Why? Jessbecause

Super Secret November Challenge Blog Post #30 (but actually #24)

2015-11-30T22:25:00.001-08:00

Check one off my list, because this past weekend, I Black Friday'd.

For the past few years, Mike and I have found ourselves wandering around in a post turkey haze at the Riverchase Galleria, Birmingham's last real jewel of 90's indoor mall glory, looking for as many ladies in light up Christmas sweaters as we could find. Online shopping has left a trail of singing tree shirt corpses in it's wake, but we can still spot the occasional overly eager consumer.

It has become one of my favorite new holiday traditions, along with midnight mass underscored by my enthusiastic carol harmonizing, bourbon and more bourbon, and Die Hard christmas tree decoration. We just grab a cup of coffee and People Watch like champs.

But this year, I put a halt to my last minute shopping so as to fit with my current schedule, and I decided to plunge into some real Black Friday deals.

It was a drug.

Granted, there was not a crowd to fight through, nor any lines to have to queue up in for some coveted Tickle Me Big Bang Theory box set, or whatever. I haven't the faintest idea of what the hot ticket gift is this year. Is it Star Wars related? It should be.

But I did manage to get around $400 worth of gifts for under $150, which I'm sure is small peanuts (potatoes?) for some, but for me? It was huge. I walked out of that mall with bags dangling from my arms like the ravaged goods of some pillaged city. It was awesome and about as fully Suburb-ican as I have ever been.

Now, even though I was laser beam focused on my wedding gift goals, I still managed to take notice a few lively shoppers, frustrated shoppers.

Or, more notably, the frustrated southern mom shoppers.

"Daryl. Did you hear what Susan wanted?"

Four successive eye rolls, each one larger and more drawn out than the last, before she growls into her ridiculously large smart phone, "Susan. Susan! What was it? What? WHAT?"

"Daryl, she wants a grande caramel swizzlestickucinno with caramel on top and magic on the bottom." (roughly recalling her order here)

Oh, this is while we were standing in line at the Starbucks. I heard an epic sigh and then the most begrudging:

"Excuuuuuuuuse mehhhhheeee"

before being shoved out of the way as she plowed forth to her husband, who froze and looked back over his shoulder, clearly picturing his only possible escape out of this situation.

And, believe it or not, this was not the only woman in line who, in less than 5 minutes after the store opened it's doors, apparently was already the most put upon woman to ever stand in a line with a *monolithic cell phone glued to her ear.

The burden of all existence was on at least 3 separate women in that line, and they needed to make sure that EVERYONE else around them knew that they knew they were too important to put up with this shit.

Ladies, while considering oneself too "anything" for "this shit" may seem adorable on Danny Glover, it is not quite as cute as on you.

This also applies to the the gents out there, the ones who will help you out, but only if they can let you know that not only is it inconvenient for them, but you are awesomely stupid for asking if they could move out of the way so you can grab just one lid from that pile you are blocking with your entire body,sir.

God bless those giant phones. The only reason they have gotten bigger is to contain more of our never-ending self importance.

Humility is the one thing I would love to see more of this time of year. Mix that with a dash of self awareness and just a small bit of awe that the entire earth just spun all the way around, giving you sunlight to see your stuffing-bloated body as you drag it out to the giant contraption that transports you at enormous speeds with the slightest tap of your toe, arriving at a destination that is the result of hundreds, thousands of hours of labor, design, and good old fashioned American consumerism just so you can spend your entire paycheck on items that will completely unappreciated mere moments after they are revealed to the recipient.

But yes, it is world's greatest inconvenience that you had to walk back into the store and talk to your husband again.

I'm not saying that we, especially women, who face this critique more often than not, must walk around with giant grins of unquestioning gratitude on our faces. And often these expressions of maximal irritation with life itself are generally an exclamation of dissatisfaction within our own selves, so that is always something to keep in mind when one feels like cracking down on someone who has to bring everyone down to their level.. However, before you get all bent out of shape about whether or not you got one straw instead of the three you requested in your bag, maybe shoot a little self evaluation up into the universe, and see what it thinks of your problems.

Probably not much.

Plus, isn't it the season to, you know, get over yourself? Get over yourselves, every one of us.

*I would totally buy the monolith cell phone, as long as the ringer was set to creepy A capella chorus.

Super Secret November Challenge Blog Post # 23

2015-11-29T22:20:00.000-08:00

There is a special time right after Thanksgiving when my blood sugar is at an all time high, and so is my appetite.

Most of the time, this isn't problem because I'm all, "Girl, I'll see you from inside my sweaters, leggings, and converses" (but seriously, this is my official outfit for 60 percent of the year), and then I can stress about my choices in March.

But this year I am in a bit of a bind. In 2014, I lost close to 20 lbs, and by spring of 2015, I had lost a total of 24 pounds. That was all well and good.

Since this summer, I began losing hair and I lost about 2 full cup sizes in my chest.

And that is not so cool.

Full disclosure, I realize these recent unfavorable occurrences are the result of stress and changes in medication. Hormones, friends. They are a bitch, if you are a bitch. I refuse to believe that, comparatively, men find themselves at the mercy of their bodies as much as women do - though I do realize this is not true in every individual case.

You know when you are sick, and I mean really gross sick, and even with excellent grooming, you still look like a stop motion Burton monster? This is how I have felt for the past several months. I am channeling the final days of Howard Hughes, but only if HH was a bit more pear shaped than he was used to being. The other day I looked in the mirror, and for the first time I looked my age, and then some.

This is when I realized that I am indeed, harboring the heart of a girly girl, somewhere deep under yet another new bra that doesn't fit; a secret lady who doesn't want to be valued for her looks, but would certainly like to value the way she looked. A secret lady who was ready to embrace every ounce of narcissism and shallowness, if she could only return to the pleasant balance of reasonable attractiveness and sporadic wine bloat that she had enjoyed earlier in the year.

But theeeeeeeeennnn... That was also when I remembered, looking effortlessly good looking, takes a lot of effort. I shower. I put on moisturizer and tinted lip gloss. Recently I've added little powder and blush because in addition to my hair and boobs disappearing, my complexion has been, well, like the early decaying hide of a sick old man.

I realize that this is a phase, and one that will go away after the wedding has passed, and after a decent hair cut and color, But when I am about to have a few hundred photos taken of me in just a few short weeks, I would rather feel a little vain, and a lot confident, than like the trash bucket outside of a Captain D's.

I tried to casually bring this up to Mike, about the "Homely" phase that plagues most people at some point in their lives, but apparently, he is so attractive that he had no clue what I was talking about. But seriously, it went right over his cute head. Part of me feels extremely lucky to have a guy who has a particularly miraculous set of love blinders (if he was more of a drinker, then we'd call them Drunk Goggles, courtesy of the Simpsons), and part of me feels like, "This fella has some sort of eye disorder. Surely he sees what the damage is".

Earlier this year, I made fun of every wedding website that featured

7. Start Bridal Workout

on their wedding checklists, and I still make fun of them. But I put on my dress the other day and had a wave of self absorbed pity. I don't think that my wedding is the only huge event I have to look forward to in my life, but I would like to feel proud to stand up in front of a large crowd and present myself as myself for a change, and not worry about how not-toned my back is, or how my eyes look like those of an 80 year old drug addict.

I keep hoping that my body will mellow out, but so far no luck. Plus, I am experiencing the Thanksgiving Spill Over, when every thing that I ate that didn't come back out is spilling over my hips.

Thanks Hormones. You need to get it together, or get on up and go home. You're not drunk, you're just an asshole.

If you need me, I will be eaten copious amounts of vegetable soup and random protein fillers for the next couple of weeks. I will be sugar angry. Just don't touch my tender hair, and all will be well.

All will be well.

Super Secret November Challenge Blog Post #22

2015-11-28T23:05:00.000-08:00

Lessons I have learned from my less than successful attempt at a straight month of blogging.

1. I can't do it.

A. My brain shuts down for a few hours around four to six, and then lays in bed wondering how it can get out of getting back up.

B. My brain shuts down at the first sign on undesirable stress.

C. That includes stress that I am unprepared to deal with: stress that is overwhelming in a non fun way, stress induced by a form of self promotion, my number one weakness, and angry food stress (brought on by normal stress).

2. Actually I can do it.

A. After a review of my previous posts, I had deduced that I have managed to do this on a semi regularly basis in the past.

B. My mind just needs to be in the right place.

C. But sometimes it doesn't, and that works out too.

3. I want to try this again. When I am not mentally flagging 20 hours out of every day.

4. I'm not sure when that will be. Post honeymoon?

5. I miss being more artsy and just a tad less fartsy.

6. Okay, equal amounts artsy and fartsy.

Tomorrow is my last chance to really do this thing, ~~and I'm all outta gum~~ and I have the whole day. You hear that, interweb? The Whole. Day. Which I was planning on cleaning and setting up Christmas decorations, but I don't really feel like doing that either.*

Here's a random thought to tide us over. Why oh why did Great Britain in the early 00's have a mini love affair with hating on the smaller side of average size women? Seriously, take a peek at Love Actually and Bridget Jones Diary, and look at the tiny ladies they called whales, and then look at how they portrayed women who were actually overweight.

Clearly displaying the carcass of the box of doughnuts she must have just eaten. Tubby.

Yeah, but what you don't see is the giant bunny prints her fat feet have imprinted on the ground beneath her.

No wonder there was an eating disorder club at my school. Reason for this average phobia? Clearly England wanted to reclaim the country by starving out America's women. Nice try, UK. Nice try.

*This is proof of my exhaustion. Never have I ever been too depleted of energy to break out the lights and 30 year old stockings.

Super Secret November Challenge Blog Post # 21

2015-11-25T22:27:00.001-08:00

In a baking devil storm? It's Turkey lurkey time, bitches.

Super Secret November Challenge Blog Post # 20

2015-11-24T22:17:00.001-08:00

It's not that I'm tired, I just want to read my book.

Can I refer you to my friend, Netflix? Oh! Do you know that I was able to get my mom to watch Boogie Nights? It was the promise of solid ensemble work. She's a sucker for solid ensemble work.

Anyway, she loved it.

Super Secret November Challenge Blog Post # 19

2015-11-23T22:41:00.001-08:00

Happy Tacky Holidays

It is that time of year again. The radio has been taken over by two stations playing non stop Christmas music until midnight, Christmas night, and has at least three more stations devoted to discussing how we are running out of all our Christmas, thanks to the heathens.

The mall is tempting legal fate with seizure inducing decorations.

Cups.

And I am receiving daily emails full to bursting with ugly Christmas crafts. DIY Xmas means mason jar snowglobes, decorative trees made out of old jeans and egg cartons, and puff ball garland. Lots and lots of puff ball garland.

What can I say? I love to craft it up during the holidays, specifically knitting. Each winter brings about one specific project that I work on for four months and either abandon, or present to it's recipient in all it's half assed glory.

If I have time though, I usually find a way to squeeze in a few paper snowflakes and library book trees. Whatever my inbox says is on trend.

This year, though... pickings are slim. They are slimmer than Ebenezer Scrooge's spirit.

I mean...

Super Secret November Challenge Blog Post #18

2015-11-22T22:24:00.001-08:00

Today I had two bowls of chili and two beers. So...

Can I recommend you check out the far superior blog AND podcast, The Midnight Citizen?

Super Secret November Challenge Blog Post # 17

2015-11-21T00:29:00.000-08:00

Decidedly Un-sexy

I have the apartment to myself tonight, which means pizza, duh.

It also means I have room to do things I cannot do while my fiance is around. Scandalous things. Things like, putting on my wedding gown and watching Steel Magnolias. No fooling, I was really drawn to the idea of getting slightly tipsy on the half bottle of wine that is left in our fridge, and tempting the Goddess of Pre-Nuptial disasters while wearing my dress and re-enacting the funeral monologue. Because I still just wanna know "waaaahhhhhhhheeeeee"???

But before committing to this decision, I decided to scroll through the little blessing we received this summer, HBO Now, and lo and behold - mine eyes beheld blog gold. At least, blog gold for me.

A few years ago, I wrote my favorite piece on this bad boy; A post all about that soft core porn/studio film 9 1/2 Weeks.

Now, please do not misunderstand me. It is not my best work. It is very scatter brained and impossible to comprehend unless you are watching the movie, but it is still the most fun for me to write. Simply because I got to vent every frustration I had about that movie, while constructing a cautionary tale for those who dare to venture into that mumbly, cold germ filled arena.

Now, I have been given another chance to relive my hate-watching fun fest. It's like MST3K, in the sense that I am totally ripping off their style in a less entertaining and well-crafted format.

Fifty Shades of Grey is on HBO. Now.

It's on HBO NOW. Right now.

There are only like, nine shades of legos here. Fail, Legos.

I am going to need to run to the fridge real quick.

Okay. I cannot guarantee we are going to make it all the way through this sucker. If I make past the fifteen minute mark, I get a second glass of wine. (re. I will need a second glass of wine.) If I make it through the first hour - there are two - then I get to have the rest of that bottle of Absolute we've hidden in our freezer for the past year. Don't worry, it is only, like, 2 1/2 shots worth of vodka. I learned my 50 Shades of Alcohol lesson years ago (that's another story... let's put that on the To Blog list).

But we are going to give this our best shot. I know nothing about the movie. I know nothing about the story. I do know that it received a lot of worthy sounding criticism, that frankly sounded like the criticism aimed at another series with iffy portrayals of women and submission, Twilight.

I also know that there were a few articles about the lead actors and their tense working relationship. They hated each other? Or something? Fifty Shades I Am Directing At You?

Be prepared, I am full of bad title related puns. Full of them.

Okay, here we go.

I kind of want to call one of my friends and brag about my selfless gesture. I'm not sure how impressed they would be.

A record player and rock and roll? Oh wait, it's a trailer for that new series, Vinyl. That looks Fifty Shades of Awesome.

Okay, revenge piano over the opening credits, and it's.... I Put A Spell On You. Is Dakota going to light the black flame candle? Is she??

Oh no, our lead lady is dressed like a lady going to work. What is she thinking? I always made sure sure to dress like romance novel cover business trixie whenever I wanted to be taken seriously. This is a good sign that this is introduction to our main character's flaws: 1. Not shouting at people. 2. Wearing sensible clothing.

You guys, it was so nice of Mr Grey to hire not one, but four former Express models to do the job of one desk greeter.

Anastasia. Anastasia. Anastasia STEEL. But really, I guess it could be worse. She could have one of those awful Baby Millennial names, like Mackenzie. Or Brynlee. Or Dakota...

We are 12 minutes in, and are only into about .05 Shades of Dialogue Inflection.

CONGRATS movie. You got yourself a Person Of Color Friend. You even gave him not one, but three lines. Three. You are a beacon of casting diversity, clearly.

Mr ~~Gay~~ Grey, do you require all your clothing to be douche casual fit?

Oh wait, a suit.

I don't understand what is happening. He bought some coveralls from her and now they have this Shakespearean chemistry? But seriously, they've exchanged 10 sentences, and half of them were about zip ties, and now she drunk calling him, and oh shit, now the POC friend just got all date rapey and her gay zip tie buddy is rescuing her from her drunken whore ways that she obtained when she put on all of that lip gloss that she told her friend was too much, It Was TOO MUCH!

But seriously. What is happening.

Glass Two.

Um. I think... that he just told her he would give her anal sex hemorrhoids. I think that is what he just said.

Annnnnnnnnd we have arrived at my first legit spit take. It involved sex paperwork. And then Mr Sex Business shoving her against the wall of an elevator and giving the most epic line delivery ever of

"Fuck the paperwork".

Seriously, youtube it, if you can.

Okay, you know that kind of special performance you get from a not so talented actor who is trying to play it straight? Don't act like you don't know, because you do know. You absolutely know. I could be totally wrong about this guy, but I am going to say that I am totally right. Mr Grey indeed.

Yes, AnaStasia. When a grown man makes you sign a disclosure and invites you to his play room, he doesn't just expect you check out his collection of Grand Theft Auto games. Honey, you're looking at butt plugs. A whole lotta butt plugs.

Bless her, she really does try to make the prospect of having a masochist bf with questionable sexuality an intriguing offer.

I knew it! Mommy issues! Marcia Gay mommy issues. I have this movie all figured out. Mr Grey is indeed Mr Gay. I didn't watch The Lost Boys all those times so I couldn't pick up on less the subtle clues of repressed homosexuality for nothing. Hey, maybe the actor isn't actually gay. Maybe he is just a genius.

Does Ana-Stasia have multiple apartments? She is the richest English Lit major, like, ever. She has the one place with her lady friend, and then some other place she just moved into... and now a place with Mr C? (I can't call him Mr Grey. I just can't. Plus calling him Mr C makes him sound like one of the adults from Happy Days, which makes this slightly more bearable.)

Oh, and here they are, right in the middle of the sexy business meeting. Butt. Plugs.

Butt plugs and... Oh lord, You guys, I don't think I can do it. This movie is so very... tedious. I mean, it is not just bad. It is dull as all get out. The scenes are moving without an ounce of natural progression and these poor actors are stuck trying to breathe some kind of existing life into them. That is the real element of masochism in this film.

With 9 1/2 Weeks, there was at least something for me to comment on, but there is absolutely nothing to work with in this Harlequin romance movie. The acting is bad, but not as bad as the directing, which isn't anywhere near as bad as the script. Has this given me a few genuine LOL moments? Absolutely. But this is some unholy mix of Skinemax meets Lifetime; A movie that kind of sort of wants to say something about the fine line of bullshit you walk upon when dealing with dominant/submissive relationships, but it simply doesn't have the balls to do so. Plus, I think it has some contractual agreement with Beyonce to make sure 65 % of the scenes are choreographed to the crappier segments of her musical library, so it's a soft core bonanza every five minutes. I just can't.

Wait. Wait wait wait. I just went into the kitchen to dig out the vodka and shame eat some cold pizza, and I come back to find the move is over. I mean, I know I took multiple secret interweb breaks while the movie was going on, but really?

What in the everloving fuck did I just watch?

I know that there are a few more books in the series - does that mean we are to expect more movies? And by we, I mean housewives with low self image. Because I am out. It's not that I don't get the appeal of this movie. I do get it. If you are a woman who has only seen yourself as valuable when you are seen as an object of possession (and confusing that with an object of obsession, though neither is really an attractive option here, gals), then of course this series would appeal to you. The same way Twilight appeals to young teens with no sense of what constitutes a kick ass, super romantic relationship built around respect.

This was rather disappointing, to say the least. Not because I anticipated anything other than a good old fashioned hate watch, but because I just couldn't wrap my brain around what I was seeing. I mean, it really did look like an old Stella sketch. The whole thing. Apparently the only directions the actors were given were:

Dakota, act generally timid, okay?

Other guy, you're totally misunderstood, got it?

I have a really hard time blaming them for their shit bowl performances. Not that I think that they are good actors. Dakota may have a few more natural instincts than Mr Birdcage, but that is like saying that I am a better air hockey player than Mike. Yes, I royally and regularly mop the floor with his cute face, but it doesn't mean that I know how to play actual, honest to god hockey.

And the writing. Every few scenes, it was like they remembered that they had to give some kind of semblance of character development to create a narrative. But instead of letting the audience discover the secret lives of these two kids and what makes them all kooky about sex, they just had them come out and say it. Mr C was molested (though, actually, they didn't say it that way. It was phrased in a far more irresponsible way.) Dakota-Stasia was abandoned by both parents, sort of, but not really? I mean, it's not exceptionally clever detail work on the part of the writer, but at least it was something that they could have used to build far more interesting characters, instead of just having them mention their personal histories once before going back to spanking each other with miniature car wash brushes.

I don't have much else to say about this movie, other than... I gave it a good shot. I hoped for some laughs, which I got. I also hoped for some comedic inspiration, or any kind of inspiration... but alas. Alas.

I am happy to reenact some of the lines for you. Truly I am, because the deliveries are Lohan-esque. But that is something that will only work in person. This is why I am actor, not a writer.

Until we meet, please feel free to go check out the other S and M movie post. It's super fun, if you can find the film streaming on any channel.

Or I can come and reenact some of lines from that movie as well.

Fart the theme to Jaws. Do you hear me, Fifty Shades? That is what you were missing. Just a small moment to fart the them to Jaws. Or even the theme to Das Boot, I don't care. But if you don't make room for a little theme farting in your sexy pants movie, then brother, you ain't got a film worth watching.

Super Secret November Challenge Blog Post # 16

2015-11-20T23:37:00.001-08:00

All I can say is - I have been stuffing envelopes for the past two evenings. I have reached a new level of bridal-ness.

I am Graceful. Delicate.

Super Secret November Challenge Blog Post #15

2015-11-18T22:24:00.000-08:00

I have been going back and forth on this, and I think I am going to take a pass on doing a Paris post.

Not because I am devoid of any human emotion, or have no strong feelings about the aftermath; but dissecting a tragedy that is currently plastered across social media and network news feels a bit like standing around an awful car wreck with popcorn and commenting on what you see.

I shared a hopeful sounding meme on Facebook, as well as an exceptionally well written post by one of my friends. But that is it. I haven't changed my photo to the French flag filter. I haven't shared my personal grief over the matter, nor aired my personal grievances over society's response to the matter. For me, that feels disingenuous.

Not to say that everyone who is cranking out their feelings via blogs, memes, and fb rants isn't truly struggling with their sorrow. It just runs too close a risk to ringing false for me to feel comfortable with going into detail over my personal thoughts on what happened. Plus, there are so many others who are expressing themselves far more eloquently and honestly than I could ever hope to.

So, I am leaving the subject alone. We all process tragedy in different ways. And if we didn't, then that is how we'd know that we have sold our soul for a pre-fab, interweb one.

Music Roundup

It has been quite awhile since I have seriously invested time in updating my music library. I found a good sound a few years ago and have just been replaying old albums while catching as catch can on World Cafe on NPR.

While I have been on the hunt for ceremony music, an endeavor that has left me knee deep sad lady soft rock circa 1978 to 1997, I have occasionally come across a few ear catchers.

First off, from Arcade Fire's violinist. Mostly instrumental, mostly good late night coffee sounds.

Finally. FINALLY. Serious question - which do you look forward to more, a Missy Elliott song, or Missy Elliott video? Because both are endlessly creative.

I love a pop song that doesn't go the obvious route. But I LOVE a pop song that keeps a girl guessing.

I understand that she is not everyone's jam, but with her ethereal lyricism and her abilities as harpist (and pianist), I'm not sure how the "Her voice is weird" criticism holds up against her considerable talents.

Bless you, Netflix. Bless you.

Super Secret November Challenge Blog Post #14

2015-11-17T22:08:00.002-08:00

Last Minute Moping (or, let's talk about stress)

There are about 3 to 5 hours buried within the day where I am running on a full battery and, on good days, full to bursting with creative and productive energy.

Lately, I would say that has dwindled to about 2 to 4 hours a day. Max. If we were in the midst of a grey midwestern winter, I would call this the Winter Blues. I do love me a-many things midwestern, but early March snow slush and cloudy skies can drive perfectly happy and healthy humans into a cave of reality tv and unbearably self indulgent journal writing. Like, even more self indulgent than blog writing.

There is no snow on the ground, friends. Right now we are in that lovely season that occurs only here in Alabama : Sminter. It is whatever the fuck happens in between October and April. Right now it is an exercise in mildness, accompanied with a fairly vocal wind this evening. It could be that the WWE smackdown Summer is currently engaged in with all other opposing seasons is starting to wear on my spirit, but I don't think that is what is dragging me down.

Clearly, it is a stress mutt. A living blend of god knows how many stress inducers that are causing me to fade as soon as the clock hits 3 pm, and totally crash by 6 pm. And here it is, 11 pm, the blogging hour, and I just want to turn on the shower, lie on the floor of the tub, while clutching a glass of wine and humming like one of the ghosts of Hill House, if that ghost happened to listened to Bat Out of Hell earlier this week.

The thing is, this would all be bearable, were it not completely wrecking my ability to stay tuned into the rest of my life. And for the past twenty minutes, all I have done is sit here on my sofa and recount every single thing that I completely forgot to attend to today.

And that is what makes stress a damn killer. It is one thing to be overwhelmed, but still on task. Many people operate this way, and operate well (until they have heart attacks at 35) - but many for so many of us, stress is like putting a plastic bag over your brain and sending it into a lamaze class. It not just that we cannot function under stress, it is that it has caused all the skills needed to operate basic functions to flicker out into darkness. I am amazed by people who excel under stress. And honestly? I am a little incredulous. Are you really stressed out? Or are you just busy? Are you working towards a goal you are confident in, one that you can be proud of and have already seen glimmers of your labor fruit? Or are you juggling a billion balls that do little more than exist to help you pick up more balls?

Are you stressing because you are struggling just to make it through the day?

Mike and I have a shaky understanding of where the camera on his phone stands in our relationship. There are times when he can take a healthy blend of hit or miss photos of me - but for the past couple of years, every picture he takes reflects a girl who just has given away all of her shits. I look tired. I look puffy faced and pale, with stringy hair and "I sold my soul for five bucks" eyes.The majority of the time, I just look like I have never even heard of a hair brush or lip gloss, and that I should just give it all up for a coat with multiple cat pockets.

Our engagement photo, pre-photoshop.

I will accept that this is partly because I turned in my 20 something card two years ago. But it is not like I am an "Old". I am not even middle aged! I am supposed to be at the Sexy Business Lady age, or something like that. You know what I mean? Like, Vicky Vale age - she's not a young adult, but she's young, but she's grown up... and super cool with her glasses.

But mostly, it is the damn stress. And it's that the majority of that stress is being reserved things that, ultimately, don't matter to me as far overall "life picture" goes. That is what I call for true stress. For True Stress isn't honorable, it is something caused by having your brain enslaved to an activity that is defining your life in ways that don't fit your personal definition.

There is an honorable form of stress, a cleansing sort of hot yoga stress that is self serving and wonderful in it's torture (Sexy Stress), and damn if I don't miss that kind of stress. It is one where you still feel full of your life's purpose, one where you feel full of life, not completely drained of it.

So what was the point of my bringing all of this up? There wasn't one, really. I just got caught up in reviewing all the things from today that got tossed to the wayside for less relevant tasks.

I am looking forward to change, kiddos, and a lot of it. 2016 already has a few things going for it, in that

1. It will be a brand damn new year.

2. I will have a different status, technically speaking. Same relationship, different name, and new commitments.

Come on, Sexy Stress...

Super Secret November Challenge Blog Post #13

2015-11-16T21:43:00.000-08:00

Never Ending Stories. Or Something.

You guys. This month is getting really long.

Fourteen days left.

My blogging time has been restricting to the last few hours of the day, i.e. the time where my brain has collapsed in on itself.

It's not that I don't have anything to say, it is that I don't have any energy to say it.

I have just enough energy to watch 5 episodes of The Office and pull myself into bed.

Super Secret November Challenge Blog Post #12

2015-11-15T21:36:00.001-08:00

Southern Women At Large

This weekend, I ate my body weight in early Thanksgiving dinner and shower food. As in, wedding shower

Although, technically, this was a "tea" and not a shower - yet another trip into unknown society wedding practices. I got a corsage. I got a sugar rush and gifts. I may have slightly enhanced my southern accent at times. Not to mock, but just to gloss over a few of my other personality quirks that are always in danger of popping up in large groups.

Does every other southern woman have some kind of secret handbook of social practices and traditions that I don't have access to? Is there a secret handshake? Is there??

I tend to assume my status as a southern lady is always in the clear every time I glance at my iron skillet hanging on the kitchen wall... but then I find myself surrounded by women who all have salon hair, jewelry and church connections, and I all I have to offer is spanx and a solid Steel Magnolias impression. Am I failing you, ladies? I do so want to lend to the overall mystique of the Southern Woman. We are a living anomaly, gals. Are we the nicest ladies you've ever met, or just the most prudent?

I have to tell you, this is blog gold, the whole Mystery of the Southern Woman thing, but - surprise surprise - I am drained. Just drained. Plus, I am cellular blogging yet again, and my battery is not quite up for this in depth exploration of character.

So, until next time? You all are too twisted for color tv.

Super Secret November Challenge Blog Post #11

2015-11-14T22:56:00.001-08:00

Excusers Excusing

You guys, I don't know what happened, but I think there was a spooky Friday the 13th dog that ate...

There was a BEAR. An honest to goodness bear that crashed through our apartment complex, and he stole our laptop...

Aliens. Aliens beaming post interfering beams, even though I said, "Excuse me, but the interweb is counting on me, so can you try this again at a more convenient time? Also, I don't have any money, sir."

Clearly, the missing post from yesterday was totally beyond my control.

What is also beyond my control is my ability to focus on anything that isn't wedding related - which is unfortunate, because I have an audition coming up. It has been a long, theatre-less five months. Just enough time to have that condescending little douche, my brain, start slow clapping my life's trajectory while I stand in a corner, weeping and picking out coordinating envelopes for my wedding invitations.

The universe has seen fit to balance out the scales of my fulfillment by putting me on a big losing streak, career wise, as I have gotten closer and closer to W-Day. The universe can suck it. It really would not have hurt anyone to have had some mild satisfaction in my professional life to accompany the excitement in my personal one. But no, no, no. Universe, you are one cruel tart.

I understand that when you are an actor, you really are at the mercy of the elements. What kind of day are you having? What kind of day is the director having? Are you auditioning for someone who has a taste for short actresses with a broad sense of comedy, and a sometimes overly understated sense of drama? Are you bloated today? Are you? What did you eat yesterday? What did you eat that for? Really, where do you get off, you talentless trixie?

I feel shame to admit this, but my auditioning capabilities almost always correlate to where I am personally. If I am focused and on a confidence roll, then every thing is gravy, baby. Otherwise, I go into auditions acting as though I've had a minor stroke.

And not that I'm saying that I actually have had a stroke, but I have been experiencing numbness in my right arm and leg occasionally, and once, in my face. I am 99.9 percent sure this is stress induced. I can be the world's biggest self sabotaging actress if the conditions are right. It is instinct. The moment things start getting a tad overwhelming, my body goes down into shut down mode. Or, hibernation.

Yeah, hibernation. My talent and confidence holes up and will only tentatively stick it's head out next season. What can you do, other than stick to your training, your compromised instincts, and hope you can work through self doubt.

So, we are looking at a long month, hopefully free of any more professional disappointment. Thank god there is honeymoon in London at the end of the tunnel.

Friends, this short post was brought to you from my cell phone.

Super Secret November Challenge Blog Post #10

2015-11-12T22:08:00.001-08:00

The Wine Challenge

I am super duper failing my blog challenge. I'm churning out posts, but they are baby posts. Tween posts. So to enhance my chances of writing a full length post, I'm using my secret weapon:

Pinot Grigio.

I can't guarantee cohesiveness. I can't guarantee clever writing. I can't guarantee that I will stay on topic for more than a few sentences, but I can guarantee... that I...

will have more wine.

I am watching ~~Fear~~ Hellevator on Hulu, and having a grand time. You guys, I fucking loved MTV's Fear, and I will watch it again in any incarnation. Fear-a-vator. I'm ready.

Okay, who in the name of Jupiter (that's right, I'm invoking Jupiter) are these spooky emo twins? They apparently control the game, but with what? With their feelings? Their manic panic hair dye? Their Hot Topic membership cards?

Oh no, they finally feared out a contestant with hidden keys and my dad's old gas fireplace.

...

Okay, it was first episode, so I actually did lose sight of my interweb goals, and put all my focus on the show. I'm already on the second episode, and I would like to make a small observation. Is this show intentionally racially divided? I'm guessing not, but I have yet to figure out how these three person teams are put together. Like, do they pick their own teams? Who knows. There's a whole season of episodes to figure this one out.

Okay, I'm back to my biggest mystery of Hellevator. These non-twin twins. I think they're called fraternal twins. Or, maybe they're just two ladies in recycled Rocky Horror Picture Live outfits? The Twisted Twins. Not quit the Killer Babysitter Twins, but I suppose they get the job done. And they are most likely horror-con superstars. That is my go to guess when I see people who are clearly famous, but totally unknown to me. They are Con-Stars.

This is quite fancier than Fear. First off, there is more money at stake. The set ups are a bit more elaborate, and the major difference lies in that this is way more Jaycee's Haunted House than an actual haunted house.

What I loved about Fear was that any scare the contestants got was created in their own heads. The kids call it psychological. Right now the challenge is a contestant playing Apples to Apples with miniature toxic waste barrels, or something like that. Not that Apple to Toxic Apples isn't a real brain teaser, but I am really counting on a fright induced fart, and I'm not sure glow worm coke cans are going to cut it.

When I was fifteen years old, I was spending my second summer at my father's apartment. There wasn't much to do, other than watch Scooby Doo, hang out by the pool, and listen to Tori Amos's From Choirgirl Hotel while staring up at my glow in the dark stars, thinking my super deep, fifteen year old thoughts. I had finished up musical theatre camp, and my summer production of Godspell, and at that point was just counting down days.

One afternoon, I was elbow deep in a bag of Milano's cookies, recounting the previous evening's episode of Space Ghost and channel flipping. I was prepared to scoot past mtv and see if they I could catch a Real World marathon, when I was suddenly immersed in night vision, rusty walls, and Tommy Hilfiger and hair mascara.

It was my first episode of Fear, and as a girl who had an obsession with all things spooky, an infatuation completely contradictory to her scaredy cat nature, I was totally hooked. That is, until about 20 minutes in, when I found myself curled up under the kitchen counter, holding a knife and calling my friend Thad for back up. True story. I can't quite remember what set me off. They were in an abandoned prison, I remember, and someone had to... do something with an electric chair? I can't quite remember, but I do know that Tori and The Brady Bunch were both at full blast that evening on my cd walkman.

Mike and I have had youtube Fear marathons, just to recount our experiences watching it, and kids - it holds up. Yes, in a different, more "look at the children running" sort of way, but it still stands on its own.

That is why I was pretty excited to see this new show, this Fear 2.0. Although I do realize that it is it's own entity and should be judged on it's own merit. But come on, There is no way that this show is not appealing to that middle ground generation, the one between X and Millenials. You know, the one that is demanding everyone appeal to their own nostalgia.*

So, here we go, My none Fear related, one and a half episode review is this:

It's good for the laughs. Nothing will ever be more terrifying than your own imagination, but this is a entertaining, three glasses of wine, pre-bed time binge show. You guys know what I speak of. Those last few minutes of the day where you turn to everything possible to completely turn off your brain. The show is fun when it's fun, but there is a little something to be desired. But I could be totally wrong here. I only watched two full episodes. It may very well stand on it's own as a solid form of cheap entertainment.

I am just crossing fingers that there will be an episode where everyone quits. You know, like on Fear.

*This is a good future post topic.

Super Secret November Challenge Blog Post #9

2015-11-11T22:10:00.000-08:00

Busy days. Busy days.

Apologies flowing like bourbon. Hopefully more posts are on the way.

Super Secret November Challenge Blog Post #8

2015-11-10T20:37:00.001-08:00

It's Veterans Eve

Friends, I am mush. My brains are mashed potatoes (stay away, Richard Dreyfuss!). It has been a long day, and this little lady got a lot done.

But now, I am in that stage you reach after a long stretch of being hyper focused and constantly moving on little food. You know, where my head is seconds from floating out the window and getting caught in a power line?

So I am ashamed to say, I have nothing to blog about. At least, nothing that I care to blog about, more than I care about crawling into bed with a big ass cup of tea and a book.

So what can I offer you? Puppy porn? Kitten porn? Food porn?

I know what... Everyone sit back. Relax.

But really relax. Like, sick day relax.

Okay good.

(I'm sorry, but this is what I really need now. Please. Understand my needs, everyone.)

Super Secret November Challenge Blog Post #7

2015-11-09T21:55:00.000-08:00

For Those In Need Of Snowflakes, Not Subtext

It looks like it is going to be a real literal Christmas this year. There had better not be an ounce of confusion as to who this whole season belongs to. Insecure people with camera phones.

Time to protect yourselves against all those who would try and steal ~~this holiday~~ Christmas away from ~~you~~ the lord. Let's go ahead and tackle a few of these "Christmas Posers".

1. Since the artist didn't care to clarify, we have to assume this is in fact NOT a painting of Jesus, but in fact just some random, dirty, manger baby - hiding a flashlight somewhere in his swaddles...

2. I know what you are all thinking. "Look! It's Jesus's best friend, Santa, fighting off the heathens!".

Well, I am going to go ahead and say that you are 100 percent right on this one. I mean, look at the beard. Gotta be him. Or else.

3. Her name may be Mary, and she may be a virgin, but don't let this succubus fool you.

4. It has begun. Another faith has had the indecency to appropriate the very holiday we went to the all trouble of appropriating ourselves! That seems totally unfair, somehow. To us.

The end is nigh, soldiers. March forward with your candy canes and credit cards. To all a good CHRISTMAS and to all a GOOD FIGHT!*

*The caps button is one of your mightiest weapons, you keyboard warriors. Use it well, and at every possible opportunity.

Super Secret November Challenge Blog Post #6

2015-11-08T20:37:00.000-08:00

This is total cheat. I was getting ready to click on the little icon for writing a post, when out of the corner of my eye, the number of drafts jumped out at me. 17. Seventeen different posts I began and never finished.

Okay, some of these are nothing but blank pages, but at least half are almost complete posts. I landed on this gem from 2011, which I think I abandoned because, admittedly, it is pretty shallow. And by pretty, I mean totally. But in a nice, honest way. So, since this experiment has been fairly shame free thus far, I am presenting it now. As is. No editing. I think this is a great idea, guys.

Plus, we ate about twelve truckloads of wedding cake today at our tasting, and I'm having a major sugar crash.

The Narcissist's Lament

Look up. I mean, look up at the top of my page. Not at the address bar, that is too far. Not at the title of the post, that's not far enough.
Look at the ridiculous black and white photo of the girl with heavy bangs and heavier eyeliner.
Obviously, that is me. But what does it say to you?

"Covering her mouth with her hair? What a crazy fun time nutter butter! She's a riot!"

"Covering her mouth with her hair? What a unique take on the voice of a blogger- should it really be heard or not? What a deep individual!"

"Covering her mouth with her hair? What pretentious, self aggrandizing bullshit. I hate this girl."

I'm not going to tell you which is the right interpretation- follow your heart and choose (they're all correct!). When I look at it, and all of my other pictures, I see a girl who hates her smile- which is unfortunate because number 3 in the Ultimate List of Things I Like To Do is laugh, and last time I checked, you usually have to crack open your mouth and let the world get a glimpse of your off-white whites to chuckle it up.

I probably should have received braces or a retainer in my youth, but for some reason my parents never put me through that. Perhaps they realized I was a skinny, short theatre nerd from a broken home who bounced back and forth between being a hyperactive attention whore and being shy as a mouse, and braces would only make me even more of an outcast. Or perhaps they were so busy fighting over money and who was more of an abomination of humanity, that my teeth got lost in the drama. Either way, if you even mention my chompers to my mom, she will immediately lodge into a mini rant over how she should have insisted on having them fixed years ago. And if your own mom will tell you your smile is a mess, then you know you have a problem for sure.

Now, it is not like my grin is a candidate for the Big Book Of British Smiles. It actually isn't that horrible and most people won't notice right away, unless I point it out to them. At worst, it is somewhat uneven and there is some very slight overlapping, ala Kirsten Dunst or Patricia Arquette (well, perhaps not that bad). But I am always super aware of it, especially when I see my mouth on film or in pictures. This is why you would be super hard pressed to find a photo of me with a big old open mouth smile.

Even as a kid, I was super aware of my upside down frown. (Along my with my nose- there is a picture of myself that I took when I was nine years old where I had circled my nose and wrote in the photo album "Ugh! I need a nose job!". Ah body issues at such a tender age!) In every photo of me, my lips are pinched together and the corners are slightly turned upwards to show some semblance of happiness, but instead, I just look like I am trying to discreetly and silently fart.

Sometimes I forget how much I can't stand my mouth, but tonight I was showing someone an old short I had done for a film festival a few years back and I was taken by how disgusted I was with my mouth. I cringed every time those lips parted and even when it closed, it just didn't look right and I realized that I had sabotaged myself as an actress for not going to cosmetic dentist when I had the means. What was I thinking allowing directors to see me in all my flawed glory?? While not having a perfect smile may be beautifully human, it is particularly damning in theatre and film. A smile can share an endless range of human emotion, not just joy. And! As an actress my mouth is my first line of defense in my most powerful instrument : my voice.

I'm already limited enough by my laundry list of image hang ups, do I really need to worry this one little thing? Apparently so, because even though vanity and being obsessed with one's looks are highly unattractive- it is also highly necessary if you want to appeal to a broader audience of folks because society is Fucking. Shallow. and that is not changing anytime soon.

But kids, we are totally driven to this point of obscene paranoia. Not that this is a revelation; it's no secret that everyday guys and gals are bullied into standing in front of their mirrors, horrified and wondering why they have to look like a creature who crawled out of the primordial ooze to wreak havoc upon small children and young urbanites by taking away their cupcakes and Pixar films. Not that there isn't a healthy amount of vanity- the kind that pushes us to stay, you know, healthy- but it is the obsession with "perfection" that does us all in.

I know the answer to this shallow dilemma is to embrace one's flaws and celebrate your individuality- but where is the line between unique and just plain unappealing? I wish I knew. Until then, all I can do is save my dollars and try to temper my preoccupation with the physical with a little humility and graciousness that I am healthy and live in a place where I have the chance to become the person I want to be, inside and out.

PS From 2015
My smile status hasn't changed, though Mike did catch me once with an open mouth grin. I was in lemonade heaven, folks.

Fresh squeezed lemonade = kryptonite

Super Secret November Challenge Blog Post #5

2015-11-07T23:18:00.001-08:00

Drinkers Drinking

Tonight, I went out. I was two glasses of wine in before I remembered that I had vegetarian vegetable soup and a handful of wheat chex to sustain, not just the alcohol, but an entire day. Oops. And so I realized it was time to get some mashed potatoes up in this bitch, drink a glass of water, and make my old lady excuses, and go home. Plus I was in a rush to get home and blog just in time.

I picked up my wedding dress today. It was all going well; I ran into a former student who helped me try on my dress while catching me up on her college career... and then she immediately inquired as to whether I was still doing theatre or not. She was one of two people who asked me this in a span of 6 hours.

Aww.... geez, louise, you GUYS.

You guys. I am a professional actor in Birmingham, Alabama. I may not always be doing theatre, but yes, I am still "doing theatre". I have no other profession to claim, other than my "scramble to" jobs.

It is a little disconcerting to be like "Oh no, I usually work about 6 months out of the year, maybe more or less, depending on what's available, and the rest of the time I just pull together other work while holding imaginary tea parties with all my famous friends, Stella Adler (she's a book) and Dobby the cat.

I hate to knock the theatre scene here, but holy tap dancing lord, doesn't anyone else get tired of talking about how talented everyone is here, and then glossing over how we just completely disregard that talent? I know people who were honest to god theatre majors who have done nothing but work for free since they graduated. And part of me admires their passion. The other part of me wants to shake them and ask, "Don't you know you are better than that? At least do enough work to repay the amount of money you dropped for a degree. A degree, for crying out loud!"

But then, the rest of me goes,"Girl. It is not your life. Just let them be them and stop being so damn selfish." Because, you guys. It is selfishness that motivates these feelings. Frankly, from my humble observations, the reason this community has just coasted along a horizontal trajectory for the past twenty years without any real, significant upward movement, is because we have not demanded to be treated like professionals.

I'm sorry, but once you drop a ton of time and money into training and marketing yourself, then child, you better start acting like you are worth the money you put out. How is it Florida, Tennessee, Georgia are all crawling with nationally recognized theatres, and all we have is Alabama Shakespeare Festival, a theatre mainly filled New York transplants? Do we not value ourselves more? Do we not see ourselves as worthy as Franklin Fucking Tennessee, who has their own acclaimed professional theatre company?

Now, clearly, we do have professional, acclaimed theatre companies here in town, bless them and the wonderful work they've given me, but you guys. If Birmingham is going to move up in the world, then we have to step up our arts game. Every major city in the country has a thriving arts and theatre community. They all have at least one major, professional, year round, nationally recognized theatre company.

We are trying. I see us trying. What is holding us back? Please forgive me for this, but is it because we have a community that cannot differentiate between community and professional theatre? In such a tiny town as ours, I am not saying one is always better than the other. One major reason, is because we have actors crossing back and forth over the line, from professional to community. And I don't blame them. Since moving back to Birmingham, 6 years ago, I have worked for free only two or three times. Because! I was given an opportunity at roles I really wanted, and I wasn't sure if any of the three professional theatres in town were ever going to offer that same opportunity to me. And I am only EMC at this point, so why the hell not? It is good to do a little "on the job" training every now and then, to remember why you're here, to only be motivated by passion rather than a paycheck.

That being said. What we do, is work. It is a profession. It is a job and should be treated as such. You wouldn't ask any other profession to work for free/for exposure, nonstop, would you? If you are a professional actor working for free, stop. Look at what you're doing. Are you doing this the way a lawyer would take a pro bono case, or are you doing this the way a desperate girl answering modeling ads on craigslist would?

You guys, Birmingham is better than this. We are better than this. The talent in this town, deserves better.

And while we're at it, I would like to address, just for a moment, the inherent sexism, even in small town theatre. In our city, we are overrun with actresses. Female directors, producers, theatre managers? Not so much. And that is okay, if there truly are not any women here who have an ounce of desire to be in charge... but I have observed so many actresses here who are infinitely outsmarting the director on a regular basis, but they don't see it. Ladies. There is nothing in this world wrong with only wanting to be an actress, but there is also nothing wrong with wanting to be more. How many male directors in this city, in the WORLD, started off as actors and then followed their gut feeling that they would better suited to running the show rather being told where to stand, how to look, how to act?

Why is it the majority of actresses in this town don't have that gut feeling? It is not just because we love being in front of the audience rather than behind the scenes. Obviously, being in charge of a theatre has not held any men back from also fulfilling their desire to be on the stage as well. There is a meekness, a quiet submissiveness, that is bred in actresses. Good actors listen, they take direction, they say "yes sir" and don't ask too many questions that could contradict the directors vision because then all you're doing is wasting everyone's time, right? How could you not feel inferior after having that instilled in you from your first day at musical theatre camp?

Yet somehow, more women than men cling to this idea that being a beacon of silent obedience is the closest they will get to being a working professional in theatre. It is hard for a woman to stand her ground without being called a nag, a bitch, a has-been, and, worst of all, a diva... Not the fun diva. The diva who works according to her standards and never says "I'm sorry" before asking a question (which yes, I have already done at least once in this post). The diva who says "you're welcome" in response to "thank you for..." instead with an overly sincere "Aww, Thank Yooouuuuu!!". It is different for men in this profession, and if you haven't realized it, then sister, you better start taking a good look around. For a community that is so progressive and accepting, this should not be happening. And I'm not saying that there has to be an exactly equal amount of women and men running the show in any theatre community, but there shouldn't be this amount of quiet subservience. Broaden your view of what you are capable of, ladies. And gents. And everyone.

Anywho, that was my late night, two glasses of wine, old lady tangent. Ruminate on it, Trixies and Tricksters. Theatre: can we do it, 21st Century?

Super Secret November Challenge Blog Post #4

2015-11-06T22:41:00.000-08:00

There are two routes I can go with this blog.

One, I can share my observations about anything and everything going on around me.

Two, I can be extremely personal and ride that fine line between "brave" and "Dear Diary" (less desirable).

Or, I suppose there is a third option of straight up creative fictional writing, but my comfort level is nowhere near sharing that part of myself.

Kids, I tried. I dramatically paced my apartment for a few hours, trying to come up with a topic that had absolutely nothing to do with me. But I couldn't focus. It's gonna get real self absorbed up in here until I get my writing groove back.

The LiveJournal Post

Today has been a not so good day, for multiple reasons, none of which I want to get into. I did all the things I was supposed to to process and move on : cry, talk to family, eat some bad food, have a beer, take an angry nap. But I woke up, still fixating on that one thing that has consistently gotten in the way of being able to live a full life: My social anxiety.

To tell the truth, I really, really, really do not feel like writing about this at this present moment. I would like to crawl into the shower with another beer and then pass out in my bed to any brainless movie that I can find. And that may be exactly what happens in the next few sentences. We'll see.

SA is something I have dealt with all my life. And, thanks to having been part of the medicated artists club (The MAC - acronyms 4-eva, y'all!) since I was fifteen, I was able to deal with it. Sure, it made for occasional awkward interactions and some missed opportunities, but it never really got in the way until my twenties. The short version of this story is that my social phobia maxed out while I was living in Chicago, to the point where I couldn't even go down into the lobby of my building to check my mail without having a panic attack. By the way, this is a great way to get to know your neighbors without actually knowing them - my legs would always give out on the second landing of the staircase right next to the trash can. So. Much. Take Out. And bags of kitty litter. And what I'm not entirely convinced wasn't body parts (just the one time).

I moved to Milwaukee, and I spent almost two years after that in counseling learning how to deal with anxiety, how to deal with social situations, and how to deal with the broad, unpredictable reality of human interaction.

After that, I started to come back around. I formed a group of friends there that were the first real friendships that weren't rooted in theatre for the first time since high school. It was nice. Theatre people can be wonderful, but they can also overwhelming for someone with social phobia. And when I moved back to Birmingham, even though I was still battling anxiety, I was able to go out on a regular basis and enjoy my friendships here in town.

But at some point, when my number of panic attacks were starting to dwindle out, I began diving back into old habits. I dreaded going out; became hesitant about meeting new people. Resistant to being around large groups. Easily overwhelmed. Panicky Polly. Nervous Nelly. Alliteration Annie.

There was a time when I could count on a solid core of friends no matter what, simply because I did theatre, nonstop. I didn't care what the project was, every so often it was a production that really meant something to me - a lot of the time it was just a home base for social life. But once it became harder to cope with social interaction, I started becoming more selective. I only did shows that I really wanted to do (and I also refused to work outside of a professional capacity, unless it was a very special case). But I couldn't stop feeling guilty. I knew that I was repeating a pattern that has done more damage than almost anything else in my life. I couldn't fight off the demons of SA, and as a result, I'm sure I appeared standoffish, or self righteous, or that it seemed that I just plain didn't like people. And that was not the case.

It was just too hard. It is still is too hard.

When I am in a show, I love the kinship you find. Occasionally you land upon for true friendships, which, as you get older, becomes the holy grail of theatre associations; but I even enjoy the frivolous, fleeting bonds that are standard fare with any production. Just because you don't follow through with every relationship, doesn't mean that they didn't have any bearing on your life.

And, I should emphasize, this is extended to all of the non theatre connections that I have made over the years - friendships that I appreciated, but just didn't have the wherewithal to follow through with.

And it wasn't just the friend factor that was affected by this. Everything has suffered in some way due to this condition. I have high periods and low periods, but the SA will always be around. I had a very brief high for the late part of my twenties. But I have been coasting downward the past few years, and it has taken it's toll.

My counselor in Milwaukee was the bee's knees. Petra was a thirty something eastern European who was finishing up her degree in psychology and some other social profession. Her patience was unending, and she never tried to force any self help speak on me. The closest she ever came to offering advice was on our last visit.

"Jussika. You must never forget, Jussika. You do have choice. You have right to choice."

It was exactly what I needed to hear. She wasn't saying it in a way that blamed me for my disorder. She said it in a way to let me know, I was not a slave to this thing. That it didn't own me. "You have right to choice" became my chosen mantra, because I always needed reminding of it.

Even though, in my heart, I know she's right, my gut says that this may be something I can escape from every now and then, possibly for several years at a time, but no matter what, it will always find me. My little own little eighties anxiety movie monster.

"Oh hey girl. Everyone in the world told me to tell you that they hate you."

My goal is to be the final girl, with no Carrie style ending. Today was definitely not the day for that. Today, the monster won. But I'll be damned if he stops me from having my shower beer.

Like all good girls who are based in towns with limited professional theatre options, I have a second job. I avoided the server train, and hopped on with pet care, which suits me perfectly. Limited human interaction, no personal attacks. If I get shit on, okay, yes, it is literal - but it isn't personal. Today as I left each pet and moved on to the next house, I said goodbye as I usually do, with an addition.

"Be sweet! Don't be scared of the storm!"

I am going to take a bold guess and assume that what I said made little difference, because they're cats and dogs. But hopefully the tone was soothing amidst the sound of rain and thunder. It's still good advice, in general. When you are battling something that feels like you have no control over, all you can do is try and handle it as best you can, and try not to be too hard on yourself. You are what you are, but you are never without choice, no matter how small that choice may seem. What can you choose to do in a limiting set of circumstances, with a limiting condition?

Be sweet. Don't be scared of the storm.

Super Secret November Challenge Blog Post #3

2015-11-05T21:57:00.000-08:00

Readers Reading

Did you know that Donald Trump has a new book out? Whilst on my daily stroll through good old NPR, I saw his blessed little potato face pulling it's best "I know how to do words on paper, dummy" look. Without any knowledge of this, I'm sure, literary masterpiece, I made the decision to feel better about my writing. Even if the rest of my posts look like this:

SOHFLJALJFLGLKJJS Im gettin married, y'all aboaljtoiwn lkjsdlkj

Fart fart fart

Fart fart DEWFArt

Purple? fnoajbnaapgnalkd curse word and goodnight

I still am fairly confident that the odds of my blog being more coherent than 193 pages of self aggrandizing blanket statements are pretty good.

But hey, I'm not reading the thing, and I could be totally wrong. The dude may be the Hemingway of "I'm good and you're stupid". If any of you feel like taking one for the team and picking up a copy, I will buy you a strawberry phosphate the next time I see you. If you determine it is a worthwhile read, I will buy you a lobster dinner. (I still won't read it.)

Actual photo from the book release. It looks like Mr Trump is holding a purple
can of cheese whiz, the ultimate companion to his book.

When it comes to choosing a novel to hook into, I am pretty equal opportunity. When it comes to determining if a book is any good, I base that upon how often I return to it. Frankly, I have a habit of re-reading the shit out of books I like. This mystifies ~~my boyfriend~~ my fiance* and then confuses me with his confusion. It's a huge mystical circle of confusion.

"How many times have you read that?"

"Once every few years."

"I don't get how you can read the same book over and over."

"I enjoy it. It's relaxing."

"No it isn't."

"Umm..?"
"Don't you contradict me! Don't you ever contradict me! Now go make my dinner!!"
(Sometimes I insert Lifetime dialogue into actual exchanges. But it's so subtle, you'd never guess which part is fake.)

Clearly this isn't the general consensus... is it? Is reading work, albeit enjoyable work, or is it a relaxing exercise for your brain? That is how I have always seen it. But Mike was adamant; one doesn't read to unwind, one reads to put their brain on a fun assignment. I can't say I fully disagree with him - there are several books that have put the old noggin on overdrive, which can either be very exciting, or sheer torture. But my "old home" books, the ones I have read so often that they've become dog eared and taped together, those are like literary Ativan.

Maybe I am reading them all wrong? Am I supposed to be all keyed up every time I crack open even the pulpiest of pulp? I have always felt that being intellectually or emotionally stimulated was more soothing than just flat out trying to turn my brain off to unwind. My mind wanders to unhealthy areas once I push the mute button on it. I become acutely aware of a life not being lived, a brain that is losing precious time given to discover the world around it.

I'm sure reading can be a bit of a chore for some folks through no fault of their own. And there are some folks who simply do not dig the process. But if it is something you enjoy, then shouldn't the simple fact that you are getting to do something you like loosen you up?

I mean, this isn't going to end the engagement, but it definitely is something we are never going to agree on.

How do you read books?

* You guys, I have a month to get used to the change in relationship status before it changes yet again. Get ready for years of being introduced to "Mike, my b-fianc-husband".

Super Secret November Challenge Blog Post #2

2015-11-04T22:00:00.001-08:00

The Last Minute Cell Phone Post

I am off to a less than stellar start. I was getting ready to finally lie down in my bed with my copy of Contact, and read to the soothing tones of Beavis and Butthead, when it hit me.

"Oh shit. I forgot."

I did. I totally forgot to blog. So here I am with 19 minutes to spare and desperately searching for a topic to blog about, and quick.

Oh the shame, I am going to resort to wedding news. So, get ready to giggle, ladies. Or eye roll, mademoiselles. But here it is, the big news.

After several months of searching, I have finally found our photographer. The hunt was something of a nightmare. For one, wedding photographers, like all wedding vendors, are crazy expensive. It was a not so gentle reminder of the inherit classism in the wedding industry. Never forget, girls, unless you are rich, you are not worthy of your own celebration of one of society's most cherished and special traditions. The joining of two souls is only a big deal if the two souls are quite the little earners (or come from quite the little earners).

Of course, this is far more bitter than I intend it to sound. It's just... I ran into a personal problem while trying to determine the fiscal worth of fellow artists. Here comes the business side of art again, making it tricky to define expectations!

7 minutes.

But I simply didn't have to resources to fairly price the work of local photographers, whether they were clearly overcharging couples or not. But I want to pay artists fairly for their work. It's what I expect for myself as an artist. Working artists deserve to have their profession treated, well, like a profession!

But I also didn't want to be taken in by a mommy-tographer with limited skill, and a Christmas gift camera, and a large price. Although no offense to mommy-photographers. There are many talented ones out there.

Three minutes.

But photographer that we were hooked up with via recommendation last week is just great, and a great fit for us, at a great price. I have a sneaking suspicion that we are getting a pretty good deal here, and if we had contacted her another year from now, she would certainly be out of our price range. And I wouldn't begrudge her that.

However. It is not so bad to, every now and then, make your art accessible to those who normally would not be able to share in it. Art is supposed to be for everyone, after all. It's a fine line, kids. Genuine art vs real work. Can one ever exist without the other? I mean, for professionals?

Regardless. We got a bit of a break, and in corporate wedding land, all bets are off. It's every couple for themselves. So... Wedding high fives all around, I guess?

No, we can high five for true.

Ps. Apologies. Rushed posts equals horrific spelling/grammar, and sentence structure. Thanks Obama!

Super Secret November Challenge Blog Post #1

2015-11-03T23:08:00.000-08:00

I haven't done this in over a year. It's cool. It's cool, baby. You got this.

It's cool.

I guess...

So here's a list of topics this rusty blogger has to choose from.

1. A Wedding. As in, my wedding. It's something super grown ups do, and I do so want folks to believe I am a super, for true, grown up lady person. Plus, there's the whole marrying for love thing. But let's save this one for when I am in the throws of uncontrollable, unavoidable, unattractive bridal madness. I apologize to all the other brides I ever made fun of. It is insanity. And I hear the opening (and ending) of 2001: A Space Odyssey every time I book a new vendor. The marriage itself is the monolith. We'll worry about that later.

2. Ageism in theatre. Or sexism in theatre. Or racism in theatre. Man, that is a lot of ground to cover. I think that is gonna give me at least 5 or 6 posts right there. Let's wait until I've warmed up a bit.

3. I just watched Boogie Nights for the first time since college, and I really liked it. Is that something we need to cover? I'm a fan of tempo and of ensemble films... I'm not sure there is much more I can add to the conversation that hasn't been said before. Maybe we'll find a way to tie it into the impending theatre-isms posts. Because film and theatre suffer from a lot of the same maladies, and it is nice to see a bit of a cure trotted out every now and then.

4. Why has it been 469 years since my last blog post? Also, is there anything more overdone than bloggers talking about blogging? Other than artists talking about artist-ing. But it is a good segue into discussing what inspired me to do what I'm about to do. As a blogger. On the interweb. Not as a person in the real world.

Bloggers Blogging

Or, What The Hell Am I Doing

Mike, my soon to be husband, approached me with a challenge. One that he discovered on another Birmingham based blog, See Jane Write. The goal is to publish an original post for every day in November. Which, clearly, I have already failed in this. But I'm only a few days behind, and the internet is a forgiving entity. Sometimes.

I had already been thinking about taking up the old blog again, for a number of reasons. First and foremost, I fear that I have succumb to a condition that strikes so many when they crossover from their "consequence free" youth into their "consequence bound" adulthood : Cynical Observation. It feels as though I am spending too much time sitting back and second guessing every little aspect of life, of people, of their lives, and of my own life. It is no way to live. It's the consequence of being "consequence bound".

I think this illness strikes when the reality of the inevitability of time and human responsibility starts to really sink in. And because we are such narrow creatures (at our worst), it creates this all or nothing mentality. Set aside this foolishness and stop being duped by fantastical notions of purpose, Grown Up Lady Person! Be more fartsy and less artsy! Oh, you aren't an amazing and successful writer/actress/such and such? Then stop wasting everyone's time and do something adults do. Make money. Fulfill responsibilities. Grow. Up! Oh, and your sense of humor is lame. And so's your face.

And so, you stop writing. It's totes cool to look foolish when you are young, because hey! People expect that of you. You're still discovering yourself and building your own personal reality. But once you step over that invisible line into so called "maturity", then Mister or Sister - you better have your shit together. Because no one tolerates an old fool. So yeah, in short, I'm just afraid of looking stupid.

No, but I'm trying to be.

It doesn't help that I had a few teachers in school who made me embarrassed and ashamed of my writing, a pastime I had enjoyed ever since I was a kid. But somewhere in my early twenties, I resolved to reclaim it; to say in my best Session Nine voice, "Fuck you, I'm gonna write however I want, whatever I want, and as much as I want!" And so I did just that, fairly consistently, for several years. And then I crossed over.

I don't think I could ever fully come back over to the carefree kid's table, but I could perhaps shuffle off to Buffalo, where you can be responsible and foolish at the same time. Blogging is a good way to do something that is personal and challenging, and possibly even entertaining. I started my blog, not knowing if I would be any good at it, but hoping that I could have just one part of my life that wasn't ruled by fear and shame. If you look back at my earliest posts on this blog, it started off as an outlet for my art journaling and became the home for a combination of two things; One that I knew for certain I had no skill at (art) and one that I wasn't brimming over with confidence about (writing). But I made myself do it, and gradually, for a small period of time, I had less fear of looking stupid. I could be in my own life, looking out, instead always the opposite.

So here we are. It looks like this is happening. I must confess that I haven't officially joined the challenge on See Jane Write's page. I am working my way up to it, but I'm still fearful. I can't guarantee that I will stick to the challenge. I sure hope I will! I can't guarantee that these next several posts will be as enjoyable, or readable, as perhaps some of my older ones. And I can't guarantee that this is going to be the magical cure for my Grown Up Lady affliction. But I have 26 more days to be just a little less cynical, a little less fearful, and a little more foolish.

Kick Ass Movie Music Sequences

2014-08-20T00:38:00.001-07:00

I am cutting right to the chase and not being coy with this post in the slightest. The title gives it away faster than an emotionally insecure girl on a first date. You want kick ass music sequences from movies? You got kick ass music sequences from movies.

Now, before you get all mad and monkey pound your keyboard, I didn't leave out the moments you, and most folks, consider cinematic underscoring genius because I hate you. This is not a "best of", this is just a selection of my personal favorites. Yes, some things are left out because they are obviously awesome, and we all already know it. Wayne's World, most Scorcese/Tarantino hits, and all flat out musicals have all been left at home. Don't worry, they'll get to stay up late and eat ice cream, they're fine.

Okay kids. Let's get to it.

OFFICE SPACE
This scene to cause my mother to clutch all of her pearls. Man, this one holds up, mostly because of scenes like this. Ever notice how in movies that feature unlikely heroes, or "nerds", there is always one scene where they are matched up to one bad ass song while walking in slow motion, or getting into shenanigans? I'm not saying this scene alone kicked that trend into motion, but it sure helped.
PS. I have yet to find the complete scene in all its glory, but this'll do.
office space printer scene (original) from alazankin on Vimeo.

JACKIE BROWN
Now, I know, from the never-ending plethora of masterfully underscored Tarantino scenes, it may seem a little underwhelming that I chose the ending sequence to this movie that has recently fast tracked it's way into my "favorites". But just go with it. It flows so well with the rest of the movie and is a perfect cap to the film. I can't get enough. And ignore the subtitles here. Unless you need them, in which case, De Nada.

SHAUN OF THE DEAD
Hot Fuzz may be my favorite of the Three Flavours Cornetto trilogy, but this scene is so great that it makes me forget I am exhausted with all things zombie. If I hear about the zombie apocalypse one more time, I am going to rip someone's arms off and commence to eating. Start the damn thing myself just to get folks to stop cracking wise about it.

THREE AMIGOS
I can only imagine how tense the atmosphere was around these three comedians in their prime, but man, did they make with the funny in this one.

PEE WEE HERMAN'S BIG ADVENTURE
Do I really need to explain this one? Do I? If so, you are probably part of the under 30 set, and I pity and envy you at the same time. Mostly envy, but only because I spotted my first smiley eye crinkles this past month.

WET HOT AMERICAN SUMMER
If you want the truth, every damn scene of this movie could be on this list, even the ones with out music, and I would be totally okay with that. But you only get two, and one is a montage. (Montage induced joy is a real thing, folks)

AMERICAN WEREWOLF IN LONDON
No 3D CGI special effect will ever wow and impress me more than this. Unless they find a more clever way to use Blue Moon as underscoring for their kabooms and blam blams. Be warned, there is a bottom in this clip. Oh, and a man turning into a wolf.

MANHATTAN
When Mike and I got our flat screen tv, this was the first thing we watched on it. Mostly because of this scene. It still takes my breath away with how gorgeous it is. Damn it, Woody.

FOOTLOOSE
Look you can dismiss the whole film because of a silly premise, or you can hold my hand and realize we're watching a movie with Kevin Bacon, John Lithgow, dancing, and a tractor trailer death match. Sounds awesome, right? Anywho, this scene is great reenacted by anyone, and that is what earned it it's spot on the list.

THIEF
Okay, here is my confession. I have only seen this movie in bits and pieces, but come on. James Caan + moonlight + danger + heist + Tangerine Dream = Yes. Yes, every time.

REAL GENIUS
Would you like to know my favorite movie ending ever? Here it is, kiddos. Now stop playing with yourself.