I Yust Go Nuts at Christmas

If you look you will see
that this world is beautiful,
accident, turbulent, succulent,
opulent, permanent, no way;
I wanna taste it,
Don't wanna waste it away . . .

Avril Lavigne, "Anything But Ordinary"

I think that one of the words that comes to my mind to describe the Christmas season at home is "crowded." Siblings gather at the family home, so the bathrooms, the bedrooms, and the table is crowded, and at the end of meals the countertop is crowded with dishes. The walls, the banister, and every available flat surface is crowded with decorations, beloved things we pull out every year. The Christmas tree is crowded with an eclectic assortment of ornaments, from angels made of dried pasta, to school pictures in laminated construction paper, to ornate metal and glass ornaments commemorating trips to Mount Vernon or Baby's First Christmas. The kitchen is full of marshmallows, chocolate chips, and all kinds of Christmas goodies in various stages of production. And soon, we hope, we'll wake up one morning to find the space under the tree crowded with presents.

I grew up in this large family, so by and large I'm used to crowded. Mostly, I love it. I love all the pomp and the music and the decorations, and I love my family. However, as I've gotten older I've discovered what Hollywood has already milked non-stop for their holiday releases: a little contention in a crowded house breeds a lot of discontent. I notice it because I'm used to being on my own much of the year; I'm used to things going my own way and catering only to myself. It's hard to adjust to the expanded mindset of a family household again.

But, you know, it's not THAT hard. Isn't this the season, after all, for being a little more generous, a little more forgiving? For making a little room in the inn, say?

This is what I remind myself when my four-year-old sister crawls on top of me and shoves an inane, too-bright-colored kids book over my laptop. Sigh.

It's the Holiday Season

November came and went like a rug pulled out from under my feet. I'm finding myself in a strange world of being on holiday when everyone else is busy. Having my stuff all packed in boxes stowed in closets throughout the house strengthens that feeling, like I'm a guest instead of a resident, so I forget that this isn't just a vacation, it's supposed to be the start of a new life in a new place. I'm supposed to be Ms. Grown Up Responsible still. That includes getting things done like registering my car, paying bills, finishing up Christmas shopping, and most importantly, keeping in contact with friends new and old.

I confess I'm worst at the keeping-in-touch part. I made a lovely set of friends in England, and I have good friends left behind in Provo, and I'm anxious to keep them, but being so far from them makes it harder to keep tabs. Especially since another tendency of mine in holiday mode is to wholly ditch the cell phone and spend less time at the computer, temporarily exchanging my single social life for family life. I haven't really ever had to mingle those before.

On top of that, I got my annual Thanksgiving tonsillitis/cold. I'm supposed to be responsible and get a job in holiday mode AND with a cold? Someone save me.

Gay Marriage

But before they lay down, the men of the city, even the men of Sodom, compassed the house round, both old and young, all the people from every quarter:
And they called unto Lot, and said unto him, Where are the men which came in to thee this night? bring them out unto us, that we may know [sexual euphemism] them.

Genesis 19:4-5

Homosexuals demanding complete acceptance of their lifestyle. Far-fetched? Not really.

I have tried to write this article about a dozen times. I went for emotional, religious zeal, but then lost the desire to completely bare my soul online, where I might swiftly find it torn to bits. I went for more scientific, trying to explain my thoughts in terms acceptable to the Other Side. But that's where the problem is, in terms. Perspective. Culture. Moral basis.

After awhile the article just became long and unfinished, clogged by my frustration that I can't fully say what I feel and that the people who I would intend it for would never see it or, seeing it, never try to understand my vantage point.

Okay, so clearly people are going to be divided in their values and priorities. We've got left and right, democrat and republican, liberal and conservative, and many other labels for what amounts to the same thing. But why must there always be enmity between the two? I think that there are good things about each side, and that a good balance is what's needed instead of one or the other.

Those who opposed Prop 8 in California see individuals as the basic unit of society. Rational, free-thinking individuals who live and work together by contract and have rights in exchange. They see marriage as a right, and denial of that right as discrimination.

Those who supported Prop 8 see families as the basic unit of society, groups of individuals interdependent on each other, with specific and equally important roles to fill. They value the authority of experience and time-honored tradition. They see marriage as a sacred institution that continues the pattern of families, and the marriage of homosexual couples as antithesis to its fundamental purpose.

They both have some good points and seemingly good intentions, but even when I put my religious beliefs aside temporarily to wear a liberal's equality goggles I can see that only one side, the liberal, opposing side, has been represented at all/favorably in news media surrounding this issue, even in the coverage of the riotous, anti-religious backlash following the election.

I can admit that we have learned a lot of important things from the left. It is important for individuals to feel loved and valued, no matter what their background or station is in life, and it's important that individuals are treated with respect. However, the problem with swinging too far into individualism is that it quickly breeds selfishness, a sense of entitlement (which turns every desire into a "right"), and a disregard for everything not resembling the self. This selfishness naturally upsets the balance of American ideology. Our best universities hire liberal professors who teach their students to question everything, with no qualms at completely disregarding history, traditions, and "old-fashioned" notions of authority and virtue. As a result, conservative thinkers are not allowed in the echelons of today's academic elite; they are considered backwards by self-indulged individuals who hypocritically never question the authority of their own ideas.

This is when the war of ideas becomes less of a quest for truth and more of a quest to be the smartest and free-thinkingest. Liberality must accept every bent of humanity, therefore there can be no right and wrong. Individuals don't know everything, therefore there must be no truth in the world.

I think it's telling that marriage is the latest battleground of this ongoing dispute. It's funny to me that gay people, so anxious to change the tradition of love and family, are fighting so hard to have traditional marriage. But it suits the liberal agenda: marriage is a symbol. Symbols are important to conservatives, and thus become important for liberals to tear down and make their own to achieve what they call equality and I call ideological dictatorship. Seems to me that liberals cherish diversity, unless it's diversity of opinion.

I believe that there are things far more important than a human life. More important than thousands, even millions of human lives. There is truth, and it doesn't matter if hundreds of millions of whining voices say they can't see it so it doesn't exist. There will always be people like me, my family, and other people of faith, quietly raising our families the way God told us to, believing in things greater than ourselves, and, when needed, stepping forward to shape a government we can respect. This month, that amounted to a YES in California and similar wins in other states.

The gay community sees the passage of Prop 8 as a personal offense, because to people obsessed with the individual, everything is about the individual. Let me say, it has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with bringing some restraint and balance back to American society.

Ok, I believe in redemption

This is a man you'll forgive and forgive,
And help and protect, as long as you live . . .

He will not always say
What you would have him say,
But now and then he'll say
Something wonderful!

The thoughtless things he'll do
Will hurt and worry you
Then all at once he'll do
Something wonderful!

. . . A man who needs your love
Can be wonderful.

Rodgers and Hammerstein's The King and I, "Something Wonderful"

Just wanted to express my gratitude for a few signs of hope this week. It makes it easier to believe my Someone is searching for me when I see other men searching too.

Men!

But I can't spell it out for you,
No, it's never gonna be that simple.
No, I can't spell it out for you.

Colbie Caillat, "Realize"

As a single girl, every once in a while I get little glimpses into the single male psyche in regards to love and dating. Sometimes it's touching, surprising, and inspiring. Other times, like the instance prompting this article, it's confusing and extremely frustrating.

Guys: Ask. Girls. On. Dates.

"It's not that simple," whines the collective male spirit.

It's not that complicated either.

I'm frustrated for all the times I looked at a handsome, upstanding young man and thought that if he really knew me, if he could open his eyes and just SEE me, for crying out loud, he would realize that we'd be beautiful together. I'm frustrated for all the time spent carefully conversing with a guy, making him laugh, asking him questions, listening attentively, talking more about him than about me, only to be rewarded with nothing, nothing, nothing for my efforts. A date isn't a random act of kindness, guys; it's repayment, and I feel surrounded by debtors.

Thoughts During a Five-Day Babysit

It doesn't come easy to me,
this talking to kids who are three.
Or getting no thanks for putting them first.
I guiltily long to be free.

I put little Zoey to bed,
left stories and songs in her head.
The door is half open, the hall light is on.
I flop on the ground. I am dead.

A plaintive voice sounds in the hall.
It's Isaak's turn now, after all.
Resentment and guilt weigh me down, pull me up,
and into his bedroom I crawl.

As I read him The Cat in the Hat
in my heart I am terrified that
someday I'll read this to a son of my own
loathing the work I begat.

I tell myself it's not a sign
of how I'd feel if they were mine.
But this practice motherhood's lonely and dreary,
and being a good mom is still just a theory,
I can't even think straight, I'm dirty and weary;
This has to be something divine

because otherwise nobody in their right minds would ever do it.

Getting a Drink in Bath

I was looking through my pictures of Bath to finally get a slideshow set up for my travelblog (check it out!) and came across this picture. I had this article in mind when I took it. It's a statue that was set up by the Temperance Society of Bath during Victorian times, and its caption reads, "Water is Best."

I found this terribly funny because at the time I had been on my feet for hours and hours, was very thirsty, and knew very well that water is harder to come by than alcohol here. There are no public drinking fountains in Bath (or in most of England). Bath is famous for its water, but not the drinkable kind; the vile-tasting, minerally, hot springs kind. For 50p you can get a glass of it at the Pumphouse next to the old Roman Baths.

I didn't realize this when I set out on my first day of adventure in Bath, sans water bottle. I tried to hit all the guided tours and just thought there'd be drinking fountains in the public, touristy places. When I never saw one, I headed back to my hotel. There was a sink in my room, so I figured I'd just have to head back there to get some of the tap water a couple times a day. There were cups in the tray next to the sink, so I filled one up and took a sip - and promptly spat it back out. It was disgusting. Tap water was out.

I remembered that I'd seen some fancified bottled water on my refreshment tray. Two bottles of "mineral water," one "sparkling" and the other "still." I knew I'd tried sparkling mineral water and hated it, but what on earth was the still kind? Why would they posh up the bottle for plain old regular water? I shrugged and opened the bottle, took a swig, and hooray, it tasted like nothing!

They only replaced that bottle once a day, and it was only a couple glasses' worth, so the rest of my water I got from restaurants where I went to have lunch and dinner. That's where I discovered how much more waiters prefer that you order an alcoholic beverage than anything else. Order water in America and some waiters will give you the impression that you're a cheapskate, but in England they think you might be insane. Then they bring it to you in a fancy bottle and charge you pretty much the same as a glass of wine for it, or they'll bring it in a glass, still charge for it, and you have to tackle a waiter to ask for a refill.

In between meals, I went thirsty, which made it harder to walk around seeing the sights. If you ever go to Bath, stock up on water wherever you can find it. Carry water bottles in your purse/backpack! Then you won't be tempted like I was to climb up this statue and put your mouth to the girl's ewer.

Talking Like a Brit

We only lived in England for three years, with only the three oldest of us around, and Ryan was the only one who went to school and developed a distinct accent, but for as long as I can remember we kids have tended to burst out into all forms of British speech, usually when we were feeling particularly silly. I like to say I can pull off the accent because my linguistically formative years were spent on British soil, but we've all been pretty good at accents, born in Ipswich or otherwise. I think you've got to have a good ear to do it, to recognize a different sound and fit your mouth around it. We were always good at making goofy noises.

So the British accent has always been a part of my life. As a child in dress-up clothes, I'd adopt it as part of my regal bearing. I'd affect it as the voice of a crotchety old sea captain. And, for fun, one of my old roommates and I would pretend to be Londoners whenever we went grocery shopping. ("I used to live near Ipswich," I would say truthfully to the cashiers who asked.) And then there are so many different British accents--Cockney, Yorkshire, Northern, Scottish, Irish, etc--it was fun to try and sound them out. One of my fuzzy-round-the-edges dreams about coming to England was to sit in an English pub eating fish and chips, hearing all kinds of British accents sounding off around me, and to join in them and fit in perfectly. I was excited to see if I could fool a Brit into thinking I was British too.

My first reaction to being in a British-speaking country was euphoria. Every time I heard someone using the accent, I wanted to grab the nearest person, grinning like an idiot, and say, "Did you hear that? Can you believe people really talk like that?" I turned on the TV and laughed at commercials for stupid things narrated by perfect British voices. While Americans will save the British accent for high-end automobiles or fine wine or chocolates, here Lord Fustypants sells toilet paper! Lady Straightlace invites you to try this insurance comparison website! They actually say words like "jolly" and "chap"!

In my eagerness to ply the accent with natives, I came across a bit of a conundrum. The Camerons, old family friends, picked me up to stay with them for a few days, and they knew perfectly well that I was an American. Would it be impolite or come off as cockiness to speak to them in a way they didn't expect? I decided to stick with American for the Camerons. When I got settled in my flat, I decided to go with British. The couple who maintain the place (and the adjoining bed and breakfast), Mark and Kay, also know I'm American, but I decided to risk them thinking I'm screwy for the sake of perfecting the lingo. After all, I talk to them more than any other English people.

It's become a bit of an oh-what-a-tangled-web-we-weave. I can't revert fully to British because now I go to church, and the ward here is about half American (military, mostly), half English. Of course everyone asked me where I was from, and of course I didn't lie, so I go with American speech there too. In other day-to-day encounters with people in stores, shopkeepers, and local townsfolk, I usually stick to British, unless I feel like I might need more help (like at a train station in a four-leg trip to Bath). Then I go for American, with a little extra dose of wide, lost-looking eyes. Then if a conversation with a stranger lasts more than half a minute, sometimes I can't remember whether I started out in British or American, or I'll realize I need the American advantage, so I sort of switch in the middle. Fortunately, it's all English, one way or another. I wonder if anyone notices it as much as I do.

After I stopped feeling giddy every time I heard a real British accent, I began feeling embarrassed. I'd spent my whole life seeing the accent as a novelty when yes, duh, that's perfectly ordinary stuff to people here. I felt like it must be obvious to every Brit how much of a naive, gawking American I was. And then for some reason it became harder to distinguish the different accents, like being here blurred my sense for it, and I listened to myself trying to speak the local accent, sometimes coming against words I wasn't sure how to say, if people even used them here. Like "guy," for example; such a basic, oft-used word in the States, but it sounds horrible in British and I haven't found a good replacement for it yet. Was I ever really as good at this accent as I thought? I wondered what Mark and Kay thought of my attempts to talk British with them.

Through it there were signs of hope. A few weeks ago I went to a YSA gathering for the rebroadcast of a CES fireside with Elder Holland. It was really nice to meet young singles my age, and I spent some time talking to a particularly interesting fellow named Jonathan. His accent was different from the others; a very laid-back British, drawled out slowly because otherwise the words would slur together. It was a perfect match for his dry sense of humor. Anyway, we talked about accents and he told me that he thought I'd been from Britain from the start of the activity, when I was introducing myself in my regular American accent. "And when you said you were from Albuquerque, I tried to think where Albuquerque was in the UK," he said. So I guess some of my English intonation is carrying over into my American. I talked to him in American and he wasn't quite convinced I was from there. ("Do you hear these rs?" I said, exaggerating them for him.) I pulled out my regular British accent for his inspection, and he laughed and said it was perfect Cambridge.

"I can do some other ones alright, like Scottish or Cockney," I said.

"Do Cockney!"

I took a minute to summon the vowels, then just said a few things, "Oy'm a good girl oy am. 'Ellaw, 'ow are you doing tiday?" It was hard, but for the first time I separated this accent out. It became Cockney, by itself, instead of the mash it used to make with other variations sometimes when I'd practice it in the States. He laughed with amazement, and I felt quite proud of myself.

Most of the time I'm ignored, English or American, but there have been a few times I've talked to people in both and found out I'd fooled them. On the tube through London, coming back from Bath, I talked to a sightly drunk Australian chap who squeezed in next to me in the full car. I started chatting in a British accent, but when he asked me where I was from, I told him I was an American and switched. "Hey, that's pretty good, I couldn't tell," he said.

When I was in Cambridge the other day, a handsome young man selling punting tour tickets came up to me and made a sale. He walked me down to the ticket office to pay for it, and we chatted a bit, me in my best Cambridge accent. "I'm actually an American, did you know that?" I said.

"Really? No, I couldn't tell. Where are you from in the States?"

I should have used my American accent on the actual boat, because the man punting it was really beautiful and maybe I'd have gotten more attention from him. But I still haven't discovered whether the American accent holds any of the fascination to Britons that the British one has to Americans, so maybe it wouldn't have made a difference. Are Britons fascinated with anything? They are so staid compared to Americans that it's hard for me to make them out sometimes.

Aside from the accent itself, there's the intonation, the vocabulary, and some different phrases and syntax used here. I think I'm picking it up some. I used the phrase "eat it," as in eating an expense, with Mark and Kay the other day and they were baffled, so I'm learning which idioms I use are American. Then sometimes I'm baffled. Why "Strictly Come Dancing" instead of "Dancing With the Stars," or "every little helps," with no "bit"? Overall, though, I am pretty much used to the accent. I still notice it more than probably the everyday Brit does, but I've passed for one so many times that it's not a big deal. Sometimes I don't want to bother with it and just speak American. Sitting on the plane to England, grinning every time a British voice came over the intercom, I never thought I'd feel that way!

Bath at Night

I'm sitting in my tiny hotel room just off of Great Pulteney Street in Bath. The hotel is in a Georgian townhouse, which like almost every other building here is about four stories tall, with a basement. Dwellings here are deep but narrow, like big books on a shelf, all bound in honey-colored Bath stone. This means stairs, and lots of them. I'm lying on my bed with the laptop keeping my thighs nice and toasty warm, and about a foot beyond my headboard I can hear pretty much everything happening on the street below through the single-pane window.

The noise isn't bad most of the time. Everybody wants to go up and down Great Pulteney Street, not this branch-off, since there aren't any shops along this road. Bath is pretty quiet by 10 pm anyway. The stillness is what makes the noise there is stand out a bit.

For example, for the past two nights between 11 and midnight, a lady wearing high heels marches up the street. I don't know who she is or where exactly she's going, but I can hear the clop of her shoes practically from Pulteney Bridge. The sharp staccato slowly crescendos as she walks right under my window until I'm wincing a little with each CLOP (it's the Chinese heel torture!), and then it finally begins to fade.

Last night it reminded me of the clopping noise I used to make with my mouth when playing Barbies with my little sisters. Even at the tender age of whatever age I was, I knew that it's not a high heel if it doesn't have the clopping noise.

Last night was also X and Y's big breakup. X took it harder, screaming out, "WE'RE #$%@#%$ OVER! WE'RE @$#%@^ OVER, Y!" from the doorway of her house, I guess, which was down the street from my hotel from the sound of it. I could hear the exiting Y calling out jeers in a teasing voice as he walked away past my window, provoking X each time into another round of "WE'RE #%@#%^ OVER!" (The lady doth protest too much, methinks.)

Just a moment ago, a fellow walked down the street, sounding like he was talking to someone. "It's a lovely color, though," he said. I guess the person he was talking to didn't hear, because the man got progressively louder. "I said, 'It's a lovely color.' I said, 'It's a lovely color!' I SAID, 'IT'S A LOVELY @#%@$ COLOR!' IT'S A LOVELY @#$%@# COLOR!!"

I have to admit that part of my amusement at hearing these kinds of things comes from the fact that they're not Americans. We don't have a monopoly on dysfunctional relationships or anger management issues! Woohoo! Otherwise, the noise doesn't bother me. I'm too tired at night from going up and down so many flights of stairs to do anything more than laugh to myself and go to sleep. Tomorrow I'll be back in the quiet countryside again.

First Pics

This trip to England has been basically an excuse to finally get me a digital camera. Here are some pics I took before I left, for your viewing pleasure. :)

Everything Is Smaller

My initial response to England is this: Everything Is Smaller. I think that's one of the main differences between here and the US. The second (and related) is, Everything Is Older.

The biggest (ha!) thing that strikes me is how much smaller the houses generally are. Smaller doors, smaller rooms, narrower hallways, steeper stairwells. This place is directly opposite of the dozens of new, gigantic homes I watched filling the valleys of Utah, with few windows and tiny, freshly planted trees. It doesn't seem to be a matter of not having enough room for a larger house, because most English properties I've seen have extensive backyards (while American houses increasingly have very small yards), but people seem content to live in much less space here. They're pretty creative with what space they do have, none of it's wasted, so you have these interesting nooks and crannies. America is not generally a nook and cranny nation, but I find that I love them. I have to admit that, by and large, smaller usually works just fine.

So instead of feeling cramped, I've been wondering why exactly we need so much room in the States. Is it that we value living space more than the English, who value their gardens more? Is it just that the older houses in England were smaller, so they're used to it, while America is comparatively new and the land is great and spacious? I've been thinking maybe it also taps a little into America's focus on the individual. A person's importance is reflected in the amount of space in his/her home, whether or not that space is actually used.

Not that every person in America is arrogant and self-important—certain things in the US, like stairs and doorways, probably have to be a certain size according to laws and building codes anyway. But it's interesting to consider a cultural difference.

However quaint and thought-provoking, smaller houses can be a little strange for a tall person. One of the first things I noticed was the placement of the doorknobs at the Cameron's. I was just short enough to not bump my head on some of the old doorframes, but I had to stoop a tiny bit to use the knob. The picture is me at my little bedroom door, standing at full height. Is the knob low, or am I gargantuan? That is the question.

The Travelblog

I'd like to turn your attention to the latest gadget in the right sidebar, a feed for my new blog, "No, England." I've talked to many acquaintances who want to know generally what I'm up to in England, and these requests for updates gave me an interesting quandary. I realized that while I'm fine sharing these Rhyme and Reason thoughts with perfect strangers or close friends, strangely the thought of showing them to mere acquaintances makes me uneasy. Close friends know me well enough to understand, and strangers can think whatever they want about me, I don't care, but acquaintances . . . They know just enough about me to possibly misunderstand what I write and then associate me ever after with the misunderstood conception. Which makes seeing them again rather awkward.

So I created "No, England" as a two-month travelblog to give out to everyone for general news and pictures, while this blog remains the spot for anecdotes, opinions, internal debates, and rhymes. Just so y'all know.

Spinning

When she goes, she's gone
If she stays, she stays here
Girl knows what she wants to do
She knows what she wants to do . . .

Simon and Garfunkel, "Fakin It"

Do you ever feel like you're standing in the middle of a freeway? Maybe standing on the barely-there cement median, smack between four busy lanes of traffic? And you stand there, ready to spring forward or back, trying to catch the eyes of the drivers whizzing by carelessly in their machines, looking for a break so you can cross. After awhile it gets really frustrating. You wonder why they can't see you standing there, waving your arms. "Could you just slow down a sec? Hey! Hello! Just stop, it'll just take a minute, then I'll be on my way and you all can drive off to wherever you're so anxious to go. Hey! Could you FREAKING LET ME CROSS ALREADY?"

Well, that's been the past week for me. Life is whizzing by, dragging doppler smears through my days. I'm less than two weeks from moving out, driving home, and then flying to England, and it's terrifying. I have a job to quit, with all its trainings and last-minute projects and goodbye rituals; an apartment to move out of, reminding me once again how much I hate moving; old friends to say frantic goodbyes to; and on top of all that I get to see the new coming in, impatient to replace the old.

That last part is embodied in the new roommate that moved in late last week. I'm trying to decide whether it's worth the effort to get to know her, since I don't expect to be home much while she is, but I'm leaning against it. She's been zealously industrious at reorganizing the entire apartment, shaking her head but patiently holding her tongue as she quickly erases the evidence of my and my roommates' obvious organizational stupidity. Mixing bowls in the kitchen? How foolish! Let's stuff them in the pantry down the hall! So much better!

When you're hesitating in the middle of a freeway, it really doesn't help to have someone standing right behind you, claiming the median for their own and all but shoving you headlong into traffic.

So I'm overwhelmed. I sit at home in all my half-packed junk, and suddenly all I can do is play Freecell or sprawl on the couch watching the Olympics. I go to work and sit in my chair, memos and to-do lists spread over the surface of my desk, and all I can do is stare blankly at my computer screen. Where do I begin? How can I possibly get all this done before I leave? Could everything just STOP, just HOLD STILL FOR A FEW FREAKING MINUTES WHILE I FIGURE THIS OUT?

Work

The All-Hands Meeting

Conference center welcome beeps
important message from the veeps:

"Innovation Home Workstation(blah)
Value-Added Branding Rules
Customer(blah blah) Sales Transformation
(blah)Winning Global Action Tools
Advantage Reaching (blah blah blah)Competition
Total Core Competency
Local (blah)Area Solution
Practice Ethics(blah) Policy
Powerful Alignment Session(blah blah)
Team(blah) Acquired Network Port
Training Scheduling Concession
(blah)Profit End-of-(blah)Year Report."

Back to work. Can hardly wait
for next time they communicate.

***

I've felt quite a range of emotions this past month at work, a few short weeks before I leave; running the gamut from bored to furious to grateful to nostalgic. The hardest part of the job—of any job—is working with people, and although this office is homogenous in a lot of ways, we definitely have a variety of personalities. I have learned a lot by rubbing shoulders with them.

I'm going to miss a lot of things, but one thing I won't, I have to say, is tangled corporate hierarchy and jargon. Don't tell the bigwigs, but during the conference call meetings our office has paper airplane wars. I will miss those.

Cowboy, Take Me Away

A couple weeks ago I went to my very first rodeo. Thoughts:

1. Advertising by horseback. Every half hour or so a girl on horseback would dash around the arena with a sponsor's logo on a flag. I found this amusing. I think they were the rodeo queens/royalty/whatever too, so I wondered if they felt like sellouts or if they just enjoyed the chance to ride. I know I'd like a chance to ride a horse, ad flag or no!

2. Um, I'd like to marry a cowboy. Not only because there were some good-looking ones out in the arena, but because I sat next to this ranching family, and the cowboy husband sat next to me and told me about the events going on, how they're scored, etc, which I really appreciated. Even more impressive, though, was that his four-year-old daughter began whining less than halfway through the rodeo that she wanted to go home NOW, and instead of scolding her to be quiet, he kept her on his lap, pointing at the rodeo clowns or the horses or the motorcycle show, keeping her distracted, as patient as can be. I was amazed. I'd marry a man like that in a heartbeat.

3. Someday I'd like to own a horse. Not that I've always adored horses like many girls in my generation; I only watched "My Little Pony" once or twice growing up (when the Disney channel would broadcast for free for a week or two, soliciting subscriptions—remember that?). It's never been the horses themselves that I'm interested in necessarily, it's the idea of riding. That romantic vision of man and horse moving seamlessly together across the sward to the rhythmn of hoofbeat and heartbeat. I've been horseback riding a few times and loved it, though of course I've never been much over a trot. I'm fascinated by how much there is to learn about riding, both the skills and the less tangible techniques of attuning yourself to the horse. I would love to have it said of me that I can seat a horse well. Anyway, watching the rodeo reminded me of this whole other world that I've wanted to be a part of for a long time. I was slightly embarrassed to be a pansy city slicker among people to whom horses and bulls and sheep—and riding, wrangling, and herding—were as natural as breathing.

4. Hm, manure. We were sitting right over the bullpens the whole time, so I was reminded in the midst of my fantasizing that poo still stinks. I forgot about that part. So . . . someday I'd like someone close to me to own a horse and just let me ride it all the time . . . ?

The rodeo left me with a lot to think and dream about afterward. At the same time I was laughing at myself for watching it with fascinated, anthropological/folklore/mythological-oriented eyes when maybe it was a perfectly ordinary sports event to most of the people there.

The Grudge

Scapegoat (name has been changed) and I are roommates. We're both very different people, but we became good friends under trying circumstances. When those circumstances improved, then we started bugging each other. By now we're too close to think of simply ending the friendship, so we have to push on through these spats and annoyances, bruising, breaking, sometimes making the right choice, sometimes not, but making it through and (hopefully) learning a lot along the way. It's been a pretty new situation for me, because I don't usually get so close to roommates who can rile me like she does sometimes. So instead of squeezing my eyes shut and repeating "it's only a few weeks more, only a few weeks," I need to help work things out.

The hard part is, we have completely different ideas about the best way to work things out.

Here's the latest. This weekend an event happened that we both perceived differently.

Scapegoat's POV: She was doing me a favor. I freaked out for no good reason. Then I got mad and stayed that way for a couple days.

My POV: I was doing her a favor. She blew up at me for no reason. Then she got mad and stayed that way for a couple days.

In previous spats, I've felt like I'm the one who usually gives in first and apologizes. This is because when something goes wrong, I want to talk about it, and she wants to exchange gifts and forget it ever happened. Scapegoat doesn't apologize if she can possibly help it. I've reminded myself that this is her way of doing things; I've accepted her peace offerings for her sake and tried to brush aside my dissatisfaction that words I wanted to say weren't invited, and words I wanted to hear weren't offered. I say I tried to brush it off, but I have to admit that I didn't really succeed. It still rankled, a little more each time, when I did the apologies and she did the offering and forgetting all about it.

This time I decided (and it was foolish, I know) I was going to wait it out and see if she would move first. I didn't expect an apology at first, even; just to have her come to me, ready to admit that she might actually have done something wrong and willing to talk it over. I wanted to know that she considered our relationship as more important than her pride or having her way and that she cared enough to listen.

Well, it's been kind of a long wait. Yesterday I found a note taped inside my bathroom cupboard, telling me to "have a splendid day!" I was glad to see that Scapegoat was feeling reconcilatory, and Scapegoat is free to leave nice notes for me anywhere she likes, but it wasn't the right bandage for the wound. It reminded me of a certain steak dinner a certain other roommate once made for us. I love a free meal as much as the next person, especially one so delicious, but in no way did it resolve the underlying issues in the apartment the way she seemed to think it would. "Nice try, Scapegoat," I said to myself. "Keep thinking."

We didn't really cross paths the rest of the day, but yesterday evening I overheard Scapegoat discussing the situation and her frustration with me on the phone with a friend (because, Scapegoat, a) I'm not stupid and b) you talk loud). It stung a little, even though she wasn't vicious about it or anything; she would rather discuss things with an uninvolved friend than with me. About ten minutes later she trotted over to my room on her high horse to ask me if I was still mad at her. Essentially, my answer was "yes." There were no further questions.

It was discouraging, and this morning I'm tired in a few different ways. Mostly I'm tired of holding onto this grudge. This isn't the most direct way, but maybe it doesn't matter, because it seems I'm the one who needs words.

Scapegoat, I give up. I apologize for being prideful and for dragging this out in the name of teaching you a lesson. I ignored the fact that it's not my job to teach you these things, and even if it was, holding a grudge is a pretty dumb way of doing it. I forgive you for hurting me, intentionally and otherwise; I hope you'll forgive me too. It's more important to me to be your friend than to be right.

And . . . I hope you have a splendid day.

Stay Tuned

In two months' time what nether shores will I be standing on
with purse and scrip and pen in hand? Albion, Albion!

Hi everyone. Sorry for the lackage of new entries lately. Don't despair, however: change is imminent. I'll be traveling to England in early September, armed with hopes, dreams, pen and paper (and laptop), and a new, good-quality digital camera!

More details to follow. Don't touch that dial!

Navigating a Crossroads

No matter how much I hem and haw over the details involved, I'm pretty certain I'll be heading to England this fall. I'm thinking September. I've thought about waiting until spring, saving more money to pay for the ridiculous cost of rent over there and giving myself more time to make arrangements, but I'm getting that swooping sensation of Great and Eternal Purposes aligning over my head, and I don't think spring's gonna cut it. I've talked to a few people about my slowly forming plans, and they all tell me the same thing: "This is really a crossroads coming up for you, isn't it?"

Yes, yes it is.

I was talking about it to my visiting teachers on Sunday. "I'm planning to go to England, hopefully in the fall," I said. "I want to go for two months if I can, but at least six weeks, the idea being to finish up a manuscript—or at least a good first draft of one—so I can start maybe sending it off to publishers. The hard part is that it would mean quitting my job, so essentially I'm launching myself into the unknown. But I really want to write, and since the setting of my stories is pretty much medieval England, that's where I want to go."

My visiting teachers sighed like I had just told them a sweepingly romantic tale. "Wow!" said one of them. "That sounds so awesome. You sound like a real writer, like Jane Austen or somebody. I didn't know people still did such things."

The awestruck reaction surprised me. Most of the time people are either doubtful of my ability to pull it off or of the wiseness of my intentions, or they scarcely bat an eye and begin launching into tales of their backpacking trip through Asia and Europe. Awe was a refreshing change; I felt like a character in my own fantasy story, about to embark on my own adventure.

"Heh, well, it's something I've wanted to do for a long time, and I've been saving for quite a while," I said, trying to be practical again. "There are so many things I have to figure out first, though. I don't even know where I'll be staying yet." I sighed. "But I am going. I'm kind of on a plateau here and it's time to move on. Probably in the fall." I stared ahead into space for a moment as if I saw the future laid out before me, as yet shapeless fog in a glass.

My visiting teacher looked at me with wide eyes, shaking her head slightly. "Can I . . . touch you?"

Ha ha, no, she didn't really say that. But she did say the bit about crossroads, and that struck me.

You see, I had just given a Sunday school lesson on Guiding Children as They Make Decisions, and the parental mandate to "be at the crossroads" was a key element in it. I've been forming a picture in my head of the quintissential crossroads scene, like something out of Jane Eyre: two narrow, intersecting dirt roads cutting across a field in the middle of nowhere, with a signpost standing at the cross, pointing out the two roads but with lettering worn off by wind and rain. Each path carries the weight of the experiences lying farther down, out of sight. Actually, not much is visible beyond the crossroads, like the whole world at the moment revolves around this small place. Storm clouds are building overhead—for good or ill it's too soon to say; they're just growing like your ponderous thoughts, like greater forces you don't yet understand, those hovering purposes you act on without fully comprehending—darkening the sky so you can see the ground clearer.

I had imagined this scene before, but this time I wondered, was anyone standing at the crossroads for me? I realized that I had not been expecting anyone. I've been sitting there in the wild grass under that signpost, trying to figure this out by myself. Only a few hours earlier I had taught my class this: "You're not always going to be there with your children when they make decisions, and this is where the Holy Ghost comes in. Teach them to hear and follow the promptings of the Holy Ghost, and they'll have guidance in their decisions for the rest of their lives." I have been taught, I have a gift of constant companionship and the promise of direction when I ask for it in faith. I should probably take advantage of that.

There's plenty of work to be done before September rolls around. I don't know what consequences will stem from this journey, but I feel like this is an important time in my life. I hope to carve a few discernable shapes out of that fog before I walk through it. But you know what? I'm excited. In spite of all the solemnity involved in trying to make wise, mature decisions, going to England and writing full time really would be a dream come true. And no matter how it all unfolds, I'm comforted knowing that God stands at the crossroads.

Keeping in Touch

To my surprise, yesterday when I got home for the evening, I found I'd missed a call from my older brother. He lives with his wife and kid in Virgina, and I hadn't heard much from him beyond a couple emails and birthday calls since Christmas. He hadn't heard much from me either.

Last year at about this time I was pretty desolate that they were moving out east. "People who know how to use technology are never very far apart," he said just before he climbed into his grandparent-in-laws' minivan with the last load of suitcases. I stood and watched, nodding and smiling and trying not to cry. He meant instant (and video) messaging, emailing, and the blog we started shortly after they got out east. As the computer science nut in the family, R kept me up on such things.

How soon we forget, huh? Technology is great ("I love technology"), and we've had great blog articles and email exchanges and a few video chats. But when I called R back last night, I realized just how long it had been since I'd really talked to him. Hearing his voice took me back for a few minutes to those lovely evenings last summer, me and my brother and his wife, discussing classes, coworkers, and careers. I had forgotten how much fun it was to talk to them.

"So this is why it's imortant to keep in touch," I thought after we said goodnight and hung up. After a fifteen-minute phone call I felt happier than I'd been all day. Everything tends to entropy, doesn't it? Even relationships. It's an effort to keep in touch. But I realized again last night how worthwhile it is to make that effort.

Rue

Nothing like a what-if thought
to rummage through my memories, caught
again inside the pointless wheel
of doubting what I think and feel.
How many times must I annoint
some reasoned lines in counterpoint
and dub the past as well and done?
How many times will my dreams run
another pass through past events
where hindsight's not yet better sense?
Why does the past come, secret, stealing?
For some things is there never healing?
Curses on the wild what-if
that sets my happy mood adrift.

Silence

Hello darkness, my old friend,
I've come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence.

Simon and Garfunkel, "The Sound of Silence"

I've been thinking about silence. Mostly because I've been in a rather silent mood for the past few days. Dunno if that's attributable to any one cause, really, but I didn't notice I was doing it until a couple days in. Then, like the English graduate I am, I began analyzing it.

There are a couple of lines from Pride and Prejudice that came to me as I've been analyzing my own silence. It's the A&E film version I'm thinking about (also known as the COLIN FIRTH, AAAAAH!! version), a scene at a dance where Elizabeth and her sister, Mary, discuss dances.

Mary says, "I believe the rewards of observation and reflection are much greater."

"And so they are, when there are none others to be had," says Elizabeth. "We shall have to be philosophers, Mary."

It ocurred to me recently that in spite of the obligatory annoyance/amusement at Mary's determined prudishness and anti-social tendancies, I think I agree with Mary's statement, not only in terms of dancing, but social events and other adventures in general. As a writer, I'm pretty comfortable in my third-person limited omniscient perspective. Even in my dreams I'm not always the protaganist; sometimes I find myself pulling out of the character and forming myself as a best friend or simply an invisible cameraman. Because the scene can be so fascinating from a third-person perspective. Who's going to see the subtle flash of emotion cross the heroine's face, or the baleful glance of a disguised assassin behind her back? Certainly not the heroine. The main character misses much of what makes a great story.

So I find myself in dreams and frequently in life closing my mouth, stepping back a pace or two from the others, and watching. What do I see? People who like each other, people who pretend they like each other; flirting, arguing, chit-chatting out of boredom, ignoring, becoming friends; people locked in the bubble of their own perspective, constantly bumping, brushing, ramming into others; people who come onto a scene without knowing what happened earlier and are confused, and people trying to be helpful but messing things up further; people who do kind things insignificant to a bystander but momentous to someone who knows. I see things, I learn things, and I'm usually vastly entertained.

That is . . . until someone notices me standing at the fringe and feels sorry for me. Or until I feel sorry for myself; omniscience is great and all, but it can be rather lonely. Then I wonder what's wrong with me. Am I shy, or am I too proud? Am I like Mary, just making excuses because no one will ask me to dance? Writing about adventure but not experiencing it?

Okay, to shyness and pride I concede, but not experiencing adventure? Nah, that can't be it. Even as I stand aloof, I'm the star of my own story. I have to be, since mine is the only mind I can read. I try to observe myself as much as I observe others. I often imagine what I look like walking through life; even what I look like against the wall with my arms folded, smiling secretly at the people around me. I also imagine whatifs, which gets me into trouble sometimes, like on the skyline ride in hanging pods over amusement parks: what if the cable snapped and we all dropped fifty feet to the asphalt, or landed in a tree, or thudded onto the roof of a building like ripe fruit, sliding off the cone roof of the carousel? (That's when I curse my imagination and pull my legs onto the seat so they're not dangling over the edge.) Would it be fun if that actually happened? No siree. But imagining it sure gives the ride a zing of excitement.

So adventure is one part what happens, two parts perspective. As protaganist I experience my life, and as author of my story I expand the material and refine the experiences into themes, emotions, and scenes.

At the end of these thoughts, I feel quite content with myself, my life and how it's going. Then I realize that while my mind has been churning out a bildungsroman, I have scarcely spoken a word. During this week of quiet, I've realized that people have a hard time with the sound of silence—especially protracted renditions of it. It seems that after awhile happy silence doesn't sound a whole lot different from apathetic or moody silence.

So! Life must be a balance of author and protananist, observing and participating, quiet pondering and conversation, writing and doing. This is me, seeking equilibrium. I hope that sharing a chapter of my thoughts makes up for some of the silence.

Flooded!

I was tired on Thursday (May 8) after work, so instead of going to the temple as I usually did, I decided I would take a nap. I turned on my computer first, cause I always do, then cleared off my bed and sat on it to take my shoes off. Lappy booted and I walked over to check my email and other sundries. That’s when I knew I was in trouble. I lifted up my foot, but I hadn’t dreamed up the sensation: water had soaked through my sock. The carpet was wet.

I felt around for the size and source of the wet spot. Had someone really, really overwatered my plants? No. Did I have a cup of water on my desk that fell? No. Maybe the laptop peed all over the floor? “Don’t let’s be silly,” I muttered as worry began overriding humor. The wetness lasted as far back into the corner of my room as I could reach, beyond the desk.

Nobody else was home and time was of the essence, so I quickly moved all my stuff out of that corner and pulled the desk across the room. It’s amazing how fast a little zing of adrenaline can turn lethargy into energy. Water was coming in from outside through the bottom of the wall somewhere under the carpet in that corner. About a quarter of the room had wet carpet now, but it didn’t seem to be coming in too fast. I called the landlord and my roommate for help, and headed outside to find the source.

Yep, there it was at the corner of the house, seeping into my basement bedroom: a huge puddle of water. I didn’t spend much time investigating; I moved some more of my stuff out of danger. Nothing was really wet except my empty laptop case, which had sucked up the water like it was dying of thirst. The only other worrisome items were my suitcases and the electrical cords running through that corner, and all of those were a tiny bit damp but mostly high and dry.

My roommate, V, called me back and asked me to pick her up from campus, so reluctantly I left the flooding apartment to get her. It was what I needed, though: you can never have too many intelligent, common-sensical people at the scene of a disaster. I went in to check on my bedroom as soon as we got back to the apartment, and this time it ocurred to me to check the empty bedroom across from mine, which had a wall facing the backyard like mine. I opened the door and was introduced, for the second or third time in my life, to unbreathable stench. Even though my self-preservation instinct had me holding my breath as soon as I caught a whiff, the scent was palpable, and it made my nose sting and itch. The air was damp with it, and it looked like the entire carpet was soaked. A tiny river of dirty water was flowing past the window.

Ok, so it’s not like we hadn’t noticed a bad smell growing in the apartment. But we’d kept that bedroom door shut since L moved out, and there really isn’t good air circulation in the apartment. V and I had assumed that it was something in the fridge. In fact, as I swam through the stench toward the window to get a closer look at the water, I was thinking, “Oh good, it’s not rotten food in the fridge.”

I opened the window to that bedroom, once I saw there was no danger of water running through it that way, and then hurried outside to tell V that the leak was worse than I’d originally thought. I called the landlord again and encouraged her and her husband to hurry.

While we were waiting for them, V and I followed the water up the hill of the backyard to a sprinkler control in the ground near the back door. Clearly something was broken there, but we didn’t see any knobs to turn to get the water off. The water was coming out in a small but steady stream, so the control box was underwater and the overflow was running down the hill, past L’s old bedroom window, and pooling at the corner of the house where the ground leveled out. V eyed the situation. “If only we had some sandbags,” she said.

Well, there’s a gravel/dirt area on the far side of the yard, and we have a ridiculous amount of plastic bags under our kitchen sink. It only took me a few seconds to put two and two together, and then V and I spent the next twenty minutes filling the bags with dirt and piling them up near the broken sprinkler box. Fortunately, our newest roommate has gardening ambitions, so we had shovels and other tools at our disposal. Our next idea was to try and siphon the water elsewhere in the yard with a garden hose, which worked beautifully.

By about that time, the landlords arrived (and weren’t they pleased to have smart tenants). They turned off the water and started pulling up the carpets, and V and I started digging a trench to lead the water away from my room. Once that was finished, though I looked around for some other way to help out, there wasn’t much more I could do.

By this time it was getting dark, and I glanced down at my sweaty body, rumpled clothes, and mud-covered hands and was surprised how I felt. I felt happy and fortunate. If there was ever a perfect time to have a flood, maybe this was it. We all had evening plans, but they were easily cancelled. We had the tools and the smarts at hand to fix this problem before it got any worse. Nothing of mine had been ruined (though the laptop case is substantially uglier). L had taken her things with her when she moved, instead of storing them at the apartment temporarily, as she’d originally planned. My friend K, who’s highly sensitive to mold, didn’t move in (she would’ve had that room). I had taken my shoes off in preparation for a nap, but stepped into that corner and got my feet wet before actually taking one. My room was affected, and I’m the one with a grandma nearby who graciously allowed me to spend yet another weekend at her house. Most surprising of all, I could’ve felt anxious, stressed, and very grumpy, but all I thought about was what could be done next and how glad I was about all these coincidences. That was the greatest miracle—that I didn’t have to count on hindsight to show me how much I was blessed, but I noticed each blessing as it came. It was as if I sat in the backseat of disaster, calmly watching everything through the window, understanding that every detail was planned and taken care of by the guy driving.

The carpet in my room is mostly dry now. Ugly and crispy from mineral stains and an unfinished carpet-cleaning job, but dry, and my stuff’s back in place over it. Actually, I find the stains more irritating than that whole evening of work, isn’t that strange? I have to keep reminding myself about little coincidences and taking the backseat view and for heaven’s sake, New Orleans and (more currently) Maryland. The flood, and mulling over and discussing the flood with others (who always share their flood stories after) has taught me again that there’s always a silver lining somewhere.

Mine’s streaked across the middle of my bedroom carpet.

Spring Fever

Birds flying high
You know how I feel
Sun in the sky
You know how I feel
Reeds driftin' on by
You know how I feel
It's a new dawn
It's a new day
It's a new life
For me
And I'm feeling good

"Feeling Good," the Michael Bublé version

I'm feeling really happy today, and it feels good. Finally, there's the sun shining, birds chirping (and pooping merrily on my car, arg), tulips and daffodils finally blooming, and blossoms bursting onto the scene and raining down petals. Finally there is no snow ahead (fervently knocking on wood). Finally it's spring.

And other things. I got a new roommate, and it's been fun getting to know her. We might get another one this week and then, wow, the apartment will be at full capacity for the first time since December. There were a lot of new faces at church last week, students moving in, and something about the atmosphere of making new friends helps me to see even old friends differently. It's time for a new start, a fresh perspective; it's my chance to be better than I was before.

A week or so ago I was very unexcited about these kinds of changes. I hate to have good roommates move out, and maybe I'm just lazy or weird this way, but sometimes the prospect of reaching out and getting familiar with a whole new set of people is . . . exhausting. So much effort! Once I'm shoved into newness, however, I rediscover that the new has its own energy, and that change can be for the better.

I relearned these lessons last night, talking to new and old friends and laughing harder than I've laughed for a long time. Spring is here, and winter is finally shed from my shoulders.

Getting Away

Ten minutes standing at my windowsill
Grass at chin-height through the glass and still
I felt no calm inside this grave agape
A rabbit kicking in a snare - escape!

Friday afternoon I left the apartment, and I didn't come back until well after lunch Saturday. I went to my grandma's house, and I did not tell anyone where I was going.

So I admit that was wrong of me - the not telling anyone where I was going part. A young woman can't afford to have unknown whereabouts these days. But aside from that, leaving was the best thing for me to do that afternoon. Sometimes leaving a stressful situation - temporarily - is the best way to begin fixing it.

A lot of my friends are students, and most of them are also feeling stress as the semester winds down. To them I say, take a break! Get away if you can, even if it's only for a day. Or for an hour. It's funny how much even a little vacation can clear your head and give you a fresh perspective.

Auditions!

I've gone and done it. I saw an audition notice for Little Women (the musical) listed on a local theater's website, and I called in to make an audition appointment. Next Wednesday, if I can get my knees to hold me up, I'll be trying to convince real drama people that they should let me be in their play. I don't expect to get a part (although I would be thrilled if I did), but I felt like if I didn't just dive right in and try out for something, while acting class lessons were still fresh in my mind, I'd never do it. So voila. Next week.

The notice said to bring a "32-bar cutting" of a musical theater piece, and I decided to try "Somewhere" from West Side Story. Technically, the entire song is 37 bars, so I hope they don't shoot me for going five bars over. Especially since about four of them are for the last note. (I can imagine myself trying to trim it to 32 bars: "Somedaaaaaaaay, somehooooooooow, some - " - - - silence, only my theatrical, anguished expression lingering.) I know I haven't got the best voice, but it's a better voice for musical theater than classical singing, and I'm very good at pitch and decent at rhythm. I just hope I don't choke.

Aside from singing, I have no idea what to expect out of an audition. I suppose they'll ask me to read some lines or something. Actually, I'm not very nervous about anything beyond the song, so I hope they do that first, so I can do the rest with the giddy exhiliration of relief loosening my tongue.

Anyway, I'll let y'all know how it goes.


Original Comments

Kate the Great on 22 Apr 15:04
As someone who’s gone to lots of auditions, let me give you an idea of what you might come up with, since every director does their auditions differently. Sometimes there’s a movement exercise: walking around the space to music, walking and running at different speeds and with different postures. That kind of thing is done to see how versatile you are at coming up with your own different kinds of movement, and how you personally walk, your posture, etc. Since your entire body is shown on stage, some directors put that posture and walk into consideration when looking for an actor for a particular part.

Sometimes they’ll give you a scene to do with one other auditioner. They’ll give you a script that’s maybe three to four pages long, and they’ll give you a minute or two to look over it. Don’t read through it just to get a feel for tone; read to feel the dynamics of the scene; are you disdainful toward the other character? How do you react toward the other character? What are you doing to the other character to get what you want in the scene? Make a few decisions about the scene to yourself (Okay, I’m going to be coldly angry during these four lines, and then I’m going to walk away a few steps and put my back toward him during these lines; Then, I’ll give him a cold hug at the end) and then read it. The director is looking for an actor who can make definite decisions. Don’t just float there and read. Face your fellow actor; walk around the room purposefully, while talking to the other actor. Some of it will feel silly because it’s not rehearsed, and the director realizes that. They also just want to make sure you can interact with another character onstage, so even if you don’t move around, gesture as much as you can, react to your partner’s lines… I could coach on and on.

Or, like you’re expecting, the director could give you a monologue to read. Do the same thing you would during a scene. Make basic decisions as you read through it; I’m going to walk to this corner as I say this line, then as I have this epiphany, I’m going to whirl around and stroke my chin. Direct yourself.

Email me if you’ve got questions you want to ask. Or comment over at my blog. I feel like I’ve had a lot of experience here.

Aye Spy on 01 May 17:13
For any interested parties, here’s a follow-up on this audition:

It was mostly a singing audition. As I mentioned, I decided to do “Somewhere,” and I practiced about a dozen times a day in the week leading up to this audition. Since I didn’t have a piano or an accompanist handy, I sang it a cappella or, after scoping Youtube, to a video of some kid playing the piano part.

I was pretty nervous as I got to the audition, but it really helped that it took place at the theater where I took my acting class. I already felt comfortable with the environment. And actually, something about seeing all those other girls waiting in line for their turn, all of them quite nervous even though most of them had much more theater experience than me, calmed me right down. “You’ll do fine,” I told myself. “You’ve practiced this a billion times. You’re not going to forget any of the words. You’re going to remember all those things you’ve been telling yourself during practice: shoulders up, breathe, dynamics, facial expression. You’ll be fine.”

To my surprise, I believed me. I was a little nervous when it was my turn to go before the panel, but not a lot. I introduced myself and the piece professionally, and then I sang the song, on key even though the provided accompanist had a rough time with the music (Bernstein and four sharps) and ended up accompanying me with a quiet, surreal interpretation. I kept the correct beat and the tone, didn’t freeze up, crescendoed when I was supposed to, and during one part I waved away a brief, panicky thought that I had no idea what the next words were. I kept singing and the words came. The judges, neither smiling nor frowning, were strangely a comfort, because I felt that they were respectful and would give me and my voice a fair chance, even though I had heard the girls before me and knew they sounded better.

I had been forewarned that the judges were behind and didn’t have time to offer feedback after the song, so when I was done I thanked them, grabbed my music, and headed out. As I went through the door I overheard a judge say something like “that was beautiful.” That stayed with me as I smiled and nodded at the folks still in line and headed back out to my car. I had done it: nervousness and inexperience aside, I knew I had sung my best. And if my best could be beautiful for only a moment, that was enough.

Ultimately, no, I didn’t get a callback, but I feel like the audition was a success. I don’t know if I’ll be auditioning for something else this summer, since I don’t know exactly where I’ll be come fall, but maybe.

Thanks for your comment, Kate; I was hoping you’d read and send me some advice. Thanks also, Sabrina and Mom, for your support!

Hardware

Gonna get me a flashlight and a broom
Want a pair of pliers for every single room of my house
See those hacksaws? Very, very soon
One of them will be all mine!

Weird Al, "Hardware Store"

I think it may be only my roommates and my family that know this about me, but I have hardware. I'm not currently speaking of the computer kind, though I have some of that too; I mean the Tim Taylor kind. Sitting next to the closet in my bedroom, although most days it functions as a low shelf, is a toolbox, and inside are handfuls of screwdrivers, a hacksaw, a hammer, a measuring tape, razor blades (don't try this at home, kids), and various pliers and wrenches. I got the toolbox and its contents from my dad when I bought my car. "Now that you have a car, you need to have the tools to work with it," he said.

"Right, Dad," I said, already concocting ways to use a hacksaw on a Honda.

"Well, you'll need at least the star screwdrivers," said Dad. "Car companies always use those dang stars."

We both knew the real reason he got me the tools: I was the kid who wanted em. Before and after me, Dad had two sons, and both of them had a toolbox Christmas years ago when I was eight or nine. My brothers put on the safety goggles and played with the tools all that day, but a few months later it was me who crawled into their closets and pried open the dusty red boxes to steal out hammers and screwdrivers and hand drills. And on bright summer Saturdays, when Dad would open the garage door and blare '70s tunes over the sound of his planer and table saw, I sat in there too, at first just pretending to fix imaginary customers' broken appliances (with whatever hand tools Dad could spare) but eventually planning out and cutting out my own little projects from scrap wood.

I had a lot of fun with Dad in that garage workshop over the years. Dad always had two or three things he was working on, and when I couldn't help, I didn't mind just watching. (Especially since he had a small TV in the workshop. Jean-Luc Picard and Norm Abrams often joined us on these Saturdays.) He put off some of his own work to help me make a few things, like a treasure box and a shelf unit. And then he walked me through every step of taking my bike apart, cleaning it, and putting it back together. Under his tutelage I have done about everything that can be done with a piece of wood: cut, planed, sanded, primed, stained, waterproofed, painted, varnished, stripped, glued, puttied, and nailed. I helped him build a set of bunks into the walls of a tiny room in our old family cabin, and the next year we replaced a section of carpet.

My project preferences and fix-it-up philosophy have grown to be a bit different from Dad's, but the spirit of independence and self-reliance I learned in the garage will always be part of me. I can't wait to see the look on my future husband's face when he comes home to see me ripping up carpet or installing crown molding. (Peering at him through my safety goggles, cordless drill in hand, "Hi, honey!") The banshee scream of a tablesaw doesn't scare me, and neither do computers, TV/VCR/DVD/game console hookups, flat tires, gas stove pilot lights, or tax returns. (Spiders still do though.)

So my question is, do I get extra points for being a girl and knowing this stuff? Guys, would it intimidate you to have a fiancee who put a miter saw on the gift registry? Think about it. Meanwhile, if anyone's got a loose knob or a picture to be mounted, you know who to call. I've got the hardware.

So . . . how 'bout a rhyme?

Shall we begin with a sonnet? ("Oh yes, please," you all say, like good English schoolchildren.)


Over It

If I had said the right words on the phone,
part scholar and part wry comedienne,
or if instead of leaving you alone
when you were sick, I'd brought you broth, and then
if I had listened to the lesson less,
to poke and tease and lean my shoulder near,
or listened more, attentive to impress,
and whispered cogent comments in your ear,
if I were shorter - would I fit the bill?
If I, one of your fanbase hundreds strong,
fought harder for you, would you love me still?
I asked, but knew the answer all along:
I'd never feel a lasting, loving glee
in winning you by slowly losing me.

Howdy

Welcome to my blog, where you can expect, as the title suggests, rhyme here and reason there; a smack of sense and not a little sensibility; sometimes pride and, unavoidably, a little prejudice (in favor of Jane always, for example). This will be a little exercise in learning how my brain works.

So. Welcome.

Coat Backwards

J. H. is a coworker of mine who occasionally shuffles by my cubicle on the way to the printer. It's springtime - springtime, for heaven's sake - and I'm sitting at my desk with one coat draped across my lap and another backwards up on my arms. Instead of commenting on the day, life in general, or my apparent need for two coats, J.H., ever the deliberate, insightful lawyer, observes the backwardness of my coat and chooses to take a stab at humor.

"So is this the latest fashion for young folks?" he says, a patronizing smile spreading across his face, just like the first time he used this joke several months ago.

Ladies and gentlemen, I have in the past, and still do, wear coats and jackets backwards. Many of you have personally witnessed this, and most of you have either quietly accepted this eccentricity, if you saw it as such, or understood the obvious logic behind it and occasionally adopted the technique yourself. I have met with a few distinct individuals, however, who can't grasp the method behind the madness and take pleasure in repeated ribbings. Tease me once, yeah, you're hilarious; tease me twice, okay, I got it; tease me every time you see me with a jacket/coat on backwards, what's the matter with you??

So, for their sakes, the sake of anyone else who has just wondered, and for my sanity's sake, this is why I do it:

1) Coats are bulky and annoying to deal with in general. If I just slip my coat backwards over my arms, I can shuck it off at the first opportunity. This reason applies particularly at work. I only want to use my coat at the desk; I don’t want to carry it around all day.

2) A coat takes a long time to put on. If I only need it for a little while, moving from one warm place to another, why would I want to go through all the fuss of putting the coat on completely (in one arm, in other arm, adjust collar, adjust shirt underneath, pull tight around, button/zip up) just to take it off in a couple minutes?

3) It’s really annoying to wear a backpack over a coat. So while I was going to school, I avoided that whenever possible. Putting on the backpack over the coat (depending on the size/thickness of the coat) takes twice as long as putting on the coat itself. You’ve got to get the sleeves through the straps, pull the hood over the top, then make sure the backpack is sitting correctly on the coat, not riding anything up anywhere. It’s harder to feel if it’s on wrong, but you look goofy if it is. Waste of time between classes!

4) Taking off or putting on a coat or jacket is socially obnoxious unless you’re by a door, leaving or coming in. What if I'm cold but not about to leave - a distinct possibility in this world of overenthusiastic air conditioners? And then, if I'm sitting in a seat with a bunch of other people and want to take the thing off, I’ve got to squirm and stretch and generally look ridiculous to avoid jabbing my neighbors with my elbows.

5) Sometimes full-coat coverage is too dang hot. Usually I wear my coat or jacket backwards when my back is already covered by a backpack or the back a chair. (I win a prize for using "back" the most times in a sentence!) That coverage makes coat removal and application more bothersome, as previously stated, but it also means that my back isn't cold, just my arms and front. If I put the coat on the "right" way, I'd be too warm. Duh.

So, you see, it's perfectly logical, just like my cereal-eating technique of milk first, cereal sprinkled on top. End of rant.

Acting Class

About a month ago I signed up for an acting class at a local theater, and three weeks ago I went to the first class.

That was the week of the Great Flu, and maybe it was fitting, because I exercised my acting talent (such as it is) to its fullest that evening as I pretended to my utmost that I felt fine and hadn’t spent almost the entire day in bed. Actually, I pretended so hard that at the end of the class I really did feel better—though if we’d gone beyond an hour, I might’ve passed out from the effort.

This intense concentration only enhanced the strangeness of the experience, however. The class started on center stage, directly beneath a crowded grid of stage lights. Among the typical spotlight-type fixtures were scattered a few very different ones—chandeliers and smaller lamps crammed in, ready to descend during the next night’s play. I arrived first but was soon joined by a classmate, a perky lady who was perfectly fit, dressed, and styled. Ready to be the town’s newest starlet. “Hi, I’m Anne!” she said as she sat in the row of prepared seats. “I’m so excited for this class! Aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” I said. (Thinking: “I can’t feel my nose and I think I may have rubbed it off. Can you tell me if it’s still there? Oh wait, there it goes again. Never mind.”)

As the rest of the class filtered in, I could tell we had several things in common. We were all women, young and full of jittery excitement about this foray into theater. Many of us were working full-time and looking for something exciting to do (cube-dwellers by day, prima donnas by night!), and almost everyone had the same background in theater: we had always wanted to do it but didn’t have time going through school. The one guy in our class of nine arrived a little after class started. He looked eighteen or nineteen and was rather shy, especially in a room full of watchful women.

Our teacher, Paige, came in bouncing off the walls and stayed that way. She spent a couple minutes getting to know our names, got them mostly right, and then introduced herself and moved on with gusto.

The first order of business was a tour of the theater, and we followed Paige’s enthusiasm all around the building, which turned out to be full of poster-decked hallways, crammed rooms, and shadowy stairwells. We went from the attic’s mirrored dressing rooms to the main floor’s stage, surrounded by dark stairs and hidden wings, and then to the basement’s maze of prop rooms, wardrobe rooms, and rehearsal hall. Every time I thought we’d come to the last room, Paige would lead us on through another door we hadn’t noticed before, into another room filled with wonders. Every wall seemed to have a different mural, and the green room smelled of turpenoid and oil paint. There were racks and racks of costumes – 20s flappers to wizard robes to victorian bustles – smelling of dust and makeup, an entire wall of shoes, a small closet filled with wigs sitting on white styrofoam heads, miscellaneous furniture across each floor, and every random prop possible, from tiny glass perfume bottles to paintings to baseball bats to enchanted roses under glass domes (“Guess what play we used that in!” Paige howled). I wasn’t sure whether it was my flu or the eclectic bizarreness of this amazing world I’d just landed in, or both, but the tour left me dizzy. Nothing we passed was organized or new and perfect; everything slightly off-kilter, bunched and stacked haphazardly, held together with twine and labeled with tape and sharpies. But there was such an air of possibility hovering over everything. With just a little magic, these scuffed slippers could grace a ballroom’s floor, and that table and chair could be a cozy room in a house with only imaginary walls—part of something important happening to living, feeling characters. All the costumes and props seemed to be breathing their dreams into the air, waiting, just waiting, to be carried onto the stage and made new again; waiting for their turn in the most real game of pretend.

This was a very different sensation than the one that I feel when I sit at the computer each day and sift out errors and inefficiencies in language and code. In a theater’s basement there are no global style standards, no strict scripting logic. The contrast was exhilarating.

We were all hooked after the tour; we put up with additional weirdness without complaint. For the rest of the time we learned a warm-up chant (almost as strange-sounding as vocal performance majors’ warmups) and played some quick-thinking improv games. But Paige could have done anything with us, we were there to stay—at least until 6:30, when real life intervened and we all reluctantly returned to our cars.

I walked to mine singing quietly to myself, feeling very tired (and congested) but happy. I wondered why exactly I was so happy, when I had started out feeling excited but skeptical. I had found the world of theater a strange one that night, but perhaps that was only because it was strange for me to realize that there are adults who spend their lives working at my favorite childhood pastime. Must all childhood pastimes be shoved aside after graduation? As much as it is hidden behind constructs of career and professionalism and money, I say imagination is still a valid part of life—and I aim to enjoy this new outlet.

Of course, as with everything, balance is key, and I have a very tenacious grip on reality that won’t permit me to become a flaming thespian, but I have to admit . . . I like it. I like it a lot.

Spring? Maybe?

Even though it snowed today and is likely to snow again later this week, for the past several days the ratio of accumulated snow to melted snow has tipped distinctly towards the melted end.

I noticed this first when I was driving home from work the other day. One of the roads I take always has some kind of construction happening, either on the road or right next to it, and this time as I drove by I saw what looked like misshapen concrete blobs lining the gutter, as if waiting to be installed in some horrible bit of modern landscaping. “Those are the ugliest rocks I’ve ever seen,” I thought. A moment later I realized that they weren’t rocks at all; they were the remnants of snowdrifts, covered in muck spewed from weeks of passing cars. I kept my eyes peeled for more as I continued the drive, and they were all over: piles of shrunken snowflakes, every color of dirt, lining the gutters, piled up beside driveways and mailboxes, and miserably seeping black tendrils of water across parking lots.

You see, the snow here isn’t like snow in New Mexico. It doesn’t sneak in on weekends and then evaporate magically before the face of a new day’s sun. Utah snow rolls in, stern and inexorable, promptly digging in its trenches and gearing up for an entire season of squatting. It clings in place long after its beautiful white face is ruined by footsteps and grime. Shovel it, stomp paths through it, it doesn’t care—you aren’t warm enough to melt it all away, and reinforcements are coming. Even now, when it’s hardly distinguishable as snow at all, it lives on; limping, hunchbacked, shriveled, and filthy. But it’s dying, slowly but surely now, as February wanes, and beneath it something is emerging that I hadn’t thought beautiful before: mud.

Yes, mud. There’s something wonderfully alive about it, even if it’s not yet freckled with tiny green leaflets. I can almost see a green tinge on the mountains where the snow has receded. Perhaps it’s an anticipatory illusion, but I just know those plants are there, right under the surface, just waiting for a little more encouragement to show themselves to the waking world. I can almost hear them breathing.

I’ve had a lot of time to think about this the past couple days as I’ve been lying here in my bed, sick with a coldish/fluish/yuckish thing. I won’t be sick forever, and it won’t be winter forever. The plants in my room are starting to perk up. Aslan must be on the move again.

Maybe there will be spring this year after all.

There are 51 states now. Who cares?

My home page at work is a corporate website that frequently features articles on what various wings of the company are doing to save the world. The blurb above the link on one of them today made me almost burst out laughing:

“There are over 37 million Americans living in the State of Poverty any given day. Who cares?”

I just had to share that with you all.

Beating the Winter Blahs

In spite of all the horn-tooting and welcoming the new year that happens every January 1st, the first couple months of the year always seem so dreary and colorless, like a two-month hangover after a string of frantic holiday parties. (Of course, that’s a theoretical simile there, seeing how I’ve never had a hangover.) But it needn’t be that way! The first step to beating the winter blahs is to admit that they exist and stop blaming your irritability on things like (and I’ve done this before) “everyone around me is inordinately stupid.”

After that, I find that the most effective way to escape the blahs is to quickly bury myself into one or more all-encompassing interests until March. In the past I’ve done series of books, TV shows on DVD, a video game, or intensive crafty projects. This temporary obsession uses all of the resources of time and energy not already devoted to essential activities (Sundays, Church responsibilities, work/school, a few social obligations, and sometimes eating and sleeping), so I don’t have a minute to spend thinking about how dark and frightful the weather outside is. In choosing a medium of mind burial, I make sure it’s long enough to last me till spring, which always turns my inclination to other things. If it’s a book, I make sure it’s a series (but not too long—to finish Wheel of Time before spring, I’d have to start at the beginning of the previous autumn); if it’s a project, I try to time it so I’ll get it done before Spring fever strikes, or I’ll have project remnants cluttering my space the rest of the year. For me, distraction is a great method for avoiding blah.

This year’s fixations are pretty evenly divided between Kindgom Hearts and a sci-fi TV show my roommate has on DVD. Have no fear, guilt over my own laziness keeps me from spending too much time on either, but it feels nice to bury myself in something frivolous and satisfying once the day’s have-tos are done.

Another thing I’ve been trying this year is to have less hateful thoughts about the weather. As Ryan and Erin dourly observed, Utah is a barren (or it SHOULD be barren), icy, snowy wasteland all winter long and sometimes unfairly far into the spring. This winter has been the snowiest I’ve ever seen in my entire life. But hey! That doesn’t mean I can’t find things I like about it! I try to force the energy of my furious irritation into grateful thoughts. I’m so glad to have not slid to my doom into oncoming traffic. I’m glad that when I scrape frost and snow off my windshield, it removes the thick layer of salt that my ancient windshield wipers can never rub away. I’m glad that a little boy next door shovels our sidewalk, even though it needs shoveling again in half an hour. Most of all, I’m happy to have two roommates and a couple of nice neighbors who will shove my car out into the street when it gets stuck after the latest dump.

Ok, so some of those were less grateful than others. Most of them have to do with driving in the snow, which is the really unfun part, though to be honest I’m getting quite good at it now. But I’ve decided that I can’t do this again. I’ve got to either move to a more New Mexico-oriented climate, work from home, or live close enough to walk to work for future winters. Hey, another thing to be grateful to the snow for: my career aspirations are slightly more defined! Positive thinking works wonders, folks.

I hope this newest post brightens up the family blog. Dunno about you, but new articles always make me happy. Whether or not these anti-blah methods work for you, to all my fellow sufferers, don’t worry: March and green grass and birthdays lie ahead, a golden, glowing orb in the gray continuum of time. Me, I’m going to dig myself a cozy burrow and wait for time’s inexorable march to pull me there.