The Post You've All Been Waiting For (And, Yeah, Me Too)

I openly admitted in a previous post that I read infertility blogs. I do not know why. Just chalk it up as another thing I do that makes my mother ask me when she sees me, "What on earth happened to you as a child? What did we do to you?!?" Seriously, I don't know. But I read them. I like them. So shut up.

I prefer finding the weblogs that I read (infertility and otherwise) from various sources and then going back to the archives so that I can read from the very beginning. This is my own version of TiVo. I can go as fast as I like, reading one post after the other, summer to Christmas and beyond and I don't have to wait for anyone to update or post a new entry. I don't have to sit and click "REFRESH" over and over, just to see what happens next. By the time I reach the present date for any blog, I am both irritated and weirded out.

I'm irritated because at that point, the TiVo is over. If I want to know what happens next, I have to wait for that person to publish their next posting and I DON'T KNOW WHEN THAT WILL BE. I'm weirded out because it suddenly hits me that it's the current date, the PRESENT TIME, and these magical fake people I've been reading about on the internet are not FICTIONAL but are REAL and are BREATHING SOMEWHERE IN THE WORLD RIGHT THIS MINUTE. When I scroll through archives, I read as if enjoying a good book. When it ends, I'm struck by the realization that other people exist in this world besides myself.

Weird.

My favorite moments in blogs, specifically the pregnancy/infertility blogs that I frequent, are those moments when the waiting is over. Suddenly, the woman who has waited through ten years of scarred ovary tissue and three miscarriages announces the unthinkable: She is PREGNANT. Or, the woman who has waited so long for a baby finally hears that there is a child waiting for her to adopt and that she's getting on a plane to meet him for the first time. It's what makes me come back over and over to those often depressing blogs. It strengthens my belief that miracles happen and that if you just keep holding out and giving it your best, sometimes God comes through.

Well. I am not equating my life with those people who are trying so desperately to conceive life. I would never do that and no, I don't think it's the same. But the waiting is the same. The holding out is the same. The wondering if it's really worth all the hard work is the same. The beating yourself up all the time is the same. And no, I'm not having a baby so CALM THE HELL DOWN Y'ALL. And no, this particular thing isn't a cure-all and it certainly doesn't guarantee me any success in the future, no, of course not.

But it's a step.

A goal has been met.

Nine months ago, (see? the pregnancy metaphor never dies!) I posted this entry about an awful audition I went in for. I was sick, I had the wrong songs, etc. In one of the last paragraphs, I wrote:

"I don't think I'll say that I can turn it around 180 degrees and land a job, but maybe I can just show her [the casting director] that I'm not a horrible singer/actress for future reference."

Oh, Laura. How prophetic you be.

I was called in by the same casting director a few weeks ago. It was the 5th time I auditioned for this company and I told no one. Since previous auditions and subsequent callbacks had resulted in nothing but disappointment and frustration, I kept it to myself. It was my first audition in two full months. I went to the callback on Tuesday to dance, sing and read again. I left and went back to work, vowing that I was soon going to switch careers because really? This acting thing is just too hard.

People tell me that things begin to happen just as you are about to give up hope. Just when you are about to scream "DAMN IT ALL FORGET IT!", God laughs to himself and hands you something you least expect. It's just the way that it goes.

Needless to say, I received a phonecall this afternoon.

I begin rehearsals on the 14th of September for a play. An actual play where I will sing and dance and show my true rockstar roots of awesomeness. When I begin to perform for an audience this fall, it will have been two years since I was last cast in a production of any kind. In approximately two weeks, I hit my One Year of Auditioning in NYC Anniversary. One whole year. That's how long it took. And in the scheme of things, I am one of the lucky ones.

I will be in New York City until October 1st in rehearsals and then I will be leaving to tour parts of the country through December 17th. I have heard most of the places where I am going and am quite thrilled. (Some include Lebanon, Afghanistan, North Korea...oh wait. Wrong tour.) I'll hold off for now on naming any specific details until I have signed my contract, for obvious reasons. Most notably, I'm still paralyzed with the possibility that the casting director will call me back and say, "OH WAIT. Wrong Laura! SORRY!"

In December, provided I can come up with at least $400 out of the $1100 mandatory initiation fee, I will be joining the AEA. That's right, the American Engineering Association. Oh. Wait. Sorry, no. Ahem. The ACTOR'S EQUITY ASSOCIATION. This is a secret, holy organization, created for many good reasons and also able to intimidate young actors with its omnipotent power.

Last year, at a party full of actors, a guy strolled up to me and before he could even ask if I wanted a beer he asked me, "So....are you Equity?"

Uhhhhhhhhh. I was forced to mumble a "no" and find my own Amstel Light.

The Equity building on 46th Street, where many auditions are held, is run like Alcatraz. No one gets in without showing their coveted union card. Wooden benches are provided outside the main doors so that the non-equity actors can sit down and commiserate while waiting hours just to see if they will be allowed in to sing at all. Also, if they ever need to go to the bathroom, they have to LEAVE THE BUILDING and use the one at the McDonald's across the street. No Equity card? No bathroom privileges. I am grateful that when I return in December, my Equity card will allow me to use a lovely, clean bathroom in Times Square, where people actually urinate IN the toilet, should I ever require it.

Other than that, it shouldn't matter. Belonging to Equity doesn't make you a good actor. There are tons of amazing actors that are non-equity. Becoming a member doesn't guarantee you a role in a Broadway show or really anything at all except that you'll pay union dues for the rest of your life, should you choose to stay in it. It's just that to young actors like myself who so desperately want to be taken seriously, Equity feels like peace on the Gaza Strip--totally unattainable.

When I participated in the work-study program at Broadway Dance Center, tons of union actors would come in and flash their cards to get the union rate for class. Equity actors surrounded me at auditions, waltzing in at 3 pm to get an appointment in a room where I had been sitting since 6:45 in the morning. I was so envious and often had to stop myself from blurting out, "HOW ON EARTH DID YOU GET THAT?!" and "WHY DON'T I HAVE ONE!?!?!?"

There is no one way. It's often a lucky chance, a fluke thing, something that just happens. Everyone has their own "How I Got Into Equity" story. And now, provided all goes well, I will have mine. I will post it at a later date and only when I have that beautiful little piece of paper in my hand. And only after I've pinched myself 20,000 times on my thigh, just to make sure that the moment is real and true. I will give you all the details of the audition and the tour and how it felt when I got a phonecall that made me feel alive for the first time in a long, long while.

Thanks to all of the people in my life who have been there for me during all those times when that phonecall never came. Thank you for listening to me cry out of sheer disappointment and confusion, thank you for soothing me. Also, thank you to the casting directors who rejected me over the past year. Seriously. Because then I wouldn't have been here to pick up the phone. And maybe I wouldn't have really understood the meaning of grateful.

Thanks for riding with me on the roller coaster, kids.

I've finally hit the top of a long, steep hill and I'm bracing myself for the thrill of the wind and the breathtaking joy that is sure to rush at me and overpower me on the long way down.

Peace.

Speaking of Ultra-Soul...

My cousin, Tom, moved to LA a few months ago because he stupidly thought it would be a good idea. So much for spending our lives together in East Coast bliss. Because of this decision, obviously, he is now dead to me. But that is besides the point. He spent last summer there, interning at a casting agency. Tom would always call me with some KICKASS story because he got to deal with actors on a regular basis and as we all know, actors are batshit crazy.

It was not rare for someone to drop off or mail in their headshot and resumé with some sort of extravagant plea for representation or a promise of an audition. It amazed me that people would willingly barter in exchange for a chance at stardom. The actors would make desperate attempts, offering candy, assorted baked goods and, my personal favorite, a voucher for free horseback riding lessons. "PLEASE! JUST SEND ME OUT ON AN AUDITION!" they would beg. How could you turn them down? I mean, free horseback riding lessons? You're ON!

Tom now works for a Literary Talent Agency and you would think maybe people would realize that going to such extremes ("I WILL GIVE YOU MY FIRSTBORN CHILD IF YOU WILL MAKE ME FAMOUS!") doesn't really work. But, as we've all learned, most of the population (specifically the "Actor Population") are out of their Godforsaken minds. Yesterday, Tom sent me an e-mail with the latest story. Observe:

Tom's Latest Encounter With Crazy (edited for grammatical errors and because sometimes Tom makes up words that do not exist):

"So I'm at work and I hear a knock at the door, which is weird 'cause everyone usually just walks in. I wait to see if someone will enter but no one does and so, I go to open it and find this Asian dude standing there. He says, 'I have meeting. And I have to go.' I just stood there because I didn't know what else to do. So, he handed me his headshot and resumé and ran away. I looked at the headshot, smirked, and then read this:

{This is word for word, exactly as I see it on the page.}

'Hello, I am a Japanese Actor and also a stunt man.
I' m sorry, I can't speak English enough
I can Boxing, Kickboxing, Japanese Sword, Koppo, Diving and more. {then written in handwriting} and Reactions.
I have only Sightseeing VISA, so I have to go back to Japan Sep. 4.
If I get a Job, However, I will come back here soon again.
American Cinemas give the world a Great Influence, and it inspires me a lot.
I think so something I can do convey, swell with Feeling.
I can do anything for that reason.
I want to try anything.
I would even be crazy and crush into a Fireball.
If you approve of My "FRONTIER SPIRIT" and "ULTRA-SOUL".
Would you please let me do the Stunt or Actor.
Please give me a chance!!!'

Scene."


Oh. Thomas. Oh, faithful blog readers. There are so many things I could say, (and I will), so many "Favorite Moments" I'd like to point out from this heartbreaking e-mail. Heartbreaking because at the root of it, doesn't it just shatter your very soul? Maybe because I'd have to agree with this young man when he fervently declares, "I WANT TO TRY ANYTHING!" Don't you all feel the same way? Perhaps I should mold this blog to be a little bit more like this unknown eager beaver.

Lovely readers, I, like this aspiring actor, am dying to know if you approve of my FRONTIER SPIRIT and ULTRA-SOUL! Do you?

Do you, really?

And no, surely I can't claim that "I can Boxing, KickBoxing, Japanese Sword." Perhaps I'd be more successful in life if I could go around telling people that I could INDEED Japanese Sword but...I can't. And please, don't fault me for that. Go ahead and praise this young man for having the courage to admit that he can not only Japanese Sword but that he is willing to "crush into a Fireball".

How does one do that? HOW!?!? Why didn't I learn that skill in college!? And also, would it make a good drinking game?! I would totally be a famous actor by now if I could Japanese Sword, Diving and crush into a Fireball! TOTALLY. FAMOUS. Teach me, oh wise one. Teach me the ways to true artistry.

Are we not all inspired by this young man!? Inspired by someone who will go DOOR TO DOOR in order to brag that he can "Reactions"? I'm sure he meant "He Can DO Reactions" but even so, I'm intrigued! You can!? You can REACTIONS?!?!? Pray tell! How!?!?! To me, this guy sounds pretty damn fierce.

Enough is enough. I'm already insecure as an actor, I don't need to dwell on the fact that this guy obviously has ten times more FRONTIER SPIRIT than I do. I just can't compete in that area, I guess. I just don't "swell with feeling" the way he promises to be able to. It's a cruel, cruel world my friends.

(Would it be too much to ask for a little "FRONTIER SPIRIT" explanation? I mean...I definitely want some but...what...is it? Does it involve a country song? Or maybe Davy Crockett? OR MAYBE a covered wagon and/or the Oregon Trail?! Wild Frontier, guys. FRONTIER SPIRIT. If you don't have it, you have died! Of dysentery!)

So perhaps I'm not exactly sure if I have FRONTIER SPIRIT or ULTRA-SOUL. Who cares? This guy obviously does and he wants everyone to know it. And so, one final bit of advice for this hopeful young Asian man who appeared at Tom's doorstep with his headshot, much like a single mother at the steps of a convent, clutching a baby she knows she just can't keep:

Concerning the last line of your note, go ahead and do "The Stunt". Live your dream. No one need give you permission to do "The Stunt". (Whatever that may mean to you.) But...

I think when you want to "do an actor", the polite thing is to always ask first before proceeding.

Peace.

The Longest Post In The History of Long

Author's Note: I apologize in advance for the length of this post and any negative light it may shed on my family and the way I was raised. Your input is welcome.

On Tuesday, I spent a slow day at work browsing blogs. I could explain to you how I came across a particular blog yesterday but then I would have to explain my guilty pleasure for MommyBlogs, especially those dealing with infertility. It seems ridiculous at 23 that I would be interested in those topics but for some reason, I am. (Most of the blogs I read are written by women in their late 20's and early 30's.) But it seemed a little less ridiculous as I stumbled on this particular blog and found that the author is just a year or so older than me, struggling to have a baby and above all, a strict, devout Roman Catholic.

She is currently documenting her first pregnancy but I started at the beginning of the Archives and am stumbling through to the present. Most of her entries speak of her husband (who she married at the age of 20), her insatiable desire for children (they began trying to conceive a few months after marriage) and most notably, her adherence and fervent acceptance of the Catholic faith. Over the course of the year or so of which I've read so far, she writes intelligently and eloquently on abortion, women in the priesthood and the Catholic views on birth control and also "ART" or, Assisted Reproductive Technology.

She is more knowledgeable about the Catholic faith than I am or ever was and she is my age. She lives in a small town in Michigan, married and pregnant. At my age. At more than one point during the course of her blog, she speaks of how badly she wants a baby and how she chooses to pray Novenas and attend daily mass and write in her prayer journal instead of going to a doctor for testing. She writes in such a way that I completely support and understand her decision and now that she is indeed pregnant, how could I not?

There are many things I could address and I'm sure I could delve into specific issues and state my point of view but those are topics for another day. What really struck me was the fact that I used to think that I would have a life like that. When I was younger, I assumed I would go to college, fall in love, marry young like my mother and pop out 4 or 5 children. And then? Things changed. While I read Arwen's blog, which was punctuated with quotes from scripture and impassioned rants on Christ’s love and peace, an overwhelming feeling of anguish and despair came over me as I slowly realized the simple truth: I used to be her.

If my mother could mark a box that would best describe her as a person, it would probably be "Roman Catholic with an Evangelical/Born-Again Oomph!" This means that while I was raised Catholic, my religious background contained bits and pieces of fundamentalism. This essentially means that unlike most Catholics, my mom sings and recites the pieces of the mass with fervor. She has no problem raising her hands or swaying or clapping to music. Growing up, we were not allowed to play with the ouija board, read horoscopes in the newspaper or dress up like witches or devils for Halloween. Compared to people in my neighborhood, my mother was some sort of maniacal extremist.

My father lost his job when I was 10 years old. It was next to impossible for him to find new teaching employment, thanks to a shaky job market and credentials that made him completely overqualified. Time after time, the fresh-faced younger candidate, straight out of college was hired instead of my father, who instead would swallow whatever pride he had left and stand on the unemployment line in order to feed his wife and four children. There are many effects that this had on me and my family, many that I carry with me to this day. More than anything though, I remember a distinct increase in the amount of church activity.

Before my father left for a job interview, we would stand in a circle in the kitchen and hold hands and pray, united in our faith that something good would come soon. But it didn't. My father interviewed all over the place and I remember talk of us moving to Pennsylvania or Connecticut. Envelopes with money would appear in our mailbox, anonymous gifts from friends of the family. We almost foreclosed on our house. Twice. Creditors called our house constantly, demanding overdue payments. I remember falling to my knees in my bedroom, crying and offering anything to God if only He would give my father some work. "Just give my mom and dad some money," I begged. And while I pleaded, my mother took charge in other ways, including dragging us all to a good ol' tent revival of sorts.

For three evenings in a row, in the middle of sticky July, an evangelist, his wife and two kids (Luke and Tiffany!) would sing and preach and clap Jesus into our hearts. At the end of a set of rockin' music and a loud Praise Be To Our Saviour! testimony, people would line up in front of the tent in a long row. One by one, the evangelist would pray over them as two men stood behind, arms open as if ready to catch a sack of potatoes. Before I could ask my mother why they were standing there, I saw a woman fall down backwards into the arms of the two men behind her. They laid her gently on the ground and moved on.

My mother calls this "Being Slain In The Spirit", where the Holy Spirit comes to you and literally strikes you down on the ground. When my father, an introverted sit-in-the-corner-and-observe kind of man, suddenly got up from his chair to go join the line, I was fascinated. The fiery evangelist finally reached him and suddenly, my father's 6'2, 230 pound frame went limp and was laid on the dirt floor by the two men who caught him. While it was kind of intriguing to see random people fall down as if struck by electricity, it was downright eerie to watch my father lay still in front of everyone. I wanted to scream and I wanted to wake him up and more than anything, I wanted the Holy Spirit to slay me down too.

During the last night of the Clap-Your-Hands-For-The-Christ-Child Celebration, I went up to be prayed over, hoping so so badly to be slain in the spirit. I felt the sweaty hands of the evangelist on my forehead and then...nothing. It was similar to the time I visited my cousins in Albany and they started praying in tongues. My mother can pray in tongues, too, a phenomenon which I cannot explain or begin to describe. My cousins couldn't believe that I had never been granted the gift and so they layed their little hands on me and prayed to Jesus that I would speak in tongues too. I prayed so hard. And still, English was all that came out of my mouth.

Throughout my young life, I accepted the Catholic church's teachings as absolute. I was taught to believe, not to question, to accept and to follow. I regurgitated everything my mother taught me, unable to form an opinion on my own because I didn't need to--Jesus had all the answers. A few of my friends in 7th grade attended the Congregational Church near our house and I would go to youth group with them because they watched movies and played mini-golf. My mother, over dinner one night, referred to that church as the "Fluff Church" and when I asked for clarification she explained that that's exactly what she meant: the church had no substance and no structure and existed solely for barbecues and youth groups that played mini-golf.

I felt it my moral duty to break the news to my friends over lunch in the cafeteria that they were indeed worshipping at a Fluff Church. Needless to say, they were beyond offended. I couldn't figure out why. It was obvious to me that the Catholic Church was the only choice and that my holier-than-thou, judgmental attitude was correct. This mentality stayed with me as I grew and I spent most of high school wearing a huge silver cross around my neck and going away on retreats. I was high on Jesus Christ and everyone knew it.

Pre-marital sex? Not on your life! I had a two year relationship with my high school boyfriend without any serious sexual activity. Abortion? Not a chance! I had a pin with two little baby feet on it, do you know a fetus can suck its thumb at 10 weeks?! Alcohol? Y'all are EVIL SINNERS!!! I did not know how to be understanding because I was not taught to be that way. I did not know how to graciously disagree because nobody showed me how. I silently judged people who did not go to church on Sunday and who told me they were "spiritual" but not "religious". What kind of bullcrap was THAT? I asked myself. God rewards people that play by the rules and I was certainly one of His favorite people. When I die and go to heaven, I am gettin' me a PARTAY.

I cannot pinpoint the exact moment that I grew apart from my upbringing. I'm sure college had a lot to do with it though I didn't really ever rebel with tons of tequila or men. I just started to realize that certain things weren't that big a deal and that there are gray areas. Like, abortion? How was I SERIOUSLY supposed to know how I felt about that when I was 16?! It was easy for me to rally against it when I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW HOW TO FRENCH KISS!

Honestly, I think I just grew up. I joined in mass at the Newman Center on campus for awhile, but I slowly grew disinterested as I realized that there was not ONE attractive male on the church volleyball team. Also, one of the priests really pissed me off. His homilies were centered around quoting philosophers and writers and I often thought he was just talking to hear himself talk. He wasn't real.

Many people have left the church or have been turned off because of a specific priest. It's an unfortunate circumstance surrounding organized religion. Lucky for me, I've known some amazing priests. This is probably because my mother knows every single one in the entire diocese and often invites them over for shrimp marinara. The point, according to my mother, is that while you may not enjoy a certain member of the clergy, that is not the reason that you are attending mass. While Protestants often declare that the focus of the mass is the people and the lesson of the day, the Catholics truly center their mass around the Eucharist. I posted a little about searching for the meaning of the Eucharist in other religions here.

One of the best things my therapist ever said to me was, "You view issues as right and wrong. There is a ton of internal struggle going on when you want to do things that you view as 'wrong'. What if there is no right or wrong? What if things just are what they are?" That theory of course, could send a society into mass hysteria and chaos but I think for ME, it was pertinent.

I do not go to church regularly anymore. I no longer think issues like contraception or premarital sex are black and white, right or wrong. I accept divorce as a heartbreaking solution to a marriage that cannot be saved. I feel like if I was told I could never have a baby the old-fashioned way, I would try everything in my power to conceive one, even methods that the Catholic church does not approve of. I cannot remember the last time I opened a Bible.

My mother (and the young girl who's blog started this tirade) says that the church is not a salad bar and that you cannot pick and choose. But why not? I disagree with a lot of things but I still have no desire to leave the church. I enjoy the structure, the meaning, the traditions, the hymns. I find strength in the words of prayer and in the songs and psalms I was taught. When I am alone and deathly afraid (read: when in an airplane or elevator), I silently pray the rosary. I am not anti-Catholicism, not by any means.

I just wonder where that girl went? I'd like to think that I am a better person now. That, if the people from high school could see me now, they would not judge me or think I am the same as I used to be. That I would NEVER say you worship at a Fluff Church. That I would NEVER judge you for using birth control or being divorced or getting drunk. I'd like to think that you would know that I would love you and accept you and hey, bring some pinot grigio and let's talk about YOUR thoughts over shrimp marinara!

But if I say that I am more understanding now, more educated, more experienced than it will sound like I am saying that devout Catholics are naive and ignorant. But they aren't. My mother is one of the smartest people I know. She is funny and beautiful and joyous and loving. The young girl from that blog is too. I just am not the way I used to be and because of Catholic guilt or the simple truth or both, I feel that this makes me a failure as a follower of Christ. I was on a path, I was doing so well and then I lost my way. I'm not 17 anymore but I still believe in God and have faith and think that I am a good person. The problem is that I was taught that that isn't good enough.

We all know I'm insecure and have very little confidence. I could blame people for it but I'm old enough to know better and accept responsibility. The essence of it is that I was raised in fear. When you are afraid for the first 15 or 16 years of your life that when you mess up, you will be punished by a force greater than you've ever known, it is hard to feel good about yourself. And so, I am a perfectionist; I hate admitting my mistakes and I would rather lie about them than admit them in most cases, that is how afraid I am. I'm getting better but it's not easy.

Basically, I'm having trouble reconciling the ego and the humility. As an actor, I need to be impenetrable. I need to walk tall, let criticism fall off my shoulders and have strength in my abilities. But I was taught to be selfless and giving and forgiving. I do not know how to balance my sensitivity with being a strong, confident young woman. Instead, I let people walk all over me and I feel tons of guilt when I take time for myself or speak up for myself. My mother taught me to be independent but she did not teach me how to be confident. I don't think it's a lesson she could have taught me. Maybe no one can.

So. I went to church yesterday.

There is a glorious Episcopalian cathedral a block away from my office. Upon further examination, I found out that they have a 12:05 celebration of the Eucharist in the chapel. Essentially, it's a 25-minute mass. A gospel, a sermon, some prayers, the bread and wine, the dismissal. It varies slightly from a Catholic mass but not by much. The most notable difference yesterday was the fact that it was presided over by two women.

The sermon was about St. Benedict and the psalm we recited is one of my favorites of all time. Everything was spoken instead of sung because it was a daily mass but I remember singing this particular psalm (Taste and See) at my church back home and the melody of it haunted me the rest of the day. The words of the song are altered a bit from the words of the text but my favorite lines of Psalm 34 are these:

"Worship the Lord with me,
You'll want for nothing if you ask.
I called the Lord and He answered me,
From all my troubles, He set me free."

And that's the kind of God I believe in now. A God who absolves me without me having to beg. A God who is present whether I go to church or not. A God who is with me when I go for long runs and admire the sunset over the Manhattan skyline. A God who smiles when I have a good laugh with a friend and a God who is there for me when friends are not so kind. A God who has given me so many blessings and who still loves me even when I mess up.

The Episcopalians do not utter the Catholic, "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you" before they accept the bread or, Body of Christ. My uncle, who is Catholic, simply refuses to say it as he hates the idea that he could ever be unworthy of anything. I understand his reasoning but did not agree at that moment. Since daily mass was attended by a small number of people, we all knelt up at the altar yesterday, awaiting the blessing of the bread. All I could think was that I was truly unworthy, having been away so long and having been so critical of the entire institution and I started to cry.

I'm not sure I can ever feel that "I LUV CHRIST WWJD!" feeling ever again. I'm not sure I have it in me to praise the Lord so openly and unabashedly. I miss the feeling that I thought I knew everything and that I had all the answers. I'm trying to accept that you can never really go back and that really, I like myself more the way I am now. And yet, I still want to have faith. I still want to believe.

I walked back to my seat, sat in the pew and allowed my head to fall into my hands. And as my tears flowed, I whispered my only prayer, hoping and knowing that God would hear me,

"Let me come back, let me come back, let me come back, let me come back..."

Peace.

Working Hard For The Money, Dee Deet, Dee Deet

My Life: Working 65 hour weeks with less than six hours of sleep a night, spending 8:30-5:15 at the office, commuting downtown to the twins from 6 until 9 or 10 or maybe midnight. Six hours of sleep seems like it could be fine, for any normal person. But for me to function properly, I need a good 8 or 10 and it needs to be uninterrupted. As it happens, I've been sleeping so lightly lately that I'm easily awakened by...

My air conditioner.

WHAT!? I don't know why, either! This has never happened before!

I tried shutting it off but then I'm sweating so badly, I can't sleep because I'm just too hot. I find it uncanny that I can fall asleep to the quiet hum of the AC, drifting off to Neverland with ponies, only to bolt upright a few hours later, clutching my pillow and screaming WHY IS SOMEONE JACKHAMMERING IN MY ROOM?! WHY WON'T IT GO AWAY!? SWEET JESUS PLEASE! I do not know how to muffle the sound or soothe myself back to sleep.

I also do not know how to stop taking Crazy Pills.

Point of the story is: I'm tired. On top of my usual corporate/babysitting work week, I went away with the twins to their house upstate from Sunday-Tuesday. You got that. 72 hours of craziness with adorable baby beans! You know, though, they stop being adorable when you can hear them screaming at 3:30 in the morning. They often roll over and hit into each other during their sleep, causing at least one to wake up screaming his head off. This seems perfectly logical to me because obviously, there are people with KNIVES threatening to cut him in his sleep. KNIVES. Suffice it to say, the screaming is loud and it is startling.

What was also startling about being upstate? Glad you asked.

I slept on a really high bed that was missing a mattress. So, I was given an air mattress to put on top of the boxspring in order for me to have a somewhat comfortable sleep and not have to feel like I was sleeping on concrete. I appreciated this gesture. For a time.

I soon realized in the middle of the night, amid the twins maniacal outbursts, that the air mattress must have had a hole in it somewhere. This caused me to wake up periodically to find myself deflating. By 4 or 5 am, I didn't feel like I was sleeping on a lovely firm air mattress; I felt like I was sleeping on a slab at the morgue, with some sticky rubber underneath me added for good measure.

My next evening off is Friday, July 14th. (Flag Day.) My next full DAY off is Sunday, July 16th. I'd like to point out that everyone should feel bad for me, if you aren't already. I'd like to know why God decided that I should have to work for a living. Or maybe ask him about these pesky "bill" things I'm supposed to be paying.

Let's compare the above description of my life to my roommate's. Shall we?

My Roommate: Comes back from tour and goes to the gym a lot. Is invited to audition for another show less than two weeks after being back in the city. He auditions. Books it. And is granted his Equity card in the process. Also, fills sink up with dirty dishes, leaves them there for three days.

My roommate is ridiculously talented. He is a male. He is gorgeous. His voice is the gentle soaring beautiful voice of Jesus Christ. (If Jesus was gay and into musical theater of course. Which, who knows?!) My roommate deserves every show he books. He deserves his Equity card and I will see him on Broadway very shortly, looking hot and mesmerizing.

You have to understand though, in my exhausted, struggling to pay my bills state, that I was a little disheartened and frustrated. I'm not supposed to compare my success with other people's, we're all on a different path, I'll get there sooner or later, blah blah. That is just a bunch of crap people tell you so they don't have to listen to you bitch and moan. This is why I have a blog. So I can bitch and moan in between thinking positively that things are SUPER! I was trying NOT to compare myself to my roommate but I think it's safe to say that for a day or so I felt like I SUCKED and that I was a complete and total failure.

But I think I'm back to normal now. We took the babies in the pool for a swim and while I was holding Owen, I blew bubbles under the water, making him laugh hysterically. His gutteral giggles had me cracking up with him, especially when he'd laugh so hard that he'd fall forward and press his little forehead to mine.

While the babies napped, I swam some laps alone, I tried to nap, I took long hot showers. And at the end of my days upstate, I crawled into bed around 9:15, exhausted and willing to put things in perspective. Maybe that's all it takes: Laying in a bed in New Paltz, realizing life isn't so bad, listening to whimpers of startled twins and the gentle wheeze of air being let out of the mattress underneath you.

Peace.