Clarification on the Decompensation

Addendum to last post: I should say that a simple broken heart alone doesn't always make me go off the deep end. The first time I was on meds it was after a  solid year of a very emotionally abusive relationship. This time, it was after a year of unemployment, then a year of a job that was stressing me out, plus being president of a condo board, which makes running an insane asylum look like being the activities director on a cruise ship; then it was having to put my cat of 19 years to sleep a week after his cancer diagnosis, then having to put one of my rabbits to sleep a month later, and yeah, THEN having fallen in love for the first time on years and thinking it was oh-my-God going to go somewhere, and then in a week having it fall apart was well, just more than I could handle, apparently. My cognitive side said, "deep breaths JC; this, too shall pass, it will all be OK"; my emotional side said, "I'm just going to randomly weep in public. See?"

How I Suck at Flirting

Today my friend Jennifer and I went to a new sushi place in Rogers Park. I enjoyed the vegetarian options. After, we took the bus to the big Salvation Army on Devon.

Jennifer got three items. I got two full bags. My weight gain has not been enough to make me a hippo, but my waist has gotten larger to the point where several skirts are no longer an option. For some reason, every other skirt was this great item, and I bought a buttload of clothes.

Next was a trip to an Indian grocery to pick up some things. Jennifer has lived in Malaysia, so she cooks somewhat international dishes, including Indian. We each got a bunch of stuff and waddled to the bus with all of our bags. On the bus, we started talking to two young-looking Indian men who had a few boxes of groceries. We were headed to the same train station. They saw our groceries, asked us how we came to cook Indian food, and Jennifer explained about Malaysia. Then she pointed to me and said, "she's a vegetarian, so..." I explained I had a lot of cookbooks. I relayed my experience making samosas from scratch many years ago.

"I made everything - EVERYTHING from scratch: I made the dough, I boiled the potatoes, everything. It took all day, and what a mess; I had recently moved into a studio apartment with a tiny kitchen. The next day I was exploring the neighborhood and came across an Indian grocery. The owner's mother made samosas. They were huge, and cost twenty-five-cents each."

They were very nice. One was obviously gay, and he was hilarious. The other guy said they'd met at a party and each was looking for a roommate, so there you go. They lived one stop north of me. On the train platform, we were talking about age somehow, and I was getting some vibe from the straight-seeming guy, who as fairly attractive. I figured I'd set the record straight.

"I could have given birth to you," I laughed.

"How old do you think I am?" he asked.

"30?"

"I"m 40."

Now, I could have smiled and told him how youthful and attractive he was. I could have blushed and said he looked a like a young Bollywood film star. What did I say?

"SHUT THE HECK UP YOU ARE NOT!"

Charming Am I, as Yoda would say.

I was really hoping we could all become friends -- I had visions of Indian feasts. When the train arrived, though, Jennifer moved in the opposite direction and sat down. I moved toward the door, near them, as we approached my stop.  Cute guy stood up. I exchanged some chit chat with him and his friend, and then we got off at your stop. I was hoping he would suggest we get together.

I know, I could have suggested it, but frankly, I'm tired of being the forward one. Who knows; we live one stop apart; we could meet again. And he could cook for me. Oh, yes, he could. Matar Paneer me, baby.

My current acting career: 90-second performance art

The audition notice said that they were looking for people to do stage readings of submissions for a weekend of gay plays.

"AHA!" I shouted at my computer screen.

If you were to picture me, think of a five-foot tall Ellen Degeneres-meets-Edie Falco. Only I don't wear much makeup, usually. I'm also approaching middle age and I'm never seen with a boy, so despite the fact I have somewhat whimsical style that leans towards the girly, I'm frequently assumed to be a lesbian. I suspect that this, plus my small stature and age, has hampered my ability to be cast.

But now? I couldn't lose.

So I got a slot and showed up at a theater building at DePaul University. After suffering the college theater majors guarding the entrance, I finally found the audition room. I was looking forward to the first audition in years where I wouldn't worry about my hair being  a problem.

I stepped into a very narrow room with long tables along one side. About seven men of all ages sat at the tables.

I wondered why there were no women; this fact annoyed me. It annoyed me a lot.

So I did my monologue. I did it well, despite being less than ten feet from the nearest person, and having all those eyes on  me. Most of auditioning is psychological. I had to do it a lot to get to the point where I can just do it without being too nervous. Some nerves are important to have an edge, of course, but you don't want too much distraction. One guy in his fifties sat with a smirk on his face. Nice. Other than that, there were murmurs of approval, and I left. I never heard anything after that.

I saw Kevin's show, the same one I'd auditioned for but wasn't cast in (seeing it, I saw there really wasn't a part for me). The producer said hi and asked whether I was going to audition for their next show, a comedy. I explained I'd gotten the audition notice but was tired of preparing and making the time to audition just to get the "We really liked you but cant' offer you a part at this time" email.  He assured me that not getting cast wasn'T a sign that someone was bad, just not right for the show.

"I know that," I said, "but over a year of auditions and nothing? Really? I don't think it's my ability; I think it's the directors and the inability to cast women my age and appearance in any meaningful role. I'm not having a temper tantrum; I'm just tired of wasting the effort on something that used to be a fun hobby but now seems impossible to realize."

He encouraged me anyway. So I did. I auditioned. I prepared a comedic monologue, I performed it, the director laughed, and  I didn't get cast.

There's a really excellent thing about this, though. The excellent thing is that there was a time when I would have sunk into depression at the notion that I was worthless and untalented. Now, my perspective is simply that my talent is wasted on these bumpkins. This belief in myself has come slowly over time, but I think it's the biggest gift that moving to Chicago has given me.

Making it New

Seeking Elevation has this uncanny knack for expressing my latest ponderings just before I write them. In a recent blog, she relates difficulties in writing to a lack of experience. To write, you have to have new experiences, she suggests.

Exactly what I've been considering lately. I used to love to write; the ideas and sharing just came naturally, and it was a pleasure to feel those words come out and be there. Lately, however, I am stumped, and I fear it's because I have let my world become routine and uninspiring. I'm not unhappy, but I definitely need to shake things up a bit to be more definitely happy.

Things that have changed include a lack of money (less travel, fewer options), and giving up my broken-down car (harder to participate in a lot of the fun Meetup events taking place outside the city, of which there are many). So I've got to re-tool and re-strategize. Get out of my rut.

I saw Keith's show the other night, and it was really good. I'd auditioned, but had not been cast; seeing the show, I saw there were no real roles for me. It was a good production. I bumped into the producer, whom I'd met at my audition, and he encouraged me to audition for the next show, a comedy. I thought about it and decided OK, one more try. I emailed the theater, and they said they had one spot that had just opened due to a cancellation. Fate? Who knows. All I know is my one comedic monologue is just...OK, and since I have just over 24 hours' notice, I'll be practicing it in the bathroom at work.

New experiences....

My Big, Fat, Polish Tuesday

Last night Kevin had me over for pierogis and paczkis. (He's part Polish, and I wanted to be introduced to the world of Polish pre-lenten pastries.) And what better way to top it off than with a VCR viewing of the Dr. Who episode that introduced the Daleks?

Kevin cooked potato/onion pierogis and served cherry and strawberry paczkis. I was wrapped up in "my" Spiderman blanket, and Kevin pointed out interesting things about the show and the Dalek mythology, and we enjoyed ourselves looking for the many times the main character muffed his lines.

Pierogis, pastry, British SciFi and my geeky guy pal. It was a great way to kick off Lent.

Another Bad Choice in Men

WHY do  I read Hemingway?!? Why do I think that he'll change, be different this time? That he's maybe learned from his past, turned over a new leaf, learned how to be -- well, if not happy, then a little less of a waiter announcing that the special today is Life is Shit soup?

I don't need happily ever after and rainbows and puppies. I don't. Two of my favorite authors are Flannery O'Connor and Cormac McCarthy, not exactly people you'd want volunteering on the Samaritans hotline. But Flannery, bless her, had a sense of humor, a wry attitude toward the grotesque in people. She kicked you in the guts, slapped you hard,  but she at least gave you dialogue that made you smile. Not a bad accomplishment while you're dying of lupus.

And Cormac, while he's written some of the most relentlessly wrenching and painful stuff I've ever read, manages to slide some redemption into the agony. It's as if he's saying,"Life can be brutal, merciless, and the innocent suffer in complete injustice, but there is also beauty and grace all around us, too. People can be terrible, but they can also be holy and decent through simple acts of everyday kindness. The human spirit is frail but so terribly strong, too, in its capacity to survive and love."

Hemingway, on the other hand, is a maudlin, petulant, pan in the ass who seems to take pleasure in creating stories in which nothing good can possibly happen. He goes out of his way to piss in everyone's Cheerios, and you just know he enjoys doing it.  In his view of life, nobody is allowed to be happy except in the fleeting, stolen moments that only serve to underscore their doom. He's the depressive friend who wallows and refuses any attempt to get them to lighten up because they think that being unhappy is somehow Important. Hemingway just wants us all to check into in his personal flea-bitten Vale of Tears Motel like cheap dial-a-whores, to sit there with him and stare at the snowy TV while getting drunk and playing a greasy card came called Poor Me, I Feel Things So Deeply.

I'll finish this book, Ernest, but after this it's over between you and me. I hope that wherever you are, the Austen sisters are making you miserable.

Trifecta Writing Challenge: Three sentences, one story.

This week's challenge at Trifecta: make it short, sweet, and complete. Oh, and congrats to Trifecta for being a Bloggie finalist!

******

She walked carefully down the unfamiliar passage from the bedroom to the kitchen.  The message light on his machine flashed mutely in the pre-dawn dark; he'd turned the ringer off. As she shivered into her clothes, she thought of all the times she’d called at night, surprised that he wasn’t home.