Jam session

After the show last night, a lot of actors settled in a rehearsal studio for a jam. I walked in shortly after they began, and really wanted to walk back out. There was an earnest circle of jammers, all still impeccably made up from the show. It was just too precious. It made me want to laugh and feel uncomfortable at the same time. I would have hurt Tim's feelings if I had left, though, so I stayed and listened.

They played folk songs and oldies that everyone knew. There were a surprising amount of good singers in the lot of them. In that regard, it was hard to be there, for I am also musical, but too insecure to feel comfortable playing with others, and I'd seriously consider selling my first born to the devil just to have a beautiful voice.

But the evening didn't really get started until the serious musicians arrived: the theatre's spotlight operator, a short, stout lesbian with a 12-string; and a tech operator, a stoner in a beanie cap. They sat on the edges and allowed the flamboyant actors to try to outsing each other, and riffed quietly and solidly. Then the group requested that the spotlight girl take a turn, and she launched without hesitation into a Led Zepplin song, trailing off eventually in embarrassment as people started clapping. (I understood that. I do the same on piano when people are watching.)

As the crowd dwindled, the stoner started playing and singing what I eventually recognized as a highly acoustic version of "Baby Got Back." It was incredible and hilarious, and then he and the 12-string, with Tim on extremely funky bass, turned that into Bill Withers' "Use Me." By that time in the evening, I was disappointed to go.

It's odd. For all my playing music, when it comes to hanging out and jamming, I've always been the listener. My best friend in college, our relationship was solely founded on me hanging out in his dorm room while he played the guitar. A few years after, when I was taking guitar lessons and we caught up with each other on a Christmas break, playing together just wasn't the same.

But what I did get out of the actors' jam was the chord progression for "Jolene," so, you know, that's always good.

I mailed something today

Jane Addams School of Social Work, my future is in your hands. Do with me what you will.

(though, preferrably, please may that include instant admission and a big fat scholarship for being such a fantabulous candidate!)

Sincerely,

A Nervous Wreck

Winter solstice

I've always wanted to celebrate the solstice. The last time I did was in high school, when Hannah had a solstice party. I think we probably had dinner, then sat around talking all night. Though that's probably how our group of friends passed many of evenings together, this was different because we didn't usually hang out at Hannah's, and celebrating the solstice was special--almost deviant in the area we grew up--which probably led to its allure.

Though I've never actually took the time to become knowledgeable about ancient pagan rituals, I've always been drawn to them. Being able to celebrate the solstice--well, what does that even mean?

Tonight we had a few friends over, and we grilled and ate by candlelight. I don't know if Tim thought there was a bunch of frozen meat we needed to eat, or if he wanted to cook by fire--for he mentioned a tradition that on the solstice, you extinguish all the fire by the end of the night. (And I'm too lazy to Google for that information.)

I do a lot of apologizing for our apartment. The carpet is dirty and stained, and we never seem to have control over the clutter.

But in candlelight, it's perfect. And as Tim and his castmates left to do another run of "Christmas Carol," I blew out the candles and was left alone with only the weak light from our tiny Christmas tree.

It was peaceful. Quiet. Calm. Mindful.

It seemed like the perfect way to celebrate the solstice. And lo, another tradition is born.

Socializing

So it continues to get easier. Whether that means I am more comfortable and confident with myself, or with the people Tim works with, I don't know.

It helps a lot that he always says how much they already like me. That could be from all the treats I've made for parties and tech rehearsals (I guess people like you lots if you feed them good food?), or by association with Tim (people always love him, so I get the benefit of the doubt).

What really bothers me, though, is when he says how his friends always talk about wanting to get to know me, and how they're disappointed if I don't go to parties, or leave early. I make an effort. I do socialize as much as my schedule allows. But it's not my responsibility that they get to know me. If they want to get to know me, they need to come to me and strike up a conversation. Because that's what I do when I want to get to know someone. I feel like I'm doing as much as I can to offer them a glimpse of me and who I am.

I would like for someone to show me they want to get to know me by actually talking to me. I automatically assume that if someone doesn't make an effort, they're not interested in me. I don't think I'm the only one who feels that way.

So that arguing point gets used frequently, and Tim says it's more than striking up a conversation. It's being there, hanging out, in the group, vibing (ha) and stuff. But I don't really understand how people would get to know me that way. In big groups, particularly ones discussing theatre things ad nauseum, I don't say much. Someone needs to be the listener, so that's me. I don't mind that, but if anyone thinks they know me after that, they're mistaken.

He always says I appear intimidating. My shyness, and people thinking that I'm some kind of holy saint for the work I do (which also annoys me). I'm not going to lie, I prefer "intimidating" to "shy."

So when did that word/personality trait become such an incredibly negative thing?

The most beautiful country in all the land

After talking about how Kansas has never felt like home, I've got to admit: I still think it's the most beautiful place in all the land. There's something about the Flint Hills that is so desolate, stark, and gorgeous.











I particularly love the way the elements weather the buildings there.

Where I'm from

I know it's more complex than where I was born and raised. But I still never know how to answer people when they ask.

I was born in Colorado. Though I spent a mere six months there, and only returned to camp and backpack there as a child, leaving the flat dust bowl prairies of western Kansas and eastern Colorado, seeing the mountains emerge from the clouds, has always felt like coming home.

Kansas. Where I spent twenty-one years of life. Has never, ever, EVER felt like home. It was always strange to feel so isolated, an outsider to the place that was fully saturated in my history. The whole time I was growing up there, I'd wonder what I would have been like had we stayed in Colorado. I had this idea that I would have felt more comfortable being ME. Maybe I would have. After all, we left a hippie enclave to establish a life in a thoroughly conservative small town. Aside from a group of family friends, no one else lived the way we did. (And of course, by the time the real estate boom hit Boulder, I would have been the daughter of wealthy parents, for the property they owned back in the seventies is now worth millions.)

Chicago. That's what I always say when people ask. Yet I really only spent six or seven years there. How accurate or appropriate is it to use that as my answer then? I feel all melodramatic, like I'm back in high school poetry class, talking about how my heart belongs to Chicago. But it's true.

Down for the holidays

I've been sad lately. I don't know why exactly. Last week I blamed PMS. This week, I just don't have an excuse.

Maybe it's work. I've been pretty busy lately, absorbed with my Spanish-speaking client. I feel so powerless to help her. I don't know the first thing about how I could get her a work visa, or even an under-the-table job in the meantime. I've spent my evening worrying about her getting to the health department tomorrow for a doctor's appointment without me. I suspect a lot of my co-workers think I need to just chill out, but I can't even explain how absolutely responsible I feel for her. I know once she passes along, whether it be on to bigger and better things, or even back to the bad situation she left, I'll stop thinking about her, and it will feel as though a big weight is lifted. But for now, I worry.

Maybe it's family. The closer I get to seeing them, the harder it is to be away. Already I'm worried about what it will be like to leave them again--Chicago too.

Being a mom

I was a mom this week. Or, was mistaken for one.

I took a client to the health department for one of her children, and I watched her other, a 5-month-old, during the appointment. I don't know a single thing about babies. Do you still need to support their heads at 5 months? I didn't. He seemed to be able to do it himself. I bounced him on my knee, and swayed back and forth to hang him upside down. I couldn't tell if other moms in the waiting room were looking at me disapprovingly, or it was ok to hang a baby upside-down, but since he was squealing with laughter, I thought, oh, what the hell?

He also gnawed on my fingers. If he actually had teeth, I think I might have lost a digit. And it reminded me of The Truth about Cats and Dogs: "You can love your pet, just don't LOOOOOVE your pet." I may have gotten a rash from it.

Anyway, it was comforting to be able to keep him calm, and to stick a bottle in him when he started fussing. But most happily, he didn't stink up his diaper when I had him. He fits in my arms, though he is muy pesado (which I quickly understood from his mom as "heavy"). I think I held him so much that my back was sore the next day.

So I guess as long as they don't stink up their diapers (because I'm not quite that advanced in babycare), I kind of like babies.

The weird thing, though, is that I can't figure what to say to them. I can't "ooga-booga" them, and I can't talk to them like they can talk back. Considering how vocal and gushy I am over the kitters, I don't understand my paralyzed silence in the presence of babies. Oh well.

Staff Christmas party

In my opinion, you can't be fully a part of workplace friendship until you've had one too many drinks and danced your ass off in front of co-workers, half in earnest, half in self-deprication.

Well, mission accomplished. Staff Christmas party last night. It was held in an old Victorian home turned restaurant/catering business. We had an almost passable meal of heavy appetizers, and did a strange gift exchange that involved standing in a circle and passing gifts as someone read "Night Before Christmas" with lefts and rights inserted in the text. It was BYOB, and I shared a bottle of wine with someone.

So by the time the DJ cranked up the volume on the music, indicating it was dancing time, it was a moderately surreal evening. I spent some extraordinarily anti-social time texting a few people about the weirdness, and then, somehow, I really got into it.

My boss tore it up. She goes to step dance clubs in Birmingham and Atlanta, and knows all the moves. It was so much fun just to sit and watch her, but she also taught me a few of the easier ones, too. Eventually, the party cleared out until there about ten of us, a few cases of beer, and loud music. The wine buzz had worn off by then, but everyone, regardless of having a lot or no rhythm, was dancing. One older woman, an art therapist I really like, told me my new nickname was "Catwoman," because of the way I danced.

Though she said it was a compliment, I'm still not sure. I like dancing, and I try to forget that I may look a fool while doing it. It took me about sixteen years to lose my inhibitions on the dance floor, and I don't want to gain them back.

The party wound down, and we diehards helped clean up (I felt we should, for we stayed late late late), then made plans for a few of us to continue the party at someone's home. We all pulled out of the parking lot to caravan there, and I heard a noise that sounded like a tire blowout. But I didn't start swerving or anything, so I kept driving. Fran was right behind me, and she slowed down. A few blocks later, I called her, and she said the noise was a gunshot! And that she saw a man emerge from the apartment building across from the restaurant holding a gun out in front of him, pointing it at someone. She slowed down to call 911. If we had been five minutes later leaving the restaurant, we would have walked onto the whole scene.

So we went to one of my co-worker's houses. She's probably about my mother's age, and lives in a beautiful subdivision in a stunning house. Five of us ended up in her favorite room of the house, that she calls the Birdcage. A tiny converted attic, it has sloping ceilings, skylights, and cozy furniture. We cuddled up with throw blankets, ice cream, and hot cocoa, and stayed up until 1:30 a.m. talking. It was cozy and relaxing.

I feel like I'm a part of a group of friends now. It's wonderful.

I dreamed about him again

The boy I was madly in love with from age eight to thirteen.

The one who was my lab partner in eighth grade.

Who went to the same church my family joined.

The boy who was killed in a car accident just shy of his 21st birthday.

I dream about him occasionally. Infrequently. In my dreams, we are much closer than we were in life, though one of my last encounters with him was when he and his friends crashed a party at my house, and we did a drunken duet of "Dust in the Wind," so I'm glad in the end, we were friends.

In my dreams, we're always good friends or lovers. It pleases me greatly to have such positive dreams, because in my experience, the times I want or need good dreams are usually the times I end up in a nightmare.

But anyway, in the beginning, we interacted in a very snippy way (the whole "if a boy teases you, it means he likes you" thing), but I think I made a conscious switch to dream about a contemporary interaction, to act the way I would around a boyfriend right now. Weird. --to make a conscious choice in dreaming, because I've never been able to do that. (At most, I can sometimes wake myself up out of a nightmare if I don't want it to continue.)

So it was just a little, lovely dream. It's a really wonderful way to remember him.