Lucky Friday the 13th

Woke up in a bit of a bad mood to be honest. Tech issues with one of my accounts, irritation with the Toy Conglomerate who is, as they say in the biz, really pushin' it. They sent another 40 pages of notes on the V4 of this three-minute commercial. I take at least a half hour to compose a message that means, "With all due respect, this is insane" decide on, "Can we hop on a call at 11?"

Puhg clears out so I bop around to Taylor and Joyce Manor, scuttle to the cafe just before 9. I slurp an iced tea and yap with Puhg about his gaming group and housing options for the summer festival. We're not sure where to place the director just yet because she will be bringing her one year-old. I'm glad to work with her and also glad I'm seasoned enough in indie producing to have firm boundaries around certain choices. Like how even though the little lump is an angel in meetings now, we have not met the teething version of the lump yet, so unfortunately she cannot stay in the same apartment as the cast. But! I do agree to pay her at a premium, so she can work out her own accommodations. Sometimes I feel out of my league in terms of professional experience because I've never made much money on my projects and bend most choices to accommodate the artists. Then I reconsider, what if these me-isms are what make actors text me in the middle of the night, "You know I'd love to be in one of your shows..."

I read a little of my blue book, jot a couple details in my journal, start eating frogs. Email city: schedule that DC dramaturgy meeting, that Santa Monica director zoom, make an appointment for laser treatment Wednesday, many drafts at communication with the young organizer. My new notes are littered with criticism the characters don't sound enough like Gen A. It's hard to explain to a corporation they don't want their cutesy characters screaming "SKIBIDI BRUH!" I text Diz for intel, straight from the goddaughter source. She sends me a few lists and even some video of a child offering some lingo. I love collaboration over art in this way.

I zip down to the salon so I'm first in the door when they open at 10. I'm meeting a new potential manager today and feeling a little like a dull piece of silver. Fresh claws could be my secret weapon. I'm delighted the usual manager hasn't arrived to turn on the TV. I'm also with the gal who hates speaking English the most. It's silent as she lotions my hands and the sun streams in.

I decide to take that work call from a perch near the grocery store. I am very friendly to my producer because I know she is not to blame for any of the recent malarky. She agrees I deserve 2K in overages to rewrite both scripts over the weekend. This is great news and infuriating news as whenever I start a contract everyone assures me there is NO money to move on the rate, and then someone who makes triple my salary will waffle on deadlines and opinions and cost the thing a bonus fortune. One thing that has helped me navigate this big bad world as a business of one is sometimes talking to my bosses as a representative of "Alice's Business." Like, hey, luckily you're talking to me, Regular Alice...but if you were talking to the Business of Alice, corporate would be using way fewer exclamation points! Not not Hulk energy. You wouldn't like Alice when she's angry.

On my trot home I pass a blonde girl in an adorable checkered two-piece and realize it's the star of the movie I worked on in 2019. I call out to her and we hug. She seems more out of sorts than usual and mumbles about moving to London because... I get it, I get it. It's a really nice little bump-in. She was playing 16 when we spent all those hours together. But she was actually 26. Now she's 32 so it's kind of like she doubled in age instantly, to me. She says she'd love to see my premiere this summer. We exchange numbers and I rush home to shove a bagel in my mouth and put on "nice" clothes and "nice" makeup and spritz myself with the "nice" rose spray.

Because I have a music improv show later I decide to listen to the entirety of the Little Shop soundtrack on my way to the meeting. I skip the skips (Mushnik and Son DIAF) and take a deep breath before heading into the big boxy building. My email pings, the Toy Conglomerate will only pay me $500 for the overages. I write back that means I will be doing a quarter of the work. I would have preferred to have the money, but this option means I don't have to work Saturday or Sunday, which might be worth more in mental health bucks, down the line.

What's such a shock is this manager is quite low key and nearly too cool, but for some reason that puts me at ease. We share our lore and randomly both loved the same small-budget movie last month. He says he wants to sign me, and I surprise myself when I explain I don't really want to do many more of these meetings if I can help it, I hate them, and I never want to dress this presentably again. It sort of spills out of me, "I'm a slob and socially awkward and I just need someone to handle my reputation so I can be left alone to write for god's sake." He says he thinks he can do that for me, and I think I believe him. But I have believed a lot of people in this city...

As we're parting ways he says he's going to read my play, even just as a fan. I blurt out I wish I could ask my old manager what to do. And so it was revealed to me, how much I've been missing her. And also how maybe I'm finally ready to move on. I drive home listening to my short story playlist. At home Puhg is making lunch and offers one of his little passing wisdoms. I kind of always refuse to work with men, but in this one instance, at this particular moment, maybe it would be good for me.

I slow down and have some buffalo vegan wings with carrots, watch a video about the creation of patriarchy, work more on that one cursed email, decide it's now or never and send it. A playwright who is always busy working on Severance gets back to me about her opinion on subsidiary rights. A playwright who is quite popular in the Theatre for Youth space calls me for advice on a film contest. He is desperate to get a lit manager, which he can't find despite his play having been done literally 2000 times. Meanwhile I have three manager offers I'm mulling over, but it's taken me four years to get a single shot at my play. The playwright on Broadway wrote me a few days ago, her show is a smash and her pitch was rejected by every studio. She's very sad her words will never be translated to the screen like mine have been. Grass, greener, etc.

Around 5:30 I get into "improv" clothes. I even find a running order from that Maine gig last fall. It feels like a kiss of good luck. I just got a promotional email from that theatre company, they'd used a stock photo of me and the other two gals on cast. I forwarded it to them, "We're famous!" They write back with xs and os.

The evening's cast assembles in the green room at the major comedy spot around 6:30. JB brings his son. I clock him around 11/12. He sits kind of sullen and alone, so I ask what grade he's in. I try 6th, and he quickly corrects 7th. Though I am privately proud I was so close, I wonder if he's humiliated, to have been deemed a smaller fry. I ask what he's learning about in school. "Europe," he says. Mhm, mhm. I try another way in, explain I'm writing a commercial and could use a correspondent. I riff on some of what I learned earlier that day. "So I understand 'tough' means 'cool' now." He agrees. I ask about "no cap" and he shakes his head. Eventually the whole cast is gathered around this muffin. He tells us only his generation will ever know the true meaning of 6/7. We nod, that's fair.

What unfolds is a show I will simply never forget. We get the suggestion Mean Boys and launch into a high school locker room full of hormonal teens. I play JH's English teacher, worried he's too sensitive to fit in. JB plays the angry school jock/bully. AW does crude bits and riffs and smokes the whole crowd with her pipes in the 11th hour. RB, who I consider the greatest improviser alive, plays an emotional girl and a closeted boy and brings down the house with one line, twice. There are references to fetch and October 3rd and the a huge dance finale in which the bully cries and becomes best friends with the sweetie and together they bust several moves. Afterward we're so happy. I am always proud when we really serve the crowd. And then JB's son meanders backstage. He takes our photo. I decide in my heart, it was all for him.

I walk home, zipping through the crowds outside. Strangers call out after me--great job, good job, wow you guys killed. I tromp up past the park with the new Harry Styles and when I'm a block from home a man darts out from the shadows at me. It's Puhg! He accuses me of being high on comedy, and I confess, he is right.

I revel in the night air, take a long hot shower, and settle in for Frasier with a plate of heart-shaped sugar cookies from my mother and a big earl grey cookie my sister found at the beach town bakery. Fall asleep on Puhg, during the one about Marty being bad at accepting gifts.

what kind of a boy am i

The Battle of Who Could Care Less

"Congratulations," he told me. "For what?" I asked. He told me it was an honor to join NHS. It wasn't (to me). Like, everyone who applied got in. I mean, sure, you have to have a 3.5 GPA and commit to community service or whatever, but I really didn't care. I actually didn't even want to join. It felt like some weird fake pat on the back club. The point? Unclear. I was leery of what we were "supposed" to do to get into college. The things I really cared about didn't seem to be relevant, and I resented that. The SAT was supposed to be a great equalizer, but the rich kids all took a Saturday class.

I could have dropped it, but I felt spicy. He never congratulated me on anything. Truly nothing. We went to speech tournaments almost every weekend where I went on stage and got trophies and usually only the freshmen marveled. I worked very hard, but I did it alone in my bedroom. I stopped having nerves after my first round of junior year. I came in cool and did my thing and left with hardware. I was cast as the lead in the school play. I narrowly got an A in physics. But he didn't even shrug. It didn't bother me. I accepted that any and all high school achievements were fake. He was punk-ish, so naturally, he would too. But then he said congrats on the stupidest extra curricular activity known to teen. And I just knew, knew, so suddenly and surely it was because he was in it. I wasn't graceful.

"It's interested you told me congratulations for that. Because you don't tell me congrats for anything else." A shadow of disgust before he shrugged and went to his desk. A couple rows from mine. A few weeks later, I, still trying to make good on my philosophy that none of it mattered was talking to a friend. "I guess I don't really care I got a Nationals spot. I already accepted my place at the state drama program." He turned around, from within a separate conversation, feet or miles away, just to say, "Liar." Now I shrugged.

But I did end up skipping the drama program for Nationals. My coach told me either choice was a good choice, but people who do really well usually go twice. The decision makes no sense to me now, and I don't think it did then either. I've always liked theatre more than standing around doing monologues in classrooms. I wanted to badly to go to that program. There'd been a write-up about me winning the invite in the local paper. My friend Jimbo cut it out and gave it to me and everything. I don't remember the day I called and said I wasn't coming. Or why.

Karate Kid

"Comedy is a weapon" a director told our ensemble once. I agreed. But also, sometimes, come on. But lately the world is not as funny. All the time. I mean, every day I laugh, and I try to make people laugh, and it's cheesy but laughing is actually very important. I believe and I know. Sometimes, arbitrary or not, I'm just not laughing. A cameraman and I watch a bunch of my female coworkers file into a room. He jokes, "What? Is R Kelly in there?" And (no chill) I said, "No. That will never be funny." He was like "ehhh, yeah, sorry." He was a very nice dude, but I don't have the energy. Today I walked into my improv class. I was annoyed, as I am every Sunday at 10 AM doing my stupid beginner-level class for $500 that promised to be advanced and isn't but I don't want to quit because I already paid the money and several of my friends swear it will get better in the next level. Anyway, I walked in, and this guy, also probably very nice, who has never really hurt a fly and clearly really looks forward to each of these lessons and generally has a nice attitude was like "Hi!" and I was like "I thought I might be late" and I made a little gesture like a chop. He said, "Whoa that looked like karate." And then, I'm fairly certain without thinking, he said, "In general there should just be more karate in the world. Like I wish way more people knew karate." And it was just a throwaway funny opening like, but I was stone-cold like, "What?" He was like, "You know! How fun! People would get into karate fights on the sidewalk!" And I didn't even give him a dumb smile. I was like, "I'm not even ambivalent to that. I really wouldn't like that. I'm already worried enough about getting attacked when I go somewhere at night. I don't need bonus concerns. It's one of the few reliefs I have to know most attackers are kind of bumbling." And he was like, "Heh, yeah. Yeah, no, you're right." This is how they say in France, Being Extra. But my nose is clogged and I am just not into the garbage banter and the jokes for jokes sake. Comedy is a weapon. I'm sick of everyone carrying guns, firing shots into the air, stray bullets killing birds.

Cafeteria

I was never temped by the food in the freshman cafeteria. All the freshman at my high school ate in their own secluded mini-caf to...I don't know, bond as a class? Not be intimidated by the upper classmen? The food choices were chicken sandwiches, chicken tenders, some dumb snacks, pizza, fries. My first semester I packed my lunch. I think I ate a lot of pb & j and bags of potato chips. Off-brand Oreos. My second semester I had an early lunch right after swimming. I remember swallowing a lot of chlorinated water and always feeling winded from having to get ready in five minutes after laps. My look that spring: wet slimy hair, a bloated tummy, and hastily applied lip gloss. The only thing I could even imagine eating for some unknown reason were pretzels and Kit Kats. So that's what I ate. For five months. Very occasionally (like, three times) I bought a donut from the lunch line, and I would be given a free fruit cup. Everyone always got a free fruit cup. It had something to do with the school being able to get government funding for balanced meals. I spent around 100 hours total in that dumb room, and I remember very little.

A rando from the town everyone made fun of shared my lunch seat with me for two weeks. He asked me to write him notes but only drew pictures in response. A boy in my history class asked to see my homework "just to check his answers" and I let him have it. I watched it circle his entire table, everyone copying. I tried to drink Brisk Iced Tea like a club of two new friends did, but I thought it was very gross. My friend Smidge and I would quietly sing Les Mis to each other when we were bored. One girl gave up junk food for lent and ate it every day, making tally marks in a notebook. She said, "I'll make it up later."

My iced coffee got warm yesterday. I was at the Writing Center, so I asked around if there was a soda fountain somewhere in the building. There was one in the cafeteria, I learned, so I walked in for the first time and was immediately struck with a flood of nostalgia. It smelled EXACTLY like that freshman lunch room, and as far as I can tell, nothing in my life has ever smelled the same. I wanted to eat all the food even though I hadn't eaten it when I was fourteen. If I ingested that tray of fries, would I be fourteen again? As if being fourteen is so great in the first place.

Not Everyone Can Have

The Limited Edition Marshmallow Oreos were magnificent. And now they are gone. I shared the last few with friends on Friday night. I reiterated my desire for a big ol' pan of rice krispie treats. (If you'll remember I pined for some about two weeks ago on this blog.) Everyone in the living room nodded. Mm. MM.

When I got home Saturday night after a lovely Quesorido (THAT'S RIGHT. A BURRITO MADE WITH A QUESIDILLA. *Taste buds explode with joy*) there was a little boxy package waiting for me. Mysterious. I didn't remember buying anything. I opened it to find a pink box. When I removed the lid...A PILE OF RICE KRISPIE TREATS! From my Chicago Aunt! Who reads this blog from time to time! She read about my breakfast-made-dessert craving, baked some up, and mailed them off!

I shared the treats with roommates and Bisque, ate some myself, and yesterday I noticed they were kind of hard. So, naturally, I took the last five to school to offer to my students who will eat most anything. Indeed. Two screenwriting boys split them. "Where do you get this food?" someone asked. I am often bringing little damaged goods in for the human garbage disposals. "Well, my aunt sent me these." I explained. "I wish--!" a boy piped up before trailing off. "I was going to say, 'I wish I had an aunt.' But I have one. I guess I just wish she sent me stuff..."

Sorry, kid, not everyone can have awesome aunts like mine. <3 p="">

Boy at the Intersection

As I waited for red hand to white man

a boy

(6th grade?)

hopped off the bus, slammed his fist into the WALK button

and kept toddling the opposite direction.

Rude. He prolonged my stay.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead.

That kid with a hand in a Cheetos bag. What was with that kid?

Did he know he was causing unneeded ruckus?

A little "screw you" to "the man"?

Or did he just see a silver

button

and itch

to press it?

Boys Think They're Funny

Dance often has precedence over Drama in stage usage in the camp Great House on the account of only one sound system. This doesn’t bother me because I like the unenclosed sky of the deck. And. Really. I’m a summer camp counselor behind all the “Mhmm yeeees, I am a resident playwright of children’s theatre.” What, am I going to demand a diamond-encrusted director’s chair and a tech booth? We’ve got, like, some light switches.

However, girls’ Drama starts just as boys’ breakfast ends, so during warm-ups and the beginnings of our rehearsals, an ant line of boys passes us. The campers are actually well-behaved, but seriously every other counselor, not realizing that every other counselor does it, kind of pops into the class—either mimicking what we’re doing or shouting little “To be or not to be!”s at us. Sometimes falling down and saying, “Well, that was dramatic.” A har har har. The girls obviously get a little flustered because warm-ups aren’t exactly confidence-boosters. We’re often making weird noises or stretching or something.

I am very interested in the fact that none of these counselors realize that A) it’s still not funny the fifth time in the week they interrupt and B) half their kind practices this behavior.

On picture night the girls in their navy skirts and white tees bunched in cabins to take charming little photos for their parents to stalk on the camp website. As I waited for my chicklets to be called I watched as every single male counselor left the dining hall, crept up behind the cabin currently posing, made a stupid face, was shooed by the photographer, and laughed themselves out of the shot.

I wasn’t able to see my boys’ improv class perform last week. They had their showcase during girls’ dinner. I asked them how it went. “Amazing,” they said. Amazing. One, particularly adorable and willing to learn, said, “Oh man, Alice! We played Emotional Rollercoaster and we were mad, and then we got ‘blissful’ and I just changed my voice, and everyone cracked up! Including us on stage! We couldn’t finish the scene! It was the funniest thing ever.” I nod. Mhmm.

When I start girl’s musical theatre class I ask, “Who has performed before,” and we hear about high school and jr. high productions of yore from each individual. One girl was the lead this year. “Oh yeah?” I ask, “How was that.” She says “I think it went well,” but she has the tiniest corner of her lip upturned so we know she thinks she was good. And we all hate her for it.

Living with Eight Fifteen-Year-Old Girls

One girl walks around the cabin in undies that say "YOU'RE SO HOT RIGHT NOW." Who are those for? I ask. She shrugs. I hate you, Abercrombie. Another asks me earnestly, "What do you think about push-up bras?" while her cabinmate clips one together in the background. I have to appease and paddle through honesty: "Well. I don't own one. And, well, ideally we don't see our worth or beauty as measured by...that. But, if it makes you feel more attractive, then, that can bring confidence, and, so..."
The girl in the Wonder answers, "It doesn't make me feel attractive. It's just what boys want."

You know, I think a lot of people think we've mastered certain aspects of feminism, but then a child says something that breaks your heart, or your camper cries because she has too much acne, or another asks, "How can I feel like I am equal to boys when we've never had a president?"

Last night I crept into the cabin after the staff meeting to find all my kiddos huddled in the corner, one flashlight on, sweating out the hot night in sports bras and gym shorts. It had been Lights Out for a while. "Can we talk for just thirty more minutes?" they pleaded, and I said yes. They can go to war in three years, I think they can stay up past ten.

"We're talking about PMS," the mop-top one said. And we laughed about emotive yelling and sitting down all the time and one was like, "Yeah, and then whenever you tell a boy something he doesn't want to hear, he says it's your period!" And I did not laugh anymore. And we whispered in the dark, just over the wild Lake Michigan winds, about culture and shame and confidence and they were like, "Oh, really?!" And I was like, "Yes, really!" And being in high school is amazing! These kids remind me what enzymes are and know about Marie Antoinette but also Burma but ALSO misuse the word "ironic" and when you ask if they've seen Chicago they say, "That's the one with 'STELLA!' right?" And you shake your head and they say, "Oh, yeah, I just saw that on Modern Family." Their minds are so open and they're so eager and so confused and truly beautiful despite/because it all. I want so badly for them to see themselves how I do, and I wonder if this is how the women in my life have always viewed me. If it pains them when I accept the pain I think is my burden.

"Okay, now it's really time for bed," I say. They nod and hug. I hop up onto my bunk. Their flashlights click off. One by one. Waves crash from the beach below. "Innocence is never lost": my last thought. Before sleep pulls me into the undertow.

Summer Before High School

Jimmy Eat World was always in my Discman. I wrote the lyrics on my arms. I wore my baby blue tee with wings on the back. The Princess Diaries trailers intrigued me. I loved the song that played. It was by Myra. It felt happy and hopeful and I liked this new Anne Hathaway chick. Fran promised not to see it until I was back from camp. I found the novel and read it hungrily in my cabin. My bunk was right next to Wizzy's. She would throw her towel into the rafters and swing on it to practice her pointe. I decorated a root beer bottle with magazine cut-outs. It was supposed to represent parts of me, and I would look at it when I was trying to fall asleep. The bold, "LET'S GO CRAZY" and the Britney Spears ad. My favorite shorts were light pink. I wore them the night I babysat for five kids. That night _____ had called my cell phone four times and hung up before finally staying on the line and asking if I wanted to see a movie. "Have you been calling and hanging up?" I asked. He responded too quickly No. But that fall in Honors Biology, by the microscopes, he told me the truth. He was already going out with ____ _______ by that time. I didn't know what to expect. I felt excited. The girls all swam at Peppermint's pool by day and watched American Pie 2 in her basement by night. We invited the boys, who would ride over on their bikes for Truth or Dare. Everyone liked everyone, but I was over the kids we knew. I was the worst student in the summer improv intensive. I never volunteered. I was too quiet to be heard. That one kid sat on my lap on the bus ride home from Second City. He said he'd get up when I had a conversation with him. I didn't. He did. No one spent any money. We were fridge-funded. I could never eat anyway because my braces hurt. I asked for red, white, and blue. There were so many graduation parties, but what did we even do at them? We were fourteen.

I don't need wings to help me fly.
Miracles happen once in a while when you believe.

Barenaked Ladies

Say what you will, there's a lightness. A sunny cheer.
And while I mentally made fun of the boy in college with his binder sharpeed
"TryToScreamButItOnlyComesOutAsAYawn"
he was nice.

Boulder had me over for stuffed green peppers to celebrate his last first day of school.
And he performed a little dance,
the guy's done with rewrites. What a blessing.
It's the perfect time of year
when you're done with rewrites.

I could walk, but I'll just drive
It's colder than it looks outside.

Clear Eyes, Full Hearts

Tomorrow my team heads to LA for a big improv tournament. We might win. We might not. I'm just happy to feel legitimately proud sharing the stage with all of them. I love my teammates very much. I am sick and tired of rewrites and grading, but I am not sick of these goobers even one tiny little bit.

Some scrappy boys at Tuesday's rehearsal.

Back on Sunday, y'all. Hopefully with a plaque.

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.

Poop, Fart, Getting My MFA

Lowsta and Me post-meeting Wednesday. Photo by Sid.

This week's sketch show included a runner called "Alice S------: Dramatic Writing Masters Student." It was Lowsta's brainchild--a bit on how, as a grad student, I sometimes justify stupid things via critical theory. Complete with an upbeat snappy jingle.

When we opened the sketch last week in the comedy GMail account during our writer's meeting, the subject was "Alice the Dramatic Writing POOPHEAD"--real mature, Lowsta. I laughed though.

Then, that night, we were doing edits, so I downloaded the document to my computer only to see that it was saved as "Alice Stanfart." So, this is graduate school.


The sketch ended with me and Lowsta screaming and crying about how useless English degrees are while shoving donuts into our mouths as the peppy jingle played over us. The wreckage.

Four years of college and plenty of knowledge have earned me this useless degree.

First Movie Date

The first time I saw a movie on a date was in 2002. I was a freshman in high school, and I was going on a double date with my boyfriend, my best friend (at the time--meaning we weren't best friends after about four months), and her boyfriend. But, things were on the rocks with the other couple, and the guy just didn't show. He was our ride.

My sister drove the three of us instead. We saw the movie They, which was really just horrible. There's more to the story, but you know how awkward dates go. Insert funny comment about hand holding.

I just totally didn't get it. TOTALLY. And this, to me, continues to be funny eight years later. Today what really got me cackling was remembering how after the movie my temp-bff asked, "Now what?" as I got out my phone to call my sister. The bf, eyes wide with excitement said "Let's get food!" as I said "Let's go home." I pretended I didn't hear him. What was he yammering about? It was like nine o'clock. I already ate dinner! He was a crazy. Why on earth would we prolong the night anymore? We'd already spent a couple hours seeing a movie. Without acknowledging anyone, I dialed my sis, we got picked up, and we dropped the bf back at his house. He sort of stood outside the car maybe waiting for a hug (?). I made eyes at my sister like "What are you waiting for? Pedal to the floor, lady."

She said, "He seems nice."
"Huh?" I said.

Totally. Didn't. Get. It.

Is it cool if I hold your hand? Is it wrong if I think it's lame to dance?

I Love You

When I was thirteen my friend Smidge and I were supposed to prepare for a debate against two other boys in Language Arts class. They were talkin' smack. The topic was Banning Books in Libraries Yes or No? We said No. The two rascally boys said Yes. They were explaining how they were going to tear us apart in the debate (spoiler: they did not) and one of them said something like "Don't you hate us?" so I of course said No. I said, "I don't hate anyone."

The one with a stupid bowl-cut asked, "Why not?" A stupid question. I said, "I love everyone." I was really lame, but it's just what came out. And, it was/ is the truth. So he and his friend gawked. EVERYONE? EVERYONE?
I was already exposed. I nodded. "Well, then, you love us?" They egged me on. I was in deep. I nodded yes. I tried to look confident.

"Say it then," they jeered. I wanted the conversation to be over and to continue our discussion on inappropriate kids books. I looked one of them in the eye and said, "I love you." He looked horrified--absolutely ready to vomit. I understand and don't understand. The other laughed and laughed. I asked to talk more about the assignment. The laughing bowl-cut kid told as many people as would listen. "She said I love you! She said it to ----!" I was so embarrassed.

I understand and don't understand.