As I said: Egg. Salad.

By hand, one "copy and paste" at a time, I transferred my old blog entries to this site. I think I'm finally ready to delete my Myspace account; the only thing that has kept me from doing so has been the desire to preserve my bitching, musing, and quirkiness that dates back to 2005. Now, at Blogspot, they are preserved. Hence, goodbye to Myspace.

And now I feel ready to reactivate my blog impulse. I have to keep myself so edited on Facebook now because my mother, aunt, co-workers, and various theatre people I hardly know (some of whom are still in high school) are all included in my network of friends. This is fine because, really, I should be conscious of all that I put out to the world wide universe. But maybe I can start again on this blogging on a completely different site and share the link with only the people I choose. This list, which will be fractionally shorter than my Facebook friends list, will not include any boys I'm dating or interested in dating. Otherwise, how can I talk about them??

The current thing that bothers me about living at home: getting asked what I'm cooking/eating. Today for example, I enjoyed a quiet morning to myself as my mother was at church, my hermana was at a friend's, and dad was at his office. I drank coffee, read the paper, wrote e-mails, and started making some egg salad to take for lunch tomorrow.

At 12:45, I hear the garage door. In they all tumble, and within five minutes I get:
Cinty - "Are you cooking, Mer?"
Mom - "Did you find the eggs? You're not using Gran's recipe? It's a good one."
Dad - "What are you making there, M?"

Me - "Yes. Egg salad."
Me - "Yes. No, not this time. Okay, maybe next time."
Me - "Egg. Salad."

But then I deposit more money into my bank account and I think, "The rent I paid is nothing compared to the rent I'm saving." And I carry on for another pay period.

Old Blog - 8.18.2008

Monday, August 18, 2008 

So we’ll argue and we’ll compromise and realize that nothing’s ever changed... Current mood:  blessed Last night one of my most special friends got married and I sat on the third row next to the aisle and cried my eyes out.  Later I drank wine at Table 8 with ready-made friends she had strategically seated together ("because I wanted you to have fun!!" she exclaimed) and took turns sharing why we each think she is like a sitcom character.  I danced with my dad, I danced with her dad, and I danced with her very cute brother - who is even cuter than I remember but, alas, called me "sweetheart" which unfortunately means he still sees me as his kid sister's little friend.  Nevertheless, I came home with a happy heart. My lips were still stained today from the color-stay lipstick I wore last night.  I noticed halfway through the day when I was packing up boxes and laughed out loud.  The best part about moving once a year is having an excuse to flip through old papers and letters.  Tonight I found all of my old playbills, a letter from Super Nanc asking me whose house I want to go to after prom, the lyric sheet to "No More Nanette", and an enneagram personality profile that a minister gave me when someone and I just couldn't get along.  I'm a six, by the way - The Loyalist.  Sixes are described as committed, security-oriented, engaging, responsible, anxious, and suspicious.  The basic desire of a six is to find security and support.  The basic fear of a six is of having no guidance or being unable to survive on his or her own.  They have trouble trusting themselves. Why do I not trust my instincts enough? I don't know.  I can immediately recognize when I should have trusted my instincts - heated pressure in my chest usually being the first clue.  Often it's too late to change my actions, but sometimes I get lucky and can gracefully remove myself from a situation, a commitment, or, most recently, a lease.  If not, I can at least have a good laugh about the large desk occupying my storage unit that I knew from the very beginning I never should have agreed to keep.  Anyone want a free desk? My mom snapped a picture last night of my friend-the-bride and me on the dance floor as I'm cupping my mouth and leaning forward to say something into her ear.  Ten years ago an identical photo of us was published in the society pages of the Oregonian when we had volunteered for a charity auction together.  I'm going to send her copies of both photos in a card telling her how much I love our friendship - and maybe mention how cute I think her brother is. But, seriously - anyone want a free desk?

Old Blog - 5.07.2008

Wednesday, May 07, 2008 

Shades of gray wherever I go... the more I found out the less that I know. I found my first gray hair the day before my 24th birthday.  Two days before my 25th, I ran into my second.  What a fun recurring birthday gift - small but present reminders that my age is increasing in number and decreasing in charm.  One gray hair per year, actually, is pretty humorous and not nearly as intimidating as the baby spider veins on my legs.  But I'm not too terribly concerned about those either.  Yet.  I think, so far, I'm getting better with age.  I feel considerably improved at 25, particularly on the inside.  Except for my left kidney.  But that's another blog to be entitled, This Too Shall Pass. About six weeks ago I got down on my knees and prayed, "God, if Cintia gets her visa I promise I won't say another hateful word about ____ and ____."  And then, a week later, I got a call from my mom that it had been denied.  I was just on my way into Fred Meyer when I got the call and ended up wandering the baking aisle in a fog, black mascara tears streaming down my face as I compared prices on chocolate chips.  I felt ill on my stomach to again be on the periphery of another injustice  –  to have another one of my kids be denied entrance into our "free country" simply because they are poor.   Lamenting to my father about this the next day, I grumbled that God hadn't followed through on His end of my bargain.  My dad replied, "You know what I think?  Keep up your end of the deal anyway." So I did - and you know what?  It's not as hard as I thought and it's the best I've ever felt.  The hate is draining right out of my heart: words like "douchebag" aren't as tempting and my blood doesn't boil at the sound of someone's name.  And it turns out that God complies a lot more easily with bargains if you agree to make the first move.  So sure enough, last week I got a text from Cintia that read, "Hi friend!! The embassy called us, we are going to get our visaaa!" Okay so it's not water into wine, but it's still pretty cool.  I am elated. I have acquired several other random but useful nuggets of wisdom in my first quarter century.  Here is merely a sampling: Don't put a metal pot in the microwave. Don't leave the new guy I'm dating at my house if I have to leave for work in the morning.  It leaves an awkward situation for my poor roommate. Running into someone I know on the street is never a coincidence.  There is always some kind of serendipity or divine planning behind it and probably means we should go get lunch. It's good to give people a chance, but that doesn't mean I have to pass my phone number out like Halloween candy.  Don't mock my boss in the office.  Whoops. Sure I can do anything I want, but it doesn't mean I should do it all at once.  Down time is a beautiful thing. Age and/or professional status have no correlation to maturity. If I'm afraid to do something, it probably means I should do it. It's good to have money in savings. I am not a jukebox, so no I do not have to sing on command. The Psalms give out some of the best comfort and advice. I have a better day if my bed is made. The person or people who invented pre-existing condition clauses will have to work extra hard not to be sent directly to hell in the hereafter. People can and do change.  Don't hold grudges.  Forgiveness works in everybody's favor. I called my party this weekend my ventiCinco de Mayo.  Lindsay was in town, I raised $68 for SMART, my friends are becoming friends with each other, and Reece asked, "What'll it BE ladies??" 25 was kicked off right.  I'm looking forward to this year and the shiny gray hair it earns

Old Blog - 3.17.2008

Monday, March 17, 2008 

Bestest Place I got five hours of sleep on Saturday night.  Not only was I behaving irresponsibly the night before a race/audition - drinking margaritas and Coronas, shouting in a smoky karaoke bar, batting my eyes at a Complicated Situation - I also had nerves that wouldn’t rest. I awoke at 6:30 with anxious blood pumping through my veins and got up because I knew I wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. I was so stressed out. I wanted to wish the day away so my stomach would stop doing gymnastics.   I ran the Shamrock Run in 48 minutes and 41 seconds.  During that run I told CS the entire Douchebag story (from about ten minutes before the gun went off until Mile 2), did cartwheels up Barbur Blvd (sometime after Mile 3), threw back a mini-cup of green beer (most of which slopped down my chin - Mile 4), and ran like Phoebe across the Finish Line.  My knee didn’t hurt until the last mile, to which CS suggested I hop on one foot. That only was fun for about five hops, so I just sucked it up and powered through.  I placed 93rd out of 199 females ages 20-24.  Clearly I wasn’t competing for any substantial award, but it was nice to know that in my first race ever I was faster than over half the girls my age.   By 10:45 I was back at my apartment and getting ready for my callback.  My runner’s high lasted through my shower and breakfast, but began to crash as I blow-dried my hair.  By the time I left the house I had declared to my roommate at least three times, "I’m not firing on all cylinders." I don’t quite know what that means.  But I wasn’t.    Then from 1:45 to 5:00 I sat among the other Broadway Rose hopefuls.  I looked at all of the young girls called back for Eponine and had my first legitimate age crisis. Am I old? I’m old. I’m too old to be here. Why am I here???   The director seemed to think the same thing. After I sang, he sweetly asked how old I am and then suggested I come back in to sing for Fantine instead.  So after more waiting, I went back in and sang I Dreamed A Dream. Now I realize as a musical theatre girl who grew up in the 90s I should know that song forward and backwards, but I don’t. I also noticed that not only had I been the oldest Eponine, I was then the youngest Fantine to be called back. Whatever. I couldn’t care too much. I needed electrolytes and protein. I needed sleep.   Except that at some point during my time chilling and mingling in the common waiting room, I had agreed to someone else that I would drive even further into upper-class suburbia to sing for his show that night. I hadn’t even planned to audition for that show because of my schedule, but suddenly I couldn’t control my mouth that formed the word: "Yes". The next thing I know, I’m in another studio looking at music I’ve never even heard before.    But the thing is, I wailed. I belted an E.  But I didn’t just belt an E. I sang that note like someone else would belt an E - someone better, someone more trained or committed.  Someone who is not me.  I belted an E as easily as I can type an E on a keyboard - without hardly breathing, without hardly realizing what I’m doing. E.  You know, like that.    Strength and courage are used in varying degrees throughout the course of each day, yes, but then there are the moments that hang proudly in your mind like little ribbons on a bulletin board.  I received several little ribbons in a 24-hour period. I have the "I Ran 8k Without Walking, Getting Hurt, or Finishing Last" ribbon. I have the "I Sang Confidently in an Audition Even Though I Don’t Take Regular Voice Lessons or Diet Obsessively Anymore" ribbon.  I have the "I Said No to a Very Complicated Situation Despite How Much I Enjoyed Cartwheels and Coaster Flipping" ribbon. They look very nice there, dangling in my mind.    I clutched onto these ribbons today when I told the Douchebag’s friend over the phone, "I’ve got a lot going on and, frankly, don’t have any interest in getting together and chatting with you." They were my talismans against douchiness.   Cintia finds out Wednesday if she gets her Visa.  If she does, she’ll be living with my parents for a year and becoming my sister more than she already is. I would offer to send her my ribbons, but I’m pretty sure hers are cooler than mine anyway.

Old Blog - 1.14.2008

Monday, January 14, 2008 

New Acquaintances and a Cocktail Napkin. Current mood:  amused  Category: Parties and Nightlife My Nana Drinks Manhattans       by Greg's Birthday Clan My Nana drinks Manhattans She drinks them all the time Whiskey or bourbon is just fine Thank your lucky stars, it's Man-hatty time, Baby! But each morning she'll eat bananas And take the red-eye to Atlanta She'll drink some more Mylanta And take a nap by Santa 'til the heartburn goes She drinks Manhattans by the bucketful She drinks Manhattans, my Nana drinks Manhattans until her old lady bladder's full.

Old Blog - 12.18.2007

Tuesday, December 18, 2007 

Restless Current mood:  mellow "Who put those yellow stickies on the train?" he demanded. "Where is the train going?" she asked, just to antagonize him. "Macaroni and Cheese." he responded with conviction. She remained flat on her back, screaming as loud as silence would allow. No answer. Now she crouches next to the toilet and notices more yellow stickies adorning the shadows on the wall. She's not one of those girls who hurts herself to get attention. She just needs to escape the nausea. And she wonders if another had found the snoring endearing.

Old Blog - 11.23.2007

Friday, November 23, 2007 

Powers Marianna and I were talking recently about how journaling and blogging seem to be inspired more often during adversity, or at least through solitude. I journal fairly regularly, but it definitely develop more organically when I have something I'm working through.  And while interesting thoughts are constantly spinning in my head, they haven't been able to find their way to verbalization lately when I have sat down to a computer. Granted, I've been busy. I've also found that an easier way to decompress from my day is to burst uninvited into Marianna's room when she's trying to concentrate on Chinese calligraphy or biochemistry or something qi. Tonight I'm at my parents' house, licking sweet potato remnants off a plate at 1:30 in the morning and finally allowing reflection to find articulation.  I can't believe what time of the year it is. Wasn't summer last week? I am beginning to understand why people suffer from age crises year after year. When your life is no longer dictated by a school year, the weeks and the months mesh together until a holiday or birthday arrives and you pause to wonder: 'Am I doing enough?' A boy told me tonight that I'm a "girl with a plan" - that I seem to have focus and future-intent on everything I am doing. He hasn't known me that long. Should I tell him it's all a facade? I think I do a good job making people believe that I'm focused or that I've got my shit together. The truth is, I don't know what the hell I'm doing. One day I want to pack up and move to South America, the next day I fantasize about how I can move up and make SMART better, and the next day I toy with thoughts of grad school. I have days that I relish being single; I have days when I worry I'll never meet someone who makes sense with me. I strive to live in the present, but I spend far too much time future-tripping. And yet without much sense of direction, I seem to find where I want to go. I am continually encountering new relationships or rekindling old ones that affect me positively. I cry out for purpose and it is revealed. And while I have remained geographically in the same spot for over a year, I am nowhere near where I was a year ago. It's so beautiful and awesome to turn around and see how the dominoes have fallen.  I sometimes get overcome with guilt for all of the good in my life. I don't know what has allowed me to have all of the lovely people in my life who love me in return. I haven't done shit to reap all of the good fortune I continue to reap. The cynical side of me wants to believe that I must have suffered in a past life - or that I will suffer in a future life. The optimistic side of me, which I hope wins out, believes that we have as much happiness in our life as we want to have. And me? I want happiness. I seek it out. I claw at it aggressively and demand nothing less but to be trembling, beating, exuding, and exhaling joy. And I find it everywhere. I worry when I write reflections that people will read them and roll their eyes, thinking they are cheesy or dumb. But what I figure is that nobody has to read them if they don't want to. I love to know that people read what I write but, really, I'm doing it for me. But maybe, just maybe, somebody (or everybody) is going through a similar process and can take something away with them that's familiar. If so, I'm glad you stopped by. It's nice to know I'm in good company.