Mary + Her Mental Health

from now on

2008-08-13T00:36:00.001-05:00

http://maryjoanna2.blogspot.com/

names and new beginnings

2008-08-12T00:21:00.001-05:00

After 228 weeks and 3 days, I’m leaving Boston. Up and on. Tonight is it. Wheels up in 11 hours.

I am feeling so strange right now.

A while back, I started thinking about my name. Mary Joanna. Mom told me a long time ago that my first and middle names were carefully chosen for me, her first daughter. Mary for Mary Magdalene, Joanna for my great aunt, a woman very much admired by Mom. Joanna is also a biblical name. Both Mary and Joanna were once lost and sorrowful women. Both had been healed by the Savior. (Luke 8.) Both gave up everything to travel with Him during his ministry. Both were there at Calvary. Both were at Joseph’s tomb. Mary was the very first to see Him following his resurrection. Both of them saw the Risen Lord and spoke with Him. (Luke 24:10.) When I think about this, I feel pretty humbled. These are my foremothers. I bear their names.

Helaman had two sons, which he named Lehi and Nephi. Lehi and Nephi were revered ancestors of Helaman, and deeply loved. Helaman told his sons, “when you remember your names ye may remember them...their works...they they were good.” He named them in hopes that they would remember their fathers, and “that [they] should also do that which is good, that it may be said of [them]...even as it ha[d] been said...” of their forebears. (Helaman 5:6-7, Book of Mormon.)

In Hebrew, Mary means “sea of bitterness.” When I read that I felt vindicated on so many levels. Likewise for the second Hebrew meaning cited: “wished for child.” Also true. I took a slight pause though when I found the Egyptian root for Mary, “mry” means “beloved” or mr, meaning “love.” That was nice. Joanna in Hebrew means “god is gracious.”

I’m grateful to finally recognize that embedded in my very own name are the two most prominent of Christ’s characteristics: love and grace. Mary (Love) Joanna (Grace). I wish I would remember always that my name beckons me to always remember Him, His works, and how good indeed they were. Likewise for Mary and Joanna, how strong, how faithful and vibrant they must have been, how devoted they were to their Redeemer. Wouldn’t it make for a glorious life mission to live such that it might be said of me what has been said of them? Tall order, but one to die trying for.

A few months ago, I called up Mom to thank her for my name. I think she thought I was drunk or something. But I really did want to thank her. I had not realized just how precious and beautiful my name was until this year. She needed some gratitude paid for that. Thanks, Mama.

In 2005 when I started this blog, I assigned it the URL, maryjoanna.blogspot.com Lately, the cobwebs have been collecting on this specimen of online journaling. I’m moving out of Boston, to a new town and a new life. I think this calls for a new blog as well. I’m not sure yet what to name it. Joanna Mary perhaps? If I have any readers left, please stay tuned. A new link, a new blog, and a new life will be posted hopefully soon.

make up a story time...

2008-07-12T10:39:00.002-05:00

Sareth grew up in a town that might as well had gone unnamed. No one who lives there ever travels outside the town limits, there is no outside postal system, no phone towers, and no one born there ever moves away. To oblige a sense of community, however, the early settlers gave their town a name, in 1897, which they they still go by today. The name is Haviland.

Haviland is evergreen, dense, and overcast, all the time. Every year, there is a brief season of rain. It occurs in January, and lasts anywhere between five and twenty-three days. Total rainfall each year is considerable, even an average of six to nine feet. But every year, there is enough to sustain Haviland for eleven more months. Folks who live in Haviland consider this as one of the advantages to living there. Two weeks of rain, and for the rest of the year, they have their beloved gray skies to enjoy.

The houses are mounted on solid pine stilts, high above ground. According to local building codes, all houses are built directly in the center of a thirteen acre plot. Each plot looks like a park; such green, rugged landscape. The kind you see in photographs. But no flowers. And surrounding each house there is a mote, drilled ten-feet deep and twelve-feet wide, with its very own drawbridge. Just like the castles Sareth read about, only more modern. Thus, all the folks of Haviland are situated close enough to feel in company with other households. But not connected. And that is how it is preferred. And they are happy.

so....is it interesting?

Top Chef without apology.

2008-06-21T18:49:00.000-05:00

No, actually. I do not find it ironic that I crave and often prepare frozen pizzas whilst watching Top Chef, pretending that I, too, can cook. Not at all. I throw that frozen round thing on a piece of foil and slap it on the rack with fierce authority. And I swear that show inspires me to know the precise minute, indeed the very nanosecond, when that sucker needs to come out. Perfection. In 17 to 19 minutes. I’ve never cooked a better frozen pizza than when I’m watching Top Chef.

breakthrough!

2008-05-30T07:39:00.002-05:00

Thank goodness. I found a life line. No, smarty. Not like the one on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. Like I broke a big hole through a wall with a sledgehammer this week, and found the trail again. Yaaay!

the four steps...

2008-05-28T13:36:00.001-05:00

I’m tuning in to a little thing I do sometimes. It happens first thing in the morning, just as I’m waking up. I open my eyes, I turn on my other side, hoping to sleep a few more minutes. I open, then turn, then close. Then panic.

First moment of consciousness is a seized shake of all systems. It feels like a punch in the gut that radiates up to my chest and out my fingers. I never wake up to an alarm clock. This feeling is my alarm. As my eyes close shut again, I’m running a dialogue in my brain as my body starts to quietly freak. Okay, you woke up and now you’re feeling panicky. Your stomach is in a fat, splintered knot. Check. Wake up a little more and figure out why.

Is there something I am dreading? Yes. Do I know what it is? Not exactly. I’m dreading what may happen today. I’m dreading the countless things I will never think of. I’m dreading the things I do think of. I’m scared to feel more of the things I’ve already been feeling. I’m worried I’ll learn something today that will make my life more sad to me. I’m afraid of losing my hope today, once and for all. Maybe today is the day I finally lose my mind. Maybe today is the day I get irrevocably crushed, body and soul.

Step 1: a feeling. Step 2: the thoughts behind it. Step 3: Prayer.

This fragile mess is once again spinning in circles. I can’t talk to anyone, but I can talk to you. This stuff, what this is, it’s not real, right? Please help.

Last week, a young co-worker at one of my three jobs was talking to a newer co-worker in my presence. “The thing you need to understand about Mary,” she starts with authority, “is that whenever something goes wrong in her life, the girl prays.” I turn red and hide my face. She keeps going, “I swear, I’m making her a t-shirt that says ‘Stop, Drop, & Pray.’” Until this moment, I had no clue how much I had mentioned prayer in front of her.

There’s a line in the film, Shadowlands. C.S. Lewis is speaking:
“I pray because I'm helpless. I pray because...I pray because the need flows out of me all the time, waking and sleeping. It doesn't change God. It changes me.”

I do feel helpless. More than ever at any time in my whole life. I don’t know what to do ever. I’m only functioning because I do Step 3 every morning. And after that comes Step 4. I call it KGG: keep going girl.

The minute Step 4 commences, that is, when I start doing what is expected, working, being kind, remembering to mail that letter, etc., that’s how I know that God lives. How else can a broken girl go from Step 1 to Step 4 without Step 3? You can’t, I tell ya. It doesn’t change God, it changes me.

tell me how to stop this

2008-02-13T04:43:00.004-05:00

Well, it's not getting better.

4:43 a.m. and I've started a blog post. Haven't slept all night. I tried to. For about an hour and a half. That started around 2:20 a.m., when I closed my book and shut off the light.

The doctors said not to try and sleep until I'm sleepy. Is it possible to be exhausted beyond description, but not sleepy? Cuz that's how I feel.

The doctors also said that if I haven't fallen asleep within thirty minutes of trying, I should get up and do something none too stimulating until I feel sleepy again. There's that word again. How can I feel sleepy again? I'm still waiting for the first sleepy.

So I made blueberry pancakes. And watched t.v. And now the lights in the senior center across from my bedroom window are on.

Last Saturday, I walked into a local fitness center on a whim and asked a sweaty body builder behind the counter if they were looking for a front desk person? He said they were, but then asked how I felt about starting at 5:00 a.m. every morning? It took a second and a half to realize that I'd probably be up anyway. I said, "Actually, that's perfect."

On the nights when I get five or six hours of sleep, it's because I've swallowed two Benadryls and a Klonopin. And this just frightens me to no end. You're saying pills are my sole ticket to Slumberville? Only a five-hour tour, and I'm paying a potentially dangerous price for it.

Right around now is when the high-pitched fuzzy ring in my head begins. Let's see...I could read, put my clean laundry away, go to the bathroom, take out the trash, read more of my book, make some herbal tea. Anyway, that's the stuff I usually do. But with the snow trucks and snow blowers buzzing outside, and the fuzzy ring ringing inside, what chance does one poor little teabag have really?

Maybe I'll just blog. What in the world do I sound like at 4:56 a.m.?

i may have to blow town after publishing this one...

2008-02-05T00:10:00.000-05:00

Part of what endears me to Boston is its underdog, not-a-prayer history. From politics to pro-ball, the underdog spirit is part of what makes this town what it is. This is why I’m secretly delighted that we lost the Super Bowl last Sunday.

I recognize that some may want to take me behind O’Malley’s and smack some sense into me for saying it, (or worse) but I really am happy about the upset. We had a chance to make football history, and we didn’t. I just love that. Maybe that makes me some kind of sicko. Or maybe I believe in keeping a little humility. There was something good that came out of The Curse. But after the 2004 World Series, something changed. And by the Red Sox win of '07, I realized I missed that feeling of being under that curse. We had become a broad-shouldered bully of a baseball team, with a ballooning budget, and big guns in the bullpen. The best and harshest way I can put it: we were starting to look like the Yankees. (Sorry if I dwell too long on baseball, that’s the sport I like best.)

And so we come to 2007-2008. Sox win the Series (again), we float through an entire frigid football season undefeated, the Celtics season starts, and they’re kicking major booty just like every one else around here. (I don’t follow hockey much, how are the Bruins doing?) Boston is overflowing with record-breaking stats and athletic power-house acclaim. It’s great, it’s wonderful...so why am I feeling mildly nauseated by it? I’ll tell you why...we ain’t got no more curse.

The curse kept us hungry. It challenged and gave us fight. It made us choose to believe or give up. It’s what made this town a tad shy of psychotic when it came to “fan appreciation.” Without it, we’re just another billionaire’s ball club with no heart, no soul. Losing is what makes us great. Big losses are what make Boston, Boston. I guess it was nice to see some hint of that again this past weekend.

Of course it was a colossal blow; we all felt it in the air on Monday. We haven’t stopped the post-mortem lament, the analyzing, like what you do with your gaggle of girlfriends after a bad breakup. We probably won’t shut up about it for another week or so, and there will be those who may never recover from it. Good, I say. It’s all good. I’m hearing the hunger pangs already.

You know, you really shouldn't listen to a single thing I say. I didn't watch one solitary minute of Sunday's game. In fact, I didn't sit down for five minutes for any football game of any sort in any part of the nation at any time. I just like to write stuff.

#237 - sleep hygiene

2008-01-19T09:44:00.000-05:00

Ages. Ages since I posted. I'm sure you all have moved on from reading this blog, and the only hits I'm going to get from now on are the Google searches for Robert Sean Leonard photos. Apparently, RSL is quite the hottie in Dusseldorf. This blog is ready to serve them.

I've decided not to bother with a holiday update. It's too late for that anyway, right? And besides, Christmas 2007 was such a memorable, important season for me this year, it would take lots of brain cells and time to find the right words. Brain cells I frankly don't have, and so begins my post.

The last time I glanced at my watch last night it was 4:15 a.m. This is the third or fourth night in a row where I simply cannot shut down. But between 4:15 and 7:40 a.m., I managed to create a dream where I spoke these words to someone I don't recall, "For the rest of the day, can we please, please speak in dialogue only found in low budget action cartoons from 1979?" I laughed when I said that. My laughing woke me up, and then I jotted the sentence down on the notebook sitting on my nightstand. Can you imagine? Spending a day uttering gems like "Zoikes!" and "Not so fast, Zothar!" to your friends, finding ways to make them pass for reasonable responses in normal conversation? I say we try it.

I've had trouble sleeping as far back as childhood. I could spend hours awake in my bed, thoroughly convinced that someone was going to break into our house that night. Any small noise sent new surges of alarm coursing through my body, adding at least another twenty minutes of consciousness per sound. I never mentioned this to my family because obviously they had no fear of burglars, they all could sleep just fine. My conclusion was I was an idiot. But even idiots can be right sometimes, and maybe this was going to be the night I was to be captured and taken from my home while my family apathetically slumbered.

I'm a light sleeper, which accounts for why I was able to hear so many benign bumps in the night growing up. Burglary and kidnapping are no longer the fearsome fantasies which keep me up. It's more like the Evil Dollar, the ever-deepening lines on my forehead, the fear that I've forgotten something incredibly important, or re-living an experience I'd much rather forget, but can't. Ahhhh, those demons. They're the pesky ones. Sometimes they're not demons at all! Sometimes I come up with fantastic ideas lying there for hours on end. Lesson plans, questions to ask, plays I want to read, people I want to call, action cartoon dialogue I want to say. Some of it's worth hanging on to, take my word for it. I'll get on a roll, and then suddenly I start to wonder what time it is, and then I look, and it's 4:15. Another four-hour night of brainstorming, four-hour night of sleep.

I'm getting help for this. I now have a sleep regiment. Well...I have it, much in the same way I have an iPod. Sometimes I use it, sometimes I don't. Lately I haven't been using it. Not the iPod. The sleep thing. And then I spend an entire blog post talking about my insomnia. I know, I know. But, I'll totally own up, it is pure stubbornness I don't do the darn sleep hygiene crap every night. Total pride. It's the same reason I didn't talk to my parents about why I couldn't fall asleep for the non-existent kidnappers outside my window. I feel like an idiot. The entire planet seems to be able to fall asleep just fine, thank you very much, without performing some ridiculous one-hour ritual prior to climbing into bed. So why can't I? I feel like a 2 year-old kicking a brick wall, getting red in the face, screaming to the universe, " I REFUSE TO BE HIGH MAINTENANCE! YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!!!" Like a speck of sand resisting the tide's pull.

I'm hungry.

follow me in mary measure (fa la freaking la.)

2007-12-10T17:08:00.001-05:00

Christmas - - a time for peace and love. Spreading peace. Every moment. Of every day of the festive holiday season. Until it kills you. Until you bleed. Until every minute of your life is this uninterrupted siege, this unending typhoon of activities, parties, concerts, working, baking, decorating, volunteering, card mailing, and shopping. Shopping. Along with every single one of God’s children for the same items in the same store at the same time in the same place. Shuffling, sashaying, scooting and spitting your way through aisles of crap, trying to find something cheap but meaningful for everyone in your whole stinking life. Shopping for loved ones. Hoping to give them peace and happiness with your gift. Happiness. As you circle the Public Garden for an hour trying to score a parking space, because parking in a garage, to pay to have your car just SIT IN A SPACE for 15 minutes, will cost you twice what you’re willing to spend on your own mother. Icy roads, frigid wind, burning fingertips, runny noses, tense shoulders. Getting home in the traffic hopefully before New Year’s. And then there’s all the wrapping. Because you have lots of time for that too. 10 minutes to wrap one gift. 0.5 seconds to tear it all off forever and put it in an oversized plastic bag. Gosh, I feel so peaceful right now. No bitter. Just peace.

I know what Christmas is supposed to be. And it ain’t any of this. And this much I know for sure. Says Oprah.

it's coming...

2007-11-15T10:24:00.000-05:00

Craptacular II

Be inspired.

November 30th.
One night. Two shows.
7:00 & 9:00
Davis Square, MA

grandpa's here at the broadway diner

2007-11-10T11:22:00.000-05:00

I’m sitting at a table in the Broadway Diner, in the community of Arlington, where I live. I just finished a corned beef sandwich. This place has been open for only a few months. As a kid I remember seeing these places everywhere. The kind where nieces are the servers, the owner is manning the grill, and his wife is behind the cash register. I bet their house is around the corner from here, and they’re only open for breakfast and lunch.

Sample Patrons: two Arlington cops on a coffee break in the corner booth, two women that look like friends of my mother, talking about their directionless children. A retired couple just pulled up in their pristine 1986 black Caddy. The wife is behind the wheel, and the husband walks through the parking lot slowly, with a cane. To my right, there’s a suit with a receding hairline just sat down and ordered coffee, unfolds the Herald from under his arm. I’m guessing insurance, owns a small private office. Or maybe a patent attorney. There’s two old guys at the counter with all the stools (what do they call that?) and they’re talking up the cooks in the kitchen. Wheezy, jagged-edged laughter erupts from one of them. That’s the sound of two packs a day for thirty years.

What is it exactly about these greasy spoons? The food is anything but spectacular. It’s what you make for yourself at home, only not as good. The furnishings are sterile and uninspired. Burgandy vinyl booths, gray utility carpet, white walls and a few ivy plants. Stacks of assorted single serving Smuckers jams, sweeteners, and squeezy ketchup bottles on the tables. The average ticket is under $20. Diners like this always make me wonder how they stay in the black.

I think I like this place because every time I sit down, I want to look for Grandpa. He should be here with me. He’d dig the menu. Grandpa would order the cheeseburger plate with a Pepsi. This is pre-ill Grandpa, of course. The Grandpa who’d take me to a place like this when Grandma was busy with another grandchild, and we had some time to kill before Mom picked us up. He’d tease me about whatever Disney character was on my t-shirt, and never make me finish all my french fries. My whole life, I think Grandpa is the only man who made me feel like anything I did was perfect; I was as perfect as anyone could get. Somehow I knew that’s what he thought of me all the time. So, strangely, this made it okay to not be perfect all the time.

When Grandpa was in his final days, I flew home from Boston to say goodbye. Grandpa’s kidneys were done, so he came home to die in the home where he raised two daughters and loved his wife for over 50 years. On the car ride from the airport, I was warned that he was too weak to talk, and told not to expect much. Walking into the house, I stood in the doorway of his bedroom, and caught his eye. “I came a long way to see you,” I said. He quickly fired back in a strained whisper, “I’m so glad you did.” He reached his hand out, and patted the bedspread. Way more than I was expecting, and I nearly burst into tears that very moment.

Whenever we visited Grandpa during one of his many hospital visits, he always wanted you to sit on the bed and hold his hand. This was no exception. I took my place, and talked to him for an hour, filling him in on what was happening at grad school. He pointed to my red fingernails and gave me a thumbs up. He would speak a little, but was most comfortable just listening.

A few months before seeing him here, I’d sent Grandpa a video of one of my BoCo voice recitals. I sang one of his favorites, a 40’s standard titled “I’ll Be Seeing You.” I really wanted him to hear me sing that song. Mom said he loved it.

Grandpa was tall and masculine. But starting in his late fifties, his health became impossible. He had heart problems, circulation problems, muscular skeletal problems, kidney problems. It was ridiculous. Countless doctor appointments spanning over the last two decades of his life. I don’t even know how many different surgeries. Always something different. But you would not believe this man’s optimism, and his constant concern for Grandma and his kids. Once or twice, I was asked to drive him to an appointment. Sitting in the waiting room, in a chair that looked anything but comfortable for Grandpa, he leaned over and gave me some advice: “Mary, m’dear. May I make a suggestion? Don’t ever get old.” And then he smiled at me.

Grandpa tended to look uncomfortable in any chair other than his big brown leather recliner. That large, paternal-looking patriarchal throne fit him like a glove. Grandpa and Grandma always came to our plays and recitals as kids, and even as a child, looking out in the audience to find them, I’d see Grandpa, sitting in that unsuitably rigid folding chair, and wish we’d brought the recliner. Never a complaint though. He’d catch my eye and wink.

The day before Grandpa passed away, he was barely there. Past the point of being able to respond to anyone in the room, he slept most of the time and expended all his energy trying to breathe. It looked painful. My wonderful EMT trained brother monitored his vitals every hour. When his eyes were open for just a few minutes, I came over to the bed and stroked his head. I got very close to his face, and looked straight into his eyes. In that moment I was overwhelmed with gratitude. This is the man who quit high school at 17 to begin supporting his mother and four sisters, worked two farms, completed his GED, enlisted in the Army Air Corps in 1944. He married his best girl Catherine shortly before heading down to Texas to begin army training. He spent his entire existence in devotion to his wife, his girls, and the Sante Fe Railroad. He never raised his voice, (if he didn’t like something, he’d tisk, shake his head, and walk away) he was never disrespectful to his wife, he never, ever, EVER, walked away from a responsibility, great or small. His gentle giant ways, his sweet voice, and his endearing sense of humor. The truest of patriarchs you’ll ever meet. This is what was in my head as I looked into his eyes that day. I said, “Thank you.” His face strained a little at the words. So I said, “I know, you want to thank me, and tell me you love me so much. I already know all that, so don’t worry about it.” He looked at me a little longer, and then closed his eyes to sleep a little bit.

Around 3:00 p.m. the following day, he slowly, peacefully stopped breathing. My brother, Paul, was there with his stethoscope, listening, waiting, then unceremoniously unwrapped it from around his neck, sat back and looked at Grandpa. Paul wore this sad, small smile as he looked at his Grandpa. He was gone. I ran out to the front porch and looked up into the sky. I kind of wanted to see if I could see him leaving us. I didn’t see anything. So beautiful, so sad.

Sometimes I think Grandpa visits me, or at least I hear him in my head. Please don’t commit me for admitting this. But it’s true. If I’m sad about a boy, Grandpa’s voice comes to say “Never you mind, honey. Never you mind him.” Once, when I was still nannying George, I could swear Grandpa was watching us. As if he just wanted to see me again. Ever the caretaker. He still checks in. He’s not here with me at the diner today, but my love for him, my memories of him, fill this entire room.

I just realized this is Grandpa’s birthday month. Happy birthday, Grandpa! Every time I think of you, I still can’t stop saying the words, Thank You.

season highlights

2007-11-03T09:35:00.001-05:00

whore-o-ween

2007-10-31T22:20:00.001-05:00

Just got back from seeing Wicked. On Halloween. Totally awesome. But I'm tired now and I have to go to bed. But before I do, I'd just like to leave you with a great quote from an L.A. Times columnist speaking to the slutty Halloween costume phenomenon that has reinvented Halloween for many girls and women all over this blessed nation. I swiped the quote off a really great blog I visit on occasion, and I recommend reading her post on this same topic. Here:

"I understand that the masquerade ball is a classic that faded away, and that people need an opportunity to hide behind a mask in order to safely express their hidden selves. It makes sense that once a year I get to peek into your psyche and find out whether you think of yourself as a whore nurse, a whore pirate, a whore angel or a whore whore."

Thank you. Just thank you. For reaching into my soul and giving it perfect verbiage.

bwahahahahaha!!!

2007-10-30T22:44:00.001-05:00

You Failed Your Driver's Test

You only got 5/10 correct.
If you have a driver's license, it needs to be revoked!

Are You a Good Driver?

it's all so wonderful, isn't it?

2007-10-29T12:40:00.000-05:00

I’ve become a regular at the 7-Eleven on Tremont and Winter streets here in the lovely downtown Boston area. I only just realized, however, that that’s about to change. This is my last week working in the city. I’m down to just teaching in the afternoons come next Monday. But I don’t really want to talk about that, kay?

I frequent the 7-Eleven, because I am constantly trying to restructure the way I manage my addiction to Diet Coke in a way that won’t cause any permanent upset to kidneys, REM cycles, waste cycles, girly cycles, unicyles, hair growth, habitual vomiting, shortness of breath, health of the nail beds, knuckle sensitivity, minor rashes, saliva production, and other nervous complexes. We want all of that staying exactly as it is, MEANWHILE, getting in our necessary daily intake of Diet Coke. It’s a crafty dance of balance and beauty, really. Quitting the habit altogether would be too easy. No creative thinking behind that choice at all.

The latest way I drink Diet Coke is to take care of it first thing in the day. 44 ounces starting at 9:30. Drink it in an hour or so. No more for the rest of the day. Gluttonous quantities of Diet Coke at 9:30 and then I’m good for the next 24 hours.

So this morning was quite chilly, and I’m without a winter coat. An older black gentleman is leaving as I’m going into 7-Eleven. I smile and hold the door for him. He’s holding two lottery tickets. “Why, thank you sister!” he says to me and smiles. “You’re welcome! Have a wonderful day!” I reply. “You as well, God bless you. God bless you!” And then he leaves.

Can I just say that I felt so good after that? Such a small exchange, but…he called me sister! And the cheesy ridiculous part is…that’s exactly what I felt like to him! Children of God holding doors for each other on a cold Monday morning. I felt honored by him. I remember walking to the fountain drinks hoping he’d scratch into a million dollars today.

I pull my gargantuan red cup from the dispenser, and fill it with ice. Happy smile. Happy day. I press the little Diet Coke button, and out comes….SODA WATER.

“Excuse me, you’re out of Diet Coke.” I say calmly. Guy in red shirt says, “Sorry, it’s too hard to get to the boxes of soda because there’s tons of stuff in front of it.” “So, you can’t fix it?” “I can’t fix it.”

I’m not even out the door before I’ve begun strategizing how I’m going to torch this mother down. I hate humans. Kiss this regular goodbye…

KIDDING.

Not sweating it, I head toward the door and a large white construction guy follows right behind me. I hold the door for him on our way out. “Thanks, sweetie.” He says. “Not a problem.” I reply.

If only the Red Sox could sweep the World Series every weekend…

keeping the candle lit

2007-10-18T12:06:00.000-05:00

I've told a few friends about a play I know I'm supposed to write. I even know what it's about, and I know what it's supposed to say. I just don't know how to say it. So I write other plays, thinking that will help me become a better writer for the play I know I'm supposed to write.

I can't tell you how strange it is to have dialogue running in your mind spoken by a woman you've created but not written down yet. I'm intimidated to the teeth by her; I don't know how to do her wisdom justice. I'm just not that good.

Then today, my dear friend sent me a quote I've read many times before, but needed to read again. And then the candle lit up inside me. Here's the quote:

"The story of Mormonism has never yet been written nor painted nor sculptured nor spoken. It remains for inspired hearts and talented fingers yet to reveal themselves." -Spencer W. Kimball, Teachings

Okay, okay. Okay.

methods of reasoning

2007-10-17T09:50:00.000-05:00

This morning on my way into work, a toothless, crazy homeless man riding a rusty bike on the sidewalk pedals past me and says, “Ooooo. Sexy.” These were my thoughts following that, using the skills acquired through a methods of reasoning course during freshman year of college:

1. Crazy men who have not teeth do not make truthful or valid statements.
2. Therefore, I am not sexy.
3. Normal attractive men make truthful and valid statements.
4. Normal attractive men do not ride past me and say, “Ooooo. Sexy.”
5. Therefore, I am not sexy.

Based solely on the tenets of logical cognition, I conclude that this reasoning is FALSE. And so I ponder further:

1. Crazy people usually say the things we are too afraid to say.
2. Normal attractive men usually stay away from saying things that sound crazy.
3. Crazy man said I was sexy.
4. Normal attractive men usually are too afraid to say I am sexy.

This reasoning is SOMEWHAT TRUE. We’re getting warmer. [Note that this posit does not argue whether or not I am sexy, only whether one should say so. While pedaling a rusty bicycle down a sidewalk.]

And then like a beacon of great light, I uncover the truth:

1. Perception is reality.
2. I perceive that I am attractive on numerous levels.
3. Crazy man says I am sexy.
4. Normal attractive man says nothing.
5. I am attractive on numerous levels.

Statements 3 & 4 have no bearing on Statements 1 & 2. Statement 5 is TRUE.

I rode up the fourteen floors of my building beaming. Don’t you just love logic?

P to the M to the S...

2007-10-16T08:45:00.000-05:00

This morning my boss comes in first thing and hands me a box wrapped in deep red paper and a big gold bow. "From C*." (Boss' beau.) It's Belgian chocolate. And the tears begin to flow. They need to commit me, I swear. A present! A present after a sleepless night, and a hard morning, and a long day of work and teaching ahead! God loves me.

I wrote C* a quick email. We've been friends for many moons now, you see. Whenever he calls for the boss he always asks me how I'm doing, I inevitably get dating advice or a career pep talk or something. He's fantastic.

"Thank you so much for the chocolate," I said. "I've just ruined my breakfast. God bless you for that."

4 days in o-HI-oh

2007-10-12T17:15:00.000-05:00

So as Julie has already mentioned on her blog, little ju-ju bee and I went on a trip to Columbus over Columbus Day weekend. We really get into the holiday.

Since Julie and I are both fans of the blog, and like to share all the banal of our lives with no one in particular and everyone all at once, we kept a "Blog Log" of our 14+ hour car trip on our way to Ohio. I've left all the typos, because I think it gives the piece character. You will also note that as the hours grew later and later, the brain did a funny dance put on paper. And since I can't find the cable that connects my camera to the computer, I can only give you the photos taken by my Macbook's Photo Book. In spite of how horrifying they are, I believe in being honest, and include them with this post for your viewing abhorrence.

Blog Log

Stardate: 10-5-07 7:28PM- Lice Lady

Heart beat out from the pike. Stopped at a light. Got the window’s rolled down. Gonna do it up right. When to our right,...okay enough rhyming....single woman rolls down her window, greets us with her Bostonian slur and says, “Feels like summah!” Julie and I give the gratuitous, “yeah.” We continue with a few pleasantries when car lady hits us with the bad news... “At the school where I work we got an out-break of lice.” At this moment Julie resists rolling up the window. She continues, “And so I’m sittin heah all sveltering thinking, ‘my scalp itches’ and I’m wondering, huh?” The gods finally have their laugh and let the light turn green and we are once again on our way. And as a further farewell, lice lady cuts us off. We let her go because, well, the woman’s got lice.

Stardate: 10-5-07 11:44 PM - Julie needs a Snickers

We’ve entered upstate New York, and Julie needs at least 30 more voice lessons. Cha-ching! Mary’s tambourines keep going off in the trunk, which tells you the conditions of our road. Mary’s resisting the urge to sell junk by the side of the road and wear a long gauzy skirt. Can you tell it’s nearly midnight? And only eleven and a half hours to go. But hey, we got pretzels. And we do not believe that anything has happened in the last four hours. Thank you.

Quotable Quotes thus far:
Mary: Intimidated by what?! I fart!
Julie: The tambourines make me giggle.
Mary: It’s scientifically impossible to hate you...but go to hell.

Stardate: 10-6-07 1:32AM - This trail mix is good

Just left the Mobil gas station somewhere in New York. We just passed a sign that said 70 miles to Rochester. I think that’s where we’re going to stop for a more than needed two-hour naparooni. We went over the pros and cons of being in a singles ward. The final verdict: Painful but necessary.

Julie’s ritual when she drives this by herself is to stop every three hours, run around the parking lot twice, buy a Red Bull at the convenience store, and then she’s good for another three. But since Mary’s here, she’s good with trail mix and Cherry Coke. Mostly Julie wishes that no one judge her for drinking Red Bull. Mary wants it known that if you do judge her, she has no power to stop you. Julie thinks Mary is astute.

We’re now going to watch a video Mary made of Peggy telling a scary story by the campfire in her Sister Utah voice. Don’t you wish you were here?

Stardate: 10-6-07 2:14AM

What is art? Whitney Houston, that’s what. We’ve resorted to calling people names like sicky puke man face and stupid dummy dum-dum man head. And right now we are laughing uncontrollably. And we also know that in twelve hours none of this will be funny, (Note: we re-read this 6 hours later, and it was pretty dang funny) partly because Conference will be over and we will feel sufficiently chastised for calling people names. Actually, we’ll also feel bad for pretty much sleeping through Conference as well. I’d like to make a statement: Julie has a statement. Julie clears her throat: I believe the children are our future...lead them well but let them lead the way...and that’s all she’s got, folks. Wait,...its teach them well. Thats not what Julie said. But don’t tell her. She’ll feel bad about that too. Now we’re singing that Allure song, All Cried Out....HOvah youuuuuuuuu. We sang the whole dang thang. We’ve determined the best line of that song is as follows: Apology not accepted, add me to the broken hearts you collected - AHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Julie talks about how she feels right now: It’s like I”m not even tired cuz like all of the caffeine I’ve had is burning up the endolphins is like releasing the syruptonin tha’ts like in my bran, and it’s making me not tred but lke happy at the same time ,and I’m pretty sure that’s like an effect of Diet Coke.

Thank you, Julie.

Stardate: October 6, 2007 6:05AM - Post 1.5 Hour Nap

We’ve been driving for about an hour and 20 minutes. I”m pretty convinced that woman gave me lice. Look, I just itched my scalp. Who knew that it took so little time for the eggs to hatch. We just crossed the Pennsylvania state line. Julie says, “Hey, remember when we were just asleep in that parking lot and it was blazing hot in the car and there were people walking around outside the car and talking the whole time?” 100 miles to go. I could go for a steak right about now.

Startdate: 10-5-07 8:06AM - Wee Hours

Let it be known that Julie lied. It wasn’t 100 miles to go. It was 240 miles to go. But she let Mary sleep for a couple hours so it’s cool. And whilst Mary was slumbering, Julie watched the sunrise through the rearview mirror. Awwwww. Julie listened to her iPod. Here’s the list:
Garth Brooks, Ain’t Goin’ Down Till the Sun Comes Up
Coolio, Gangsta’s Paradise. Way to go, Cooley-Julio!
Queen, We Will Rock You
Bon Jovi, You Give Love a Bad Name
Sarah Brightman, Phantom of the Opera
and finally
Metallica, Enter Sandman

Mary feels as if she missed out on some of the best tracks o’ the trip. Actually, the only tracks o’the trip. Speaking of O apostrophe’s, we forgot to mention our brief listen to Famous Irish Folk Ballads last night. Didn’t last long. Probably have to be in Ireland.

Julie says we’re actually about 100 miles out now. For realsies this time. Mary’s not listening to single word she says.

Mary had to hear the following story exactly three times in succession before comprehending, and not even then: “My parents always complain about how grey Columbus is. But every time I come, it’s sunny. So I’m not sure I believe them. The End.” Mary thought Julie was saying her parent always said Columbus was ‘GREAT’ not ‘GREY’. We’ll be stopping for Q-tips and more Diet Coke shortly.

Stardate: 10-6-07 9:43 AM - It’s Official

Julie and Mary have completely run out of things to talk about. We knew we were getting close to this moment when we started listing the nicknames of our respective siblings. Even the box of Hot Tamales turned cold.

-End of Blog Log-

Postscript: About 15 minutes later, we pulled into Julie's parents' driveway. It was so good to be in a real home, with real food, and real pajamas (for two days straight), and have real sleep in a real bed. I loved this trip. And two days later, we got back into my little Suzy four-door, and drove home. We were kind of over the "blog log" log thing at this time. Perhaps one noteworthy point of that trip was Julie dared me to tell a story about making a peanut butter sandwich that stretched over 40 miles of road. At the speed we were going, that meant I told a story about nothing for 40 minutes. I did it, but I think it fundamentally and permanently changed our friendship for the worse. I'd advise against it.

i ate broccoli, and other items no one should or ought to care about

2007-09-29T17:53:00.000-05:00

Oh, hang on. Before I start this post, I have GOT to swallow some Advil. Headaches, boo. Hold please.

(back from the kitchen...)

Mmmmm. Liqui-gels.

Folks, I ate some broccoli this week. Family? Did you hear that? I, Mary Joanna, ate broccoli. And you can tell Mom that. Tell her I ate it without sitting at the dinner table for two hours after everyone had finished, I did not pout once, and I required no nose-pinching or yellow mustard to cover up the flavor.

Sometimes grownups have to do hard things. When you're a grownup, and you no longer care to show off your distaste for something as adored and commonly eaten as broccoli, when you're sitting down to a wonderful meal prepared by someone you care about, who made it especially for you, and it's a casserole, with broccoli in it, and there's nothing else on the table to eat but a salad, and you know if you don't eat the casserole, the whole dinner is a bust and you'll look like an ungrateful beast with a food attitude, then you suck it up, remember that you're a professionally trained actress, and you eat the broccoli. With a lot of the other casserole stuff mixed in, careful to keep it to just one broccoli per bite. And you don't even gag once.

The first bite wasn't bad at all. In fact, I even asked myself whether I might one day eat broccoli like normal people, you know, regularly. I was getting a little excited about that when I took the second bite. Oops. I got a little cocky. Ate a big one, and didn't include enough casserole stuff. Maybe I still don't like broccoli. I had several bites more to go, and I did so good, but I had to leave about four of those little nasties off to the side. I made up for it by offering some killer conversation topics. Mom! I totally ate like five pieces! Can I have a lemon bar now?

And now for a few other items:

Incidentally, does it ever occur to anyone else that so much of what we bloggers blog is by and large self-gratuitous and boring to good people everywhere? But since when does that stop us?

Our stake was signed up for volunteer service in the Boston Temple this month, and this afternoon I worked in the cafeteria and laundry facilities. I think I got picked up on while in the service line of the Boston Temple cafeteria. I give this guy his chowder, and he asks me my name with a smile that says he's pretty proud of himself. I tell him. He says, "you come here a lot, don't you?" I blink twice. A random guy, in the temple, just knocked me with a "come here often?" Sir, I'm wearing a hairnet for the love of Zeus, I've got a shapeless white gown on that fastens with a big ugly zipper down the front like a housecoat and I'm wearing granny slippers. Exactly what are you seeing here that tells you I'm here today to score some sweet lovin' from a seafood chowder enthusiast? Wheat roll?

A little later, I headed into the back, and asked my other volunteer friend, "Uh, the guy with the chowder?" Volunteer friend looks up from her dishwashing and says, "you mean the one who just hit on me?!" I burst out laughing. So warning, girls: some dudes got it bad for cafeteria ladies. Righteous cafeteria ladies.

Let's see anything else?

I got about 20 pages of my play written this weekend. And I figured out what to do with the second act! Which is huge! Do you know how many plays have been written where the second acts are just life-sucking wastes?! Right now my whole play lacks any real creativity, but I'm hoping that comes later. At least I recognize the fact that my work currently reads like a sitcom with Reba McEntire. It'll get better. I hope.

Enough for now. Hey, my headache's gone!

this can't be accurate. *sigh.

2007-09-28T21:55:00.000-05:00

Take the Quiz here!

summer highlight

2007-09-24T11:43:00.001-05:00

Just looking over some photos today, and had to post these. This made me laugh so hard remembering it. One day we all went down to the Cape, and a few friends decided they wanted to create a human wheel, and then roll themselves on into the surf. It took a whole team of people, an applauding audience of strangers, and a whole lotta guts from the participants, and it still didn't work. I just hid behind my camera and took photos of the process. I laughed so, so hard. Hope you enjoy.

love my married friends...

2007-09-18T09:11:00.001-05:00

Husband: “It was the last week in July. Or no, wait. First week in August? No, probably July. I think it was end of July…um. When was it? (looks over at Wife.)”

Wife: (quietly) No one cares.

Husband: Right. Anyway…

a day separate

2007-09-16T12:43:00.000-05:00

Drove myself to the Boston Temple this morning and did a little thinking. It was warm in the sun, and cool in the shade, with a breeze that reminded me it's definitely September in New England. Gorgeous.

I was a little cold, so I found a sunny spot to perch.

My seat faced the front entrance. I sat down on the bench and enjoyed the total solitude for a few moments. Then I tried to pray. I tried to pray out loud. Nothing came. Too many thoughts all happening at the same time. Many of them not very happy. Which is why I went there. All that ended up coming out was, "You know what I would say."

This is the view from where I was seated. This is the front entrance of the temple. And then I started getting all metaphoric in my head about approaching the gate seeking sanctuary, etc. I started to cry. Really, really cry. Oh wow, I totally sobbed. I was afraid someone was going to see me, but I couldn't stop. It felt good.

Then I opened my scriptures, and read Chapter 22 of 3rd Nephi in the Book of Mormon. This is the same as Isaiah Chapter 54 in the Old Testament.

I got up and walked around the grounds for awhile. I realized I wanted to remember September 16th 2007, because it was a beautiful one. So I took all these pictures to remind me of what happened. I'm hoping in September of 2008 I'm going to look at them and have one of those "wow" moments, where you realize how much you didn't know then, and how much things have changed since, and what an amazing God we have to know what you need when, and how much to stretch you, because it produces the most indescribable happiness in the end.

And then I went to church, and it was fantastic.

confession #1784

2007-09-08T13:17:00.000-05:00

Okay, it's official. I have now cried openly while watching The Biggest Loser. You may now mock at will.

sorry i've neglected the blog lately...

2007-09-05T12:26:00.001-05:00

Sometimes this job can be really interesting. Right now, I’m working on a research memo for the College I work for, concerning the Virginia Tech shootings last April. Reports, both internal and state-wide, have been conducted, and my job is to review the reports and extrapolate what recommendations are offered from those reports. Basically, I’m preparing a work product which might help my campus stay safe. And that’s pretty cool.

I’m still glad I’m going part-time, though. My first music lesson is next Thursday at 3:00 p.m. in Lexington. I can’t wait.

happy birthday peg - - today you are a man.

2007-08-23T14:53:00.000-05:00

Inside joke.

So Peggy was born just a few short years ago and last night we celebrated it! We went candlepin bowling!

For those non New Englanders who have no idea what that is, Nat's got a fairly decent explanation of it on her blog.

So I took this picture, and it stinks because Peg is totally cut off. But you can still see the adorableness, can't you?!

This is the guy who taught me how to use a camera.

Yes, Dad was there too.

Look at Peggy bowl!

Look at Peggy blow! (same letters as bowl, only rearranged! Cool!)

Nat and Ju, co-party planners, demonstrate the open mouthed smile. Always a hit. (And yes, that's Dad in the background still trying to make the camera go "shoot-shoot.")

Look at all those wacky bowlers!

I like Mooney. He cools me down after small altercations with bowling alley employee blockheads. Turnip heads, lazy, good for nothing...grrr.

So Peggers, this roll's for you baby. Watch out. Love you.

bragging

2007-08-21T12:35:00.000-05:00

Guys, my brother-in-law made this video and it's so cute! Remember me mentioning my incredibly astute brother-in-law McKay? Well, here's his latest. Manda, hope it's okay to do this, it's just too good not to share.

since last friday

2007-08-17T13:59:00.000-05:00

I nearly lost my Better Cheddars on the Fung Wah.

I had a Greek man swear to divorce his wife for me. I asked the man if he had any children, and when he said he did, I laid into him for abandoning his family and devastating his own flesh and blood, all because a blonde chick bought a gyro. I really oughta lighten up.

I briefly met a woman whose home in Haiti was destroyed, along with all her possessions. This faithful woman was in church on Sunday and asked her leaders for a priesthood blessing. I don’t know if I’ve ever come across anyone with greater faith.

I learned why Mamma Mia is thriving in Vegas. (Thanks for that one, Michael.)

I have three fewer cavities in my head.

I found out I’m getting another one of these September 6th. Is there some sort of support group out there? For those who have genetically-inherited drama-prone teeth? Dad, I really really love you. And I’ll be thinking of you at 3:30 p.m. on the 6th, as they scrape out more of my roots with their little pins with my entire mouth braced open like a square for two straight hours using a metal device that looks like evidence produced at the Nuremberg trials, listening to Jim Croce tell me what he’d do with the time he saved, and wishing the dental technician had remembered her Tic Tacs that morning. Kisses, Pops.

I got these!

From only one of the most fabulous bloggers I’ve read. Nat, you get me. You just…you just get me. Because now I would deprive crippled children of their toys for you.

Have a lovely weekend, chaps!

on a current fad...

2007-08-16T15:26:00.001-05:00

If you search the words “vitamin” and “water” you will get 2.3 million websites. Including my blog. Vitamin Water costs about 5,000 times more than tap water. Some nutritionists would argue that vitamin-filled water products are only a ploy to make money. OF COURSE IT’S A WAY TO MAKE MONEY. This is America, and by that I mean we don’t have time to eat vegetables. All free enterprise is saying here is go ahead and not change that.

I have a close and personal friend who really struggles with the idea of something else being in her water besides water. She doesn’t do those vitamin supplements in her fruit smoothies either. Something about the imagined “grainy” texture. I pity her, really. It means she has to eat broccoli. She has to chew stuff. Chewing food is sooooo over with. Ask any runway model, they’ll tell you.

Frankly, I kind of like the idea of getting all our nutrients from a neon-colored liquid. It makes me feel like we’re that much closer to living in Star Trek times. First step, drink our food. Next, sleep in pods and move things with our minds. I heard they started an employee pod-sleeping beta program at Google headquarters. Very progressive.

I do, however, draw a hard line at putting vitamins in my Diet Coke.

Look. Diet Coke people. I know you’re following the trend here, and I deeply admire your already insatiable lust for the mighty dollar which compels you to get even more mo by jumping into the over-crowded vitamin-infused bounce house with your pathetic excuse for a health drink. But let me make something clear. And I think I speak for many when I say this. I drink Diet Coke because it represents what is my last remaining addiction to chemical stimulants designed to alter my state of mind in an unhealthy manner. So please don’t do anything to ruin that for me.

Julie, was this okay?

NYC

2007-08-14T11:59:00.001-05:00

This past weekend I visited my friend Michael. We went to Harlem and had Dominican Republic Ice Cream. Which was more like a really, really good slurpee served with a teeny tiny plastic spoon.

We caught the Dance Theater of Harlem Street Fair. They performed and we ate stuff like gyros, and shopped for very large earrings.

This here's Michael with his main squeeze, who by the way is completely rad. They are truly adorable. High marks, Michael.

We saw Mamma Mia! Standing Room Only is the way to see this show. You can dance through the whole freaking thing.

Here's one of Michael and me. We call it the "eager tourist" shot.

We worship Michael Jackson in Times Square...

Saturday night Michael and I performed an interpretive dance to Celine Dion in the GF's apartment. I don't have any photos of that. I'm not sure I want to.

A fantastic weekend, I really loved it. I really needed it.

2007-08-13T11:43:00.001-05:00

Ladies and Gentlemen, please rise for the pledge of allegiance:

I pledge allegiance to the rat dog
of the United States of America
And to all the lamp posts, for which it marks
One chew stick, under the couch, indigestible
With endless yapping and Taco Bell for all.

Amen. Thank you.

patricia t. holland...

2007-08-10T15:32:00.000-05:00

"To be all that you can be, your only assignment is (1) to cherish your course and savor your own distinciveness, (2) to shut out conflicting voices and listen to the voice within, which is God telling you who you are and what you will be, and (3) to free yourself from the love of profession, position, or the approval of men by remembering that what God really wants us to be is someone's sister, someone's brother, and someone's friend."

spillover from preceding post

2007-08-09T12:16:00.000-05:00

In October of 1993 I was sitting in my car late at night, behind the Institute building next to campus, with this cute not Mormon guy I’d just met. He asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. He knew how heavily involved I was with performing, he’d seen me in a few things already. “Honestly?” I asked him. “I want to be a Mom.” I watched his face for any signs of recoil. Maybe to him I would sound unenlightened, too sheltered, too uneducated, too boring. But instead of a backspring out the passenger window and death rolling his way to the bus stop, he looked straight into my eyes and cracked the sweetest smile I’d ever seen. I had him. I had him for the next four years. Bad Boy met Mormon Girl, and both heaven and hell took turns rejoicing. But that’s a different story.

Momhood is my calling and I’ve known it forever. But balancing secular ambitions with this divinely-appointed stewardship has not been easy. How do you know when you’re closing yourself off to opportunities on either side? Am I making enough room for either to enter in? Dude, I don’t know! A few years ago, I stopped dating altogether and did nothing but music and theater. Nowadays, I hardly ever sing in public at all, but spend more time pursuing manly prospects. I don't know the practical meaning of a healthy balance, will someone please enlighten me? Actually, forget it. I'm sick of all of it. And by sick, I mean my inner soul stepping back and wretching a full-throated SCREW. THIS. I'm not happy with my countless attempts at and/either/or. Je suis finis. I toss your scurvy corpses out the tower. I shall take up weaving and be content.

No, not really.

The idea started back in January of this year, when I got my piano. I quickly acquired a few voice students, and the darndest thing happened. I found out I really like teaching. Then last April, I got the clear impression to prepare to leave my job. Over the next few months, things started to shift at work. Personal relationships in the office were tested, which only resulted in an increased incentive to look for another job. At first, I just started looking for other admin positions, but then I remembered something from a priesthood blessing. I was living below my abilities and talents, and the Lord wanted me to find better.

Teaching is such a high. It’s high-energy, high-focus. But it’s a thrill. Dad was right; when you want family, time at home, and music, teaching is far more rewarding. So I guess that’s what I’m officially choosing. With a little performing on the side, if you please.

I gave notice at work on Tuesday. When I told my boss, the blood drained from her face. She flashed the fakest smile to date and said, “Congratulations. I’m going to kill you.”

My job, by and large, has been pretty wonderful. I have amazing bosses. They give me flowers and chocolates and raises. The hours are easy, they tried to make the work interesting, the pace is ideal, and the benefits are beyond awesome. There is no logical reason whatsoever to leave this job. Okay….why did I just quit again?

I want to make something perfectly clear right now. I have no idea what I’m doing. This is all I got so far. I’m only stopping for clear, unequivocal divine interruption of considerable profundity:

Resolve One: Leave my job.

Resolve Two: Never take another full-time administrative assistant position.

Resolve Three: Accept the part-time position as piano/voice instructor with A* Music Studios in Boston. Yes, part-time.

Resolve Four: Gladly accept boss’ offer to continue working part-time temporarily at current salary until replacement is fully transitioned. Hours will be arranged around my teaching schedule.

Resolve Six: Build up private voice studio to 10 students. Um…anyone want voice lessons?

Resolve Seven: Prepare a 14 song set for performance. Get ready to actually sing in front of live people again. Capitalize on friendships with those owning guitars and audio recording expertise.

Resolve Eight: The right guy, when he gets here, will jump on board. No need to slow down for him.

Resolve Nine: 2 Nep. 31:20

Resolve Ten: Call Sally for a piano lesson. Or sixty.

my point is in here somewhere, or, i am my father's girl

2007-08-07T16:29:00.000-05:00

I started drafting a post about quitting my job today. But it turned into something much bigger. In fact, I'm still not done writing it. It's getting a little long, so I think I'll have to break it into pieces. Here's the first bit:

My father is an elementary school music teacher. He’s taught music to probably thousands of kids for over 30 years. I’ve always admired Dad for plenty of reasons, and one of them is because of his choice to become a teacher. We’ve all heard the expression: those who can’t do, teach. But for Dad, teaching was not his only option. Not by a long shot. It was a choice.

Dad's a phenomenal horn player. He’s got the richest tone quality; he pierces a note right to its center, and the man is a phrasing genius. Dad won second chair for the Fresno Philharmonic Orchestra at the age of 17. I have no doubt he could have gone on to play for any one of the greatest symphony orchestras, touring all over the earth, and recording with the best conductors in the world. Dad is a true musician, who subconsciously executes those subtle nuances the trained ears pick up on and relish immediately. I love hearing him play. We basically grew up to a second horn part soundtrack - the faint song of a single french horn wafting through the doggie door of the garage, the designated practice room, night after night. He stayed with second chair because first chair would mean more practicing. Dad wasn’t up for that kind of investment, especially if the Giants were on t.v. I remember old colleagues of Dad’s stopping in for a visit, guys who were playing for Chicago Symphony or Houston, expressing their envy for my Dad’s chops. That really impressed me. Up until then, I thought all horn players sounded as good as Dad. I mean, all the horn solos on Clearly Classical were.

So if you were to ask him why he didn’t go the route of performing and travel and glitz, he’ll tell you point blank: he loves teaching. Teaching was more rewarding for him. For one, it allowed for a more stable family life, regular hours, so he could spend more time with us. For two, and more importantly, Dad put it this way: “There’s just something amazing about helping a kid learn to play music. You’re changing him in a way that will positively affect the rest of his life. He’ll be a better student, a better learner, a better listener - - he’ll be a better person. As a music teacher, you have a part in that.”

Most of my life, I never understood someone choosing a classroom over fame. I seriously doubted anyone would honestly do that. I was a theater major in college, and bent on becoming the next Sissy Spacek. Turning down the spotlight, if it was offered to you, made absolutely zero sense to me. If you turned it down it wasn't because you honestly preferred teaching. You were a coward, and nothing else. Everyone wants to be famous. Everyone wants to be known.

There are things I can do, and lots of things I can't. I can’t cook, I can’t geometry, I can’t fix a dining room chair, I can’t sew, I can't win a court case, I can't find my keys, and I can't stop talking - ever. But I can act. I can sing. And I can pass for a dancer on a good day.

Acceptance into Boston Conservatory was huge for me. Boco is a school for performing arts, and it’s understood that when you graduate you will be performing. Not teaching. That’s why the degree names don’t make a difference there, you don’t go there for academic credential. When you graduate, you move to New York and you start working. Most of the top-tiered students find work within a year. And by work I mean national tours, Broadway musicals, television and film. So yeah, to get in is a really good thing for your resume.

By the time I was in my second year, I had scored enough roles, and received enough feedback, telling me I could do this. I had the chops. With hard work, with persistence, I had a really good shot at being anywhere I wanted to be in the performing arts. Since the age of four I’d worked for it. Dance classes, voice lessons, acting lessons, workshops, theater camps, auditions, auditions, more auditions, a whole lifetime of this crap. And finally I was right there - - I had the training, I had the encouragement of all my teachers, I was a top student at one of the best performing arts schools in the country. I don’t know if I ever got to the point of someone actually offering me a chance at fame. But I came close enough. It felt like if I wanted it, it was there for the taking. And to my surprise, in my last semester of graduate school, I pulled a Dad. Well, sort of. What I mean is, I said no thanks.

I really wanted to know if I had the talent to make it as an actor. I think I learned that I did. And once I knew that, I didn’t want it anymore. So what did I want? What do I want to do with my life? What instead? Good question. It’s taken five years and counting to answer it.

buddy you're a boy make a big noise

2007-08-07T09:09:00.000-05:00

So one of my new roommates (who moved in just last night) has a Freddy Mercury doll. And he sings a medley.

This is soooo going to work out.

I AM GOING

2007-08-03T10:21:00.000-05:00

I AM GOING.

Tickets go on sale August 11th. Who's coming with me?

four days with eharmony

2007-08-01T16:15:00.000-05:00

A friend and I decided to set up profiles on eHarmony. Why? For the blog. I do all this for you. It’s true. I’m not looking for dates, I’m good with that for a change. But I always need something to blog about. And my mouth salivated when my friend suggested an online dating profile. The entertainment value from one online dating account is sure to divert both me and…well really just me. Which is all I care about. Yeah, yeah, save the spotted tiger, stop the rain forests, yadda yadda. How many comments?! How many?! Two?! This world is utterly pointless if I get only two comments. I need more love than that. I figure in order to get the love, you gotta find the love. Cyber style. So here we go.

Pollyanna said Abraham Lincoln said: “When you look for the bad in people, expecting to find it, you surely will.” Wise, wise words. So here’s me proving that Abe is, to quote Alan Jackson, right on the money with that little phrase.

Over the last four days, eHarmony has “matched” me with a staggering 17 eligible bachelors. Oodles Boodles! I read all 17 profiles, and have extracted some of my favorite parts from each. I will mention only 10 bachelors, not because there’s nothing juicy to report from all 17 of them. I just think 17 is too long for one post, it’s overkill. If you really want to hear about the other 7, I’ll email you separately. So let’s begin:

Oh, and before I do, let me just say…the only thing I have edited is their names. Everything else is completely accurate, and I can prove it.

First we have Carl. Carl is 45 and lives in a rural part of northern California. The 3 things Carl is thankful for are God, his family and that he’s an American. Carl operates an RV Park and owns several mules. It’s like I was reading myself. A perfect bullesye, eHarm.

Next is Javier, 37 who stands 5’ 5”. The last book Javier read was, and I quote, “the left behind series the series about the apocolips.” Javier works with juvenile delinquents. I imagine the quotes from his “apocolipstick” reading he shares in group sessions would prove a powerful tool to get Tina to stop setting her mother on fire.

Tim, 36, thinks global warming is myth.

Casey, 37, is in sales, and says his personality is “what he does for a living.” What does that mean, Aristotle? You know what I do for a living? Seashore.

Orlando, 35, has six toes.
“…this little piggie had roast beef, and this little piggie had none. And this little piggie…oh. Um. This little piggy, and then this little piggy, went backpacking in the Adirondacks. And This little piggy pushed this little piggy off a cliff, who went ‘weee weee weee weee’ all the way down.”

Kevin, 45, keeps a personal autographed photo of Marie Osmond under his pillow. Blast. I don’t look a thing like Marie Osmond.

Michael, 31, and a school teacher, says: “I’am most passionate about kind and loving others.” And in case you thought maybe he’s just a sloppy typist, here is the next sentence: “I’am most passionate about music.” Michael also speaks Spanish and French. But no one understands him in those languages either.

Saul, 33, loves anything to do with eagles. Loves eagles. Also Tony Robbins. Also, “making it happen.” Also, there goes my lunch.

Adam is 40 years old, lives in the Silicon Valley, and lists three different high-profile professions under Occupation. Under “Who is Adam’s most influential person” Adam writes, “Heavenly Father, need I say more?” Yes, Adam. You really do. But first, take back everything you’ve already said.

Adam’s got a lot of balls juggling, he says, but never fear. “If there’s chemistry, you’ll be Priority 1.” Wow, really? Priority 1? I mean, if there’s chemistry, of course. Sure. I understand. Gosh, I mean…thanks. With all your balls…and stuff. It must be...juggling.

And finally, there is Sean. Sean, 33, says the first thing you’ll notice about him is his “…energy level. I am extremely high energy though I am also laid back and relaxed for the most part.” I know what you mean, Sean. It’s like with me: I’m a total narcolept, like I am always sleeping, but I am also like such an insomniac and unable to get any real sleep at all for the most part.

In conclusion, eHarmony’s field is white. Just four days, and what treasures! It’s astonishing to think, based on my four day experience with this company, that they actually reject certain applicants from posting profiles on their website. What kind of three-eyed homicidal hermaphrodite does it take to get turned down by eHarmony?

My boss’ husband, for one. He then went to Match.com and found the love of his life. They just celebrated their wedding anniversary, and couldn’t be happier. So, folks, the moral of this story, is….you tell me.

sunday dinner with the gals

2007-07-31T15:18:00.001-05:00

This was just entirely too much fun. Stories of getting stranded in Stockholm by your father, pre-teen hairdos, stirrup pants, and Elvis hair. "I kept thinking 'he's never going to marry me!' And he didn't!!!", wearing your science medal to church, Cinderella and her Pumpkin Coach played by your paraplegic sister for Halloween, "sin juice," convincing your dying grandmother you're not a lesbian, the stories...oh the stories. I don't remember the last time I laughed that hard.

so whadju do on your birthday?

2007-07-30T11:25:00.000-05:00

8:08 a.m. Friday, July 27, 2007
Arlington, MA

Awake in my bed. Phone on the night stand starts to buzz. Sleepily reach over to check the number. Don’t recognize it. Debate on whether to answer. What the hey…

Me: Hello?
Deep Male Voice: Mary Webster.
Me: Yes?
DMV: Happy Birthday.
Me: Thank you!
[10 seconds of silence.]
Um, who is this please?
DMV: This is Spencer N. [a guy in my ward I hardly know, but think the world of.]
Me: BWAHAHHAHAHAHA! Spencer! What’s up, man? [sits up in bed.]
DMV: I think you should know. You’re going to be inundated with calls today.
Me: Oh, I am?
DMV: Yes. Just thought you should know. Have a happy birthday.
Me: It already is! Thanks, Spencer!

So apparently, my dear gal Peg sent something out to the entire world telling them to call, text, or email me on my birthday. It was ridiculous and wonderful how much my phone went off on Friday.

10:30 a.m. Friday, July 27, 2007
Lexington, MA

80 Minute Hot Rock Massage.

Here’s me pre massage:

Here’s me post:

12:15 p.m. Friday, July 27, 2007
Interstate 95 somewhere between Lexington and Brookline, MA

Read 7 texts and listened to 3 voice mails. I lost track by late afternoon. Called Peg. Headed to Atrium Mall for a little retail celebrating.

1:00 p.m. Friday, July 27, 2007
Atrium Mall, Brookline, MA

Found nothing I was crazy about, but did stop in to get my face dolled up at the MAC store. I wear so little makeup, when she was finished I barely recognized myself. I looked like a clown hooker. The sales women looked at me like I was the Electric Light Parade: "You are goooorrrgeeeeous! Oh my gosh, you look ammaaaaaaaazziiiiiing! Oh, woooow! Wooooow!" Sorry ladies, I'm just getting the lip gloss.

3:00 p.m. Friday, July 27, 2007
Arlington, MA

Came home with a chili cheeseburger and fries from Krazy Kary’s. Watched one episode of Flip That House. Went to TJ MAXX and found my birthday dress for $30. None of this Anthropologie stuff for me. Oh, and got adorable shoes to go with for $20. It’s a birthday bargain! At TJ MAXX!

3:30 – 6:00 p.m. Friday, July 27, 2007
Arlington, Somerville, Cambridge, MA

Phone conversations. Lots and lots of phone conversations.

7:15 p.m. Friday, July 27, 2007
Arlington, MA

Doorbell rings. My date is here. Going out to dinner at a surprise location. Still got my clown face on, and I’m wearing my skinny jeans.

We drive to Frank’s Steak House. My baby took me out for a steak dinner. I mean, am I lucky, or am I lucky?

Here we are at Frank’s.

My date had flowers and a beautiful card delivered to the table by the Maitre’D.

Yes, I cried. You know what? I’m old. Old people cry. It happens. What?

Here’s my steak.

Um. Here was my steak.

Here’s where they came out with the birthday cake.

Do you see how easy it is to make me happy? Chocolate, people. That's really it.

A chocolate mousse torte, actually.

Um….there are no words. It would cheapen it.

9:45 p.m. Friday, July 27, 2007
Davis Square, MA
We saw this.

12:15 a.m., Saturday, July 28, 2007
Davis Square MA
Then we saw this.

We laughed and cried and laughed and cried again! Awwwww....

3:00 a.m., Saturday, July 28, 2007

Fell into bed after 45 minutes in the bathroom with the eye makeup remover and a sander.

I also had a birthday dinner on Sunday evening! Photos and post coming up soon.

that's right...it's the 200th post.

2007-07-25T16:14:00.000-05:00

And it's a doozy, my friends.

All right, I’m just going to say this and that’s all there is to it. It’s been boiling and popping inside of me long enough. I don't care how self-absorbed and unattractive it makes me sound. It can't be as bad as when I wrote about my uterus. (Post #18)

So Friday is my 33rd birthday. The big double 3. And even as I type this I still don’t believe that’s really how old I am. 33 is young. But not when you attend a singles ward of an LDS church. Particularly, my singles ward. 90% of the female population is ambitious, adorable, cute, so easy to fall head over heels for, and all averaging almost an entire decade my junior. A friend and I were lamenting that our ward was getting younger. Then we stopped and realized the flaw in that assessment. It’s not that they’re getting younger. We’re getting older.

Physically, I probably don’t seem much older than the other girls. But on the inside…let’s just say that after an average Sunday of mingling and conversing, laughing and smiling, I need to peel off my lips like a strip of thick Velcro, squish someone’s face with my fingers and howl a big long YYYYYYEEEEEEAAAAIAEEEEE!. A lot. And then maybe go for a run down Mem Drive without my shoes and scream some absurdities.

Not that I don’t like to smile. Or converse. I’m decent at both. In fact, I’m a pretty friendly cuss, so I have at least a fairly good acquaintance with many of the girls. And I can say with sincerity that they’re a phenomenal group of people. But they’re a young phenomenal group of people. When I was 25, I’d like to think I was exactly like them. These women seem lighter, simpler, more energetic, more fun, and every guy’s dream come true. I look at them and think…wow. You are such a catch. But, it’s okay. I only need one guy who prefers someone like me. Someone sadder, wiser, louder, sillier, stranger, contradictory, overwhelming, a big fat liar, compulsive gambler, someone who likes to wear fake moustaches, hates animals, keeps a 1,000 specimen spit ball collection, the list goes on. Problem is, he probably lives in Seattle.

What is this exactly? I know I don’t want to switch places with any of them; I actually like the woman I am. I got all kinds of interesting in here. And I think men see that too. But I don’t think men want to marry someone like me. Men admire me, they can talk to me, (usually about their girlfriends.) Sometimes they date me, and they seem to really enjoy it for a while. According to many a guy, I’m going to make someone very lucky someday. (and by the way, the next guy to tell me that gets my fist in his eye socket.) They just don’t seem to fall crazy in love with me. They marry the girl over there I just got done talking to.

I remember when my sister Amanda became engaged to her now husband, McKay. I applauded McKay for choosing her. Amanda doesn’t lie down and take it from anyone, and McKay adores that about her. Good for him, I thought. He gets it. Amanda is not smooth waters 24/7, nor should she be. She’s real, she’s hilarious, she’s complex. And if you don’t marry her you’re an idiot, because there is absolutely no one else like her.

Ugh, I totally got off on the boy tangent. Ick. Okay, so back to the 33rd birthday thing. The past few weeks, it’s been hitting me hard. So I came up with a plan. I’ve got great things planned for myself by way of celebration. I’m a big believer in celebrating. To fight off my feelings of inferiority and distance, I reached out to some women closer to me in years, and shared with them some of these feelings I have. The response was overwhelming. In fact, we’re having a dinner party at my house next week. Turns out, I’m not all that alone in this. Turns out, even a couple of them look at me and think I’m one of those girls they look at and think “why can’t I be like her?”. Is that not always the way it is? I really love women. Even the younger saplings.

I just don't want Satan to make me think because I'm older than most, I'm not as good or desirable. It's not true. Circumstances might be twisted to make it seem so, but it's just not true. The Spirit gives me the feeling that God delights in my company, and that's what I need to remember. Because that's what's real. If I remember that, I don't feel the inclination to pit myself against anyone, especially one of my beautiful (albeit younger) sisters. I can see myself as equal and just as great as she. I've actually got a little advantage, truth be told. Getting older really is a good thing.

200. Done.

i be loving these right about now…

2007-07-20T15:21:00.000-05:00

Cat Power
Bacon – it’s just a powerful taste
My roommates – how did I ever score such gals?
The wicked good night’s sleep I had last night
Buying songs because the boss left early today
Photographs – seriously, where would you do w/o them?
Sweet, adorable voice messages from Mom
Rockin’ out to Davey Jones in my driveway
Road trips with Funyuns – I like to breathe on innocent passengers
Electric Light Orchestra – what up, Mooney.
Blonde highlights
Crying just enough so the tears well up but don’t fall
Having no time because it’s filled with crazy summer plans
My sweet Jennie Sue

things you do want to hear...as promised

2007-07-18T10:42:00.000-05:00

From a co-worker and dear friend:
I cannot tell you how much I love that Org Chart. Seriously - already it is SO helpful.

From every single person you invited:
I will be there!
(followed by profound expressions of anticipatory excitement)

From your sister:
You are brilliant.
(and since she’s seen it all from you over the years, it’s overwhelming that she’d think so.)

From your mom:
Daughter to Daughter, thank you for being at the crossroads.
(too personal to explain, but maybe you can imagine what it takes for a mother to relate to you as a daughter of God.)

From your server:
Actually, that man over there just paid for your lunch. He said to tell you “thanks for the smile.”
(I know, right?!)

From your bishop:
Thank you for the incredible young woman you have become and are today!

From Bravo Announcer:
The All Day Top Chef Marathon starts now. (and you’ve got nowhere you need to be.)

please post your opinion

2007-07-17T09:22:00.000-05:00

So what do y'all think of this?

things you don’t want to hear…

2007-07-16T10:52:00.000-05:00

From your Driver’s Ed instructor:
“You know, you’re a real nice girl and I like you a lot, but you can’t drive worth a lick.”

From your male therapist:
“Okay, so you said you have problems connecting openly with men. Do you really think therapy with me is going to help you?”

From your sister:
“You dress very matronly.”

From your dentist:
“Well buddy, from where I sit I see two crowns and at least one more root canal. [To his assistant] Let’s use the bigger one.”

From your dentist’s ceiling speakers:
“And I can’t fight this feelin’ anymoooooorrrre. I forgotten what I started fightin’ fooooorrrrrrr…"

From your ob/gyn:
“How old are you? And do you want to have kids someday? Well…I’d get on that.”

From your boss:
“Well, how’s my Little Miss Lack of Attention to Detail faring this morning?”

From the server:
“Sorry, we just ran out of the chocolate cheesecake.”

From your mother:
“I just don’t want you to have to face everything alone anymore.”

From Mel’s Tow Service:
“It’s $119. Cash only. [pause] There’s an ATM down the road.”

Just so we have a little balance, tomorrow I’ll post things you do want to hear.

human resources - a whole new meaning

2007-07-11T12:42:00.001-05:00

WARNING: this post might be too disgusting for some readers.

My boss told me the most interesting story today. She got a call this morning from a good friend of hers, who happens to be a vice president overseeing the human resources department of her company. This morning she walked into her office and found someone had pooped on her carpet.
“There’s a pile of crap in my office,” she tells my boss. My boss says, “Yeah, I know what you mean.” “No,” says her friend. “There’s a pile. Of crap. In my office.”

Apparently the specimen was definitely human. I thought maybe someone brought their dog in or something. Is it all possible her office could be mistaken for a bathroom? Has she fired any neanderthals recently? Or maybe a three year-old without his pullups?

Boss and I decided to break this puzzle down into three categories: 1) Premeditations; 2) Logistics; and finally 3) Investigational Strategy.

1. The Premeditations of Mystery Pooper

Pooper: I am one disgruntled professional. I need to send a message. I have legitimate grievances which need addressing. I need my employer to hear my
concerns and take the necessary steps to correct the errors made against me. But
how? How to express it? What’s the best course of….(snap) OF COURSE! IT’S SO SIMPLE! Yet so perfect. (Throws on a pot of strong coffee, laughs low and maniacally.

2. How They Did It

Was the poop in question transported to said office from another site? Or did he/she stake out the office for hours before running in there when the coast was clear? Were there accomplices/lookouts while business was being conducted? And how can you predict how much time you’ll need to complete the mission? I like to imagine that someone was standing outside the door holding a boombox playing the theme to Mission Impossible so Mystery Pooper would stay focused.

3. Tracking Down the Mystery Pooper

Now that my boss’ friend has called for the carpet cleaners to come, perhaps she should take a sample before all evidence is destroyed. How else is she going to catch
the rogue? I’d also like to see the memo sent out to all employees relating to this investigation. Or maybe she should just get on a bullhorn:

All right everybody. I know one of you did it. One of you pooped. So today you’ll all be getting a little kit interoffice. We need a stool sample from every single one of you. We’ll compare it with the sample taken from the crap on my carpet. We take human excrement very seriously around here. Make no mistake. We will find you. Mystery Pooper.

2007-07-10T10:27:00.000-05:00

I'm sick of my tropical dream template, and need a new look. This template is not a look. Also, for some reason blogger won't let me add a title to this post.

besides the strong arms, sweet smile...

2007-07-05T15:18:00.000-05:00

Do you want to know what is really, really attractive? A guy who knows how to forgive. He can let it go, he can leave it alone, he holds zero judgment, and once you apologize, he can just plain not care about it, because he knows it might just as easily be him in the stupid seat next time around.

I want to be a woman who knows how to forgive.

You know what really draws me to a guy? Seeing his personal connection with Heavenly Father by the way he interacts with other people, what he says to them and about them, how he listens, how he cares.

I want people to know God lives by the way I love people.

You want to know what is sexy? A righteous man. Gets me every time.

the blog turns 2, and mary goes back to basics

2007-06-29T10:17:00.000-05:00

Happy Birthday, Blog. It's called Mary + Her Mental Health. And I'm about to prove why.

I’ve been thinking a lot about core basics. I’m compelled to go back and re-establish a few things: Do I know that God exists and knows me? Do I know that He loves me? Do I believe in Jesus Christ? Do I have a testimony of Joseph Smith? Do I believe the Book of Mormon is the word of God? Do I believe that Gordon B. Hinckley is our prophet, called of God, to lead us back to our Father?

Going back to this every now and again is really essential, I think. I lose track. What do I really believe? The routine and lifestyle are so familiar now. I can’t just know once and that’s it. I need to know and re-know. You know?

Trials have a poignant (read: head-smacking) way of showing you what’s missing, what you need to go back and confirm about who you are and what you want to be. It’s easier to murmur about hard things which are required of me when I’m not tuned in to the basics, when I “know not the dealings of that God who had created [me].” (1 Nep. 2:12)

King Benjamin from the Book of Mormon loved the basics, and thank goodness they wrote his words down. Mosiah, Chapter 4, verse 9:

Believe in God; believe that he is, and that he created all things, both in heaven and in earth;…
I have read this one verse more times this week than I have in my whole lifetime.

…believe that he has all wisdom, and all power, both in heaven and in earth;…
Basic principle, but so difficult to always accept completely, especially when life becomes unmanageable. Then he says this:

…believe that man doth not comprehend all the things which the Lord can comprehend.

I wonder if King Benjamin knew at the time, 124 B.C. to be precise, when he gave this magnificent sermon, that in 2007 A.D., a young woman in Boston would wake up one morning and realize that in spite of her active church and temple attendance, in spite of paying her tithing faithfully, in spite of serving in her calling regularly, her daily prayers, in spite of what everyone else thought about her, she had somehow lost her desire for spiritual things. Underneath all the routine, the light had gone out. It really, really scared her.

She opened up the scriptures, truly expecting to receive nothing, when the thought “this is where you return to the basics” came. She turned to Mosiah, she read her patriarchal blessing, she prayed - - this time, a very basic prayer. Are you there? Can you help me?

just before dawn

2007-06-27T09:13:00.000-05:00

I got a note from a great friend. With her permission, here is a portion of what it said:

When the Adversary fears that true happiness is present or near, he puts on the full gear and fights for his life. When we do righteous things, it's almost an invitation to him to strike harder. But no matter the scale of the attack, however reinforced the army, the power of the Savior's true atonement and the spirit is the strongest shield and protector and can conquer all negativity. Know the strength of God's love within you and within others - even those who have harmed us, perhaps especially, as it is they who need love most.

Isn't that great? She's a good one.

that's one smart monkey

2007-06-25T11:21:00.000-05:00

This is a good one.

a bend in the rule

2007-06-22T14:58:00.000-05:00

So I never write about my dating life. It’s just too…it’s just not a good idea. If I ever get married, I’ll let you know, but I’m not writing about the ins and outs of my male entanglements. Be that as it may, I have to write about the date I went on last night. I’ll say right off the bat that this is not one of those really bad date stories where you feel sorry for me. This was a really, really good date.

I shall call my date Reggie. This is not his real name.

Reggie came to pick me up at my place at 6:00, only I hadn’t come home from work yet. He waited for me and got to know my roommates and my sister, all of whom cried out in unison when I came home from the date, “Reggie is soooo hot!” Reggie is quite handsome, but that’s not his real name.

We drove to Winthrop, a small Boston harbor town, very close to Deer Island (for those familiar) for an Italian seafood dinner. Reggie told me, “It looks like a dive, which makes the experience all the more unbelievable. This food will blow your mind.” He wasn’t kidding. Reggie had the lobster ravioli and I chose the shrimp artichoke ravioli. I never wanted it to end. And the bread…the bread. Mother’s love, the bread.

After dinner, we walked for a while, wherein I learned more about Reggie’s PhD pursuits at a very prestigious technical college located in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Reggie is a genius. Reggie is breaking new ground and getting his professors tenure because of his discoveries. Reggie gets extra animated when he explains how all the stuff he’s uncovering all testifies of Jesus Christ and Creation, and the divine structure of the universe. It’s really fun to see him talk about it. Did I mention his name is not really Reggie?

The clouds above us turned an ominous gray, but that doesn’t stop Reggie from continuing with his plan to take me out to Deer Island for an amazing view of the Boston skyline. Once again, he wasn’t kidding, particularly last night’s view. A storm had unleashed itself on Boston, but it hadn’t reached the island yet. It’s sunset. To the left is the city and the harbor, to the right is the Atlantic and pretty lighthouses. Above the ocean, pinks and oranges and blues. Above Boston, deep purples, dark grays, and lightning strikes. Gorgeous bolts so big they look like the sky is cracking open. And here we are, watching this on top of a hill, bone dry, and scream-laughing with every strike.

On the walk back down the hill it comes out that I’ve never been to Top of the Hub. I thought Reggie was going to choke on his own tonsil. He didn’t. He quickly recovered and announced matter-of-factly: “We’re going. We’re getting dessert there. Let’s go.”

Reggie is a fictitious name.

For non-Bostonians, Top of the Hub is a swankster restaurant which sits on the top of a big business building called the Prudential Center. Its walls are floor-to-ceiling windows, it boasts a panaromic view of Boston.

By the time we get to the car, it had just begun to sprinkle. Five minutes into the drive, it was pouring. Perfect timing, we thought. By the time we reached the restaurant, the rain reduced itself to a drizzle. More perfect timing, we thought. The storm had blown out, leaving a clear night sky. We took the elevator to the fifty-second floor.

We were greeted by the snobby hostess with the phenomenal body and the English accent. Reggie asks for a table. Hostess chick slips us an FYI: $24 per person minimum after 8:00 p.m. I’m ready to leave right then. “Thanks anyway.” I say. Reggie replies, “We’ve just come for dessert. Is it possible to just get dessert?” Hostess chick says, “Of course, so long as you order $24 per person’s worth of dessert.” Cute. “Thanks anyway,” I say again, and look at Reggie with the “let’s just go” eyes. But Reggie’s not finished. He points to me and says to Hostess chick, “she’s never been here, and tonight is so beautiful. What if we just walked around for minute? I want to show her.” No. “Well,” Reggie tries, “what about if we sat at the bar?” There’s only a seat for one. By this point, I’m totally ready to give up. I’m pleading with Reggie, “It doesn’t have to be tonight, Reggie. It’s okay.” Reggie turns to me in total seriousness and kindly says, “No, Mary. It has to be tonight.” I didn’t really call him Reggie, since that’s not his real name. But Reggie’s the name I’m using for this story. So that’s why I wrote Reggie.

Reggie’s looks and charm finally wore Hostess chick down. At last she laughed and gave me this warning, “Watch out for this one, friend. He doesn’t take no for an answer!” She then directed us to a spot where we could order a couple of drinks and stand in front of a spectacular view of northeast Boston. I couldn’t believe it. She completely caved. She gave us an amazing spot. I’ve learned a valuable life lesson here. Persistence pays off, and Reggie is a charmer. Even if his name is Reggie. Which it’s not.

I wish I could paint with words the expression on the bartender’s face when Reggie proudly ordered: “Two Shirley Temples, please!”

We walked all over the restaurant, toting our Temples, and looking out the windows. Unbelievable. I just smiled and smiled.

The drive home we just raved about how perfect everything was. The food, the scenery, the walk, the storm, the rain, the Hub, the Shirley Temples, the bartender…it was perfect!

You know what, I changed my mind. I think I want to call him Vlad.

no interventions please, it's entirely under control...no really.

2007-06-21T11:11:00.000-05:00

Well folks, it's out of hand. The situation is desperate. I’m back to an average of 64 ounces of Diet Coke a day. This is in large part due to the 40 ounce mega gulp I stop in for every morning at the 7 Eleven. I realized yesterday that I didn’t have anything other than Diet Coke to drink until 7:00 p.m. last night. I had Orangina. And only because we were out of Diet Coke. I am hopeless.

I’m such an emotional DC drinker. Lately I’ve been feeling a little stressed at work and other places, so I’ve dropped some weight and upped the Diet Coke intake. When my boss said something snide to me in front of a co-worker the other day, I bolted for the fridge. I drink because I’m unhappy. I’m unhappy because I…actually, no. I’m not unhappy. I’m very happy! Diet Coke makes me happy! WHO AM I HURTING? IT’S JUST A SOFT DRINK! Oh, my tortured shame.

Nearly all of my well-beloved ancestors hail from either Germany, Ireland, or Scotland. Now just what kind of a chance do I have here, really? Could I at least beg for some credit since it isn’t Gewurztraminer, Guinness, or Johnny Walker? It’s in the line. It’s in the bloodstream. Generations of junkies hooked on the liquid stimulant coursing through my unassuming veins. The demons I face, people! Dirty demons, dirty drinking demons, with little dirty faces. I beat them down with Diet Coke! Come on!

Lots of peeps advise that you need to replace the bad thing with something else that’s better in order to kick the habit. Kay. Great. Go find me something better than Diet Coke. No, do it. Go. Cuz I’ve looked. And I wish you the very best of luck with that. Diet Coke anyone?

hmmmm...

2007-06-20T15:55:00.000-05:00

Right before I woke up (late of course) I was dreaming about this beautiful baby daughter of mine. She had these amazing blue eyes, long lashes, and no hair. The kid had fuzz. She wore a pale blue onesie, and she was the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen. She sat on my hip as I was making food in the kitchen, and she’d reach for everything I was holding in my hands. I’ve been missing her all day today. I never dream about babies, so I’m not too worried about getting psycho baby-crazed. Yet.

In other random nothingness, here are some words I typed incorrectly at work today. When I said them out loud to myself, I laughed. I encourage you to read and say them aloud for a first rate diversive experience.

Ethicalky
Pulbic
Univesrity and lastly,
Limitiation

I think my right is faster than my left or something. Also, I think I'm quite easily amused. Must be the lack of sleep. From all the baby dreams.

Enjoy your evening.

it has come to my attention...

2007-06-15T15:00:00.000-05:00

Hi, my name is Mary. And I’m a negligent hostess.

My adorable youngest sister, Jen, has been living with me for
almost a month now on an extended visit. And up until yesterday, I thought
everything was great. Yesterday, Jen is sitting next to me on the
couch. “Hey, Mar?” she says. “Um, when are we going grocery shopping
again?” Apparently, other people, normal people, need to subsist on things
other than Triscuits and cheese. Apparently, most people shop for food
more than once a month, not including Diet Coke runs. Apparently, I don't like to feed people.

“We have food.”
“Not really.”
“Well, you have that spinach lasagna in the freezer.”
“I ate that already. We bought that a month ago.”
“There’s stuff for turkey sandwiches.”
“The bread is gone.”
“Soup?”
*blank stare
“Do we really not have food?”

A while back I had my sister, Laura, here for a few days and we ran into a
similar problem. I only had one bath towel at the time - - my bath towel. We had to borrow another one from my roommate so Laura wouldn’t have to air dry in October. Get a clue, Mar. When people come to visit me, I think “Yay! I have peeps coming to visit me!” And then they get here and I think, “Um, bath towel. Right. Bath towels are important.”

But I learned from the bath towel snafu. Oh yes I did. The first day Jen came to town, I made sure she had a bath towel. Two towels! Then we went to Target and I got her a wash cloth and a hand towel. I even let her pick out the color. Towels, plural. Check.

Further, I thought I was all totally awesome and stuff because I secured a twin mattress for her, with actual sheets and pillows and everything. I made space in the bathroom for her things, I cleared out the bottom drawer of my dresser, and packed away lots of clothes to make room in my closet. So proud of myself! So learning! Gold Stars! Right?

NO. NO. This is BARE MINIMUM hostess behavior. This is Level One, Hostess for Beginners, Anything Less And You’re Living In a Cambodian POW Camp type of prep work. No gold stars. More like a “meh” shrug. And even if you gave her 23 towels, she still needs eat. What is wrong with me? Why didn’t I learn this a long time ago?

I suppose I should be grateful these lessons are coming to me now. Imagine CPS showing up at my door in fifteen years:

Mrs. Mortensen? My name is Officer Marshall Briggs, Protective
Services. We are in receipt of a letter from your daughter wherein she
states, and I quote, she currently ‘befriends hunger like an old war buddy
while dreaming of the touch of cotton on her skin after a lukewarm bath on a
cold December night’. We just have a few questions for you. Also, I’m going to need to see the contents your kitchen cabinets. We’ve received reports concerning Triscuits and nothing else. Now just what kind of sick twisted...

grad school - part three

2007-05-29T15:39:00.000-05:00

Okay, the graduate school thesis story.

Early stages:
No one was surprised when Danielle and I announced we wanted to write our thesis together, as a two-woman production. We were, after all, inseparable. Besides that, we both saw many great benefits in making our theses a joint project: 1) only half, as opposed to total, responsibility for the colossal failure in a final project which was to represent the culmination of two years spent in toil, therapy, bottomless Little Debbie family-size boxes, stark, crumbling practice rooms with no actual pianos in them, bathrooms puking, voice lessons venting, dance classes ditched, fire alleyway chain-smoking, etc., etc; 2) well…actually, only half-ownership of failing was the biggest thing.

Personally, I had extra incentive to go in with Danielle on the project. I mentioned in the first installment, Danielle is a phenomenal belter. Her rendition of “When You’re Good to Mama” is something to be chronicled under your “Holy Crap, She Sang That Song and Now I Don’t Remember Where I Live” cabinet. Hitching my wagon to her star would gain me points nary obtained by flying solo. In my eyes, it was (and will always be) a very favorable venture to work with D. So off we went in search of a good thesis idea.

The project:
The performance itself had to be a 50-75 minute original production, consisting of at least 12 songs, with a well-outlined, well-illustrated thesis statement. It could be a production derived out of a book or play, it could be based on a person, or it could be in the form of an original lecture presentation. Danielle and I chose original lecture presentation.

We named our show “Elements and Archetypes,” which sounds very, very smart, doesn’t it? We wanted to explore female archetypes in musical theater and how these archetypes are assigned to certain vocal types - - either to a soprano or alto. Research involved first studying some of the original female archetypes in literature, music and art, and then finding characters in musicals which exemplified these archetypes (Laurie, from Oklahoma; Adelaide from Guys and Dolls, etc.) Then we went back and followed the history of musical theater, from its early beginnings down to present day. We noted that as musical theater evolved over time, archetypes were converging, more female characters were a combination of two or more types. With the blending of traits in these female roles came also a blend in vocal type and style - - in other words, women in modern musicals more often sang songs using both high and low ranges, both strong and soft dynamics (Aldonza/Dulcinea, from Man of La Mancha, Evita, etc.) She wasn’t just a soprano, she wasn’t just an alto. She was both and everything in between.

In terms of format, this is what we came up with. Danielle and I would address the audience as ourselves, we’d introduce an archetype (we used only four), tell the audience a little bit about her, then retreat into a scene/song segment, taken from a musical which best illustrated that archetype. The show would conclude with the introduction of a “new” archetype: the All In One. And we wrote a song about her, and that would basically be it.

The process:
It’s great that I can sum up our thesis project in a few short paragraphs now. Creating the show, wading through tons of research, selecting the right archetypes, picking the songs, constructing the script, it was all unbelievably difficult then. Not only did it have to work, it had to make sense, and our thesis, Hello! It had to be entertaining. It couldn't drag, and we couldn't lose our audience in too much rhetoric. We wanted to sing about things that matter, songs people would enjoy listening to, not just songs that illustrated our point. Finally, there had to be a story arc, a beginning – middle- and end feeling to the overall show. Not so easy when you’ve chosen a lecture presentation format. They needed to laugh, they needed to cry. Blah blah…yadda yadda. Have you got the picture? IT WAS HARD.

So there were deadlines for turning in certain things along the way. The first thing you turned in was your proposal, then an outline, then a revised outline (I think). Then you performed a first draft for your colleagues and certain members of the faculty, for feedback purposes. Lastly of course, you submitted the final performance. You were to meet with your advisor regularly for guidance. And as any graduate student can tell you, getting a good advisor over a deadbeat is like the difference between getting a cavity filled with anesthetic or without. Either way the cavity is filled, but how many years off your life did it end up taking? The general rule was, by the time you got to your first draft run of the show, your thesis was about 90% ready to go.

Fortunately, our thesis advisor was great. Unfortunately, no one else on the faculty agreed with the advice she gave us. Just one month prior to our final performance, we performed the first draft. It was a nightmare, total and complete. The song choices were unvaried and uninteresting, the script needed all kinds of revision, the archetype explanations were too dense. You name it, they abhorred it. I distinctly remember two faculty members arguing for five minutes about my use of the word “purveyor” in the script. Frankly, even I thought the show was boring and lifeless. After the feedback session, Danielle and I were left with no choice but to start over. One month to write a whole new show. We were panicked.

I think we threw out all but one or two of the original songs, we slashed and hacked out a tighter script, we slowed the archetype sections down so that people could follow, we added light cues so the audience would know when we were playing a role and when we were playing ourselves. I have to admit, the show we ended up constructing in one month was far and away a much better show. They were right. And Danielle and I were pretty proud of the end result.

The performance:
We performed our thesis exactly twice. One was technically an open dress rehearsal. The studio theater, where all theses are performed, leaked wetness from the ceiling. We had to tell audience members to steer clear of certain seats, unless they liked that whole Chinese water torture thing. (And I’m sure some of them did. These are, after all, theater people.)

We had great friends, and lots of them. Both nights were full houses, and the energy and love emanating from them was truly what made our thesis fly. My parents came to town. Danielle’s parents came to town. My bishop and his wife came, my home teachers came, other church peeps came. They laughed in all the right places, they cheered us on. It was indescribable. I remember Neil, the department chair, giving me the best compliment after he saw it: “Mary,” he said “I just love to hear you sing.” Do you know how many people in the world this man has heard sing? A lot. A lot.

Three weeks later, I crossed a stage wearing a black tent and hugged Neil again - - this time, as a graduate. I was gradutatiated. And I’ve been told that even today, certain battle-axe faculty members refer their graduate students to Danielle’s and my thesis as an example of a “good” thesis. I wonder if they bother to mention how they convinced us it was total bunk, even with all the revisions. Still, a great feeling of validation, that.

I feel purged. Most cathartic. I think I can close the book now.

THE END

ps. D, I had so much fun with you. You kept me safe. You made me laugh so much. Thank you. You are my shining stah. Miss you.

every heartbeat screams word

2007-05-24T11:30:00.001-05:00

Um...this is all I have to say.

half-hanged mary

2007-05-24T09:28:00.000-05:00

This is awesome. The poem isn't half-bad either. Pardon the pun.

paging ms. robinson...

2007-05-23T15:00:00.000-05:00

I know I’ve been promising a final chapter in the grad school saga. But frankly I’m still recuperating from the mental shredding it took to write the first two. I promise you, once my last therapy bill has cleared, and after an adequate subsiding of the involuntary twitching and routine night sweats, I’ll get right on that. Meanwhile, let me tell you another story. Ready? M’kay.

Last week, I was home in California. The trip was for practical purposes, and practical purposes only. I was there to spend some much-needed time with the family, help Mom with stuff around the house, basically lay low and keep it simple. This is Clovis, CA people, what other options are there? For there is the dwelling place of raisins, heat, high school football freaks, strip malls, slow drivers, and stucco housing developments stretching as far as the toxic, contract-acute-asthma-within-hours, valley sky will allow you to see. Okay, that means you can see only a block ahead, but trust me, there’s like a billion cookie-cutter houses past that big hazy cloud you’re looking at across the street. Imagine a place that is completely devoid of mystery, charm, excitement or adventure, and you’ve beheld the vision of Clovis.

This was not – I repeat – not a trip designed for romance, thrill-seeking, cradle-robbing, boy prowling, or in other words, attending my sister’s barely not even children anymore singles ward and meeting a 22 year-old returned missionary, who takes me out on a date last Friday night because the poor boy could not even help himself in my presence. This was not supposed to happen. But happen it did.

Yes. 22.

Yes. I still got it.

You guys, I totally met him after Sacrament meeting. He gave me the "you look really familiar" line. He then asked me how old I was, because he suspected I used to hang out with one of his sisters. Oh my gosh, I was so happy he asked me how old I was. I was giddy to tell him, because I couldn't wait to see the response. "Thirty-two!" I said with a huge smile. Oh, his face...oh, his cute little face. "Okay, then that can't be it," he said. I was centimeters from firing back with, "well, maybe I babysat you when you were nine or something." I resisted.

This is the shocker though. He later asked my sister if I was single. He totally got my number from my sister, and he totally called me you guys. We had Cold Stone. We walked around. It was like amazing.

I think I can still hear my father’s laugh all the way from Boston.

Maybe someday I’ll tell you about the time I went on a date with a 62 year-old. (But today unfortunately is not that day.) From 62 to 22. A 40 year spread. Very open-minded, I must say. Basically, if you are legal and/or can still feed yourself, gimme a call. I’m your Friday night gal.

pedicures and princesses

2007-05-01T08:59:00.000-05:00

I don't usually advertise this, but I am a total girl. I know, pick up your lower jaw. No, what I mean is I love the girly. I'm a little embarrassed by how much. So this post is a confession, complete with evidentiary photos. I'll start with what I did last Sunday afternoon.

Peggy and I went over and had a princess party with our bishop's kids and his wife. Such a blast. We've done these before. We have a light luncheon, served by Sir Bob (aka Jackson, older brother) followed by dancing with wild abandon, not caring who we flash with our princess underwear.

Then, we move to the downstairs to watch Cinderella III and make bejeweled tiaras with elmer's glue and foam.
You guys have to see Cinderella III. I'll let you borrow my copy. It's intense. We eat ice cream sandwiches and sing the Cinderella song following the movie.

Then of course, there's the pedicures. It's pedicure season. So we girls head to Belmont Center and have a total girly day.

We hit TCBY, where Mary mows a turtle sundae with extra bananas in three minutes. Clearly from this photo, it wasn't enough.

I'm a girl. That's right. You wanna go?! Roll up, I will take you. And if you mess up my pedi, you are toast.

Finally, you guys MUST click this link. It's a standup routine about going to the nail salon, and it is DEAD ON.

grad school - part three

2007-04-30T12:29:00.000-05:00

Hey check this out! I’m on BoCo’s alumni webpage! And yes, of course all the guys I’m sitting with are gay. Does anyone register the utter fatigue in my profile? Man, it was a good fatigue, though.

I remember when American Idol’s first season came out, and what a strong reaction everyone had to Simon, with all his rude comments to young singers, pouring their hearts out every week on primetime. Well shoot, people, bring one a’them cameras into Fran’s class, or a coaching with Cathy. You’ll hear things that could spark a nation-wide fallout stretching over generations of time, reek devastating divides which span the millennia, wage raging disputes to rent a social fabric in twain, like Islam vs. Christianity, Shiites vs. Sunnis, Creamy vs. Chunky. Seriously, they’d have to broadcast it on Cinemax.

During any one of my songs, I may have had a teacher stop and mimic my voice mockingly back at me, drop her pencil and smack her head with her hands, say things like, “Mary, do you have any idea how awful that was?” “Who taught you to sing?” “Well, I don’t think you could have chosen a more pathetic direction than that one.” “You do understand this is a music degree, right?” “All you need to learn, Mary, is what the notes are, and when to sing them. That’s all.” “I have no idea why I should care about you right now.” “That was painful, utterly painful.” “Who sat in on your audition for the school? I need a name.” And so on…

Along with 256 showtunes, a piece of paper, and a severely compromised view myself as an artist, I also came out of BoCo with a single chest hair, just for taking it every day like I did.

I remember Shaina passing out right after a 45-minute rough run of her thesis project. I remember verbally lashing into Scott for ten minutes in front of 20 people because I thought he was bashing the Catholic church - - only he wasn’t. Wee for me. I remember Holly ripping up the linoleum in her apartment’s kitchen because it was “too dirty,” and we all thought she’d finally gone completely nuts. I remember her roommate, sweet little Peter, breathing into a bag as he asked me what to say to property management about it.

Please keep in mind that it really wasn’t all that bad, it’s just fun to write about it like this. I actually loved my two years. All these things are true, they did happen, but man it was a blast. This could also mean I’m some kind of sadist.

Next installment, the final thesis project.

i'm on the hunt, i'm after you...

2007-04-26T14:31:00.000-05:00

So I happen to be on the listserve for this environmental group, the NRDC (National Resource Defense Council). They send me alerts about when certain environmental legislation is up before Congress and when to flood my congressman’s office with my outrage over the current administration’s gross negligence protecting polar bears, ignoring the energy problem, global warming, etc. So make no mistake, this organization is a pretty sober lot.

Today the NRDC sent me another very serious email about another very serious natural resource problem.

Subject Line: “Mary, Hear the Wolf’s Cry for Help”
I really need to grow up, it seems, because I totally burst out laughing. Does this, or does this not, sound like some kind of code phrase? Can you hear Duran Duran playing? So is the wolf like some brutish misunderstood man I’m supposed to nurture back into society with my feminine energy? And will they write a romance novel about us?

These are my thoughts. None of which, I’m sure, the NRDC would be happy about.

...again?

2007-04-25T09:38:00.000-05:00

So, I really do have great bosses. They're occasionally high maintenance, but what else could high-powered female attorneys be? Easy going? (Snort.)

I guess I've been a little pensive lately. One of the perks of female bosses is they're usually tuned into the sort of thing. More importantly, they have personal understanding of just how much rapture comes from a delivery man standing in your doorway, holding beautiful flowers in one hand, a slip of paper in the other, as he tentatively looks up and says: Mary?

The flowers came from a small floral shop near Chinatown. The envelope read: M. Websper. The card read: "your the best". Love it.

Here they are:

I guess I really needed them, because I totally started to cry. Then again, maybe that's just cuz it's April 25th. You know...the womens stuff we don't mention. Except on unrestricted public forums such as weblogs.

grad school - part two

2007-04-24T10:09:00.000-05:00

The thing that probably stands out the most from my experience at the Conservatory, BoCo, as we called it, is the number of songs I had to learn. In fact, a more precise name for my masters degree would be Masters in Multitudinal Song Learning. That’s got a truer ring to it.

Every semester I had the following classes, among others: Repertoire, Musical Theater, Private Voice, Script and Score Analysis. These four required courses combined meant I was learning at least four songs a week. Think about that. 4 songs x 16 weeks per semester x 4 semesters = 256 songs. Now ask me how much money I make today because I know 256 showtunes.

And it wasn’t enough just to learn these songs. Oh no. You had to perform them in front of very mean people, people who never cared how many other songs you had to learn for other teachers that week. Forget about any pats on the back for actually remembering all the words. If you didn’t stir the soul of every man, woman, and child within Suffolk County, if the earth did not move, if Fran did not fall out of her chair and do that wistful, glistening stare thing which maybe happened ONCE in all my two years of singing my freaking guts out for her every freaking week of my freaking life, you might as well just punch yourself in the face and call it good, because you’re never making it to Broadway, baby.

One time, it was probably closer to the end of a semester, Danielle and I were sitting at her kitchen table in her apartment on Symphony Road. We had our music binders open, lyric cramming. No one spoke, there was just a lot of hand-patting in rhythm, head bobbing in timed beats, brows furrowing over long phrases on a page, and mouths mouthing words with no sound. At length we sat up for a break, and I remember a conversation that went something like this:

Me: Are you done?
D: With this one. For now. I still have to find a song for Rep.
Me: Hmmm.
D: Mar?
Me: Yeah?
D: Are there any more songs? In the world?
Me: Excellent question.

I distinctly remember how my classmates and I adapted to the endless and expansive demands of grad school. In the beginning, as assignments and projects were handed out right and left, we’d react with large eyes and animated responses of disputation. (No way can we do all this?! Are they out of their minds?!) Two-thirds into the first year, this softened to more of a numbed-out incredulity. (I have two songs, a scene, a monologue, a recital, and two papers all happening this Wednesday. Are my lips gently sliding off my face right now? Cuz it feels like they are.) By the month before graduation, you could have smacked any one of us over the head with a concrete slab and we’d probably stare blankly back at you waiting for you to say something.

A typical day would start with vocal coachings as early as 8:00 a.m., followed by a full day of acting classes, piano classes, theory tutorings, voice lessons, the four classes mentioned earlier, a dance class in the late afternoon, a quick dinner break, and then rehearsals for all the crap you were working on until you passed out around midnight. Mornings occasionally began with me screaming: IT’S JUST SHOW TUNES, PEOPLE! THAT’S ALL IT IS! SHOWTUNES!!!

To be continued…

grad school - part one

2007-04-20T14:59:00.000-05:00

Five years ago this evening, I performed a self-written one-hour thesis to earn my master’s degree in musical theater from The Boston Conservatory. Danielle and I did it together, actually; we co-wrote it. Danielle was good enough to remind me that it was five years ago today. Five years.

My very first day of graduate academia all began, right out of the gate, with none other than a music theory test. They gave us this exam to assess where we were in our knowledge and training of music (for those interested, it included things like written and aural melodic dictation, rhythmic dictation, transposing key signatures, identifying relative minor, etc.) For most of my fellow classmates (there were 9 of us in total), this test could technically have been called a walk. Most of them received their bachelors’ in vocal performance, which is a music degree. Which means they took music classes. Where they teach this stuff. But I was a theater undergrad, coming to a music school with a music savvy equivalent to a third-year piano student. When it came to reading and understanding music, I knew precious little, and faked the rest. In fact, I probably owe it to my theater degree for how well I faked it; it got me to places I never dreamed I’d be, like in that classroom for example. Sitting there that day, I was cursing my acting skills, mentally shredding that theater degree into tiny pieces. It felt worthless to me then. Sitting there, on my first day of graduate school, in one of the most competitive programs for musical theater in the country, I nearly choked on my nausea. Every question mocked me. Is this how I’m going to feel every day for the next two years? Dismally under-trained and humiliated? What am I doing here? I don’t know ANY-thing. I just entered a graduate music program, and I know nothing about music! Naturally, I was the first to “finish” the test.

Now for many of you who read my blog, you may be a little surprised at what I did next. Back in September of 2000 I was not practicing my LDS faith, nor had I been for some time. In September of 2000, as soon as I got out of that classroom after turning in my blank exam paper, I went into the back alley and proceeded to smoke about three cigarettes in a row. I was a total chimney. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Danielle, one of my nine classmates whom I’d just met briefly earlier that day. Danielle was smoking one herself. We got to talking. She had a theater background too. She smokes, she’s in theater, and she totally tanked that stupid exam, same as me. It was destiny. We were inseparable for the next two years.

The similarities between Danielle and I pretty much stop there, I think. She’s from Queens, I’m from California. She’s a 5’2” Italian alto, and I’m a blonde soprano with an Irish chin. She could belt to the balcony better than Merman, whereas I had trouble not sounding like a Julie Andrews wannabe. Our looks and voices could not have been more polar. And yet, from that first day we bonded like twin sisters. I think it was only four or five days later when I recall the two of us sitting in my dorm room crying our eyes out because, you know, grad school is freaking freaky.

To be continued…

more than sweaters

2007-04-18T16:28:00.000-05:00

Last night, I was on the phone with a really good friend, the kind that never lets a desire for decency override the truth. “Mary,” she says, “I got on your blog this week.” Yeah, I said. “Well…it just hasn’t been the same lately. I feel like your heart isn’t behind it. I’m not reading you in your posts. Is this fair to say?” Yeah, I said. Then we talked a little about why.

I never wanted to have one of those blogs where all you write about is what you did that day, or what sweaters you wear and why. I used to put way more of myself into my posts. Waaaay more. Too much, in fact. Now I put too little, I’m aware of that. Not that this warrants a cover story, but it is interesting to think about why I stopped putting my heart into the blog. Boredom? Fear? Allergies?

Talking beyond just my blog posts now, I know who I want to be - honest and real, but honestly, really, good. I want to feel free to gripe and be petty because I have a real talent for that and I need to share it. But I think I’m going to write more about what really interests me, even if I get zero comments and I have to feel all naked about it. Come on, you know it’s true. Whenever I try and stray just a little from the hairy lesbian couple on the bus formula, nobody sends me any love. (It’s cool, though.) I need to write about what I really think about, what I really do and feel, otherwise where is the point in writing at all? This is what I think my friend was trying to tell me. Just because there will be endless space for all the pointless, mentally vacant, blogposts ever conceived by man doesn’t mean I have no obligation to try and make your visit to my blog a worthwhile stop.

I feel a renewed sense of direction and purpose. And the summer months are coming. Which means lots of downtime at work. May it yield sweet, succulent, bloggy fruit is my dearest hope.

um...question(s)

2007-04-13T10:49:00.000-05:00

THOUGHT PUT IN TOTALLY LAST MINUTE: Friday the 13th and I completely walked under a ladder today. I'll probably do it again at lunch. I mean, what am I...an Edge-Liver or something?! Come ooon!! Aye aye aye! Whoaaahhhh?!

Question:

Does some paint smell like B.O.? Or do just painters painting with paint that smells like paint smell like B.O.? Yeah, I think it’s that. He’s painting the office across from mine. Pungent. Nice guy, though.

Question:

Should I wear this fetching pink sweater to a fundraiser event I’m going to tonight?

Too fetching? Too feminine? Too…pink? Just level with me.

Question:

I know I can’t rock it like Cameron, but do you think I should get this haircut on Saturday?

Question:

Is it all right with everyone that I don’t really care what happens to Imus? I mean like, I just don’t care?

Comment:

This is a conversation I just overheard between pungent painter man and the catering guy who’s setting up a lunch in our conference room:

Painter: What are those purple things?
Caterer: Um…those are potatoes.
[pause]
Painter: Oh, all right then.

roommate dialogue: installment one

2007-04-04T13:58:00.000-05:00

S: The couch really hasn't seen much action these days.

M: Yeah, the couch may be wondering if we're still heterosexual.

S: The couch is deeply concerned.

J: I know. The couch called my Mom, then my Mom called me.

you would think I make this crap up

2007-03-29T15:52:00.000-05:00

Nope. Not even one exaggeration or embellishment. Here is a phone call I answered at work this afternoon:

Me: President’s Office, this is Mary?

Her: Yes, hi. My name is Dr. Nutt, I left a message at this extension yesterday?

Me: Oh! Hello, um, Dr….I’m sorry, Nut did you say?

Her: Nutt. Yes.

Me: Dr. Nutt. The President and her assistants are in Los Angeles for a conference, and I’m covering for them. I’m sorry no one received your message.

Her: Oh I see. Well the reason I called is we’d like to the invite the president to a special event at (Dr. Nutt’s Medical Organization). We think she’ll really enjoy it.

Me: Okay, and what’s the event? (getting out a pen.)

Her: Well, it’s a host of various performances from our patients, colleagues and other local artists.

Me: Okay…

Her: Basically, it’s music, song, performance art, dance…

Me: Right.

Her: …performing all their own original work. Each artist has centered their piece around a particular illness.

Me: Uh huh. (one eyebrow raises, half my mouth smiles, jotting all this down with a pen.)

Her: So for example, one might sing a song about….diabetes. Or…an interpretive dance about…a heart attack. Or something like that.

Me: (silence…gaining….composure….wetting self…crying…) Uh-huh. Gotcha.

Her: And one of the performers is an alum of your college. So…

Me: Okay, Dr. Nut, how do you spell you last name please?

Her: It’s Nutt. N-U-T-T. (it certainly is.) (I take down the rest of her info.)

Me: Thank you, fantastic. This sounds very interesting, best of luck. (Will there, by chance, be a videotaping of this event I might have a copy of? I’m especially interested in the “heart attack” dance.)

Her: Thank you!

Me: And I’ll forward your message to them on Monday.

Her: Thanks so much. Bye-bye.

Me: Goodbye.

life soundtrack

2007-03-21T13:27:00.000-05:00

Okay. Stealing from my good friend over here, Kelly, I've done the shuffle song game. Basically, how it works is, you're given a list of life events. You switch your iPod to "Shuffle Songs." Without cheating, you write, in order, what song comes up for each life event. Here's how mine turned out. As a courtesy to you, I've written in my comments for each in a separate font.

Opening credits: Tragedy, Brandi Carlile
Well. I see we’re off to a promising start.

Waking up: The Story, Brandi Carlile
If we stopped here, you’d all think I just listen to Brandi Carlile. Even if that’s kinda true, it’s not for you to know at this stage in our relationship.

First Day at School: Another Place to Fall, KT Tunstall
I did fall off the monkey bars quite often in school.

Falling in Love: Faith, Service, Constancy – General Conference Talk by David S. Baxter
Amen. Love has everything to do with these three things.

Fight Song: Try a Little Tenderness, Otis Redding
I’d like to see a football coach lead his fearless fighters on to the field shouting at the opposing team: SQUEEEZUH….DON’T TEASE-UH…NEVAH LEEEEAVE-UH…!! That’s sure to scare the living crud outta them and they win by forfeit. Oh, but wait…this is about *my personal fight song. Oops.

Breaking Up: Momma Look Sharp, 1776
Now this is particularly funny to me. For those unfamiliar, this is a song from a musical sung by a young man wounded in the Revolutionary War (I think) and frightened he’s going to die. An unbelievably melodramatic song, and therefore very appropro.

Prom: Killing Me Softly, Fugees
My prom so would have sucked less if they’d played this song.

Life’s OK: The Shortest Story, Harry Chapin
Um, I beg to differ! Life’s OK?!?! Not even. This is so not good. Here’s the lyrics to my “Life’s OK” song and you tell me if I’m not completely screwed:

I am born today, the sun burns its promise in my eyes;
Mama strikes me and I draw a breath and cry.
Above me a cloud softly tumbles through the sky;
I am glad to be alive.

It is my seventh day, I taste the hunger and I cry;
my brother and sister cling to Mama's side.
She squeezes her breast, but it has nothing to provide;
someone weeps, I fall asleep.

It is twenty days today, Mama does not hold me anymore;
I open my mouth but I am too weak to cry.
Above me a bird slowly crawls across the sky;
why is there nothing now to do but die?

Oy. Moving on. Pretty please can we have something even just a little more positive? Fingers crossed, here we go…

Mental Breakdown: Cheated Hearts, Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Cheated by the opposite of love, kept on high from up-up-up above. Word.

Driving: Jesus, Once of Humble Birth – Mormon Tabernacle Choir, Jim Kaser arr.
If I listened to this every time I got behind the wheel, it would end all road rage episodes. Food for thought.

Inner Smile: Wake Me Up Inside, Evanescence
Maybe the smile is from thinking how retarded the music video for this song was.

Flashback: Cry To Me, Solomon Burke
Total flashback, indeed. 1986. Christy Allen’s birthday slumber party, Dirty Dancing. The movie my mother never wanted me to see.

Getting Back to Together: Momentum, Aimee Mann
Judging by the title, a good fit. Judging by the rest of the song, I give it two weeks tops.

Wedding: All Right Now, Free
Yeah, I could see it.

Birth of a Child: Superstition, Stevie Wonder
Wow. I guess I’m birthing witches and sorcerors.

Final Battle: Cornflake Girl, Tori Amos
The battle is in deciphering Tori’s exact meaning of this song. And yes, I think it just might be my final earthly struggle.

Death Scene: Respect, Aretha
I only get it after I’m dead. Typical.

Funeral: The Reason, Hoobastank
Okay, so if I was beaten and murdered, I can imagine my killer crashing the funeral in a fit of guilt and singing this song to my casket just before they clap him in irons and take him away. That would be awesome.

“I’m sorry that I hurt yooouuu. It’s something I must live with every daaayyy.”

who wants to be a doctor?

2007-03-19T09:54:00.000-05:00

Over the last little while, two of my wonderful, brilliant and fabulous roommates have been getting rejection letters in the mail from PhD English programs nationwide. Apparently, this has been quite a difficult and competitive year for this type of degree. Both of them are now on Spring Break from their master’s programs, and each of them asked me to open any letters from colleges that come in their absence and call them with the verdicts. Over the weekend, I had the horrible task of writing the following email:

Dear Roomie 1 and Roomie 2,

I wanted to let you know that you both received letters from This University today, and with all the pain in my heart, I tell that neither of you were accepted. The letter did mention how competitive the program this year is, and how it really came down to the right "fit" over qualifications, since both of you had perfect qualifications and credentials.

Roomie 1, you also received sad/stupid/not the right answer letters from This Other University and Yet Another University.

I hated every minute of writing this email, and I love you both. You can come to my PhD program, as soon as I get one. That's for sure.

Love,
Mary and Roomie 3

This actually got me thinking…if I had a university, what kind of PhD program(s) would I offer? Here is a short list, just off the top of my head:

1. Piracy
2. Foot Modeling
3. Intergalactic Languages
4. Mimicry
5. Looking Busy
6. Unhelpful Side Commenting
7. Hopping

If there are any subjects you’d like to receive a doctoral degree in, please be sure to add it. Many thanks.

Sincerely, Mary
President of the University of Mary – Xanadu, MA

3:00 p.m.

2007-03-15T15:23:00.000-05:00

I’ve been doing this little thing lately. Every morning, I come to work with a can of Diet Coke in my bag. When I get to my office, I take the can and place it in the office fridge, right after I log on to my computer and check my messages. There the can chills until 3:00 p.m., the hour when lunch is gone, but at least two more hours of work remain.

3:00 p.m. is the hour when I need something to look forward to, something to kick my booty into gear and keep my nose to the grind, when I'd rather stare blankly, check my email, or take online quizzes that tell me what kind of household cleanser I am. In other words, it's a perfect time for Diet Coke. This is also an addiction management method. I do not drink Diet Coke for breakfast or lunch anymore like I used to. Rather, I save myself for 3:00 p.m. At an hour of the day when I need it most, that’s when I get it. Mommy gets her candy. At 3:00 p.m., I let the tiger loose. Every moment of the experience is like a tickle: opening the door, pulling her from her chilling place, the crack-pop sound when I open her, and Good Heavens and all that is Righteous and Good, THAT FIRST SIP…oh gravy.

Up here on the President’s floor, we have a lot of board meetings, which means we often get free food and sodas. And sodas. After these meetings, the extra sodas get thrown in our fridge, free for the taking. This afternoon, the President exercised her powers of Imminent Domain, or in this case Egregious Obtuseness, with a manner so grotesque I hardly know how to say it without swearing through my teeth.

The woman stole my Diet Coke. She thought it was a leftover. My Diet Coke! A leftover!

An honest mistake, you think, one that’s easy to do. I might agree with the first part of that… and I do emphasize the might. But the second part of this thought is immediately dismissed as false because of one important fact: all leftover sodas are Pepsi products. Unmistakable blue packaging with the Pepsi products. And women are not color-blind. And no, smarty-pants, our President is not a man dressed as a woman.

3:00 p.m. today comes. I go to the fridge. No can. I’m slightly disappointed, because I think this means that somehow I forgot to take the can from my bag this morning, which means I’ll have to track down some ice and a cup in order to enjoy my Diet Coke. And I typically don’t like ice in my Diet Coke, because it waters it down too much. Spoken like a true addict. I go back to look in my bag. No can. It must be in the back of the fridge, or maybe in the door, I don’t remember where I put it. I go back to the fridge to look again, and standing at the photocopier is the President’s assistant. I open the fridge, and look more carefully. No can.

“Huh,” I utter casually, as if this isn’t the true moment of panic that it obviously is, “I could have sworn I brought a Diet Coke with me today.” President’s assistant stops what she’s doing, turns to me sharply with her hand over her mouth and a look of regret. “Oh, Mary. Did you say Diet Coke?” I nod. “I’m sorry, Mary…the President drank your Diet Coke.” I smile. “That’s okay,” I say, “I really shouldn’t drink the stuff anyway.” President’s assistant offers to run out and get me a replacement. Why should she do that, did she drink it? Defeatedly, I decline her sweet offer, and thank her just the same.

My very next thought: Get to your computer and blog this. Hey, it’s 3:00 p.m., and since you didn’t get your Diet Coke, it’s not your fault you’re not going to do any work for the rest of the day. Blame the President.

SOCKS

2007-03-09T15:12:00.000-05:00

I don’t think I could have picked a more boring topic to blog about if I tried. And yet…see below.

Today I am wearing eggshell colored slacks from Banana Republic with brown shoes and white socks. White socks. It’s all I had. I woke up at the exact time I was supposed to be out the door this morning, and lately I’ve started this trend where I wash my clothes but never manage to fold, hang, and put them away. They’re just in this huge pile that moves to my bed in the morning as I fish around for something wear, then piled back into the laundry basket when I go to bed at night. So yeah. White socks. It’s all I had.

I really don’t have many pairs of socks to begin with, which is a big part of the sock problem. Living in California, you really don’t need more than 4 pairs of socks anyway. Most of your shoes are toeless, backless, half-inch thick pads of foam with two narrow strips of plastic that loop between two of your toes. These are known as the flip-flop, the slipper (a la Hawaii), the thongs (for the ancient ones), or my mom’s favorite, Zories. Socks are for days when it rains, and sometimes not even then. Two of those four pairs are athletic socks which you wear to the gym, or if you’re from the Bay Area, with your Birks. You see what I’m saying.

It’s not that I haven’t tried to correct the problem, indeed I’ve taken measures to remedy this issue before now. I distinctly recall asking my mother to give me socks for Christmas last December. Perhaps she thought I was kidding. “None of my children ASK for socks as a gift and MEAN it!” She did remember my asking for Persuasion on DVD, but she didn’t remember me saying: “Brown and black dress socks. Lots of ‘em.” Most moms remember the practical stuff. I’m proud to say my mother is the type that prioritizes things like impromptu Disneyland trips and over-priced pedicures over stuffy things like college funds and….well…socks.

Of the work-appropriate socks I do own, I noticed just this week that many of them are starting to wear. And by “wear” I mean six threads covering my ankles and pinky toe air conditioning. It would seem I am truly my mother’s daughter, since I go to Target nearly every week where there is a wide selection of dress socks for women and at reasonable prices, and yet I come home with Pringles, Phase 10, and a Pirates of the Caribbean – Johnny Depp alarm clock. (Radical!)

When I do buy socks, which if I remember correctly was probably two years ago, I tend to get very cheap about the whole thing. I refuse to pay $6.00 for one pair of socks. Why would I do that, when I can get a whole Ziploc Jumbo bag of socks for the same price? So what if those bag-o-socks are meant for persons aged 12 and under? Let's think now - - 4 pairs of socks for $24.00 or 2 DVD’s and 6 pairs of socks for $26.00? No contest.

Maybe on some subconscious level I’m afraid to invest in too much sockage for fear that someday, when I’m living in warmer climates, I will open my top drawer and curse myself for having all these socks I never wear, and not having space for all my Victoria’s Secret lingerie. Cuz, you know, by that time I’ll be married and having sex and stuff.

i have no work ethic

2007-03-08T11:33:00.000-05:00

Man, this day is draaaaaagging. Hey! Let’s blog.

So ladies, I’ve got a new line on a great new weight management system. I say “weight management” because “diet” is off-putting to potential consumers these days. It’s so important to me that I not put off the fatties so they’ll buy my pitch and make me rich. As I was saying…

If you want to lose those stubborn 26 inches, here’s what you do:

1. Move to Boston and live here from January to March.
2. Don’t go grocery shopping more than one time per month, and don’t buy much when you do.
3. Never get up in time to pack an adequate lunch before you go to work.

Of course you’ll be hungry around lunch time. You may even be starving. Indeed, you might even be nigh unto death, experiencing heart palpitations, difficulty breathing, difficulty swallowing, cold sweats, hot sweats, fingernail sensitivity*, as your body clings to life sans nourishment. But you will not be tempted. You’re not going out there. Why? Because if you do you know that, within seconds of being out the door, your face will be completely ripped off by a wind so Arctic, so vengeful, so vicious, you will not have lips to eat with. Your ears will instantly become little round ice wafers attached to your head. The top layer of skin on your thighs will burn and split like cracks on an iced-over pond and your hands will just break off at the wrists like blocks of snow falling from a roof. Yea, tis true. You’d rather pass out from hunger or ration that last stale Triscuit that fell out of the box last year and for some reason is still living in your bottom desk drawer than walk into Satan’s Winter Wasterland. Just three months, and you’re gonna be soooo thin! Woo hoo!

It’s so fun to exaggerate the weather out here. I mean, it is cold, yeah, but…anyway, it’s fun.

*I freaking love What About Bob.

she's just messed up, people

2007-03-06T12:38:00.000-05:00

All I know is, I've been a heterosexual female all my life, and there are few words that are more offensive to me personally than this one. Not that I like getting into politics...but does everyone else see how messed up this woman is?

When does "angry" = "empowered" anyway?

As for the word's origin, meaning and usage, which Ms. Coulter touches on in her defense, I refer you to Wikipedia, the authority on all things important and good. I thought the "See Also: hate speech" was a nice touch. Looks like Wiki doesn't have your back on this one, Ann.

amazing brrr

2007-02-26T15:51:00.000-05:00

So a group of us went to the movies to see Amazing Grace last Friday. It was great, were it not for the extremely Arctic wind blowing at us at 25 mph at 11:45 p.m. We were parked in an outdoor parking lot. Minds were not working to their utmost when they designed how one pays for their parking at this parking lot. In New England, there ought to be a law decreed which mandates that no human being should wait OUT OF DOORS just pay to get their vehicle out of your garage.

To ward off the looming hypothermia and frigidity-induced psychosis, Julie and Rachel spontaneously broke into some moves inspired by the tune of Rocky. Please see below.

I think I liked the movie. I can't remember much of it, I'm afraid, because my short term memory is still thawing out.

post no. 161

2007-02-23T12:26:00.000-05:00

Am I the only one who finds Regina Spektor’s little staccato notes in the song “Fidelity” mildly dumb? Almost like a straw rubbing in and out of its hole atop a plastic lid.

Okay, I know I’m not supposed to curse, and I don’t. Sort of. But sometimes it’s fun to use the word “helluva.” It looks pretty. And if one doesn’t think about the fact that it’s profanity, one might even say it makes a pretty sound when spoken. I think I might name a cat Helluva.

What is it when you’re over your cold, but your throat still hurts when you wake up in the morning, and by noontime the sore throat is gone, only to return around 11:30 the next night? Punchline: A vampire sore throat.

My piano is fixed! Pictures to follow. Anybody want a voice lesson?

to be idle is sometimes good

2007-02-16T12:48:00.000-05:00

Oh, how I love Fridays before a long weekend, when both my bosses are gone, and I have time to create a doll online thanks to my friend, Leeny, that looks like the girl I could be if I had lots of money and an obscene fixation with my appearance. Which I don't. No really. Only a cyber obscene fixation. Promise.

Happy Friday, everyone.

the thin line, as thin as turkey meat

2007-02-07T14:38:00.000-05:00

So I have this co-worker. Her office is directly across from mine, and we can hear absolutely everything we say and do. She hears every illegal phone conversation with friends, and I hear her nibbling on one of her baby carrots every day at 2:46 p.m. But more on the carrots later.

I’ve mentioned this same co-worker on my blog, only on a few separate occasions. She’s been an excellent character study. I’ve even incorporated her into the play I’ll likely never finish. Some of the dialogue is taken verbatim from actual conversations I’ve had with her. Like in this scene for instance:

"LOIS"
(On the phone.) But the food was quite something. They had an assortment of dessert squares. There was raspberry, and lemon, and I think the orange colored ones were mango. Exotic, huh? Mm-hm. Oh they were very delicate. Just the right amount of powdered sugar. Simply fantastic. Let’s see, what else did they have? Oh. They were so smart to do this. They had baklava for the Greek people, and fortune cookies for the Chinese people. I thought that was a very nice touch since, you know, they wanted everyone to feel included. Because not everyone likes fruit squares. And the shortbread base, as you know, comes from the English/Celtic region., so that pretty much covers all the white people. But what about everyone else? What are they supposed to eat? You can’t expect everyone to be English, this is America! Right? Sure. And of course there were other kinds of people there besides Greeks and the Chinese, but not every country has a favorite dessert, per se. And this was strictly a dessert reception. (Pause.) Maybe the mango was to make the Polynesians happy. At any rate. Very diversified dessert selection. Very nice touch. Oops, gotta go, Linda. I think I hear Dan. Okay. (Hangs up.)

(DAN and PAUL enter.)

The lady is obsessed with food. I’m certain it has something to do with how little of it she had growing up in the back woods of Maine with no running water. I’m not making that up, but she may have, I’m just not sure. Judging by her wiry frame, the thin, peaked face that’s aged too much for just fifty years of life, and that harsh bite in her north shore accent, I’m thinking she’s telling the truth about the no running water thing.

Her lunch, which she eats at her desk, has been the exact same thing, every day for at least two years. It consists of the following items:

Thinly sliced cuts of turkey meat
Baby carrots sliced long-ways in two
Buttermilk Ranch dressing
Crackers

She rolls the deli meat and places it on the cracker, just like Rachael Ray would do. She dips the halved baby carrot in the salad dressing. Occasionally, she dips the meat in the salad dressing too. All this I have witnessed just in passing by her doorway from time to time. She never goes out for lunch. Ever. It’s the same thing, every day, at the same time, every afternoon. In fact, it’s such a noticeable pattern of behavior, even my boss has noticed it, and we sometimes smirk at one another in this “man, is she funny” kind of way. Because we’re mean like that.

I’ve sat across from this woman for almost two years now, and if I’m going to be honest, I’ll tell you that, quite often, I have secretly rejoiced in how holistically superior from her I am. Everything from taste in fragrances in hand lotion, shoes, to our views on the disabled, the correct way to reference a minority group member in casual conversation, or even our preference in domestic animals (she’s a cat owner - oh my shocker) we could not be more diametrically opposed, nor could she be any more inferior to me in any other possible way. Professionally, we’ve had absolutely no conflicts, but that’s largely because of how patient and giving I am. Most of the time, I’d just sit there smugly counting my blessings that we would not ever, ever have anything in common, and what a very, very good thing that was.

Just in the last month or so, and because I’ve been avoiding the cold any chance I get, I’ve been eating lunch from my desk. Last week, my boss came into my office around lunchtime with a document in her hand. She stopped cold in my doorway, looked at my desk, looked up at me, and immediately started to laugh. At first, I didn’t see what she saw. I couldn’t figure out what she was laughing at. I looked at her for a moment, then I looked down at my desk. Here is what she saw:

Thinly sliced cuts of turkey meat
A block of sharp cheddar cheese
Triscuits

It wasn’t identical, but it was more than close enough. I looked intently at my boss:

“It isn’t what you think.”
“Oh I’m afraid it is, Mary.”
“I’m not turning into her.”
“You are so turning into her.”
“Stop! I am not!”
“Hang on, I think you need some ranch. I’ll ask if you can borrow some.”
“Boss!”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll be right back.”

I’m not turning into her. I’ve been eating Triscuits since waaay before I started here. And she never has cheese. I always have the cheese. I don't even like ranch dressing Yeah it’s true, I had the deli turkey thinly sliced. And maybe I do like to roll it on my crackers, so what?! But it’ll be a cold day in hell before I slice a baby carrot in half and dip it in ranch. A cold day in hell.

team biore

2007-01-30T13:55:00.000-05:00

Last night over steak and Diet Coke, Rachel and I decided to join Colleen's cult. We are now in her power. We flank her wherever she goes. And to show our undying devotion, to testify to the world that we are hers forev, we wear biore strips. We bought them together. At Target. Our lair.

Colleen is my buddha. Colleen is my queen. We dance in the nuda. Our pores tight and clean.

Come on peeps, can you blame me? Look deep into those eyes. And join us. Buy the biore and join us.

if I were a waffle, i'd be belgian

2007-01-26T13:44:00.001-05:00

You're The Poisonwood Bible!

by Barbara Kingsolver

Deeply rooted in a religious background, you have since become both
isolated and schizophrenic. You were naively sure that your actions would help people,
but of course they were resistant to your message and ultimately disaster ensued. Since
you can see so many sides of the same issue, you are both wise beyond your years and
tied to worthless perspectives. If you were a type of waffle, it would be
Belgian.

Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

the space of an hour

2007-01-25T12:32:00.000-05:00

It’s 11:32 and I’m here at my desk. I’ve got my hot Gap slacks on, which make my legs look super skinny, plus the three-inch brown boots on my feet make me walk with added shu-bam. I’m wearing Dr. Pepper chapstick on my thin little mouth, and this morning I lathered my face up good with uber-thick moisturizer to fight the threatening scaley skin I so abhor. My cuticles feel more like wooden splinters peeling away from my nails, but never fear. I got lotion for them, too. The sun is bright, the air is brisk. It’s January in Boston. And for the first time ever, I think I’m okay with that.

It’s 11:56 and I just finished talking with a friend who yesterday suffered her second miscarriage. Physically, she’s still in pain and hopped up on 800 mg of Motrin. Emotionally, what words are there? I wanted to cry, but held it in because I didn’t want to make her feel worse. “It’s gonna happen,” I said to her. “I hope so,” she replied. I so wanted to cry.

Her husband had already gotten through security at Logan on his way to New York when he got the call. What does it do to a man to watch the wife he loves experience something so crushing, something he will never experience, something which rips her heart out and makes her bleed, where all he can do is carry the bags and follow her from room to room, from surgery to recovery. Recovery? Does that actually happen? I always worry about the men in these stories.

It’s 12:20 and I just read an email from my bishop. I hold a calling in my church which keeps me in regular contact with him concerning his appointment schedule, and I mentioned in my last email to him how much I appreciated his wife for the wonderful lesson she taught at Institute last night. Bishop responded with some of the sweetest words I’ve ever heard a man say about a woman. What I saw in her, he said, are gifts and talents he has “always known” about her, and just some of the reasons why he loves her so very much. When he talks about his wife, you can tell that this man made the choice to always see her with loving, patient, and adoring eyes. No matter what. He chooses to love her over criticizing her. She isn’t perfect, no one is, but he truly doesn’t care. He chooses to treat her as if she is. That, my friends, is higher knowledge.

It’s 12:29 and on my way to the restroom, a co-worker says to me, “you look so skinny!” I tell her, “It’s the three-inch boots. They change my weight.” You look so skinny - - perhaps the most sought-for compliment a woman can crave. I think it may even rival “You look beautiful.” I’d like to take a woman’s poll on which compliment they’d rather receive: Skinny or Beautiful. I’m afraid of what I’d find. Sometimes I really hate Vogue and Entertainment Tonight.

It’s 12:32. Lunch.

the green we pay for love

2007-01-19T11:54:00.000-05:00

I have an emotional connection to a piano, which seems to surpass all cognitive and fiduciary logic. I think I’ve unwittingly started a co-dependent relationship with an upright grand. There, I said it, and I feel so relieved. But let me back up and make some introductions.

This isn’t exactly what she looks like. (My girl don’t have no fancy panels and what not, but the size and color are the same.)

This is a Chickering upright grand piano, which basically means her strings are the same length as some grand pianos which gives her a full, beautiful sound. She was given to me by a friend last month. Free. She was built, here in beautiful Boston, somewhere between 1918 and 1921, so she’s quite the granny. By way of quality, it’s been said that Chickering is just a step under Steinway. Her sound is so rich and gorgeous, I want to eat it with a serving spoon. I had a certified piano appraiser come to the apartment last night and…well….appraise her. Here were a few of his comments:

“Wow, this piano is OLD!”

“Okay, now you see that…oh man…yeah, that right there, you see how this mallet pad, that’s like a flat surface, that shouldn’t be that way. That’s just years of BANGING away on the strings, that now she’s just, wow, she’s just in really bad shape.”

“Ope. You gotta crack in the soundboard, that’s understandable. (plays a quick scale.) Man, she still sounds amazing, though.”

“You need a few key top replacements. Look, this one’s chipped, and this one…oh. Yeah, basically you need all of your key tops replaced.”

“You got 100 year-old dust bunnies under here.”

Then he starts giving me some numbers. For a full refurb - $450. For full keytop replacement - $350. He throws in a tuning at no cost. Grand Total: $800. I agreed to it without even blinking. If you want to know why, keep reading.

I can’t explain it, but I love this piano. I love her! She’s old and falling apart, but there is this amazing history and sound and personality that just makes me weep! Without a doubt, I was one of those little girls that talked to inanimate objects and believed they had spirits and voices. And when she comes back to me all refurbed and pretty and singing like an angel, I really believe I will make this piano happy! And that makes me so giddy! When you factor in that I paid $250 to move her into my place, by the end of next month I will have sunk over a thousand dollars into this piano. That’s a figure that, even when debating on whether to buy a new car or a laptop, would make me pause. But for this piano, it’s not a factor. I do it without any regret. Because I totally love this piano. I can’t think of anything more deserving of a little TLC than this instrument. I can’t wait to get her back. Then I can resume teaching voice lessons!

So does anyone want voice lessons? I’m running a special: $100 for each 30-minute session. 10-session minimum. Bring your own water.

who's a big winner?!

2007-01-16T13:32:00.000-05:00

House Daddy, that's who!!!!

on vehicular licensing, registering and transference of same

2007-01-16T11:23:00.000-05:00

I found out yesterday I’ve been driving on a suspended license for the last two years. Hey, that is super-fun info.

I was returning from an errand yesterday in Belmont, when I got pulled over by a State Trooper. When the trooper pulled up behind me, I was dumbfounded. What did I do? I wasn’t speeding, I didn’t turn on a red. When he told me my license had been suspended, my jaw dropped. I looked him straight in the eye and begged, “WHY?!”

Statey asks me if I had any outstanding citations. I tell him the only citation I’d ever received in my whole life was just two years ago.

Flashback two years ago: I was stupid in the ways of vehicular licensing, registering, and transference of same from one state to another. I was unaware of the fact that it’s illegal to drive around with license plateses from one state, the state you live in, and a driver’s license from another state, the state you used to live in. When I registered my car for Massachusetts, and got my Mass plates, apparently they were supposed to take my California driver’s license. They didn’t. In fact, I don’t remember them saying anything about transferring my license to Massachusetts. So for about a year, I was basically driving around without a legitimate license until the men in blue caught up to me. I was fined $50.00, which I paid, I had to straighten out the driver’s license, which I did, and I thought it was all behind me. Done. The End. (mmm….apparently no.)

Flashforward to yesterday: Troopie seemed pretty convinced I was telling the truth because his countenance softened when he said “Okay, I’m going to go check this out for you, and I’ll come back.” Troopie walks back to his cruiser, and I start praying that he’s going to come back and tell me it was all a big mistake. Apparently, I should have been praying for something else. Something that might have stood a chance at happening.

Troopie comes back and says: “Ma’am, you were pulled over on Brighton Street two years ago.” I say yes. “Well, ma’am, you never paid that ticket.” MWHA-HA-HA-UHT?! Oh no. No no no. I don’t know many times I used the word “sir” but it was a large number, and all of them were spoken most rapidly: “Oh yessir, yessir, I did! I remember that ticket! It’s the only one I’ve ever gotten, sir! Sir, I did pay it!” I felt like a 7-year old confessing to Mrs. Griffin that I did do my spelling homework, and the look in my eyes ought to be proof enough of that. I thought if I said “sir” enough times he’d just drop the whole thing and let me speed away. “Well, there may be a glitch in the system,” he says back, “but it’s telling me you didn’t pay it. Your license has been suspended for that reason. I am supposed to seize your vehicle and arrest you. This is a criminal offense.” Please let this not be real. Please let this not be real.

Things were getting deeply serious at this point. I was up against a wall. It was raining hard outside, and I was feeling desperate. I had no choice. I had to do it to survive. I pulled out the look. You know what I’m talking about. The look that all women must perfect if they stand a chance at escaping certain citational/arrestational doom. Helpless look. Near tears look. Furrowed, adorable, please help me, I’m just a lost girl in a big bad city look. I tried to think of the cutest puppy dog I had ever seen in the whole wide world. And then I became that puppy. I looked deep into Troopie’s eyes, and softly uttered one golden, pathetic sentence: “I just don’t understand how this happened.”

I know. I should burn in hell.

Troopie cracks a small adoring smile from one corner of his mouth and says, “I’m not going to do that. You seem like a nice woman.” I breathe an exaggerated sigh and look at him gratefully, rewarding his decision with one of my signature smiles. “What I have to do, however, is give you this.” He hands me the citation. Crap. Crap. Gotta work on my look some more. “I’m driving away now. You should not operate this vehicle while your license is suspended. But, I’m driving away now. What you do is your business. Got it?” He gives me a knowing look. I smile and nod with resignation. I tell him thank you, and he tells me to have a nice day. Will do. You bet.

So I’m getting a court date, ya’ll. I have to plead my case to a judge. Then I get to pay a minimum of $150 to reinstate my license, and see if I can find a copy of the check from two years ago which paid this stupid citation in the first place. If I can’t find it, I’ll have to move on to my contingency plan. You may find me standing in front of the bathroom mirror. Practicing: (cue “Look”) Your Honor, (look down, sigh, look up)… I just don’t know how this happened.

because of the blog

2007-01-10T13:27:00.000-05:00

Last night I told Peg I wasn’t sure if I wanted to continue with the blog, since nowadays I seem to be using it solely for venting otherwise useless hot air. Then, just for kicks, I went back into the archives and found a post from January 9, 2006, or in other words, this time last year.

Here it is, if you’d care to read:

Reading last year’s post made me smile:

Because of the blog, I know what I was thinking about a year ago.
Because of the blog, I know that what I “sensed” was about to happen actually did happen in ways too eerily exact to articulate.
Because of the blog, I know that I’ve broken a three-year trend. Until this year, I would always get bronchitis somewhere between October and now. Cross fingers, but that hasn’t happened yet! Woot!

The blog is where I started to let it all hang for the first time in several years. For a while it was the only place I could go and not care what people thought. It was the first stab at being a whole person, integrating all sides into one, in a safe place with just a keyboard and iTunes playing - no eyes, no ears, no consequences. Well, sort of.

Fellow bloggers and I have talked about how strange it is sometimes to walk into church or a friend’s house, and be instantly disarmed when someone you barely know asks you about something he found out by reading your blog. It’s silly. You know it’s up for all the universe, but you’re genuinely surprised that anyone would take the time to read you. Especially that guy. Yikes! But even then, you know it’s all good. The blog was the sledgehammer. When you walk in afterward and see your wall knocked down, you’re kind of relieved. It needed to happen, but it happened when you weren’t physically present. You weren’t there for the loud thuds or thundering tumbles. You walked in post-demolition, and you see the people standing around you with the dust settling in on their faces and their looks of surprise. And all you can say is…Yeah. That’s what’s going on. Funny, huh? (Shrug.) That wasn’t so scary.

So I think I'll hang on to the blog. I'm curious to see what I'll think of this post next January.

snippuhts

2007-01-08T16:12:00.000-05:00

Oh my gosh, I’m blogging again.

I hope to post a short report on my trip home for Christmas this week. When I remember to bring my camera to work, so you’ll all have pretty pictures to see, I’ll do that. If I remember. Okay, there’s a slight chance there will be no short report. I don’t like to be tied down.

Instead, what I will do today is publicize today’s little snippuhts at which I snickered.

First Snippuht:

While walking up Tremont in search of something appetizing on a rainy afternoon:

Homeless Person: Spare change, miss?

Me: No, thanks!

I seriously didn’t mean to say that. I wasn’t trying to be glib with a desperate man in need of change. It just slipped out. And then I snickered and kept walking.

Second Snippuht:

While waiting in line at the Wendy’s establishment, I recognized a man I had seen only once before. He is memorable for one reason only: his hair plugs. Nelly, the plugs. Have you seen “Return to Me?” (Minnie Driver, David Duchovny) Remember the scene with the hair plug guy? Yeah, well…Wendy’s guy? Identical to Return to Me guy. The hairline on the top of his forehead looks like he traced it with a brown eyebrow pencil. Not kidding. Botched Plug Job. I’d totally sue. I actually began to think about this in detail: Who would do that to the poor guy, he seems so nice? He also seems foreign. I wonder if foreign hair plug installers don’t have the best equipment as we American folk do. Do foreign hair installers require schooling of any kind? How about depth perception? And if it was in fact done here in the States, shouldn’t we make a law? I then resumed thinking about my taco salad and Diet Coke, of which I was about to consume.

Hmmm…reading over today's snipphts, I’m beginning to think I am a heartless beast. I don’t give needy people change in the rain, and I snicker at insecure bald men.

#1 Reason Why Mary Does Not Like to Shop at Christmas:

2006-12-20T15:58:00.000-05:00

Because it reminds me of how much I suck at patience.

But let me clarify and qualify that statement, if I may. When it comes to kids, taking care of sick people, old people behind the wheel, or holding out for the best price on something I really want, I am extraordinarily patient. I gots me lots of patience for that kinda stuff, because that stuff matters. Shoot, I’m even patient waiting in line for my turn to pay for stuff - even if it’s a long line. I recognize that everyone must be served one at a time, and everyone is going as fast as they can. But once I’m at the register, and I’m ready to pay, and store clerk shoots me a dirty look as if it’s my fault I picked a pair of pajama bottoms that DON’T have a tag on them, then I become irked. (Sir, if you’d like me to bring in my own tags before I patronize this retail establishment, perhaps you might post that on the door.) Moreover, if store clerk dials for a price check and Ms. Heinz 57 Hyphen It’ll Take Me An Hour to Get There answers the call, I start to shift my feet and look a little worn. Furthermore, when Heinz finally appears and proceeds to tell me that I’ve selected a pair of pajama bottoms that are part of a two-piece pajama SET, even if I found them on a mile-long rack of bottoms only, no tops in sight, and the bottoms I selected were available in several sizes hanging on said rack, and if 57 goes on to say I can’t have just the bottoms because they’re part of a two-piece pajama SET, AND that I’ll lose my place in line if I go back to make another selection, well snickety-boo - - that’s when I start to say not-so-nice things like this: “No. Sorry. Here is what’s going to happen. You’re going to hold my place while I go back to Lingerie and quickly make another selection. I am not going to the back of the line.” Then I leave before anyone can respond. That’s when you know I’m out of patience.

But you should see me if someone throws up on my shoes. Perfect saint.

it would've been the ultimate, but no...

2006-12-08T14:54:00.000-05:00

To Mary:
Hello Mary, In an effort to minimize the amount of time I spend bumbling in front of theRelief Society each Sunday, the Relief Society presidency has asked that I find the musically talented women among us and arrange musical numbers forthe Christmas season. I was wondering if you would be interested in performing a musical number (solo, duet, etc.) during Relief Society on either the December 17th or 24th Sunday. Please do not feel obligated to do this in the least - I know it is a busy time and it is tough to be put on the spot. Just let me know if you are interested.
Best, RS Chorister Lady

To RS Chorister Lady:
1. I've never seen you "bumble."
2. Even if you ever did, I'm sure it would be enlightened and entertaining "bumbling."
3. I'd be happy to throw something together for December 17th, as I will be out of town on the 24th.
All the best,
Mary

To Mary:
Hi, Thank you very much! You are very kind. I have asked two other girls if they would like to participate. Either you could perform a number with them (assuming they say yes), you could perform a solo, or you could recruit a friend. You are the first to respond which means you get to set all the rules (though the presidency expressly forbids Metallica songs, oh well).
-RS Chorister Lady

To: RS Chorister Lady
Peggy and I will sing a Christmas hymn from the hymnbook. Obviously this was our second choice, because we were all set to give a stirring rendition of "Master of Puppets." Holiday style of course.
-Mary

WILL NO ONE HELP THIS CHILD?!

2006-12-08T10:55:00.000-05:00

wish you all could be there

2006-12-07T10:26:00.000-05:00

motion on the table

2006-12-06T13:19:00.000-05:00

It is proposed that New England forego the months of January and February of 2007 in their entirety. All in favor?

Hmmm. Not the unanimous response I was hoping for. Very well, I shall attempt to convert the yet unconverted. Following are my arguments for said proposal aforementioned heretofore and so forth:

Everything is dead. Cold and dead. Everyone has taken down the pretty colored lights and festive holiday decorations which served only as a distraction from the impending annihilation of life. It’s true. While we were singing Deck the Halls and gazing up at shiny, bright things, nature’s soul abandoned us. Like when Mom and Dad used to put Pinocchio in the VCR, and sneak out of the house, leaving us with the babysitter we hated because all she did was listen to her Air Supply album or talk on the phone, never playing with us or doing her freaking job. Heartless beast. Heartless, like the Arctic wind that beats against the barren trees. Heartless, like the incessant ice and snow that buries my little Suzy alive, whose only desire is to roam the highways warm and free. Heartless. Without a heart. This constitutes as dead. And speaking of dead, this leads to argument Numero Deu:

People in New England become half-frozen zombies. Everybody stops talking. It’s too cold to talk. Or be civil. Or raise your head to make eye contact. On the train, in the stores, at work, people just stare into space wishing they had joy. But there is no joy in New England. Nay. In January and February, the New England way of life becomes much like that scene from March of the Penguins. You know the one, where the penguins all huddle up together, without a peep amongst them, packing themselves in as tightly as they can, burying their heads, waiting for the storm to go away. It takes 143 days or something. And all they do in that time is stand there and try not to die. Can I get an Amen? Who in Boston knows the plight?

I’m sorry, did I hear one feeble voice from the back asking:

“But what about Valentine’s Day?!”

Someone fetch me a gun.

As for the President’s days and Martin Luther King Day, there are plenty of other days in the year when we can completely forget, or otherwise disregard the memory of these great men.

What’s that? Does someone have a birthday during January of February? Well friend, I’ve got the greatest solution ever for you: move your birthday to June. Haven’t you always wanted to know what it’s like to eat cake in shorts and a t-shirt? As a kid, didn’t you always want to have a swim party? This is your year. It’ll be so much fun, you’ll never go back. Promise.

If someone wants to retort with some verses from Ecclesiastes, about there being a season for everything, blah blah, just remember this: the New Testament is like totally better than the Old. So nyah.

If some scientist out there wants to rebut with some lecture about the necessity of winter for the possibility of spring, I would say this: we’re an advanced society. I’m sure you scientists can come up with a better way. If you can invent seedless watermelon, you can make winter go away and do it without ruining spring. So get on it.

These arguments, and others I am sure to come up with after I post this, all prove that there is nothing of even the remotest value in a New England January and February. They are entirely without merit, and moreover I believe they are damaging to the spirit. THEREFORE, I hereby place the aforementioned proposal back on the table for a vote. All in favor of doing away with Icky January and Poopy Pants February, please give me a resounding AYE!!!

two hours ago

2006-11-27T15:02:00.000-05:00

I slapped my burrito and my general conference issue of the Ensign on the counter of Qdoba, and started taking off my jacket, when the man sitting to my left asked me what kind of a magazine is named after a flag. We talked the entire time we ate, and he even walked me back to my office. Before parting, I held out the magazine and asked him if he’d like to keep it. “No, thanks,” he said, “I’m good with what I got.” I told him I wasn’t trying to convert him, but since he took such an interest in different faiths perhaps he might enjoy reading about what I believe. He accepted the gift and thanked me.

Jeff is an engineer and studies shiatsu. He has family who were Quakers, Native American, and Catholic. He believes he has healing powers through working with his hands. He was interesting and engaging, and I liked hearing about his family history and his travels. But this wasn’t about making Jeff Mormon. This was about having an interesting conversation with a fellow human being, comparing our common experiences and sharing little life discoveries as we go. It was also a chance for me to share what I love, what has given me the most lasting happiness I’ve ever felt, and offer someone a chance to learn more about it if they wanted. That’s all it was, and that’s all it was supposed to be.

Also, on Friday I broke a filling eating Julie’s KAR-muhl popcorn. So sad.

it's just so haaarrrrd!

2006-11-22T12:01:00.000-05:00

It’s time to get off the Diet Coke. It just is. And I’m not saying completely. I’m saying Diet Coke can no longer be my only beverage every waking hour.

I suppose it could be construed as a blessing, but the fact is my stomach hates me with an ardent passion. About three days ago, I actually started having sharp pains in my abdomen. Lately, every time I finish a glass, I feel ill. These are not good signs. Not good. This is impacting my enjoyment of the Diet Coke. It makes me feel a little wistful, I have to say. Gone are the days when I could drink a 40-ouncer and not feel a thing. I am way too young to be talking like this.

It is a known fact that my family carries an addict gene. I think most of my siblings dodged it; I did not. I have an addict gene that lives inside me, and she’s a nasty little thing. I’m not sure which of my ancestral lines I should thank for this: The Irish One, with their unhealthy passion for pints; the Scottish One, for their scandalous abuse of single malt whiskey; or the German One for their weakness in abstaining from totalitarian leadership - - also, copious amounts of beer.

Personally, Diet Coke is not the only substance I’ve allowed myself to become unhealthily attached to, and I say with shame it likely will not be the last. I know it won’t be, because there is still the matter of the Chocolate. I haven’t even begun to look into the depth of dysfunction embedded within that little habit. I can’t bring myself to go there just yet. Come on, people, it’s chocolate. Everybody’s doing it. Leave me alone. Chocolate was there when no one else was, so back it off cowboy.

But back to the Diet Coke. I imagine what I’ll need to do is abstain completely for the next week or so. Cleanse the innards. Then, at an appropriate time, I shall introduce the nectar of intestinal death slowly back into my beverage regime, careful not to imbibe more than 12 ounces per day. I shall place the Diet Coke on a diet. Small portions, moderate, controlled. Yes. I can do that. This way, maybe I’ll have a little stomach lining left for when the kids start hanging out with the potheads at school and telling me they need money for their next body piercing.

It’s easier than saying I can’t ever have it again. A little slack, please.

oh. oh my.

2006-11-15T14:11:00.000-05:00

Mocking the mentally unbalanced, in my view, secures admittance into some or other circle of hell. It’s low, it’s mean, and it’s totally, and utterly, NOT what I am about to do. I relay facts as I see them unfold, then I make a few neutral, if not benign, personal observations thereof.

I’m sorry, but I have just never seen anything like this in my life, and you need to hear about it.

Today on Tremont street, I noticed a man hugging a lamppost with his arms. Also, feet. He was wrapped around this post as if he were about scale up the thing like a Polynesian on a palm tree. Aaand…as if that were not enough. He was kissing the lamp post. He was kissing the lamppost. Kissing. The lamppost.

When my eyes first skimmed over the scene, I thought maybe he was an electrician working on a phone pole. It was only after the double-take did I realize a) it’s not a phone pole; b) he’s not an electrician; and c) there is no practical or professional justification for kissing a lamppost anyway. Either the guy is on camera about to make some dough in exchange for human dignity, or he is really, really, confused.

Then, and I think this is the funniest part, he dismounts, takes one last look at his post, pauses, then without a word turns and walks away like nothing. Just continues on his way.

I stinkin’ love this town.

you shouldn't have...no really

2006-11-13T12:42:00.000-05:00

It's getting a little ridiculous now. This morning, my boss sent me these from Winston's. The President of the College had asked her to supervise an on-campus event. My boss was too busy to do it, so she handed it to me. "Overseeing" this event meant one meeting, about 12 phone calls with the event specialist we have in-house, a few emails, and then attending the actual event. In essence, I did virtually nothing. And yet, these lovely posies are now sitting handsomely on my desk. Who gets bosses like this?! I ask you!!

sorry...one more photo

2006-11-08T12:26:00.000-05:00

I stole this from my friend Julie's blog. I'm so happy there is one photograph that captures the total costume! I've got my hat, my Lawrence Welk album, and my feather duster. I'm talking with a "good Mormon housewife", Crystal. She's on baby 13. Crystal later busted some serious moves on the dance floor. I was almost afraid we'd have an accident. But everything turned out okay.

sucking the marrow with two straws

2006-11-08T11:54:00.000-05:00

I really miss having good writing ideas. It would seem I’m trying to save it all for the play, which has yet to find its real direction. I got nothin' left for the blog. It isn’t like I’ve stopped thinking about stuff, or that comical life experiences have ceased to be. I just don’t seem to have the time to write them out the way I want to.

I can tell you I did find a very good deal on a plane ticket home for Christmas. Yay me.

This week’s practice is to, whenever possible, not answer my phone, not make plans, not write my play, not do my laundry. Wow…I really need to do laundry. When the freak am I going to do laundry? I shoulda done it last night.

Last night, I had this whole plan: Bake the second pan of chicken enchiladas I made over the weekend for dinners during the week; laundry; write; read the assigned play; crochet; go to bed. Here is what actually went down: found leftover KFC in the fridge; ate some of that; drank a liter of Diet Coke; laid on the couch for an infinity watching “Meet Joe Black” on AMC (I’d never seen it, and no one told me I’d pass my birth date before it was over); went to bed. So, some minor modifications to the original plan. I am thoroughly disgusted with myself.

Oh, and I ate like three of my pumpkin pecan chocolate chunk cookies (aka “P²C³ cookies”). I need to bake more. I’m down to about six.

Why does that girl in Meet Joe Black look like she’s ingesting teargas at every moment?

I’ve started taking a daily multivitamin. Today I took it with my chocolate peanut butter cookie breakfast, and washed it down with cocoa.

Caramel. This is a word used often at this time of year. Let’s review the correct pronunciation, shall we? It’s KAR-muhl. Not KERRA-mell. KAR-muhl. Say it with me. KAR-muhl. One more time, by yourselves. (Pause to listen.) That’s right, very good.

Finally, this next paragraph is for females only (who am I kidding here?): My uterus and I need to sit down and have a chat pronto. This whole situation is getting entirely out of hand. Uterus can pick whatever day of the month it chooses, but once that day is chosen…STICK WITH IT! That’s the deal. I don’t care what stress or other factors may cause delays, I have a life to live here. And I can’t constantly be worrying about the uterus and when I get my fun surprise. You feel me?

I think that’s it for now.

halloween in salem

2006-11-01T16:52:00.000-05:00

Meet my posse. We went to Salem, MA for All Hallow's Eve this year. Mighty memorable.

We called our costumes The Walker Texas Ranger Television Series (There were 4 seasons in total.)

As you can see by this photograph, I was Season 3.

Here's us scoping out a mighty dangerous lookin' dumpster...

No Chuck Norris western t.v. series, as personified by four women wearing fake moustaches, would be complete without their token Boy Wonder. Meet Richard!

The original idea was that Richard would keep us safe from thugs throughout the evening. It took 15 minutes of being there to realize we'd be the ones protecting Richard for the duration of our stay in Salem.