Old Blog - 10.23.2006

Monday, October 23, 2006 

You'll Find it at Freddy's. I regressed a little bit on Saturday. I've been bragging for a month now about how much calmer I feel, how de-stressed, how much less anxiety I have now that I am back in Portland, but this weekend I had a brief relapse.   I'm in the produce section of Fred Meyer to pick up a couple things before heading to Miss Ashlee's for dinner. I pass by this guy with a thick scruffy beard in a bright orange t-shirt who decided at that precise moment to let out a belch. Not a burp - a long, gurgling, resounding belch that was released just as our paths crossed.   "Jesus Christ!" I shriek as I glare back at him. "What?!" asks Bearded Orange slob. "That's disgusting!" I declare and storm off toward the lettuce... just in time to catch another slovenly moron, buzzed head and white t-shirt, with his index finger shoved up his nose farther than I thought was humanly possible. ARE. YOU. SERIOUS.   "Oh my GOD what is WRONG with people???" I shout to no one in particular as I exit the produce section at lightning speed, another belch echoing in the distance.   About ten minutes later, I pass the two disgusting creatures again in the dairy section. I should have guessed that the two were friends. It even made me wonder for a second if I had been the victim of some belching/nose-picking practical joke a la Candid Camera or Boiling Point - but a second glance at these guys makes me quite certain that they weren't at all prank-savvy; they were just miserable poor-mannered pricks.   As if on cue upon seeing me, Orange lets out another impressively revolting belch. "You're an ASSHOLE." I hiss. "Hey that's no way to behave, that's rude!" says Buzz. "I'M rude??" I demand as I whip around. "He belched in my ear like a _FUCKING_ _ANIMAL_!" I enunciated every letter of the last two words like I was in Tracy Salter's Acting Styles class. "Such language! Get right with God!" Buzz says with a sneer. The Slobs continue on their way.. completely unruffled.   THEY were unruffled. I, on the other hand, was absolutely boiling. This is how I felt everyday when I was in New York: angry, bitter, on the edge of exploding, wanting the asshole-of-the-moment get what was coming to him. I can blame New York all I want for these random incidents of rudeness, but Saturday it happened in Portland.   So really, I think it's time to find some coping devices. Obviously I am in a better spot than I was two months ago, but I still have to be prepared that every now and then I will come across an asshole and have to deal with it. Even Portland has assholes; in fact, one of them just invited my parents to go to Argentina with him next spring. What?   Yesterday after an afternoon of intense dress shopping, Cintia and I returned to my apartment to decompress. Cintia curled up on my couch and was asleep in minutes. I opened my doors and windows, played the appropriately-titled "Music for a Sunday Afternoon" mix (*shout-out* to Roommate!), sipped on a Diet Snapple, and caught up on little household chores that had evaded me all weekend. During this, I felt this intense warmth come over me.    I didn't think there was any way I could love another Conduit of Hope kid like I love Jonathan - and then Cintia walked into my life. It started out as me reaching out to an exchange student, but now she is a true friend. She has quickly become one of my most favorite people to hang out with - her charm transcends any language barriers. And she keeps me grounded.  I think she must be an old soul. I don't know how somebody can have so much maturity and poise at 21 when she has never even ventured out of her own neighborhood until six weeks ago.   I was brimming with quiet positivity all day Sunday for no apparent reason other than the satisfaction of being in a good space with good company. As a matter of fact, I was in various good spaces with various good company all weekend. Lots of loving affirmation from important people in my life - affirmation that, I hate to admit, is still very necessary for me.   The more I think about it, the sillier I feel about my altercation with the Slobs at Fred Meyer. I don't know that my behavior was any more dignified than theirs. They were participating in gross bodily functions in public, yes, but I screamed "FUCKING ANIMAL" in front of a bunch of people - I don't remember who all was around, but with my luck it was most likely old people and children and nuns.    Maybe I should feel sorry for the Slobs. Maybe they didn't have proper Southern parents like I did to teach them manners or to let them come home for dinner twice a week. Maybe they don't have friends who drink coffee or red wine with them and listen to all the minute details of the latest interaction with an ex. Maybe they don't have people who call or e-mail to check in and don't hold it against them when they aren't returned right away. Maybe they don't have brunch buddies. Maybe they don't have international friends to give them some perspective. Maybe they don't have Super Nanc. Maybe they don't have Portable Roommate.   So I regressed a little bit on Saturday.. but just a little.

Old Blog - 10.02.2006

Monday, October 02, 2006 

Take it to the Coda. Current mood:  amused I received the last of my boxes last week. The box itself looked like it had been dragged behind the mail truck all the way from Jersey; inside the box, however, was even more amusing. One of my books was missing, the jacket of another book had disappeared, my Goonies DVD was removed from its case, and ALL of my headshots and postcards were gone. Yes, the postcards with my e-mail and phone number displayed clearly on them. That's right.  If that wasn't enough to creep me out, there were also items in the box that were NOT mine. First, and this is what had made me think for a second that I was on the receiving end of a cute little joke, was an unopened DVD called "Knowing Jesus Christ through the Mormon Church." I mean really, that's too classic. But then -- wha? A DVD about Mike Tyson? And a very used copy of "Things to Do and See in Greenville, South Carolina"? What? Two days later, I received an e-mail from the postmaster in Grand Rapids, Michigan, letting me know that he found a slew of my postcards and headshots scattered around the post office. He asked me for an address where he could send them "free of charge". How nice of them not to charge me for sending MY shit that got swiped from MY box that I paid them to send safely to me! Nevertheless, I e-mailed a big friendly "thank you!!" that included my parents' address, and two days later my pictures arrived at my house. Except, well, I only got five headshots. I'm pretty sure there were about a hundred in my box when it left Guttenberg. Can't help but wonder where they ended up. I try not to wonder too much, though, because my imagination can get kind of vivid, and that's not good when you're a young single girl living alone. And SPEAKING of being single, I definitely gave out my number on Friday in the most ghetto suburban tacky fabulous way. Sitting in my car at a major intersection on the way to see Ragtime at Lakewood... window down because the weather was perfect, singing to one of my nostalgic happy songs that had surprised me on the radio, when... "HEY. HELLO!" I turn to see two boys in the car to my left. Cute. I think. "What's your name??" Boy sitting shotgun shouts. "Ohhh hahahahaha.." I deflect with forced laughter. The light refuses to change. Beat. Beat. Beat. "So... how ya guys doin?" "What were you singing??" Demands Shotgun. A slightly embarrassed/awkward grin. "Um...Counting Crows?" "OH MY GOD!" Shotgun whips out his cell phone. "I'm getting your number. I'm from Arizona!!" I think the connection I was supposed to make there was that the Counting Crows are from Arizona; therefore he has some kind of sentimental place in his heart for them and any girl who sings along in her car must be the girl for him. That or he needed some excuse not to seem like the random guy in the car next to me demanding my digits.    Okay so seriously, I am not this girl. I'm the girl who had no problem telling the creeps on 8th Avenue to fuck off. I don't believe in encouraging stupid behavior like horn honking or shouting at strangers. You think a girl is cute? BE A FUCKING GENTLEMAN. All girls deserve to be complimented, flattered, and asked out in a nice and decent way. I don't take someone seriously if they are asking me out without manners. Shouting from a car is poor manners and it pisses me off.   But... I was in a great mood. I felt pretty in my brown dress, Mr. Jones was on the radio, and I was meeting three of my favorite girls for a long overdue Happy Hour before a night at the theater. And, well, I kind of wanted to do something to stick a sharp pin in the arrogance of a certain condescending psuedo medical man who shall remain nameless.  So the next thing I knew, I was calling out my phone number to Shotgun, (Whose name I then learned is Demetrius. Of course it is.) before the light turned green and I turned onto Terwilliger. I have to admit, it was liberating.   It's nice being back. Everything seems different and nothing seems different all at the same time. And I have a kick-ass balcon

Old Blog - 9.17.2006

Sunday, September 17, 2006 

Is this like putting a mirror to a mirror? Current mood:  mellow  Category: Blogging Alright so I have to admit... the anxiety of the first day back at church was equivalent to the first day back in classes my senior year at UNC: I couldn't go to sleep last night. After watching the entire Anything Goes video from my sophomore year at Valley with my dad, I then retired to my room at about 1:30 to read old journal entries until I finally turned off my light at a quarter to three. What's with all of the weird nostalgia, you ask? Well, I had spent the earlier part of my Saturday in the attic with my mom, digging through boxes to find stuff she can throw away and, more importantly, stuff I can take/borrow/steal for my new apartment (<-- insert heavenly choir ahh here upon mention of the new apartment: !!!AHHHHHH!!!). In the process, we also dug through boxes and boxes of "family archives" -- old papers and projects and letters my sister and I wrote when we were little. One in particular that made us laugh til we cried was a letter my dad made me write him in 1992 as a punishment for not looking him in the eye when he was lecturing me. The assignment was to write why it was important to have manners. I managed to write a page and a half of stellar bullshit persuasion, but this was the clincher: "In conclusion, you should be polite and have manners because if you don't, no one will like you and you will have no one to play with." I forgot how much I used to write back in my other life - my life before UNC convinced me that if I had interests outside of theatre, I'd never make it in my career. There was one box entirely full of journals. Over a dozen. Not all diary journals, although at least half of them were. Others were quote journals or dream journals or poetry journals. I used to write poetry. A lot. I used to scribble it in the margins of my notebooks during class in high school. I only did it for myself, though. I think only once in four years did I submit something to be published in the Harbinger. I was scared to death of the judgment that would come on my writing. I was afraid people would say what I already thought about my work - that it was cheesy or cliche or stupid. But now looking back, it wasn't that bad. Okay, some of it was - some it was painfully contrived. But some of it was actually very good. As for my diary journals, I like playing the game where I turn to an entry from on or around today's date from another year  and see what I wrote about -- what was going on in my life at the time. Here are a few excerpts: 1996: "I can't help but feel hurt. For me and all the youngest children out there, who will always be treated like a little kid." 2001: "I'm still in disbelief that people could be that heartless to do something that would affect the entire American way of life. Is this something that's going to last for years and years?" 2002: "I can't believe how secure I am about this... I can't believe this kind of thing actually happens in real life. I can't believe I'm this lucky." 2003: "I ask myself what I'm going to do with my life and kick myself for not working hard enough." 2004: "I can't believe I didn't. It would have been so easy, I don't know why I am such a nervous wussy. I wish my journal entries would stop sounding like a 12 year-old wrote them - good God am I really regressing that much??" 2005 is packed up in my most recent journal that is being sent across the US via the slowest rate in USPS history, but I'm pretty sure that was during my chronicle of my hopeless infatuation with a much older man. And 2006? Well, this is it. Blogging has competely changed the structure of my journaling. I guess it really doesn't matter because either way, what's in my head gets written and processed. But sometimes I think I should just give you all a break and pick up a pen and shut this damn machine off Because if I don't, no one will like me and I will have no one to play with.

Old Blog - 9.07.2006

Thursday, September 07, 2006 

Three days... Current mood:  tired I'm sitting here paralyzed in an apartment full of half-attempts to pack up my life again.  The only logical solution I could think of was to procrastinate a bit longer through the wonderful internet drug of myspace.com. How the FUCK do I have so much stuff??? You don't understand. Today I hauled THREE large Del Frisco's shopping bags to the Salvation Army about a half a mile from my house. Every third of a block I would have to put the bags down and re-group and re-shift before continuing on my way. Last week in my insane adventure home to interview at Laika, I brought a suitcase full of winter clothes and shoes and dumped it in my parents' guest bedroom. I have given an armload of things to both my sister and Rochelle. And yesterday I packed up two boxes to send through the post office media rate. Now tonight as I finished packing a miscellaneous box and one of my two allotted suitcases, I am a little frightened at the mess that remains. It looks as if I haven't even begun. I have ONE suitcase left. That's it. I had promised myself I would only ship one non-media box and get the rest into two suitcases. Now I am down to one empty suitcase to fill with EVERYTHING ELSE? I am appalled with myself. I thought after my epiphany in Argentina I could at least start nodding in the direction of a less-materialistic existence. Well apparently I still have quite a bit to learn. Despite the disastrous state of my packing process, the rest of my life seems to be the least tumultuous it has been in months. I'm finding answers to questions. I'm admitting outloud what has been tormenting me in my head. I'm taking steps in a direction that's putting peace in my heart and loosening the tightness in my chest. I'm starting to uncover some purpose. More specifically, I'm moving back to Portland. I got a job with a company that can keep me in the entertainment industry but pull me out of the unconventional lifestyle I have been drowning in. I will have insurance again and access to a car. I can sit with my mom at church.  Jonathan got his visa and will be moving back in with my family for six months. I have so many people telling me they love me and support me in what I'm choosing to do. A few things still giving me anxiety, of course, but they are completely out of my control and I just have to let them unfold as they are supposed to do. That's what I'm telling myself, anyway. But frankly, I'm too excited to feel too terribly overwhelmed or anxious. I'm ready to be out of this city. I'm ready for theatre to be a source of joy for me again. I'm ready to be home without a timer ticking away. I'm ready for whatever comes at me next. And, taking a cue from Felicia, I want to extend a few thank yous: *To My Sister, for not holding it against me that I was a complete Debbie Downer on her birthday. For coming over and spending the night in Jersey when she had to work the next day. For convincing me to go away for Labor Day. For taking me to [title of show]. And a whole bunch of other stuff. *To Rochelle, for the many nights of commiserating. For wine nights on Blvd East. For saying, "Hell if I was from a cool place like Portland I'd want to go home too." *To Megan, for the sweet intention of a letter she ripped up and threw in my garbage hoping I'd never read it. But I did. *To Sarah, for already promising a visit to Portland in Oct/Nov. And for sending her first free pound of coffee to me via Kreykes Express. *To Lindsay, for all of the phone call check-ins where she might as well just be called my therapist *To Miss Ashlee, for not getting upset when I told her that her trip to New York will have to be postponed. *To Rebekah, for seeming like a Portlander even though she's a Jersey girl. For being my friend. *To Thomas, for offering to come out to Jersey to help me carry my boxes to the post office. *To Marianna, for generously sharing her perspective. *To Felicia, for hearting me. And for giving me this idea to thank people. *To Oz, for starting a countdown. *To Nanc, for her constant verbal affirmation. *To Williams, for his persistence in the face of phone tag. *To Amy, for her supportive e-mail. *To Rachel, for sharing some damn good chocolate cake with me. *To Shannon, for unknowingly sparking inspiration. Thanks guys!  Now if someone will magically make the rest of this mess in my apartment disappear, I promise to dedicate an entire blog to why they kick ass.

Old Blog - 8.17.2006

Thursday, August 17, 2006 

It also isn't about fluorescent lighting, Dean and Deluca, or any singer named Bryan. Current mood:  lazy  Category: Blogging I don't have to work until 8 tonight. Makes me feel like baking. Whenever I have a day to myself and no pressing obligations or commitments, I just want to stay at home in my pajamas and bake. I made blueberry-banana bread and chocolate-chip cookies about a week and a half ago and brought some into work to share with my fellow ho-stesses. They all looked at me bizarrely with astonished gratitude. I mean, who bakes in New York? I realize that identified me as the transplant Oregon girl whose feelings still get hurt by strangers on the street and who gawks at the price of food at the bodegas (but really, 5.99 for a small box of Cheerios?? you people are sick bastards.) But it made the night at Del Frisco's so much better to have something home-baked hidden in the coat check for all of the girls to sneak bites of when they needed a moment's break from the floor. Spending many consecutive hours on the floor, in heels, in one of the busiest restaurants in Manhattan, where the majority of the clientele consists of men with too much money, power, and too little respect... well, it gets ya down. But that's not what this blog is about. Anyway, I don't think I'll get any baking done today. Haven't really gotten much of anything done today except some necessary morning coffee chatting with Ro and a few minor household chores. I'm in this ongoing process of getting rid of books, clothing, random crap I don't use enough to justify keeping. I wouldn't say I'm becoming a minimalist.. just trying to eschew unnecessary clutter. I think that if my life were a bit more organized and a bit less cluttered, I would be able to release some anxiety and unsettled feelings. But this blog isn't about anxiety and unsettled feelings. Sometimes things need to be saved for your private personal journal. And sometimes, writing about them simply leads to dwelling on them, which only perpetuates the anxiety. So instead, taking a cue from "100 Simple Secrets of Happy People", (which Rochelle subtly passed to me for bus-reading material when I was walking out the door the other day) I choose to highlight some recent neat moments: *Orin, the bar manager at St. Andrew's pub on 44th Street, brought me a glass of wine on the house when Ro and I were there for a late lunch/early dinner a couple weeks ago. He wasn't trying to hit on me, wasn't trying to get me drunk, wasn't trying to use it to sell something else. Just came over to the table and said a glass of wine was on the house. And of course I chose the Argentine Malbec. *The doorman at Ripley-Grier, who recognized me when I came two days in a row, and asked excitedly, "Do you have a callback??" When I nodded he gave me a high-five. *A 20-dollar tip passed to me from a couple visiting from Oklahoma who I chatted with as I poured water one night on the floor. They said I was much better than their server who had "no personality", and they wanted to help out a starving actress. (A much more generous gift than, say, a 100 shoved into my palm by a dirty old man. But this blog isn't about that either.) *A lovely day in Central Park with a rowboat, nostalgia, and a dangerous margarita. Makes me think of Summer of 69. *Learning Chinese with the bounce-along lyrics after haggling for a purse for ten dollars less than the asking price. Please see the video Megan left in my comments for further amusement. *Declaring my love to Brian D'arcy James in a most ungraceful and hypocritical manner minutes after telling Megan to be cool and not run to the stage door after the show. *Seeing quite possibly the worst play ever written, directed, and performed  and yet still having the best time because I was hanging out with my new friend Rebekah somewhere other than a soul-stifling reservations office with fluorescent lighting. *Eating sinfully good Dean and Deluca brownies with my sister as we played "The Real Game of Life" (a product of Portland's Saturday Market) on her living room floor. We split a cheesecake brownie and a Snicker's brownie and after the last bite when we both thought our stomachs were going to explode, we still couldn't decide which one was better. *My latest e-mail from Yoni, which included the following - and this is a direct quote: "Well, I understand you because often the distance destroy the relation, but well the life continuous and is necessary to live it." Yoni knows.

Old Blog - 8.17.2006

Thursday, August 17, 2006 

It also isn't about fluorescent lighting, Dean and Deluca, or any singer named Bryan. Current mood:  lazy  Category: Blogging I don't have to work until 8 tonight. Makes me feel like baking. Whenever I have a day to myself and no pressing obligations or commitments, I just want to stay at home in my pajamas and bake. I made blueberry-banana bread and chocolate-chip cookies about a week and a half ago and brought some into work to share with my fellow ho-stesses. They all looked at me bizarrely with astonished gratitude. I mean, who bakes in New York? I realize that identified me as the transplant Oregon girl whose feelings still get hurt by strangers on the street and who gawks at the price of food at the bodegas (but really, 5.99 for a small box of Cheerios?? you people are sick bastards.) But it made the night at Del Frisco's so much better to have something home-baked hidden in the coat check for all of the girls to sneak bites of when they needed a moment's break from the floor. Spending many consecutive hours on the floor, in heels, in one of the busiest restaurants in Manhattan, where the majority of the clientele consists of men with too much money, power, and too little respect... well, it gets ya down. But that's not what this blog is about. Anyway, I don't think I'll get any baking done today. Haven't really gotten much of anything done today except some necessary morning coffee chatting with Ro and a few minor household chores. I'm in this ongoing process of getting rid of books, clothing, random crap I don't use enough to justify keeping. I wouldn't say I'm becoming a minimalist.. just trying to eschew unnecessary clutter. I think that if my life were a bit more organized and a bit less cluttered, I would be able to release some anxiety and unsettled feelings. But this blog isn't about anxiety and unsettled feelings. Sometimes things need to be saved for your private personal journal. And sometimes, writing about them simply leads to dwelling on them, which only perpetuates the anxiety. So instead, taking a cue from "100 Simple Secrets of Happy People", (which Rochelle subtly passed to me for bus-reading material when I was walking out the door the other day) I choose to highlight some recent neat moments: *Orin, the bar manager at St. Andrew's pub on 44th Street, brought me a glass of wine on the house when Ro and I were there for a late lunch/early dinner a couple weeks ago. He wasn't trying to hit on me, wasn't trying to get me drunk, wasn't trying to use it to sell something else. Just came over to the table and said a glass of wine was on the house. And of course I chose the Argentine Malbec. *The doorman at Ripley-Grier, who recognized me when I came two days in a row, and asked excitedly, "Do you have a callback??" When I nodded he gave me a high-five. *A 20-dollar tip passed to me from a couple visiting from Oklahoma who I chatted with as I poured water one night on the floor. They said I was much better than their server who had "no personality", and they wanted to help out a starving actress. (A much more generous gift than, say, a 100 shoved into my palm by a dirty old man. But this blog isn't about that either.) *A lovely day in Central Park with a rowboat, nostalgia, and a dangerous margarita. Makes me think of Summer of 69. *Learning Chinese with the bounce-along lyrics after haggling for a purse for ten dollars less than the asking price. Please see the video Megan left in my comments for further amusement. *Declaring my love to Brian D'arcy James in a most ungraceful and hypocritical manner minutes after telling Megan to be cool and not run to the stage door after the show. *Seeing quite possibly the worst play ever written, directed, and performed  and yet still having the best time because I was hanging out with my new friend Rebekah somewhere other than a soul-stifling reservations office with fluorescent lighting. *Eating sinfully good Dean and Deluca brownies with my sister as we played "The Real Game of Life" (a product of Portland's Saturday Market) on her living room floor. We split a cheesecake brownie and a Snicker's brownie and after the last bite when we both thought our stomachs were going to explode, we still couldn't decide which one was better. *My latest e-mail from Yoni, which included the following - and this is a direct quote: "Well, I understand you because often the distance destroy the relation, but well the life continuous and is necessary to live it." Yoni knows.

Old Blog - 7.14.2006

Friday, July 14, 2006 

So there's that. Current mood:  contemplative  Category: Life While I was home last week, the Doctor and I went to the Sweet Oregon Grill on a Wednesday for a lunch date and an hour later it ended with me driving away angry and huffy because of something he said as we were hugging goodbye. Friday morning the Sweet Oregon Grill had burned to the ground. Seriously. My life is THAT symbolic. Okay, so I'm being dramatic.. but the Sweet Oregon Grill really did burn down. And leaving Portland on Monday night might have been the hardest goodbye I've ever done. Picture, if you will, an emotional Me hyperventilating so hard at the American Airlines check-in that they didn't even weigh my bags - they just tagged them and pointed me in the direction of security screening. (The plus of this scenario is that my bags had to have been about 60 pounds each -- being an emotional wreck definitely saved me at least 50 bucks.) I then continued on to my red-eye that provided no pillows or blankets and was probably the coldest flight I've ever been on. So NOW picture a slightly subdued emotional Me with my UNC sweatshirt zipped up to my chin and my hood cinched tightly around my head as I leaned my face against the hard window to sleep. I took a break in Dallas to change planes and cry some more before I got on my second uncomfortable and pillow/blanket-less flight to LaGuardia where I proceeded to cry until I got on my shuttle to Port Authority. It was a rough 24 hours, to say the least. But here I am. While I was gone from New York, winter became summer. I feel funny leaving my apartment now without grabbing a hat or scarf because it was such a habit for the three months I lived here previously. This city seems completely different to me with warm weather. Even with the humidity and mugginess and the fact that I am sweating at 7:45 in the morning as I walk into work, I think I'm going to enjoy these next few months a lot better than I did January through April.  Rochelle and I took our breaks together at the same time today and we spent it at Lou's Cafe on 53rd and 6th at an outside table so she could get food and I could get an iced coffee. I had stopped at Lou's several times this winter to get a latte on my breaks from Del Frisco's because their foam was, well, outstanding. Now I have discovered their brilliant iced lattes that magically have the beautiful foam resting on top of the ice. How do they DO that?? My dad called this evening as my sister and I were getting slightly drunk off of white-cranberry vodkas in her new apartment in Inwood. We had Jimmy Buffett playing; I was broiling chicken breasts and cooking some fresh vegetables I bought in the market at Rockefeller Center while Courtney tried with minimal success at assembling a fan and a shower caddy. My father only listened to me rant about my sister's lack of a cutting board and decent sized frying pan for a minute before he told me to put my sister on the phone. Courtney insists that he knew we were buzzed; I contend that he was just strapped for time and had to go. Whatever. I sat on the floor of her living room and munched on my zucchini and squash and laughed until my gut hurt as she showed me her newest bit about the interning therapist who always says the wrong thing. (Do you know my sister? Ask her to do this for you. Tell her I sent you.) I am contemplating which pretty sundress to wear for my sister's birthday party tomorrow night. I'm thinking about trying to catch some Shakespeare in the Park one of these weekends. And I think I'm going to go for a run again tomorrow along Boulevard East next to the beautiful NYC skyline like I did this morning. I want to keep up the good behavior that the Doctor has inspired in me. Running is the least of these, but it's the easiest to blog about without looking like some moron pontificating on her myspace blogging soapbox. Or like some nostalgic, sentimental broken heart. I may be all of these things, but I don't necessarily have to subject other people to it. "Don't get me wrong: grief sucks; it really does.  Unfortunately, though, avoiding it robs us of life, of the now, of a sense of living spirit... whatever you use to keep the pain at bay robs you of the flecks and nuggets of gold that grief will give you... grief ends up giving you the two best things: softness and illumination."                --Annie Lamott