Smile, Darn You, Smile

When I was a little kid, I asked my parents why grownups didn't smile very much.  They couldn't come up with a valid answer.  From my vantage point, being a grownup seemed way more cool than being a kid and I thought if I ever became an adult I'd smile all the time.

Well, ostensibly, I am a grownup now and, no, I do not smile all the time.  But I sure as hell smile more than the people I work with.  Man, what a bunch of Crankypants!   And the higher their rank, the more cranky they are.  I don't know why they're so pissed off all the time.   I know they make about 10,824,537 times more money than I do.  Ditto for the amount they get laid compared to me,  so what do they have to be grumpy about??? If I could make decent cash and get some dick every once  in a while, I'd be floating on air.  But here I am,  living hand to mouth and hand to---well, you know,---and I still manage to smile and say "Good morning", where these sourpusses just slither on by without a word.  They act like they graduated from the Snape School of Social Skills.  (Except Alan Rickman is hot and they aren't.)

Hey, wait a minute.  I just had an idea.  (That's a bad sign.)

What if the reason they are grumpy is because they're NOT getting laid?   Perhaps I could start a "side business" and kill a whole mess o' stones in one throw, as it were.  It worked for that Mom in Manhattan, right?  Oh, wait, she's in prison now.  Okay, maybe not.  I told you it was a bad sign.

The grass is always greener, I suppose.  I think they should be happy because they have money and sex.  They probably walk by me and say, "Gee whiz, that middle-aged, slightly stoop-shouldered woman with the curly hair has no responsbility at work  and a big bed all to herself at home--talk about lucky!" 

And, after all, I am the one with a smile on my face.   :)

Guilty as Charged

Guilt and I go way back.  I suspect if I were hypnotized deeply enough, I would feel guilty for being conceived.  Sorry, Mom and Dad, stupid rubber!

Being an Irish Catholic raised by an Irish Catholic raised by an Irish Catholic, etc., etc., my mother used guilt as her one and only disciplinary tool.  Oh, that and calling me names. (You Little Snot was her favorite.  Awww!)  But I routinely got, "When I drop dead like your Aunt Mary Jayne and your father marries the Young Sexy Blonde she'll make you clean up your room."  Which did not make me clean up my room, by the way, I just figured I'd wait till the YSB showed up. Never put off till tomorrow what  you can put off indefinitely.  Sadly, for my father and my room, the YSB never showed up.  But the threat was effective in that I felt guilty for not cleaning my room.  And pretty much anything else that I did when I was conscious.  (Well, wait--I had a recurring nightmare every night from the ages of 3-5 and I always woke up yelling for my mom; so, actually, I felt guilty for being unconscious, as well.) 

Anyroad, being the Gullible Gertie that I am, I believed all the Irish Dogma my mother fed me and guilt soon became as much a part of me as my curly hair and extreme shortitude. 

Now, 150 years later, my hair is still curly and I'm still short (and shrinking by the minute, thanks Osteopenia!), but I am slowly and surely divesting myself of the guilt.  I kinda feel like Christopher Reeve trying to walk again, only I hope I don't die before I lose the guilt.  (I'm debating whether to apologize for that last sentence, let me know if you think I should.  This is a Democracy, after all.) 

NOW for the actual point of this entry.  Last evening I was working the door for Theatre Downtown (don't ask), which is a fairly solitary duty.  I was thinking about my new job and how they basically pay me for doing pretty much nothing and what a sweet deal that is and I should be really happy about it.  But I'm not.  And I was trying to figure out why.  And in one of those rare, nicotine-induced moments of clarity, I realized it's because I feel guilty for getting this job.  What right do I, Little Snot Debbie, have, holding down a sweet job for quasi-decent pay? 

Well, I know the correct answer is:

A:  Every fucking right in the fucking world, motherfucker!!!  but I went with:

D:  No right at all, You Little Snot. 

Pavlov's Deb, or should I say, Peg's Deb.  So maybe the divestiture is more slow than sure. 

At least I realized that I was being haunted by guilt; in the Olden Days (last week), I would have accepted the feeling as Just The Way Life Is.  But, in the words of the great inventor, Thomas Edison, "Fuck the Olden Days".  I now have a job that basically pays me to read and play Yahtze and do whatever else I want (barring checking out porn sites, you can't have everything).  That's pretty sweet.  And so am I, so therefore I deserve it. 

And as soon as that YSB shows up, I promise I'll clean up my room. 

Penny for My Thoughts

So my new job allows me plenty of time to think.

Thinking has always been problematical with me.  I tend to overthink things I should just let go and avoid thinking about things I need to think about.  (Like how I could have improved that last sentence; I guess I could have. . . .nevermind, I don't want to think about it.)

But with all this free TT  (ThinkTime), I'm now rethinking how I think I should think.  I began by thinking up some rules:

1.  Don't think about the future.  It never goes the way I want it to, and then I just get depressed.    I mean, when I was younger, I figured that by the time I was this age (your guess here), my career as a Nuclearthermal Hydrodynamic Engineer would be peaking and and my two husbands and 5 kids and I would be relaxing in our Italian Villa, while Barry Manilow serenaded us on the balcony.  But who cold have predicted Barry Manilow's career would tank so early?   So it just didn't happen that way.  Rather than thinking about what I want to happen in the future, if I just go with the flow instead,  I still get fucked over, but I'm not expecting *not* to, so I'm not disappointed.  Okay, that sounds depresessing, so let me edit that (without actually editing it, cause I don't want to think about editing).  If I just go with the flow, I take each minute as it happens and I don't have time to think about the future.  That's better.  It doesn't make much sense, but it's not as depressing.  And there's a whiff of Deepak Chopra in there somewhere.  Too bad about that whole Barry Manilow thing, though. 

2.  Think creatively.  As this blog entry shows, I have a lot of work to do on that one.

3.  Think happy thoughts.  Hahahahahaha!!!! What do I look like, a fucking Rogers & Hammerstein libretto?   Go ahead and cry for me, Argentina, I'll join you.

4.  Think up as much funny shit as humanly possible.  I'm trying!!

This is only my third day on the New Job, so I (hopefully) have a lot of time to work out the kinks of this thinking thing.  If you have any thoughts, dear reader, please let me know.  I think I could use them.

Millstones vs. Milestones

So this is my last day at Job That Must Not Be Named.  I have mixed emotions, of course, but overall I'm looking forward to moving on to someplace that really wants me.  Let's hope that infatuation lasts.

Some days you know are Uber Important and will live in your memory forever.  Other days you think should be UI end up being surprisingly (and sometimes disappointedly) *meh*.  The best/worst are the days you don't expect anything at all and they turn out to be either fantastically or horribly memorable.  Sometimes the day seems pretty "meh" at the time and then, looking back at it,  becomes memorable.  Or maybe that's just senility. 

I won't bore you with personal examples (private screenings by request), but I'm sure you've all been there.  Suffice it to say, I'm thinking this day will be pretty memorable but won't be surprised if it's "meh." 

I remember my first day here.  I remember the day they offered me a full-time position.  I remember the day we first merged.  I remember the day we merged again.  I remember the day I came in and told my boss I was getting divorced.  I remember the day a client's drug dealer came in looking for her (that was a fun day!).  I remember that feeling every year at 5:00 on April 15 (or whenever the deadline was that year) that tax season was Finally Over.  And I will miss the delightful air freshener they use in the ladies' room.  Good times. . . .

Anyroad, time to make new memories.  And, hopefully, new blog entries, but I won't know if I can keep up this frantic (ha! ha!) pace till I get the lay of the land at New Place.  Stay tuned. . . .

Write On.

Today I will write about writing.

I like to write.  I started writing when I was in 7^th grade.  I was a HUGE Beatlemaniac and particularly a John Lennon fan.  He wrote a couple books of humorous essays and I quickly copied his style.  I doubt if they were any good (mine, not John's, his were great), I can't remember any of them, but I enjoyed it and my friends were amused.  The next thing I wrote was, for lack of a better term, a "porn" story.  Which was funny, considering I had no idea what I was writing about. (After all, I was only in 7th grade and, much like today, not sexually active.)  It got passed around a lot in class but, luckily, never made it to the authorities.  (Who probably would have just laughed at it and said, "She has no idea what she is writing about."  And then kicked me out of school.)  That ended my writing career for a while.

When my kids were little, I wrote a children's book and my best friend drew the illustrations.  I sent it to one publisher, who rejected it.  That discouraged me, so I gave up; cause that's how I roll.  (Hence, my lack of an acting career.)  I still have the book/illustrations and look at it every so often.  It ain't no "Where the Wild Things Are", but it's cute.

As much as I love to write, I find it intimidating.  Or maybe because I love to write so much, I find it intimidating.  I would love to write a play or short story or, dare I say it, a novel, but I'm afraid it won't be Pulitzer Prize winning quality, so why start?  Also, I have no idea what to write about, so there's that.  And I'm starting a new job.  And the sky is blue, etc., etc.

Actually, I'm kinda enjoying this whole blogging thing.  It's very stream of consciousness (Really?? We had no idea. . . .) and I enjoy that--impetuous, semi-senile, free spirit that I am.  It's a way of communicating with people without talking to them face-to-face, cause, frankly y'all scare the shit out of me.  (Not because you're ugly or anything, I'm just frightened of social contact, I don't do it well.  Really, it's not you, it's me.)  So, until blogging becomes blah, I'll just stick to that.  And thanks for reading.  I couldn't do it without you.  (Well, I could, but it wouldn't be any fun.)

Geeky Theatre Post #859

I love opening up a script for the first time and highlighting my lines.  It's like getting a big box of chocolates, helping yourself to the first few pieces and then looking forward to sharing it with your friends so you can all taste how delicious it is.  I feel obligated to mention that you are probably right now comparing my metaphor to Forest's mom's metaphor.  Fair enough.  She said, "Life is like a box of chocolates", and to me, theatre is life, so. . . . yeah.  I can't be original all the time, and this is my third day in a row to write my blog, so give me a break. 

In spite of the not-being-able-to-cry thing, I am a very emotional person and I think that theatre appeals to me because it is so very emotional.  Answering the phone for a living, whether at an accounting firm or a legal firm, will never somehow pack the same emotional wallop for me. . . go know.   But it looks like theatre will never pay the bills, so everything in its place.  I am very aware of how lucky I am to have both, please know that. 

Of course, it is not just the script that makes theatre a joy for me, it is the people involved.  With the exception of my amazing, wonderful, loving, smart, kind, funny and incredible children (I'm not too proud, or anything), I have no family.  That is related to me by blood, I mean.  But thank God I have my theatre family.  And I love each of them unconditionally and forever, even if I hardly and/or never get to see them.  But I really love it when I do to get see them.  Because they feed my soul.  And, in spite of my advanced years, my soul is hungry. 

Well. . . .I certainly seem to have gotten off topic here.  I would probably not get a good grade on this if I turned it in for English class, but, ha! ha!, Work Rules and School Drools, as the Bible tells us, and Debala is done with school (!!) and can now write as she pleases.  And she is now also very pleased to highlight her lines as she opens her script for the first time.  :)

I Gotta Lotta Nerve

Nerves.  I gotta million of them.  (So do you, I'm guessing.)  Right now, mine are very much on edge.  Meh.

I suppose it's the leaving of this job and the starting of the new job that is responsible for my Nervous Nellie Routine, but that just aggravates me and makes me even more nervous.  (There's that cycle thing again.)  When I was a kid Way Up North, we started school the Tuesday after Labor Day.  I absolutely dreaded the start of school, and was so nervous that every year for the entire month of August I couldn't eat anything but peaches.  Everything else made me sick.  I am not to the Peaches Point yet, but check with me again on Friday.  And I'll take a bushel of your finest Georgia, please.

I have tried a lot of things to calm me down, including blogging my butt off.  (It's going to be a full week, Dear Reader.)  I'm drinking tons of water, doing numerous breathing exercises (Thanks, Kathleen!), and talking myself down from ledges.  I *know* that being nervous is silly, unneccessary and detrimental, but I also *know* that *knowing* those things won't stop me from being nervous.  Maybe I should just go into a medically-induced coma till Monday morning.  I doubt if anyone would notice; it certainly wouldn't affect my current job performance. 

Anyroad, I expect this week I'll be pushing out blog entries like Michelle Duggar pushes out babies.  If they tend to get more manic as the week goes on, please forgive me.   (My blog entries, not the Baby Duggars.)  And hand me a peach.