A letter to my first love, on Valentine's Day, thirteen years later

Dear you-know-who-you-are,

It's been thirteen years. How are you?

I'd like to say that I rarely ever think of you, but that would be an egregious lie, especially recently. You're married now. The only reason I know that is because of a few clumsy social media searches, which was hard to accomplish as you're quite hard to find. You were always hard to find. I keep finding you by mistake. I don't know how much you know about me any more. I know you found my linked-in account and had a look. I'm sure it was probably rather typical - theatre, teaching, graduate school - all the things I set out to do in college; I'm doing them. I've spent thirteen years doing them. I'm proud of that. I hope you're proud of me, too.

I'm not entirely sure as to why I'm writing to you, except that I've been thinking of you a lot, more than I have since you left. I keep asking why, I keep trying to remember if anything particularly eventful happened at this time in 2001, if there's some chrono-fingerprint left on my memory that I can't shake. But I keep coming up empty.

I'm single now for the first time in eight years. That might have something to do with it. I've been rather happy, I'm leading a pretty great life. I don't feel discontent or bored or sad. I'm not stagnating. But somehow, here you are; a ghost anchored to my heart. I realize that in the faint omni-presence that is your memory, I miss the magic we had. And I realize thirteen years later that falling in love truly is a magic. And love at first sight - that's down-right arcane. But we had that, didn't we? And that's pretty special.

My scar, the one you left, is fine. It doesn't hurt, it doesn't throb, I wear it as I ought to - as a badge of life experience that I survived proudly. Did I leave a scar on you? It shames me to say that I honestly don't know. Would it be gauche to hope that I did? Would it be heinous to hope that I hope you've been thinking of me as often as I have been of you?

Thirteen years. You were supposed to be long erased from me by now. You were supposed to be a faint memory that I recalled while listening to Coldplay, or the odd moment caught in the rain. But here you are, with so much space in between. I realize that I legitimately don't know you any more - the 31 year old you. And I don't know if you'd recognize me either. I've changed...in some ways, quite a lot. The irony is that you had a lot to do with that, though you weren't around to see it.

Before I go getting sad and pathetic and the tears start slopping into my beer, let me just say that if nothing else, I hope you're happy. Truly happy. I hope you're living a life that you love, that you're with someone you love - with every small particle of who you are now. And selfishly, I hope you remember me fondly.

Could you do me a favour, though? Would you release me? Would you please vanquish whatever homing device you left? Because I can't keep returning to the thought of you every time one of my relationships end, thinking "Well, that wasn't it." Would you please? I'm not passing the buck, or relinquishing my responsibility - I know what I've done wrong in my relationships, and I own that. I'm working on being better for the next time. But somehow, you have something to do with it too. And until I figure out how exactly, I won't be able to lose myself again, I won't be able to let a new magic take over. I've tried now, a few times, but when I reach down inside, to let the magic take over, it's gone. Because it's still with you. So if you could just let it go, I'm certain it would dissolve.

And then I'll be able to start over.

With love and fondness,
Me

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Old wounds

I don't let go of things easily. This has always been a problem for me, and I've spent the better part of my life trying to make the opposite true, but sadly to not much avail. I'm really good at moving forward, and coasting along for awhile, forgetful of the event, the person, the words - until I'll catch a bad wave, and tumble into the dark cold sea of remembrance, and the memories flood in, unwanted. 

That's a terrible water metaphor, but it's apt. I ran across someone's facebook page tonight, and past hurts popped up all over again. I think the two things that anchor me to this pattern are when I have a lack of closure, and/or miss the loss of the person and the relationship. And all I want to do is ask why. Why me? Why did you say/do what you did/said? What did I do?

Perhaps it all comes back to shame - the shame of failing, or feeling as though I've failed as a human being in some way, though without knowing how or why. 

But then, I think, would I change anything? No, because it's not my thing to change. Am I happy with my life? Yes, I am. I'm happy with where I'm going, what I've accomplished, and the people I've surrounded myself with. Sometimes I catch myself feeling as though I'm lacking something - I didn't "make it" with a company in a way that I originally intended, or in the same way as my peers have, or I didn't make the impression I wanted to make. But that is just a bruised ego, and bruised egos don't have the best perspective on, well ... anything. 

And I suspect that the answer to my problem lies in caring less. This is a fundamental flaw, because that's just not part of my genetic make-up. So maybe I should stick to fixing the shame thing.

Easy, right?

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In defense of math and science and fact-based learning.

Before I begin this quasi-rant let me make one thing perfectly clear: I am not the world's most factual thinker.

That's not to say that I don't "believe in facts," or that I don't think logically. I would be labeled as one of those "creative" types. I know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that magic is real. There are no facts in the world to prove my knowledge, but I know it none-the-less. I guess I would be one of those rogue cops on your-cop-show-of-choice who follows her proverbial "gut." I use intuition as knowledge.

My monkey likes to make fun of me for this, sometimes. One day, I was explaining the nature of unicorns - she was laughing so hard, she was practically crying, and said, "Oh my! I love Alyssa Science!" And that's the best way to explain it. I just have my own systematic thinking on any variety of subjects.

This last week, while I was in Canada visiting said Monkey, she's finally realized that what my psyche calls "math" has nothing to do with actual numbers. She has a tendency to hog the bed, and as I was pointing this out (in an oh-so-charming way), I said, "You take up like, 2/3's of the bed!" her response? Hysterical laughter. Again. Not because of my incredible wit, but because my assertion is ridiculous - she has a double bed. 2/3's was apparently over-reaching and not factual. (I still think I'm right) Alyssa math: making shit up since 1986.

I almost failed geometry. I'm TERRIBLE with fractions. I got an A- in Advanced Algebra in high school because my teacher assigned lots of extra credit. And when I had to theorize about math in college, forgettaboutit. That grade single-handedly prevented my sure-fire accumulative 3.7 GPA. I'm better at science - at least when it comes to memorizing words and actions. But science has equations, too. Once we moved beyond the classifications of rocks and how they were formed, in geology; we had to figure out the chemical compounds. What? They're rocks. They're here! I see them, I can feel them. I don't need to know the stinking chemical compounds of the rock to prove its existence!

Now - with all of my idiocy, all my lack-of-facts theories, at least I'm smart enough to know when I'm stupid. I wholeheartedly admit that knowledge of both math and science is infantile. I KNOW that there are much, much, much smarter people who know many, many, many more things than I do. Real facts, even. As an adult, sometimes I read publications to try to understand these things - and sometimes I do! I like to know what's going on in the world around me - factually. Then I can contort it in my imagination.

Three things presented themselves to me today, and I felt something I've never felt before: The need to defend fact-based learning.

Exhibit A: Cameron Diaz wants to change public education

 "I like to cook and I like to clean so I think I would be a pretty good home economics teacher… But they don't teach kids that anymore. They don't teach stuff that you can actually use in life. You learn stuff like algebra instead. So now we eat out all the time and don't know how to look after ourselves. It's all wrong." 



Exhibit B: Miss United States hopefuls disclose their views on Evolution
http://jezebel.com/5814161/watch-the-miss-usa-hopefuls-dance-around-the-question-of-evolution

In Cameron Diaz's defense, I think I know what she's saying. I think she's saying that we're not doing enough to teach kids how to take care of themselves - which I agree with. But to dismiss a subject like algebra - that is helpful and useful (critical thinking and problem solving, Cameron - and not just for equations), sounds like a really really bad teen movie. We need people to cook and clean and change oil and fix plumbing problems, I'm not knocking usefulness. But if my plumber has a higher grasp of problem solving and critical thinking because he didn't do badly in Algebra, then maybe I won't argue when he charges me $1,000 to unclog a drain, without having to take apart half of a wall.  Perhaps this is art mirroring life a little too closely for you, Bad Teacher?

All I can say about the pageant contestants, is that sadly, I'm not surprised. But huzzah for Miss Washington! "I think facts should be taught in schools." Well said, lady! The revelation that struck me while watching it, however, was the reminder about how quick women are to make things okay. With a couple of exceptions (Miss Alabama on one end of the creationist spectrum, and Miss Washington on the side of evolution), almost everyone else was trying to make both sides fit into the system: "Maybe we can teach a little bit of evolution" said Miss Virginia. "I think it's fine as long as the biblical theories aren't excluded," said Miss North Dakota. "I think all views on the subject should be taught," said hippy Miss Oregon. And perhaps it's because I'm a woman myself, that ideally, that the middle-of-the-road sounds wonderful. The problem that arises, however, is the notion of public school. If public school is truly public, then everyone has the right to be represented. Which means that Buddhism and Islam and scientology, Hindi, Taoism, Anarchy, Wiccans, Satan-worshippers, Mormons, Klingons, and every other faction of the world has a right to have a say - which would be a fascinating class! except that I think several different Christian groups would protest, and public schools are so woefully underfunded that there's not a practical way to teach something as wide-reaching, no matter how diverse and tolerant.

But most importantly, you bag of overly made-up ladies, evolution is based in science. SCIENCE. Christianity is based on religious belief. And while you believe in creationism and God created the world in a record-breaking 7 days, not one bit of has any proof, any fact, and evidence. Just like my belief on the nature of unicorns. But you don't see ME demanding that evolution not be talked about because evolution never once mentions my magical, golden friends, do you?

Facts are based on evidence, and findings, and study, and research. And you can't discount any of it. There's merit in them, and hard-work, and higher thinking. Just because you don't believe in it, doesn't mean it's not true.

And finally - I do believe that math should be taught in schools, regardless of my ignorant math brain.
http://jezebel.com/5815965/should-math-be-taught-in-schools

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Rapture, baby!

Since people may be suddenly bodily ascending to space today, I thought I'd celebrate us sinful bottom dwellers by our captain, our Rogue, our hero - Banksy.  This may or may not be inspired by the fact that I'm currently watching Exit Through the Gift Shop. But I bring this to you as a reflection of one of my favorite aspects of earthly humanity: Civil Dissent. Especially in Art.

So ... push play, listen to Debbie Harry, wait for the man from mars, and scroll through some Banksy.

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Something's rotten in the state of Tennessee...(a blog in pictures....)

And it ain't Claudius.

In case you haven't heard, or read, here's the story:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/05/20/tennessee-teaching-homosexuality-ban_n_864895.html

I am truly puzzled by the notion that "homosexuality" is "taught." Nobody taught me to be a homosexual. It just kind of happened, well, naturally. No one "teaches" it. I almost wish it had been taught - I might have been a lot less confused in middle school. But to go so far as banning it? When it's not in any curriculum?

Preventative/minority legislation. You know who was a big fan of that? THIS GUY:

And these guys:

My best friend Tracy wrote a really great blog post about fear. Read it. It's spot on. Fear is the original exaggerator. It's the man behind the curtain, the monster under the bed, the wind through the trees. It's a Nothing that has become Everything. So you'll understand my confusion when I hear that a state legislature is afraid of this: 

Or these guys??

Actually, I think it's because of these guys. ALL these (gay) guys:

Because according to the latest Gallup Poll, "For the first time, majority of Americans favor gay marriage." 53% in favor, 45% against. If it were a presidential election (especially in the last decade), that would almost be considered a land-slide. Their grasp of control is slipping, their vice-grip on "normal" is fading. Especially when a guy this cool...

Does this. 

Beam me up, Mr. Sulu. If you're the Rapture, I want in. 

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it's the end of the world, as we know it.....

On Saturday evening, I drove into downtown LA to attend a fabulous theatre piece that some dear friends of mine were in. As I was stuck on the 5 North, slowly crawling to the on-ramp of the 101, my gaze happened upon a billboard. This billboard, to be exact:

Now. I do not consider myself an alarmist. I'm not particularly superstitious (outside of hockey). And I've never considered God (Allah, Buddha, Yahweh, et.al) to be a jerky douchebag. But I will gladly admit to being anti-apocalyptic; I am staunchly, irrevocably, and vehemently against the apocalypse. And yet, this billboard freaked me out. 

But I didn't let it get to me - I've become very good at ignoring the hysterical fear that is apocalyptic propaganda. I went to my friends' performance, and had a lovely time. I thought nothing of the billboard, or the ominous May 21st due date, until Monday. Monday, Monday, Monday. When one of my little 6th grade cherubims innocently said during check-in: 

"Did you know the world's going to end on May 21st?" 

I didn't say anything. I avoid touchy subjects like religion, politics, and boyfriends/girlfriends like the end-of-days plague. But something really bothered me about my 12 year old student saying that - not the religion - but the notion that an entire generation and culture of children believe that the world is going to end before they reach 14. Eerily, Friday's check-in question was "What's something that scares you?" The second most popular answer, after creepy-crawlies (insects, snakes, spiders, etc, etc): the Mayan 2012 prophesy. At least 1/3 of my kids think that the world is going to end suddenly, violently, frighteningly before any of them can graduate the 8th grade, enter high school, or have a job. 

Depressingly, many of them (I perceive), believe this so totally that they don't really see the point of school. And they're right - what's the point of learning things if the end is going to come in just over a year?? What's the point of anything at all?! 

When they tell me this, and ask my opinion (about 2012), I simply say that there's no clear outcome to the Mayan prophesy - it really just states that it'll be the end of the third age - nothing more, nothing less. They tend to just give me a confused look, and then I'll say something like, "everything will be okay." They accept this, and go back to talking out of turn, or hitting the person next to them.

Regardless of my own vehement objection towards the apocalypse - seeing my students so resigned to accepting THE END OF ALL THINGS angers me beyond reckoning. Not because of their resignation - they don't know any better - but because it proves how much of an oppressor Fear is; how dangerous a weapon. And then I think about the last 10 years, and how much we've been told to fear - Muslims, anyone from the Middle East, bacteria, nuclear weapons, biological weapons, asteroids, our president's nationality (really?!), even Communists and Fascists (still??) - and each one of these things are seemingly beyond our control. It's no wonder that people are buying guns, stock-piling supplies, and praying for the Rapture as soon as possible -WE'RE A WRECK!  And yet, the things that we do have control over - global warming, alternative energy solutions, oil companies, pharmaceutical companies, gay marriage, the economy - we do nothing about because we're so fucking exhausted from worrying about all the giant question marks, all the boogie men making bumps in the night, that we destroy logic and reason. Or we relate the fixables to the unfixables:

"You think WE created global warming?! You must be a Commie! Or a Fascist. OR BOTH!"
"You believe that people should have the freedom to marry anyone they choose?! You're going to hell!"
"It's those damn Muslims who've ruined our economy!"

I'm tired of the fear. I'm tired of the media. I'm tired of zealots. But most of all, I'm sad that my 6th graders are growing up without hope. 

So you know what? I hope the Rapture does come, in so much as it sucks up all those "deserving" and  "repentant" souls, and takes them off and away to wherever it is they'll go. Just so long as they leave the rest of us in peace, calm, and tolerance. That's what the Jews believe the end-of-days to be - not a catastrophic event, but a culture change brought forth by good deeds and understanding. Now that's an apocalypse I can support.

............I'm seriously thinking of returning to my Jewish roots.

In other news, here's the top 10 things you should know about my life in the last two months:

1. I got into Grad School! In CANADA!

2. I got a SCHOLARSHIP for grad school in CANADA!

3. I took a week-long visit to Oregon over spring break.

4. I turned 29.

5. I've been working on bringing SOC up to the 21st Century.

6. I have 2.5 weeks to get 95 children into performance mode.

7. I'm organizing volunteers for a fundraiser.

8. Because of 5, 6, and 7, I've been more stressed out than normal.

9. I've been wanting to write a blog about ethics vs. morals, but haven't found the time.

10. I'll be SO HAPPY when June 10th arrives. 

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Crazy like a Greek Polar Bear

Occasionally, though not all the time, I am a wily, outside-the-box thinker. I would love to be able to claim this as being a continual and thriving part of my brain, but I just can't. Sometimes I'm down-right obtuse. BUT! For those glorious moments when I solve an odd problem so ingeniously, so cleverly - no one is ever around to see!

For the sake of hubris, I suppose this is as it should be. I think I read/saw too many classical plays in my formative youth - I am all too aware of the catastrophic repercussions that the gods create specifically for mouthy mortals who tout their brilliance too loudly, too openly, too ungraciously. I won't lie. I really don't want to end up like Oedipus. or Lear. or Cassiopeia.

BUT - sometimes an idea is birthed so fabulously, it should be shared! (as I thank the muses/deities/spaghetti monsters above) One such solution happened to me today, and I won't lie, I feel a little bit like Odysseus.

I'm spearheading a ticket project for Shakespeare Orange County. Essentially, we've been living in the Paleozoic era for the last 19 years, and have not utilized online tickets sales. I KNOW. So I've found a program and a company that will help us, while not taking $5.00 per every ticket sold. Good, right? Part of this process requires sending all manner of paperwork to them. Like a seating chart.

Since we've never had any legitimate on-line ticket sales before, we haven't needed to use many seating charts. So when I went to our box office to search for this mythical file, it was (typically) no where to be found. But what kind of a quest has an easy answer? "You know who does have our seating chart?" I asked myself, "Seat Advisor!" I replied. So back home I went to have a phone meeting with our ticket company's representative.

I explained that I couldn't find a seating chart file on our computer, but that seat advisor had one. What should I do? "See if you can print the webpage," she replied, "and scan and email it." Okay! I printed it not once, but  twice. And while my laptop screen displayed our theatre's seating chart, no seating chart printed on the paper. Next, I tried a screen grab - no go. Save page as? Nope. What the hell am I going to do? Make a new chart by hand?? I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS!

But then ... from the dark, dry abyss where all my best ideas come from, I heard a calm, reassuring voice say, "Use your digital camera."

"Use my digital camera?! How am I going to use my - I'M GOING TO TAKE A PICTURE OF THE SCREEN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Yes. I took pictures of the seating chart on my laptop screen and sent those in. It was so simple, so deliciously simple. And it took two minutes. Okay - I have to say it - it was a thing of beauty. I will now go make an homage to the goddess of crazy great ideas, lest she think I claim the genius for my own. But it's days like this that make my gray matter feel a little more awesome than normal.

Wouldn't it be cool if our brains could glow like this? 

BOOM!

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What a good day looks like to this Polar Bear...

10:00 a.m. wake up
It's my day off! go back to sleep.

10:45 a.m. check the mail
Oh, HELLO PAYCHECK!!!
do a happy dance

12:00 p.m. deposit aforementioned check in the bank!
happy dance continues

1:00 p.m. pay bills at Starbucks while drinking cappuccino, which I can now afford!
happy dance is altered for chair sitting

1:45 p.m. meet with fabulous friend for more coffee
happy dance is moved inside

3:45 p.m. arrive home, turn on laptop again, check email discover OFFICIAL ACCEPTANCE INTO GRAD SCHOOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Happy Dance gets bumped up to a 9.9

4:00 p.m. tell everyone I know about grad school!
The happy dance goes viral!

4:30 p.m. purchase plane ticket to Portland for Spring Break next week!
HUGE PACIFIC NORTHWESTERN HAPPY DANCE!

5:00 p.m. go to the dog park and watch happy dogs in between texting friends long distance
Happy dance turns into the doggy dance

6:15 p.m. arrive back at home, check on the viral happy dance once more.

6:45 p.m. pick up a friend for dinner, drinks, hockey game, and general celebration
Happy dance x's 2

7:15 p.m. order celebratory drinks, cheers, hockey!

7:45 p.m. joined by another friend for more dinner, drinks, and general celebration
happy dance for hockey - we're winning!

9:00 p.m. pay my bill, because now I CAN, hockey game = success, Polar Bear drives back home.

9:30 p.m. calmly happy dancing my way through the front door
---------------------------------------------------------------

In summation: Patience repaid, assassins called down, stress level dropped to a minimum, life moving forward, gratitude abounding.

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Happy belated 150 posts, Polar Bear!

So, apparently I passed the 150 post mile stone 6 posts ago. OOPS!

To celebrate this un momentous occasion, I thought I'd post some nuggets for you. Because you take the time to read this blog, God love ya, and I should be entertaining. And really, who doesn't want an excuse to look at awesome things on a Wednesday???

I totally want to give a whale a high-five someday.

Word.

Every creature deserves their own security blanket and teddy bear.

Admit it! You totally wish you could do this right now!

My personal motto. As supplied by StumbleUpon.

Little known fact: Polar Bears like to frolic in flowers, but only if they are purple.

Looks like someone drew the short straw...

Oh Art! Transforming "derelict" into "urban chic" since 4000BC.

Thanks for reading, my peeps. Here's to a 150ish more.

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I heart my cosmic family

Let me say this straight off: I love my family. I really do. 

But since I was a little girl, I've adopted people. I didn't always feel as though I belonged to the people I was related to. My childhood was kind of chaotic and unpredictable at times, and I didn't always feel safe. In fact, I felt down right alien - I was from another planet, and not many people understood my language. But there were a select few who did understand, and I would cling to them desperately - my life preservers on a planet I didn't fully comprehend. 

The problem with this practice, as you might expect, is that I am who I am; heart on my sleeve, all too loyal, and too ready to feel wanted - multiplied by 50 as a child. And I was hurt a lot as I flung my heart here and there. Turns out 5 year olds are not always the best judges of character. But I learned, and became much more discerning, much more careful. 

And 24 years later, I have a very wonderful, very amazing cosmic family. A family comprised of kindred spirits, parallel souls, and like minds. And they've stayed. These are not people that I talk to every day - I don't have to talk to them every day. They're just there, in my life. And when they need me, I'm there. And when I need them, they're here for me. They are my family, just as much as any of the people with whom I share chromosomes. 

I've been increasingly grateful for my cosmic family over the last few weeks. And I don't always get to tell them how much I love them, or what they mean to me. So I'm tossing this out into the cosmos. I'm grateful for you, you know who you are. I'm grateful that I'm lucky enough to share my life with you. To know you and laugh with you and stumble around with you in this dark room called life. Thank you for all that you do, and all that you are. Thank you for helping my world make sense, and for translating rough passages and mixed messages. Thank you for always making me feel valid and loved and appreciated. 

But most of all, thank you for finding me. 

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"Money ain't got no soul, money ain't got no heart...."

This is the anthem of artists everywhere. We don't work for money. We work for enjoyment, for fulfillment, for the notion that we are contributing to the betterment of humanity through whichever medium we happen to work. And we do this not because of the money, but to spite it. We'd do it for nothing! We were those poor suckers in college who dreamed of an Utopian Bohemia, where everyone wears recycled clothing and lives on Top Ramen. Where everyone shares their art, their food, and their books, and commerce is too bourgeois and degrading to be concerned with. But instead of snapping out of it a year or two after graduation, like everyone else; after the real world has had some prime opportunities to slap some stupid sense into us - we are the ones who keep living the dream...on breadcrumbs, occasionally living back with our parents when we can't afford rent.

But we can't live on nothing; and our society knows that. They know it, and they exploit it. Society begrudgingly agrees that the arts are "important" - not in an immediate, foundational kind of way like garbage collection or sewer functionality, but in an abstract, "we-know-it's-good-for-our-kids-but-won't support-it-ourselves" kind of way. So they hire us to instill artistic appreciation and aesthetic into their children. Sometimes, depending on the funding, we get paid well for this. Sometimes, it's not enough to get by. But teaching is the artists' bread and butter. I suppose that's what GB Shaw was getting at when he wrote that loathed idiom, "Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach."

Yeah well, George Bernard, most of us do both.

I do both. And I'm actually getting paid rather well by my school - in theory. I say "in theory" because I haven't been paid yet. I've been working there since early January, though to be fair, my proposal wasn't approved by the school board until January 24th, which means I wasn't official until the 26th. HOWEVER. It is now March 23rd. MARCH! I submitted my invoice EARLY, though invoices are not allowed to go to the district until the last day of the pay period, in this case February 26th. What does a reasonable amount of processing time sound like to you? Two weeks, if we're giving the District leniency for dealing with dozens of schools and artists-in-residence?

Well, I was told three weeks. Three weeks was last Friday. I'm now on Week 4, with no guarantee it will get here by the end of this week, which would mean that I'll have gone 5 weeks. FIVE. WEEKS.

Now, I ask you: in what other work disciplines is this allowed to happen? Business? HELL no. Law? They'd sue you and resurrect debtors jail. Contracting/construction? They'll hand you over to the mob, who'll put your feet in cement blocks and throw you in the Hudson River (even if you live in California). And so I return to my original point, that artists are exploited (I would argue) the most. Clearly, we don't have real jobs, which means that we don't have real lives, which means that we don't pay bills or have cars or need to finish paying taxes, or, you know, EAT. No, no. We're make-believe people who are only needed to inspire children to learn and play in ways that might actually help their educations and futures - outside of that we turn back into faerie dust, and only need to be kept alive with claps and cheers, like in that one play written by that one English dude about boys who won't grow up, and their pixie friends who die when children say they don't believe in faeries. Yep. That's where artists live.

To illustrate how incredibly untrue this scenario is, I will now list the items that I have not been able to do IN A MONTH, because I have not been paid:

1. get my car lube, oiled, and filtered and rotate my tires
2. pay turbo tax to email my taxes (I am usually able to complete this by February)
3. pay my bills
4. buy myself actual groceries (I eat a lot of left-overs, and get creative with items long forgotten in pantries)
5. related to #3, because I cannot pay my bills, I can't apply for a school loan yet.
6. take a college student out to dinner, which I owe him for coming and performing slam poetry in my classes at school.
7. buy my plane tickets to Portland for Spring Break
8. take my golden retriever to the groomer (you'd think this was unnecessary, until you own a golden retriever)
9. buy myself some socks - like ones that don't have any holes in them
10. buy myself some shoes - again, ones without holes
11. buy tickets to the theatre to support my friends and their work
12. buy myself treats (I'm not talking big, I'm talking little things like chocolate covered graham crackers at Starbucks - things to brighten my day)
13. I have to decline invitations to go out with friends to dinner, drinks, movies, or any other social activity

I might sound as though I'm whining needlessly, and perhaps even greedily. But in my own defense, I don't spend a lot of money, even when I have it, and have made quite a science of being poor.

I've been watching Disney's Princess and the Frog a lot on cable tv, primarily because it's surprisingly good, but also because it's a sincere attempt at keeping my Bohemian perspective, and remind myself that even though I chose this life, I deserve to be treated as a valued member of society, like everyone else. Just because money is not the primary driving force of my life, it doesn't give any entity or body or bureaucracy the freedom to treat me any differently than they would any other working professional. I'm good at what I do, damnit. I am an asset, not an afterthought.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XJT0uhfcCkw

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Oh Knut, sweet Knut!

It has been entirely too long since I've written. My schedule has been insane, I've been sick twice (and I'm rarely ever sick), and I've just felt a lack of inspiration - whether due to the previous causes, or for another reason entirely, it doesn't matter.

But I bring to you now sad tidings.

Knut, the baby polar bear who captured the world's heart in 2006, died today. He was only four years old. Causes are so far unknown, though results should be available tomorrow or Wednesday. If you don't remember, Knut was born in 2006 at a zoo in Germany. His mother refused to nurse him or take care of him, so his handler, Thomas Dorflein cared from him day and night. Because of Thomas' care, Knut survived - and thrived! And kept growing bigger and bigger.

But yesterday, he collapsed suddenly after turning circles in his habitat, and fell into the deep pond in his enclosure.

We haven't had the best news so far this year - and this - just makes it ten times worse. I'm really, really saddened by Knut's sudden death. Thomas his handler passed away in 2008. Part of me was glad to read that. I couldn't begin to imagine the heartache that would come with raising such a beautiful animal from infancy, only to be snatched away so soon, and seemingly without cause. Polar bears typically live to be 15-20 years old in the wild, and even longer in captivity.

I like to think that Knut and Thomas are now reunited somewhere cold, frolicking in snow and reveling in the joy of being together again.

And so to Knut and Thomas, I bless and salute you for adding even a small margin of light into this increasingly dark world.

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You say tax cuts, I say government programs.

A couple of months ago, I decided to take out my senior yearbook from high school, and look through it. Why? I have no earthly idea. But I did, and it was kind of interesting. I had forgotten how many things I was involved in, how many people actually signed my yearbook, and was kind of surprised that I didn't remember more names and faces.

However, the strangest aspect about my tip-toe through the teen years had to be the comments themselves. I cannot tell you how many different people wrote "Don't worry, you'll be a Republican someday." Or something akin to it, usually accompanied by a smiley cartoon face with a stuck-out tongue.

Let it be known that I was ridiculously outspoken in high school. And earnest! Earnestly out-spoken, out-spokenly earnest; that was me. I suppose this isn't altogether surprising considering that I'm an Aries, and I was one of only a few "out" democrats. Well, I wasn't a democrat yet; I wasn't of legal voting age. But you know what I mean  - I had scandalously democratic tendencies for a mostly conservative high school. I would dive, fearlessly, into political debates, determined to convince the multitudes of conservative children that medicare was helpful, welfare wasn't a waste of tax dollars, and women had the right to make decisions about their bodies.

Needless to say, I was always outnumbered. But damnit, I was born with the gift of a loud booming voice, and I wouldn't be my father's daughter if I didn't use it for the powers of good. I remember distinctly a conversation with my best friend and my Honors Economics teacher, a professed Libertarian, about taxes:

Teacher: "So okay, Ms. Liberal, let me ask you this: you're okay with the government taking a large piece of your hard-earned money to feed, clothe, and house other people? Even criminals and drug-addicts?"
Me: "Yes I am."
T: "Why?"
Megan: "Without taxes, we wouldn't have paved roads or garbage services. We wouldn't have education, Mr. Starnes. Your paycheck is paid for with taxes. Taxes help the government take care of its' people. There are socio-economic issues that more than likely went into those criminals and drug-addicts becoming criminals and drug-addicts."
T: "Wow. I don't like the government taking my money. I guess I'm just a selfish person."
Me: "I guess you are."

Discussions like this would stop the class for at least 20 minutes at a time, which was never a bad thing. But it's these kind of debates I'd get into all the time.

So I guess it's no wonder that the people who signed my yearbook would tease my earnest liberalness. But you know, it's been ten years. TEN YEARS. And I'm still a proud liberal. I won't say a proud democrat - the party system in our country is a little too ridiculous for me to grasp.

It also reminded me of a kind of idiom someone once told me:

"If you're not a liberal when you're young, you have no heart. If you're not a conservative when you're older, you have no brain."

I hate that expression. HATE it. Such complete horse shit.

I guess my point in writing this mini-rant, is for me to say that as I continue through life, edging further and further away from my "youth," I have yet to see or experience anything that has made me even consider becoming a conservative. I'm not stupid, I'm not wasteful. I just see things differently than you. And probably always will.

In hindsight, I'm really glad that I didn't go to my ten year reunion.

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Words you didn't know, wish you had, but probably won't know again...

One of the constants in my life has been feast/famine, which is rudely inconsistent. I didn't have a job for most of the fall, which meant I had much more time to write, which really was all I could afford to do. Then I applied to grad schools, left for Canada, came back from Canada, left a day later for Denver/Boulder, flew back, had a week to sort out my life, and then started my day job. And it's not even February yet.

I'm not complaining. I like being busy. I'm wildly productive when I'm busy; so not only do I get things done, but it means that I feel calmer, more confident, and much less lonely. Hey - I love my laptop, but I do love actual human interaction every now and then.

Canada was beautiful, Denver/Boulder was inspiring (I met with Shakespeare geeks AND saw how tea gets made at the Celestial Seasoning plant!), and I haven't heard from grad schools yet - which is a good thing; they send the rejection letters out first. And my day job! My day job is awesome. I'm creating/running/implementing a 6th grade Drama program at an under-achieving Middle School. RIGHT?!

So my insane life aside, one of the many themes of the conference in Boulder surrounded the sad fact that the vocabulary in the English language is shrinking. Observe:

William Shakespeare knew an estimated 25,000+ words.*
A few generations ago, the English speaking world knew about 18-20,000 words.
My generation is sitting pretty with about 11-13,000 words.
The children currently going through school are projected to know 7-8,000 words by the time they graduate high school.

* - keep in mind, Shakespeare created thousands of words, but for the sake of depressing statistics, let's say those are not included in his original 25,000+.

With the understanding that the previous statistics I can in no way justify through any kind of acceptable means, those are some really depressing numbers, no? Kind of makes me want to add a "word of the day" app to my non-existent smart phone.

Now, my ex-girlfriend, perhaps in a premonition of the discussions to come, bought me a desk calendar for Christmas. But not just ANY desk calendar my friends.  She bought me .............wait for it....................

a FORGOTTEN ENGLISH DAILY WORD CALENDAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And let me tell you, it's just as awesome as it sounds. Here are some examples of this modern miracle:

Nizzle - You thought it was a word created by Snoop Dogg, didn't you? Hizzle, my nizzles! Nizzle actually means: To be slightly intoxicated, to be the worse for liquor; to be unsteady; usually in past participle [nizzled].  (Joseph Wright's English Dialect Dictionary, 1898-1905)

Beats the Dutch - Something extraordinary; "That beats the Dutch, and the Dutch beats the Devil" is the superlative. (James Maitland's American Slang Dictionary, 1891)

Sport Ivory - If someone smiled, he sported ivory. (Morris Marples, University Slang, 1950)

Jugulator - Sounds like a Marvel Comic Villain, eh? Or perhaps what Jack the Ripper's imaginary friends called him. A Jugulator is actually a cutthroat or murderer. (William Whitney's Century Dictionary, 1889)

Googer - No, not Google's puny baby brother. It's actually a synonym for The Devil. (Walter Sleat's Specimens of English Dialects, Westmoreland, 1879)

Death Hunter - An undertaker, one who furnishes the necessary articles for funerals. Sounds kind of bad ass to me; dare I say it - Lord of the Rings-esque. (Francis Grose's Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, 1796)

Tree-Geese - A name given to barnacles, from their supposed metamorphosis [into geese]. I swear to you, I'm not making this up! (Robert Nare's Glossary [of] the Works of English Authors, 1859)

Gone to Texas - An American expression for one who has decamped, leaving debts behind. It was, and is, no unusual thing for a man to display this notice - perhaps only the initials G.T.T. on his door for the callers after he has absconded. Does that explain anything at all about the years from 2000-2008?? (Trench Johnson's Phases and Names: Their Origins and Meanings, 1906)

Toozle - To pull about, especially applied to any rough dalliance with a female. Perhaps after some Nizzle, for shizzle! (John Brockett's Glossary of North Country Words, 1825)

Bag of Nails - American thieves' cant. Confusion; topsy-turvydom; from "bacchanals." (John Farmer's Slang and its Analogues, 1890)

Scurryfunge - a hasty tidying of the house between the time you see a neighbor and the time she knocks on the door. See?? Some of these actually come in handy; I scurryfunge all the time! (John Gould's Maine Lingo: Boiled Owls, Billdads, and Wazzats, 1975)

Stick with me kids, and you too will become a bona fide nerd. As the year progresses, I'm sure these words will continues to find their way onto my page. Bonus points if you send me some rare words of your own ...

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The Year of the Bunny!

Hey there - happy 2011! I don't know about you, but this was what my collective being said/expressed/vented as the clock struck midnight, NYE, Mountain Standard Time:

"Oh, thank GOD."

Seriously. 2010 was not a super year. I can't say that it was the worst ever - I don't believe in long-term exaggerations. I know, I know, this is coming from a person who is constantly making up words to express  exaggerations in the first place. My Monkey constantly gets, "I love you the mostest!" And while I'm a person prone to passions, ginormous (see?) emotions, and an epically-scaled soul, I do not allow myself to look at life, time, or any other massively long-term scale in hyperbole.

That being said, 2010 was not kind. In fact, I would go so far as to call it mean; it was a mean year! And not in the rock-critic sense (e.g., "He plays a mean guitar!). I mean MEAN in the original dictionary definition, as an adjective: offensive, selfish, or unaccommodating; nasty; malicious. That essentially sums it up. Is it any wonder, then, that in the Chinese horoscope, 2010 was the year of the Tiger? I like Tigers as much as the next animal rights activist - I love them! But from a very, very far distance.

Now, 2011, again in the Chinese horoscope, falls under the year of the Rabbit. CAN YOU GET MORE OPPOSITE TO A TIGER, THAN A RABBIT??????? NO!!! Exactly! This calls for THE SNOOPY DANCE!!

The year of the Rabbit will theoretically bring luck and safety in the year to come. And so to you, I wish lots and lots of luck and safety.

But why am I so jazzed for this little woodland rodent's approach? I just applied to four graduate schools. This might not sound like a big deal, but it really is. Not only is this a big push for a life change/advancement, but the sense of rejection and dejection I experienced from the 2010 Tiger is still quite present with me. And the last time I applied to a grad school (just one, in that case), I was rejected. Only that was 2007, the year of the Pig. Oinkity bloody oink.

I was in Calgary for two weeks over Christmas and New Years, and in the Calgary Herald a couple of days ago, the paper's astrologist had a half page layout about what the year of the Rabbit was going to mean for me, as an Aries. And, perhaps prophetically, she told me that 2011 was going to be my year - the start to the next new phase of my life, culminating in achieving my career goals by 2018 (she's nothing if not specific). She also told me that I was going to feel like me again, after a year of feeling not at all like myself. She told me that making my move for advancement definitely needed to happen this year, and that my relationship would be fine, so long as my significant other didn't try to stifle my power and flow; I am Aries, here me roar!

Everything I've been reading lately, everything has been screaming at me, exasperatedly, "HOLD ON! It's about to get really, really good!" And I think that for the first time in a long time, I believe it - though more importantly, I'm able to SEE the universe gesticulating madly like an enraged baboon. I think I've just been too caught up, or too buried? Blinders pop up sometimes, out of a necessity to keep one's head down and protected. I've been keeping my head protected, and failing miserably.

Is it cliche to now say that I don't put actual stock in any of this? That is to say, I don't commit to astrology - I don't adhere to it as an absolute way of living my life, much like exaggerations. BUT - and this is a really big but - that doesn't mean that I don't find it informative and highly fascinating. Because I totally do.

While I call Liz my monkey, she calls me her bunny. I know, it's disgusting. This started as a joke after my sister brought home an actual rabbit after her first year at college - all the way from New Jersey. It later turned into a term of endearment that went from annoyingly funny to begrudgingly cute, on my end.

Tomorrow, I leave for a theatre conference in Boulder, Colorado. I sent the last of my grad school applications out a few hours ago. I start a new job next week starting a theatre program at a low-income middle school. But if all else fails, I can't say I didn't try - astrology or no.

Behold: The Year of the Bunny.

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It's looking a bit dusty in here ...

Good lord! Neglectful and disgraceful! I'm so, so, sorry!

The funny thing about life is that it moves on, whether you're ready or not. I've pondered at least half a dozen blog topics in the space of time in which I was monstrously missing. Did I write any of them? No. Do I remember what any of those blog topics are? Ha! And so I face you here now, embarrassed at my absence, and desperately searching for something interesting to say. And all I can think about is Christmas.

Christmas has come early this year - earlier for me than normal. In fact, until this year, I was ardently against the massive retail over-hauls that happen at Halloween's termination. I've not been a big fan of early Christmas, and will not accept the Christmas season until the Thanksgiving weekend is long over, around December 1st. If I heard so much as a "deck the halls" playing over retail radio speakers, I'd glower and clench my jaw, and hurl a "bah-humbug!" in anyone's general direction. Christmas has it's place, and it's time, and it's NOT in November.

However, this year, I needed Christmas to come early. I really, really did. 2010 has not been kind to me. It's been a hard year, a sad year, a heart-breaking, indigestible, painful, rejection-filled year. And I'm done with it. And so when the first decorations went up, and the dulcet tones of holiday cheer shot out of the grocery store audio system, instead of scowling and growling and being grumpy at our country's love of holiday retail madness - instead, I said, "Thank you." I breathed a sigh of relief, and smiled, and looked forward to the kinder, gentler days of greens and reds, of people tacking on "Happy Holidays!" or "Merry Christmas!" to the ends of their conversations, of seeing the ones I love and remembering that I am loved in turn.

But it's not just me who needed it early this year - I think we all did. I think everyone I know has more or less breathed a collective sigh of relief at finally reaching the end of a very long, tight, stress-filled year. I'm certainly not suggesting that the holidays are any less stressful. But with the end of the year comes the rising hope that the impending new year will be so much better. And after months and months of no hope, of being unemployed, or removed from a home, or deaths of loved ones, or whatever the case may be - the new year looms with tidings of comfort and joy and hope for a fresh start, a fresh chance to make our lives better; not with resolutions, necessarily (though they're nice, too), just that the tide will turn, our luck will change, and we can move on to something better.


We can be better.

For the first time - ever - I'm sending out Christmas cards. This is a big commitment for me, because I'm terrible at this sort of thing. But I've been thinking about people who are not around me, and I think I should tell those people - just because I don't talk with them very often, doesn't mean I don't love them, or that I'm not thinking of them. I believe that's the reason that people originally started sending Christmas cards, though I'm no expert on the subject.

My Christmas cards have Polar Bears on them.

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Lesbian Turkey Day!

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Is it because of the food?? Absolutely. But it also has a little something to do with family. Thanksgiving is family. Not just blood family - world family. 

What? What's that? "World Family" sounds hoaky, cliche, and ultra lesbian????? EXACTLY. 

Let me explain.

This Thanksgiving, my family is away. Back in August or September, my Dad said, "Hey, I'll pay for you to go to Calgary or to Olympia for Thanksgiving, if you want." And I said, "Great!" And then I thought about it - Thanksgiving in Canada is in October - so no one would be off, and I'd just be celebrating for myself, and that's just awkward. Olympia was where I spent Thanksgiving in College - I LOVE Thanksgiving in Olympia. However, I wanted to be able to share it with my monkey (since it IS my most favoritest holiday - I was serious). And then, I started wondering who ELSE was around .... 

And I thought of my ex, Lara, who wasn't going to home to the Mid-West. Me, Liz, and Lara for Thanksgiving. Then I discovered my oldest friend in the world, Crystal, had no place to go on Turkey Day, and I invited her too. Crystal's NOT a lesbian, but she might as well be. On an off-chance, I thought of my good friend Josh, who's from Colorado, and doesn't usually go home for the Holidays. Would he like to come over too? Yes, in fact, he was! Josh - also not a lesbian. But he's funny, and he's been friends with me for a long time now, and he might as well be. 

Then, on Friday, Lara calls me. "Can I bring a guest to Thanksgiving?" Lara's been dating a woman in LA for a few weeks now, and I figured she could only mean Susan. So ... this Thanksgiving is going to be Me, my wonderful girlfriend, my wonderful ex-girlfriend, the woman she's dating, my oldest friend who might as well be a lesbian, and my friend Josh who should be a lesbian. 

THE MOST LESBIAN THANKSGIVING EVERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

But all kidding aside, this is the very reason I love Thanksgiving. It's a transient holiday - a holiday where giving is the goal, and generosity is truly king. Christmas is wonderful, and likes to claim these things, but the commercialism that's invaded Christmas doesn't seem to make this true any more. Christmas is very much about family. Thanksgiving, is very much about giving whatever you can, to whomever you can. Don't have anywhere to go? Come over here! Share my turkey, let me cook for you. The best part, is that the meaning is in the name: It's the giving of thanks in as many ways as you can. That's it. And this year, it truly is. And that makes me so very happy!

This will ALSO be my first attempt at COOKING Thanksgiving dinner. It's going to be quite the experiment. Pictures will be taken. Let's just hope I don't burn the house down. 

I'll blog after the event - but I wish you and everyone at your table, whomever they may be, many many happy wishes.  

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My very own Inferno...

For the last two weeks, I worked a retail re-merchandising job inside of a Staples store between the hours of 8:00 p.m. and 4:30 a.m.* "What is re-merchandising?" You ask. Somehow, I don't think it's performing bizarre acts of manual labor in the wee hours of the morning, but that's what I was doing. For $11.00 an hour. Oh temp work ... how ... awful weird unsatisfying sucky interesting you are. But you know what? It's money. And bear's gotta do what a bear's gotta do.  I've decided that my college diploma doesn't get to be framed until it starts working for me. Until then, it's going to stay in the decorative protective envelope in my closet where it currently belongs; doing me not a lot of good. 

[*I also worked over time, so 4:30 a.m. actually turned into more like 6:00 a.m. most nights of the 2nd week]

Anyway, as I was lifting 60-75 lb. boxes up and down stock ladders, contemplating the shear perfection in which a semi-trained gorilla could do my job, I had often listened to the retail music loop that played every. day. for 10 days. Most of it was totally fine; some of it was even enjoyable. But the other 10% ... the other 10% made my eyeballs cringe and roll backwards in my head, like a Felix the Cat clock gone batty. 

And in the middle of a refrain from "I Want it That Way" by the Backstreet Boys, on a night when I was constantly fantasizing about dropping every MADE IN CHINA piece of useless crap on the floor from the top of my ladder - it hit me - I might be in hell. This might be my very own version hell. Which mercifully changed my thoughts from retail destruction to the deep contemplation of songs that, if played in a loop over and over, would almost certainly mean that I was in hell. Because if I believed in hell (which I do not), I would imagine that hell (and consequently heaven) would be specifically made on an individual level. So the songs that would play in my little flame-filled corner of Hell would not (necessarily) be the songs that would play in your little flame-filled corner of hell. Right?  So then ... what songs would play in my hell?

There are 10 - chiefly because, if played in a loop, would inflict the maximum amount of pain and torture. And when the devils and demons wanted to be REALLY sadistic, they'd change the loop order occasionally, just to lure me into a false hope of change, and then WHAM! It would be just another voyage of the 10 most cringe-worthy songs to my person, and the despair would begin anew.

10. Orinoco Flow, by Enya (I don't mind it once or twice, but in a loop? I think I'd despise it.)

9. Two Princes, by The Spin Doctors (An ultra low-spot in an otherwise interesting music decade)

8. Kiss on my List, by Hall & Oates (*gag!*)

7. Sk8ter Boy, by Avril Levigne (every morning in the dorm bathrooms for a semester in college was enough)

6. Everything I Do/Have You Ever Really Loved a Woman/most anything he's ever done, by Bryan Adams (Sorry Canada, he and Avril Levigne are MAJOR lemons on a nearly flawless record)

5. Desert Rose, by Sting (it's a loop in itself...)

4. Follow Me, Uncle Kracker (it verges on offensive, and I don't just mean the lame chord progressions)

3. Moondance, by Van Morrison (I seem to be the only person in the world that thinks this...so I apologize if I offend anyone. But I hate it.)

2. Truly, Madly, Deeply by Savage Garden (MAJOR. CRINGE.)

1. American Woman, cover by Lenny Kravitz (no words. only rage.......lots and lots of RAGE)

So there you go. 

My best friend and I once had a very lengthy, and impassioned discussion about the elements that need to be present in a good song. We basically boiled it down to more than 3 repetitive chords, and better lyrics than rhyming "love" and "dove." I think out of the above, the song that actually meets those requirements is Moondance. But it still drives me nuts. (I can't explain it, people ... my hatred is on a purely cellular level.) My gorgeous girlfriend hates Mr. Roboto with a passion, though also can't explain it. She loves Van Morrison, I love Mr. Roboto ... so long as neither song is played at our wedding, I think it'll be okay. 

Okay ... throw some at me!

PS - a song that I'm currently loving?

BAM.

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