Holding Pattern

So...show's over. The last weekend was gratifyingly successful, despite the absence of SEVERAL of my friends who had every chance to come check it out. Hmph. Though I suppose it's not much of an incentive to see a show in which your friend...moves furniture. Dressed in black. I probably wouldn't pay $15 to see me do that, either. But still.
The post-show letdown is no less pronounced now that a) I'm only a stagehand, and an b) the performances were all a week apart. I don't know what I did with myself the week after the show closed. Mulched, watched TV, mucked around at work. The usual, I suppose. I DO know that by Friday I felt like a very old dishrag, but we'll get into that later.
That Saturday, the 23rd, I headed up to Haverford for the annual Corporation meeting. Anyone who knows me knows that I am the perfect candidate for a seat on the body that legally owns my alma mater, because I am a totally shameless proponent of it and all it stands for. It's almost embarrassing the degree to which I can immerse myself in my Haverford-cheerleader mode. To wit: I cried for hours on graduation day, getting snot on the good clothes of everyone within reach; I went back up to visit a mere 3 weeks after the ceremony, and again no few than half a dozen times that academic year. Then I realized that if I wasn't careful, I'd turn into that pathetic alum(na) who's always hanging around because she's not making much of her life, and may in fact be at risk for becoming so stuck on her past that she'll NEVER make much of her life, and so after the Corporation meeting last year, I didn't visit until this year's meeting.
Even so, I can't shake the feeling of absolute normalcy that descends as soon as I step on campus. I can't make my brain register the buildings and paths as unusual or different; my mind slips into such absolute familiarity with my surroundings I begin not to notice them.
And yet.
I've forgotten names of people and buildings (ok, just Hilles, and that's a forgettable name AND building, but still). People I know rush up to greet me, get the bullet on my life and times, and then rush off just as fast, to class or a meeting or lunch, reminding me that I DON'T have class or a meeting or lunch, and that I will never be more than a visitor at the place where I became the person I am now.
I caught a few episodes of Felicity in Japan, and my favorite was the one where they're all doing their exit interviews. Felicity has a whole monologue where she describes how cruel college is, to throw a bunch of smart, fun kids together, make them happy to be there, encourage all sorts of bonding and love, and then scatter them after four years, just when everyone was (usually) deeply happy and comfortable with their lives.
I know this melancholy is the result of being in a barely-tolerable situation at the moment, and that when I get up and out and start a life that's much more fulfilling than the one I'm living now, this feeling will disappear. For now, though, it still sucks.
A really good book that helped me a lot was Conquering your Quarterlife Crisis, by Alexandra Robbins. Highly recommended for anyone who's annoyed by the fact that your life doesn't match all the hype that your twenties are supposed to be the best years of your life. If that's true, what am I doing shopping at Payless and living at home? The book proves that you're not alone in your anxiety and worry by providing dozens of testimonials from people who lived through it all (fairly recently, so you don't feel lectured) and, more importantly, their tips and tricks for getting through it.
I'll go up for Commencement and hug my friends, and tell them that it's ok to spin your wheels for a little, but that the important thing is not to give up while you're doing it. And then I'll go up again for Alumni weekend with my dad, and talk to a few old fossils and remember that what I told those grads 2 weeks before applies to me, too.

One of these days I'll start writing many short posts instead of great big honkin' ones every 3 weeks. Promise.



FUN FACT: When I was a kid watching The Little Mermaid (before I knew all the nonsense about phallic undersea-castle towers and suspicious bumps poking out from the priest's robes), I liked the scene where the seagull is trying to tell Ariel and her friends that Ursula is charming the pants off of Eric, but no one understands. He gets so frustrated and carried away that he picks up Sebastian and starts whacking him on the deck for emphasis as he shouts (capitalization indicates the beats where the unfortunate crab hits the boards): "The PRINCE is MARrying the SEA witch in disGUISE!"
I ALWAYS heard "disguise" as "de skies", and even as an 8-year-old, I thought that was a very nice line, poetic and evocative of the ocean-land dichotomy, even Biblical-sounding. Now I know I'm a)some sort of bizarre verbal savant(e), and b)probably going to need a hearing aid sooner rather than later, if I was making mistakes like this at the age of 8.

evelyn is...

First of all, I'm sorry. I have lots of original posts in the works, but I'm lazy, and I've got a whole pile of financial aid forms to fill out tonight. So, like the dieter who swings by Burger King because it's faster than steaming kale and kohlrabi, I'm going to do it again.
Steal someone else's blog post, that is. I don't like kale.

My Customsmate from freshman year, Dabe Stone (not his real name) also has a blog on Blogger. He, being way cooler than I am, started it quite a while ago. But I only discovered it a few months ago. Because I'm slow.
Anyway, he went to googlism.com, a hi-larious site that, similar to the actual search engine, will give you your name or any other phrase you input as it appears in myriad contexts on the Web. What's freaky about this is that some, nay, most of them are uncannily right on.

All I did was type in my first name, evelyn. Up popped about 100 of these cryptic little phrases, covering everything from my activtties at school:

-evelyn is well prepared educationally for the duties of a council member (HC '02-'03!)
-evelyn is "still working for you" (this was an Honor Council slogan, at one point. I think.)
-evelyn is a 31 accountant (actually, I never did the books in our apt. at school. Honest.)
-evelyn is a vigilant grammar cop who is often caught yelling at the newspaper when she finds a dangling participle or an unclear antecedent (This is hysterical. I actually started the Abstract Editing Committee when I was on Honor Council so we wouldn't have to spend all kinds of time fixing typos. How does Google know this? I'm beginning to worry...)
-evelyn is the cement that holds this large department together
-evelyn is for all department members and students the source of information (my high school yearbook listed my contribution tio the school as "all the answers")


...to obsvervations about my character; the lavishly complimentary:

evelyn is an intriguing character
-evelyn is a real treat to be around
-evelyn is the best
-evelyn is a very gentle little girl
-evelyn is very helpful when you are feeling worthless
-evelyn is amiable and calm on the surface
-evelyn is someone truly special
-evelyn is sent (sent from heaven!)
-evelyn is not on the stage she enjoys art and please visit (yes!)
-evelyn is renowned around the world for beautiful gifts and everyday luxuries that capture the essence of english style
-evelyn is a project close to pierce brosnan's (heart, I hope. Though I don't know how I like being referred to as a "project". I'm not THAT much in need of a makeover, am I?)
-evelyn is responsible for the day (and the night, and the sun, and the moon...ahem. Was that out loud?)

the appalling:
-evelyn is unlucky
-evelyn is clueless
-evelyn is virtually impossible

and the oddly sweet:
-evelyn is a chameleon
-evelyn is likely the most intensely hyped rose (just look at my AIM and hotmail screennames!)
-evelyn is able to experience the music fully (with her new iPod!)
-evelyn is known almost exclusively for his diary (if by diary, you mean "blog")
-evelyn is the one to do it (absolutely! As soon as I figure out what "it" is...)


...to intriguing career possibilities (except I think that one of the real estate ones is just a word problem):

-evelyn is a continuing education instructor on hair loss and its related issues
-evelyn is a licensed real estate broker
-evelyn is offered a job selling real estate and she will have a 50 percent chance of making $10
-evelyn is a real estate agent that is known in the community of bainbridge for their dedicated client service
-evelyn is also involved in teaching the course elementary methods in computational geometry
-evelyn is an educator; a leader whose greatest concern is what is best
-evelyn is one of the key members of the staff at media services
-evelyn is presently working on her next patricia conley novel
-evelyn is carrying on [his] legacy of love for the museums
-evelyn is an internationally recognized baritone and highly sought after choral conductor
-evelyn is a specialized research consultant
-evelyn is an excellent clinical psychiatric nurse and also a team player (yes, but I can't get you drugs. Sorry.)

...to odd desciptors that I'm clearly not, but might like to be:

-evelyn is clearly referred to as a toy collie
-evelyn is an african
-evelyn is a member of the canadian medical and biological engineering society
-evelyn is a member of the haida nation
-evelyn is responsible for the much appreciated makeovers of '70s icon band journey (LOVE Journey. LOVE. Is this creepy, or what?)
-evelyn is one of the best practitioners in the united states (well, yes; but of what?)
-evelyn is designed especially for patients who require more intensive observation (hee!)
-evelyn is left to sweat it out in the family livery on her own
-evelyn is mistaken in thinking lou's argument to be fallacious (Lou is my neighbor, but I don't think we've ever had an argument...)
-evelyn is copied to the /tmp/bar on the machine running this command

...to some rather alarming assertions:

-evelyn is coping one day at the library when some unexpected events take place
-evelyn is descended from the illegitimate side of the family
-evelyn is attacked (oh no!)
-evelyn is the survivor of a neglectful and hurtful past (no, I'm not!!! I promise!! I love you, Mom and Dad!)
-evelyn is cheating on him (auugh! Who's smearing my good name? Who? Why?)
-evelyn is aghast at her incompetence


...to some very interesting predictions for my future:

-evelyn is beginning her third year as a ph (hopefully this ends with .D, and not with "testing strip")
-evelyn is married to john parsons
-evelyn is married and has two children
-evelyn is a delighted parent of two grown sons (names, anyone?)
-evelyn is spending time in the nursing home waiting room while her husband visits his mother there (I know this is from Fried Green Tomatoes, and I really, really hope I don't end up looking lke Kathy Bates.)
-evelyn is the most senior of the granny gears
-evelyn is proof positive that age is truly in the mind

to the final, comforting confirmation of my existence:

-evelyn is

Oh, what a relief. I am. Thank you, Googlism, for removing my doubts.

Seriously, though. SCARY. Only a handful of these hits were not somehow connected to me by something other than the name. The rest read like a background check on me done by Maryland's Poet Laureate after he smoked a bowl or two.

Because I love publicity, good or bad, I'm opening the blog to more of these. Like an online Slam Book (yeah, Judy Blume!). Feel free at add more of your own devising--I changed the settings so now you don't need a Blogger ID to post. Expect more audience-participatory posts in the future, too.

-evelyn is something the matter?

Aping the Master

This summer, I became acquainted with one of the more excellent offerings in the blogosphere: The Post-Modern Drunkard.

His roommate is the cutie-pie who gave my my new boyfriend, Phineas Lumpy (see last post), and I have spent not nearly enough happy hours chilling in their awesome Washington Heights apartment. PMD is a Fargo, ND transplant to New York, a sort of modern-day Norwegian bachelor farmer of the Lake Woebegon species. He smokes, he drinks, he grouses, he grumbles, he smirks; he's adorable. Go here to read it. And post comments; He loves it.

For a while, I maintained a small running joke that it was PMD I was really after, not his storky roommate. It was funny because it was ridiculous. No one wants a curmudgeon-in-training, unless one is a crone-in-training, and I'm not. But I started reading his blog, his alcohol-soaked, wiseass, soulful blog, and while I still don't think I'd *date* him, per se, I find myself idolizing him. I want to be somewhere where my friends would be cool, snarky, cosmopolitan people like him. I want to write like him, travel like him, hold my liquor like him (we all know this last one is and will always be a physical impossibility, but hey, a girl can dream, can't she?).
Currently, though, all I can do is rip off his posting topics, visit now and then, and hope he reads this and isn't totally weirded out/annoyed by the whole hero's-pen-worship. But at least I know that the way to his heart, should I ever need it, is straight through his liver.

So, with apologies to the Post-Modern Drunkard, whose idea this sort of confession it was originally, here is a little compilation that in the interest of full disclosure, I publish here, for your general amusement. *bows with flourish*

Potentially Embarrassing Things I Probably Shouldn’t Reveal Until At Least the Third Date:

1. I still, at the advanced age of 23, sleep with a stuffed animal at night. Her name is Lammie. She’s a lamb, and I’ve had her since childbirth. She goes (almost) everywhere I go, has a passport, a full seasonal wardrobe, mostly sewn by me, and a distinct personality, created by my parents when I was little. She likes to drive. She’s terrible at it.

2. I am a terrible nail-biter. I can’t remember a time when I had nails visible above my fingertips. Not only do I pare them off, I then like to work them around my mouth—run them between my teeth, split them etc. before breaking them into little bits and spitting them out. It saves me from flossing but it looks disgraceful.

3. I talk to myself incessantly. It’s an only child thing, I think. When I was in college it helped because I could rehearse presentations and explain things to myself to learn them better, and of course if I’m in a play I’m always the first off-book, but I know it’s really weird to see a young, non-vagrant woman walking down the street muttering to herself with no visible cell phone apparatus. Plus, I emote when I’m doing it, especially if I’m rehearsing something to tell someone, or imagining/reenacting a scene between me and a friend, my parents, etc. So I must look totally insane most of the time. I also read interesting passages of books out loud to myself, occasionally.

4. I have a wretched music collection. While all my other friends have either huge CD libraries, zillions of files on their computers, iPods that hold more music than I’ve ever listened to in my life, or some combination of the above, I have a few dozen CD’s, some tapes stuffed into the seat pockets of the family car, and 10 songs on a computer I never use anymore. I totally missed the Napster boat. I have no knowledge of any music beyond the most basic facts and songs. Most of my albums are show tunes, traditional Japanese, or random bluegrass. No rock or hip postmodern music. In other words, not particularly listen-able stuff. Because of this, I rely on commercial radio for my auditory sustenance, and we all know how low that is.

5. I still live at home. This sounds pathetic at first, but the reasons are sensible: I don’t make enough money to eat properly or live anywhere decent, and since I’m trying to get into grad school (possibly overseas), it strikes me as foolish to waste a few months on rent when I might have to pick up and leave elsewhere in less than a year. But it’s pretty embarrassing entertain guests, especially male guests, in my parents’ house. Makes me feel about 12.

6. When I was living in Japan, I joined the college judo club. Because I was the newest member when the annual college festival rolled around, they made me dress up like a porn-star nurse, complete with skimpy vinyl dress, cap and fishnets, and advertise the club massage booth. There are pictures. I will never be able to run for public office. Anywhere.

7. I had seen every episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation by the time I was fifteen. And all the movies. And owned a Star Trek communicator button that bleeped when you pressed it. Actually, I still have that somewhere.

8. I have a loom in my bedroom. And not one of the little craft-store kinds for making belts and headbands. A full-sized floor loom. And I know how to use it.

9. I haven’t seen the Star Wars series all the way through. Not even the older trilogy. Nor have I seen Braveheart, Rocky Horror Picture Show, Dazed and Confused, or Die Hard. These don’t sound like such great cultural pillars to me, but every time I mention that I haven’t seen them, people’s mouths drop open as if I just informed them that I still watched my movies (whatever they may be, obviously not the big ones) on a Beta VCR. Which, just for the record, I don’t.

10. The same goes for television. Being a PBS kid meant no Spiderman, Batman, Transformers, Thundercats or, until recently, The Simpsons. And no, we don’t have cable.

11. I have an odd penchant for child-rearing books. Talk about creepy, guilty pleasures. When I babysat in high school, I used to curl up with the parents’ guides after the kids were asleep and my homework was finished. And I worked, briefly, at a baby and children’s clothing store where I was able to read “Today’s Child” and “Mothering” magazines to my heart’s content. I find them fascinating, and it’s probably a little narcissistic, too. Plus, my mother and I discuss my childhood at great length. I was, as you might expect, a model child.

13. However, I have ZERO tolerance for ill-behaved children. I am firmly convinced that much of the country’s current disorder stems from crappy parenting. I am not classist or racist about this; crappy parents come in all colors and socio-economic strata. I also don’t like toddlers, no matter how well they’re behaving. They’re just so…little, and weird. I’m sure this will change when/if I get a few of my own, but until then, expect no sympathy from me when your two-year-old pitches himself on the floor out of exhaustion and frustration because YOU didn’t take proper care of him earlier. If you can’t handle them, get your tubes tied.

14. I collect stamps. Years ago, my father suggested that I needed a hobby, and started me on baseball cards. It was cool. It was fun. It lasted a couple of years. Then, cleaving to the paper-ephemera theme, he said I should take up stamps. His motives became obvious a little later: my maternal grandfather had literally hundreds, from all over the place, and someone was needed to properly organize and catalogue them. That someone was me. And still is. And proud of it, too. If you'd like to see it, just ask. I'm not a snob about them; I don't go to stamp conventions (they're VERY weird) and I don't buy new ones, because god knows I have enough just sitting around at home, but I love those tiny works of public art, and I don't care who knows it.

15. I was staying in a huge old monastery-turned-summer-house in France, which had about 35 bedrooms and toilets in very odd places, including nowhere near my room. In the morning, I had no idea where the nearest toilet was--I had followed my host sister to hers, then she led me about half a mile away to my room in the dark. There was, however, a small sink in the bedroom, for washing up, etc. It would hold my weight if I braced my feet against a chair. You finish this story.


Now, I had to remove one of these Things from the list, because it involved not getting into graduate school. And I suppose I should remove the one about my music collection, because my new baby iPod and I are fixing that in a hurry. Other than that, though, none of this is likely to change, so if you were thinking of setting me up with someone, give him a copy of this and let him decide. If he laughs, he's a keeper. If he likes short nails, stamps, and textiles, I'm not interested. I'm weird enough for two people.

Happy birthday to ME!

Halloooo, loyal blog readers! Forgive the silence, and the slightly stale Easter greetings: 'Twas the week of production, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring--at least, not after opening night...
To back up: I am on the crew for an excellent production at the Mobtown Theater, Nilo Cruz' A Bicycle Country, for which I furnished the props, and work backstage during the first act--the second has no scene changes. To explain why would be to give most of the plot away, and if you're in the greater Baltimore area I want you to come see it (see the end of this post), so I won't. Suffice to say, I spent the week in a frenzy of shopping, sleep deprivation, and splinters. Including MY BIRTHDAY. On Tuesday. For which I received AN IPOD. The cutest little blue mini! Thank you, Mom and Dad! Also a lovely bracelet, the promise of a new swimsuit for my upcoming sailing trip, an intriguing Terry Pratchett novel, and a phrenological cranium model (go here for a description of people who still believe in it (crazies!), here for a more skeptical rundown, and here to see my new friend, Phineas Lumpy)! And lots of lovely greetings in various forms! So thank you, everyone!
My iPod is a miracle of technology! We also have a new computer, and are having SUCH fun uploading our music to iTunes and -Pod! I'm compiling a list of songs that will bankrupt me when I start up an account at iTunes.com.

The first signs of spring have emerged--the trees show mists of red buds where before there were only gray branches; the grass after a weekend of rain is now a startlingly rich green, incongruous against the bleak skies and mostly empty garden plots, and we've had our snowdrops and crocuses--we're already on to daffodils, narcissi and paperwhites. I love spring flowers the most (aside from peonies), because they herald spring, my favorite season. It's not my favorite because of my birthday, though my mother used to tell me that she went to the hospital on a night to have me before any flowers deigned to show themselves, and when we emerged 4 days later, everything was abloom in MY honor--this was doubtless a great influence on my character, which I like to describe as "self-affirming" but which other people have other choice words for.
But I digress. The air sweetens, the light softens, and there's mud and the promise of summer. This spring, there's even more promise: of quitting, sailing, Cape Cod, and grad school, in that order. But just like the flowers (and the warmth), it's coming slowly; 8 weeks til quitting seems to be going by awfully slowly.

More soon, and better composed; this was just a place-holder since I've been at the theater every night this week, sometimes til midnight. For a chick who needs 10 hours of sleep a night, trust me, it's painful.





A Bicycle County
by Nilo Cruz
The Mobtown Theater (directions here)
April 8, 9, 10, 15, 16, 17, 18, 22, 23
8PM Fri/Sat, 2 PM Sun
Tickets: $15 adults, $12 students