself you have left. You learn to hold parts of yourself back. And then when you enter into new relationships, you’re afraid to let your real self show ever again, because the last time you did, look what happened. You lost someone. You got lost. There is nothing left. That nothingness, it is vast. And you take it with you wherever you go.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

And this loss, you are alone in it. There is only so long you are allowed to wallow. There is only so long you are allowed to permissably be sad about losing someone you loved. You are expected to move on.

But what if you can’t? What if days, weeks, months pass, and it’s in everything you do? If you’re reminded of what you’ve lost by something different and new every day, stupid things, words and memories and songs, and you’re blindsided, you sometimes find yourself fighting back tears and you’re so fucking angry at yourself for not following the same timeline of loss that everyone else in the whole damn world seems to be able to follow? What if it’s gotten to the point you can’t even talk to anyone about it anymore, because you know, you just know, you’ve become that person that no one wants to talk to anymore, because you’re insufferable about the whole thing? What then?

It’s not like you could get it back, what you were with that person, even if they were to come back. Things are too irreparably broken. You’re mourning what you were, what you had, what you lost. You know you can’t get it back. So why the hell can’t you move on from it?

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster. 

Eventually, though, you wall everything off. There are parts of you that you’ll never share; those belong to those people you’ve lost, and you’ll never get them back. They’ve taken them with them. You’ve lost them forever, like your necklace, your lighter, that thirteenth birthday present. You become cold and silent. You become so afraid of losing you are afraid to try ever again. You might have learned to lose, but mostly what you learn is to stop trying. Because no matter how many times you do it, losing doesn’t get easier. It’s not riding a bike. It’s not breathing. It’s death. It’s the death of the person you were. And once all those parts of you are dead, what’s left?

No, it’s not hard to master. Anything done over and over again becomes ingrained.

It’s just that what no one tells you is that it’s you that gets lost.

(Poem: “One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop)

I’m leaving comments open on this post, but won’t be replying to them. I don’t know that I could bring myself to do so. This one’s a little too raw for me, folks. So, please know that I will read every one of your comments, and appreciate them wholeheartedly, and that my silence means nothing deeper than me having nothing else left in me to say about this. Thank you.


And we always will

sj emailed me yesterday because she knows I can’t check social media while I’m at work. She let me know there’d been two explosions at the Boston Marathon. No real news yet. Reports of possible severed limbs. Chaos.

She knows things like this bother me. She didn’t want me to be blindsided on the drive home, or by one of my coworkers. I love her for that. I love her for being that person for me.

When I got home, I made myself read the reports. Watch the videos. Read my Facebook feed, people who were looking for loved ones in Boston. We’re only two and a half hours from Boston, where I live. I’ve never been, but it’s somewhere I want to visit quite badly. I’ve always wanted to go to Boston. It seems like a magical city to me. And you know how much I love magic.

I noticed what Patton Oswalt did in the videos, in between my sobbing, watching runners falling, tripping over themselves to get away from the noise, the smoke, hearing the screaming start, the faint and horrified “Oh. Oh, oh my God. Oh,” from the newscaster who’d been planning on filming nothing more than the finish line of the marathon for some background footage.

People were running toward the explosion.

People were running toward the explosion even though there could have been more explosions. They didn’t know what had happened. It didn’t matter.

And not running toward the explosion once the screams started, and not running toward the explosion once people started dragging them over, or when people started calling for help. People IMMEDIATELY started running toward the explosion. One man said, in a thick Bawston accent that sounded like the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard in my life, “There are people that are going to need our help over there,” and immediately headed over. He didn’t say it to anyone. There was no one around him. He was saying it to himself. He was telling himself what to do. He was explaining to himself, this is what we do, when we’re needed, because there really isn’t another viable option right now.

And the people, the firemen, the National Guardsmen, the policemen, and the people who were there – runners, bystanders, just everyday people – worked together to pull down the barricades, to make it easier for emergency vehicles and EMTs to get to the wounded. Everyone became a united force. Everyone knew what they had to do. Sadly, it’s become a thing: we have experience with this now. We know what to do when the bomb goes off or the plane crashes or the man with the gun and the dead, dead eyes enters the crowded room. We’ve learned. It’s not something we should have to have learned, but it’s something we collectively have.

The news is still being guarded. By the time you read this, we might know what happened, but for now, people are saying it’s terrorism, and people are saying we don’t know yet. People are saying there’s a subject in custody, people are saying it’s just too soon to say anything. People are saying two more bombs were found before they exploded. People are saying there is video of a man with a backpack leaving the bombs in the area.

People say a lot of things, when these things happen. It’s one of the things that people are good at. We talk because we don’t know what else we can do. We talk because it keeps the gibbering maniacal panic at bay.

But for all of the talking, I like what Patton Oswalt has to say.

There are more of us than there are of them.

There are more of us that run toward the explosions to see what we can do, that hide the children in the cupboards and face the shooter with our hands spread and resolution stubborn in our eyes, that run into the burning building to bring out just one more person, if possible, just one more, just one more.

There are so, so many more of us on this beautiful, amazing, hope-filled planet.

You can see us all around. We’re in the small kindnesses; the letting of people into traffic, the kind smile of a stranger, the holding of a door, the compliment when needed but unanticipated; the bigger ones, the offer to listen, the helping each other up, the thank you for being in my life, the telling someone you love them, no matter what, for always, for forever. The small kindnesses, the bigger ones, the huge heroism. To some people, they are all the same thing. You never know if your kindness, if your hand reaching out for theirs, is the thing that saved someone’s life.

There is a lot of darkness and a lot of sadness out there right now. It’s warranted. It’s a scary time. Every day, something else. Every day, something that seems like one more step on that descent into madness.

When it gets too much, though, look at all the heroes. They’re all around you. They are infinity times infinity and they stretch on forever.

And make damn sure you’re one of them.


State of the state, with added insani-lunacy.

Howdy! Here we are at Thursday. Quick checking-in-with-Amy post, how about that? Good, good. It’s like the state of the union address, only much less interesting and much less likely to be torn apart and mocked on Fox News.

So this week is not total lunacy. This week had a couple of things in it, but it’s not too bad. Three days I get to go home after work and put my feet up. (That’s a total exaggeration. I don’t put my feet up. I don’t have anything to put them on. They stay on the floor.) Monday I had a very long day. Here, I will make it into a bulleted list for you. We all like bulleted lists, right?

  • Went to work. Worked for a while. Realized it was snowing all the snow. Hadn’t watched the weather forecast all weekend; was not prepared for all the snow. No winter weather gear; highly inappropriate footwear.
  • Left early for lunch, but did not go to lunch. Instead, brought the car to the garage. The car decided to go from “I am being mildly annoying” to “I AM BROKEN HELP ME I AM BROKEN!” *flailing arms* on Sunday and started bucking wildly whenever I accelerated or braked and the check engine light came on, so THAT’S fun. Especially when it’s slippery out.
  • Went to the garage. I have a total crush on my garage guy. He’s not hot or anything. He’s just nice. And good with cars. And practical. Therefore, I randomly find him attractive. I feel as if he would be the kind of person who would be good at solving all of life’s problems as easily as he solves my car’s problems. He said, “Hey! What’s going on?” when he saw me because he likes me. I like that.
  • He took the car for a test drive after I explained what was up. “It’s bucking? Like a horse? And also the warning lights are coming on for things that aren’t wrong, like the emergency brake? And the check engine light is on? And I think it’s not accelerating correctly, like maybe it’s not shifting, but I don’t know that, because it’s an automatic and not a standard? Is any of this helping at all?” He laughed kindly and said, “I’m going to take it for a drive. Be right back.” I like him. A lot.
  • He came back and said, “It didn’t do any of those things for me. But when I hooked it up to the computer, it says you need a new catalytic converter. That’s $700. Instead, buy good gas and put this gunk in the gas tank for a few weeks, then come back in for your inspection and we’ll talk options.” (No, he didn’t say “gunk.”) “Am I ok to drive it?” I asked, “Um, yes? I guess, it’s not doing anything for me,” he said. So back to the bucky car goes I. Which immediately bucked. Dammit. (Dad says “Yeah, that car’s about to shit the bed. SIGH SIGH daughter. You are hard on cars.” How am I hard on cars? I totally get oil changes in a timely fashion and sometimes get them washed and always get gas and only go above the speed limit MOST of the time, not ALL of the time. I think I am NORMAL with cars.)

    Apparently this is the culprit. And it seems like it has a waffle in it. Yum, waffles.

    Apparently this is the culprit. And it seems like it has a waffle in it. Yum, waffles.

  • Then I went back to work and worked the rest of the day. The roads were terrible, because all the snow and slush and garbage on them. Slippery and disgusting. And, again, not appropriate shoes. Or a hat.
  • THEN I had to go straight to the theater for a theater meeting. So off I went. The highway was so backed up. I don’t know why. I assume everyone was driving slowly, because of the weather? Blergh.
  • At the meeting, we decided not to decide anything. Mostly I repeated the following: “I don’t care, I just want this to be over.” This probably is not the most helpful thing to do at a meeting, but I am…exhausted. I feel like we’ve been talking about the same thing in circles forever. We really haven’t. It’s only been about a month or two. But I feel like it’s been years, and I’m SO TIRED.
  • Then we had the critique for our next show. At this point, I was on overload. I’d been going since 6am. It was now 7pm. SO SO BEYOND TIRED. The play was very good; it made me cry pretty much throughout. Which might have been a function of the play or might have been because when I’m tired, I start leaking tears and sometimes it doesn’t stop until I get some sleep. Or a little of both. Either way, the play is very good, and I’m pleased, because that means friend A. did a great job directing it, and I can tell everyone they should come and see it and not even be lying a little bit, and since I have to watch the show every time it’s performed starting Sunday, I won’t be wanting to throttle myself by Wednesday, which is nice.

    Aw, look, my play, you guys! Awesome, yeah?

    Aw, look, my play, you guys! Awesome, yeah?

  • Then we watched the play, which is kind of long (very good, but not a brief play), and then there was the critique, which was ALSO kind of long, and then after about half an hour of that, I said, “Friend A.! Can I give you my notes at work tomorrow?” and he said yes, so I skedaddled. (Friend A. is apparently much better at long days than I am, as he had the same length day as I did but he was still up and lively. He’s also 7 years younger than I am, so he’s like a BABY. With all that youthful energy. All that youthful early-thirties energy. Remember that? No, me either. Too long ago.)
  • Then I came home. I got home at 11. So, yes, my day was 15 hours long. That is too long. TOO LONG. Then I still had to get ready for bed, so all in all, I got a full 5.5 hours sleep, and I feel like a sticky-eyed zombie-person.

So there was my Monday. Loooong day.

Anyway, here’s the scoop for what’s upcoming:

Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, normal days. Work, home, relax a little. One of those days I have to go grocery shopping. Probably Thursday. Keep my fingers crossed the car doesn’t stop working while I’m driving.

Friday night, friend C. comes to town, and we’re going to see Company of Thieves at a local bar (or club, I don’t even know, I just bought the tickets, I haven’t done the research yet) doing an acoustic show, which will be amazing and wonderful. I’m so excited. Then friend C. is spending the night, and I took the day off work on Saturday so I can sleep in and depending on how long she stays, we might even be able to go get some breakfast. I’m hoping waffles. It’s been much too long since waffles happened.

Company of Thieves here we come! So excited!

Company of Thieves here we come! So excited!

Then Saturday is for me, and I think I will spend it doing laundry. Because I am nothing if not a good time.

Sunday is tech day for my show. I get there at 10, I think we’re planning on about a 6-hour day (but they usually run long.) I’m running something in the booth. I’m not sure what. Lights or sound. (Update: friend A. says sound. That’s ok with me. He’s going to be in the booth with me, which I love. He makes me laugh.) I have to make brownies for tech Sunday at some point, too. Crap, I’m glad I remembered that. Um, maybe Saturday sometime? I’ll squeeze that in there?

Then Monday, tech right after work; Tuesday, I go to a theater and review a play; Wednesday, tech; Thursday, pay-what-you-will preview; Friday, opening night; shows Saturday and Sunday; auditions for the next show Monday and Tuesday. That is ten straight days at a theater, 9 at mine, 1 at another. It’s going to be a long haul and I don’t know that there will be blogging. Maybe? But maybe not. So if I go missing for 10 days, I am not dead. I’m just not getting enough sleep and hanging out in the light booth. I’ll check in with Twitter to reassure you of my living-ness, if I get a chance.

Most honestly, I am dealing with some personal issues that have me…kind of…not feeling the most communicative. So it’s not going to be the worst thing in the world to take a break from things, to be honest. I’ve found myself apologizing a lot for my mood to people over the past few days, and apparently cannot be trusted with it. So it might just be best if I shushed for a bit, for all involved. I’ve often said living in my brain is no cakewalk; this is the part of the cakewalk where it’s more of a house of horrors than a cakewalk, kiddos. With those funhouse mirrors that distort everything, and a lot of that looped screaming in the background that makes you all ultra on-edge.

It's one of those "you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave" situtations, unfortunately.

It’s one of those “you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave” situtations, unfortunately.

Sometimes these things happen, jellybeans, it’s the way of the world for those of us with wonky brain chemistry. As The Bloggess in all her wisdom tells us, the crocodiles are always there. Eventually it stops. It’s just not overly fun while it’s here. But you live your life. It’s what you do. Because what’s the alternative, curling up in a ball and crying for a few months? No. That seems wearying, you know? Who has time for that? I mean, you’d have to hydrate a LOT for that magnitude of crying, seriously. I don’t think I have that much fruit punch mix.

So if I’m not bloggy for the next week or ten days or so, I’m HERE, I’m just theatering. Theatrically. Shows don’t just stage-manage themselves, my darling dear ones. It’ll be fine. I have a beeeeeelion archives for you to work your way through. Surely you haven’t read ALL my past posts. (Speaking of which? This here post? #600. SIX! HUNDRED! I know, right? Whoa!) I might have time to write from the theater because there’s free wifi there, but there are also a LOT of cues in this show. So we’ll see what happens. Honestly, I’m going to be lucky to sleep and eat in a timely fashion.

Off I go. It is time to watch the rest of ParaNorman and eat some pudding. As one does. On a Wednesday night. Right? Right. Here I come, pudding. Here I come, the rest of ParaNorman. Wish me luck, interwebs.

It's actually really enjoyable. Zombies and kind of quirky. I like it a lot.

It’s actually really enjoyable. Zombies and kind of quirky. I like it a lot.


%d bloggers like this: