Tapestry.

This image is called Trapped Unicorn. I'm not that innocent.

Since I was a kid, I have loved the song Tapestry by Carole King. It's a song about a woman who has lived a life full of different colors, textures, and viewpoints. The first verse of the song always gets me. "My life has been a tapestry of rich and royal hue. An everlasting vision of the ever changing view. A wondrous woven magic, in bits of blue and gold. A tapestry to feel and see, impossible to hold." I actually JUST put it on my iPhone at work. It's definitely better than the Mariah Carey song playing on our Muzak at work.

I love the idea of life being a series of color experiences. Today I tried to put my own life into this spectrum, and it leaves a little to be desired. The past few months I've felt that my life has been a little too gray. Anxiety, depression, a feeling of being lost and general malaise have caused the last two years to be colored a light shade of gray with definite blacks and whites. Not that my life hasn't been pretty amazing. I have great friends, a wonderful family, and I am able to pay my bills. The past two years have included some pretty memorable experiences, and I don't take them for granted at all. But it seems that something is missing. Some feeling of joy, excitement, ecstasy...you name it, and it is lacking.

It was lacking even when my favorite actor said hello to me on the set of Burn Notice. Lacking when I was on a comic book convention panel for the first time ever. It's been lacking since the day I accepted a full time position in a country club when my heart and soul belonged on a stage. The day I allowed someone else's perception of me to be MY perception of me. It's been wonderful to get out of debt and have some real savings in my bank account. I have been squirreling away money for an eventual home purchase, but everything in me is screaming to not be here anymore. There's too much anger and hurt associated with a place that was once my home. I can't get past it. I want to, but I don't know how. I feel as if I am stuck in a limbo that was created for living beings. And I want out.

I want the gray to go away. I want to be able to be happy, and I hope that a change in locale will cause me to remove myself from this self destructive and negative place in which I find myself mired. I want the blues and golds. The rich and royal hues. And maybe, just maybe, if I challenge myself again and move outside my comfort zone, I'll get them back. I'll stop feeling this constant sense of not good enough, and start feeling better than.

Or, I'll be back in debt. Who knows? I've come pretty far for a chick with a Bachelor's Degree in Theater. I'm just ready for that next step, whatever it may be.

And don't judge me for loving Carole King. She's the bees.

Fiction Friday, the Fourth on the Thirteenth.

My friend gave me the suggestion of clams to inspire this post. I didn't like it. So, I reached out to my facebook people in an effort to get another word that would inspire me, as I'm basically a curmudgeon and a control freak. Their responses were even less inspiring to me. I feel full of piss and vinegar today. I don't know why. I slept well, ate good food and got to visit with some kids that I used to babysit that are now 28, 27, and 25...oh, wait. That may be why. I'M OLD, PEOPLE!

So. What word will inspire today's post? Clams, prickly pears, confidence, Postimperialism, Antidisestablishmentarianism, Defenestration, Bjork, and Paraprosdokian.

PS-I have NO IDEA WHY I WROTE THIS PARTICULAR STORY. It just came out. Interpret at will. I am not pregnant. Just in case you thought that. As I said to my boss the other day,"There's a whole process that has to occur before that can happen!"

None of the Above
by This Girl

The fluorescent lights clicked above my head as I waited impatiently for my name to be called. It had been over an hour since I had borrowed a clicky pen from a cup at the front desk and checked in for my appointment. I had already filled out my paperwork, checking the single status that they require for some reason. My legs were asleep. The anorexic magazine selection had ceased to entertain me, and the hacking cough being forced from the lungs of the man across from me was not only getting on my nerves, but had probably transmitted some sort of virus to everyone in his vicinity. I hate doctors. Hate them. And this one was about to ruin everything.

It had started simply enough. A drunken night. A one night stand in my one bedroom apartment. An expired condom. A missed period. Wishing symptoms away had not worked. Finally biting the bullet, I called my ob/gyn and scheduled an appointment. For this day. For an hour ago.

I knew in my heart what the pee test would say. I knew as well what the sperm donor would say. I had no idea, none at all, what I was going to say. To myself. To the something growing inside me. To my parents. To my friends.

A bored looking nurse in puppy dog scrubs came through the patients door, squeaking in her bright orange Crocs as she mispronounced my name. Looking at my hacking compatriot, I grabbed my overpriced handbag, smoothed out my pencil skirt that had become a little snug in the last two weeks, and followed Nurse Humane Society into the back room, my 3 inch heels clacking on the dingy linoleum. We headed to where the humiliation was about to begin: the scale. "Hop on up, honey," Pound Puppy said, impatient with the time it was taking me to drop the purse, kick off my shoes, and unclip my phone. Every ounce counts.

"My name is not honey, " I snapped as she adjusted the weight further and further over from where it had sat for the past 5 years. "Hmm, 145...that's a jump from your last visit. Let's head to room 1." After the niceties of taking temperature and blood pressure, she asked me the question. "What are you here to see the doctor for?" Wanting to correct her incorrect grammar, I told her. The snarky expression on her face softened. She lead me to the bathroom, and I stared into the toilet, cup in hand for what seemed like an eternity.

The time had come.

Ever the perfectionist, I didn't spill a single drop as I deposited my sample ( a sample that could change my world, would change my world, oh God, what was I gonna do) and exited the small sterile bathroom . Plopping on the exam table fully clothed, I waited. And waited. And waited some more.

I was about to lose my mind when a delicate knock sounded at the door. I squeaked a "come in" in a voice I did not recognize. The doctor, followed by Nurse Scooby, entered the room with a neutral expression on her face. I couldn't read her. Scrappy Doo was an enigma as well. Had these women trained at some sort of acting school to not show any emotion as they delivered news that could shatter a person's life? I wanted to scream at them to tell me...just tell me, goddamnit!

Then they did. Slowly, calmly, they told me that the test was positive. That I was pregnant. That all the worries and the sleepless nights wondering had been confirmed. They looked at me with sympathy as I lay back on the table. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't speak. They left me alone to recover myself.

Tear were welling up in my eyes. Why was this happening to me, now? When I finally had my life in order. When I had a career, and friends, and happy hours to go to. When I was alone and not ready. I wasn't ready. At all. Not for this. Not...

And then I looked around. Really looked around me. I saw pictures of babies. Diagrams of a child in the womb and advertisements for different types of formulas. Sample packs of pre natal vitamins.

And I started thinking, I can do this. I can do this.

And my life did change. It was shattered, but put back into place in a different formation. And I was right about the father. About how everyone would react. But they don't matter. None of it matters.

All that matters is you.

Love is a funny word.

I say it to my family. I say it to some friends. I say it to my dog. I say it about my favorite restaurant. I don't say it to myself.

I'm sure I'm not the only one who has this problem.

As a single lady with a lot of interests, I find myself more and more spread thin in terms of time. I say yes to everything whether it be a part in a play, or an errand for work.

This morning I put on a pretty dress, did my hair and make-up, and slipped on some rocking purple high heels. I looked down at myself and felt happy that I had so lovingly chosen an ensemble that made me feel pretty. Then my eyeballs locked onto my toes. With little time for pedicures, the red polish was chipped on both exposed toes, and I decided to remove it and go fresh footed into my work day. But as I removed the layers of lacquer, I noticed that my nails looked like my dad's. Cracked, bruised, damaged, and gnarly, my tootsies looked a little like how I have felt lately. There's no specific reason except that it's the holidays and the single jokes increase in frequency and dig just a little bit deeper at this time of year. Friends and family are moving onward and upward and though I'm ecstatic for them I am bogged down by the fact that I am standing still.

PMS is on hold. My improv career is on hold. My stand up career has yet to begin. My singing career is non-existent, barring a performance scheduled for January. The highlight of my acting career this month is playing a talking sheep in a nativity scene at a church. I feel lost, and I don't like it.

This morning I googled "Nicest Small Towns in America." I started looking for jobs in Black Mountain, NC and Hanover, NH. I'm desperate for a change. A change in job, a change in locale, a change in anything that will take this nagging feeling of panic and pending doom away for just a little bit. I know it's probably a change in me that needs to happen. I've had it pointed out to me ad nauseum.

For now, I'll cover it up with a smile like I covered up my nasty toes with a quick layer of purple potion nail polish. It's a temporary fix, and I know there's more work to be done on both myself and my cuticles. After this weekend, I'll put the effort in and maybe see a change before the birthday of some guy who did something to save some people. Here's hoping.

Bucket of chicken...I mean, bucket list.

A friend of mine recently posted a blog listing all of the items on her bucket list. I was blessed to be with her when she almost died on a flying trapeze (Item #46 on her list.) And it got me to thinking about my own personal bucket list, which is currently non-existent. The lack of a list is strange, as I have always been acutely aware of the fragility of life, having lost several dear family members while at a young age. I've never thought about what I want to do before I die, but have focused mainly on what I have done already should I kick it tomorrow. Here's that list. Let me note that I am in no way trying to brag and make everyone jealous that I am super awesome and cool. BUT I am trying to brag and make everyone jealous that I am super awesome and cool.

I was born.

In three separate instances, broke my nose, arm and paper cut my eyeball.

Have visited almost all 50 states. Still on the list-Wisconsin, Idaho, Hawaii and Alaska. Have traveled to Europe and British Columbia, and Canada, visiting these European countries: Denmark, Germany, Belgium, Austria, The Netherlands, Norway, Sweden, Finland, Czech Republic.

Seen and done these things: The Little Mermaid Statue, Berlin Wall, St. Charles Bridge, Bergen Belsen, Mozart's Birthplace, Anne Frank House, Praha Opera House (saw Rigoletto), British Columbian Rain Forests, Bungee Jumping, Flew a Cessna, White water rafting on 6 different rivers, hiking in 12 states and 3 countries, parasailing, rollerblading at a Vans Skate Park, went camping at the Red River Gorge, Rock Climbed in North Carolina, did a back country trip for 5 days in the woods, flew on a trapeze and performed a catch.

Performed in:
Deadlock (ha)

Oklahoma!

Fools

Guys and Dolls

Steel Magnolias

Roads (175 shows) Baby with the Bathwater

Naomi in the Living Room

StoryBox

Standprov

Page to Stage

3 years of Shadowbox Shows

A Christmas Carol (2 years)

2 years in a row Rock and Roll Karaoke Semi-finals

Vanities

3 years of Jove Shows

Beauty and the Beast, Really

I'm with Stupid

Performed with-Michael Winslow and Garrett Morris, met Bruce Campbell.
Duffy’s commercial
Labor Finders Video

Wrote a Comic book

Lost 35 pounds

Gained 35 pounds :)

Been on Burn Notice 3 times.

Went to ComicCon

Was interviewed on a podcast.

Met Christopher Moore. Sent him my web comic. Met Jim Butcher.

Published an online comic.

Met Jenna Busch.

Spoke on a panel at a comic book convention.

Took 2 Stand up Classes. Performed my first routine.

Wrote and Produced 4 shows on my own and donated over $3,000 to Gilda’s Club.

So. This is my "have done" list. The bucket list is pending, as I explore further in life what I want to do, be, do, be, do. I'll put the first thing on my list, which will actually be happening in February.

1. Visit New York.

I booked my flight today. JetBlue was having a sale. So, I'll be going in February to see my lovely friend, Tiffany, and to sight see. I may even get up the nerve to move there. We'll see. I only said, "visit" on the list. That may change.

What's on your list?

Family

I've often wondered why I am the way I am. There are times when really fantastic things happen, and I systematically tear them and myself into little tiny pieces, over-analyzing every bit to see what I could have done better. I have started to do this most recently with my web comic. Though it is out of my control in terms of how many people read it, I keep thinking that I can affect it somehow, by being more witty, charming, out there. I even added it for a brief moment on my online dating profile, to see if I could up readership that way. I realized the folly of this choice and quickly removed it from the site, but the insanity that inspired me to do it in the first place is still going strong.

I was discussing this with my mother last night, as she is pretty down to earth and wise to the world. She is usually quick to point out my bullshit. During the course of our discussion, I discovered that I have ALWAYS been this way. I was potty trained at 18 months because I didn't like being dirty. I learned to read at age 4, because I felt if my parents could read to me then I could certainly do it myself. When I was 6, I had imaginary people in my life. They weren't friends, they were parents. Mother Snow and Father Magic lived in the North Pole and were going to come and get me someday. Six year old me wanted to control who was making the rules for me. I'm very glad these two weirdos never actually manifested in my life and love both of my parents as they are both strong yet different parts of who I am today.

After my mom and I were done chatting, I continued to think about who I am and why I feel as if I am constantly silent on subjects that I should be more vocal about. Looking to my family, I decided to elect a new mantra for myself that is based upon both my maternal and paternal grandmothers. Both of my grandmothers are named Nancy. One is living in Ohio, the other passed away while I was in college. Nancy Blake is a sweet woman who makes homemade ice cream for the 4th of July and likes warm, ankle length cotton robes. Nancy Pottinger was a spitfire, who taught me sarcasm and chain smoked until she passed away from emphysema. I've always been a little more like Grandma Blake, and will continue to be so in terms of how I deal with the people I love. In terms of my creative outlets and perspective on life I am going to become more like Grandma P. I will no longer take shit from anyone. I will recognize shady characters and bypass them before they can take advantage of me. I will call out indecencies and injustices and I will burn peoples faces off with my sarcastic wit.

What would Nancy do? That is the question.

Boudoir session...not for the young or weak at heart.

A little while ago, in an attempt to try new things and be a "yes woman", I decided to do a boudoir session with my very good friends, Emily and Steve Pogozelski, of Pogo Photo. Having been too thin last year and gaining weight again, I thought that I should embrace my current size 8 frame and get some photos done. Maybe I'll do another one after the next 6 months of eating better and working out.

As a single, I had no significant other to take these images for...except myself. It was fun, empowering and everything I'd ever wanted in a naughty photo session(though I never knew I even WANTED a naughty photo session.)

Being the weird individual I am, I decided to do a little bit more than the usual stiletto and stocking pics, and arrived at the shoot, arms heavily laden with props and costumes for what would turn out to be the most hilarious photo shoot of my life. Junk food, comic books, mic stands, and a towel turned me into somewhat of a "sex kitten"(phrase stolen from my best friend, Jen.)

Here is a sneak peek at some of my favorite images, with more to come!

If you EVER want a photo session like this for yourself or your beau, call Emily and Steve. They are the BEST!

Beauty Hurts...and can even kill.

This evening I had plans to have dinner with Susan, David, and Maria. It's a standing thing. Every Wednesday we get together, after Susan and Maria are done with dance in Jupiter, and it's typically around 8:45pm before we meet up to eat, drink a sensible one alcoholic beverage, and catch up. Most times I just throw on a schlumpy outfit and go with just my work make up and greasy hair. It has been a while since we have done this, as Maria and David were on their honeymoon last week, the week prior I had rehearsal, and the week before that was holiday craziness.

So, in my infinite wisdom, I decided that an evening at the Yard House (a somewhat popular local restaurant with great music and a bar designed for the meat market that is Palm Beach County) after so long without deserved special accoutrement. I curled my hair, redid my makeup, and put on skinny jeans with a sweater and my super high black heels. I hopped into my Mini Cooper, and away I drove.

I pulled out onto the main strip outside of my parents house, merged into traffic, and got up to the normal 50 mph speed limit. About a block from the red light at the major intersection I was approaching, I attempted to ease my foot off of the gas pedal to begin braking lightly, as there were cars stopped at said red light. My foot would not move. The bottom of my heel had wedged tightly in the area where the gas pedal was attached to the floor. I tugged frantically with my foot, trying to dislodge it to no avail. I felt like I was in a bad film...time slowed down, and all I could focus on was the fact that I could not brake, that I was about to plow into the back of another vehicle, potentially injuring another person or persons, and that I was basically about to die because of my ridiculous, $50 black pumps that I bought at Macy's on a whim. At least the saleslady got her commission.

In a matter of seconds, I realized that I could pull my foot out of the shoe and it would no longer be pressing on the pedal. (I am a super genius, I know.) I slammed on the brake, not realizing that I was still a good 30 feet from the car in front of me and came to a dramatic stutter stop. I gingerly made my way to my spot at the light, came to a complete stop and began to frantically tug at the stupid shoe that could have been the end of me. It would not budge. Of course, being a girl on a budget, I focused on the fact that I could not break the bottom of the shoe off, as $50 is $50.

After what seemed like an eternity, the shoe came free. I threw it on the seat next to me, and drove the rest of the way to the restaurant with one shoe off. I told my friends the tale of how I almost died, and they sympathized. 2 hours later, we headed our separate ways. I took the shoe off again, and drove with one bare foot home. About half way there, my phone rang and it was David. The first thing he uttered was, "I forgot about your shoes. Are you ok?"

I assured him that I was just fine, driving partially barefoot so I would make it safely home. We hung up, and I realized (again) that I have really great friends who will always be there for me and are cognizant that with me, everything, even footwear, can be an adventure.

All dressed up...

The other night, my friend LG and I met up for dinner and drinks in Delray Beach. She is stunning, and on good nights I feel like I can run with the big dogs. We both decided to be ultra-girly and dress up for each other, as we see each other so rarely (she lives in Ft. Lauderdale and travels, I live in West Palm Beach and am a recluse). So, we made it a special occasion, both wearing dresses and high heels. We had a nice dinner, and headed over to another location named Tryst, where LG knows the bartender. He's a great guy, and we were having a great chat over wine and Bailey's (not combined...she had wine, I had Bailey's.)

We're chatting and catching up, and these two gentleman take seats next to LG, and I notice over her shoulder that they are checking her out. Maybe me as well, but I obviously have a complex, so we won't go there. While I am asking the bartender for a glass of water, the one nearest LG struck. He started asking what we were up to, blah blah, yadda, yadda. And LG is the sweetest person on the planet, so she begins having a conversation with this guy, who looks like Jeff Conaway circa Celebrity Rehab only 5 inches shorter, and his buddy, who is basically his mute, Indian sidekick (and not nearly as cool as Silent Bob).

I am basically ignoring them, until Kinickie decides to get up and come over to me and start asking me questions about me, at which point my smartass personality starts to come out and I snarkily answer him with thinly veiled disdain. Especially when he offered to make me lunch the next day. Your assumption is that a)I am out to find a husband/one night stand/boy toy. b)I am attracted to you. c) I give a rats about your job, life skills, experiences. I am not interested. Period.

It's not that I don't feel sympathy for single people everywhere as it is horrendously tough to meet quality people anywhere, much less in bars. I just wanted LG to myself. We were not NYC taxi cabs, with Available signs glowing over our heads. Just two women out to have a nice evening without male companionship. The assumption that we were dressed for them was completely annoying to me and made me want to get violent. But LG was and is and always will be the nice girl who gives everyone a chance.

Eventually, my caustic barbs caused the two Casanovas to leave. But I lost out on a good 45 minutes of time with my dear friend because of them. So, to all you single men folk out there...please, PLEASE...make sure someone is interested in you interrupting their lives with idle chit chat. You'll know because their bodies will be turned out towards the room, and they will be looking around for potential mates/hook-ups. And, if someone tells you that she is not interested, whether it be verbally, physically, or subliminally....take the hint. Thanks.

That's life.

I have come up with my personal philosophy on life. It's very "Gump" esque. To me it's not like a box of chocolates. Instead, it's like a toasted whole wheat bagel with cream cheese.

Here's the inspiration to the observation. I am a creature of habit. I pretty much order the same thing at every restaurant I visit. My friends who know me well know exactly what I get at every location and have been known to order for me (in a sweet way, not a Neanderthal, controlling way.) At Duffy's, where we frequently dine, it's "She'll have the saucy tenders with zucchini and sweet potato fries." At Original Pancake House, it's "French crepes and a side of home fries."

At bagel shops, it's a whole wheat bagel toasted with cream cheese. Without fail. I have deviated from this formula before with disastrous results. So, I order my carb feast in wax paper, and I eat. Bite after bite, I luxuriate in the rich creamy cheese, the crisp toasted exterior and the softer interior. And then, it happens. The one bite that, for some reason, tastes like onion. I obviously did not order an onion bagel, yet without fail there is that one bite that has been compromised by an onion, and it makes the entire taste experience from then on tinged with onion flavor.

Life is like that bagel. You can be swimming along, with one intention and then something can come out of the blue, unexpectedly, that changes your perspective. At first, I hated that onion bite, but I realized that if it wasn't for that one bite I would never know what it's like to have an onion bagel instead of my boring old wheat.

I have also tossed around the idea of a "crunchy bit in the McDonald's hamburger" philosophy. But that's just gross.

A rebirth...

Recently, I decided to change my life. I was unhappy. Really, really unhappy. So, I cut ties to all the things that were making me unhappy and decided to start over. I've done this a couple of times in the past...an abusive relationship helped me move to KY and start working for a theater up there. A medical malady made me leave that theater and move home to sunny South Florida (and after 3 winters I was about ready!!) Now, I have quit my job with an improv troupe that I had been working for for 3 years to try and make my own way in life. It's terrifying. I felt safe there for these last few years, but I realized I was never going to get the fulfillment out of it that I desired.

So, here I am. 29 years old, living with my parents again after rent on my beautiful apartment was raised and my salary was not. I am single but dating. I have baggage like anyone else, so my guarded area is both my heart and my naughty bits. I have no artistic outlet at the moment other than singing occasionally at cabarets and the weddings of friends (and of course, in the shower.) I write things down that I think might entertain people, but have yet to attempt an open mic night. I am working on a comic book with a friend, but that is at a standstill while she makes a life in LA and I work 40 hours in Florida. I am at a standstill. But I am living a very full life and have a lot of ideas and opinions. So, here's my blog. If no one reads it, fine...but it'll be a place I can vent and hopefully, entertain.