The Autumn of Humanity

Autumn is a really weird word.  That's not at all what this post is going to be about, but as I typed the title, I couldn't help double guessing at the spelling (which I actually do for most words) and growing suspicious that spell check wasn't catching my mistake.  A-u-t-u-m-n?  So odd.  I'm going to have to remember that the next time I play Scrabble.  That's got to be worth a good chunk of change, while getting rid of a few 'u's.

NOT THE POINT.

So distractable.

This post is actually a condemnation of the autumnal phenomenon that has taken place for the past seven or so odd years.  It's what one of my friends has termed "the uniform".  We've all seen it.  Tween, teen, and not so teen girls and women galavanting around in their black leggings and hip-length zippy (usually North Face).  What's with that?  No.  Really.  Someone tell me why this is a thing.

Is it a status symbol?  "Look!  I'm not old enough to make my own money, but I am allowed to make my own wardrobe choices, so I'm going to choose these name brand things that everyone recognizes!"?  Because Lord knows a North Face fleece is not that visually pleasing.  The most that can be said for them is that sometimes they're brightly colored, and I've heard people say they're comfortable.

Is that what this is about?  Comfort?  I will always get on board for being comfy, but there are so many more interesting ways to do it.  THAT NOT EVERYONE ELSE IS WEARING.  You don't like jeans?  Neither do I!  I don't own a single pair of blue jeans, and yet I still manage to put something on the bottom half of my body that covers my butt, is comfortable, and is interesting.

I don't know why this bothers me so much.  It really shouldn't.  What does it matter what people are wearing?  It has absolutely no bearing on my life.  It's not hurting me, or anyone else, in any way.  But it's still THE WORST.

Maybe it's because I love clothes so much.  To me, clothes are a wonderfully functional way to express who you are as an individual on a daily basis.  There are so many different colors, patterns, fabrics, cuts, silhouettes, and combinations!  Clothes can make you feel happy, protected, sassy, sexy, playful, relaxed, confident, professional, fun, epic, fierce, festive, smart, sporty, or numerous other things.  I can't begrudge you if one day you wake up and say, "You know what?  What I really need today is to feel the comfortable safety of my favorite black leggings and my warm and comfy North Face.  Especially considering I'm just going to be hanging around the house."  Great.  Perfect.  Live your dream.  But don't tell me that that's how all those people feel everyday.

And, let's face it, we all make judgements based on how people dress.  We are a visual species.  I'm not saying all these judgements are negative or exclusive, but we form ideas about others based on what they're wearing.  I feel like it's poor communication if you aren't portraying who you ARE when you pick out your clothes.  WHO ARE YOU???  But I guess you're doing me a favor if you're dressing like that.  I'm probably not going to talk to you.

Also, pack mentality scares me, and when it's as obvious as seven girls dressed in all the same outfit, I get really uncomfortable.  Ha!  See!  It does have bearing on my life.  Scary teenager clones make me uncomfortable.  Are you really that afraid to stand out from your group of friends?  Why do you need so badly to belong?  Sure, you may eventually grow out of this phase, and maybe being an anonymous part of a group allows you the luxury of self introspection and growth without calling attention to yourself, BUT WHAT IF YOU DON'T?  These humans are only associating with other humans who think like themselves.  And have the means to buy these pricey items.  How are you going to gain perspective if you only hang out with the legging crowd?

Anyway.  I hope everyone is having a good fall thus far.  I've already had my requisite Pumpkin Spice Latte, so I'm feeling pretty good about things.  

 

The Party's Over

I would like to preface this post by stating that I love weddings.  I love my friends and family.  I love parties, giving gifts, celebrating joyful events, and the chance to get together with those who mean the most to me.  I love love.

But I HATE bridal showers.

I have reached that magical point in my life where I know people who are recently engaged, getting married, or at least talking about the prospect of marriage with their significant other.  And all of this sends me over the moon.  Really.  I'm not being sarcastic here.  There is nothing I want to see more than wonderful people deciding that they want to spend the rest of their lives with other wonderful people.  Sign me up, I am ready to ugly cry with joy at your ceremony and dance in that endearingly awkward, white girl way all night long.

I may be skipping out on your shower, though.

Why are they still a thing?  Does anyone else find them outdated?  I mean, there was a time when getting married meant that it was the first time you were moving out of your parents' house, and you didn't own anything of your own, so I guess that made a little more sense.  Maybe.  But there are still wedding presents.  Was it some kind of dowery situation?  As in, "Well, we're handing you over to this man now, who is going to be supporting you and any children you have for the rest of both of your lives, so the least you can do is show up with a few extra goodies to make him a pot roast with.  Plus, you have no idea what you're doing, so let us elder women tell you the facts of life while we dictate what kind of pots and pans you need to be a respectable lady."  Why?  WHY?!

I understand giving gifts at weddings.  It's an exciting event and a new chapter of your lives together, and it's nice to have things that belong to both of you.  But why do I, literally POOR little I, have to give you TWO gifts and take TWO days off of work when you are about to have a dual income household with someone who actually ENCOURAGES you to walk around without your pants on?  How is this fair?!?

Do I sound bitter?  It's because I am, although probably not for the reason you think.  I honestly don't care if I ever get married.  If someone gave me the choice between seeing all of my friends get married and having my own wedding, I would probably choose the former.  I was never that little girl with the secret wedding binder under her bed, and I'm not that big girl who has a secret wedding Pinterest board.  No.  I'm bitter because no matter what I achieve, it's never going to measure up to having some guy pop the question.

I graduated from college.  Twice.  I PAID for college.  Twice.  (Alright, one was mostly scholarships and I still have a few student loans, but you get the idea.)  No announcements, no gifts, no parties, so yeah, I'm a little bitter.  I can go through college, move across the country and back, have a really great job, but do you know what happens when I go to bridal showers?  Someone's great aunt Tess asks me if I'm single, and when I inevitably say yes, she pats my shoulder pityingly and tells me that I still have some time and that I'm cute enough to nab a man.

Excuse me, MA'AM, but I am MOTHERF*CKING adorable, but that's beside the point.  I am highly intelligent, witty, and compassionate, and luckily self-possessed enough not to punch old ladies in the face or have my self-worth defined by whether or not I have a man.  But I may burp my feminist rage in your general direction.  

Also, why no shower for the groom?  Because "Groomal Shower" sounds stupid?  And what about same-sex couples?  No shower for the gents and two showers for the ladies?  When my lesbian friends get married am I going to have buy separate gifts for separate showers?

I'm all for baby showers, though.  Baby stuff seems to be ridiculously expensive, and no one should be expected to purchase it all for themselves.      

A Chat With Elizabeth

So, February has basically been a flaming turd storm.

That being said, I've been spending a lot of time with my favorite human (me) and trying to give each of those poo nuggets a silver lining.  Easier said than done, my friends.  I am the high reigning empress of motivating pep talks, especially for myself, but at this point a Hall's cough drop wrapper is probably more inspirational.

During my free time this past month, I had decided to embark on a quest.  Not a journey of self-realization or spiritual peace.  Oh no.  The most pressing matter in my life had suddenly become finding Outrage!, the official Tower of London board game, which my dad and I had purchased on one of our British excursions.  PLEASE NOTE: I haven't played this game in years.  I haven't SEEN this game in years.  And why I have had a violently abrupt need to play this particular game is largely outside my understanding.

But I knew I could find it.  I HAD to find it.  It must exist somewhere within the confines of my parents' house!  Or so I though.  My parents made a fine effort in aiding me.  They asked me if I looked with all the other board games (I had), helped me sift through perilously packed trunks and chests, and basically poked around.  It was an ill-fated mission, though.  Mom confessed she didn't even remember the game, and if MOM doesn't know where it is, let alone WHAT it is...?

DOOMED!  That game might as well had never made it back to the States.

All of this is beside the point.

The POINT is that while I was tearing through every box in our attic and basement looking for that dratted game, I came across a veritable trove of childhood memorabilia.  There were even things completely unrelated to The Wizard of Oz.  Not a ton, but some.  (I don't think anyone will ever truly fathom the amount of Oz merchandise I own.)  There were elementary school projects and drawings, plus an assortment of half-forgotten toys.  As I was reading through the words written by my former self, marveling at the fact that no one thought it necessary to correct my backward "s's", I began to wonder what single digit Elizabeth would think about twenty-something Elizabeth.

So I decided to have a little chat with her.  You know, just to get a little perspective.  I know the number one rule of time travel is to never cross your own timeline (duh), but I figured I'd let it slide, just this once.

Let's say that Former Elizabeth (FE) is somewhere in the eight to ten range.

FE: Gah!  OUR HAIR!!!

Present Elizabeth: What?

FE: It's all long and red!  We go red?

PE: Yup.

FE: Like Queen Elizabeth I?

PE: Yup.  And the Weasleys.

FE: Who are the Weasleys?

PE: Oh... you'll find out.

FE: Can't you just tell me?

PE: No.

FE: PLEASE?

PE: NO.

FE: FINE.  And glasses?

PE: For a while now.

FE: Oh man!  Maybe Mom was right about reading in the dark so much.  And sitting really close to the TV.  Did you try eating carrots?  They make your eyes better.

PE: Um... I don't know if they can cure nearsightedness.  But yes.  Plenty of carrots.

FE: Do we still eat them like a corn on the cob?  Carrots have a core, you know!

PE: Oh, I know!  And of course!  Is there any other way to eat a carrot?

FE: So... are we living in Paris?  Tell me we live in Paris.  We're an artist, living in Paris, and we speak fluent French!  Say something in French!  Wait, how old are you?  Say it in French!

PE: I'm 27, but we don't live in Pari...

FE: YOU'RE 27?!?!? AHHH!!!  WHY ARE YOU SO OLD?  AND SHORT!  WE WERE SUPPOSED TO BE TALL!  YOU'RE GOING TO DIE SOOOOOOOOOOOON!

PE: I'm not going to die soon!

FE: You might!

PE: I guess that's true.

FE: Why don't we live in Paris?

PE: Because I decided I wanted to be an actor in London instead.

FE: OOOOO!  Are we in London?!  Why don't you have a funny accent?

PE: We're not in London.

FE: I'm confused.

PE: We're not in London, we're in Oak Park.

FE: But WHY aren't we in London?

PE: Because laws and money are a thing you're going to have to come to terms with.

FE: Ick.

PE: Tell me about it.

FE: So what DO we do?

PE: Currently?  Well, we get at job at Greenfield Village...

FE: WHAT?!?  Really?!?  That's where we work??  We actually do it?!  I've always wanted to work at Greenfield Village!  Yay!  I like you!

PE: Yeah!  It's super fun!  I get to sing and dance and...

FE: We don't dance.

PE: We learn to kind of dance.

FE: That's weird.

PE: Trust me, we had to try to learn to dance.

FE: But I like sports.

PE: I know, but we can make money by dancing, not by playing sports.  Because we're a girl.

FE: Girls still don't get professional sports?!?  That's not fair!  Stupid future.

PE: Super stupid.  So we learned to tap dance.  It was fun!

FE: No tutu?

PE: No tutu.

FE: Poofum.

PF: BAHAHAHAHAHAHA, I totally forgot we used to say that!

FE: So we make lots of money at Greenfield Village?

PE: Well... let's just say I have another job or two.

FE: Like what?

PE: I get to go into elementary schools and do assemblies about creative writing!

FE: You're an assembly person!?  Assemblies are the best!  Assemblies are only topped by field trips!  WHICH IS YOUR OTHER JOB.  You are living the best part of school EVERY DAY.  No one ever picks me for assemblies.

PE: Yes, but now WE get to do the picking!  HA!

FE: So... why don't you still live at home?  I mean, you live really close to home, why not AT home?  Home is nice!

PE: Uh... living here is better for everyone.  And Mom redid our room.

FE: NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!  How could she!  Nothing is ever supposed to change EVER!!!!!!!

PE: Want to see my room?

FE: Maybe...

PE: Come on!

FE: Oooo!  It's yellow!  Like our aura!  And you still have lots of Wizard of Oz stuff!  And Sara Doll! Why is she naked?

PE: Because I lost her clothes.

FE: We should be more careful.

PE: We really should.

FE: I love our bed.

PE: BED IS THE BEST.

FE: Do we still like cookies?

PE: COOKIES ARE THE BEST.

FE: Good.  You may be old, but at least you still know what's important.

PE: Gee.  Thanks.  Hey, did we always hate people, or is that a new thing?

FE: Remember how we used to tell Dad, "No questions!" in the morning?  Or that we used to pretend to be asleep at slumber parties because we didn't want to talk to anyone?  Or that we wonder why EVERYONE in class always has to make such poor decisions?

PE: Okay.  Not a new thing.

FE: So, anything else exciting?

PE: I'm auditioning for Disney!  And I'm thinking about moving to Washington, D.C. ...

FE: THOSE ARE MY TWO FAVORITE PLACES!  Do that!

PE:  Haha, okay.

And at the risk of running on forever (because I'm pretty sure I could), I think I'm going to stop there.  I think that Former Elizabeth would be totally geeked about my current life.  Sure, as we grow up we realize that life is more complicated and way harder/fulfilling than what we had anticipated.  I've been feeling very underwhelmed by my present state, but knowing that I've stayed pretty true to who I've always been feels really good.  I liked who I was as a kid, and I think Former Elizabeth wouldn't be too disgusted by who I have become and what road I'm on.

Here's to a better March.

Resolute

I was going to write about how I made it through all of last year without buying any clothes.  Except for socks and underwear.  Sometimes you need new socks and underwear.  That was my 2014 New Year's resolution, and I did it.  Good for me.

But, honestly, how much can be said about the fact that I have too many clothes, not enough money, and a modicum of will power.  There it is.  Blog complete.  Some will be impressed by ability to make it through the year, others will just shrug.  Huzzah!  A millennial was able to show some self control!  Mazel tov!  And so on.

What's really on my mind is what I will do with this coming year.  2015.  The year of Back to the Future II.  There was the classic flurry of resolutions and reflections on the Facebook as 2014 drew to a close, and I wondered where my aspirations would fit in.  There was plenty of "I'm going to love myself this year!" and "This is the year of me!".  "I'm going to finally start taking care of myself physically, emotionally, and mentally!"

NEWSFLASH:

Every year is the year of you.  What has everyone been doing for the past year?  It's beyond me.

I understand that my Facebook/social life (how unfortunate that those two things are so closely intertwined) has become a veritable avalanche of quarter-life crises and babies.  Mom problems, mixed with first world problems, mixed with life changing event problems.  And nobody really cares anymore.  We are all so bombarded with other people's problems that we realize that nobody is listening to our qualms and complaints.  Has it come to a point where our only option is to look to ourselves for comfort and care?  Won't that just mean that everyone keeps focusing on themselves and no one is going to receive the attention and love they need?  Should we all just learn to turn inward for support?  I can say from personal experience, this course of action can be highly effective and dangerously exhausting.

Of course everyone needs to focus on themselves at times.  There is nothing I support more than self-awareness and cultivating self-worth.

But you can't give up on the rest of the world in the process.  There has to be some balance.  And I will be the first to admit that balance is something I can't quite get the knack of.  The closest I get to balance is running from one extreme to the other, so that the average is somewhere in the middle.  So I'm going to throw out into the universe the idea of the dual resolution.  Make a pact with yourself to become a better you, by all means, get to know yourself this year.  But not at the expense of everyone else.  How much would you love for one of your friends to take an extra minute out of their day to genuinely ask how you're doing?  Be that friend.  How much would a call or text from an old colleague or classmate mean to you?  Make that connection.  How gratifying is it when a stranger pays you a sincere compliment?  Fun fact!  YOU can be that stranger.

This past year, I had another resolution.  It was called "Kind word Tuesdays".  I tried to send kind words to someone at least once a week.  I didn't always succeed, but I made an effort, and I think the recipients appreciated it.  Maybe we could make a few more resolutions like that?            

Good Morning

Some days you wake up and see your car is no longer in its parking spot.  

I mean.  

Some days you wake up, decide you can still sleep a little longer, wake up again, think about if you really need to take a shower, lie in bed for a while, thank the work scheduling gods that you don't have to go in 'till noon, contemplate what you're doing with your life and if it's time to play the allergy gambling game and get a cat, realize that's an idiotic idea and take your allergy medicine, congratulate yourself for keeping your allergy medicine next to your bed, squint at the clock, reposition yourself so the sun stops lancing you in the eye, wonder at what point you changed your pajamas in the middle of the night, roll over, check your Facebook on your phone, curse yourself for becoming someone who checks their Facebook on their phone before getting out of bed, calculate exactly how late you can abandon your bed and still get to work on time, count down the minutes until the time when you absolutely HAVE to get out of bed, slink out of bed, stumble to the bathroom, pee, shed all of your clothes, turn on the shower, realize you don't have your towel, rejoice that your roommate/cousin leaves for work hours before you, saunter to your room and back knowing no one will see you, get into the shower, lament that your $23.00 shampoo always seems to run out the same time as your money, do a little happy dance/Muppet arm routine because you don't have to shave anything until Thursday, wash with your Halloween themed soap that smells like childhood, remember to wash your face, be disgusted by the state of the shower curtain, but not enough to do anything about it in that moment, get out of the shower, dry off, wander downstairs to find clean underwear, put on said underwear, unearth your work clothes, objectively look at yourself in your borrowed pair of blue jeans and decide whether or not you should buy yourself a pair (you shouldn't), dry your bangs, wallow over how you no longer have time to make yourself an egg, tell yourself you're not really that hungry anyway, bully yourself into eating something because you know you won't get any tips if you pass out during your shift, make yourself a PB&J on a tortilla, guzzle down a glass of milk, go upstairs to get your phone, come back down, go upstairs to get your purse, come back down, go upstairs to get your glasses, almost go back down, grab your watch and your hair tie, go back down, ask yourself at least three times if you took your allergy medicine, puzzle over the fact that your mouth still tastes like slushy apple cider from the day before, hurry out the door, grabbing your keys, lock the door, telling yourself that no matter what, Tuesday is going to be better than Monday, turn and see your car is no longer in its parking spot. 

You find your car parked on the street, no ticket, no note.

Your cousin says he didn't move it.

You spend the rest of the day worrying you've started sleep driving.    

AWESOME

On February 14th, 2014, I spoke with my brother on the phone.  It went something like this:

Zac: I can't wait for my birthday.  I want to see what you write about me on your blog.

Me: (externally) What makes you think you're getting a blog post?

Me: (internally)  ARHHGAHHHH!!!!  ZAC WANTS ME TO WRITE HIM A BLOG POST!!!  HE LIKES MY BLOG!!!!  HE LIKES ME!!!!

So here I am, on his birthday, pondering what I'm going to write about him, the 30 years he's been alive, and the 26ish years he's been my brother.

Zac is a little bit of an enigma, and most of the people in my life don't know he exists.  Apparently I give off an only child kind of vibe.  He is a man of mystery shrouded in a cloud of secrets.  No one really knows what he's doing or where he is, and that suits him just fine.

I am not here to talk about that Zachary, though.  I'm going to talk about the brother I have hero-worshipped and hated, cared about and competed with for my entire life.

Zac and I are like Shrek and Donkey.  That is my go-to simile, and I am sticking to it.  (I know that it doesn't shed my parents in a good light, saying they raised an ogre and an ass, but stay with me here.)  Most of my early years consisted of me following him around, singing, while he found me profoundly annoying, but still loved me.  I hope.  He's also large and scary looking, but that's beside the point.

Let it be known, Zac is awesome, and that's the post I'm going to write.  Zac, I know you're going to read this, so now I'm just going to address it to you.

YOU ARE AWESOME.  But you already know that.  Between the two of us, there is an obscene amount of self-confidence, and I like to think that I partly got that from you.  You wore whatever you wanted (the flame shirt), you rocked way cooler glasses than me (I'm catching up), and you have always owned your nerd-dom (thank you for my Star Wars education).  Whether you know it or not, whether you like it or not, you at least partially paved the way for my eccentricities and the ability to feel good about my weirdness.

Ugh.  I have so many thoughts, and I have no idea how I want to format this.  I'm completely over thinking how I want to present you.

Hokay.  Remember that time we were at Camp and (apparently) one of the campers said something that besmirched my honor, so you took all of his belongings from his bunk, piled them on the deck of his cabin, encased them in plastic wrap, tin foil, and duct tape, and then wrote on what looked like a giant left-over in ketchup?  Yeah.  That was awesome and probably the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.

I love it when you get all big-brothery on me, even though it's rare.  Like when you came to Portland and declared that you were either going to buy me pepper spray or a two-by-four with a nail in the end.  I feel the pepper spray was a good choice.

Also, I'm pretty sure the best thing that has ever happened to us was me finally turning 21.  When it comes to drinking, you somehow manage to simultaneously be Yoda and Spartacus.  It's really impressive.  You have taught me the joys of a well crafted cocktail, and shown me that a person can drink at the Michigan Beer fest all day, take a power nap, and then party it up most of the night at Cliff Bells.

You know what it was like to grow up in 1825 Dorothea, and be raised by Jim and Debbie.  You know the tragedy of sharing that bathroom between four people.  You understand.

And when we both realized we liked Eddie Izzard?  Completely independently of each other?  That was a great sibling moment.

I think it's awesome that you can pick up and go somewhere new.  You're awesome for being one of the smartest people I know and not becoming a doctor or an engineer just because you could.  You're awesome for always chasing your happiness.  You work harder (and play harder) than anyone I know.

You're hilarious.

I want to hang out with you all the time in New Orleans.

Yes, we didn't/don't always get along.  Yes, you will always wonder why I don't eat more meat and I will wonder why you don't eat more veggies.  Yes, I resented you at times for being older, for being the boy.  But I've also felt honored to learn from your mistakes, to have the luck of having you to look up to.

Happy Birthday.

The Great Debate

Recently, the subject has been broached about whether or not glow stars are "adult appropriate".

Glow stars.  You know the ones.  They're plastic.  They glow.  THEY.  ARE.  AWESOME.

So, you may understand my confusion when two of my loved ones, on separate occasions, related to me their love of glow stars, but their hesitancy to adorn their personal spaces with them because they "Didn't want anyone to see them" or "They didn't go with the 'clean, modern look' they were striving for."

I'm going to approach these two statements separately.

Why would you put up glow stars if you didn't want people to see them?  Why wouldn't you want people to see your glow stars?  Why would you let anyone into your dark bedroom if they are the kind of human who would judge a person for having glow stars?  If nothing else, your glow stars could serve as a litmus test for the people you have in your life.  Say someone comes into your room and declares your glow stars to be juvenile, they have officially revealed him or herself as lame/uninteresting/completely lacking in the joie de vivre department.  You can then proceed to kick them out and be better for it.  On the flip side, if said person enters your living quarters and exclaims with verve how much they love your glow stars… well, wouldn't you rather spend time with that person?  Yeah.  Me, too.

On to the second opposition to glow stars.  "They don't go with the decor, or the 'feel', I'm going for."  Let me clear something up.  The point of glow stars is that they glow.  Which means you notice/enjoy them when the lights are OFF.  Do you know how much "decor" you can see when the lights are off?  Not much.  Sure, if you stick the stars on a wall that's painted any color besides white, you'll see the stars in the daylight, but if that's an issue, just go with the traditional ceiling placement.  If you have a ceiling that is painted a non-traditional color, that's awesome and your awesome room probably needs some glow stars.  And again, how many people are really going to be in your bedroom?  (Don't answer that.)

I think what I'm trying to get at here is that your bedroom is your space.  (Unless you're married/living with your significant other, but maybe they secretly want glow stars, too, and are afraid to tell you!)  Why would you let the opinions of other dissuade you from adorning your walls or ceiling with exactly what you want?  Come on, this is your sanctuary.  This is where you go to relax, recoup, reenergize, or just get away from it all.  Do glow stars make you happy?  Do they fill you with a sense of peace and wonder as you drift off to sleep?  

Maybe there is a little voice in your head that is telling you, "Don't do it.  You liked glow stars when you were a kid.  Obviously, you're an adult now.  Adults aren't supposed to like glow stars.  Grow up, already.  Come to Grown-Uptopia, land of sophistication and happily ever afters."

LIES.

Do me a favor, kill that tiny, heinous, fibbing voice.  That voice is the source of great misery.  What makes you think that just because you liked something when you were six, or nine, or 18 (you know you had glow stars in your dorm room) that you are forbidden to like it anymore.  Do you trust the judgment of bitty you so little?  I had great taste as a child.  I liked The Wizard of Oz, going to the DIA, and eating Mom's homemade cookies.  Guess what I still like.  That's right.  The Wizard of Oz, going to the DIA, and eating Mom's homemade cookies.  Sure, my taste has evolved and broadened.  For example, I now order food other than chicken fingers and mashed potatoes when I go out to eat.  But that doesn't mean I throw out things from my childhood.  Or try to make myself/my surroundings more "adult" because I am firmly ensconced in my mid-twenties.  Where's the fun in that?

Honestly, I think people should stop trying to be adult, and focus more on being effective human beings.  Do glow stars keep you from being an adult?  Probably.  But they don't keep you from holding down a job, being fiscally responsible, paying your taxes and your insurance, dealing with that crappy co-worker/client in a professional manner, calling your family, or being there for your friends when they need you.  In fact, glow stars make all those things a little easier.            

If I Only Had a Heart

There are a couple of different issues I want to address this St. Valentine's Day, all of which have to do with love.  Now, I'm not talking about romantic "in love" love.  That's a whole other beast that turns sane people into crazy ones and, if left unrequited, can tear a person apart.  On the flip side, it can be wonderful.  So I hear.  As I said, though, that's not the love I'm talking about here.  I'm talking about a more universal kind of love.

Today, on a day devoted to romance and being with the "one", I would like to make my case for love.

We need to take love off its pedestal.  A very thoughtful human once told me that.  It was a couple of years ago, and I don't know if he remembers saying it, but that concept has stuck with me.  We think that love is some limited commodity that is so exceptional that we must only dip into it for the very few.  That if we love too much or too many it somehow cheapens our love, makes it common in the worst way.  Which is idiotic.  Who came up with that idea?  Love doesn't "run out".  Love should be common.  That doesn't make it any less spectacular.

Also, by lifting love to such an elevated level, you have all of a sudden made love scary and/or creepy. Um… last time I checked, that's not what love is about.  If we make loving such a big deal, it's going to freak people out.  Again, not talking about romantic love.  That should scare you a little.  But the kind of love that links you to your family or friends should not be uncomfortable.  Loving the person sitting across from you on the bus solely because they are your fellow human being should not be weird.  We need to bring love down to our level.  Love should live among, not above, the masses.  

I think part of it has to do with people's view of themselves, and part of it has to do with the perceived pressures of attention.  Self-esteem is a tricky thing, and I don't have time to deal with the intricacies of the human psyche and how society has told us we are all unworthy.  It's time to get over it.  You are worthy of love, and you are loved.

You know what bothers me the most?  People who get picky about the type of love with which they are bestowed.  The ones who get mopey on Valentine's Day because they haven't found an individual who puts them first, and who they can put first in their lives.  What kind of signal does that give to all the people who do love you?  That the love of your friends and family isn't good enough?  Rude.  So you want to get married some day, or heck, go on a date.  Maybe if you embrace the love you already have it will make you a more attractive, lovable person for when someone "special" shows up.  And in the mean time, you'll be happier.  Just saying.

On to the unnecessary pressure people associate with love, whether it be physical, emotional, or otherwise.  Yes, most of the people I interact with are in the point in their lives where they are trying to find someone to "be" with.  Whatever that means.  Can we all just ease up on the pressure?  Please?  I'm talking to you.  All of you.  Parents, friends, random guy at the bar.  Chill out.  Stop making love such a serious business.  Love makes you happy, it shouldn't give you an eye twitch.  Moving on.

Next mini-rant.  Can we all agree that "friend" is a legitimate, healthy, loving relationship option?  Nothing makes my skin crawl more than having to explain that I am "just" friends with someone.  Talk about cheapening something.  It truly pisses me off.  Mom, Dad, I know you want me to be happy, which for some reason translates to "married", but having to qualify every interaction I have with a male as "just friends" or "gay" is quite irksome.  This goes for all of my (female/gay) friends, as well.  Just because most of you don't believe in a girl and a guy being honestly "just friends" doesn't mean I'm hiding my feelings from you/myself.  I enjoy spending time with straight males.  In a non-sexual, non-romantic way.  And I love them.  Because they are my friends.  So… stop.  I promise I'll tell you if I'm dating someone.  Just don't hold your breath.

I do, though.  I love my friends.  I think about them, I'm happy for their happiness, and I worry about them when something is amiss.  Isn't that love?  I love random people on the street.  I love popsicles and The Wizard of Oz.  I love snow and my family and hockey.  I love lots of things.  I think it's too bad that people are stingy with their love, or think "love" only applies to relationships that could eventually lead to an "I do".  Or that people don't express their love in fear that it will freak out the person on the receiving end.

So maybe this Valentine's Day we can take love off its pedestal and start reveling in the love around us.  Instead of focusing on the love you don't have this February 14th, you can embrace the love you do have.  Make today about your friends and family, or even someone you just bumped into.  Tell a friend you were thinking about them today, tell a friend you love them.

And then listen to the Muppets station on Pandora.  Muppets = Love.      

 

The Breakup

Portland and I broke up.

We're going to need a little space, a little time, but I think it's safe to say that we are still going to be friends.  I know that most of you have known about the end of this relationship for a while, but I'm now ready to make a more public statement about what happened.

It was a whirlwind relationship, I must admit.  We didn't really know each other before I dived into the commitment, but I wanted to take a risk.  Embrace a challenge.  It seemed like a good fit.  There was plenty of internet stalking involved, and many of my friends vouched for what an awesome pair we would be.  (Side note:  I'm going to have some strong words with anyone who ever told me I'm "SO Portland".)

And we should have been awesome.  On paper, everything seemed right.  Great theatre community, low cost of living, high minimum wage, stellar mass transit system, and blue state status.  You have nature and a giant book store.  A bar that is filled with old arcade games and pinball machines.  And the beer.  UGH.  The beer.  It seemed like a match made in heaven.  Portland loves to recycle?!  I love to recycle!!!  That was basically the thought process.  So I moved.  Blind.  I visited once to make sure the apartment I was moving into wasn't a hell hole.  It wasn't.  It was the most magical green apartment of all time.

Of course I knew things were going to be rocky at the beginning.  Transitioning is no easy feat.  But eventually I hit my stride and the honeymoon phase.  I had jobs, I was being cast in shows, I was capable of both paying my rent and feeding myself!  I even convinced a loved one to also move to Portland.  Life was good.

But then I realized that I didn't want life to be good.  I wanted life to be great.  And Portland and I, sadly, were never going to be a great match.  I'm not saying that my life needs to be perfect, and I'm not saying that I was unhappy in Portland.  It's pretty safe to say that I can will myself to be happy almost anywhere.  Therein lies the problem, though.  I was willing myself to be happy.  Sure, life isn't going to be sunshine and rainbows 24/7.  That's unnatural.  But so was the amount of energy I was putting into being happy.  It took a Disney Cruise to remind me my full capacity for happiness and how little of the right things it takes to bring me obscene amounts of joy.  Choosing to be happy in Portland had turned into a full time job.

At this point you may be wondering what exactly made being happy in Portland so dang difficult.  We've all read the blogs.  It's common knowledge that Portland is supposed to be the most desirable place in the country to live, especially for my age bracket.  More people moved to Oregon last year than to any other state.  According to my Facebook, Buzzfeed is telling 8 out of 10 people that the city they should be living in is Portland.  One man posted in his travel blog that if you're going to visit Portland, bring all of your possessions, because you're not going to want to leave.  Guess what.  I left.  I moved back to Detroit.  Take that, bloggers!

For a while, I was too bitter with the separation to pinpoint or explain logical reasons for my departure.  "Portland is secretly lame" does not shed me in a particularly flattering light.  So I've given it some time and some thought, and I'm here to share some things that you may not read on the "Top 10 Cities to Live In" lists.  Yes, most of these items have more to do with me and my personality, but I hope you find them interesting none the less.

Guys… Portland is really white.  Yes, I am well aware that I am also very white.  And I didn't think that this lack of diversity was going to bother me.  Well, it did.  It may not be the whitest place in America, but for a city, the demographics seem really off.  You may not notice it at first, but give it some time, and it just feels wrong.

This leads to my next point.  The general population is incredibly fixated on being politically correct.  So when they do encounter diversity, things get awkward quite quickly.  It's as though people want to prove that they are the apex of all things liberal and openminded, so they end up walking on eggshells.  I swear people would break out into a sweat if they were around a black person because they were afraid they would say or do something that could be perceived (by their white, liberal friends) as racist.  And this ended up extending beyond race.  Everyone is incredibly polite in Portland.  Because that is the "correct" thing to do.  Of course we should all be polite, but when it's coming from a place of, "Ha.  I'm nice to everyone and never discriminate.  I'm proving what an emotionally and intellectually superior human I am," it's not cool.  It actually comes off as kind of cold.  What happened to, "Hey, I'm going to be nice!  Because it's nice!"?

Next, I found Portland to be incredibly narrow minded.  This may cause outrage, considering that the city is all about being weird and doing your own thing, but I found that if your "own thing" did not fit into their construct of what was "right" you were shunned.  So, a man walking down the street in a lobster costume for no reason?  No big deal.  Saying you enjoy baseball and hockey?  JUDGEMENT!  How is that a better way to live than if the tables were turned?  Just because you only accept liberal, weird things does not make you an accepting person.

Moving on.

There wasn't enough joy.  People seemed to have a hard time letting themselves be happy.  I know bad things are happening in the world, but that doesn't mean you can't enjoy your locally sourced meal.  

"UGH!  It's 80º out with 2% humidity in AUGUST!  I'm going to MELT!"  Let me take you to Michigan.  "AGH!  It's 35º in JANUARY!  I thought I saw a snowflake!  I can't be expected to be productive in these conditions!"  No.  Really.  Let me take you to Michigan.  Actual conversations.

Now that I'm going, I feel like this post could stretch on forever.  I should probably stop while I still can.  The last things I'm going to add are:

Yes, there is a completely different vibe on the West Coast, and that vibe is not for everyone… or me.

They say Portland has big city amenities with a small town feeling.  It's true.  And if I'm going to live in a big city, I want it to feel like a big city.  Portland doesn't feel like a big city because it isn't.

Hipsters are getting their own post.

Portlandia is no longer funny when you are forced to live it.  EVERY.  SINGLE.  DAY.              

Today I Wept for Humanity

I'm not trying to be poetic or use some sort of metaphor.   I walked down the street and CRIED.

Because apparently it is not enough that there is war and murder and oppression and starvation and the flagrant misuse of the word "ironic".  No.  Those are the things that always seem to be there.  The things of which we all conscious on some level, but have become more of an ache than a sharp pain.  Tragedies that have not lost their horror or scope, yet no longer surprise us, as horrible as that sounds.  And sometimes we are able to forget.  We have to forget.  We have to put aside the overwhelming catastrophes that humans inflict on each other so that we don't go mad.  So that we can still enjoy our small pieces of paradise.  So that we can watch a little girl in her funny winter hat skateboard down the sidewalk and still smile.  I am not dismissing all the things that people all over the world are suffering this very second at the hands of their fellow species.  Those actions can never, and should never, be brushed aside.  I'm fighting for the idea that we must all cling on to the good.  Fight for the smiles as hard as we fight against the hate.

And what has unhinged me so?  What set forth this tirade?  It was the silliest, simplest, saddest little thing.  A Salvation Army collector has materialized outside the entrance of my grocery.  With his red bucket and ever-ringing bell.  Now, I do not always give to people collecting money.  I believe very few people have the means to ALWAYS give, but I told myself that if I had change left over when I came out, that I would drop it in.  Shopping commenced, jelled cranberries were bought, and all was merry and bright.  As I made my exit, I slowed and reached into my pocket for the change I had dedicated to that red bucket and bell.  I was not the only one exiting, though.  There was also an older gentleman (I use the term "gentleman" quite loosely here) with a truly inordinate amount of toilet paper also making his departure.  As he rushed by, I heard him snark, "Ugh!  Out here already?!  It's not even Thanksgiving!"

I had a short exchange with the man collecting money about this Grinch, dropped in my changed, wished him a happy Thanksgiving, and went along my way to ponder humanity as I walked my groceries home.  I don't know why, but the man's comment really cut at me.  Sure, people kvetch about Christmas music, decorations, and hype bombarding them the second Halloween is done.  This humbuginess doesn't really bother me.  These people are entitled to their harmless, be it misguided opinions.  (Really people.  Christmas is wonderful, why wouldn't you want to prolong it?)  But complaining that an organization has started to collect money to help people "too early"?  How can it be "too early" to help?  I know some people have some very strong opinions about how helpful Salvation Army really is (and that IS a very valid opinion), but that's not my point right now.  My point is that there was a human being giving his time and energy in an attempt to make the world a better place, and he was met with angry words from another human being because something associated with Christmas was put into his path three days before Thanksgiving.

Now, I've never done a study on collecting for charity.  I don't know if extending exposure during the holiday season ends up in the collection of more money, or if people get angry and fed up, and therefore donate less.  The statistics part of me really wants to know, but the rest of me wants to believe the best in people.  That having collectors out there starting earlier brings in more money, and helps more people.  Again, not the point.  The point is that this man could not just walk by, saying nothing.

It was too much.

As though there is a time limit, a finite window of opportunity when people are allowed to be charitable, and it only comes after we have all stuffed our faces with turkey.  And jelled cranberries.  As though that man ringing his bell is as annoying as the Hippopotamus Song on November 1st or seeing Christmas lights displayed next to Halloween candy.

Here's the thing.  I love Christmas.  And of course I adore the music and the decorations (and cookies!), but it's more about the feeling of it.  The giving.  The joy.  The smiles.  The love.  So when people attack or grumble about the artificial trappings of Christmas, I don't get too fussed about it.  Because I still get to listen to my tunes and eat my cookies.  It's when someone is frustrated by the deeper meaning of the season that I get worried.  Not necessarily the Christian significance of the holiday, more how this time of year should remind humanity of its better nature.  Remind humanity to care and to smile.  And this man was having none of it.

So I wept.

Today is Brought to You by the Letter "D"

I enjoy many things that begin with the letter "D".  Debbie Fritsch (that's my mom… hi, Mom!), Disney, dairy, Dchristmas… you get the idea.

But today is November 12th, which means I am going to talk about one "D" word in particular.  My dad.  Because November 12 is the birthday of James Patrick Fritsch!  Huzzah and glad tidings.

Now, my dad and I have a very special relationship.  And I mean special.  I'm pretty sure that if anyone monitored our Face Time conversations, they would be forced to institutionalize us.  At least we think we're funny.

Together, though, Dad and I are grand adventurers.  We have taken on London and Paris.  Our road trips across America are the things of legend.  Wanderlust is kind of what we do.  Looking back, though, there is probably one city where most of my fondest memories are set, especially those involving Dad.  And that city also begins with the letter "D".

And that's Duluth, Minnesota.

NO!  It's Detroit.  Duh.

Since moving away from Michigan, I have spent the last ten months telling people that I'm from Detroit and getting the response, "Well, that's a good place to move from."  And this statement would awake in me a truly unholy ball of rage and indignation that would convince most passersby that I am actually a redhead.  At first, my responses were a well-crafted succession of stuttering syllables, which sounded mostly like: N-no!  Detroit is.. well, yeah, we have some issues, b-but, you know it's actually really…  I mean… HOCKEY!!

Eloquent.  I know.

Since then, I have started to refine my tactics.  I now look the naysayer straight in the eye and ask them if they've ever BEEN to Detroit.  Most say no, and then I, with a stab at calmness and civility, explain to them the myriad museums, restaurants, clubs, venues, festivals, and markets that can be found in Detroit.  Some listen, and some are confused as to how it is legal to serve food in a burned out building.   Apparently some believe that there is NOTHING LEFT in Detroit.

After I started being articulate again, I began to wonder why I was so passionate about Detroit, and even it was legit for me to say I'm "from" Detroit.  I have never lived in Detroit, but I have definitely lived in Detroit.  There have been plenty of holidays, birthdays, and just because days spent in the Motor City.  I believe I have put in my time, and most of those hours were logged with Dad.

I think I get upset when people dump on Detroit because it feels like they are pissing all over some of my favorite memories and experiences.  Hey.  DON'T piss on my memories.  I like them.  It's as though they don't believe anything good can happen in Detroit, so it follows that most of my good times were not actually that great.  Skewed logic, you say?  Well, that's the way my mind works.  Wah wah.  And my memories are awesome.  Like me.  And my Dad.

So… do you know what it's like to wander around the Detroit Institute of Arts as a kid?  This was probably my Dad and my number one hang out.  The mummies, the suits of armor, the van Goghs, the Rivera murals, and rainbow hallway that lead to the food court.  There is this one spiral staircase that is still my favorite part of the entire museum, and Dad knew that no trip was ever complete until I went either up or down that staircase.  Well, he probably didn't know, but I reminded him.

Next up, Tiger Stadium.  Guys, I knew Tiger Stadium.  We were tight.  I had journeyed both into the men's bathroom (there was a trough) and onto the roof.  I had it perfectly timed out that I only had to pee when a major play was about to take place.  Dad loved it.  My talents are truly limitless.  To me, a trip to Tiger Stadium was all about trying to catch a fly ball, attempting to get a autograph from Cecil Fielder, and running up and down the GIANT ramp.  Not winning.  This was the 90's.  The Tigers were not winning.

When someone starts in with me about Detroit I wish I could open my skull and telepathically relay my experiences.  Like how I felt as an eight year old, when my dad took me to see my first professional show.  It was the first national tour of Beauty and the Beast, I wore a dress with roses all over it, and it played at the Masonic Temple.  It was beautiful.  Or know the excitement of watching your dad crossing the finish line at the end of the Detroit marathon.  Or spending your 16th birthday at a Red Wing's game.  Or getting dressed up to watch the Joffrey Ballet at the Opera House.  (Dad's response to ballet:  I like it.  Nobody talks.)

I could keep going.  I could talk about spending the day at work with Dad downtown.  I could talk about the Detroit Historical Museum, or the Verlander no-hitter at Comerica Park.  And I know Detroit is messed up.  And yes, I have stories of coming back to the car after a baseball game to find out the car has been broken into.  But honestly, the girl who does my hair just got her car stolen from outside her house.  She lives in a cute little suburb in Washington state.

So on this November 12th, I want everyone to know that I'm missing Dad and missing Detroit, and woe betide the next human who tries to tell me that Detroit is just not worth… well, anything.  Because I associate Detroit with Dad, and you don't want to get in that fight with me.  

Public Service Announcement

Look.  I don't like to be touched.  I never have.  Just ask my Aunt Lisa.  She was always so disappointed that I wasn't a cute and cuddly child.  Cute, yes, just not cuddly.

Before you ask, my parents did not abuse me, nor did anyone else.  This was something I was asked fairly frequently throughout high school, because I didn't want anyone in my bubble.  I have wonderful parents who hugged me, and nothing sinister in my past, just a very defined sense of personal space.  And I'm pretty good about warning new people about my tendency to freak out if they invade said space...

SO DON'T.  I do let people I feel comfortable with give me hugs or touch my hair, and if I don't, it doesn't mean that I hate you.  I have very close family and friends who giving a hug is a very awkward and claustrophobic event for me.  And if I give someone else a hug in front of you, that does not give everyone within that square mile permission to come up and embrace me as well.  When did it become a social insult to deny someone physical contact?  Sure, I'm on the more extreme end, but IT IS MY RIGHT TO DENY ANYONE A HUG.  Overreacting you say?  Probably, but if you want to hug me that badly, I would hope that you are my friend and would therefore respect my wishes.

And I'll admit, it's pretty arbitrary.  I don't have a formula for who I will and will not hug/let hug me.  But pressing me about it does not move you up on my list.  Give me a high five.  I love high fives.  Get to know me.  Ask permission before SWOOPING DOWN ON ME OR LAYING HANDS ON ME IN ANY WAY.  I don't care how innocent or how pure your intentions are.  Asking permission first at least gives me some warning.  Because I have a tendency to flail and/or hit.  Which is very amusing for any bystanders, but not very amusing for YOU.  It also shows that you acknowledge my weirdness and are trying to work with it.

You know what else?  I'm not just talking about straight boys, here.  EVERYONE.  Surprised?  Maybe you thought that this was some sort of vendetta against those awkward boys who can't take social cues. Well, it's not.  Guess what?  Over the years, most of my closest friends who I hug the most have been awkward straight boys.  Gasp!  Shock!  Awe!  Yeah, stick that in your overly judgmental pipe and smoke it.

How does this work in theatre?  It's kind of dodgy.  I've definitely gotten better, and I'm usually fortunate enough to work with people for whom I have respect and who seem to respect me, and we work it out.  But sometimes I'm all, "I don't know you!  Why are you hugging me?  Because we're theatre people?  I'm sorry, I didn't know that my BFA was an open invitation to have strangers attack." Yes, most theatre people are very touchy-feely, and I'm kind of the odd one out, but that doesn't mean that I don't get to dictate what makes me uncomfortable.

And there are points where I cross the threshold.  One day I may not hug you, the next day, hugs galore (within reason).  It's just how I operate.

That is all.

August is Like Ohio

On July 31st I was overcome with great joy because it was Harry Potter's birthday.

That joy was quickly smothered by panic.  Panic that the following day was August 1st.  I hate August.  I seem to hate a lot of things.  But that's because people seem to like to hear about the things I hate, so I continue to write about them.  It's all YOUR fault I have so much hatred.

Anyway.  August.  August is that month of weird limbo.  July is great because it is the midst of summer; it always seems like you have all the time in the world to swim, bask in the sun, and barbecue.  If you are the kind of person to swim and bask and barbecue.  For me, summer was almost always that precious break from school, where I was allowed to read whatever I wanted.  Augusts hits and then BAM! only one month left to do all of those summer things!  Sure, it's still an entire month, but behind every August outing is a sense of urgency.  All of a sudden, the summer check list seems impossibly long and you know you're never going to get it all done before September.

Of course, this feeling stems from the idea that one is going back to school in September, which I am not.  But I always forget that.  It's just so engrained in my psyche.  September = School.  Which is amazing.  I wish I were still going back to school, but I'm also so happy that I don't have to do homework (because I did do my homework every so often).

Honestly?  I'm not actually a huge fan of summer.  June?  Lovely.  July?  Fine.  August?  I'm over it.  August is what stands in between my waning tolerance of heat and sun and that most perfect of seasons: autumn.  By the time August hits, all I want is to wear tights and jackets and scarves, pick apples, and gorge myself on a profane amount of absurdly pumpkin flavored goodies.  August is like Ohio at the end of your family road trip back from Florida.  Yes, the vacation and sun are over, but you're not quite home free.  You have to schlep through a state that does not look that intimidating on the map, but feels like an eternity while driving through it.  And it offers NOTHING.

That's a lie.  There are some good things in Ohio.  You know, Cedar Point and Tony Paco's.  But at this point, you're not looking to enjoy your time in Ohio, you're looking to get back to Michigan.  That's how I feel about August.  Yes, it has some merits, it can still be enjoyed, but really, I just want to get to September.  I don't want to wear sunblock anymore.  I don't want to continue to drive past flat fields and colleges.  I want fall.  I want Michigan.

So close.  

RAGE

SO MUCH RAGE.

THE FRUIT FLIES.

Why are there fruit flies?  Really, what purpose do they server for the greater good?  I mean, you could ask the same thing about me, but I feel like I bring some sort of joy to people's lives.  Fruit flies bring joy to no one.  Only rage.

I would say that the fruit flies have inspired me to keep up on my dishes.  Yes, this is a good thing.  Now I always clean, or at least rinse, my dishes immediately after I have enjoyed my delicious fare.  The purpose of fruit flies is to make sure dishes are clean?  I would definitely hop on board with that... EXCEPT THERE ARE STILL FRUIT FLIES.  EVERYWHERE.  I don't get it.  Where do they come from?!?  And so quickly.  I think that's the part I don't get.  One day, no fruit flies.  The next day, ZILLIONS OF FRUIT FLIES.  You can tell I'm full of rage because I'm using so many capital letters.  You know what I don't say nearly enough?  "That's capital!"  You know, as an exclamation.  "What a capital idea!"  I think I'm going to integrate that into my daily vocabulary.  You know what isn't capital?  The fruit flies infestation of my apartment.

The thing is, fruit flies have great taste.  I say it's great because they have the same taste as me.  They love fruit (duh) like me, and coffee, and peanut butter, and all sorts of natural tasty things.  They're not going after highly processed food, and neither am I.  Why am I being punished for enjoying bananas and cherries?  I'm eating fresh, natural foods, why am I being sent a plague?!  And it's not like I'm leaving banana peel out and about, I put them in a sealed beg!  Ugh.

And you know what else?  My apartment used to smell like Lush and pancakes and sunshine.  It smelled like paradise every time I walked in the door.  But now it smells like apple cider vinegar and hate and dying fruit flies.  Because that is supposed to be one of the most effective ways to kill the little buggers.  Apple cider vinegar in a little dish.  Not the worst smell in the world, but still nothing compared to sunshine.  Also, there is a tiny fruit fly grave yard on top of my toaster over.  Ich.

I have to admit, though, I do feel pretty badass whenever I kill one.  Not by drowning, but because of mad ninja skills.  There are very few things as satisfying as clapping your hands in midair and actually squashing one of those little brutes.  Sometimes I still yell out, "I am Obama!" whenever I manage to get one.  Everyone remembers when that happened, right?  Obama killed a fly with his bare hands on television.  It was pretty epic.  And that's how I feel when I get a fruit fly.  Epic.  I even have one completely flattened on an index card.  It is a warning to the others.

The worst thing about the fruit flies?  When they land on me at night.  Once it happens, all I can feel are the fruit flies crawling all over me.

That Stupid Puppet

You know what crazy about acting?  You fall in love/hate/like/friendship and every other sort of emotion with people on stage in the course of an hour and forty-five minutes.

I think that's one of the reasons I really like acting.  I'm not a big "let's be emotionally bonded" type of person, but I can get little dollops of human connection while I'm acting, walking away from the whole experience safe and sound.  Want to hear something weird?  I fall in love with a stupid blonde puppet.  It is the most ridiculous looking thing in the world -- an inanimate object.  And I, also the extension of a puppet (though mine is brown and furry), fall head over heels for the thing.

For the course of the show, I barely look at the actor who has his hand up that puppet.  Eye contact is made with two googly eyes.  And yet, I am over the moon when he hands me a mixed CD, pissed off when I realize that "Fat-Bottomed Girls" was included on said CD, giddy about going on a date, jealous of the slutty puppet, ecstatic when he wants to be my boyfriend, and crushed when he breaks up with me.  IT'S A PUPPET.  (Does anyone else hold down the shift when writing in all caps, or does pretty much everyone hit the caps lock?  I always forget it's there.)  

But what does that say about the human mind?  To what level can we delude ourselves?  What is it that clicks on or off which allows a person to feel these feeling for a bit of fleece with hair?  And it can't just be me.  I mean, even if the other actors on stage aren't getting all mushy for my puppet, the audience is. Most of the audience members love the puppets.  And, let's be real now, EVERYONE loves the Muppets.  I read in the amazing book my amazing friend sent me about Avenue Q, and in a documentary about Elmo, that Muppet-esque puppets are so great because so many people can relate to them.  When they are funny colors and furry, no one is excluded.  When a puppet is green or blue or orange, it can be any race.  I think that is such a brilliantly simple concept.  Is that why it is so easy to connect to and relate with the puppets?  Are we seeing ourselves and others when we watch these shows?   

Another thing.  My mom, after seeing a photo of my puppet, told me that Kate Monster wasn't very attractive.  I think Kate is amazing and super cute.  In the aforementioned book, the creators of Avenue Q said that Kate Monster had body/self-image issues.  This was something I never associated with her character before, but like I said, I think Kate is great.  And here's a little quote from a local man's blog about her, "And who wouldn't fall in love with Fritsch's Kate, someone you want to wrap your arms around and keep from harm?"  I (usually) hate hugs.  Kate seems to need them. 

Acting is crazy.  Puppets are crazy. 

Glasses

I hate fake glasses.  I hate them.  Hate hate HATE.  Hate is a strong word, you say?  Good.  Because this feeling of dislike I have is a whopper.

Now, I've debated with myself whether or not I have a right to hate on fake glasses and the people who wear them.  (I guess I don't really hate the people who wear fake glasses, that's a bit unfair, but I definitely don't trust them.)  They can technically be considered an accessory, I suppose.  It's like wearing a belt when you don't actually need one, right?  Sure, when I'm wearing a belt with a pair or jeans or trousers, it's because they will fall down otherwise, but sometimes I wear a belt with a dress just because I like the way it looks.  It gives me a more defined waist and completes the ensemble.  Those people who wear suspenders AND belts, though?  Don't get me started.  That's a complete blog post in itself.  But do you see where I'm coming from?  Am I being too harsh?  I would hate to be a hypocrite because I condemned fake glasses and then went around in a superfluous belt.

And then I decided I don't care.  Call me out on whatever you want, but I will not back down on the issue of fake glasses.  True, I'm not a big fan of functionless accessories... at least on me.  Feel free to rock out all the jewelry you want, but I'm going to stick to my watches, shoes, scarves, clothes, and glasses.  I like things that are both fabulous and useful.  Hair flair kind of toes the line.  I like a good headband, but it doesn't actually do much.  Sometimes it aides in creating a certain hairstyle, so we're going to say it counts.

Back to faux glasses. Why are you wearing them?  A fashion statement, you say?  You think it looks "cool"?  When did this happen?  I thought that glasses were supposed to be the anti-cool.  Is this the hipsters' fault?  Is this all about irony?  Are you wearing cheap chunks of plastic on your face to make a point?  Well, if that's how it started, I'm pretty sure something went wrong.  Because there are plenty out there who are donning fake glasses who I'm sure the hipsters DO NOT want to claim.  Also, "I wear them because they make me look smarter" is not okay.  Just BE smarter, and you'll look smarter.  To me, wearing fake glasses seems really silly, thus negating any perceived IQ points.  Are you now asking if I think glasses are cool?  Of course I do, because mine are flippin' sweet.  And I rock those glasses because they help me see, and I bought rockin' glasses because people have to look at them.  Like my clothes, I want my glasses to reflect who I am.  What are fake glasses reflecting about you?  "Fake" is not something I would want as a describer, but that just me.

Am I bitter?  Maybe.  Maybe I'm tired of people asking me, "Are those real?" and "Do you actually need those?"  Maybe I'm pissed off that I had to endure years of playing sports in glasses, and that meant that those eyepieces were permanently askew from various collisions.  And that they're always fogging up or collecting rain water, and other little annoyances that only true glasses wearers know about.  I feel like I've paid my dues to wear the awesome specs I have today.  I've grown to love my glasses.  Maybe I just feel protective.  MAYBE I just want to keep people from being like me in a desperate attempt to hold on to my individuality.  Also, the people who wear contacts and THEN fake glasses?  Just go buy some glasses you like or wear the contacts.  You're the worst.

You know what fake glasses are kind of like?  Wearing fake braces on your teeth.  

Happiness Is...

Can I share something that helped define me?  Well, I'm going to.

See, I'm a pretty happy camper.  I'm sure some of you out there have seen the gloomy Gus side of me, but truth be told, you know I'm one of the more chipper people you know.  And if you don't know me, well... 1) I'm a happy person, 2) thank you for reading my blog, 3) I'm sorry if my blog came up in your search for something completely different, but please read on, and 4) you are about to be given the secret to happiness, so aren't you lucky.  People have asked me how I could be so upbeat.  To this, I have answered many different ways.  Sometimes I shrug and give a goofy smile, other times I'll proclaim, "Life is good!".  If I'm feeling a little snarky, I may throw out, "It's a chemical imbalance!" and add a couple of jazz hands.

These are all pretty generic responses.  Do I actually know why I am happy more often than not?  Do I know why some other people are less happy?  No.  Of course, there are uncontrollable forces at work.  Brain chemistry is a strange thing that affects everyones moods in different ways and I have lead an incredibly fortunate life.  So yes, I do believe that those two things are probably key players in what make me "me".  Also, there is that whole concept of "choosing to be happy".  Is that like choosing to be awesome?  Because I choose you, Pikachu!

Oop, sorry.  My nerd got all over the place.  But I can kind of hop on board with the "choosing" to be happy.  Now, this only works when brain chemistry is NOT in play.  DISCLAIMER: all the things I am about to say have absolutely no bearing on people with depression.  Please do not go up to your friends and be all, "Hey, this Fritsch person is happy, you should be to!"  It doesn't work that way.  I am merely throwing out there some of my thoughts, my fleeting fancies, on the concept of happiness, so... yeah.  I'm not going to apologize for what is said here, but I'm also not going to tolerate it being taken out of context.

Speaking of apologizing, don't apologize for being happy.  I think that's one of the most important things I've learned through my short life.  Allow yourself to be happy.  Allow others to be happy for you.  Don't hold your happiness over others, but share it.  THERE IS ENOUGH HAPPINESS FOR EVERYONE.  I promise.

Ich.  I don't like the way this post is going.  It sounds like I'm giving you all advice.  Telling you what to do.  That is not what this was supposed to be at all.  I'm trying to sum up why I'm a happy person, or those little events in my life that make me who I am today, as far as being in a good mood.  Well, this post was actually inspired by a movie.  A movie that is not The Wizard of Oz, or any of the Harry Potters or Star Wars.  It's not even a sports movie.  It's a movie called Heart and Souls, which came out in 1993.  I didn't see it in the theatre, but rather in my Grandpa's living room.  He had cable.  So, let's say it was the mid-90's, which puts me at mid-elementary school.  I only saw it once, but it made a huge impact on me.  Or at least one part did.  This:

I remembered the general premise of the movie, but what really stuck with me was Thomas (Robert Downy, Jr.) and the rest walking down the street singing that song.  And I held on to that feeling.  I wasn't even sure what the movie was for many a year, but I did eventually find out the title.  That's what it's like inside my head.  That one scene.  I would sing that song and dance that dance all over the place, as though I had those four invisible friends around me.  That's happiness.  Happiness is singing in the bathroom or doing something good for someone else.  It's the little things.  

And remembering things that make me happy.  Maybe that's it.  I have a truly amazing memory, and though I can remember the bad things, I hold on to the good things.  Literally and figuratively.  Did you know I have a book of happiness?  I keep little things that make me smile in there.  Can you remember the best days of your life?  Can you remember swinging on the swing set and singing at the top of your lungs?  If you had to conjure a patronus, what would you remember?  

Also, I was kind of a morbid child, or at least I had some very morbid fascinations.  I loved reading about the Salem Witch Trials, the Titanic, the Holocaust, factory fires, plagues.  But then the funny pages every morning in the paper.  It kept things in perspective.  My life was never going to be as bad as the ones I read about, so why not be happy?  Of course there is a time to be sad, but that's not what this post is about.  This post is about dancing around to Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons.   

Crayons

Guys, I used to steal crayons.

Specifically, cerulean Crayola crayons.  Apparently, I've always been incredibly picky about both my brand preference and color when it came to my crayon pilfering.  I have vivid memories of being in the childcare at the YMCA, and while all the other kids were watching Land Before Time, I was rifling through the cavernous tub of loose crayons in an attempt to find every single cerulean crayon.  Could I pronounce 'cerulean' at the age of four?  No.  Did I know that it was a much truer representation of what I envisioned as the color blue than any of the other crayons labeled as such?  Yes.  To me, blue Crayola crayons were a very sad color, and cerulean was a much happier alternative.

And this didn't stop with daycare.  Wherever there was a bin a crayons, whether it be school or that one restaurant that actually had Crayola crayons, I would immediately begin my hunt for the cerulean ones.  And once I started babysitting?  Well, let just say there are probably a couple of houses in my neighborhood that have been relieved of their cerulean scribblers.  Now, I never stole from BOX of crayons.  That would leave a gaping hole.  And it wasn't that I thought that hole would lead me to be caught (because who would think there was a crayon burglar?), but because that incomplete set would cause my OCD more grief than the new cerulean crayon would bring me joy.  There was this one time I bought a new box of crayons (just the 24 set), and the cerulean crayon was broken... BROKEN!  So, I brought it with me the next time I babysat and traded it out for the pretty (and completely intact) counterpart from the kids' box of crayons.  I felt better.    

You may or may not be wondering at this point whether or not I have a giant pile of cerulean crayons hiding somewhere.  I don't.  They've all been used, lost, or gone through the wash.  Although, I'm pretty sure that if you look through all of my old bags/purses, you will probably find a cerulean crayon in each of them.

Most recently, I was struck with the urge to make a bright green metallic mine.  I was at a music director's house for a rehearsal, and sitting on a speaker was a lone crayon.  It called to me.  Is that what kleptomaniacs feel like?  Or do they do it for the rush?  Because I just REALLY wanted to take that crayon.  There were no other crayons in sight.  Why was it there?  Just to taunt me?  To remind me that all I have in a measly 24 count box, with nothing more exciting than "dandelion"?  Why?!?  And I almost took it.  I told the music director that if he couldn't find his crayon, it was because I pocketed it, but I didn't.  Because I'm new to town, and I don't want word to get out.  "Don't hire that redheaded Elizabeth girl for your show.  She'll steal your crayons."

Also, can we just take a moment to hate on RoseArt?  Those are the worst.  I always felt kind of bad when kids at school had RoseArt crayons... until they asked to borrow my AWESOME 96 count box of Crayolas and returned it with all the crayons worn down, broken, and out of order.  Dude, I know you're used to your crappy, waxy, RoseArt pieces of nonsense, but ease up on my crayons, will ya?  Develop those fine motor skills, and discover the joys of shading.  No need to have THE MOST INTENSE COLOR FOR YOUR ENTIRE PICTURE.  At least not if you're using my crayons.  And what on Earth made you think that "Tickle Me Pink"goes back next to "Macaroni and Cheese"?  My box of crayons is obviously organized by color family... it's the first thing I did when I received it.  Show some respect.

To My Mum

The other day I was thinking about makeup.

What does that have to do with my mom, or mothers in general?  Well, let me tell you.  I was walking down the street, thinking about how I really hate taking off makeup, and that I'm so happy that I don't feel as though I need to wear makeup to go out of the house.  And that made me think about how my mom doesn't wear a lot of makeup, either.  Because she doesn't need to.  She's lovely.  And then I started to think of just how lovely she is and all the amazing things she has done for me, which is appropriate seeing as it is Mothers' Day season.  Unfortunately, I did not have the time, nor the resources, to send her a gift this year (never fear, she got an excellent birthday present), but I still want to give her something.  So I decided to give her my first blog post after a bit of drought.

Thank you, Mom.  Thank you for not wearing a lot of makeup, and not inflicting on me some sort of beauty regime.  But also, when I needed to look good for college auditions, thank you for taking me to a high quality makeup counter, and treating me to that makeup.  As you said, since I didn't ask for any makeup until I was 19, it seemed okay to buy it for me.  I still remember that shopping trip.  Thank you for the makeup and the dresses.  Going out shopping was never really our thing, and that was a very successful, fun day.

Thank you.  Thank you for taking care of me every single time I got sick.  Which, as we both know, was ALL THE TIME.  It was probably no fun taking care of a little girl who managed to contract scarlet fever.  And walking pneumonia.  And is allergic to penicillin, but caught strep throat at least once a month.  Oh, and who would sleep through her own coughing attacks, while you laid awake.  You're a champ.

I'm sorry.  I'm sorry for all the times we didn't/don't see eye to eye.  I'm sorry about the time I didn't want you around for homecoming pictures.  I'm sorry about the times I came home after having a little too much to drink.  I'm sorry that I don't wear a helmet when I roller blade, and I know it makes you worry.  I'm sorry about the one year I thought it was a great idea to buy you goldfish for Mothers' Day.  And I don't mean the crackers.  I mean two live goldfish.  

But thank you.  Thank you for reading to me when I was little, even if it did always make you fall asleep.  Thank you for making the world's best cookies, which I'm still convinced are the reason I ever had friends growing up.  Thank you for making a killer apple pie, and for teaching me how to bake.

Thank you for the ability to say that I had only ONE store bought Halloween costume.  And for loving holidays as much as I do.  And embracing all that is Christmas.  Christmas is important.  Thank you for decorating the house so beautifully every year and playing Christmas music and making hundreds of cookies.  Thank you for always making sure that my birthday presents are always wrapped in birthday, NOT Christmas, paper.

Thank you for supporting my Wizard of Oz obsession.  And my acting obsession.  And almost all of my hair brained obsessions and choices.  Thank you for believing I am smart enough to be a doctor or a lawyer, and accepting that I have degrees in Public History and Musical Theatre Performance.  Thank you for letting me do whatever I wanted to my hair and coming to see all of my shows.  Thank you for staying up to help me finish homework and other projects I left too late.

Thank you for teaching me how to manage my money.  Thank you for teaching me how to craft, and the simple beauty of something made by hand.  Thank you for teaching me how rewarding doing something for some else always is.  Thank you for the night we watched "Big Business", and for all the times we kicked Dad out of the Man Cave so that we could watch "Cupcake Wars".

Thank you for marrying Dad, because we all know he would be dead in a ditch if you hadn't.

Thank you for being there for me these past 25 years.  I look forward to many more.

There are innumerable other things which deserve thanks, but let's save some for next year.

Love you.

Letter to a Professor

Dear Dr. Palmitessa,

It has been five years since I took your European Witch Hunt class at Western Michigan University, which I'm sure you know is half a decade.  In the grand scheme of history, that is not a very long time, but let us put those five years into some perspective.  I have lived a fifth of my life since I took your class.  Between the end of that course and now, I have studied for a year in London, finished two Bachelor's degrees, and moved across the country.  If we are considering my personal history, it is as though thousands of years have past.

And yet, I am still royally pissed off at you.  Your class was named "European Witch Hunt".  It should have been AWESOME, even for someone who isn't as interested in history as I am.  In fact, I am pretty sure there were a few poor souls in that class who were not that into history and just wanted to tell their friends that their gen-ed was about witches.  Don't get me wrong.  I knew going into it that this was not going to be about spells and potions.  I was not looking for an in-depth study of witchCRAFT.  Having been obsessed with the Salem Witch Trials in elementary school (I was secretly a very morbid child), I was ready for all things witchHUNT.  I was ready for you to BRING IT ON.  In a purely historical manner, of course.

Well, you did NOT "bring it".  At no time was it "brought".  Firstly, this was a 400 level history class (which I was taking as a sophomore ::hair flip::) and yet you found it necessary to spend a majority of the class going over the Reformation.  Yes, it was pertinent to the subject on hand, but guess what?  The Reformation is pertinent to many subjects in history, and any schmuck who has made it to a 400 level university history course knows about it.  Don't lecture every class for six weeks about the Reformation, just spend two days on brush up and then start talking about witch hunts!  Of course the two were related, but then we should have been spending brain power on how they were related.  Did you not have enough information to fill up a semester?  I think this must have been the case, because we also watched movies, and I don't mean documentaries.  Now, if this class had been titled "How the European Witch Hunt Has Been Portrayed in (quasi-) Modern Media," I could probably let it slide.  And the "quasi" is in there because these were Hollywood films from the '70's and '80's.  Heck, that sounds like a great class.  Why didn't I sign up for that?  Also, we spent a lot of the end of the semester on "personal research time", which meant I could get my work done, but that's not why I'm paying you.  I'm paying you to inspire/scare me into doing research on my own time.  I guess technically I wasn't paying you, seeing as I had my scholarship, but everyone else in the class was.

So, I'm pretty sure you didn't have enough material for a semester, but you could have done a better job making the information you did have EPIC.  Somehow, you managed to make the European witch hunts boring.  It is people like you who give history a bad name.  YOU, sir.  I understand that history can be a bit dry, especially when reading journal articles that are written by scholars who don't realize that someone may one day want to learn from their publishings.  I get that plowing though primary documents from the 13th century can be a headache.  It seems to follow, at least to me, that history in the classroom should be wicked fun so that everything breaks even.  EUROPEAN WITCH HUNTS.  How many times do I have to say it?  And it was a small class.  There is so much more that can be done in a small group setting that could never fly in a lecture hall.  What are these fun things?  I don't know, it's not my job.  But there must be something.  And it doesn't take much for me to get excited over academics.  You should have seen me in Logic.  Front row, every class, practically seizing over how much I loved doing proofs.  Or Latin.  Or when I took History of Women in the US South and turned a cotton ball into 22 feet of thread.  I get into learning, and you gave me nothing to work with.

And I tried.  I was really excited about this class, and that seemed to bother you.  I (for a while) actually read the assigned books and articles.  I came to class ready to discuss and share and learn with my peers.  You stopped calling on me when I raised my hand.  Just because I was the only one who ever talked.  Do you know how annoying it is to be told you can no longer answer questions and then have to sit in silence as no one else responds.  Sure, if there were other people willing to participate I would (grudgingly) allow them their turn.  But no one ever did.  Waiting in silence is a waste of time.  If the other students don't want to read and discuss, then why not let them coast by?  It's their loss, and if you don't care enough to make the subject interesting, then why would you care if they answer questions?  Just let me answer so that we can all get on with our lives.

Now, as the perpetual optimist that I am, I will note a few things that I did enjoy about your class.  There was no final paper, which is always a plus.  This may have been because you had no motivation to read and grade 17 ten page papers, but I'm not going to ask too many questions.  No paper is fine by me.  Also, you brought donuts one day.  I really like donuts and I love free donuts.  Check plus on that one.

One more thing.  You loved the French and hated the British.  I learned this only after the class was either over or almost over.  I had been showing up at least once a week in my Union Jack zip-up.

Just a recap.  You somehow managed to ruin The European Witch Hunt.  The class.  Not the actual historical occurrence.  That would give you too much credit.

That is all,

E. G. Fritsch