I feel dirty.

"That's a beautiful scarf." she said, tapping my on my shoulder while I was perusing the 5 for $5 cookie deals at Walgreens. "Where did you get it?"

I get compliments on my scarf all the time. That's not me being cocky. Buying a pretty object is not really a personal triumph. But I do take a lot of pride in telling people how much it cost. "It was five dollars. I bought it in New York's Chinatown." That's me being cocky. (And cheap.) I am a smart and savvy shopper.

"Chinatown. Is that outside of Manhattan?" she said. It was endearing how little she knew about Manhattan. "Chinatown is in Manhattan. Its south of Canal Street." I looked her up and down. She was blonde, petite, and meticulously groomed in her fitted black pantsuit. She had to be from the suburbs; she was too put together to be a product of this blue-collar city. Not to say that there aren't any city dwellers that are well-groomed, but her style was predictable. There weren’t any immediate surprises about her appearance. She was pretty, but not beautiful. We have all seen this woman before.

“I have a friend who lives in Manhattan along 7th street. She’s always telling me to go to Chinatown. She says they have great deals. Do you live in New York?”

“No,” I responded.

“You just seem to know the city.”

“Well, I go there a lot. At least once a year, usually more often. And I used to go to school just about 20-30 minutes outside Manhattan.”

“Are you in advertising?” She said, looking me up and down.

What a curious assumption to make, that I must be in advertising. I wondered where she got that impression. I was wearing the pearls my husband gave me as a wedding gift. Maybe the pearls told her I was corporate, but my outfit, mismatching bright colors said I was artsy and in a creative industry. I’m obviously a city girl.

“No,” I said. “I’m an actor. And a writer.”

Her eyes lit up. “Wow! What are you in? Can I come see you?”

For so long, I was embarrassed to tell people that I am an actor. Its not exactly a noble career. But that kind of self-censoring doesn’t get anyone anywhere, so now I say it proudly. The great part is, they’re usually more excited about it than I am. Generally, I’ve found that people are envious that I’m actually going for it, that I am willing to put myself out there. That’s not me being cocky. That’s just me being proud of overcoming my anxieties about this pretty ridiculous life path I’m on.

We talked more about the kind of stuff I’m in, the kind of stuff I write, the fact that I going to grad school. She asked so many questions I didn’t get a chance to find out anything about her.

She reached in her purse and rummaged around, “Please let me give you my card. I would love to come see you sometime. I don’t work with any actors, per se, but I do work with a lot of people in the entertainment business. The lyric opera, singers and whatnot.”

I was very curious to know what she does. Could I have just stumbled upon a connection? I was excited by the prospect that a genuine conversation could turn into a connection.

“What do you do?” I asked.

She pulled out a pen and a business card case. I noticed she had a peculiar French manicure on fake nails. She had whitened not only the tips of her nails, but also the little half-moon at the base. That took a lot of thought. It showed an extreme attention to detail.

“Now, how do you spell ‘Carrie’? Can I get your number, too, or do you have a card?” That was when a bell went off. This woman, this conversation, it was too much. It wasn’t what I thought it was. Or was it? I gave my work number to be sure.

“I work with lots of people in the industry. Like I said, I work with a singer from the Lyric Opera. And others.”

She paused while she gave me her card. I looked down at it. It said Sara Lange, Independent Senior Direcor at the top beside an image of two bright red lips. “MARY KAY” was written in bold at the bottom. The back of the card was covered with clear piece of plastic which was protecting a sample of Mary Kay’s eye color duet in Lagoon (silver and navy).

“I’m a Senior Director with Mary Kay.” she continued. “In my first year I made $18,000 PART TIME! You really should give us a call. It’s the perfect job for actors.

“Thanks. I’ve gotta get going.” I said, smiling weakly.

My friends have all told me similar stories. Apparently these Mary Kay ladies are worse than the Streetwise vendors or those college students selling salon packages. But at least their “Can I ask you a question about your hair?” is more honest than this 5-minute conversation lead-in.

I’d been had. I thought she was a nice lady from the suburbs, looking to connect with another human being in a city where eye contact is hard to come by. I thought she was impressed with my courage to follow my dream. But instead, she was preying on my desire to chattiness, my craving to be thought of as a smart, interesting person with great style and good stories. She was using my vanity, my cockiness, as a way to sell her quasi-pyramid scheme.

She was the city girl and I was the country bumpkin.

"The Rodeo"

That woman you think looks like she’s been to the rodeo. The one who gives you a free cookie for visiting her in the grocery store bakery, but who has moved up to Checkout for who knows why. The one with salt and pepper roots and orangey blonde ends, with a leathery face and watery grey blue eyes. The one who’s sparkling smile defies her tired face. She has been to the rodeo. Figuratively speaking, of course.

She was strangled when she was 20. She was coming off a night shift and getting into her delivery van. Her attacker came up behind her. The details are fuzzy, but she remembers him wrapping his bony hands around her neck and squeezing. She tried to fight him off, but she lost consciousness. When she came-to, she was spilling out of the open door of her van. There was blood on her shirt. The details are fuzzy, but she’s sure that tai chi saved her. She religiously practiced tai chi and yoga in those days. Most people wouldn’t have survived, but she was tough. They caught the guy two and a half years later. He had strangled others. To death.

The woman tells you this as you are buying items with which to make your sick husband soup. She tells you “People have been crabby today.” To that you respond, “There’s no since in making life crappier than it already is.” You didn’t mean to sound like such a cynic, but figure the sentiment is the same. That’s when she tells you the story of being strangled. Her voice is muffled but burly. She sounds like she has a frog in her throat but she doesn’t try to clear it. It is hard to hear her. The details are fuzzy.

You say, “Bless You” just as your mom might have. It seems appropriate and you’ve decided its okay to say that even though you’re not terribly religious. She shrugs it off and mumbles something to the effect that its not a big deal, she’s alive. The lady behind you, buying the Lean Cuisines and Perrier is looking impatient so you bid her farewell.

“I’m glad you’re alive. Have a good day.”

Gisele Bundchen's work is truly extraordinary. At least the world's sexiest brand thinks so.

“The long and fruitful relationship between Gisele Bundchen and Victoria’s Secret has reached a conclusion. We wish her all the best and thank her for her extraordinary work. She will continue to be a very visable part of the world’s sexiest brand through the remainder of the year.”

I am not racist. I promise.

As I approached the front door of the office building where my Tuesday night acting class is held, I couldn’t help but notice you leaning on the front door, smoking a cigarette. I called the security box and asked to be let in the building. As I was buzzed up to the office and you grabbed the door behind me.

I said, “You’re going to have to be buzzed in.”

You said, “I’m making a delivery. I was just taking a smoke break.”

The lobby was dark. After hours, the building was desolate. In my head I replayed brutal scenes from that one book about misguided women who didn’t trust their instincts. I replied, “I just can’t let you in unless you are buzzed in by an office.”

You pointed to your delivery boxes that were already in the front lobby. The insignia on the packages matched that embroidered on your front shirt.

You were telling the truth.

“Oh.” I said, embarrassed. “You understand. Don’t you?”

“Yeah, I understand,” you said cynically, anger flashing in your eyes.

I wanted to explain to you that it wasn’t because you were black. It wouldn’t have mattered if you were a Jude Law look-alike; I was not going to let a strange man accompany me into a deserted building in downtown Chicago.

I am not a racist. I’m just a paranoid city dweller who isn’t going to put herself in compromising situations.

A Dying Flower[shop]

The Dunlop Farms subdivision used to be a dairy farm. I remember cows, then I remember a barren swath of land in a town that’s otherwise canopied by lush green trees, then a few houses seemed to sprout from the earth as whole subdivision emerged. Dunlop Farms is now complete with an emergency medical center (the closest thing we have to a hospital in my town), a Pizza Hut Carry out, a small Virginia bank, a CVS Drugstore and a strip mall with a Food Lion, a Chinese restaurant, an Italian Pizza joint and lots of locally owned restaurants and shops.

Right next to the Food Lion is a small flower shop, Hughes Flowers, where I used to get all of my high school dance corsages. They also used to make the large white snowball chrysanthemum corsages that the homecoming court wears each year. It used to be a sunny shop with buckets of fresh flowers in a windowed cooler. There were a few trinkets out front, Precious Moments dolls and other gifts. Everyone in the Hughes family worked there making corsages, arrangements, delivering or manning the counter. It was the place that pretty much everyone in town went to buy flowers.

In 1998, Mac Hughes, the owner and father of three kids I went to school with, was in a headon car crash on Conduit Road. He suffered a few bone fractures and a brain injury. Through treatment for that, he discovered he also had lung cancer. He hung on for a few years, I believe, but his body just couldn’t recover. He was the life of Hughes Flowers and thus his business also suffered.

I hadn’t been in the shop until this past weekend, when I was home to see my folks. I thought I’d pick up a sunny bouquet of fresh flowers to take to my grandmother. She’s been taking care of my sick and aging grandfather.

The front of the shop was a jungle of silk gravesite arrangements stacked so high that hardly any window light could penetrate the shop. The coolers were mostly filled with fresh flower arrangements with fern and baby’s breath to be set on church altars In Memoriam. A mother and daughter were in the shop deciding which centerpiece to select for their grandfather who loved daffodils. There were also one pre-arranged dozen roses arranged with fern and baby’s breath and an Easter vase filled with carnations, fern and baby’s breath.

“I’m looking for a small bouquet to give to my grandmother,” I said when I was greeted by the tired looking counter woman, dressed in an oversized Christmas turtleneck.

“Oh, we don’t really have many flowers,” she replied with her smoky Virginia twang. “We have a few carnations, and then those tulips.” She motioned to a cooler behind the deck that was almost empty except a bucket of 12 or so ripe tulips.

“They’re $4 a piece. Or are they, $3 a piece, Clara?” she asked the woman behind the coolers.

“They’re $3 a piece, just like the carnations,” she shortly replied, as if she’d been asked that question already.

I can get a dozen fresh tulips for $7.99 in Chicago, but I didn’t care. I sifted through the bucket and selected four violet tulips. The counter woman paired them with fern and babies breath and wrapped then in cellophane tied with a loose purple ribbon. She maneuvered behind the counter with familiarity, quickly tapping the old cash register buttons with her flower-soiled nails.

“That will be $12.54,” she said as she pierced the ticket on the old fashioned receipt collector. I could tell from the receipts that mine was only the 2 purchase made that day. It was then that I was buying flowers for my aging grandmother from an aging shop. I felt a little bad about it. But, then, after all the Hughes have been through, I felt badly for thinking that.

“Thank you,” I said, collecting my flowers.

“You come back now!” she waved.

“I will,” I said.

I meant it.

The Pacific Ocean looks like this:

Plan A

Plan B was to move to Los Angeles when our lease is up in August. Not one who is good with transitions, and not knowing exactly when I'd find out if Plan A would work, I sailed full-steam ahead with Plan B. I called my agent and told him I was moving, I told my parents, I posted a notice on my Edward Norton fan site.

Plan A was a long-shot. Plan A is expensive. Plan A is intimidating and a lot of work. But its also an honor and an amazing opportunity. Plan A opens the door to so many other Lettered Plans.

Did I mention that Plan A is expensive? I had started to hope that Plan A would fall through, so I didn't have to face the challenges (and debt) to come. The weight and drama of all that made me sure that quitting my job, packing up my apartment, moving away halfway across the country from all of my friends and clear across the country from my family, would be easier than Plan A.

Two days ago, when I found out that Plan A was a go, I had a very surprising initial reaction: I cried. Not exactly tears of joy, but painful, cathartic tears of raw emotion. Here I was, acheiving something I almost didn't dare to hope for, and at the mere phrase "I am pleased to inform you..." I was dripping tears big wet tears on my boss's expense report.

I thought, "Why am I crying? This is so great! This is such an accomplishment!" Of course, this made me cry harder. I wept on and off for about 2 hours.

Ultimately, I wept because I was surprised.
...and relieved
and scared
and confused
and surprised
and proud
and intimidated
and PMSing
and disappointed
and happy...

All at the same time.

It reminded me of the tears I cried when I was hit by a taxi cab while walking home from class. While in the ER, I kept sobbing and repeating "I don't know why I can't stop crying." My mother said, "Its okay, Carried. This is a big event." But my tears weren't logical to me. I couldn't make sense of how I was feeling and why I was reacting in such a way. I realize now that I was feeling joyful to be alive, scared i could have died, anxious for my recovery, touched by the kindness of my friends, family and strangers and about a million things all at the same time.

There was no other way to react.

I got in.

I got into grad school. I don't know how I did it, but I did. Now comes the anxiety of figuring out if I can afford it. EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

A random, totally hilarious video I found on YouTube...

Pigeon Potpourri

It happened in a flash of orange and a cloud of smoke and pigeons. Wings and beaks and spindly little legs swirling about the air. One by one, pigeons fall to the ground where each lay for a few stunned moments. Then slowly their little glass-bead eyes light up as their bodies shudder back to life. They fly away unfazed, hungry for a snack of crumbs.

Celebrities take Airborne too ...

"Look, Airborne is great. I wouldn't go on a movie set without it; it's on my plane and in my house."

— Kevin Costner

Who's driving this bus?

On my commute this morning, the bus driver kept asking the passengers where the bus was supposed to go. She was shouting her questions so that everyone could hear her.

"Excuse me? Excuse me?! Is this bus supposed to go down this street, or that one?"
"Excuse me, do you know where the next bus stop is?
"Excuse me, does anyone know the last stop?"

Don't worry: unlike my blog, I edited and proofed my grad school writing samples before I submitted them.

My friend, Robert, reminded me that I had only 2 more days to write something in my blog for the month of December. "You don't want that blog to have a blank spot on the right side where all the months are listed," he wrote in his email to me. I considered telling him that I can easily pre-date my blog entries; I needn't write something in December to post it as a December entry. But, that's beside the point. ...I have been a bit neglectful of my Daily Observations.

Ever since the wedding (and before) I've been writing a lot, you just haven't been privy to what I've been writing. The only people who will get to read my recent work are Chris, the folks who have helped me edit and proof it, my mom, and the admissions office of Northwestern University.

In the past, I have swung from either divulging too much information, or too little. I was very private as a youth. No one, except two friends, knew that my parents got a divorce until the absolute last moment. And only then it was because I was forced to divulge the info to my friend, Andrea, who wanted to drop my Christmas present off at my house, not knowing that I had for some time been living with my mom in a small apartment across town. I felt this powerful need to make everyone think I was okay and normal, when of all things I was definitely not okay.

Well, I am okay now, but mostly because I've grown to realize that I'm not normal. None of us are. With this realization has come liberation. With this liberation has come the desire to shout this from the mountaintops. Unfortunately, all too often, this puts you (yes, you!) or some other semi-acquaintance in the corner of a party hearing stories of how the supplements I take for my iron deficiency give me heartburn and make me poo black.

As my friend, Jill, would say, "T.M.I." Too much information.

In a way, this blog is part of that journey in the Land of Getting Personal. For me, it’s about finding that fine line between things I shouldn't be so scared to share with the world (earnest writing, for example) with things that I should not (see blackened poo tidbit, above).

I've always been a terrified closet writer and also had an extreme fear of looking stupid. Anyone who knows me is probably thinking, "But you look stupid all the time, Carrie! Shouldn't you be used to it by now?" That's different. That's on purpose to make people laugh. The idea of doing something earnestly and having people think its stupid or silly is petrifying to me; it scares me into inaction. Inaction makes for a pretty boring and fruitless life, especially when what I want to do with my life (write) is that which I find terrifying (having people read my writing).

As such, I have begun to make a real effort to Get Over It. Part of that effort is this blog—a place where I am forced to post my half-baked story ideas and be accountable for them. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to post under my name, so I could write some juicy tidbits that I didn’t mind folks knowing were from me, but as it is, I can’t post anything I don’t want people to know I’m thinking.

Which should make you wonder about all the things I’m thinking that I’m not posting.

My point of all this is that today I officially applied to graduate school for an MFA in Writing for the Screen and Stage. This program only accepts 12 people. Yep, that’s One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve. When I discovered the program earlier this year, I kept it a secret that I was going to apply. After all, the odds of getting in are not in one’s favor. But then I realized that if I want this, really want it, and if I was going to have any chance whatsoever of beating those odds, I was going to have to admit that I really wanted it to myself. Once I admitted it to myself I realized that was the hardest part of it all. Telling other people was a breeze.

So, in the end, I want to let my readers know that now that all of the official writing is over (until Fall semester, when I am Number Seven of Twelve, of course) I will be back to making regular posts in this blog.

And, thank you, whoever you are, for stopping in. And, bless you, kind stranger, if you check back regularly. My old private, too-afraid-to-take-herself-seriously-in-just-the-teensiest-way would have said I don’t care if you or anyone reads this. But, who I am now would be lying if I told you that your presence didn’t matter.

My Very Successful 2006 Resolution

Some time in late 2005, I started realizing that all of the things that I was always complaining about were actually situations where the ball was in my court. Or at least situations where I could grab the ball and put it in my court. (You see, I'm using easy to understand and technically correct basketball analogies here.) One of those things had to do with friendships that I had lost over the years. In a lot of ways, I'm an easy going gal, but at the same time, I'm my grandmother's daughter--or a leo. Either one would explain my tendency to get hurt easily by some people and my quickness to turn to roaring anger when hurt. Anyway, I realized that I had "unfinished business" with about 5 people.

And through this year, I not only forgave the people who hurt me, but I did so in a ceremonious way, which coincided with my other New Year's resolution: To outwardly declare to the world in very certain terms those things that I wanted from it.

It was definitely awkward and hard to do. And my pride has taken a beating, but just like a broken bone, its healed stronger than ever. Some of these people I had spent the last 4 years pretending that they didn't exist. One of the girls refused to talk with me about it. I think she is ashamed. I forgave her anyway and we are civil if not friendly to one another. I worried that peeps would think that I was in a 12-step program or that I was resolving issues before going home and killing myself. Or some other dark and dramatic reason. And the timing was off on a few of
them. One of the girls with whom I talked it out, an old friend, she thought I was suddenly trying to take advantage of her new position at a theatre where most performers in Chicago want to work. So I had to try to explain my resolution, which made me feel like a hateful bitch, because who has so many grudges that she has to make a New Year's resolution to get rid of them?

Me.

Anyway, there is one last person out there. I can't say I am still holding a grudge, but I definitely haven't spoken with the Asshole about it, so I haven't exactly committed to not holding a grudge against Douchebrains either. The funny thing is, I completely forgive the Blowhard when he's not around. But when I see his Smug Donkey Face, I find myself wanting to slap it to high Heaven. I mean, Fucko isn't a part of my life or thoughts anymore. I'm happy and have great friends who aren't Ego-Manical Freakshows like he is. And I'm sure the Tool has changed, even though he HAS THE MOST INCAPABLE HEART I HAVE EVER HAD THE SORROW OF KNOWING. Anyway, I should talk to the Dirtbag about it, tell him that I forgive his slimy self and that I'm no longer putting pins in the eyes of the voodoo doll whose body I keep trapped under the foot
of my bed.

So, yeah, for the most part my resolution was successful.

Toucs Says Hi

Toucs says hi. He’s been kinda down lately. It all started because he missed you. He was asking all about you and where you lived. I told him. He asked me to drive him there. I told him I didn't have a car and his face fell. I fetched him a pink tissue, from my purse. It was the designer kind with flowers on it. He blew his beak into it.

All of the sudden, his little fabric eyes lit up: he had an idea! He could fly to your house! He started bouncing up and down on his soft fabric bum, made one giant leap off the bed towards the open window and fell beak-first on his head. Thankfully, my navy throw pillows were on the floor under him to soften his fall. He just lay there, looking cross-eyed and dazed. He asked me why his wings didn't spread when he tried to fly and I told him it was because, like the rest of him, his wings were woven into the fabric of his body.

He grew sad. It was the saddest little bird face I’ve ever seen. He fell into a long depression. Every morning when I left for work he asked to be tucked in the covers rather than sitting on the top of the bed all day while I was gone.

Then one day, I came home and found him on the internet. He was excitedly typing out words with his beak. I asked him what he was doing and he told me he finally got out of bed and decided to see if there were any online support groups for toucs like him - flying challenged toucs. He told me that he came across a touc in Brazil just like him and they talked about all the downfalls of being built like pillows. In the process of doing this, they also realized there were advantages too. People like to squeeze them more and they got to live in nice, dry climate controlled bedrooms, rather than rainy forests. And best of all, they got to live much longer lives! So now he's all cheery and excited to see you to tell you of his realization.

If he talks about it, pretend I didn't tell you.

I am married.

Chris and I got married on November 11. It was the best party of my life. Expect more entries as we near the New Year. Weddings, however untraditional, are a lot of work. At least my wedding was; I'm a Do It Yourself kind of gal.

She's back!

Chris said to me yesterday, "She's back!" She being me, of course. I've been pretty down around home, hence the soul-searching blogging, nothing more than a little funk. I’ve just been so busy that I haven’t been flourishing creatively, thus the funk.

With the pending wedding and the fact that my agent has been calling me in for Mom roles, I’ve started to feel the effects of getting older for the first time in my life. I’ve noticed little tiny lines creeping onto my face and, and the downside of pursuing commercial print modeling, is that I’ve been thinking more and more about my appearance. And I thought being an actor made you insecure... Although I am merely 27, at least I am also comforted by the fact that 30-something actors work a lot in this city. And getting older means that I am coming into who I really am. There is comfort to be found in getting older.

Meanwhile, Poor Chris. He’s been so good to me and I’ve been such a self absorbed pissant lately. I'm sure he's sick of hearing me complain about looking like a plus model in my comp card photos. The photographer took shots of me in 4 "looks" to be used in my modeling comp card. To be fair, there were 3 looks wherein I photographed fairly well, to the point that I came to terms with those little lines around my mouth and eyes, the slowly sliding features. After seeing the photographs I said, “I look older and I don’t mind it in these photos. I like my older face.” Of course, the photos were carefully styled by a stylist and shot by a skilled photographer whose job is to make me look really good, but nonetheless it is part of growing into this new-old skin of mine.

Smoke and mirrors be mine.

Anyway, in one series of shots, the "suit shots," I actually look like a plus model. Chris confirmed. It would have pissed me off had he not, because there was definitely an elephant in the room. Ha! And I can’t stand anyone patronizing me, much less my Love.

Of course, I’m exaggerating about the elephant part. I realize I look like a Plus Sized model mostly because of the way my jacket is hitting my pants and the angle at which they are shot, straight on. But, to be fair, I’ve gained weight and the suit pants are tight. So there is some truth in that comedy.

Do I think I'm fat? No. Have I gained weight for only the second time in my life, the first being when I was 19 years old and drinking beer and eating pizza and oversleeping every night of the week? Yes, I have. Has it been hard to lose the weight, for the first time in my life? Yes, it has. Can I hardly fit into my wedding dress? Yes.

The last time I tried it on, it was very tight.

Boo-hoo!!!! Wah! Poor Carrie finally has to deal with hard truth that the other 4.5 billion humans (minus the poor, sick and starving 2/3 of the population) have to deal with--that most human beings can't eat anything they want and never go to the gym and maintain the same weight.

I realize that it seems pretty ridiculous that a 5'10'' 135 pound girl should be complaining about this. To look at me in clothes, I am very thin. To look at me without clothes (ew, gutter brains!), I am still thin, but I am flabby. I have no muscle, no firm padding, yet my fat percentage is surprisingly high because I don't exercise. As the ex-model, makeup artist at my comp card shoot said, "People don't realize, skinny people can be flabby." Hear, hear! There is no amount of weight gain that would really bulk me up and make me curvy. Until I get muscle, I will always look like a skeleton draped in pasty flesh colored Jell-O. There is no amount of explaining that will make strangers accept that.

There is a reason that I have been hesitant to go to the gym. “Why do you need to exercise?” I have been asked in regards to my small frame. I have been on the receiving end of remarks such as “Do you eat?” and “You are too thin.” and “You need to eat something.” A few months ago, I was told by a co-worker, “If I didn’t know you, I’d totally hate you because you are so tall and thin.” And when I was in high school people would just come out and ask, “Are you anorexic?” How do you answer that? What can you say in response? It is a touchy subject for all involved. And by discussing it, even in this blog, I run the risk of being called a braggart or “high on myself.”

It doesn’t matter that you may grow up to be thankful for those traits that earned you teasing as a kid. I was called “Bony Barrett,” among other names, as a child. And I am thankful that I’ve been blessed to not have to worry about my weight. But at least part of the insecurity stays with me for life. I have constantly felt judged for being too thin. Judgment is judgment, even if it seems a ridiculous complaint to some.

So it is funny, ironic even, that I am complaining about looking like a plus size. Shouldn’t I be happy?

I've been 128 pounds since I graduated high school nearly 10 years ago. And all of the sudden, I'm ten pounds heavier and I can shed it to save my life. What kills me is that because of my stomach ailments, I already eat so healthfully. Oatmeal and nuts and fruit and whole grains. I can't remember the last time I stepped into a fast food restaurant. Eating well is good for you, but not enough to lose 10 pounds in time for your wedding. I sit at a desk 45 hours a week--I need to exercise, for more reasons than just my weight. It has been a hard adjustment to the way I have lived my life for the past 27 years. And change is hard, even if its relatively silly to the ails of the world.

Other than that, I realize I am blessed.

“Braggart!”

This Morning

Cab Driver: Huh, it looks like that guy’s using a garbage bag for a roof.

Cab driver points to convertible car with duct-taped garbage bag ragtop billowing in the wind.

Me:Yeah, it does look like that.

Cab Driver: He must have holes or something.

Me: Yeah. Looks like it.

And not far, my love, from where we were before.

Last Friday, while I was listening to my iTunes on shuffle, a song came on that I hadn’t heard since I was a child. It was I Loved You Once in Silence from Camelot, sang by Julie Andrews and I don’t remember downloading it.

Unexpectedly, a wave of nostalgia washed over me and I started sobbing. These were not silent tears; these were levies being broken open by a storm surge of tears; guttural, animal-like sounds escaped my body; my eyes were throwing up tears. It was pain and catharsis. I haven’t cried like that in a long time.

When I was a little girl, my mother used to sing to me all the time. Like me, she was a performer, an actor, a dancer and a singer when she was young. She wanted to study theatre and acting, but her parents refused to support such a cause. My grandmother has told me she regrets not watering my mother’s talents. My mother’s singing repertoire was mostly show songs from the days of her youth; I Feel Pretty from West Side Story; My Favorite Things from Sound of Music; and I Loved Him Once in Silence from Camelot.

I loved you once in silence
And mis'ry was all I knew.
Trying so to keep my love from showing,
All the while not knowing you loved me too.
Yes, loved me in lonesome silence;
Your heart filled with dark despair.
Thinking love would flame in you forever,
And I'd never, never know the flame was there.
Then one day we cast away our secret longing;
The raging tide we held inside would hold no more.
The silence at last was broken!
We flung wide our prison door.
Ev'ry joyous word of love was spoken.

And now there's twice as much grief,
Twice the strain for us;
Twice the despair,
Twice the pain for us
As we had known before.

And after all had been said,
Here we are, my love,
Silent once more,
And not far, my love,
From where we were before.

The song from Camelot is beautiful and sad indeed. But that is not why I cried then--and cry now writing of it. It was homesickness that made me sob, the wistfulness of remembering those intimate moments with my mother singing during long night drives, the overwhelming warmth and comfort I’m so lucky to have had, the awareness that with age I travel farther and farther from that home in search of my own home, my own family and my own daughter to whom I’ll sing.

I very much look forward to that journey with Chris. But I love my mother so very much. Despite our low lows, I think of our relationship in terms of our high highs. She is a very good mother and I am lucky to have that. I cry tears of joy that I have and have always had such an amazing love in my life.

Its a small world after all.

When I was in first grade, Mrs. Barnes tried to explain the phrase “Small World”.

“If you were at Disney World and ran into someone you know, you would say, ‘What a small world!’”

Crickets. The class blinked confused looks at her. “Its hard to explain,” she conceded.

Like the rest of the class, I had no clue what she meant by that and it took me years to figure it out. I would go so far as to say I would have figured it out sooner had she not tried to explain in it at all. The fact that she used Disney World to explain it only made it worse, as I kept thinking it had something to do with the Small World ride. Would I say “What a small world!” anytime I ran into someone I knew? Why not just say “Hi! How are you?!” And could I only say it in Florida?

Years later, when I was a senior in high school on a European holiday, I saw a girl I knew in Pisa, Italy. I first saw her singing opera at a talent show at the Virginia Governor’s School for the Arts summer program. A 16 year old opera singer, they didn’t have any of those in my hometown. I was blown away. The program was small, around 200 people, but I never got a chance to meet her, but I remembered her nonetheless.

When I saw her in Pisa, Italy, my jaw dropped again. There she was in her signature oversized sunglasses with a group of teenagers all wearing kelly green youth opera program t-shirts. Her group was walking away from the leaning tower, we were walking to it. We locked eyes, and stared at each other inquisitively, me dumbfounded. She recognized me, but I can only presume that she couldn’t quite place me. I am not, after all, something as memorable as a 16-year old opera singer. I smiled weakly and we went our separate ways.

The world is indeed small, Mrs. Barnes.