Post-Crying in the Writing Center

I grumpily helped some students with commas. At home Puhg saw I was in a mood, so while he was swiffering the kitchen, he impersonated Winston Churchill with a little cane. He made me kale power bowls for dinner, and when I hopped out to the store for a lime, I came back with my extra treats. Puhg glanced in the shopping back, so I said, "Don't @ me." (The Santa's Favorite that taste like licorice!!) We watched Survivor! I worked on revisions for my solo show for half an hour before grabbing a cab to coach an improv rehearsal. I made a cool $45 (sunglasses emoji). I felt scared about opening night--3.5 weeks away. I ate fifteen cookies before bed. Final grades have been submitted. My backpack is full of popcorn and candy for a Star Wars viewing in 54 minutes.

Solstice 2017

When I was seventeen the director of the summer camp I grew up at led us on a summer solstice night hike. It was a campy (literally) rite of passage full of life advice, but several of these little lessons have stayed relevant to me over the years. My favorite takeaway was the idea of living "solstice days.' The concept is on the longest day of the year we should wake-up bright and early, full of excitement and stay vibrant with the sun, squeezing every drop of joy from the day. And, you know, if you want to live a full life, repeat x 365. On any given day when I am ear to pillow I know my day has been incredible. Even when I am depressed or anxious, on paper I have lived a remarkable 18 hours.

When I was down last week Pearl told me to remember probably less than 500 people in the world have somehow made improv & teaching their employment, and we are two of them. Those numbers could easily be skewed depending on how you define "improv" "teaching" and "employment," but whatever. I know I do this exercise all the time--listing what my day entailed--but it's always a rainbow from my 10th grade journal. 6 out of 7 of my days are so classified as solstice, that that one needed break usually makes me feel sluggish or guilty. I live in June 21st.

On this year's solstice morning I woke up at 4 AM. I couldn't sleep, so I worked on my book for about an hour and did some lesson planning. I did a circuit at my gorgeous athletic club and took the early train north to teach musical theatre to 5th graders. They learned a kickline to "Singin' in the Rain." Puhg and I watched the finale of Better Call Saul, I scrapbooked in the living room with the windows open. I answered adult bill mail. At 8 I led an improv rehearsal for an indie team. I laughed, we got critical, we goofed to the Red Line. Pearl texted me a photo of Burger King's Lucky Charms shake. I said, "We should go now," because I was already out. I was surprised to hear she was down. She and Flip had just left the Cubs game.

I pushed through the hoards in Wrigleyville and we walked to the BK. It was locked. Google had said 24-hours, but that was the drive-thru and we were on foot. But we rallied. We were already there. Maybe we would ask a passing car to get us the ice cream. I committed and called a Lyft. We waited for it to come and saw a familiar body shape on the sidewalk. It was Dal! We called out and he walked over. What are the odds! He was hungry too.  Suddenly the night was magic and we were all going to get crowns. My Lyft driver cancelled. He said my request was "unacceptable.' Was it? I didn't think so. Flip hailed a cab. No dice, but the next cab said yes! We all squeezed in cheerily, we ordered novelty treats and Cheeto sticks! We waited at the window.

We waited a long time. Our driver revealed he had to go to the bathroom very badly and started knocking on the window. The women working would not let him in (understandably). It was funny and then he was in a lot of anxious pain. He pointed at the dash and said, "There's my license. Good luck." And then he ran across two lanes of traffic to a gas station. He came back jumping, he wasn't allowed to use the restroom. We were stuck. We offered to leave, a line of cars sat behind us. After 25-minutes the food came. We grabbed it and jumped out. The driver behind us revved like he would smash us. He screamed at Dal. Dal engaged. Pearl said, "Walk away." I was got very tiny inside my head wishing, "Oh god let there not be a fight in this Burger King parking lot." We walked away, feeling the steam of tense encounters. The milkshakes were actually really good.

I asked a cop to take our picture, and Dal gave her a Cheeto stick. Eventually we all parted ways. I walked the last half mile alone up Halsted.

Wet 'n' Waffled

All week the head Speech coach has been harping to the kiddos on the Nationals team, "You want to know once you get to the tournament that you did everything you possibly could during these practices." I drove my roommates car home blasting "All Night," sort of enjoying the skin graft feel of being inside a a black car that's 110 degrees. As a coach, I feel like I did everything I could to serve those kids, and that feels good, that feels light and right.

There's a waterpark visible from the freeway I've wanted to experience since I moved here. Last night I finally went! Wave pool, lazy river, slides and singing in lines for tube slides. Six little friendos from all walks of life: bartender, soon-to-be married man, social worker, goober, boyfriend, that chicklet with the neck-back laugh, a girl who is about to move away to Chicago to pursue something undefined for who knows how long. We kept seeing people carrying these mega four-person tubes for a fat bowl slide. They were squares and looked like huge yellow waffles. The more we said "waffles" the more we wanted them, so when the night was done, we went, wet and cold to IHOP for a midnight meal.

Waterparks are gross. Not just the snot and astroturf, assumed urine water. Mainly the teenage groping. So many teenagers, set loose in bikinis and holding each other in still lines. "Ugh," we comment. "Ugh."But this is huge for them. This is the night to write about in diaries. "The night me and X had the universe to ourselves and held hands in an inner-tube." 20somethings are ancient in the land of Dippin' Dots and locker rentals.

But it feels like another day, another year. Things change, but a waterpark can be fun for a long time. A group of educated rent-paying humans can discuss the best pancake option for half an hour.

We always dreamed about a better life, this better life.

We always felt it coming all along, yeah, all along.

We got the keys to open paradise, yeah, paradise.

Now let's go walking hand in hand.

Tired/Move

I am very. I wake up early and coach the speech kids going to Nationals. I spent the weekend at Maf's--the first place I stayed when I moved here. I showed her the pine prickles in my hand from the cactus I hit that first Arizona day. The bumps remain.

I walk slowly and lay on the couch for too long plotting, re-plotting all the moving details. This much money, that email about the one job--waiting, cutting up the strawberries, too tired to pick a show on Hulu, tired. It's one-hundred all the time and I have no mode of transit. Bike--sold. Scooter--sold. I expected to cry when she was wheeled into that stranger's garage, but I didn't. There has been too much to do. I have been so slow in doing it.

Jerome, Arizona.

I'm tired, so tired.

Red Envelopes

So many young men have crumpled

backs from the wind,

clomping through Harvard Square holding

paper-wrapped bouquets.

Bisque points to a guy middle-age

outside the taco shop

penning a card.

"Last minute," he says

because his letter to me (the one with the s'more on it--

'I love you s'more every day')

is in his backpack

sealed, ready

for our date.

On Wednesday he left a vase of roses and

Reese's Cups on my kitchen table.

A tiny potted ivy for Ro. A pink flower for Rora.

Over high-end hazelnut cocoa

we hold hands.

We haven't been all day because there are children

to lasso. But they're all off

in the slushy streets. Doing

their own

stuff.

So we hold hands and we exchange red envelopes

(mine for him, two peanuts hugging)

with messages that sound

the same.

Every day is a better day.

The ultimate Valentine.

Take That Towel Off Your Head

There was a Muslim girl on my high school Speech team. She was quirky and her favorite game was asking people, "What if a dead body fell through the ceiling right now, what would you do?" She only wore long sleeves and always wrapped her hair. I asked her if she had ever been swimming, and yes, she had, at a Muslim summer camp.

Our team of 20ish kids gathered for our yearbook picture in brisk south suburbs February. We were all goobers, and the photographer had to shush us a few times. Right before he snapped the photo he said, sure as cement, "Will you take that towel off your head?" Silence. Our teammate tightened her jaw and just said, "No." We took the picture, shuffled back into our coach's classroom, and DIED LAUGHING. One coach wrote it on the blackboard, "Take that towel off your head." Another suggested we put it on the back of our sweatshirts. The girl's face was in a permanent "I cannot believe that just happened. What a GD idiot/lunatic." I thought the whole thing was hilarious too! Some dude who called what was clearly a religious garment a towel! See, I had never heard the term "towelhead" before, so I thought it was legitimate ignorance instead of prejudice ignorance.

Tonight I attended a lecture about humor in religion. It was interesting enough. The speaker--a professor from a prestigious school--basically tackled two concepts. The first--religion and comedy have a giant commonality: they were created to help people get through tough things. The second--a brief look at how humor plays a part in Judaism, Christianities, and Hindu/Buddhism. I repeat: it was interesting enough.

I was there because my thesis play (a comedy) explores religious themes. It also explores judgement (in conjunction with religious themes). Judgement and analysis from within a faith and judgement and analysis from outside a faith are two very different things. So I asked why is it we love to make fun of religion so much? I offended the speaker by saying, "For my demographic, religion and humor are basically synonymous." The dude stopped me and shook his head and gave a kinda PC answer, but was sure to end it with, "Those two are definitely not synonymous." But for me, it feels they are. Even religious people I know make fun of themselves--and DEFINITELY of others. If you must have faith, the least you can do for yourself as a 20something is not take it seriously.

Does my teammate still think about photo day? I hope so--because that means it was an anomoly. I truly do hope it's one goofy anecdote, and not a drop in the bucket. Did we make it all better when we joined in on razzing that moron? Or did we sweep her pain under the rug? No one else believed what she believed. Did she step forward from that day with more conviction? Less?

I left the talk repentant for speaking out of turn. Like, who am I to say what to an expert? Perhaps I THINK I look outside my own self, but not farther than others who are essentially just like me. And then this tall chick with the sides of her head shaved said, "I really appreciated your comment" as we left the hall. More.

High Apple Pie in the Sky Hopes

photo by Mia

1. Had high hopes of updating this blog every day this month. But, then I remembered I'm going to ACTF next week and might not have internet. Thus, dreams splattered on the sidewalk.

2. When I was fourteen I loved the song "The Middle" by Jimmy Eat World. I thought the chorus was

"It just takes some time.
Little girl you're in the middle
apple pie.
Everything everything will be alright."

3. When I started coaching speech I was overwhelmed by a surprising saddness. It wasn't nostalgia--more this huge hairy feeling that nothing is ever going to be planned for me anymore. I run around these tournaments making an activity happen for high schoolers, but nothing like that exists for me anymore, right? So wrong! I feel really good about this concept lately. Like not only is that not something to fear because I can make my own plans that are better than adults planning speech meets. I mean, step back and think about that. I was scared I wouldn't enjoy things as much as high school speech meets. Um. Crazytown called and wants their president back.

Today while I was sitting alone in a classroom waiting for students to come in with little prepared political speeches I was overwhelmed by the feeling that things are constantly being laid out for me--and with less stress and anguish than the busy speech adults must endure. Simple and good things are just plopping down in front of me. Falling from the sky like houses post-twister.

It's to Jimmy Eat World and those nights in my car,
when the first star you see may not be a star.
I'm not your star.
Isn't that what you said?
What you thought this song meant?

This Never-ending Road to Calvary

My CT class after our intense camping trip. 2005.

One day until kids come.
Fifty days 'til I leave camp for-ev-er.
..and after that I can't count anymore. I've got a fat stack of papers to sign and deal with, but for now, I am just going to let that sit in a corner under my bunk.

The comedian says that a day without light's just--