The Spectrum

Change of Seasons

lauradlug4@yahoo.com (TheSpectrum) — Thu, 28 Aug 2008 01:32:00 +0000

Some great people have been writing about the change in the weather. I seem to recall many past Augusts, full of humidity and perspiration, sundresses and record-breaking heat. This year, it feels like September has arrived early. It feels summery in the middle of the day but cool and crisp at night and in the early morning during my jogs. Yesterday, I went running in long pants and a sweatshirt. I felt so awake.

I wonder if this will disappear as soon as it came and if the mercury will climb again into an extended Indian summer. Last year, the heat seemed suspended forever, making me wonder if fall was ever going to show up. Now, it seems as if the next season is so excited that it can’t help appearing early. I can honestly say that I couldn’t more pleased, as autumn seems to bring out the best in me.

We’ve been doing a lot of evaluation lately, my friends and I. With quite a few birthdays hovering around, there’s been a bit of pensive reflection, a taking stock of all that has transpired and all that has yet to be. Every few months, with the change of seasons, I seem to do the same. I get the itch to clean, to compartmentalize, to look at my life and see what isn’t working. What have I learned? How can I improve? Where do I go next and how do I get there?

I have lived in my apartment over three years. Three years ago this past May, I moved in, a naïve, energized girl, thrilled to be on her own in the big city, envisioning that things would mostly be easy. A career would materialize effortlessly, people would instantaneously like me, acting jobs would flow, friendships would sustain, relationships would last.

It’s an understatement to say that I have grown up quite a bit since then. I wouldn’t classify me as bitter or jaded at all but there is a pragmatism I have matured into, a realization, an awareness. I have learned so much about me. The annoying cliché of a twenty-something moving to a big city to find herself irritatingly applies to me.

Some of these lessons learned have been hands down, disgustingly awful. Who knew I had so many faults?! I make mistakes. Huge ones. I mistreat people without meaning to, I sometimes manipulate the truth to my advantage, I care too much what other people think, I am a terrible auditioner, I gossip a lot, I don’t always see both sides, I am often incredibly vain, I am horrible at returning phone calls and even worse at keeping in touch. Also, if you tell me to meet you at 7 PM, I will show up at 7:08. I don’t plan it that way; it just always seems to happen like that.

But there have also been glorious revelations. Some of them are so surprising. Despite my apparent social ease, I am actually incredibly introverted. Group activities make me anxious and exhausted. I don’t enjoy being loud or drawing attention to myself in public and even if I’m dating someone I really enjoy, I usually always want to go home at some point and be alone. I sometimes suffer from anxiety, depression and issues with food.

My self-esteem which seemed to dissipate completely in my late teens has been steadily climbing. I feel like a stronger woman instead of a weak girl. I feel like I have something to say, something worth hearing. I am creative, I love to bake and pick out the perfect gift, I am witty and I will compliment your shoes if I think they are nice. I am observant and rarely miss anything--the writer that lives in my head is automatically scribbling down details as I talk to you. You may think I don’t notice. I do.

When I compare the girl I am now to the girl I was when I moved here, I am astounded. I really am morphing into some vague version of an adult. I still trip over my feet and smack my head on things and there are still people in the world who find me incredibly annoying or dull. But…now? I am kind of okay with all that. I am klutzy but I am spirited, I can be awkward but I can be enjoyable. I’m twenty-five years old and I feel like anything can happen to me, anything at all.

I have been clearing out our closets and drawers, repainting, retouching, making room for new things. I’d like to think I can do this metaphorically as well as literally. I am once again clearing out the chaos so that better things can come inside and bring me joy, maybe teach me something about myself.

Autumn makes me feel affectionate and cozy, alive and authentic. I’d like a new set of crayons, some new pairs of tights, a mug of cider, a fire in the fireplace. As the summer winds down, I feel hopeful for the change of seasons. I’m so grateful to be growing and maturing, to be touched by people, to live in an environment that challenges me and makes me want to become more aware, softer, sweeter, more honest and true. And really, I couldn’t ask for anything more than that.

Photographic Evidence

lauradlug4@yahoo.com (TheSpectrum) — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 00:55:00 +0000

Currently, I don't have access to my camera so getting pictures up of our new home renovations has been a slow process. Behold, the "Before" picture of our living room. (And no, I don't know what the F is on that bookshelf either.)

Luckily, I stole my roommates' camera and discovered he had some hidden gems on there from the very first weekend of Operation Paint Everything In Sight including but not limited to a picture of my other "I Install Track Lighting While You Sleep" roommate making the best facial expression ever:

This is the part of the blog where I make out with the wall. Note the fantastic meeting of Pocahontas Brown and Fantasy Flight Blue.

I had a crazy weekend of birthday debauchery so I'm going to crawl into bed and recover in preparation for the two other birthday parties happening later in the week. Why was everyone I know born in the same week? WHY???

I'm not sure. But I feel like I shouldn't question it because man, it's so incredibly fun to celebrate and relax and forget for a little while that things have been a bit rough. Between my Pocahontas walls and my friends who make me laugh and laugh and then laugh harder, I really am such a lucky girl.

See the rest on Flickr.

2 AM

lauradlug4@yahoo.com (TheSpectrum) — Sat, 23 Aug 2008 05:57:00 +0000

My car is making funny sounds. It doesn't look good, kids.

Obama has picked Biden. Am very happy about this. No idea why.

Got some fresh tomatoes, fresh basil, a red onion and fresh garlic from the CSA this week.

Tomorrow, I shall gather those ingredients, toss them in a pot and make some homemade pasta sauce.

I'm also planning on getting a mani/pedi because sometimes the Long Island in me is unstoppable.

Also, I have been instructed to begin painting the trim and molding around the house. The walls came out so well that now the boring white parts look, well, boring. And white. And a bit dingy. My roommate bought the paint already which saves me the hassle of running to the store.

"Oh! You bought white paint so I can do the molding?"

"Laura. It's not white. It's almond."

"You realize that you are very, very gay?"

"Completely."

So, yes. I will be painting the house almond. It's worthy to note that RENOVATE THE APARTMENT 2008 has become an alarming obsession. The aforementioned Homosexual Roommate walks in the door with Home Depot bags EVERY SINGLE DAY.

Lighting fixtures, new light switch plates, primer, coat hooks, you name it. The kid is on a roll which is very ironic because he leaves on tour in a few weeks and won't be around to enjoy the fruits of his labor.

"OMG LAURA! I BOUGHT SILVER DOOR KNOBS!!!"

"But...we have door knobs."

"But they're not silver and they definitely don't match our new place."

"We don't have a new place. We just painted an old place."

"Stop ruining my fantasy."

In between me going to sleep on Monday night and waking up Tuesday morning, he installed track lighting in our hallway. TRACK LIGHTING. It illuminates...the hallway. And since the walls are pretty bare right now due to the fresh paint job, when you turn on the amazing track lighting, it casts a huge heavenly glow on...a blank wall.

Speaking of which? We painted our living room a chocolate brown and the name of our paint was Pocahontas. Does anyone else find that racist? Anyone?

I probably should not be up right now talking about this. I have lots of almond molding to paint tomorrow and a rip roarin' birthday party to attend tomorrow evening. So, please pray for my car which is making a thumping/clacking/BOOM BOOM BOOM sound that can't be good. And also, please pray for my homosexual roommates. I hope they find the Lord Jesus but I really really hope they never stop going to Home Depot because OMFG DID I MENTION THE TRACK LIGHTING!?!??!?!!?

Sittin' on Babies

lauradlug4@yahoo.com (TheSpectrum) — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 17:07:00 +0000

I'm with Owen and River today which is odd because it means I took the day off work to work. It's complicated. I digress.

I already got yelled at by two ladies who work for the Battery Park City Conservancy. These women are completely ridiculous and drive around on little golfcarts all day wearing ugly pale blue shirts pretending they have an actual job to do. And yes, I get it, you are conserving the parks. I take you and your authority very seriously.

They accused me of not watching my children because the twins were picking leaves off the ground while I pushed an empty stroller and let them explore. We were on a NATURE WALK and it was KIND OF AWESOME until I was rudely interrupted by haters.

"HEY LADY. MAYBE YOU SHOULD WATCH YOUR KIDS. YOU CAN'T JUST LET THEM PICK LEAVES AND FLOWERS OUT OF OUR GARDENS."

Oh. You mean the dead branches they picked up off the ground and the one huge hibiscus flower River plucked before I told him not to? Oh, that? Yes. I see what you mean. This is serious, definitely a situation that calls for yelling at me in public. I love being accosted on a beautiful day by two bitter people. In fact, I live for it.

I explained to them that I was indeed watching my children and also, could you please lay off the judgment of my parenting skills? They tried to continue bitching at me until I flew inexplicably off the handle and started ranting about supporting each other as mom's and as females and that I could DO WITHOUT THEIR CONDESCENDING TONE AND RIDICULOUS BATTERY PARK NAZI WAYS. POINT TAKEN. NO MORE FLOWER PICKING. MAYBE NEXT TIME YOU COULD USE A LITTLE UNDERSTANDING AND COMPASSION. I'M NOT HAVING THE GREATEST DAY.

I actually said that. It was so out of character for me to actually stand up for myself that I started shaking and crying as I walked away. After thinking about it later, I was kind of awed at how defensive I became. I mean, I went ballistic super mom crazy and THESE AREN'T EVEN MY CHILDREN.

In other news, during quiet time today AKA "Let's All Sit On Our Beds And Shut Up Thank You", I was reading "Where The Wild Things Are", the boys' current favorite book.

Me, Reading Aloud: 'And now', cried Max, 'Let the wild rumpus start!'

The next three pages are full of pictures of Max and the wild things cavorting in a weird way that strikes me as almost sexual and inappropriate and I decided to add my own commentary since there aren't any written words.

Me: See, now Max and the wild things are dancing.

River: No. They're not.

Me: What? Yes, they are, dude. They are parading around and dancing and having a grand old time.

River: No.

Me: Okay, fine. What are they doing?

River: LAURA DLUG. THEY ARE RUMPUSING.

Oh. My bad.

And now, since Owen is singing Rihanna's "Unfaithful" and River is trying to throw a football into the toilet, I'm guessing I should get back to work. And by work, I mean the boys and I are setting out to find the Battery Park Conservancy ladies and kick their ass into the Hudson River. Wish me luck.

The Toughest Part

lauradlug4@yahoo.com (TheSpectrum) — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 12:36:00 +0000

The hardest thing about what I'm going through is that I have to do it 100% on my own. I mean, my friends can talk to me or take me to Target or buy me some Thai food. But I cannot hash it out directly with the person involved because frankly, I find it inappropriate.

I'd love nothing more than to be reached out to. I'd love to have dinner or a drink or just an opportunity to see him again because I guarantee you I probably never will again. (Cue: Heart! Shattering!) I want to be able to say what I need to say and probably cry into my food. And I'd love to be told that I am still a lovable person, that I will always have a place with him and he wishes me the best. I want to know for certain that he is marrying for the right reasons, that he is blissfully happy, that he is very much in love, as much as that will kill me to hear. I want closure.

But really? This exists in my own mind. As I said before, my violent reaction to this news is no one's issue but mine. It is no longer his responsibility to take care of me, to look out for me, to fix my problems. And it is unfair to ask him to do so. I've fretted with writing an e-mail or picking up the phone but I still feel fragile and I don't know what that would accomplish.

The options are to send him a note and wish him well or to declare my undying love for him and beg him to marry me instead. And since both of those things feel false to me because, well, I'm too sad to congratulate and I'm still not ready to move to the suburbs and become a wife, not to mention break up an engagement, my only action is inaction.

And so, for now, I grieve alone. There may not be anything else to say about this whole situation. So, maybe together we can look forward to moving past this, knowing that pain only makes us stronger and eventually, it does fade away to make room for boundless joy.

Dumbest Woman Ever

lauradlug4@yahoo.com (TheSpectrum) — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 22:41:00 +0000

In the elevator today, I rode up to my floor with a woman and her male coworker. She was wearing a black skirt and blazer, black stockings and bright white socks and sneakers. I know that New York is a walking city and full of commuters and all but...um, why? There is simply no reason for such an ensemble. Especially in summer. NONE.

Male Co-worker (continuing previous conversation): Yeah and she paid like 11,000 G's.

Stupid Woman: What?

Male Co-worker: Like, 11,000 G's.

Stupid Woman: G's?

Male Co-worker: Nevermind.

*Awkward silence as we all scan the television which is broadcasting Olympic headlines*

Random Woman Next To Me Making Conversation: How old is Michael Phelps anyway?

Stupid Woman: 28.

Male Co-worker: What!? No. He was 16 in the last Olympics.

Stupid Woman: But that would make him, like, 21.

Male Co-worker: Yeahhhh...

Stupid Woman: So, that can't be right.

Male Co-worker: Why?

Stupid Woman: I don't know. I don't think people that young can compete in the Olympics.

This is the part of the story where I punch her in the knees and run back to my desk in awe. I'm sorry but I will never cease to be impressed with really really dumb people.

Intermission

lauradlug4@yahoo.com (TheSpectrum) — Sun, 17 Aug 2008 05:48:00 +0000

I'd like to interrupt the current ramblings of heartache and agony to broadcast my very first foray into YouTube-dom. I understand that linking to this bridges the gap between Blogger Laura and Performer Laura in a way that I probably can never reverse. I rarely ever post video of myself talking let alone singing let alone making a total ass out of myself. But honestly guys? I've been blogging for ten years. We've been through a lot. And you should know that for your amusement and adoration, I will do anything.

And so, I present to you, the very first video clip of my most recent cabaret.

Spread the love and enjoy.

Clarification, BFF's, Target, etc.

lauradlug4@yahoo.com (TheSpectrum) — Fri, 15 Aug 2008 12:22:00 +0000

The good news is that I've blogged a record four times this week.

The bad news is that I'm still crying.

However, I wanted to tell you that it is ALL GOOD. Last night, my nonsexual heterosexual life partner who shall heretofore be referred to as The Wito for reasons that will not be explained here, took me to Target. Well, I took HIM to Target because I have a car. A car without AC. Oh yes, people, I do live in style.

Anyway, I am now the proud owner of multiple picture frames to hang around my newly painted apartment and a vast array of eco-friendly cleaning supplies. Nothing really makes me happier than a trip to Target. Except perhaps a trip to Bed Bath and Beyond but don't even mention it, don't even SAY IT OUTLOUD because I might pee my pants.

Alayna is taking me out to dinner tonight because she is BACK IN TOWN! I picked her up at John F. Kennedy International Airport (I just wanted to say the full name) late into the evening on Tuesday. Her flight was supposed to get in at 12:40 but the plane couldn't find the gate (WHA???) and so we didn't get in the car to drive home until about 1:30 AM. Thank God there was construction for the entire length of the Van Wyck causing us to sit bumper to bumper until finally turning onto my street close to 3 in the morning.

But hey! Mah best friend is back and last night we had a very fantastic phone conversation. And by conversation, I mean that I wept uncontrollably while holding my cellphone to my ear and Alayna just kept talking, hoping that I was listening. I also maybe blew my nose into the speaker approximately four times. BUT THAT'S WHAT BEST FRIENDS ARE FOR.

So, thank you to Alayna for listening to me blow mucus and to The Wito for taking me to Target, land of happy happy things I want to buy.

I just wanted to clarify something I've been thinking of since I last posted. Many of my friends kept asking me to identify my feelings about this whole damn "My Ex-Boyfriend Is Getting Married" thing. A number of them suggested, "Is it just because YOU'RE not getting married?"

And honestly? No. The feelings I have are complex and I am STILL trying to sift through them. But the one thing I didn't feel was "I WISH I WAS GETTING MARRIED TOO!" The fact of the matter is that I'm not in a position to get married right now not to mention that marriage has never been something I've ever been particularly excited about, as anti-girl as that may seem.

I never dreamed of my wedding when I was little. I have no idea about what color the bridesmaids will wear or what flowers I need to hold or what time of year to walk down the aisle. For some reason, it's just never something that ever concerned me. And while children have always been something I've known that I will need one day, marriage has not.

It is more the IDEA of marriage and what it means. It is the hope of finding someone that I click with and that I know, inherently without question, that I want to spend all my time with, forever. It is having someone that close to you, the comfort, the security, the partnership, the team, the feeling of having someone who knows you better than anyone else in the world. And also, of course, being able to tonguekiss this person.

So, no. I'm not upset because I want to be married. Maybe I'm upset because I'm not upset! MAYBE THAT. But you know? I think this is more about the specific person involved. As I said to Abbie in the post below, I think I would genuinely be happy for some of my exes right this very moment if they had found someone special. I think I could selflessly be all, "ROCK ON! THAT IS GREAT!" and I might even wipe my forehead with relief because thank GOD that crazy parade is movin' on to someone else.

But this one is different somehow. And that's what I'm going to explore as this pain continues to dwell inside of me. What exactly am I feeling? Why? What do I want to do about it? What will fix it? What can bring me to a better understanding?

And of course, when will you take me back to Target?

Nightmares and Other Late Night Revelations

lauradlug4@yahoo.com (TheSpectrum) — Thu, 14 Aug 2008 08:21:00 +0000

There are vibrating metal crashes coming from down the street, thunderous bellows that cause my heart to race even faster. Fear paralyzes me until curiosity wins out and I peek out the window only to find a garbage truck moving slowly toward me. The fan on my dresser is making a squeaking sound as it moves slowly back and forth, blowing a breeze around my darkened room. It took me a few minutes to realize where the sound was coming from. For awhile, I thought it was a mouse as I lay here breathing quickly, startled out of sleep by one of the worst nightmares I have ever had.

I almost reached for my journal so I could write it down and get it out of my head but the fact is that I do not want to remember it. I want to take a rag and a jug of Clorox and scrub my brain clean. I feel disgusted and horrified that my mind is capable of conjugating such images--dead body on a slab, packing up a bag, running and running and trying to escape.

I don't know if it has something to do with the scoop of peanut butter mixed with chocolate chips that I ate right before bed. Or if the stress of the past few weeks is catching up to me. Or both. But I had a nightmare, a terrible, startlingly real nightmare and I'm waiting for the details to fade.

I felt like a child, laying in my bed after waking up, unable to even get up and go to the bathroom because I was so afraid. Had someone been sleeping next to me, I would've turned over and woke them up but I sleep alone so I hugged my pillows and attempted to slow my breathing. I automatically began reciting Hail Mary's and some Our Father's.

I have been doing this a lot lately. It comes out of nowhere, the first time a few days ago while I was getting my monthly bikini wax. I suppose that is sacriligeous in some way but hey, there it is. When in pain, regardless of which kind, my Catholic upbringing rears its repetitive head and I methodically murmur words I learned as a child. And so, jolted awake at 3:30 this morning, I buried my head into pillows and prayed into them.

I've been struggling with the issue of censorship since I wrote Monday's post. This is of course a documentation of my life regardless of who chooses to read it. Though I am still afraid of coming off passive-aggressive by writing things here before or without addressing them in person, the fact is that I may never address them in person so, huh. What then?

This year has been a difficult stretch, a race full of hurdles that I never expected.

One year ago this month, my father was diagnosed with prostate cancer.

I got involved in a relationship with someone who was affectionate and good but also mentally unwell. After one of the most dramatic, tumultuous break ups to rival all break ups, I continue to encounter this person, if only through horribly passive-aggressive behavior, comments posted on other blogs meant for me to see. He is manipulative and cruel, in pain and bitter and the saddest thing about it is that he still thinks that I care somehow. And sadder still is that I don't.

I have lost a friend and while I have made peace with it, I will still never exactly understand why. It took me quite a bit to realize that it has nothing to do with me and everything to do with her.

I have not booked a show in over a year and while I now feel alright about that, I didn't always. I beat myself up and internalized a lot of rejection and continually fought a voice that told me that I wasn't "good enough".

And now.

An e-mail from one of, if not the greatest, loves of my life sits in my inbox at work.

"I am thinking of proposing..."

Proposing? To a girl I didn't even know you were dating?

And sure! Okay! I assumed! I didn't think you were sitting around waiting for me! But Jesus Lord in heaven, why didn't you tell me before it got to MARRIAGE LEVEL?! So I maybe could have had some time to process this?! Don't you know I'm the only one who's feelings matter here? Ha! I am delicate and self-centered! Surprise!

And amid the sea of grief, the acknowledgement of a door slamming shut with the greatest finality, the crazed wondering if I made the right choice when I walked away those years ago, the humiliation at continuing to keep in touch every few months because I didn't even know she existed, there is a peace that has to come. I wish it had been done sooner, I wish I had not found out in an e-mail at work, but at the root of it all, it is no one's fault.

No one should feel bad about getting married. No one should have to feel weird about telling me. It is my own fault that I flip the fuck out and stare blindly at my computer screen, unable to respond, almost a week later. I figure that until I can honestly 100% type, "I am so happy for you, congratulations!", I will write nothing at all. Mama needs some time to accept this and rectify her own insecurities.

And maybe I will surprise myself. Maybe I will wake up soon and laugh and realize that he is the first but he won't be the last. The men that I have dated will all eventually partner off (except maybe the crazy ones but that is for the best) and I will have to deal with my feelings of letting them go, wishing them the best, raising a glass to their futures with wives and houses and children.

I suppose underneath it all, my fear is that they will one by one move on and I will still be here. I will be renting my New York City apartment while they have mortgage payments. I will be pursuing an unstable career while they are secure. I will wake up terrified from a nightmare that rattles me to the bones and I will be unable to call them for comfort because they are sleeping next to their wife.

It's a funny thing, this crazy life I lead, risking my heart and my head jumping into relationships when I know after they are over, I am often left alone and wounded. But I am still optimistic enough to think that I should still try. I'm going to shut my laptop, drift back to sleep and wake up tomorrow and think about how I'd like to keep searching. I think I know deep down that one day I will wake up, cheeks wet from horrible dreams and someone will be there to reach for, a chest to nuzzle into, a voice groggy with sleep whispering that it's all gonna be okay.

Comic Relief

lauradlug4@yahoo.com (TheSpectrum) — Wed, 13 Aug 2008 02:37:00 +0000

My cousin Tom, who lives in LA, usually calls me on Tuesday afternoons on his drive from work to his acting class. Tonight, the following conversation transpired.

Tom: Yeah, that's totally what I was gon--WHAT? THERE IS SO MUCH TRAFFIC! WHY IS THERE SO MUCH TRAFFIC!??!

Me: (dripping with sarcasm) It's the Olympics, Tom.

Tom: YEAH, LAURA. That makes PERFECT SENSE. The Olympics just picked up and moved from Japan to Los Angeles.

*pause*

Me: Tom?

Tom: Yeah?

Me: The Olympics are in China.

Tom: Right. That's what I meant. OH MAH GOD THIS #$^!@@#$! TRAFFIC!!!!!!!!!

Still Crying But In Color

lauradlug4@yahoo.com (TheSpectrum) — Mon, 11 Aug 2008 23:19:00 +0000

My roommate walked in the door on Friday night, caught sight of our new robin's egg dining room and exclaimed, "Way to take action!" I grinned at him, paint brush in hand, covered in specks of blue.

The sudden EXTREME MAKEOVER HOME EDITION frenzy was contagious and over the course of the weekend, my roommates and I painted the entire apartment with the exception of the bedrooms and bathrooms. I expect those to be done shortly as soon as we decide on colors. My original thought for my bedroom was pale yellow until recent events shattered my soul and my roommates now refuse to accept my new suggestions.

"Why can't I paint my room black?"

"SERIOUSLY, LAURA?!?! Stick with yellow, it's more 'you'."

"What if I did a mural?"

"A mural of what?"

"I don't know, like, maybe all my ex-boyfriends covered in their own blood?"

"Well. That image would definitely get you out of bed in the morning..."

"Exactly."

I found the repetitive movements of painting comforting. Up and down, back and forth, it required just enough thought to keep me focused and calm without enormous amounts of concentration. I taped the walls and doorways and methodically lowered a roller or paintbrush into the tray. Sky blue, chocolate brown, apricot, the white walls of my apartment came alive this weekend, vibrating with color, warming up to me as I coaxed them into life.

On Sunday afternoon, after breaking down again while the roller in my hand dripped dark paint onto the protective canvas, my roommate became exasperated.

"LAURA! You are going to have to stop crying sooner or later! We are RUNNING OUT OF ROOMS TO PAINT."

I wiped my nose, nodded and rolled my grief onto the walls of the hallway.

...

It must be odd for you to read about my suffering without having an explanation for it. For the gaps in the plot, I apologize. But if this blog has taught me one thing, it is that I must always live in truth in real life before posting it on here. In the past, I occasionally had experiences and reactions and then wrote about them on here without first alerting the people in my life who were a part of them. This causes confusion and hurt, especially if I act a certain way in real life and then get on my blog and freak the hell out.

It must be disconcerting to hang out with me, have a grand old time and then read my blog only to find out that I kind of hated every second. This is an exaggerated example but one worth noting. I'm trying to respect boundaries now. It's important for everyone.

So, I have to address the situation in person first and the most excruciating thing is that I can't. I'm not 100% sure that the person involved here reads this but they have been known to in the past and I am indeed Google-able so that leaves me paralyzed. Writing about anything else seems like a lie. There isn't any use denying it: I am not feeling so frivolous at the moment.

I have no idea how to articulate my feelings as the wound is still so fresh and raw. I'm thinking the following options are likely:

1. I will wake up one day and be healed. I will achieve closure. I will move on.

OR

2. I will do none of those things but I will be better able to articulate my complex feelings on the matter. I will share them with the person in question. We will get on the same page. I will then be free to write on here as I wish.

OR

3. I will drink too much wine, sign on to blogger.com and write something COMPLETELY INAPPROPRIATE AND INCOHERENT.

But for now. For now, I will be vague and I will dance around it and in a few days, in a week, in a year, I will open up and pour it out and maybe even smile about it and we can all paint each other's nails. Maybe then I will be old and wise and have some sapient advice to share with you young folk. So, if you can go with me on this and just allow me to ramble about something that may or may not make any sense to you, that'd be great.

The more I type, the more I realize that it doesn't matter what the provenance of the pain is. Pain is pain right? And I am feeling it in a startlingly real way, experiencing all the levels and stages as if in mourning. I am angry, I am mortified, I am nostalgic, I am surprised, I am, above all, achingly, despairingly sad.

...

I left my roommates to tackle the rest of the living room on Saturday afternoon so I could head into Manhattan to babysit. As with the paint, I channeled my focus on the twins, allowing them to lift me up and distract me. We splashed in the water, sat in the sand, ate some macaroni, sang lullabies.

Around 11:30, I heard whimpering from inside their bedroom and got up from the couch to see what was wrong. When I opened the door, Owen stood there, tears streaming down his little cheeks, reaching his arms out to me.

"Did you have a nightmare?"

He didn't respond but I scooped him up and brought him over to the couch to sit on my lap. He wrapped his arms around me and nuzzled into my neck, something that is getting harder for him to do as he grows lankier and longer. I soothed him a little bit, rocking him back and forth, telling him that everything was okay and that he was safe.

I held him out at arm's length so our eyes could meet.

"Are you scared, Owen? Are you sad?"

He slowly shook his head, his eyes puffy with sleep.

"Not anymore," he whispered and curled into me.

The light from the television flickered in the darkness as I rubbed his back and realized that even though he wasn't either of those things, I was both. I breathed in baby shampoo as I rested my chin on his head and together we exhaled.

Volatile

lauradlug4@yahoo.com (TheSpectrum) — Sat, 09 Aug 2008 05:11:00 +0000

For the past few weeks, I've been so incredibly happy. I'm finding peace with my career options, I'm working at the most flexible, stable, generous job I've ever had, I've been delighting in the small things I'm able to accomplish by living a lowkey lifestyle. I bake a lot, I clean, I take long walks after dinner, I spend some great quality time with old and new friends.

I spent the majority of work today clicking my fingers on the keyboard, finishing some odds and ends, looking forward to the weekend. And because life is funny this way, in one instant I was laughing with a coworker and in the very next, I locked myself in an empty office and laid on the ground, sobbing into the carpet while my cousin reminded me over the phone to breathe and breathe and breathe.

I have always been a sensitive person. I can blame that on hormones or the fact that I'm an actor or I can just accept that this is the way I have always been. I'm wired to take things personally, I often react dramatically, I usually always cry, I'm sorry if that makes you uncomfortable.

I don't drink to numb my pain, I don't yell. I don't turn to chocolate, I don't break dishes. I tend to rearrange furniture. Or reorganize my closet. And then I go for a long run. These are all coping mechanisms that I draw on after the pain is slowly making its way out of me.

Initially, when the hurt hits me dead on, unexpectedly, out of nowhere, I lay down on a carpet because it makes me feel safe. Sometimes I talk to no one, sometimes I talk to God. I like to say, "This is pain, this is pain," so I can experience it fully, recognize it and let it go. It helps me understand that it is temporary and that it will pass.

I've been finding this blog restrictive lately. It seems everything I need or want to say is hindered by the fact that people read this or *could* read this. I know that seems ridiculous since the point of a blog is to have an audience, but it's become more of a challenge for me as I find less and less that I want to share with the general public. (And by general public, I mean the 4 of you who read this. Hi. Hello. You have great hair!)

I want to be honest and write from my heart. I want to tell you about the delicious peach-apricot cobbler I baked last night. I want to tell you that my ex-boyfriend passed me in the street on Monday night and shot me a look full of so much hatred, I wanted to scream at him that his bitterness is not my fault. I want to tell you that that has nothing to do with the heartbreak I experienced today. I want to tell you so much about that and about the overall way life has been overwhelming for me this year.

But if I admit that to you, then it means that things are not really okay. And for the most part, things are completely okay, they are beyond okay, they are magnificent and miraculous and I'm grateful. Today was just one of those days and I wanted to document it here so I would remember it.

Dear Laura,

Sometimes you are sad.

Sometimes you are happy.

You are always special.

And ridiculously physically attractive.

Love,
Laura

Tonight, I sat on my couch for a long time and stared at the wall. Then I put on Alanis Morissette's new album and sang and danced around my living room. When I was sufficiently exhausted, my bestest buddy brought over some Thai food and we talked and I maybe cried a little. And then I painted my entire dining room bright blue.

In case you were wondering, it is absolutely fantastic, getting better and better by the minute.

And so am I.

Channeling My Inner Cheese

lauradlug4@yahoo.com (TheSpectrum) — Thu, 07 Aug 2008 12:53:00 +0000

I have an audition today for one of the cheesiest musicals of all time. I could not be more excited about this because I get to sing a SUPER CHEESY song while acting in a SUPER CHEESY MANNER while attempting to look like I take the material very seriously. Hooray! Thank you, Universe!!

Someone recently told me that I may very well be too smart to do musical theatre. That compliment meant so incredibly much to me and I'd like to expand on how I feel about that but every time I sit down to write about my career and where I'm headed right now, I start BORING MYSELF. I can't imagine how YOU would feel.

So, I don't know. It's not that I don't think musicals can be smart. Or that musicals don't have their place in society or that I don't take my job seriously. That is not what I'm saying. What I'm saying is, I have a SUPER RIDICULOUSLY CHEESY audition today and when I YouTubed other performers who have performed this role recently, I could NOT STOP LAUGHING because the acting! was so! incredibly! BAD!

I am going to take a deep breath today and try to remember how I acted in high school. And then I will multiply the exaggeration and "forehead creased in agony" by about a hundred. Then I will maybe cross my arms and hug myself and then stare longingly out in the distance. I'm hoping if I do this accurately, I will get a callback. WE SHALL SEE.

And now, I'm late for work.

Slasher

lauradlug4@yahoo.com (TheSpectrum) — Tue, 05 Aug 2008 01:47:00 +0000

Yesterday, on a nesting kick, I cleaned, scrubbed and reorganized every last inch of my apartment because I'm single and this is the kind of stuff that turns me on nowadays. ANYWAY, when I got to the cabinets underneath the bathroom sink, I discovered that someone's bubble bath had exploded and coated quite a few items in a lovely sticky Avon goo. Who's bubble bath IS this? And who buys things from Avon?! Couldn't be any of my roommates. They're both gay. They know better.

I cleaned it up as best I could and then started rinsing off nearby products that were covered in slime. An open bag of disposable razors was a casualty and I decided to rinse the blades off individually. I left them out on the counter to dry and without thinking, tossed the protective plastic caps into the trash. I carefully loaded the now OPEN RAZORS back into their bag and put them under the sink. And by "carefully loaded", I mean I threw them jumbled in a huge mess under the sink without thinking because I am stupid. And should never be around children or small animals.

This morning, I remembered that while cleaning yesterday, I found a second toothbrush. AND YOU KNOW WHAT WOULD MAKE LIFE SO GREAT? If I brought my toothbrush to work! I know! It's genius! I can brush my teeth in the bathroom! In the morning! In the afternoon! And I will feel all clean! And my dentist will be proud! And the world is rainbows and sunshine!

Considering myself a genius, I reached under the bathroom sink to grab the magical toothbrush and as I extracted my hand, the back of it brushed against a nearby open razor, effectively slicing two parallel lines into my skin. I stared at my hand for awhile as it turned pink and then started to bubble up blood. It bled uncontrollably for quite some time, causing me to be late to work but let's not kid ourselves, this is nothing new. I am always late to work.

Everyone's been staring at my hand all day and being all, "WTF???" And I can't really tell them what happened because it just sounds bad to blurt out, "I CUT MYSELF WITH A RAZOR." And then they stare at you all, "???? Was that intentional?" And I'm all, "Well no, because I cut the WRONG side of my hand with it. If I wanted to do it right, I would've cut it on THIS SIDE." And then your coworkers kind of blink and back away quickly because DUDE! SECRETARY IS SUICIDAL.

Yeah. It's awkward. So, for now, when people stare, I tell them I got into a really bad gang fight this weekend. Or I busted my hand when I thrust it through a window attempting to save a puppy from a burning building. Or maybe, just maybe, I cut it on an open razor blade because I am an anal retentive yet absent-minded dork. YOU DECIDE.

That May Be All I Need

lauradlug4@yahoo.com (TheSpectrum) — Fri, 01 Aug 2008 04:16:00 +0000

I just got back from a concert at Jones Beach.

Maroon 5.

Counting Crows.

Stop making fun of me, the concert was amazing, shut up.

The smell of the ocean, a soft summer breeze, bare feet tapping to the music.

All of it made up for a pretty shitty week.

Driving in the dark along the Northern State Parkway, headed back to Queens, Sara Bareilles on the stereo, four kindred spirits singing along in harmony...

Yeah. I feel better now. My soul is settling back down, crawling back to a peaceful place. And now, I'm going to collapse into my pillows and ease into a deep sleep.

Thank you and good night.

Summertime Flashbacks

lauradlug4@yahoo.com (TheSpectrum) — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 01:55:00 +0000

My bangs are sticking to my forehead because we don't have air conditioning in my house. Despite the heat, I have a sheet draped over me because I like to feel covered when I'm sleeping. The sheet is worn from being washed too many times and there are small nubs that cover the faded primary colored-alphabet letters on my pillowcase.

The cicadas are whispering through the window while my sister sighs in her sleep in the bed across the room. I am on my side, cradling both a Babysitter's Club book and the clip-on light from my Gameboy. I prop the light next to the pages and the spine crinkles as I strain to read. If I finish this one tonight, I can go back to the library tomorrow for more after my swimming lesson. Hopefully, the next one in the series will be waiting for me on the shelf. I hate reading them out of order.

...

Clothes are swaying lazily on a clothesline at my aunt and uncle's house as I walk through the backyard to the pool. I am wearing a brand new black bathing suit that my mother bought for me on sale. There was excitement in her voice when she plucked it from the rack at the store and had me try it on.

"Laura, it fits you so well and it's so cheap." I clutched the bag holding the bathing suit all the way home. I couldn't believe my mother bought something so beautiful for me and so brand new.

The piping around the neck and legs is bright royal blue and there's a sleek hole cut out in the back that gives me an interesting tan line. It is the kind of bathing suit that professional swimmers wear and I never want to take it off.

The red bricks surrounding the pool soak up the sun while small weeds grow in between them and watch us swim. My cousin Tom and I take turns hurling ourselves off the diving board. We make up rhymes and ridiculous songs, talking non-stop as we haul our soaking bodies out of the pool by way of the silver ladder that hangs sadly in the deep end.

Tom hands me a pink diving ring and I put both feet through it, binding my legs together. We pretend to be mermaids. Sometimes, little brown beetles accidentally fly into the pool and then struggle to get out. I like scooping them up and putting them safely down on the bricks. They scratch my fingertips when I save them from the water and their prickly legs feel like straw against my skin.

Later, sitting around a picnic table, my cousin Christine points out that the chlorine in the pool is turning my hair green. I touch my wet ponytail and it feels slimy. I stare across the table at her perfect auburn hair and wish mine were red too. I pile my plate with hot dogs, macaroni salad, cucumbers, tomatoes, corn on the cob and a piece of fresh mozzarella cheese. I save that for last as the sun sets behind the fence.

...

I'm at the ocean with my mother and siblings. We didn't get here until almost evening because the parking is free after 5 pm. Most people have left for the day but we are just getting started. The sea is angry today and the undertow is strong. I shriek every time a new wave appears over my head, both scared and excited. My mother dives into them, disappearing and reappearing effortlessly through the water.

"Just go with the flow of it," she tells me, wiping her wet brown locks from her eyes. "Don't fight the current, just slowly move with it."

I promise her that I will and together we dive and jump and splash. When I get tired, I try to find a break between the large waves so I can swim safely for shore without getting crashed down upon. I wait for my mom to tell me when to go and when she yells, "Now!" I go as fast as I can. She always seems to know exactly how to time it. I wonder how she knows.

...

My older brother and I decide to sleep out in the backyard in our bright blue tent. We pass the hours playing poker and debating whether or not bears live in the forest behind our house. I'm too scared to spend the whole night outdoors and though playing cards with Paul makes me feel safe and important, I decide to go back inside and slip between the alphabet sheets.

My heavy eyelids eventually float shut no matter how I try to fight it. I awake the next morning with a a book and a Gameboy light laying next to my pillow and the smell of pancakes beckoning me from downstairs. I jump out of bed to follow the scent, my bare feet thumping all the way. My book stays behind, laying in the still-warm sheets, patiently waiting for me to return.

Boyz In Ma Phone

lauradlug4@yahoo.com (TheSpectrum) — Tue, 29 Jul 2008 02:59:00 +0000

I rarely make a habit of "going out" to meet boys. And by rarely, I mean I have never "gone out" to meet a boy. There are many reasons for this but the biggest one is that I'm an old lady and have no desire to go out to a club, sip a cosmopolitan and dance to Rhianna while some frat boy tries to feel me up.

Inevitably, when I do go out, whether it's to a bar or a party or when I am standing on a street corner like a hooker, men sometimes ask me for my phone number. This always makes me uncomfortable because

1. I don't want to give them my phone number
2. I don't want to appear rude
3. I don't want to give them my phone number

So I say, "Why don't you give me YOUR number?" And then they do. Problem solved. I only run into complications when they say, "Okay. Now, text me so I can have yours!" And then I blink a few times and pretend I don't know what "text" means.

I always input their numbers into my phone with an alias so I can remember who they are and make a mental note to delete it later. Thing is, I never ever delete them because who on earth clears out their phone numbers?! The labeling system I use is a bit haphazard as you will soon see, but at the time, the nickname I give them makes perfect sense. Going further, it makes a TON OF SENSE after a few Tom Collins'. I never call these men, have never called these men, have no plans to ever call them, etc. but I dutifully enter their numbers in my mobile device because I FEEL BAD SAYING NO. (Hi! Yes, I'm already in therapy, thanks for asking!)

Today, I decided to go sift through the numbers in my phone and found quite a few entries that I've accumulated over the years. Some of these names I recall easily. I remember the noisy bar or the swanky party or the brightly lit street corner where I met the eager beavers. Others? Your guess is as good as mine. I'm still baffled over quite a few. REGARDLESS, I'm feeling like sharing the love so, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,

I give you:

Boyz In Ma Phone v. 1.0.
by Laura Elizabeth

Dogwalker Dave
Eric O'Jersey
Alistair
Photographer Joe
Richard Gere
Sorbet Lewis
Atlanta James
Dennis #3
Kent University
The Man
Homophobic Craig

If any of you single ladies need a phone number, I'd be glad to pass them around. Cheers!

I Wish I Was Asleep Right Now

lauradlug4@yahoo.com (TheSpectrum) — Fri, 25 Jul 2008 04:34:00 +0000

I attended a performance of "South Pacific" this evening at Lincoln Center. I just want to give a shout out to the people and things who made it so memorable:

1. To the woman in front of me who turned around and told me to shut up and stop talking while the lights were still on at intermission and people were filing back to their seats. I'm not sure if you noticed, lady, but in between acts, I AM ALLOWED TO TALK. I have a BFA in Music Theatre, I think I should know.

2. To the row of gay people behind me who sang every single song. Not while the actors were singing mind you, but just after a song ended while we all clapped or during set changes or during scenes with dialogue. And I'm not talking humming, I'm talking flat out belting. SOME ENCHANTED EVENIIIIIIIIIIING, YOU MAY SEE A STRANGERRRRRRRRR! I did not pay money to hear you sing in my ear. I paid money to hear the people on the stage. See also: my Music Theatre degree.

3. To Rodgers and Hammerstein for perfecting the art of reprising a song 10,000 times during the course of the show. Margot and I could not get over the fact that the show was set up as follows:

a. CHARACTER SINGS SONG
b. AUDIENCE CLAPS
c. CHARACTER SINGS THE WHOLE DAMN SONG AGAIN
d. AUDIENCE CLAPS
e. CHARACTER SINGS LAST 16 BARS OF THE SAME DAMN SONG
f. AUDIENCE IS CLAPPING UNETHUSIASTICALLY AND THINKING "WTF?????"

I get it! I do! You're in love, you're in love, you're in love, you're in love, you're in love with a WONDERFUL GUY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

4. To some of the most brilliant lighting I've ever seen on a Broadway stage in my entire life, holler.

5. To Margot who had the genius idea of meeting me after work and waiting in the cancellation line.

6. To the universe for allowing two people to cancel their tickets so Margot and I could enjoy three hours of Rodgers and Hammersteiny goodness.

7. Finally, to the 400 pound man sitting next to me with his girlfriend (who was half his age), who was talking on his cellphone as the lights went down and the orchestra started playing and yelled loudly into the phone that, "THE SEATS HERE ARE MADE FOR LITTLE KIDS, THE USHERS ARE YELLING AT ME TO PUT THE PHONE DOWN, WHAT? WHAT? THE SHOW? OH. THE SHOW IS STARTING RIGHT NOW."

...

At intermission, he took his lady friend and never came back. And for that, I thank you, my dear overweight, miserable gentleman because I put my bag on your seat so I could have more leg room and enjoyed the second act without your ridiculous commentary that may or may not have included, "THAT GUY SINGING IS A FAG."

Thank you for leaving the theater. If you hadn't, I would now be on my way to jail for killing you.

Love,
Laura

On Current Eating Habits

lauradlug4@yahoo.com (TheSpectrum) — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 22:44:00 +0000

I feel pretty good today. I think it has something to do with the fact that I shaved my legs this morning. Plus, I made my bed before I went to work. Accomplishing tasks always lifts my mood. Check, check, check.

I'm supposed to be napping right now. I told myself I'd come home from work and lay down for awhile before heading back to the city to meet Ashley and her fiance for dinner. It's Restaurant Week in NYC, something that I've never taken part in. This evening, we will be dining here. I have very high expectations for their olive oil. THEY BETTER NOT LET ME DOWN.

The thing that kills me about veganism is the constant "What am I going to eat?" debate that begins every time someone suggests going out to eat. I'm not always sure I can find something I'd like to eat but I LOVE LOVE LOVE going out to restaurants so it's caused me a bit of stress over the past year and a half, trying to reconcile the two parts. I'm finally in a very comfortable place with my eating habits and since I'm not napping, I think I'll keep telling you about it. (Please, cover your mouth while you yawn.)

I've made peace with the fact that my eating philosophy shouldn't necessarily be labeled "veganism" anymore though it's true that on any given day, you'd be hard-pressed to find me eating any animal products. For someone who has been known to have a somewhat tumultuous relationship with food in recent years, my attitudes have changed slightly. I have adopted a diet entitled "Whatever Laura Wants, Laura Eats, The End." This works for me better than anything has ever in my life.

And it's been so interesting to see exactly what my body actually wants to eat. My body, for the most part, adores following a vegan diet. It wants fruits and vegetables, whole grains, fried tofu, pasta, soup, peanut butter, black beans, guacamole, rice, hummus, etc. Oh yes, my body also wants lots and lots of cupcakes, regardless of the ingredients used to make them. So, on a daily basis, this is what works for me. Plus pancakes.

I find that occasionally (once every few months, maybe?) my body likes an omelet. It also has been known to seek out a piece of fish or some shrimp. It has been known to have a bite of someone else's cheese and then later, object with sharp shooting pains in my stomach. But oh, that bite was worth it.

In Kathy Freston's book, "Quantum Wellness", she speaks quite eloquently on becoming a vegan. My favorite thing she says is not to stress out about things that may or may not have been made with a tiny bit of animal product. i.e./ a tiny bit of butter on a plate, cookies made with whey, etc. She basically says that you do the best you can and it's a philosophy that's helped me immensely with my relationship with food.

One of the most ridiculous things anyone ever said to me when I went vegan was, "UGH! Vegans are SO ANNOYING. They always have to look at the nutritional information for EVERY SINGLE THING THEY EAT." I just kind of blinked at the person who said that because, uh, isn't that a good thing? Are you comfortable ingesting just about anything without realizing what's in it, vegan or not!? (Sidenote: My other favorite comeback for veganism that came out recently was, "But...but...bacon tastes good." Uh, yeah, I know, I think you're missing the point.

I am an avid label-reader so I still tend to stay away from all non-vegan products when grocery shopping. I find that I make exceptions usually only when out at a restaurant, something that makes me feel comfortable socially and also gives my tastebuds a treat. It's interesting to note that I have never once made an exception for meat. I won't go so far as to say that meat disgusts me and it smells like rotting flesh blah blah MEAT IS MURDER. I mean, it is, I don't believe in eating it. But I did eat it up until a year and a half ago and I can honestly say that since then, I have never once craved nor have I ever once looked at it and wanted a piece of it.

There is no point to that paragraph. I just wanted you to know. YOU ARE WELCOME.

I wanted to just jot down exactly where I am with my food and stuff. I am not yet brave enough to delve into the entire story of my food issues, perhaps one day I will. For now, I will say that this works for me. And it's kind of at the front of my mind lately since the recent NYC Laws went into effect mandating every chain restaurant to list calorie content.

It kind of startled me at first, not because I was surprised but because I wasn't used to seeing the little numbers in the display cases. I have known for a long time that Starbucks' pastries are the devil and can't remember ever eating one in my entire life. I'm kind of disappointed with Chipotle's labeling since they categorize their food with a RANGE of calories. Depending on what you put inside it, your burrito MIGHT be 400 calories but also might be 900. GOOD LUCK FIGURING IT OUT.

But honestly, I think some of that is just common sense. Sour cream and cheese = bad. Lettuce and tomato = good. Since reading Michael Pollan's book, In Defense of Food, I have most certainly gotten more careful with my food selections, preferring to think less of calories and more about what I'm gaining from eating a certain item. More than five ingredients or a list of ingredients I can't pronounce? No, thank you. This is the main reason that I've switched out my Luna Bars for Lara Bars. Small change, but I feel so much better about it.

IN SUMMATION, I'd like to tell you all that I'm enjoying a lovely summer of CSA fruits and vegetables and an occasional vegan cupcake recipe. I love how I feel after I've eaten a good meal of whole, unprocessed foods that have had a minimal negative impact on the earth and on other creatures. Please give me a gold star.

And now, I am going to send that philosophy to hell by going out to eat with Ashley. I hope to ingest some seafood though I am torn about what to order for dessert. A trio of homemade sorbet? Or the berries and cream? Or everything on my plate AND Ashley's? OR SOME BACON JUST BECAUSE IT TASTES GOOD!?!?!?!?!?

Who knows, with my legs shaved and my bed all made up, I'm feelin' crazy.

Currently Pissing Me Off

lauradlug4@yahoo.com (TheSpectrum) — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 01:52:00 +0000

The really tall man who consistently steps in the elevator with me and then stands in the front left corner, effectively blocking the television screen.

All I get to do on the ride up to work is stare at the back of his head and wonder what the headlines for the day are saying and how stock prices are doing and which celebrity had their baby. It's all in my imagination since I can't actually see anything because he's standing in my way THE ENTIRE TIME. I think tomorrow when he moves to step inside the elevator, I'm going to elbow him in the gut and dump his coffee on his head. I think that should send a message that says, "I want to watch elevator TV too, you ignorant tall person and also? I hate you."

Milestone

lauradlug4@yahoo.com (TheSpectrum) — Sat, 19 Jul 2008 01:12:00 +0000

A few months ago, embittered and full of complaints, I whined to a friend of mine that I couldn't book a show to save my life. Instead of commiserating with me, he wanted to know why I didn't just take the power back into my own hands. Why sit there bitching when you can do something about it? You can't force casting directors to cast you but you don't have to rely on them for everything. You can create your own opportunity.

It pissed me off to hear someone put it like that. It made me feel lazy. And lazy, I am not.

I started brainstorming things I could do to give myself back a sense of control.

A few days later, in one of my music theatre coaching classes a friend of mine passed me a note that said, "I'm thinking of putting on a cabaret."

I wrote back, "ME TOO."

"Let's make sure we stick to it," she wrote.

"YOU ARE ON!"

And the deed was done.

...

I wrote the entire script in one sitting. I tend to write in long spurts whether it's an essay, a script or a blog post. It's hard for me to leave it mid-way through. I seem just barrel on to the end and then go back and revise at a later point or, if I'm impatient, not at all. I settled on the topic of my family for my cabaret, figuring I had some pretty decent comedic material to work with. In fact, I had to pick and choose because there ended up being so many stories I wanted to include.

The songs came next. I made a list of songs I knew I had to sing, things I'd always wanted to do, things that fit in between stories perfectly. The song list ended up being the most permanent thing in the entire process. Since the first time I scribbled them down on a piece of scrap paper, none of the songs were cut and none of them were moved around. And just like that, you can see how my mind works and what I am most comfortable with--someone else's stuff.

The stories were different. They were harder for me. I wrote them out (or cut and pasted from here) and then modified. But they were still too wordy. I wrote them as a writer instead of as a speaker. I was too close to it to see that there needed to be major splices and revisions. And frankly, it meant too much to me to cut it up. I had written every single word so I needed to keep it like that. How could I edit it? It was mine! It was great!

When someone bluntly suggested I cut down the verbosity and make major changes, shit hit the fan.

As usual, I rallied my army of friends around me and fretted, "WHAT DO I DO? THIS SHOW SUCKS!"

Their answer? Make it better.

...

Tom offered to read the script and send it back to me with notes. We went over it while on the phone with each other, piece by piece, paragraph by paragraph. We analyzed where jokes landed, how they were set up, whether or not the stories fit into the theme of the piece. I went to bed every night exhausted, my mind a jumble of sentences and one-liners and letters, all floating around getting scrambled up.

On top of this, every week, I met with my accompanist to sing through songs and work material. Every Tuesday evening, I brought him a new script, revised, slashed, rearranged. He would gently take it from my hands and then give me ideas for the songs. What would be playing underneath the stories? When should he come in? How could we add more comedy? How could we simplify it?

I wanted someone to tell me the answers to these questions. I wanted someone to guide me, "Okay, when you tell this story, move over here. Tilt your head like that. Let this part be about this." I was used to someone directing me. I was used to saying someone else's words. I did not know what to do with my own. It was hard for me to trust myself. Yeah, sure, my mom finds me amusing but would anyone else? If I put myself on a stage with my own stories and songs that were precious to me, would anyone laugh? Would anyone react at all?

...

Meeting with my accompanist was my favorite part of the process. Together, we found a lot of laughter within the music and that felt most comfortable to me. The telling of stories felt a little odd, especially when rehearsing them for no one. (Observation: When you tell a story to a room full of no one, there is no reaction. WHO KNEW?) But the songs always felt right; I always raced through the stories to get to the part where I could just relax and sing.

As the process went on, it startled me to realize that my confidence in the project faltered instead of strengthened. The beginning was the best part when I thought I was the most Brilliant Writer of Cabaret There Ever Was. As time went on, the more feedback and help I sought out, the more discouraged I was. I stopped including "I AM GETTING SO EXCITED!" in my e-mails. In actuality, I felt continually defeated.

I kept struggling to keep my head up, to accept criticism with an open mind and to really push through to make it the best it could be. It was so difficult as I invited a select few trusted individuals to watch it and give me notes. I hated that I hadn't gotten it perfect from the get-go. I wanted the first draft to be flawless. I wanted people to tell me it was brilliant and hilarious and absolutely genius.

No one did. They told me to slow down. They pointed out funny moments I was skipping over. They told me certain things didn't flow, didn't make sense, weren't working right. Loosen your stance, be more conversational, TAKE YOUR TIME, that doesn't fit with the theme, that's not specific enough. I hated the tweaking, I hated that there was always more to improve upon, I wanted it to be easy.

...

Two days before the show opened, I sat across from my friend JK sobbing into some vegetable dumplings at a Thai restaurant. My hormones were pulling me into a dark place, I was exhausted, I was stressed out, I was sick of trying to make it as strong as possible. I let myself go to the place all actors inevitably go to at some point--the point where you honestly believe that You Are Not Enough and You Never Will Be.

I am cute but I am not beautiful.

I am thin but my stomach sticks out.

I can sing on key but I cannot hit X note, I cannot sing like so-and-so, I cannot sound blah blah blah.

I'm a good actor but I can't act like She can.

I am amusing but I am not Funny. I have decent timing but Not Like That.

This is why I don't book shows, because I'm Not Good Enough, I Don't Stand Out, I'm Not Specific, I'm All Wrong, I Will Never Be Taken Seriously, There Is No Point To This.

And JK listened to every single one of these fears. He just let me go, spewing my insecurities across the dinner table. And when I was finished and sat there, wiping my eyes with a cloth napkin, he gently started speaking and gave solid proof that every single doubt was unfounded. He told me what I already knew-- that comparison is the worst game an actor can play. If I did the best I could do, that had to be enough because that was all there was.

"Laura, it's called a play because that's what we're doing. We're playing. So, if you do anything on Thursday night, anything at all, just one thing, please: find the joy in it."

...

Thursday, I left work around noon. I went home and did anything I could think of to relax myself. I baked cupcakes for the waitstaff, I sat on the bathroom counter with my feet in the sink and did my make up. I did a twenty-five minute vocal warm up, I stretched and before I knew it, it was time to go.

I did a sound check, I chatted with the lighting guy, I paid the lady who showed up to videotape it. People began arriving at 6:30 and I calmly ducked into the dressing room to change. I could hear them entering, I could sense the place filling up, I took deep breaths and chatted with my accompanist. We stood laughing in the dressing room eating potato chips and drinking lots of water. And in a flash, the lights went out, my name was announced and someone was escorting me up on a stage.

I had told myself numerous times before that I was going to be nervous. Accept the nervousness. Your legs will shake, the first song might be wonky, but eventually, you will settle into it. To my surprise, I stepped up on the stage, looked out into the darkness and realized that I wasn't really nervous at all. It was as if I had slipped into my favorite pair of pajamas. Something clicked in me and I remember thinking, "Ohhhh, there you are."

I couldn't see a single person and I wanted to soak up the moment as much as I could. I remember people clapping, the piano tinkling an intro and finally me grasping the microphone, staring straight ahead and simply saying, "HOORAY."

And then I started the show.

...

I was unprepared for the laughter. So much laughter. I had told the stories so many times (to no one!) that I had forgotten something so basic: the fact that they were actually funny. I was unprepared for my off-script banter. I felt like someone else and perhaps I was. My brain temporarily switched to "PERFORMER LAURA" and out of nowhere, I was witty and put-together and endearing. Yes, it's quite possible I had morphed into someone else entirely.

I tried so many times over the course of the hour to just breathe. Feel the heat of the lights on my face, connect with the accompanist, take a sip of water, open my arms, allow all that beautiful yellow and pink energy to flow right through me. My family and friends astounded me, their support humbling me throughout the course of the night. I could feel their excitement, their pride and their belief in me. It touched me in a way that I have never been touched when doing a musical or ensemble piece. They were giving and giving and giving and I was the only one there to receive it. It overwhelmed me.

Two thirds of the way through my show I thought, "It's almost over. BE PRESENT BE PRESENT BE PRESENT." Before I knew it, there was applause and I was thanking people and I was being led down the stairs and back to the dressing room. I stared into the mirror and the woman staring back at me was unrecognizable. She was elated, ecstatic, proud, radiant. She was not cowering or defeated or inadequate. She was enough.

...

The compliments and kind words from everyone afterwards will stay with me forever. I welled up with tears as I approached everyone, so many arms outstretched to me, so many people wanting to pull me close and tell me how much they loved me. I wanted to say so many things to so many people but all I could manage was a meek, "Thank you so much for being here."

I received so many genuine accolades, so many eloquent compliments. There was one that was repeated, one that I heard from family and friends and acquaintances alike. It vibrated my soul and I still can't shake it as it races from my head to my toes, ringing me from top to bottom. "I am so proud to know you."

I wanted to say, "No, I'm so proud to know you." Proud to know nearly 75 people who showed up to laugh and cheer and clap and sweep me into their arms and pet my hair and give a girl who only wants to be loved so much love that she wants to drink it in forever. I felt validated and empowered and appreciated and adored.

I lay in bed last night feeling a combination of exhaustion and elation. I replayed the evening over and over in my head. In the darkness, I believed in myself. It was a feeling of sweet sweet reward. The time, effort, money, frustrations, doubts, were all worth it as I lay there alone. I didn't feel lonely. In fact, I felt like I was the only one I ever needed.

Right before I drifted off to sleep, I felt peaceful, secure, content. The best part was that I had given myself that gift by persevering and reaching outside my comfort zone. "To build self-confidence, you need to take risks." And I had done it, with the help of others, yes, but in the end, it was all on my shoulders. And I pulled it off. Just me. I am more than enough. I wish it hadn't taken me so long to realize that.

HERE WE GO!!!

lauradlug4@yahoo.com (TheSpectrum) — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 01:45:00 +0000

Oh ma God, y'all! My show is tomorrow night! I have to, like, do it! For people! Under lights! With music! I think I'm going to wear my silver shoes!!

I AM SO EXCITED I MIGHT JUST PEE MY PANTS.

Here's to total kicking ass!

And also, when this whole thing is over, back to more regular/slightly more interesting blog posts! EVERYBODY WINS!!!

And for all 78 people who have tickets to my show tomorrow night, YOU WILL NOT BE DISAPPOINTED, BITCHES!

I am gonna bring it like it's never been brought...

Broughten.

Bringed.

Oh, shut up, nevermind.

OMG PART 2!

lauradlug4@yahoo.com (TheSpectrum) — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 01:03:00 +0000

I found this listing by googling myself today. HOLY! Timeout NY! I am officially famous!!! 2 days to go to the magical cabaret and I'm FREAKING OUT COMPLETELY/TOTALLY EXCITED!!!

I originally posted that I was hoping for 50 people to show up as the place seats 85 and I figured 2/3 full would be pretty fantastic.

As of today?

80 tickets reserved.

BRING IT ON!!!!!!

This post officially sucks so you can go look at pics from the James Taylor concert in Tanglewood here. They are pretty boring. Most contain pictures of people in the rain and my little brother making funny faces.

I'm going to go think about the fact that I have to put on a show in about 72 hours and cry myself to sleep. My friend Lucia e-mailed me telling me that putting on your own show is one of the scariest and yet empowering things you can ever do. I am understanding the scary part. I wish the empowering part would show up. We'll see how it goes...

OMG!!

lauradlug4@yahoo.com (TheSpectrum) — Wed, 09 Jul 2008 11:25:00 +0000

My worst nightmare.

Existing

lauradlug4@yahoo.com (TheSpectrum) — Mon, 07 Jul 2008 23:33:00 +0000

I can't seem to form a coherent sentence. Perhaps the humidity is drowning my brain. Perhaps I don't really have much to report. I keep waiting for a fun story to happen to me but unfortunately right now, life is pretty uneventful. I'm sleeping and eating and breathing my cabaret which opens up in about ten days. Oh wait. I'm also eating this salad right now. I made it for dinner:

And yes, in case you were wondering, the salad is abiding in the infamous Self-Esteem Bowl. It contains cucumbers, tomatoes, dried cranberries, walnuts and avocado. Seems like Our Name is Mud have discontinued the Self-Esteem Bowl and replaced it with this. Someone please hook me up with that. Thank you.

I always seem to find peace easier in the summer. As an actor, it is more than obvious that anybody who is anybody is away for the summer doing a show somewhere. But I'm not. I remain here. Everyone else is on vacation or flying to the Hamptons or heading to a Greek island. But I already had my big trip so, I'm staying here. This summer makes three in a row. And instead of feeling like the loser I can sometimes be, I feel very relaxed.

Auditioning can wear on the soul and I find that summer gives me the chance to recoup. I'm no longer rushing around carrying ten thousand things--music book, shoes, dress, make up, hairbrush, scarf, hat, mittens, etc. I can go about my day in a quieter way. Auditions are few and far between now which gives me room to simply Be.

Tonight I came home, did laundry, made a salad, went for a very long jog. And it sounds boring. It sounds like a typical night for a single gal. But my pleasure in the banality still surprises me because I love it. I'm usually the girl going nonstop from morning until night--audition, work, meeting someone for coffee, grabbing dinner, going to class, seeing a show, squeezing in a lesson, etc. With the exception of my upcoming cabaret, I have nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to see.

I'm going to try to enjoy this in between time. This summer, I'd really like to expand my friendship circle, something that's always been very difficult for me. I'd like to face my fear of rejection and reach out. I'd like to take people up on their offers. Yes, I WILL meet you for coffee to catch up! Yes, I WOULD love a night of gossipy girl talk.

I think as you age, friendships shift, moving in and out, disappearing, resurfacing. I used to take this very personally. A few years ago, it deeply upset me when I realized that people could move on with their lives without me in it. Don't they want me?! But at twenty-five, I Get It. People get married, move away, drop off your radar, decide that you don't quite fit into their life. I relate to that now. I understand that you can reach out, maybe twice? and then just let it go, let them go.

I'd also like to work on my cooking skills this summer. Gaining inspiration from my trusty CSA share, I've already experimented with a few delicious recipes. I've always been a good baker but a horrible cook. I'd like to balance this out so I can one day say HERE IS AN ELABORATE MEAL I MADE as opposed to LET'S ORDER TAKE OUT BUT HEY HERE ARE SOME HOMEMADE COOKIES!

It's going to be hard for me to stay put and not freak out. I'm always on the go, wanting more and more and more, eager to learn and absorb everything. I wonder how it will feel to just exist and not really have anything to look forward to but the simple activities that lie in every single day.

So, cooking. New friendship. Sleeping lots. Long walks. Spending time with my family. I'm looking forward to these humid summer months. Hopefully I can tie up some loose ends, clean up some clutter, attend to the little things that tend to get thrown in a pile of DO THIS AT SOME POINT. I'd like to do it now. I'd like to just Be for awhile. I'm looking forward to a respite from auditions, rejection, callbacks, high hopes, desperation, criticism, dating, racing around and being too loud to hear myself.

We'll see how this goes. Wish me luck!