Daily Observations

Reverence rhymes with awesome!

2008-06-02T19:35:00.002-05:00

I recently heard a really smart sounding (nasally, stuttering and un-pretty) woman on NPR (Nationwide Public Radio, retard) talk about how reverent people are generally likeable. I’m not sure the context of her statement because I really only put NPR on in the background so that when I pull up to stoplights that hot attorney-looking (rich, tanned) dude driving a Lamborghini will be like, “Whoa, hot and socially aware: Boner City, USA!” (What he doesn’t know is I’ve got my iPod earbuds in and I’m jamming out to a sports mix I got from Nike.com when I got my Nike + system for my Nano. I don’t ever run, but the mix is still on my iPod. And I wear the shoes whenever any hot guy asks if I wanna go camping, which was like, once, and I’m so over that.) Anyway, I have no idea what this ugly woman was talking about, but it got me thinking: I’ve gotta be totally more reverent.

It was like this, super a-ha moment for me! I mean, that’s totally why people don’t like me. I know way too much shit to be thinking any one thing is super important. I mean, there was def a time when I thought God stuff was way cool, but not as much after high school when I had more important things to do than go to church lock-ins (make-out fests) at the YMCA. (BTW, Reverend Wilson was DEFINITELY not worth reverence. He had acne scars the size of moon craters. Good thing God loved him.) Anyway, I definitely wasn’t going to youth group it up after Robert Bradley Townshend, Jr. (my future husband) moved to Maine when his mom and dad got a divorce. (JK! Pete Wentz is my future husband. JK2! Ashlee Simpson is a hobag poser who contaminated him. I’m totally cool being single. For now. In 2 years I’ll be married and preggers. Gross, I’ll never get knocked up. Babies=parasites.)

Anyway, I am really into this idea of being reverent right now. It just makes things so much easier. To be honest, being anything is hard, but being reverent is the hardest! Spesh when you know better than to be a dork about some things. But I’m trying. Really, really hard.

I like to think I have reverence for myself being reverent, which, I hope, will make me 10 times more likeable than I already am.

Imperfectionism

2008-05-18T01:00:00.001-05:00

"I am not good enough to be a perfectionist."

The Severed Hand I Wish I Hadn't Seen: The Result of Which is My Nausea

2008-02-28T01:08:00.005-06:00

He looked like a chef the way he waved it around in the air like a chicken breast that's halfway de-boned. It had already been drained of all blood and dredged in street dirt. All he needed was a frying pan and a stove.

His words were searing enough, "This is what you Americans have done!"

Words

2008-02-19T23:35:00.003-06:00

It does not make it true to say it out loud. It does not make it a lie either. But the brain can rest when you talk, when you say it. And in that resting place, after the adrenaline has worn off, lies the unguarded truth.

It isn't until you get up from a fall that you know you're going to be okay.

"Broom The Smokes, Dude."

2008-02-12T23:12:00.002-06:00

said the ad copywriter to the actor with the cigarette behind his ear.

"We don't want it in the next shot."

Thud.

2008-02-10T23:16:00.000-06:00

Its amazing how much privacy laying on the sidewalk affords you in a city like Chicago. You won't be bothered. No one will ask you if you need help. People will try not to stare.

You can lay there, staring at the sky, splayed out in an awkward position with a dusting of snow collecting on your already drenched winter coat, until you have to reach your throbbing arm into your coat pocket to get out your cell phone to call your husband to help you up.

God Forbid Your House Be Dirty

2008-01-22T18:02:00.000-06:00

Before the heavens and the earth came into existence, all was a chaos, unimaginably limitless and without definite shape or form. Eon followed eon: then, lo! out of this boundless, shapeless mass something light and warm rose up and formed. This was a House, in which materialized a place called Living Room. Next, Bathroom and Kitchen, followed by rooms called Bedroom and Playroom. These divine rooms are called The Home.

In the meantime what was heavy and opaque in the void gradually precipitated and became the Dirt, Grime and Germ, and it took a very short time before it condensed sufficiently to form a solid layer in The Home. In its earliest stages, Dirt, Grime and Germ may be said to have resembled oil floating, medusa-like, upon the surface of everything in The Home. Suddenly like the sprouting up of a reed, a group of humans arose. These were Husband and Wife.

Many children were thus born in succession, and so they increased in number as Dirt, Grime and Germ increased in number too. But as long as the world remained in a dirty, chaotic state, there was no happiness to be had. Whereupon, God summoned the two divine beings, Husband and Wife, and bade them to consolidate The Home into a sanitary place. "We bestow on you," God said, "this precious treasure home, with which to rule your own happiness, the disinfecting of which we command you to perform." So saying God handed them a cloth called Lysol Disinfecting Wipes, embellished with Microlock Fibers to help trap germy household messes. The couple received respectfully and ceremoniously the disinfectant wipes and then withdrew from the presence of God, ready to perform their august commission. Proceeding forthwith to the Bathroom, which lay between the Kitchen and Living Room, they stood awhile to gaze on that Dirt, Grime and Germ which lay below. What they beheld was a world not visible to the eye, but looking like a sea of filmy scum, exhaling the while an inexpressibly foul odor and possessing the ability to make all who touched it deathly ill. They were, at first, perplexed just how and where to start, but at length HUSBAND suggested to his companion that they should try the effect of cleaning up the film with their Wipes. So saying he wiped over the Bathroom surfaces. Then drawing it up, he examined it and observed the Dirt, Grime and Germ that immediately coagulated on the Lysol Disinfecting Wipe. Delighted at the result, the two descended forthwith from the Bathroom to reach the Kitchen. Thereupon the Husband turning to the left and the Wife to the right, each went round the Kitchen and cleaned up Dirt, Grime and Germ so that none of their raw chicken or eggs should make them sick. When they again met each other on the further side of the Kitchen Island, Wife, speaking first, exclaimed: "How delightful it is to see things so clean and disinfected!" To which Husband replied: "How I miss seeing the Football game!" After having spoken thus, the Husband said that it was not in order that woman should ask a man to clean. Nevertheless, she ordered him to disinfect the house. The Husband, now silent with anger, ascended to Heaven to confirm with God his wish. God said to them: "It is the Wife’s fault. It was not right and proper that the female not keep her home cleaner in the first place. She should have been using the entire line of Lysol All-Purpose Cleaners, Sanitizers and NeutraAir Sprays. And it is her profession to ensure that The Home is a safe and happy place. That is the reason you are so unhappy, Husband." The Husband and the Wife saw the truth of this divine suggestion, and made up their minds to rectify the error. So, returning to their Home again, they went once more to the Kitchen. This time Wife did the cleaning with the entire line of Lysol products, while Husband fixed himself a half-time snack "How happy I am," responded Wife, "that I should be able to make you happy while you relax in front of the football game!" This process was more appropriate and in accordance with the law of nature. After this, and with the help of Lysol products, The Home was healthy and left nothing to be desired.

Taking Responsibility for Another

2008-01-17T00:57:00.001-06:00

I am so sorry. Sorry to have destroyed your memories, the relics of your childhood, your culture, an experience I had no right in judging. I am sorry to have sat back and watched from the comfort of my own home, too tired from a long day's work at my computer, too busy worrying about what I was going to wear to care to notice the details, the reality of my destruction, the very thorough job I did at obliterating everything that meant something to you. I am sorry to have then turned it off, my ability to see, to care.

I told myself that it was understandable, that to think of what I'd done, to know the scope of my destruction would be to never sleep again, or smile again without seeing it flash before my eyes, if at all. To care would have meant destroying myself.

And you would have done what I did--save yourself--right?

That doesn't matter.
That doesn't make it right.
To turn your back on another human being, on millions, is to...

I don't know. Its a crime.

But even guilt is something of which to be guilty. Misplaced, something to deflect the truth. Penance does not the past erase, the calculated neglect.

You are beautiful. And imperfect, capable of horrors beyond, I know. But you deserve a different hand. We all do. But in the end, the word "deserving" is nothing, means.

You of all will understand that.

Because, despite this, you are still left in the rubble of your past, your memories, your childhood relics.

BAM-bi!

2008-01-16T10:40:00.000-06:00

Out of the black of the night, we hit something which felt like a wall and made a sickening thud and crunch on the front of our car and then flew on top of our roof and rolled down the back of the car. All i saw was a flash of tan and a splatter of something all over the front of our windshield. My first instinct was that we were getting in a car accident, until i realized there were no cars in front of us. My second reaction was that we hit a person, a very tall, big person.

My stomach dropped. Chris let out a horrifying gasp that sounded like he was coming up for air after being tossed around by a pounding wave. I will not forget that sound. He later told me that he thought we had died.

We were zombies, zooming along in a ghost car.

We pulled off to the side of the road and slowly proceeded to the next exit, which was only about 300 yards away. That’s when i saw that the front left side of my car was completely gone, shattered off and mangled. Shattered an mangled, my brand-new-to-me car.

I just gave my father a check for it less than 48 hours ago.

We called the state police and they came and filed a report. The trooper had gone to the site of the collision, but the deer was nowhere to be seen.

She had walked away, leaving a splattering of unidentifiable liquid on my front windshield and bits of fur woven into in my front grill.

The lady at the rest stop kept saying, "Those suckers are
hearty. They always walk away! Go get yourself a hot chocolate.” I tried to politely refuse the hot chocolate, namely because I’m lactose intolerant, but after the sixth time she kindly offered, I didn’t have the heart or the energy to refuse.

We bought bungee cords to hold the rest of our bumper in place and got back on the road. On our way back on the highway, we saw four deer grazing in the median.

Character Sketch Damaged

2008-01-14T23:17:00.000-06:00

The little coquette, she is so desperate to be loved. I would like to say that I don’t see the desperation in her eye. That would be easier. But I know her too well. Granted, she is good at decorating, at covering up her flaws. Her apartment, her body, her personality. Just as easily as she repaints that one yellowed wall in her rotting studio apartment, the wall that hides extensive water damage—painting a rebellious act without regard for the strict rules of her lease—she goes from a dark self-hatred to a blinding smile. She has studied the art of flattery and her acquaintances are, well, flattered by her seeming selflessness. But really, like that wall, like her clothes, like that smile, its just a deflection. If, perhaps, she spends enough time talking about you, if perhaps she looks cute, you won’t notice the extensive damage she’s done to herself, the ugliness those decorations hide.

He Was Wearing a Kermit the Frog T-Shirt.

2008-01-14T22:52:00.000-06:00

I am so sleepy. Sleepy and warm, dancing in his arms. His long hair is tickling my face. I feel as though I am in a womb. It is dark. Muffled 80s music is dampened by my drowsiness. When I feel his lips come to mine, I snap awake at the realization that this is Landmark. A Real Big Deal. I mean, I’ve written about this moment in my diary, imagined how it would happen, fretted about my lack of experience. I freak out. The pressure is just too much. I don’t know how to kiss! I mean, how do you kiss?!? I pull away and remember that I am in my high school cafeteria. This place where I have spent what seems like my entire life seems so foreign to me now. There are strangers dancing in thrift store clothes. There is a boy with a collar and leash, playfully being spanked by another boy while they dance to “Blister in the Sun”. A greasy haired DJ is in his corner, lost to the beat. All that is familiar about this place is the vast expanse of sickly yellow tile and the folded up lunch tables that are sheltering us. And I am happy.

In Anticipation of your stay, we've turned down your bed to show off our new custom-designed bedding package.

2007-10-14T01:50:00.000-05:00

Their new custom-designed bedding package:

Gorgeous.

I feel dirty.

2007-05-18T18:18:00.000-05:00

"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"

2007-05-02T13:40:00.001-05:00

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.

2007-04-30T13:16:00.000-05:00

“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.

2007-03-28T11:09:00.000-05:00

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]

2007-03-13T14:13:00.000-05:00

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:

2007-03-07T01:28:00.000-06:00

Plan A

2007-02-23T17:52:00.001-06:00

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.

2007-02-21T12:58:00.000-06:00

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...

2007-02-19T18:10:00.000-06:00

Pigeon Potpourri

2007-02-06T14:59:00.000-06:00

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 ...

2007-01-16T11:07:00.000-06:00

"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?

2007-01-15T14:05:00.000-06:00

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.

2006-12-30T01:52:00.000-06:00

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.