Lazy Times

Lazy Times

Wine and Dino

I have noticed some things about myself recently. I’m a control freak. I need constant reassurance. I am anal retentive. I have obsessive tendencies.  I feel a need to make everyone happy.  Most of the time, (I hope) I am in control of myself enough that I don’t let these tendencies get too far. I try to keep them under wraps. As a general state of affairs I get my work done and I try to be a good friend/daughter/sister. I don’t drink all that much, usually. But now we get to the crux of this post. It has become apparent to me that when I “let myself go” and have more than three or so drinks, I absolutely get plastered.

                                             

After becoming plastered, all these things I keep control of day to day come out, often in the worst way.  Anyone I may have been harboring feelings (of any kind) for knows within the hour exactly what I think.  I tend to fret that everyone is lying to me, that I’m in my own version of the Truman show.  As a result, I am afraid, I drive back all except those who care about me the very most, my wonderful best friends.  Someone that I rather admire told me recently that he does not fear much in life. I have to admit, I am rather jealous of his cavalier ways, in that sense. This is not to say that this gentleman doesn't have his own fears, but that his differ drastically, or so it seems, from mine. Though I am sure this is not what he meant, it got me thinking about my own fears. It’s strange to me, but I care very little about what strangers think of me. I could and have told a complete stranger my dirtiest secrets. Not because it’s somehow safer, because they don’t know anyone I do (who are they going to tell?) though that is a factor, but because I have put no effort into any sort of relationship with them. I suppose, in the end, I am most afraid of losing people I care about, those who I have worked to keep close, and therefore endeavor to not care about many. As hard as I try, though, I do care. I fall in head first and people become best friends, loves, or family to me in a matter of months, or even weeks.  When plastered, I tend to tell these people this, and I can’t help but worry, after I’ve sobered up, just what kind of damage I may have done. Bottom line, I need to stop getting drunk, drink only a bit, and rarely, and confront these fears by simply spending time with those people I love.  Maybe we should all do the same, quell our various fears by spending time with those we love. Because when it comes down to it, what else matters?

Lazy Travels

I have not blogged in quite a while, partially because of (the expected) lazyness, some because of the fact that I have been in various European cities for the last twenty days!

see? there I am in London! Standing in the Thames. Scaring the tourists. It's been wonderful! I also visited Ireland, and now I'm in Paris, which leads me to something neither funny nor amusing, just something I generally want to ramble about.

The French.  They are infamous for their rudeness.  Yes, I have run into some rude people.  Yes, I've even gotten in two separate, multilingual screaming matches.  It strikes me, however, that I've only had trouble when I was already stressed, or not in the best of moods.  Now, I refuse to take all of the blame.  In both instances, the (other) offending party WAS terribly rude.  In most of my other interactions with the French, however, everything has been fine.  They don't seem to be a terribly warm people, but they have been polite enough.  It strikes me that I am not the easiest person to placate, and that I am rather lazy, especially when I am stressed and out of my element.  So, my question is, if the great big "we" (they're cousins of 'they') went to Paris remembering that is IS indeed a different culture, would we leave feeling so slighted?  I can't believe that we would.  Now, should all of "us" (another cousin to 'we' and 'they') be extra warm and try desperately to make the people of Paris like us?  Absolutely not.  Over large smiles and upward inflection when ending our sentences would only serve, I believe, to make those less-than-terribly-warm people even more standoffish.  Can you imagine having someone with a terrible English leaning toward you, massive smile plastered across their face, trying to obtain information?  I'd probably be wondering where the nearest police officer was.  So, tomorrow, when I am on yet another of my Paris adventures, I will try to "do as the Romans do;" Keep my head cool and simply ask for information in a professional manner, then move the heck on.  Maybe I'll have better luck.  And maybe, just maybe, if I put aside my laziness and attempted to understand "them" (it's quite a large family) I might really enjoy myself.

Au Revoir!

i almost died!

ok, not really. but kind of. cause i was stuck in a circle in a circle in a circle of people. and they were touching me. and i couldn't get out. this make no sense does it?

ok, from the beginning.

i have an anxiety disorder. this means that i will suddenly and with only a small bit of warning become absolutely positive that i am going to die within the next 5 minutes, usually after being murdered. this homicidal maniac is a zombie man with dreadlocks and no teeth and oozing sores and a ripped icp shirt that hides in any place available

so while my panic attack is happening and all i want to do is get in bed with a knife to protect myself because i'm not allowed to have a gun i have to first go through several "checking" steps:

my coat closet.

inside my egg chair

behind my coffee table

in the closet with the ac unit

in the pantry

under the sink

in the oven

in the refrigerator

in the dogs' crate

behind the shower curtain

in the laundry closet

in the washer

in the dryer

under my bed

in my clothes closet

apparently my homicidal maniac is also a contortionist.

so then i climb in bed with a butcher knife and wait out my panic attack, expecting any moment to have the covers ripped off by mr. icp zombie and be flayed and have a wig made of my scalp and be raped and then murdered and be buried in a snake pit so i could be terrified even in death and all because when i was walking my dogs a car started unexpectedly and it startled me or because i had to go to walmart by myself or because i got a bad grade on a test or because someone stood too near me in line at the pharmacy where i was getting my calm down meds so i wouldn't have these attacks but when i take them i become a zombie and i don't like that either and so i don't take them.

so, i'm at one of my ballroom dance "practice parties," having a nice time, dancing with my instructor, when, out of no where, like a speeding bullet of horrifying horribleness, the other students decide to begin the most wasp-y, terrible, despicable "dance" known to weddings, mitzvahs, and anniversary parties everywhere:

the conga line

so the conga line started as just that: a line. AND THEN they began to circle. and that circle became two. and those circles became three. till it was a mass of people around myself and my instructor and i'm sure they're all going to kill me and finally it breaks up and i can breathe but i'm still sure he's out there. somewhere. starting a conga line of death. i'm on to you, scary murder man. 

AND THAT'S HOW I ALMOST DIED. in an inception dance death circle. how depressing. 

Tech week

So. I haven’t blogged in ages, and since it’s now one of my busiest weeks of the year, it is clearly the best time to start again. You may not know this, but from time to time, I become a ninja. Or, as some call us, a techie. I do technical work for theatre productions. This involves being silent and knowing everything and making everything happen with no recognition and no thanks. It’s awesome. As a result of this thankless job, several sayings have been made popular such as: “tech; because no one would come to see a naked mime on an empty stage in the dark” and “I’m a tech. be nice to me. I control the two ton wall hanging above your head.” Techs make everything happen but the acting and singing its self. This is a normal tech situation: 

An actor, standing about, not caring much, while we run around like crazy people, one person doing eight people’s jobs, stressing out because everything needs to happen at once. The actor is all pretty and happy and carefree, while the tech are running around trying to be ninjas, moving several hundred  pound set pieces with PEOPLE INSIDE OF THEM.

Anyway, after the opening weekend, we have “dark week”. It’s great. You get a whole three days to recoup before going at it again. Still, dark week tricks you back into cheery-ness so that before, during dark week you become as you were. Then, after, on the second to last show, you’re ready to kill everyone. 

After all of this, the very last show comes around. And suddenly, you love these people, you can’t imagine not seeing them every day, and that tiny crush you had on one of the actors makes you feel like you’ll never find love if this particular person leaves your life. You may even cry. You become best friends with folks that you had not known existed a month earlier. It’s horrible, exhausting, dramatic, life consuming, and so very wonderful that I wouldn’t know what to do without it. Once you have the theatre bug, you’re done for. It has you, and your life will never be the same. 

Lazy Ballroom Dancing

So. I am taking ballroom dancing classes. It's super fun! Well, for everyone else. I fall. A lot. Like in every lesson. and I am less than graceful. What in the hell convinced me that this was a good idea? It is unfathomable to me. Apparently, I had a momentary lapse in judgement, where i forgot that i don't like to be touched, don;t like groups of people, don't like people watching me. am clumsy, can't remember anything, and when i am anxious because of all of these, i stiffen up and dance even more poorly. i went to a open house type party and saw everyone dancing and had a couple glasses of sangria, after witch i had visions of myself being beautiful and graceful. like this:

happiness, and spinning, and rainbows, and stars and music and perfectness. instead, my dancing is like this:



 yeah. my poor instructor must wonder why he got stuck with a clumsy dinosaur to try to teach dance steps to. i know he gets frustrated. maybe I'll just eat him.