(I wrote this draft and never posted it. It’s like a time capsule!)
____
I shouldn’t be writing this post.
I should be doing some homework, or (holy hell) cleaning my long-suffering house, doing the laundry, or perhaps even sleeping. I’m not. Instead, I’m piling one more thing on the plate. I’m signing up for Nablopomo and committing to a blog post a day for the month.
I’ve updated my blog three times in the last ten months. One post didn’t even count really - I posted a paper I wrote for school because I wrote it scary-fast and it got an A. I’ve just fallen out of the blogging habit. Full-time work, (more than) full-time school, a renewed attempt to read fifty-two books again this year, and just the regular old schmeg of life have taken up any bits of free time I might have been able to scrape together for writing.
Despite the toll this takes on my social life and my “fun” time, I don’t regret a bit of what I’ve taken on. I’ve learned a lot about myself in the past year, specifically just how much I’m capable of taking on. I’d never have known how little sleep I can actually function on. I’d never have known I could take two years of school and jam it into sixteen months, and still graduate with a GPA I can be proud of. I will never be able to say “I don’t have time” or “I don’t have the energy” for something small. If I want to get done, it can in fact get done. I am capable of as much as I set my mind to.
It hasn’t always been pretty. I’ve had a lot of blessings to help get me where I am. I have a stellar husband who puts up with the less-than-stellar moments of temper; the disastrous house and strange mealtimes; the wife who sometimes runs on caffeine, catnaps, and sheer force of will. I still have friends who love me, even though (as it’s been pointed out) I’ve seen them about a handful of times since the beginning of the year. I’ve been forgiven over and over for skipping basically an entire year of Wednesday night family dinners that were my idea in the first place (I love you Missy! Sorrryyyy!)
Now all of this insanity is coming to an end. December 11th, I send in the last paper of the last class of my Bachelor in English. I will have the piece of paper, and (for a little while) I will have a WHOLE lot of time on my hands. More time than I’ve had since I was twenty years old. I’ll be able to ring in the New Year without the lingering dread of class starting on the 3rd (just after the departure of the last holiday hangover!) I’ll be able to lay on the couch when the snow is piling up and read the latest Ken Follett without an ounce of guilt, knowing I should be reading chapter three of some Gods-forsaken textbook about operant conditioning. It will be a little like breaking free of the Skinner box and the damned little button, actually!
So… what the hell am I going to do with myself?!
PLAY!! PLAY PLAY PLAY!!!
I’m going to finally finish the stained glass fireplace screen I promised my in-laws two years ago. I’m going to read books because they’re awesome, and not because they’re assigned. I’m going to edit the three books in pitiful draft form that have languished in my hard-drive, and work on new projects! I’m going to finally learn how to knit (Really knit. Not BS knitting like I do now, than ends in tears and stubs of scarves.) I’m going to sleep in until noon on weekends, wake up, eat Cheerios, then take a power nap directly after, rousing only to snuggle with Indiana and stick my tongue out at Eddie.
It won’t be all fun and games (although, there will be a lot of fun AND games). I’ll still be “studying”. The GRE and the MTEL (if I don’t take them before graduation) will be right around the corner. I’ll be hunting for a grad program, and jumping right back into the fray. But it won’t be the hell-ride my undergrad has been. Hopefully, anyway.
So here’s to big dreams about “life on the outside.” Dreams filled with stained glass, good books, hand-knitted slippers, writing, editing and long, glorious naps on the couch.
When we decided to get a cat a few years ago, I had the typical daydreams: A little fluffy creature to sleep in my lap on the couch, snuggle on cold winter mornings in bed, and occasionally play a rousing game of “chase the ribbon.”
What we got… was Jaws.
This should have been my first indication that the “cat” we got was not what it said on the tin.
Isn’t she precious?
My furry landshark still lives up to her name every day. She strikes at any moment (typically from under the bed), and circles her territory looking for opportunities to sneak up on an unsuspecting victim and -
PLAY! PLAY FETCH! PLAY KILL THE MONSTERFEET! PLAY PLAY PLAY!
Our cat has a problem, in that she’s not a cat. We think she got mislabeled at the factory. She’s a dog, for sure. She can outfetch, outbeg, and outkeep-away any Labrador retriever you’d care to put in her path. She’ll then ride that Labrador like a circus pony, and send it away with a therapist bill.
I’m not sure how it happened, but our cat needs to go to Play-play-play A.A. My day goes a little like this:
Are you awake? It’s two a.m. Not getting out of bed? No problem, I’ve got a ball with feathers on it. Very low-impact early morning workout. Throw! Okay… :::run run run::: Now, again.
Hey are you in the bathroom? I’m waving! Can you see me waving? Under the door? Hey. HEY! Okay, now throw me a Q-tip. I can make due.
Ooh! You’re in the closet? Cool. I seee you. I’m behind the door. See me? Through the little crack? I seeeeeee you. :::BAT!::: Tag, you’re it!!! Aww too slow. It’s 7:30 a.m. Still not bringing your A-game. What’s up with that?!
Are you getting up off the couch? Perfect! Here, drag the string around for me. C’mon DRAG! Man, it’s like I have to do all the work!
It’s gotten to the point where shifting position on the couch means she snaps awake, leaps from her bed, falls over dead in front of you and cries, like you’re killing her with your lack of enthusiasm. This happens… about thirty times a day.
We tried “auto-play”. There was one contraption strapped to the door that fluttered a ribbon around on a motorized belt. Jaws decided it was more fun if the ribbon was detached from the device. Greater range. There was another toy that swiped a stick through the air, with a ball and feathers on the end. The base is now a paperweight, but the stick (denuded of its once glorious plumage) is still her favorite. She drags it around the house with her like Linus’ blanket.
I should be doing some homework, or (holy hell) cleaning my long-suffering house, doing the laundry, or perhaps even sleeping. I’m not. Instead, I’m piling one more thing on the plate. I’m signing up for Nablopomo and committing to a blog post a day for the month.
I’ve updated my blog three times in the last ten months. One post didn’t even count really - I posted a paper I wrote for school because I wrote it scary-fast and it got an A. I’ve just fallen out of the blogging habit. Full-time work, (more than) full-time school, a renewed attempt to read fifty-two books again this year, and just the regular old schmeg of life have taken up any bits of free time I might have been able to scrape together for writing.
Despite the toll this takes on my social life and my “fun” time, I don’t regret a bit of what I’ve taken on. I’ve learned a lot about myself in the past year, specifically just how much I’m capable of taking on. I’d never have known how little sleep I can actually function on. I’d never have known I could take two years of school and jam it into sixteen months, and still graduate with a GPA I can be proud of. I will never be able to say “I don’t have time” or “I don’t have the energy” for something small. If I want to get done, it can in fact get done. I am capable of as much as I set my mind to.
It hasn’t always been pretty. I’ve had a lot of blessings to help get me where I am. I have a stellar husband who puts up with the less-than-stellar moments of temper; the disastrous house and strange mealtimes; the wife who sometimes runs on caffeine, catnaps, and sheer force of will. I still have friends who love me, even though (as it’s been pointed out) I’ve seen them about a handful of times since the beginning of the year. I’ve been forgiven over and over for skipping basically an entire year of Wednesday night family dinners that were my idea in the first place (I love you Missy! Sorrryyyy!)
Now all of this insanity is coming to an end. December 11th, I send in the last paper of the last class of my Bachelor in English. I will have the piece of paper, and (for a little while) I will have a WHOLE lot of time on my hands. More time than I’ve had since I was twenty years old. I’ll be able to ring in the New Year without the lingering dread of class starting on the 3rd (just after the departure of the last holiday hangover!) I’ll be able to lay on the couch when the snow is piling up and read the latest Ken Follett without an ounce of guilt, knowing I should be reading chapter three of some Gods-forsaken textbook about operant conditioning. It will be a little like breaking free of the Skinner box and the damned little button, actually!
So… what the hell am I going to do with myself?!
PLAY!! PLAY PLAY PLAY!!!
I’m going to finally finish the stained glass fireplace screen I promised my in-laws two years ago. I’m going to read books because they’re awesome, and not because they’re assigned. I’m going to edit the three books in pitiful draft form that have languished in my hard-drive, and work on new projects! I’m going to finally learn how to knit (Really knit. Not BS knitting like I do now, than ends in tears and stubs of scarves.) I’m going to sleep in until noon on weekends, wake up, eat Cheerios, then take a power nap directly after, rousing only to snuggle with Indiana and stick my tongue out at Eddie.
It won’t be all fun and games (although, there will be a lot of fun AND games). I’ll still be “studying”. The GRE and the MTEL (if I don’t take them before graduation) will be right around the corner. I’ll be hunting for a grad program, and jumping right back into the fray. But it won’t be the hell-ride my undergrad has been. Hopefully, anyway.
So here’s to big dreams about “life on the outside.” Dreams filled with stained glass, good books, hand-knitted slippers, writing, editing and long, glorious naps on the couch.
I had the pleasure a few weekends ago of going to see the Ghostlight Theater Company production of SubUrbia at the Amato Theatre in Milford, NH.
SubUrbia is sort of an interesting commentary on how a lot of young people view the world in which we live. Set in front of a convenience store (the set for which is an actual quick-stop style corner store with stocked shelves and a cash register!) the story follows a few days in the life of a loose group of friends as they deal with their desires and the burdens of living in small-town America.
The struggling couple, the recovering under-aged drinker, the funny-guy jock, the young and disillusioned military man, the earnest immigrant family all smack of people we know, in some cases someone we know better than anyone else. About the only person hard to relate to is “Pony”, the now-rock star, the one who “made it.” A visit from Pony (rolling up in an overblown limo) stirs up emotions ranging from distaste to jealously to hero-worship, creating the undertone that carries the play through to an explosive finish. Pony represents everything that irks us about the new generation of fame-based affluence. His persona comes off as incredibly trite, playing the sentimental card since the cynical haze of the 90’s has worn so thin for us.
One would be hard-pressed to pick a “stand-out” member of the cast. Each player carried their own weight, and formed a true-to-life picture of friendship and suburban malaise in middle America. “Tim” (played by John Kneeland) is surly at best, and frightening at his worst. In the interest of full disclosure.. John is my co-worker’s son, but there is no favoritism when I say the delivery of his role was dynamic, and at times downright unnerving. Behind the scenes, John is the nicest kid you’d ever want to meet: gracious, easy-going and funny. Put a prop beer in his hand, and a script in his head, and you’d never recognize him. He makes Dr. House look just plain cuddly.
Where “Tim” scares the hell out of us, “Buff” (played by DJ Spinelli) is the court jester of the group. Caffeine-and-Oreo fueled, ripped to shreds in a wife-beater shirt and Timberland boots, Buff is the quintessential comic relief, constantly riffing on beer, grass, women, and laymen’s politics. Buff takes the edge off of the tension provided by Tim and the rest of the cast by engaging in “anything for a laugh” antics, up to and including dry-humping the ice-cooler in a drastic display of sexual tension and upper-body strength. He is the prankster, the kid we all adored in school, but now out of the small-pond limelight, he finds himself good for little else but amusement. Buff is the Fool of the tarot deck, eternally optimistic and wide-eyed, and that’s why we love him so much.
Some of “SubUrbia” can be hard to take. A performance art diatribe on the part of “Sooze” played by (Taryn Cagnina) was a bit discomforting, (if only because I had brought my mom to the play.) The piece however, illustrated how young artists and thinkers are pushing boundaries far beyond what would have happened even ten years ago, if only to be heard in a time that Warren Ellis describes as “The last days of the Roman Empire.” In a world where very little is taboo, one must step far outside of the social norm to register on the Richter scale. Sooze does this quite well, and it speaks to her utmost desire to break out of her suburban life entirely.
All of these cliches and trivialities, as entertaining as they are, are reduced to ashes in the final grim moments of the play. The ending renders all social roles and prejudices useless, and leaves the audience with the stark realization that the masks we wear are largely hollow monuments.
This effect could not have been carried so well without the support of an exemplary cast. Being a frequenter of the Merrimack Rep and other local playhouses, I could not have been more impressed by the show put on by the group. A great cast can make one feel as though they are not watching a play but living for a time in a world not their own, and this cast accomplished this feat with grace.
This fall, we will be treated once again to some fine performances by Ghostlight when “Three Wise Men” premiers at the Ghostlight, written by John Kneeland. If John’s writing skills are commensurate with his acting skills, we’re in for a real treat.
About the author
I’m a writer, artist and degenerate internet addict. I have a day job only to keep the lights on and the internet working. I’m not always PG, but I’m always A+ (not to mention humble.) Please do not try to make me think before coffee. It will only end in tears.
