Lanes

 My last year of grad school the campus became smoke-free. It was culture shock when I first arrived, on the heels of my little straightedge midwestern cloister, to see so many students casually walking around with cigarettes hanging from their mouths. Lowsta would zip up to sketch rehearsal on a skateboard, a Marlboro falling from his lips.

Once the signs went up, I didn't think about it again. Occasionally I'd see someone, extremely stressed, power-walking to the parking lot to cram in a light between classes. Once it shifted I couldn't believe my professor and classmates used to stand in the garden puffing away.

A few months into the change I was biking down the street and had to maneuver around some construction. I had to pop onto the sidewalk for a moment to avoid a pothole and cautiously watched a girl in pajama pants walking nearby. I didn't want to knick her with my handlebar. As I passed she started screaming at me, "YEAH I SMOKE. GET OVER IT. IT'S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS." I was so beyond flustered I simply pedaled faster. I heard her screeching as I zoomed away, "THIS ISN'T TECHNICALLY CAMPUS. I'M ALLOWED TO SMOKE."

I was probably halfway home, whiffing that pizza place, before I fully grasped what had happened. I was staring at her, in an attempt to not hurt her, and she decided to digest it as judgement for her habit. I hadn't even noticed she was smoking, and I certainly didn't care. If anything I was feeling self-conscious for biking out of my lane.

Favorite Arizona Fall Memories

Yesterday was no September 22nd. It was muggy. I wore scalloped green shorts to work and a t-shirt to The Goodman at night. The play we saw (Continuity by Bess Wohl) was about climate change, and I couldn't help but feel extra sticky on the walk home.

This is Arizona fall. I had improv rehearsal on Sundays at noon. I often took the holy day as an opportunity to buy myself a Starbucks treat--an iced pumpkin mocha latte. I would hold the cold drink in one hand and steady my handlebars with the other. The little circular tower atop the Fine Arts building. I would look out that window and worry about Act One, Scene Three. Puhg and I wore pajamas to get half price froyo at our favorite place on campus. Or he picked me up for my lunch break during full-day rehearsal for my thesis play. The girls on my comedy team went to that old ranch for a haunted house. Bug couldn't stop talking about her new boyfriend she didn't know if she liked or not. Shell and I had to keep doing the knowing glance game. When the streets were suddenly nutso and I remembered about football. I went to a weird speech tournament alone. I remember being full of Costco muffins and walking up a hill into the parking lot. I rarely asked, "What am I doing here?" I wasn't often sure what to prioritize. I went from the soft white carpet of a condo to orange concrete in a House of V. The sun seemed so powerful I never believed it would go down. The first Tuesday night dramaturgy class that ended in the dark confused me. I didn't have a bike light yet.

Man Crush Sunday

Shortly after PixieGate 2014.

This was a sunny Sunday in February. I came home from my weekend girl's getaway with Bex. My hair did not. "I'm already used to it," he said. We hopped on our bikes and pedaled downhill to the student-run theatre. The show was luke warm, but we sat in the back row tittering much like those judgey eagles in the Muppets.

"I have so much homework to do," I said, "but I also want Taco Bell." And so we pedaled down the lazy streets of AZ for crunchwraps. We laughed our nachos off, especially after a homeless man asked to borrow my cell phone and then wiped the screen, like I'm the scumbag. I mean.

We traveled through the windy suburbia-oasis. Stopped at the cross section of our homes. Kissed goodbye thirty-seven times. Took this photo. I sang home alone, papers waiting. At my front door I looked at my phone. It was a photo of the sunset and excitement for a new day together.

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.

Bossy

The term "bossy" has really exploded in feminist culture and writings lately. People be like, "That is an inappropriate term for women." (Mainly because, like "bitch," "bossy" is never applied to men since assertive male leaders are just called, like, "president.") Meanwhile, Nicki Minaj and Kelis are making it their own: I am bossy. I am a bitch. That's my right. Worship me. Donna on Parks & Rec compliments or degrades Leslie via Twitter by alternating hashtags of #BitchBoss and #BossBitch.

My jury is still out, but the debate resurfaced a memory I had long buried. It was the summer before 7th grade and my gang of gal pals had spent the day riding bikes and hanging out in various parks. We ended up at someone's house, and I thought it would be fun to do some project. I honestly don't remember what. Something with writing. Everyone was being sort of lazy and not listening--understandable because it was summer vacation. Anyway, the three girls eventually sort of left the room one by one and announced they weren't going to listen to me because I was being bossy.

How was I being bossy? I wanted to know. Tell me what was bossy. I was offering everyone creative equality. "You just were." But I just had an idea of something to do. We were all bored. So I literally found a dictionary, read the definition of bossy, and asked, "What in here? Give me facts."

I don't think they were necessarily wrong, but I know I didn't get an answer, and I'm pretty sure I biked home and spent the night alone. In my middle school gang (there were about eight of us, thick as greek yogurt) people always made fun of me for saying "Can you give me an example?" Like, "Alice, you're always so blah blah blah." To which I would reply, "Give me an example." I still do this, and, come to think of it, it has frustrated people my whole life. That could be "pushy" (one of the definitions of "bossy.") But I'm honestly not trying to be right. I'm not trying to be "bossy" (whether that is a fair assessment or not). I just want to know.

Nice Things (An Extremely Partial List)

1. Biking home from Bisque's house one day (in December mind you) I was struck by the beauty and simplicity of this lemon tree. I did nothing to deserve this happy sight except look up and be aware of some of the nice things freely given in this world.

Hello, world.

 2. We decided via group text to watch Place Beyond the Pines one night at 6. Incidentally, it is my second favorite movie of 2013--only coming in a hair behind Don John. In the text someone mentioned a blanket fort, so when she got off work, Ro made one. It was a charming evening, warm, sweet.

Cager in the blanket fort.

Cat Calls

On Thanksgiving, my sister and I were on a walk, and she tweeted something I said to the effect of, "I hope Obama doesn't fix the jobs act soon because the bums calling me beautiful on the way to school is necessary to my self-esteem." I was kidding, but only kind of. Because in my short fifteen minute bike ride I usually get at least one cat call of some kind. I really have no idea why this is. I really don't understand cat calls--especially to girls on bikes.

A couple weeks ago, Ro and I were on a walk when a guy screamed out of his speeding car, "YOU'RE HOTT." I yelled in mock desperation, "Wait! Come back! If you love us, why would you leave us!?" And the car paused a couple blocks up, and we panicked before realizing there was a stop sign.

It's like...what's the purpose? It's not an actual pick-up. Is it some kind of hope to exert an uncomfortable power? To make women feel victimized for no real reason? It's not earnest. 80% of the time I'm on my bike I'm sweating my face off. And, as a strong, independent female, how does one react? I usually show I'm not intimidated and say "thank you" as I whiz by. Does this encourage that behavior? Is random yelling at women "Good morning, gorgeous" offensive in the first place? Because maybe it's not.

Today on my way to work I was stopped at a big intersection with lots of cars and people all around. A man jogged right in front of me as the crosswalk was blinking a red hand. He yelled out, "WOO! I MADE IT." And I smiled at him, because we should celebrate just making lights. He turned to me and boomed so allllll could hear: "Oh. My. GOD. You are BEAUTIFUL." Since I didn't have the security of motion, and all these people were watching, I blushed down at the ground, and put up my palm.

Immediately, a thunderous, "THAT WAS A COMPLIMENT. I'M NOT HITTING ON YOU. GET OVER YOURSELF."

And you betcha I felt victimized for no reason. And I bore a hole into the asphalt under my front tire, and I took off like a rocket when I got that green.

Hit

I was hit by a truck today. On my bicycle. The cliche is true. Time does slow down. One second expands to a million decisions. One minute my biggest concern was wondering if I would have enough down time at work to grade. Next, I see the driver only look one way as he's turning out of the parking lot. I was already in front of his grill. I knew it was about to happen. I screamed with everything I had. My brakes couldn't save me. The vehicle plowed into me. I flew. The tires moved forward, and I thought I was going to die. But, no, it was a lurch from being put in park. A man in construction garb ran around to me asking, "Can I call 9-1-1? I'll call 9-1-1." I had burst into tears. It was as if someone had injected me with a triple shot of espresso. My adrenaline was so high. Busy time of day on a busy street--people stopped traffic, ran from their cars, "I saw what happened!" they yelled. I was partially blind by my nerves. I stood up and all I could think about was how scared I would be if I had hit me. I kept assuring the man I was okay. I was okay. I was really okay. I wanted him to know. I wasn't thinking straight, but I knew I needed to make the man feel like he hadn't done anything wrong. That it was going to be okay.

I wanted to walk. A voice in the back of my head said, "You have to get to school still. You're subbing today. You'll be late." I honed in on that need and started walking. I couldn't stop crying. It was instinctual--surely chemical. My bike chain was screwed up, I walked. I felt like I should call someone, but I knew it would sound much more dramatic between sobs. I put my phone away. I got to the class late, really fine, but still crying. I couldn't stop for about an hour. I held up my bloodied, bike-greased hands and excused myself to the bathroom. I taught. I let them out a little early. I got hit by a truck, you know? I also had two pieces of cheesecake for dinner. I got hit by a truck today. I think it's okay.

EDIT: After to waking up to concerned texts I want to say I AM TOTALLY FINE. I have some scratches and bruises, but I really am fine! I actually had a pretty good day. I was let out of work early and baked and saw some friends and had a rehearsal. I even got my bike in decent working condition at the school co-op for free.

Why I Love My iPad Even Though I Thought They Were Stupid at First

WARNING: If you don't care about iPads, this post is not interesting!

"I can't believe you have an iPad...it's just so mainstream consumerist of you!:)"--E-mail from Dunt, October 10th, 6:53 PM in response to my "Sent from my iPad" sign-off

She's not wrong. I myself thought iPads were flat-out dumb when they first came out. "So, it's a computer...but worse that's 'easier to hold'?" I was not impressed. But, then, something big happened in my life: I started grad school. More specifically: I started biking a couple miles to grad school every day. In college I almost never brought my computer to class. I like to take notes by hand, and I like to be present (not on Facebook, which, as a TA in giant lecture classes, I am hugely aware is actually what every undergrad student is actually minoring in). But, in grad school, I need my computer. Like...all the time. Lots of PDFs for classes, peer plays I have to  read, student e-mails that flood my school inbox like stoner freshmen at the 24-hour Taco Bell.

Carrying my computer on my back to school every day was heavy, sure, but it was also scary. I haven't fallen off my bike once since I moved here (which is actually pretty dang amazing considering it's my main form of transportation and I'm not, like, the most graceful person in the Milky Way Galaxy), but I could any day. I could wobble and lose my bearings and fall onto the sidewalk...and my backpack could drop off my shoulders...right under a car tire. Crunch. Buh-bye, MacBook. The idea concerned me. If I lost my computer, it would be a nightmare for me to continue with school. I'd have the library computers--often crowded and questionable working environment...and that'd be it. MAYBE I could do SOME research (if I needed to) on my phone. As long as I was researching, like, Twitter and Instagram.

Anyway, I recognized last year I needed to start protecting my computer more. It should stay at home as often as humanly possible...I needed something else to allow me to read scripts from for playwrights' workshop, something that would allow me easy access to the internet, I grimaced and recognized I am the perfect candidate for an iPad.

My whole family pooled together to give it me for Christmas.I didn't even open the dang box for weeks. I wasn't excited about the toy. I hate electronics. On the first day of school, I sliced open the plastic wrap. And then I downloaded all my textbooks into the Kindle app. And then I biked to school NOT hunched over, NOT fearing for my computer's life. I biked to school with a tiny little screen in my backpack, a notebook, and that's IT. Cue "Freedom 90" by George Michael.

Here's What Else I Love about My iPad:

1. E-books are easy to buy (no trip to the store--handy if you don't have a car).

2. They are also supes eco-friendly.

3. I watch Netflix while running on the treadmill at the gym. This is amazing. I knock out my "relax veg out" time and work-out time at the same time.

4. I prop it up in the kitchen and easily read recipes off of it.

5. I prop it up like a boombox anywhere I go and play Pandora on it.

6. When it's slow at work, I am able to get up and help students much quicker with an iPad on my lap than a computer on my lap.

7.  Okay. This is a bit ridiculous...but whatever, I do it: I set up my laptop and my iPad side by side in my bedroom and watch One Tree Hill on my iPad while simultaneously doing Jillian work-out DVDs on my computer. I have the power, I might as well wield it!

8. I can walk around my condo and FaceTime.

This summer, I wasn't in school, and I didn't touch the dang pad for three months. But, now, it's again the love of my life. No, really, I spent more time with my iPad than any human. HAHAHA IT'S FINE JUST DYING ALONE WHATEVER.

Major Life Update One (of Two)

Semester One: Bike & Car

Semester Two: Bike

Semester Three: Bike & Scooter

My bike is still my primary mode of toolin' about town, but it was time to make myself just a bit more mobile. A bit more happy about grocery trips, meeting someone for dinner without being sweaty, and going out late. It was a long decision-making process, but I now own and operate my very own scooter--name pending.

Here's the thing: I love it.

In the day we sweat it out in the streets
of a runaway american dream.
At night we ride through mansions
of glory in suicide machines.

Tear Count Arizona 2011-12

First semester, I only cried one time, and that was because my grandfather passed away. For a while it looked like I was going to stick with the one cryfest per semester average. I already spent my crying card in February when my sister visited. We got into an argument during Sunday brunch at one of my favorite restaurants of all places (Cornish Pasty whaddup), and suddenly...waterworks. It was a brief emotional explosion that, in hindsight, we realized was probably due to accidental dehydration and sleep deprivation. Boops.

I was almost home free! One final portfolio due today, final Theory presentation tomorrow, fatty stack of grading, but whatever! I was feelin' stressed, but not freaking out. And next thing I know, it's 7 AM, and my greasy pigtails are sopping up my mucus because I'm bawling outside the library. Why? Oh, I had trouble printing. I mean, it's more traumatic than that, but also not. Luckily I have Pookie, who I texted "Meltdown" to, and despite being in a meeting, she called me immediately. Talked me off the crazy ledge: "No one is going to steal your social security number." (Believe it or not, this was legitimately part of the printing kerfuffle.) I sobbed, "MY FINAL THEORY PRESENTATION IS TOMORROW AND I HAVEN'T STARTED."

She said, "Your Theory presentation on criticism of female characterization in theatre? I don't think it's fair to say you haven't started when, as far as I can tell, you've been preparing for this presentation your whole life?"

This made me laugh, and then I had to go to work, and I worked twelve hours with a smile on face.

Photoboothed myself right now. HELLO, BOYS!

So, yeah, I've cried three times since I moved to Arizona.

Also, since I'm spouting embarrassing truths: While I biked home tonight I listened to B*Witched.

Say you will, say you won't, say you'll do what I don't.
Say you're true, say to me--C'est la vie!

EDIT: Oh, yeah, I cried a lot during Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, but that doesn't really count.

Be Comforted

Cozy couple in PJS in VA.

Comfort. Capital C, sunny days on bicycles, chocolate cookies at the grad student picnic with Hill, trotting up to our favorite professor's door, being invited in for sits and thoughts.

The Comfort of the subpar but all-you-can-eat chocolate froyo and brownie squares at Sweet Tomatoes. "I want to be fat," I told Smirn. The Comfort of my home here. How it feels to punch in the code on our garage, taking an envelope out of my stationary drawer, knowing there is one pine cone stamp left for this letter Michigan-bound. The people I've met, and how they've turned into the people I can insult, or hug, and how it feels just right.

"You will begin to understand that healing is an effect. It's no longer the object of your intention. It becomes the unavoidable side effect."--Michael Pabst

Star Cactus

AZ. 2012.

I got nothin'. So, a list:

Good Stuff Today:
-The Biggest Loser & a Bob Harper workout.
-Pitching ideas.
-Working with two women who are genuinely having fun with my new play and who are also very talented.
-Being able to give sincere compliments to people whose art I admire.
-When you think about theatre the day after you see it.
-Pasties with improv friendos.
-Biking in the sun.
-Communication with familia.
-The Internet. Hello research.
-Muff in two weeks.

Blue Bow

The counselor staff gift in 2010 was a stationary set. We--Cocoa, KWall, and I--made them with care using rubber stamps and thick white paper. We stacked the little piles and wrapped them with blue bows.

The staff wore the bows all summer. I liked the robin's egg hue. I liked the length around my braids. I tied it around my pony tail last Monday morning. I was nostalgic for camp. The July dawns on the lake are mimetic of these February desert mornings. Sometimes at night when I close my eyes I imagine the view from Council Fire, the lighthouse in the distance, the smell of pine.

I saw bell hooks speak last Monday. (More on that in the future.) I felt rejuvenated after the talk. Ready to move. I hopped on my bicycle and scooted home. It was windy, but I was defiant. I arrived home to a stack of mail. I scurried up to my room, turned on the lamp, pulled up the covers. I reached back to run the bow between the valley of my thumb and pointer.

It was gone. It had flown away in the wind.

Maybe it is in a bird nest, or a river, or stranger's shoelace.

Groundhog's Day

Last night Ru snuck me in to the music school's production of Cabaret. I got to the theatre and called him. He was waiting outside all made-up and in nightclub costume. Not only did he sneak me in, he snuck me into the front row. It was a self-date night. I got out of class at five, treated myself to a bean burrito, and sat in Taco Bell grading papers until it was time to attend the theatre alone.


Ru and Kale Jr. post-show.

It was about 11 by the time I was biking home. I bought a vanilla candle from CVS and pedaled into the night, singing The Ataris "San Dimas High School Football Rules" to keep my mind off the wind on my knuckles. Then, in the very back of the instrumental break blaring from my headphones, I was called. Distant and tiny, but urgent. "Alice! Al-ice!" Then I realized--I was biking past an outdoor bar that Boulder and Blue eyes just happened to be sitting at. I screeched to a halt and came in the side gate. They offered me pizza, but it was super meaty. They had giant steins of beer and told me to stay. We talked about time, playwriting, communication, more and more and more. Blue Eyes explained he teaches at 8 AM now, so he is a regular overnight guest at Boulder's.

I walked my bike on the sidewalk next to them as they stumbled back to the house. I live so close to Boulder, I said, "Hey! Let me come over and make pancakes in the morning!" They were quiet. "I mean, I'm not going to say no," Blue Eyes finally chirped.

At 6:20 I biked over and made s'more pancakes for my academic peers. Over the gooey marshmallow cakes, Blue Eyes told us about his 12 year-old who is a picky eater, how he was raised with a healthnut mom. We all cleaned the plates and pans together. Boulder said I should move in to just make breakfast every day. I turned to Blue Eyes, "And you could be our son!" And I think it was a very special, silly morning for the man--the grown man who has a wife and two kids, jobs and school--waking up to someone else cooking breakfast, leaving to the calls of faux-parents yelling, "Have a great day at school, dear! Learn something new! Be safe!"

Life is a cabaret, old chum.

Ode to University Avenue

Sunset on Friday.

Here's to the upscale pizza joint,
that seems to be baking fresh garlic bread every moment
I am pedaling by
hungry.
Here's to the morning coffee-goers
outside Starbucks, the ballooning mocha-skinned women,
the suits.
Here's to the mailbox next to bumper stickers,
the brick sidewalk that plinks,
as if ready to pop up
any one of these days.
Here's to the lil sammich shop full of potheads
and the fatheads outside the convenience store,
the orange-painted apartments on my left before I make the final turn
home, the stretch of bike lane on my right that inexplicably gleams
with broken bottle shards
every single day.
Here's to the blocky Chinese place,
the tiny stucco house with graphiti on its western wall,
the cacti yard behind a chainlink fence.
Here's the the palm skins on the sidewalk
and the wind that feels good in January,
and the squeak of my wheels,
and the bright blue bus stop bench,
and most of all,
"Reign of Love" playing in my ears.
To the sea I offer this heavy load.
This is living.

Love Just Leaves You Bruised

There is a bruise on my left shin.
A young boy ran backwards into my bicycle on the sidewalk across from the basketball court of the local park.
I had stopped to take a photo of the ice cream truck--
THE ICE CREAM TRUCK in JANUARY, FOLKS--
when SMASH, the boy rammed into me, my pedal rammed into my shin.
"Hey," I said like an authority figure.

I had seen the boy at the ice cream truck while I was getting out my phone. Two girls--age estimation 11/12--walked by the kid. One had long dark hair and was pretzel rod thin. The other girl was pretty chubby for her age. Glasses. Wearing a white spaghetti strap tank. She motioned up and down her pudgy body to the boy, "Watch out! 'Cos I'll beat you up." As far as I could tell, he hadn't done anything to provoke this girl. Maybe in school, but she almost seemed playful. The boy laughed, and she started walking menacingly back toward him. She got high off his retreat and she raised her fist at him. "I'll kick you," she said. "Take it like a man!"

Thoughts:
"Should I say something? Should I just break it up? I don't think there's real danger here, and I don't want to embarrass this girl who does't realize how unlovable she's making herself. I'd like to explain to her how polarizing and negative comments about a young boy's ability to 'take it like a man' are, but will she understand that? Will they just call ME names?"

WHAM. Boy hits bike. The girls walk on.

I take my photo, stand still for a moment, consider getting a pink panther pop, don't, bike slowly on. As I near the girls, I think about a brief word I might share with them: "Hey, girls, it's never funny or cute to be violent--even pretend violent." Or, "Why did you do that?" Or, "Respect boys. You want them to respect you." But just as I get behind them and open my mouth, the troublemaker turns around, and very hastily says, "Really sorry about that."

"It's okay," I say.

"...He just wasn't watching where he was going," she says.

"Mhmm," I say. And I continue on. She drops her shoulders a little--we both know she just tried to pin the blame for being so insecure turned rough, we both knew she needed to say sorry, we both knew "sorry" wouldn't make this bruise vanish.

Falling Asleep Last Night

Step right up, step right up, engage in the most beautiful thing in the world, ladies and gentlemen!

Win big prizes! The biggest prize of all! Step right up to the realization that everything is big, and that includes you, and the weekend is a blur of writing in your bed and watching Rain Man in segments, and celebrating the upcoming holiday with friends, one of whom made pumpkin cupcakes and gave you the leftovers. "Danksgiving?" you asked after getting the text. And the guy laughed, "Getting dank is getting high, so, hence..." Oh. You thought, and you drove the van of drunkies home. One said he was depressed he was almost done watching Fraiser. You get that. You finished your play revisions, and you're not proud of them, but they're done, and a girl you do sketch comedy with said, "We got you a present" and it was a t-shirt of Hello Kitty sleeping on a cheeseburger that reads "FOOD COMA." When you first walked in, the host said, "There's only one dish with meat in it! There's ham, but that's it." You thanked him for informing you before even saying hello. You went to a Metallica version of The Misanthrope Saturday and sat in the nearly-empty balcony, and at intermission you turned around to see an improv teammate sitting behind you. Surprise! You say. We're both here on a Saturday night. Alone. You wore shorts because it was 70 all day--cooler at night, but a pleasant bike in your navy speech and debate hoodie.

Step right up because you're doing your best, and what's the worst that could happen? You don't create anything good in three years? You'll still get a good degree. You'll lose scholarships? If you can't pay, you can leave, and you'll be happy because everything is big.

Win big prizes.