tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49457033604546976942024-02-07T21:54:32.765-08:00The Cliche BlogAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184206106361801604noreply@blogger.comBlogger8125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4945703360454697694.post-12318339080042803602014-05-21T21:28:00.001-07:002014-05-21T21:32:24.895-07:00Hope and Drag Queens<style>
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Well, well, well. Look who finally has something to write
about. Well, I have been writing but not sharing. I call it “Writing” and not
“Journaling” because “Journaling” is what lame people do except really they
just take a picture of their coffee next to the beach and instagram about how
great journaling is. I have gotten to the point where I want to share
everything that has happened to me in the past year, but there are a few people
very close to me who do not know yet. And they don’t deserve to read about it
online rather than hear it from me. So today’s topic: Hope. Simple, yet elusive
to so many. </div>
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It is embarrassing to say (yet I must) that for me, the past
year has been devoid of hope. I was in a pit so deep it seemed there was no way
out. I couldn’t see past the day to see what could lie ahead. It came down to
two choices: to give in and disappear or ask for help. Thanks to great friends
I chose the latter and found the help I needed. Though I had chosen the more
positive route I still couldn’t find the outlook I once had. Maybe because I
was still coming out of it, but I think because I am a different person now. I
am learning how to live in this new version of myself. But aren’t we always
ever changing and evolving? Everyone tells you that depression sucks. Because
it does. And we all respond with, “Yeah, dipshit we could surmise that.” What I
was unaware of is that it sucks because there is no looking forward. Nothing to
be excited for. No planning. Merriam Webster defines hope as “to want something
to happen or be true and think that it could happen or be true”. I think of
<i>Company</i>, “Want something Bobby. Want SOMEthing.” I digress. I didn’t want
anything. I wasn’t hungry for anything. Except for dessert. </div>
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I had never considered hope until this year. I knew what it
was. I had heard “Faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love” a
billion times. I had used the word a hundred times a day, but never
contemplated what it’s meaning was. To me it was a word people overused on
their shabby chic signs they hung in their homes, stitched on their pillows, or
tattooed on their wrist or ankle. </div>
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I thought that it would come slowly with time. I started
seeing a therapist and going to group therapy and I thought, “If I keep working
I will find hope again”. Talk about cliché. I could be the less charming
version of <i>Eat, Pray, Love </i>except it would just be called “Eat”. Side note:
turns out gaining 20 pounds is a side effect of depression. You can check Web
MD if you don’t believe me. </div>
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I found that I was wrong. There was a night I was driving
home from rehearsal and it hit me . I was hopeful. How the hell did that
happen? </div>
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So by now you know I was just in the musical <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Cage Aux Folles </i>at Riverside
Repertory Theatre because I post about it 20 times a day on FB. You’re welcome.
If you don’t know the show it’s got everything: drag queens, glitter, mistaken
identity, and a super handsome dude singing ballads (I’ll keep my burning love
for a married gay guy a secret…to no one. We all know whom I’m talking about).
But the show really is about so much more. </div>
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Most people’s response when I tell them I was commuting to
Riverside for the show is “What?! Why would you do that?!” At first, I wasn’t
sure why I was making the 2.5 hour drive either. When Matt contacted me I was
hesitant because it was so far away, but also because I hadn’t worked
professionally in over a year. My hibernation period caused me to doubt my
ability. But it was a show that had a message I loved and wanted to be a part
of telling. I auditioned and was cast as Jacqueline. </div>
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Going into rehearsal I was scared shitless. Do I remember
how to do this? What’s blocking? How do I memorize lines? And for the love of
God, are they going to make me dance?! On top of it I had to miss the first rehearsal
due to a concert I was in, so I was already behind the game. </div>
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My fears were set aside as soon as I showed up. I first met
Philip who could not have been more kind. He gave me a big hug right away and I
could breathe again. I was still bumbling through as I remembered what play
acting was, but at least I felt safe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
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I’m not going to discuss the whole rehearsal process cause
really, you probably don’t care. What I am trying to say is that this
experience was unlike any other I’ve ever had. A lot of it had to do with where
I was coming from, but more so it had to do with the people I was blessed to
work with. The whole rehearsal/show process I found myself wanting to express
to them how much they healed me but words failed me and…we were working. How do
you pass someone backstage and thank them for changing your life? I felt still
very fragmented when I came to the process and through their hugs, kisses, kind
words, jokes, laughs, and hard work I came out of it a whole person. There were
many times that I cried on the way home (ohhhh here comes the embarrassing
stuff) because I was so grateful. Grateful to be working, finding my purpose,
and surrounded by supportive, loving people. The past year was full of harsh
things. A job where I didn’t have “co-workers” or a work place I returned to, a
job where kids told me to “fuck off”, and a harsh mental struggle that sucked
away me energy. I was grateful for this journey because it enveloped me like a
warm hug. I was surrounded by kindness and creativity once again. And these
people didn’t even know me! </div>
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It was on one of these what I call “crying drives” that it
hit me like a brick to the face: I had hope. It was no gradual process of me
acknowledging the steps I was taking getting closer and closer to hope. It was
an explosive moment that had me talking and laughing out loud to myself. Form
there I began to plan and invest in my future because I felt like I had one.
Things started changing in therapy and in all areas of my life as I stopped
looking down and began looking forward.</div>
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It’s at this point that I want to say that I’m not
disregarding any other show or experience in theater I’ve had. I don’t want
friends reading this to think, “Ummm wasn’t our experience in Godspell just as
magical?! How dare you!” Every opportunity I’ve had has been wonderful and a
learning experience, but we all have those shows that by chance line up with
what we’re experience in our own lives. It’s that serendipity where the message
of the show is exactly what you need to hear. That was this show for me. </div>
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It was as if every song was written for me. Well, except
maybe “Dishes”. So many lyrics have become part of my mantra from “The best of
times is now, not some forgotten yesterday” to “So count all the loves who will
love you from now 'til the end of your life”. But “I Am What I Am” has become a
theme song for me. If I were to have a sitcom that would be the opening credit.
</div>
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“It's my world that I want to take a little pride in,<br />
My world, and it's not a place I have to hide in. Life's not worth a damn,<br />
'Til you can say, ‘Hey world, I am what I am.”</div>
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My therapist (don’t you love sentences that start with
that?) told me to choose a mantra to use for now. I can change it as I evolve
but choose one that will help me now. I chose the above phrase. Mainly because
I have pride in myself and my past and I don’t want to run away or hide as I
have this year. I don’t blame myself for hibernating. It was something I had to
do to protect myself. But I’m glad it’s over. Aside from the fun, drag queens,
and glitter, it is this message that drew me to the show: Accepting others and
yourself as they/ you are. Period. And can we let these people get married
already? For goodness sake. But that’s another blog entirely. </div>
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So, THAT’s why I drove on average almost 3 hours to and from
rehearsal. This feels like a departure from my normal blog style which is
cynical, snarky, honest, and a little bitchy. But I kept thinking about the
show and my new state of being and wanted to share. Especially with my cast
mates. I wrote cards to all of them thinking “But this still doesn’t express
how truly grateful I am!” and maybe I’ll never be able to express it fully.
I’ll have to be satisfied with the thought that the blessings I send out to
them will find them eventually. </div>
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Where do we go from here? Nope, I did not just quote Andrew
Llyod Weber. Because I would never do that. EVER. There are some prospects
lined up for my immediate future and that’s exciting. But a lot of my life,
including where I’ll be living when I move in two weeks, is up in the air. And
that’s thrilling and scary for me. For the first time in a long time I feel like I can do whatever I want and go wherever I want. So I just might. I feel like I’m joining the living. Again, I
apologize for not coming to your shows or get togethers, but I hope to join you
all soon. Unless your parties are lame. Then I’m not coming. <br />
I leave you with the song “I Am What I Am” and I wish you well. </div>
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*also please excuse the grammar and punctuation. I usually
edit…but I don’t feel like it. Sorrrrrry. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184206106361801604noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4945703360454697694.post-82101427172030590142013-09-12T17:46:00.002-07:002013-09-12T17:46:43.438-07:00It's been awhileLong time no talk, eh?<br />
<br />
I read "The Lovely Bones" by Alice Sebold years ago and soon after read her memoir "Lucky". I remember reading an interview she had given where she stated she had the idea for "Lovely Bones" but every time she sat down to write she ended up writing her story which later became "Lucky". She had to get her story out so that she could write "The Lovely Bones" they way that she wanted without influence from her personal story.<br />
<br />
I haven't written because I haven't wanted to share my story. And I haven't been able to write anything but. I don't know how to describe what's been going on with me. But it has been the biggest struggle of my life to date. This event in my life has forced me to re-evaluate my life up to this point and ultimately reexamine who I thought I was and who I think I am. "Heavy" as Marty McFly would say.<br />
<br />
I really hate cryptic FB posts. I always think, "Just say what the hell you're thinking or what you're talking about or don't post!" And I realize I am doing the very thing that I hate.<br />
<br />
I just wanted some sort of explanation for being a terrible friend. This original post was simply going to be an apology. I have not been a good friend. I have not responded to texts or phone calls or emails, I have not met up with you, I have not seen your show, or been a supportive friend in any way other than I think about you. I pray for you. I miss you. And I feel guilt all of the time for leaving you high and dry. Not saying ya'll can't go on without me...but I miss being a part of your life.<br />
But I felt the need to give a vague, washed out explanation. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to share completely what these past 9-12 months have been to me. Save a few close friends. But please accept my apology. I went into protection mode. Hibernation.<br />
<br />
I'm coming out of it slowly. I auditioned for the first time in about a year. It feels good to have that part of me back. It's just a small, community theatre production of Spamalot but I'm really enjoying myself and that's what matters.<br />
<br />
I hope to write again soon. I really do love it. If people actually read it that's a bonus. But this past year the only way I've felt I could express myself is writing. And I'm grateful for it.<br />
<br />
I hope you are all well. I love you and wish you the best.<br />
I'm leaving you with a song that has become my anthem. It's not a very interesting video but you can just listen if you'd like!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184206106361801604noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4945703360454697694.post-11519291684509729102013-05-11T14:07:00.001-07:002013-05-11T14:07:14.761-07:00That Angry Blog
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I woke up really angry today. So obviously, it’s a great
time to write a blog. You poor, poor reader. Yes, singular. I had a very real,
very horrible dream. The second night in a row I had a stress dream. In this
dream I was in a mall and my purse had gone missing. In it were two pay checks
along with my wallet that had my social security card in it. This reflects what
is actually in my wallet now. And no, I don’t always carry around my SSC. I
have it because I needed it to copy to sign my new lease. Anyhoo, I ran around
in my dream looking for my purse screaming to anyone who would hear how much
money I had in it. The exact amount of the two checks and what I have in
savings. I kept screaming this number. And I was running but I couldn’t make my
legs move fast enough. And my heart felt like it was going to explode. Then
somehow I was in a building that apparently I lived in and my Dad was suddenly
there. I was sobbing telling him what had happened while trying to open the
door to my apartment. It was the end of the world. If I did not get inside to
reach a phone I could not call to cancel my credit cards, and put a hold on my
checks. I had to get inside. But none of my keys worked. And that’s when I woke
up. </div>
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I woke up crying and very angry. Now, I’m not saying I’m an
expert in analyzing dreams but we did talk about it in my high school
psychology class. So I’m pretty skilled. Actually, all I remember is that if
you dream about alligators you have an overpowering mother. Or was it
mother-in-law? Welp, no alligators in my dream. But I think we all can
interpret my dream, as it was very literal and not super creative. </div>
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I think about money every day. How am I going to get it,
where am I going to get it. How much will I have left after I pay my bills. Can
I pay my bills this month. And I don’t calculate in round numbers. Down to the
dollar am I figuring. When I’m at work at it’s slow grab a calculator and start
adding up how many hours I’ve worked how much they pay me and then subtract the
bills. I do this over and over with the same result. I need to see the number
over and over again. OCD much? </div>
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If you’re 21 and under and you are nodding while reading
this and going, “OMG me too!” please shut the fuck up. Seriously, be quiet. (I
told you I was mad) So many young people I know whose parent’s pay for their
apartment and monthly bills so they are free to go after their dreams of
theatre try to relate to me on this. And usually I am kind and think how lucky
they are and be happy they are in that place while I sit in the audition room
called back for the same part of a 30 year old woman as they. (That’s a
different day, different blog) But not today suckers. Because you’re not 30+
with the weight of “I should” on your shoulders. Because really I should. I
should have a job, health care, a solid relationship, and maybe a few vacation
days in the year. </div>
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I know I know there are no “shoulds” we all have our own
path. Well I’m google mapping that shit right now and hopping on another one. </div>
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Segue: I get mad at myself a lot because I am the reason I
am where I am. The choices I’ve made got me here. Right? But when I get weepy
and upset I think “but I did what I was supposed to do!” Because I did. I had a
minimum wage job at 15 and had it all throughout high school. I did not get pregnant before I was ready. I got good grades
(well good enough) and got scholarships, academic and music, to college. I
worked my ass off in undergrad participating in every extracurricular I thought
would improve my artistry, including percussion ensemble. Lemme tell you I
rocked that bass drum and bells. I never had less than 21 units. Then after a
year working towards my masters in education I made a wrong turn. I realized I
was doing this because I knew it would make me a reasonable salary and it
wasn’t what I was passionate about and I left to go do theatre! Big mistake
idiot. You followed your dreams. You could have a summer house by now. (This is
all sarcasm by the way.) “I have a degree in theatre tech and a minor in
Movement! Why did my parents let me do that!?” –Liz Lemon Anyway I went to
theatre school, was a good student, then went straight to grad school because
you should learn everything about your craft if it’s computer science or
theatre. </div>
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I should say here that I was very lucky. Yes, I worked my
butt off in the practice rooms at 2 am because that’s when it was finally quiet,
but I did experience a lot of good fortune. I got solos, I got first chair my
first year, and I didn’t even have to apply to grad school. It called me on the
phone. I got those things through hard work but a lot of people work hard and
don’t get those opportunities that I had. This point of my life is the wall.
I’m hitting my head against it at the moment but soon I’ll figure out how to
get over it. I’m thinking jet
pack.</div>
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So I look back and I think ok. Good for you. You worked
really hard and educated yourself. So why am I being punished with a 6.8%
interest rate on my loan while the government charges my bank .75%? Because I
bet you twenty bucks that banks makes way more money than I do. THEY probably
have a summer home. PS If you took the bet I charge 6.8% interest. Sorry, girls
gotta eat. </div>
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I remind myself every day while working a minimum wage job
where customers have called me “uneducated” to my face and treat me like
complete shit, that I am still important. I don’t always believe it but it’s a
mantra so you have to say it. Just because my passion/job is not in demand does
not mean that I or it am not important. All of our passions in life are
important. Some people just get paid more to do theirs. It feels unfair because
it is. Some people work five days a week and get paid enough to have a house,
car, 2.5 kids, and vacations to Hawaii. Some people work seven days a week and
can barely pay their rent, car insurance, health insurance, food etc. I guess
it’s just how it is. I want to teach movement and acting in a college setting. I don't want to settle for something else. I will work at crap jobs until I'm where I want to be. I am good at what I do. I just can’t get paid to do it
right now. Mantra mantra sugar mantra mantra diet coke. It’s how my days go. </div>
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People say, “Money can’t buy happiness!” You guys? Fuck you,
too. Go stand in the corner with the twenty something’s shopping at Abecrombie.
Because people who usually say that have enough to a lot of money. They have health
care. And yes I do know plenty of people who say that who don’t have money.
They are hippies with long hair and they’re in their 20’s. In five years
they’ll be investment bankers. Of course I know that money cannot buy me
intrinsic happiness. But I would be a lot happier if I had money in savings.
Money for health care. Money for rent. Money for food. And do I have money for
these each month? Yes, barely. Oh but not for savings. I’m not there yet. But
to have a cushion in the bank creates a cushion in your state of mind and
being. To not be constantly on edge with worry would completely change my
world. To pay my parents back would help my self worth. To pay off my student
loans and not feel buried would change my outlook. </div>
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I have to insert a funny/horrifying story here. Background: I
work at a women’s gym. One day this woman came out of her massage and she was
yelling at me because the woman who gave her a massage “did not even ask me if
I wanted oil or lotion and she continued to talk to me and ask personal
questions like what I do for a living. And when I asked her to do it harder she
said that is a different massage. Ok I’m a doctor and I don’t come here after
work to get talked to like that. She can barely speak English. I mean, I know
Obama is president but not everything is equal.” (To help with her
characterization imagine an upward inflection after every phrase) After I found
the words to speak I told her she could go back into the spa and speak with the
manager about her dissatisfaction. You are right, lady. Not everything is
equal. It is completely tipped in favor of you. I wish that I were exaggerating
but I’m not. I will never ever forget what she said. Because it was horrible
and because I performed it for my roommates several times when I got home.
These are times when I sit there making $8.75 repeating, “You is kind, you is
smart, you is important”. </div>
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I can’t even go into how disappointed in America and our
government I am. I can’t even go there because I have no faith that it is for
the people anymore. I do not believe that anyone in politics is fighting for
the American citizen. I have done my research and voted ever since I was of
age. I was taught it was an honor and a privilege. But I don’t think I have a
voice anymore. I was lucky enough to hear Rainn Wilson speak about his Bahai
faith and he said that our world is completely out of balance. And that
something will happen to make it balanced again. I completely agree.
Unfortunately, I think that very big thing will be something negative. As we’ve
seen in history people can only be pushed so far. I do think that Elizabeth
Warren is a good chick though. I’m looking forward to hearing more of what she
has to say and watching what she is going to do. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I am sorry I am angry. I am sorry that this post was so
negative. I try not to be but that’s where I am. I am not writing this for
pity. What I am feeling is not original. So many people feel the way I feel and
are in the predicament I’m in. And it’s not right. So here’s to the struggling
folk out there. I salute you and love you. We’ll make it through somehow. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s what I want for my friends and strangers of the
world: I want to be rewarded for working hard, I want affordable health care, I
want my gay friends to get married (and I want to sing at your weddings), I
want affordable education for everyone that does not only include online
classes (because that scares the heck out of me), and I want a cappuccino
machine for the writers room. 30 bucks to those who get the reference. *</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*Interest rates have gone up in the time you’ve been
reading. 6.9%</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184206106361801604noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4945703360454697694.post-6352773989516465202013-05-03T20:41:00.000-07:002013-05-03T23:19:04.570-07:00Scars <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Once again Tina Fey has inspired me. I feel a kinship to her
but if I met her I would never say something lame like that. I’d probably
stutter something if I even said anything at all. I’d be like Kenneth in the
episode “Seinfeld Vision” when he meets Jerry Seinfeld. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I was reading her book “Bossypants” for the second time when
I came across the section in which she discusses her scar. Until her book she
had never publicly discussed it. And by “never” I mean officially. She probably
discussed it in a coffee shop, or restaurant, or some other public place
before. People (and by “people” I mean desensitized, money hungry, idiot
magazine writers) wanted to know how she got the scar. When they found out she
got it because when she was 5 someone slashed her in the face they became even desperate
for details. She wouldn’t discuss the details with them. And I completely
understand why. (I kind of hate how I’m talking about her like we’re friends.
It’s very presumptuous of me. Even though I want to be best friends with her
that fact makes me respect her privacy even more).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">When I was ripped out of my mothers stomach (C-Section.
Thanks mom for going through all that pain and recovery time) I appeared to be
perfect. Ten fingers. Ten toes. All of my organs were there and I was
breathing. Things were lining up for old Liz Lemon (30 Rock reference. Watch
the show please.) When I was five months old my mom noticed a brown spot on the
back of my neck. Being the neat freak she is she tried to scrub it off. It did
not come off. As I got older the spot became bigger and thicker. When my
parents noticed this they took me to the doctor right away. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">One doctor became two. Two became three. Three eventually
became upwards of 30. In the beginning one dude told my parents I had cancer.
Thanks, guy, for scaring the crap out of my parents. Many didn’t know what it was or had vague guesses. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Some people have their earliest memory of a birthday party
or school or a certain toy. To my recollection my earliest memory is going to
Santa Barbara to a specialist. I was four and the whole party was for me! I was
the guest of honor! About thirty doctors had come from around the country to
look at me. Unfortunately, we left that day with no real answers. My memory of
that day is vague. I remember the color gray, white coats, and a bunch of nice
guys touching my neck. The feeling I remember is a positive one. They were all
very nice to me and my mom says they told me jokes that I enjoyed. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Finally we had an answer. I don’t know whom it came from of
when we knew. You think I’d remember details from such an important plot point
in my life. Whoops. What I had/have is called Epidermal Nevus. “Epidermal”
meaning “skin” and “nevus” meaning nerve. So not that specific. We know it’s on
my skin (they went to school for ten years to tell me this?) and we know it’s
connected to my nerves. Why they didn’t come up with an answer right away was
that most people get this on their stomach or other areas on the trunk of the
body. So far I was the only person to have it on the neck. On me it only
grows on the right side of my body and only from the neck up. I have it on my
head, the inside corner of my eye, around my ear, and of course, my neck. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">So yay! We have an answer! Now to get rid of it. We didn’t
consider this option at all right away. I was busy being in Kindergarten
refining my usage of blocks, colors, and letter writing, not knowing anything
about me was different. And since it was not causing me pain and seemed to be
no threat to my health why would we do anything about it? It was the hand we
were dealt and we were going to take things as they came. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Until it became painful. The thing about epidermal nevus is
that it grows from the inside out. As I grew it grew. I explain to people as
looking like cauliflower but brown. By the time I was in second grade it was a
little less than half an inch thick and as I turned my head or twisted my neck
in any way it would get irritated. By the time I was in third grade it was
beginning to bleed and scab. (I forgot to warn you all it gets graphic. Sorry.)
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">So we saw a Doctor in Santa Barbara who said he knew what to
do. So after many meetings we set up a surgery date. I thought I was fine. I
was a pretty tough kid and pretty desensitized to doctors offices by now. The
day of the surgery came and we drove to SB, they put me in a gown and hair cap,
and I began to cry. I was only 8 and they were about to put me under of course
I was going cry. The scary weird part of it was that the doctor started to cry.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Here’s how I know God is with us: my parents knew to leave.
Something in them screamed, “this isn’t right”. So we left. And if you know my
parents they usually put their trust in people who are trained and usually
follow directions. To cancel a surgery on the spot was a big deal. (and that
wasn’t an invitation to argue with me about God and signs and his presence.
It’s what I believe and it’s my blog so shut up). </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">We went shopping and had lunch. And all day I felt like it
was my fault. I shouldn’t have cried. I should have been brave. I remember
feeling so bad because my parents took a day off of work for this! They never
took off work! I still get emotional looking back on that little girl who felt
like she ruined everything because she cried. And now I was going to be stuck
with this thing on my neck. I had ruined my chances of being “normal”.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">In the end it was a gift that we left. What that doctor was
going to do was cut out the portion of my skin that had the birthmark on it and
remove it completely. So basically the entire right side of my neck. He was
going to cut skin from my bottom and sew it onto my neck. Later, from another
doctor we found out that I most likely wouldn’t have had mobility in my neck
and the scaring and discoloration from the foreign skin would have looked even
worse. I don’t blame that doctor in Santa Barbara. He was doing what he thought
was right. I sure am glad it didn’t happen though. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I want to speed up. All the medical details aren’t what are
important. I ended up having my first surgery when I was in 6<sup>th</sup>
grade. We went to a family friend who was a plastic surgeon. By this time I was
bleeding on a regular basis so I wanted this gone. I was constantly in a dull
amount of pain. Plus it was the 90’s and those chokers with the little charm on
the front were totally in and I wanted to wear one! I wanted to be like those
girls on 90210! (That I secretly watched because I wasn’t allowed to watch
adult shows like that)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">This procedure was not painful but very tedious. I’m not
exaggerating when I say it felt like I was being tortured. (Graphic stuff
coming up!) He first snipped the birthmark off with scissors (it was about an
inch thick by now), then he took a razor and scrapped it off, and finally he
took a mini torch thingy (technical term I found on Wikkipedia) and burned it
off. All the while I was awake. I heard and smelled lots of things and felt
some things. There was no need to put me under so they didn’t. I was frightened
because I could feel his hand on my face or collar bone and think that I would
feel the pain. But I didn’t. But for a few hours I sat there with my whole body
frozen, eyes forced shut, smelling my own burning skin. Side note: to date this
is the worst thing I have ever smelled. I can’t even describe it. I listened to
my walk man they let me bring in. I played my tape of the Nutcracker. For a
long while I couldn’t listen to that music without cringing. But now
miraculously I love it again. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Even though they may never read it I want to take this
moment to thank Dr. Bruce Daniels and his nurse whose name I have forgotten. He
was so kind to me and led me through that scary experience. I feel connected to
him forever. It must be so hard to do that to a child. And to the nurse who
held my hand, told me what he was doing, told me I would be ok. wiped my tears
with a tissue, and waved my Chinese fan I had brought to fan away the smell,
you don’t know what you mean to me. A stranger becomes a safe and loving place
so quickly in a situation like that, especially to a child. She never left my
side. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">So I had had four surgeries like the one described above.
And because we knew it grew from the inside out we knew I’d have to come back.
No one knew in how much time because no one had ever dealt with this before. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">It came back rather quickly. Eventually lasers were refined
(I always think of the lasers in Sunday in the Park with George and giggle at
this point of the story) and I had three more laser surgeries in high school.
The scars healed and looked better with this type of surgery. I had three more
surgeries to remove the growth on my head. Since it was under my hair those
were done by my dermatologist and were simply cut from my head and sewn up with
stitches. That’s a whole other awesome story where I thought sweat was running
down my face and only when it near my mouth did I realize it was blood. I’ll
save that one for later. And they told me my hair would grow back. It did….kind
of. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">So I think those are all the surgeries and medical details.
Well not all but enough. Too much actually. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It’s exhausting to write it out. I’m sure even more so to
read it. If you’ve read this far…wow. It’s a lot. But in my mind it’s all in an
order of snapshots. It’s a movie in my mind (you’re singing that song now,
right?) I have never really discussed this in any detail out loud. I’ve thought
about it a lot but never addressed it. Unlike Tina Fey who keeps the details to
herself, I suddenly felt the need to share them. This is not an area of my life
that I discuss often or think about very often anymore. It feels like another
lifetime. But it’s always with me and creeps in when I least expect it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Like when I meet someone new that I feel is important. Or
when I’m sitting in front of someone and my hair is up. Or a first date. And
once in a blue moon when I’m on stage. I feel it begin to burn like a scarlet
letter. But then it fades. But that third eye (viewpoints) is always there. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">It hurt me a lot growing up. I know the day I figured
out I was different. I remember what I was wearing, where I was, what time of
day it was. It was like when you were on the swings and you turned until the
chains were as twisted as they could go and then you let go. Everything swirled
around you and your equilibrium was thrown and you felt dizzy. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I was at May
Grisham Elementary School lining up at our pole after recess. “Hey Molly! Did you throw up or is
that your neck?” Lance Teeples. I’ll never forget his name. In my unchristian
mind I secretly hope he is a pooper-scooper for the elephants at Barnum and
Bailey Circus or a checker at a K-Mart. His line was not very well written or
sophisticated but his delivery was pretty good. And all the boys in my class
laughed while the girls looked down at the ground. My response was something
like “Shut up Lance.” I was not as good at comebacks at age 8 as I am now. I held
it together for the rest of recess and the day and when I got home I went to my
room and cried. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Until then I had never thought of myself as different in a
negative way. I knew I looked different than my friends but I was living in a
beautiful bliss known as childhood and it never occurred to me that different
equaled bad. I never felt ugly until that day. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I don’t regret being born this way. Look at my life. I had a
home, food, clothes, I’ve traveled all over the world. I’ve had a comfortable,
happy life with the best parents and family anyone could ask for. You weigh the
good with the bad. And I have so much more good in my life. What I do regret is
having to grow up faster than I believe I should. I was asking existential
questions at eight. I remember getting on my knees next to my bed, with my face
buried in my pink Minnie mouse bedspread, sobbing and choking, punching my
fists into the bed, asking God why he did this to me. If he loved me why did he
make me ugly? What had I done to deserve this? Was I bad? If I was made in his
image why did I look differently than all the other kids? I yelled at God. I
pleaded with God. I swore at God. I prayed to God. And he listened and put up
with it and stuck by me. And now I thank God. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Maybe now that I think about it I don’t regret asking these
questions. Maybe that unique experience is what made me who I am. I do know
that it breaks my heart to watch that movie in my head wishing I could tell
that little girl that you are fine. You’re going to be fine. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">What I do regret and always will is that I went through a
period I’m going to call “Deflection” or “Being a Bitch”. I was part of the
popular crowd in elementary school. And to change the topic of conversation to
things other than myself and what I looked like I made fun of other people. We
all did. I’m thirty and I still feel bad about things I said. I know I was
young and I know it was a defense mechanism but I knew better. I knew better. I did exactly what Lance Teeples did to me. And now I wonder what he was going through that made him act out. I left that group in 6<sup>th</sup> grade for other friends
that I had more fun with and I could be myself around. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">When Lance Teeples made fun of me I told my Dad. Big
mistake. My mom was upset, and my dad did the quiet angry, jaw clench that
sends me running to my room to this day. The next day in Mrs. Franta’s class (I
loved her so much) Lance and I were called up to the front at recess and we had
a talk about what had happened. After that I never told my parents when people
made fun of me and I never cried in front of them. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">This brings me to my next topic. My parents are the best
people I’ve ever met. If you’ve met them I bet you love them too. I felt guilty
for a very long time that they had a defective daughter. My parents didn’t
deserve having to spend their free time taking me to the doctor, or watching me
pain, or in the beginning worrying if I would live. We had great insurance but
when it came time for surgery they had to do a lot to prove it wasn’t simply
for cosmetic reasons. They had to prove I was bleeding and in pain. I didn’t
want to cause any more problems for them. I wanted to be perfect for them. I
wanted to be beautiful for them. That sense of duty has never left. I could see
how hurt my mom was when she saw how hurt I was. And now I understand my dad’s
anger was his kind of hurt. So I never shared with them again when I was
hurting. This maybe was not the best idea to keep everything inside but it’s
what I instinctively chose to do. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">You’re probably asking, “So why does Tina Fey inspire you to
talk about this subject when she herself will not divulge details of her own
scar?” That’s a very good question blog reader. Thank you for asking! It was a
particular section in her book. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“I’ve always been able to
tell a lot about people by whether they ask me </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">about my scar. Most people never
ask, but if it comes up naturally somehow</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> and I offer up the story, they are
quite interested. ……Then there’s another </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">sort of person who thinks it makes
them seem brave or sensitive or wonderfully </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">direct to ask me about it right
away. They ask with quiet, feigned empathy,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> ‘How did you get your scar?’ The
grossest move is when they say they’re only</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> curious because ‘it’s so
beautiful’. Ugh. Disgusting. They might as well walk</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> up and say, ‘May I be
amazing at you?’ To these folks let me be clear. I’m not</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> interested in acting
out a TV movie with you where you befriend a girl with a scar.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I included more of the text of her book than needed but I
couldn’t help myself. Read the book. This meant so much to me because finally!
Someone speaking about an experience I have actually had (many times. Especially
at church camp) and in a truthful way. I’ve always connected to Tina Fey’s
comedy and tone and this was no exception. She speaks about the relationship of
“scar haver” and “scar have-not” in a “let’s get on with things” manner. I do appreciate
people who want to hear my story and listen to how I feel. But not in the first
five minutes I’ve met them or checking out at Vons on a Thursday night when I
just want to go home and make my mac’n’cheese and watch Dancing with the Stars.
When I still had the birthmark I used to dread meeting new people because it
was often the first thing I had to explain about myself. And I am so much more.
It inspired me to write because I felt the need to respond to her even if it
was just for me. She’ll never read it but now it’s in print (and out of my
head) that I appreciate her. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">A section or chapter I’d love to add to Bossypants. It’s
called “The Face”. I used to be able to tell a lot about a person by the face
they made when they asked me about it. I’m not sure what was worse: the overly
sympathetic ass who would murmur “You are still beautiful in God’s eyes”. I
appreciate that but does God want to date me? Does he have a brother? Or worse
still was the scrunched up look up disgust like they’d just seen road kill, the
pointing to my neck and “What’s that?” You would think that second option only
came from small children but surprisingly I got that from a lot of adults. That
look is hard to shake even years later. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I don’t mean to share this in a way to condemn people. It’s
not easy to know how to talk to someone who has a birthmark, scar or birth
defect. I know in your head you’re thinking, “Look anywhere but there. Make eye
contact”. I have been lucky to have many people in my life who have supported
me, listened to me, and let me not talk about it. It’s just therapeutic to
share the now (almost) funny ways people communicate with me. I’ve never really
spoken about it with anyone who might get it. Because that’s an awkward
conversation in itself. “Ah! I see you have a birth defect too! Let’s share our
stories over coffee. Maybe we can turn them into a script for a Lifetime
Movie!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Lance Teeples moved away soon after. More came after him.
After I had my surgeries my scars were a great deal less noticeable. People saw
something different about me but it just looked like skin. I no longer had a
growth on me so I was more widely accepted. By the time I was in high school
the whole ordeal seemed to be a thing of the past. I kept a lot of the
emotional scars and bad habits but that’s another 400 page blog that I promise
I won’t write. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I do know that I need to keep working on myself and changing
habits that I established all the way back in elementary school. I really
thought I had worked through most of it when a surprising moment happened in
grad school. I had gone to PCPA for two years prior and had experienced breakthroughs
and I was 25 by now. So obviously I was an adult with all my life problems
ironed out. Uh Doi. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I was in Svetlana’s acting class getting reamed. She had
been yelling at me for about 15 minutes and I was frozen with no answers. Which
is the worst response when communicating with Svet. We were doing Chekhov. Even
worse than getting reamed by Svet was getting reamed while doing a Chekhov
scene. I was playing someone who was very beautiful and confident and Svet was
yelling “Why are you so afraid to take control of the room?! Of the scene?! Of
the moment?!” And in my head I screamed back, “Because people will look at me!”
And I was frightened. I had not had a thought like that in my head for a long while.
I thought I had gotten over that fear of being looked at in my vast 25 years.
It was a very good reminder to me that my growth and finding love for myself is
an ongoing process. I must continue to fight those Lance Teeples voices in my
head for the rest of my life. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">And really who doesn’t have their own Lance Teeples shouting
at them in their brain? I’m no different than anyone else who was made fun of
because they were different. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I suddenly remember William. I never forget him but I had
forgotten about this moment. He was in my grad class and he is his own story. A
blog I most likely will not write. He doesn’t deserve the time or energy. But I
remember him saying to my class or maybe it was just to me that “You have no
idea what it’s like to be the only one”. (Side note for those of you who don’t
know him he is African American.) He liked to hang that ideal over my/our head
a lot. And when he said those words to me I thought, “Fuck you. You don’t even
know me.” Because to this day I have never met anyone who looks like me. Who
has the same birthmark. Not that I need to but it’d be nice to talk to someone
about it. Sorry for the language. It’s a very touchy subject. But this actually
brings me to a point. I know, aren’t you proud? I now look very normal to
people. When we aren’t looking very carefully at the people around us we all
look “normal”. I need to use this as a lesson that you really can’t judge a
book by its cover. So cliché but that’s the theme and it’s true. Those Twilight
books have a pretty cool cover with the pasty hands and apple but I’m pretty
sure what’s inside is garbage. (I got through ten pages.) I have this huge
history behind me wrapped up in this package of the present. And so does
everyone else. I need to be mindful of that. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Where do we go from here? (This isn’t where we intended to
be) (The only Andrew Llyod Weber I like) I noticed recently that my birthmark
is growing back. You can see brown now on my neck, which scares the hell out of
me. The last surgery I had was more than ten years ago and I do not want to
open that chapter again. I am afraid to. I’m not afraid of the procedure. I can
take a needle like nobody’s business. I’m afraid of what I will feel. I am afraid
that opening that door will make me feel ugly again. I have learned so much but
it’s hard to teach the heart to feel something else when sense memory is so
powerful. I’m also scared because I do not have health insurance and even if I
did it will be the fight of my life to get them to cover any surgery I may have
to have. But it’s just beginning so I have time before I have to figure
anything out. I also have researched my birthmark and now know that the type of
Epidermal Nevus I have is called Phakomatosis pigmentokeratotica. It wasn’t
until recently that I realized the internet had been “invented” since I was a
kid and I could google my birthmark. I wouldn’t if I were you. The pictures are
pretty graphic. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">If you read this thanks for investing so much time in my
personal story. It is very long and not written very well or in an organized
manner. Other blogs I wrote I worked harder to connect to other people out
there on the interwebs. This time I wrote purely for me. I know that people can
relate to my story on some levels because we all have gone through trials and
tribulations. But only part of me knows and feels that. My story feels unique
because it is. Because it’s mine. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184206106361801604noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4945703360454697694.post-35864806895556696302013-04-12T00:45:00.001-07:002013-04-12T23:18:04.370-07:00Babies<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you don’t have your own children, how can you possibly
know how to care for them? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had a woman say something close to this to me when I
was working at a day care a few years back (My version is nicer than her choice of words). And this is the ongoing feeling I
get when I see certain women look at me or speak to me in that certain way. As if I wouldn’t know how to teach
their child something I went to school for just because I don’t have my own
children. I’ve worked in nurseries, day cares, preschools, middle schools, high
schools, colleges, and have been babysitting since I was 14 and there is always
at least a few women who take that tone with me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know it’s a sticky subject to speak of, but as you get
older there become two groups of women: those who have children and those who
do not. And being on one side is seemingly superior to the other according to
some groups of women (mostly in Westlake Village who work out at my gym). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course I don’t mean all women with children are this way
and that all women without children feel the way I do. And I have not felt this
in every place I have lived and worked as I have moved so many times in my
life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the people who make those accusations and the people
like me who are sensitive to them I feel there is one feeling binding us
together: insecurity. I feel insecure because I am getting older and I want
children. And should I have had them already? What have I done of substance in
my life? Because isn’t creating life the most significant thing you can do? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And they feel insecure because they see me with only myself to
worry about. I do what I want to most of the time. I took 12 whole years for
myself while being in school. (Wow I’ve never looked at it that way before.
Shouldn’t I be a doctor by now? If you’re thinking of the quote from the movie "Tommy Boy" you are my best friend and you are cool). Should they have done that
as well? Should they have “found themselves” before they had kids? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These assumptions (and they are gross assumptions) are total
bullshit. I am speaking bullshit. Writing bullshit. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because you see what you look for. Our (my) reality becomes
skewed because of our (my) situation. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I believe that everyone has a path (Oh lord how cliché is
that?) and that we are all where we are supposed to be. I can’t have regrets,
although they swirl through my head constantly, about what I have chosen to do
with my life. And the women on the other side of the line shouldn’t either, the
women in the “other group”. Because I have not “found myself” through grad
school or spending time on myself. They have not lost years because they had children
sooner than I did. Everyone has significance in the world no matter what it is
they choose to do and create. (Copy write Hallmark 1997)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So why do I still feel like shit?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My best friend is pregnant and about to pop. I am so excited
for this baby to enter the world. You have no freaking idea! We discussed her
future baby boy’s name our first year in college in music theory class when she
fell in love with the name. I can’t wait to be the crazy Aunt who tells him how
weird his mom was in college. (Until he figures it out on his own. Sorry
Michelle. He’s bound to find out sooner or later we’re all nut jobs.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyhoo, we were leaving chorus at the elementary school where
we work and we turned the corner and there were all these moms and they stopped their conversations to stare at my huge, pregnant friend smiling like drones. No one said
anything they just beamed, cooed, and stared. And I’m all over here going, “Hi
I’m the crazy single friend!” It really hit me that there is this huge club. A
huge club of people that have been through something life altering that more
than half of other people in the world, have not. Now I get what Dads feel
like. There are probably cool membership cards and house rules and owls that send messages to other members. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Am I jealous? Do I want to know the secret
handshake? Hell yes. But am I ashamed I’m not a member and no one has taught me
the theme song yet? No. Absolutely not. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is quite remarkable the things that people say to you
when you visit your hometown. People from church and high school friends you run
into at Costco. It can happen anywhere. When you’re out and someone asks about
your life and you say, “Well I’m graduating with my MFA in acting in the spring”
and their response is “That’s great! Is there someone special? Are you married?
Planning on a family?” “No, and not yet.”. Then you get THE LOOK. The head
tilts slightly the left, the eyebrows come together, the eyes soften, and the
lips purse together. “Don’t worry. It will happen for you.” Pat, pat on the
arm. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the time I was 28 and my inner retort was, “Who the hell
said I was worried?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, this did actually happen to me. And not some old woman
at church with a 1950’s frame of mind, but someone I went to high school with.
In the late 90’s. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now I’m 30 and the worry is creeping in. But I have to stop
it because this is 2013 and Mariah Carey had TWO babies at like….60. So I’ve
got time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know that people just want you to be settled and happy.
And I want those things too. But I’m not sad for me so you don’t need to be
either. And yes sometimes I get angry. Because my life has been worthwhile and
I have done things that I am proud of. I birthed an MFA. And if you were at CSU
Fullerton you know what I mean. “Let it be born”. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m happy to say that all of my actual friends that have
babies have never treated me like this. I’m especially thankful to my friend Keiko
for letting me be a part of her son Julian’s life. She had Julian a couple
weeks into our first year of grad school (talk about a freakin’ warrior) and she
always made me feel welcome in his life. And she NEVER made me feel like an
idiot or an inadequate human.
It is because of these friends that I did not want to write this. Because
what you do as a mother is life altering and beautiful. Because you, yes YOU,
have all been so wonderful in sharing your life and families with me. Even when
I’m all cynical Liz Lemon over here. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGfopSyHAWhTP3s8khf5fH3BMo4piD_m2RkGuyHdi6MY2hqv-QJBoCnEEFktTSeqk4s0fxvdlrOF7VXFbweBqzFtRDhRwLgTwvZampZw6X0m2CokRe6uBb-43tFUFLbrn4UQEkfJuz8q4E/s1600/julian.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGfopSyHAWhTP3s8khf5fH3BMo4piD_m2RkGuyHdi6MY2hqv-QJBoCnEEFktTSeqk4s0fxvdlrOF7VXFbweBqzFtRDhRwLgTwvZampZw6X0m2CokRe6uBb-43tFUFLbrn4UQEkfJuz8q4E/s320/julian.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Baby Julian back when he was a baby. Isn't he the cutest?<br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And here’s another thing: don’t we need more women who make
their children a priority? And I don’t mean giving up their jobs. My mom raised
me while working and getting and masters in education and look how awesome I
turned out. (Note to self: find other example before publishing) But what I
mean is that our children are getting left behind more and more. Let’s not even
go there with education. So many kids are not loved enough or paid the
attention they need and deserve. But to these women who schedule their lives
around their children, plan and prepare for their arrival with such care and
anticipation, and most importantly give them all their love I say, “You are
kick ass ladies and we need more of you”. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So why even write this blog? So many women feel this way and
they already covered every single minute detail of the subject in many, many
episodes of Sex and the City featuring Kim Catrall and Cynthia Nixon. Because
it’s something that hurts me, makes me angry, scares me, and makes me excited. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
didn’t really want to write this blog because I know it could evoke anger, deep
conversation which will happen on FB and that’s never a good idea, or I could
hurt the feelings of someone I care about. Which is not my intent while sharing
my thoughts and insecurities. But again if I’m afraid to write it I think that
means I should. Although maybe I should invest in a journal to write in that I
can burn later while doing a ritual, tribal dance.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because let’s be real. When I have a baby, if I’m lucky
enough, I’m going to change teams and be that bitch who says things like “You
have no idea what it’s like because you’ve never had kids!” and “Talk to me
after you’ve been up all night with 3 am feedings!” and “Burn the old maid at
the stake!” So be looking for that blog coming to a theatre near you. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184206106361801604noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4945703360454697694.post-70575474365230815032013-03-20T22:00:00.001-07:002013-03-20T22:00:28.939-07:00Asking/applying for help<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is actually difficult to write about. I thought I might
not write about it. But like I said before the embarrassing and painful is
usually more interesting than the happy and content. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll start by saying I have moved around a lot this year.
Well I guess only three times in 9 months which I suppose is a lot. I moved
home to help my mom because I felt she was drowning trying to take care of my
sick dad. But more on that later. Maybe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What I’m saying is that I had no steadiness in my life. No
steady job, income, day to day structure and the like. What was the most
frightening is I had no steadiness in my mental state. The drama of my family
situation and the inner demons were over taking me. Things were scary for
awhile. I’m lucky because I did have steady love from my family and friends. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After working a minimum wage job, summer stock, and my dream
role as the Baker’s Wife I was left with no next step. No other work lined up
or real plan. I wasn't sure where I wanted to live. And I was broke. Here’s a tip: always save. I’m not saying I
spent money on frivolous things. I did not do that. But the debt I accrued from
being in school was always on my mind. Every. Day. So the minute I got paid I
put ALL OF IT towards paying off my school loans. So in the end I had nothing
for living expenses. I tried to figure something out. To get a job quickly. Here’s
another tip: If you have a degree of any kind lie on your job applications. If
you’re trying to get a day job and you have a masters or bachelor’s: lie. After
much lamenting and wrestling with myself, I ended up in the Orange County
government offices. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sat in a dingy, plastic chair filling out paper work for
food stamps. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This may not seem like a huge deal to a lot of people but it
was one the most difficult, heart wrenching things I’ve ever done. I felt
ashamed. I felt that I had let generations of my family down. I felt low. My
eyes fill up writing this let alone living it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A little history first. My parents were the first people to
go to college on both sides of my family. Both worked all the way through their
undergrad and put themselves through school. Their families were more than
proud of them. They worked to get their masters while working full time
teaching jobs and raising my brother. This was in my head while I sat in the
waiting room. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other memory and spirit throbbing in my head and heart was
my grandmother. If you know me, you know her. I spent every Friday with her and
learned a great deal of my life lessons and strength from her. She was one of
nine children and lived through the great depression. She was sent away at 13
to work as a companion to a nice, rich older lady. She never finished school
and it was her greatest sadness. She always strove to learn and teach herself.
She taught me to appreciate my education. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My granny always prided herself on the fact that she never
took government assistance. She worked in the fields, at a makeup counter, eventually
owned a health food store, worked in departments stores; her life story could
be measured and time lined by the jobs she had. She lived in shacks, other
people’s homes, and a studio that had no bathroom so she had to use the gas
station bathroom next door to freshen up. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am only scratching the surface of her life. I don’t mean
for this blog to be about her hardships. She would not want me to write about
them. But all of these harsh facts about her life were flooding through me as I
filled out my lengthy application for government assistance. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a room where I was the only white person and I’m making a
non kosher guess, that I was the only person there with a higher education. As
I felt the weight of my family history in my chest and on my shoulders I began
to crumble in that room. As much as I didn’t want to I began to cry. Silently
tears rolled down my face as I thought of all my family members who worked so
hard to make my chances better than theirs. And what had I done with all of the
opportunities I had been given? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As one of my favorite childhood movies <i>Milo and Otis </i>played on the screens, I looked around the room at
the people I was with. A lot of teenagers with kids, people who didn’t speak
English, people wearing dirty clothes, and a bunch of screaming babies. One of
these things is not like the other. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I felt that I had failed. I wondered what was education
really worth? Was it selfish of me to pursue my education in the arts when I
knew the outcome would most likely mean debt? Where was God in all of this? Had
I strayed from the path? Did I make incorrect choices and now my life is adrift
because of it?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I may not have been the only one thinking of these things in
that office. I kind of think I was but you can’t judge people from the shapes
their faces are making. What I do know is that I was the most dramatic about it
as no one else was crying into their papers in shame. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The wait was 2 hours long. That’s a long time to sit and
blame yourself. I talked to my mom and she was the angel God put her on earth
to be. She assured me that I had worked hard my whole life and I needed help, “…which
is what this program is for. You’ve had a job and paid taxes since you were 15.
It’s ok to ask for some of that back if you really need it. Just think of the
tuition increases while you were in grad school to make you feel better.” She
joked. I choked out “I love you” and hung up. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Deep in myself I know my Granny would support me and tell me
she loved me. Even though this day was incredibly hard and shameful for me the
good part was that I felt her close to me. I felt her in the air around me as I
went through the day. So I have to give thanks for that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After meeting with my appointed government worker and making
it through the meeting with only tearing up (if the tears don’t come out it
doesn’t count as crying. So say I.) I was approved and was on Food stamps for
the minimum requirement of 3 months. I really am thankful because it helped me
when I had absolutely no money, no hope, and thousands of dollars of student
loans staring me in the face. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until now I haven’t told anyone I was on food stamps. Not
even my closest friends. I was and still am ashamed. I know I shouldn’t be, but
I am. I want to stand on my own two feet. I want to put all of God’s gracious
gifts including my family, friends, and opportunities such as education to good
use. I’m still floundering and flailing. But I am making rent, food, gas, and
student loan payments. I have several jobs. None of which are my dream job.
Which can be defeating at times, but I know I will find my purpose. I have to
keep working, be honest, be loving, be grateful, be thankful, and be faithful. </div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184206106361801604noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4945703360454697694.post-24212321021511551272013-02-14T21:52:00.001-08:002013-02-14T22:43:50.105-08:00Cliche Love BlogHappy Anna Howard Shaw Day!<br />
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I wanted my first blog to be a topic about some huge life
struggle I’m going through. Something deep. Something Chekhovian. This past
year has been a difficult one for my family and for me personally. I could and probably will write about that. But what I’m
going through at the moment is dating. I’m 30 and for the first time really dating.
So I’m going to write about that. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have a huge confession to make. My name is Molly and I am
a (semi) willing participant of online dating. I really can’t believe it. I
used to make fun of all the losers who were so desperate they turned to an
online service to connect them with potential matches. I used to feel such pity
for women who got to their 30’s and were still single and even more pity for
those who resorted to online dating. That would never happen to me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was 16 I made my life plan. Ambitious for a junior in
high school, but I knew what I wanted. I would go to Cal Lutheran University,
major in music, date a nice Lutheran boy, graduate, get my teaching credential,
marry said nice Lutheran boy, and then teach high school choir. Of course we’d
buy a house and have kids. All by the age of 25 or 26. It’s a nice plan. A plan that lots of
people I know followed. But it didn’t work out that way for me. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In my life now, I don’t meet a lot of men my age. I work
part time at a gym that is exclusively for women. I thought of a “bring your unattached
male friends, sons, and brothers to the gym” day but my bosses didn’t go for
it. I help teach band twice a week at an elementary school and while some of
their dad’s are extremely attractive most of them are unavailable. I am a
singer at a Christian Science church. No. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Another force pushing me towards online dating? Two of my
closest friends have met their significant others on a dating web site. One of
them just got married the other is engaged. And they are super cool people and
not lame at all. And they met the most wonderful people online. So now I’m
getting warmer. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was one last deterrent standing in my way from online dating. Murder. I was sure I was going
to agree to meet up with someone and despite my best efforts to avoid it…I was
going to be murdered. Meet up in a public place they said. Meet during the day
they said. Don’t get in a car with a stranger they said. Little did they know I
watch way too much Law and Order: SVU and know how smart serial rapists and
murders are. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then I weighed my options: being murdered by a possible
love match or being murdered by a life of loneliness with my cats and hair
scrunchies. I decided to take a risk and go with the former. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’ve been “dating” online for a few months. I have only
been on two dates. But in this short amount of time I have discovered the many
do’s and don’ts of online dating. Because I am gracious and awesome I will
share some of the Do’s and Deal Breakers with you. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If your profile picture is of you with your shirt off
especially while you’re in a bathroom or pool: that’s a deal breaker.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you’re profile picture is you doing a keg stand or double
fisting it at a club: that’s a deal breaker.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you’re profile picture is of you smiling happily with a
woman who you obviously are/were involved with: that’s a deal breaker (and
you’re kind of an idiot).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you message me this “ :) ”
and this only: Deal breaker.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you message me “Let’s meet up tonight. My place?”: Deal
breaker.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you message me “Look no further! Your prince charming has
arrived!”: Deal breaker (especially when you’re 50+).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If the first thing you ask me is my favorite position: Deal
breaker. That’s a second date question. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here are some things
that are super cool and will impress me:<b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Read my profile. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Open with an actual question. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Spell things correctly and use decent grammar. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m trying to think of more do’s. But sadly that’s it. It’s
pretty simple. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know that I sound all cynical and like I'm 30 years old, but the things
people write in a message or have on their profile is incredible. Sometimes downright offensive and/or laughable. I’m sure on
my profile I sound like a prude, overly sensitive virgin who wears a fanny pack
for a purse so I have no room to judge. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s the bright side: I have met some really nice people
on the site. So we’ll have to see what happens. While it can be extremely
frustrating, nerve wracking (those first meetings are completely awkward), and
depressing at times, I have to at least pat myself on the back for being brave
enough to try. I can’t sit around whining that nothing ever happens to me if I
don’t put myself out there to be available for great things to come into my
life. And you never know, in a year or so you may see me on the TV dancing
across a blank white back drop with my new fiancé who is a doctor who loves to cook,
loves cats, and like me is embarrassed he owns Justin Bieber’s acoustic album. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So to complete this love blog I want to wish you love. If
you have found your love, appreciate them. If you are still looking, keep the
faith. And always remember the love of your family, friends, and pets. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I also want to leave you with my favorite love song (possibly favorite song period). This will be played and sung at my wedding whenever that happens. I love it because it's simple and what I think love should be. </div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184206106361801604noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4945703360454697694.post-24119674147185145532013-01-25T00:28:00.004-08:002013-01-25T01:20:16.873-08:0030 and Blogging <br />
<div class="headword" id="headword" style="background-color: #e8ecf5; background-image: url(http://www.merriam-webster.com/styles/default/images/reference/headword-background.jpg); background-position: 0% 100%; background-repeat: repeat no-repeat; margin: 0px 0px 20px; padding: 0px 60px 12px 11px;">
<h2 style="background-image: none; display: inline; font-family: georgia, arial, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 22px; font-weight: normal; margin: 20px 0px 10px; padding: 0px 7px 0px 0px;">
cli·ché</h2>
<span class="main-fl"><em style="color: #717274; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-weight: bold;">noun</em></span> <span class="pr" style="color: #717274; display: inline; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin-left: 10px;">\klē-<span class="unicode" style="background-image: none; font-family: 'lucida sans unicode'; font-size: 0.9em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">ˈ</span>shā, <span class="unicode" style="background-image: none; font-family: 'lucida sans unicode'; font-size: 0.9em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">ˈ</span>klē-<span class="unicode" style="background-image: none; font-family: 'lucida sans unicode'; font-size: 0.9em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">ˌ</span>, kli-<span class="unicode" style="background-image: none; font-family: 'lucida sans unicode'; font-size: 0.9em; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">ˈ</span>\</span></div>
<div class="d" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; padding: 0px 18px 20px 10px;">
<h2 class="def-header" style="background-image: url(http://www.merriam-webster.com/styles/default/images/reference/hardrule-background.jpg); background-position: 0% 50%; background-repeat: repeat no-repeat; color: #c3857a; font-size: 12px; margin: 20px 0px 10px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; padding-right: 15px;">Definition of <em style="font-style: normal;">CLICHÉ</em></span></h2>
<div class="sblk">
<div class="snum" style="float: left; font-weight: bold;">
1</div>
<div class="scnt" style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 20px;">
<span class="ssens"><strong>:</strong> a <a class="d_link" href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/trite" style="color: #1122cc; text-decoration: none;">trite</a> phrase or expression; <em>also</em> <strong>:</strong> the idea expressed by it</span></div>
</div>
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<div class="snum" style="float: left; font-weight: bold;">
2</div>
<div class="scnt" style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 20px;">
<span class="ssens"><strong>:</strong> a <a class="d_link" href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/hackneyed" style="color: #1122cc; text-decoration: none;">hackneyed</a> theme, characterization, or situation</span></div>
</div>
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<div class="snum" style="background-color: white; float: left; font-weight: bold;">
3</div>
<div class="scnt" style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 20px;">
<span class="ssens"><strong>:</strong> something (as a menu item) that has become overly familiar or commonplace</span></div>
<div>
<span class="ssens">www.merriam-webster.com</span><br />
<span class="ssens"><br /></span>
<span class="ssens">"So, you're 30 and you're starting a blog? That is so cliche." -Me</span><br />
<span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: left;">I've been thinking about starting a blog for some time now. On my bookshelf in my room at my parents house, I have at least 7 journals I started at various times in my life that I never kept up with. I think the longest journal I have is from 5th grade. I only kept with it for a few months, but I go back and read that journal often and laugh and smile at the former version of myself. I want to have something that I look back on and read years from now and hopefully, smile. But let's be real; I'll most likely cry and cringe.</span><br />
When I think about myself blogging I think of adjectives such as "lame" "old maid" and "banal". What is going on in my life that I could possibly write about? My friends have blogs that I love to read to keep up with their family, job, and life in general. But when I think of myself writing one I think, "why?"<br />
But the truth is: I have things to say. We all do. I used to say them on Facebook. Some people still do. I no longer think that is the forum to write and debate. I think it's a place for Pentatonix videos, 30 Rock memes and anything cat related.<br />
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I used to have a safe place to speak, listen, write and read. But I'm no longer at PCPA and I'm no longer surrounded by Andy, Ben, Brian, Jocelyn, Kari, Keiko, and Paul 23 hours a day in grad school. I keep most of what I think and feel inside these days and there are times I am sure it's not healthy.<br />
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My PCPA Family</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-fju7aJGdNjXhZD-tEPHfQsrQsaJUNcyLTbgSTxKRh2uBSaoqIrxTBebl9kwl_bMjvMuLPoAHFqdY9xxOwvEkULXk6G28JzdEg647gv-QEXIFnumZTk5w4QQC4o1gQgyJdb4ujEC9aYKu/s1600/grad+picnic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-fju7aJGdNjXhZD-tEPHfQsrQsaJUNcyLTbgSTxKRh2uBSaoqIrxTBebl9kwl_bMjvMuLPoAHFqdY9xxOwvEkULXk6G28JzdEg647gv-QEXIFnumZTk5w4QQC4o1gQgyJdb4ujEC9aYKu/s320/grad+picnic.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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My Grad School Family (minus Kari. Did we really get through three years with no group photo?)</div>
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<br />
So I'm going to write and share mostly for myself. If you want to read it: that's great. Thank you for taking the time. If you don't: that's cool too. If you want to be an asshole and argue with me about what I write: please don't. If you want to discuss what I've written and share your thoughts: that would be awesome.<br />
<br />
So here it goes. I hope I can stick with it and don't chicken out. I think 30 is going to be a good year. Things are lining up for old Liz Lemon.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13184206106361801604noreply@blogger.com2