amphigoria

Much, much better

2008-04-25T15:44:00.000-04:00

So it's been more than two weeks since I posted my little anxiety-freak-out entry below, and I feel worlds better now. My roommate and I did not have another strange visitor, and eventually I started to feel less tense about sleeping in my apartment. Also, my mom and my best friend both pointed out that I probably wasn't going to be able to just chill out and "find peace" as I thought I should, what with the whole slew of life changes -- leaving my job, moving across the country, moving in with my fiance, planning a wedding -- I was tackling ALL AT ONCE. So, congratulations to me for doing all of that.

And now... now I can relax. Oh god, I can relax! I'm in California now, I'm unemployed, and it feels great.

Now, please go read about my California discoveries on my shiny new JillInSanDiego blog.

Anxious

2008-04-10T12:24:00.002-04:00

Last night around 9:45, I was in the kitchen reading a magazine, and L had just gotten home from a concert. She got a drink in the kitchen, and then she was standing in the dining room when she turned to me and said “I just saw someone on our fire escape, at our door.”

“What?” I said. Unless they know us, nobody comes up to the secluded door on our fire escape, which is the only entrance to our place. And nobody ever just drops by.

“I saw someone standing at the door – I saw jeans, and then they turned around and left when I saw them. Then I heard the fire escape shake on their way down,” L explained.

My first thought was something along the lines of “How strange. Oh well.” But then I started to think about it. And L was freaked out, which fed my tendency to freak out. My legs started to shake.

Why would someone come up to our door and not knock? To our door, mind you. Not to the top of the stairs, only to realize they’d made a mistake, were looking for someone else’s back-alley up-a-fire-escape apartment. No note. Nothing.

And L had just gotten home. Had someone followed her? Why?

And why would someone come all the way up to the top of the fire escape at 9:45 at night when all the lights were on? Surely someone with nefarious purposes would wait until the middle of the night. But that’s a cold comfort. Were they casing the joint? Just curious? Maybe someone with no awareness of social boundaries, wondering what the apartment in the back looked like?

L and I cautiously went downstairs to our neighbor’s place and asked him if maybe one of his friends mistakenly came to our place instead. He said no, he and his girlfriend were the only ones home.

Despite the rickety entrance to our apartment, we’ve always felt secure there because it was so hidden. Nobody knows we’re back there unless we tell them. At least, that’s what we thought.

We barricaded entrances last night before bed. I actually booby-trapped my bedroom door. Slept with a blunt object within reach under my pillow. Overreaction? Probably. But goddamn it, I was freaked out. I didn’t sleep very well.

Why did someone come to our door last night and not make their presence known? What would they have done if they hadn’t seen L’s shadow through the window? Who the fuck are they?

I have a lot to do in the next week. Four stories to write for work, a temp to train, many items to pack. I need my brain to be fully functioning. But right now it’s incredibly fuzzy from lack of sleep, and I am so prone to anxiety that I don’t think I will be able to relax in my apartment between now and Moving Day. I don’t really know what to do.

I’m beyond on-edge. I hear people come into my office and I’m alert like a cat. Wondering what they want. What is it in my brain that thinks everyone is out to get me? I make eye contact with someone on my street and wonder if they’ve been watching L and me. Is it the lack of sleep that is making me extra-paranoid?

I would just like to relax. I would like peace in my heart. I would like not to think that I have lung cancer just because I get wheezy after a jog. I would like not to assume that the mole on my stomach is on its way to basal cell carcinoma. I didn’t used to get paranoid about sickness – why is my anxiety manifesting itself there now? Have I exhausted all other options?

L didn’t imagine someone on our fire escape, though. Do I finally have something real to be anxious about? That’s a little terrifying. What do I do?

It begins...

2008-03-18T15:42:00.003-04:00

I have a new obsession. I kind of like it, and I also kind of want it to go away for just a little while. It is occupying most of my waking thoughts, it’s the last thing I think about before going to sleep, and it has started cropping up in my dreams.

Yes, friends, the wedding obsessing has begun.

I really had no idea how much there was to think about when T and I first got engaged on the last day of September. I started looking at dresses immediately – because, duh, why wouldn’t I? – and I idly browsed a few websites of possible reception spaces. But I didn’t start seriously thinking about ceremony and reception sites until two weeks ago, when T and I realized we’d have to push up our planned May 2009 date. We discussed October 2008 (mutually deciding something along the lines of “Gah! Too soon!”), December 2008 (T’s main complaint: “Too cold.”), New Year’s Eve (Jill’s main complaint: “Too fancy and expensive.”), and finally settled on just one month earlier than our original date. So we’re thinking April 25, 2009. (Right, T?) And now that it’s March 18 and I’m realizing how incredibly far in advance sites and photographers get booked, I’m consumed with finding the perfect spot for us.

It’s extremely difficult to do this when we can’t look at sites together. Sure, I can send T photos and prices and thoughts via e-mail, and we can spend more time than T would like discussing it on the phone, but it’s no match for being able to physically visit these places together.

I’m moving to California on April 21, which means I should probably spend more time getting all my day job work done and packing at home than surfing a thousand different photographers’ websites trying to catch a good glimpse of the reception sites we’re considering. But – I think you can guess how I’ve been spending my time.

(Short psychoanalysis aside: perhaps I am such a procrastinator that instead of focusing on the things that will have more of a direct effect on my future – looking for a job in San Diego, packing up my apartment before the middle of April, writing the four stories I have on my plate at work – I am immersing myself in party-planning. This could be true.)

But it is important to find and book a wedding site! It would seem that there are approximately 1 million brides in my next-to-the-middle-of-nowhere town, all vying for a warm spring Saturday at a charming reception location, and I am but one of this flock. I want to make a decision and a deposit before I move.

So for the sake of my overheating brain, I will describe the options, but without specifics, because I feel like being vague:

1. Historical Museum – A living history farm and village with plenty of PA Dutch history. Has an awesome yellow barn on the property with pretty, twinkly lights strung from the rafters. Rental of the barn comes with grassy courtyard out back, ideal for an outdoor ceremony and/or cocktail hour. Cons: Less-than-elegant bathrooms, potentially dirty brick floor in barn (I would have to train myself not to fuss over the hem of my wedding dress.)

2. Historical Estate – The home of a general of yore. Big, rambling old farmhouse with pretty grounds. Reception would be in a big, rambling old red barn. Cons: I have no information on it yet. Don’t think there’s a plan B for a ceremony if it rains.

3. Art Gallery in town – What used to be a turn-of-the-century bakery, this gallery has several wood-floored rooms, exposed beams, twinkly lights, and off-white painted brick walls. Really, really cool-looking inside. Cons: Located a block away from Sketchy-ville, urban landscape includes ugly chain-link fence. No outdoor option.

4. Renovated Farmhouse-turned-Wedding Factory – Gorgeous old farmhouse/manor near the banks of the little local river, pretty trees and sprawling green lawns. Extra-gorgeous reception space inside with sleek wooden floors and wooden beams arching along the high ceiling. Lovely separate bride and groom quarters for getting ready before ceremony. Very convenient to hotels for guests. Cons: Driveway leading up to manor is lined with ugly-ass industry; manor is a random bright spot in a rather desolate section of L-town. Also, it’s a wedding factory. Those million brides in my area that I mentioned before? 80% of them will get married here.

5. Chapel at Private Girls’ School/Ballroom at Local Inn in Groom’s Hometown – A convenient choice: We could have the wedding ceremony at the chapel and then enjoy a short walk down the street to the inn. Cons: I haven’t been inside either space. Don’t know what food/service/accommodations are like at the inn. Kind of a far drive for my parents, who will do a lot of planning/decorating.

6. Small Bed and Breakfast, Rural Location – Pretty working farm with an earthy appearance. Located near-ish parents’ house. Have heard good things about the owners. Cons: Can’t accommodate more than 100 guests without a tent. I haven’t seen it in person yet and don’t know too much about it, other than other people’s good opinions. Not particularly convenient to hotels.

Sort of 7. T’s mom suggested this lovely little historic chapel, which is a short drive from a reputable ballroom. I don’t know what the ballroom looks like yet, and it’s quite a hike for my parents. I’m not totally ruling this option out, but it’s not as prominent in my thoughts as the other sites I listed.

So, have I spoken with the site coordinator of any of these places? Of course not. I suppose that will make it easier to narrow down – facts and figures and all that – but what I’d really like is for some great, obvious sign to accompany each place so that I can easily rule it out. Like, I visit Option 2 and find a family of rabid opossums in the barn, hush-hushed by the owners. Then I visit Option 5 and the ballroom smells like shepherd’s pie, which, for some people, might be delightful. But as for me, I think shepherd’s pie is an abomination. Or I visit Option 3 and really, really can’t get over the aesthetic un-appeal of the chain-link fence outside. Or I decide that I just can’t be another notch in Option 4’s bedpost. And so on.

However, I know that we’re just going to have to make a damn decision and be at peace with it. “I’m not the one dithering!” is what T will eventually say, while I pore over my lists of pros and cons and fret like a neurotic little woodland creature. You’d think that being aware of my indecisive tendencies would be the first step in overcoming them, but I assure you, it’s not. It is, however, an excellent source of self-deprecating humor.

So, to sum up:

…

…

…

Really, really annoyed!

2008-02-08T09:05:00.000-05:00

I need to go back to bed. I need to go back to bed RIGHT NOW! I am so utterly exhausted, thanks to my goddamn hacking cough keeping me up until 1:30 a.m., when I took a hearty swig of NyQuil, which I can congratulate for giving me one hell of a Benadryl hangover. EVERYTHING IS IRRITATING ME. My pants have stretched out and just look sloppy. My coffee is not strong enough – and it's already lukewarm! – and also leaves a nasty aftertaste in my mouth. The coffee shop where I bought the crappy coffee was practically on fire with bacon smoke, so now my jacket, scarf and hair all smell like I was born and raised in a goddamn smokehouse. Also, I’m still filled with a dry, hacking cough that makes my chest feel so tight it’s like someone just reached their grubby little hands into my chest and pulled my lungs taut. Germs, I’m looking at you. And I don’t know what the fuck is up with this, but when I swallow my cereal, it feels like it’s getting stuck halfway down my esophagus. Oh, and I spilled coffee all over myself on my way into the building this morning.

NOT A GOOD DAY.

Plus, I need to rally myself enough to write two stories about the business department, which I must make interesting. Do I know enough about business and stocks and bonds to write comprehensively? Only time will tell, but my guess is probably not.

I don’t even know what would make me feel better, other than just going back to bed for a couple of days, which may, in fact, be my smartest option. I wish this cough would go away.

Not Single

2008-01-25T14:17:00.001-05:00

I have been teased by my betrothed for calling myself "single" in my last entry. For T, I will issue a correction. I am *not* single, but when my fiancé lives in California and my roommate isn't home, I live alone, and I am reminded of my single summer in Philadelphia, when I pretty much survived on tuna salad sandwiches, scrambled eggs, and Ben & Jerry's.

Would I choke down several chocolate-iced cupcakes in quick succession in T's presence? Probably. But I'd feel a little more chagrined than I do when there's nobody but the cats to witness my poor eating habits.

Young and Hungry, Lacks Desire to Cook a Proper Meal

2008-01-24T22:06:00.000-05:00

Ah, there are times when I simply treasure being young, single, and in possession of a still-fast metabolism. Tonight after work, slumped on the floor in a heap of shivering, listless depression, I told my roommate, "I really just want to eat a whole chocolate cake." She, being a woman and also hating this cold, dark week, agreed. I imagined having a gooey, double-layer chocolate confection, the kind with icing so sweet and thin that it soaks into the fluffy cake, which is really just there to be a vehicle for the icing. In my fantasy, it was just me, a fork, the cake, and maybe Amelie.

So I made a chocolate cake. Okay, actually, I made cupcakes. They're more portable, I told myself, so I can take a few to work instead of eating the lion's share. Whatever. While they baked, I snacked on some baby carrots and some blue-corn tortilla chips and fresh salsa. Then I had several tablespoons of icing and three frosted cupcakes, and some ice cream, and a glass of milk.

I know. It sounds like a disgusting sequence. But... mmmmmm....

Someday, I really won't be able to eat chocolate cake for dinner. And I probably won't want to -- even now, I generally prefer balanced meals and good, fresh food. I'm gonna feel pretty crappy in about an hour, when I lie down for bed and my stomach reminds me that it doesn't digest baked goods without a fight. But you know what? I don't give a damn tonight. It's been an overwhelming week, and it's 17 degrees outside, and it was just me, the cake, and some Friends reruns. Reality is all right. Chocolate cake is pretty good. Tomorrow I will have some spinach.

Bye Bye 2007

2007-12-31T14:13:00.000-05:00

I feel a sense of obligation to post on this blog one more time in the year 2007. I used to feel like I had to post at least once every month, but obviously I've loosened up. Or just gotten lazy. Or busy. You pick.

Regardless, I'm considering making a resolution to post more often in the coming months. God knows I have enough clouding my mind and making me feel a little crazy. (Giant move, worrying about getting a job and having a place to live, missing my special gentleman friend so much it feels like my heart is always a little raw, feeling inadequate as a "strong woman" when I get all anxious and unhappy when I can't talk to T any time I want.) But I've never been particularly good at sticking to my resolutions -- I stopped making them years ago, in fact -- so who knows how long my determination to blog more frequently will last.

But while we're on the subject of resolutions, I am resolving to read less celebrity gossip. I've wasted an embarrassing amount of time at work turning my brain to pudding reading crap about celebrities' lives. So that must stop. I'm also going to stop biting the inside of my cheeks. And I'm going to try to stop biting my fingernails. And if I fail at these things, I'll try it some other time, because when you get down to it, tomorrow is just another day.

San Diego Fires

2007-10-22T16:08:00.000-04:00

Mother Nature is a bitch. Anyone who watches the news and sees dozens of communities get wrecked several times a year by hurricanes, tsunamis, tornadoes, floods, wildfires, mudslides, etc. would agree that there ain't no way to bargain with nature. Sometimes I wonder (and this makes me worry a little less, so humor me) if God and Mother Nature just come to blows, you know? I mean, if God created the earth, then it would follow that he created Mother Nature to handle the environment, right? And maybe sometimes she just behaves like a petulant teenager. She's all, "You think you're so damn great, God, with all your omnipotence and infinite love. Well check it out -- I'm gonna throw down some Santa Ana winds and destroy a bunch of homes, just because I CAN." And God's like, "Sigh. Here we go again."

I don't know. What I do know is that Tristan arrived safely in San Diego on Thursday, and now 250,000 people have been evacuated due to the wildfires that are tearing through Southern California. He's safe, and he's on what's all-but-an-island off the coast of the city. But the fires are spreading rapidly and are fueled by the Santa Ana winds that are expected to last until Wednesday. Having Tristan located in the middle of an area that is making national news is just astounding to me. It terrifies me, frankly, even though I am trying to trust that everything will be okay. It also reminds me that there are literally thousands of people right now who are freaking out about the state of their homes and precious belongings. Lives are so much more important than just *stuff,* but I can't imagine the upheaval, fear, and general anxiety that the residents of San Diego county (and northward) must be feeling.

I'm sending up prayer after prayer for the safety of my loved ones -- my fiance, his brother, their grandmother and her companion, as well as the five family friends I have in the area. Please, if you pray or send good vibes or whatever, pray for strength for the firefighters and volunteers who are facing a disastrous situation, wisdom for the government officials, and safety for everyone. (Especially Tristan, okay?)

Change

2007-10-08T16:02:00.000-04:00

It will be a good story to tell our children someday, or perhaps my niece, Tamara, when she faces her first painful separation from a boyfriend. I will tell her how I cried for a week straight, how much I have always hated change and how hard it is for me to look forward, not back. It will be an interesting story, something more fitting for military couples who make the commitment and then prepare for deployment.

“We got engaged on the last Sunday in September, and a week and two days later, he moved across the country. We knew it was coming – we’d been planning for it since June. The only reason I wasn’t going at the same time was because I wanted a solid year at my job, and my boss was taking a long vacation in January to get married herself. Since it was just the two of us in the office, I felt obligated to stay and not abandon ship before what should be the happiest time of her life.”

Meanwhile, I will be here at my job, pining away for my fiancé, wishing to God that I just didn’t give a shit about professional responsibility, that I could just be a total flake and leave the whole office in the lurch. Wishing that I could be with my fiancé in person for what should be one of the happiest times in our lives instead of waiting wistfully for four months before we can see each other with frequency again. We have spent the last two weeks, ever since I returned from my weeklong trip to Ireland, in near-constant companionship, and oh, it has been so lovely. The urgency of the impending separation coupled with our blissful friendship and recent engagement has made our time together just…flawless. It has been a sweet two weeks, and I think we’ve done well with enjoying the here-and-now.

But the departure date is looming, and I started crying last night, and I know that it’s only the beginning of what is sure to be a very difficult several weeks before we see each other again.

Tristan is leaving tomorrow – or perhaps Wednesday – for a cross-country drive with his brother to San Diego, where he will stay indefinitely. My plan is to move out in the beginning of March, so as to give my boss enough time after she gets back from her honeymoon lest her little workaholic head explode. I would love to say “screw it!” and just leave right now. But there are far too many loose ends to tie up before I can go: My roommate has to find someone to sublet my room, I have to give my employer enough notice that they can begin their extremely long hiring process, I should probably take the GREs again, I should decide whether to apply for grad school straight-out or wait until I’m in San Diego and see if I can get hired at a university (so as to get cheap tuition as a benefit), I should explore job opportunities more thoroughly, I have to go through all of my belongings and try to pare down so that I’m not burdening myself with a pain-in-the-ass move across the country, I have to figure out the best way to get our two cats out west… There’s more. But if I list it, my head will hurt, and you readers will get bored.

There is so much to look forward to. Tristan and I – though we’re at different stages of moving – are on the brink of a huge, exciting change, and we’ll get to explore a new city while also exploring the dynamic of living together and planning a wedding. Here are a few things I can’t wait to do:

Find a new favorite sushi restaurant (and a new favorite Mexican restaurant, and Vietnamese restaurant, and pizza place…)
Explore volunteer opportunities with the many theatres and arts organizations located in Balboa Park
Register for yoga classes and maybe even a classical acting class
Make connections with new friends
Live near the beach, and therefore visit the beach, like, every day
Create a home with Tristan, Jack and Ollie (the cats)
Develop new routines together
Etcetera

But before I can do that, I will spend a good bit of time missing these things:

Dinners at Tristan’s parents’ house
Dinners on the porch at my parents’ house
Looking forward to seeing T at marketing meetings for the theater we work with
Walking down the street for coffee and bagels on Saturday mornings in my little city
Lazily watching DVDs of The Simpsons on weekend mornings at T’s apartment
Idle naps, warm hugs, and seeing T whenever I want
The sound of T climbing the fire escape stairs to my apartment
And, well, lots of other stuff. Little things, big things, annoying things, wonderful things.

A bright side to the long separation: my friends are all ready and willing to distract me. I’ll be visiting Kate in Maryland for a weekend of shopping, drinking, and Friends Scene-It Trivia, I’ll be working with Lydia on a staged reading, I’ll spend a long weekend tasting wine as an honorary member of the D.C. crew and looking through old bridal magazines with Jess, and I’m sure my mom and I will enjoy plenty of mother-daughter shopping and chick-flick-watching time.

In a way, when I can peek around the pain in my heart, I’m looking forward to this separation as a chance for both T and me to grow as individuals before we merge our lives. I do think absence makes the heart grow fonder (which might be why the idea of being apart hurts so goddamn much – my heart is already enormously fond of Tristan, and to make room for more fondness, it just has to ache for a while), and it will be interesting to see how our relationship adjusts to the distance. I’m even, in a frightened sort of way, looking forward to facing head-on my loneliness and anxiety about being alone and seeing if by accepting those emotions, I can control them.

But first, I’ll probably cry a lot. And while Tristan is still here for a day’s more worth of hours, I’m savoring the delight of seeing him whenever I want.

Lines

2007-08-02T14:25:00.000-04:00

I went to Subway for lunch today and took my place at the end of the line behind a late-30-something guy in jeans, a white t-shirt, and dirty sneakers. He was unshaven, boyishly rugged, reminded me a little of a guy I’d had a crush on during college. He’d watched me as I walked toward him and the back of the line, and after a few moments of enjoyable silence in which the occupants of the line didn’t indulge in awkward small talk, he turned to me.

“Hot out today, huh?” he said, fidgeting with his credit card.

“Yes,” I agreed, arms crossed in my best anti-social stance.

He nodded and focused on the counter in front of us. I gazed around me, hoping to appear riveted by the monochromatic décor. In my peripheral vision, I noticed Unshaven turn toward me again.

“Think it’ll ever stop?” he asked.

Okay. That’s the best he can come up with? Do I think the heat will stop? I gave the stunning conversationalist a half-smile and said, “I suspect it will.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. When autumn comes. Changing of the seasons and all that.”

That seemed to either stump or satisfy him, because he turned his attention to the teenage girl behind the counter, who had thankfully finished with her last customer and could relieve me of the World’s Most Painful Small Talk.

Sometimes I try not to be so anti-social, but it depends on my mood, and today I just wanted to get my sandwich and get out of there. And I’d imagine that when I’m standing with my arms crossed and avoiding eye contact with anyone, I’m not emitting an “Ask me about the weather!” vibe.

And when someone mentions that it’s hot, what do you say to that? Perhaps “Is it? I hadn’t noticed. I have this neurological condition where I can’t recognize heat.” Or, “It sure is. I’ve sweat through three good shirts today, and it’s only 1:30!”

Yes, I think that’s what I’ll say next time – one or the other. Then we’ll see how quickly I drive the next Unshaven to the next unsuspecting teenager.

Adventures in Driving

2007-07-31T15:22:00.000-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, T and I drove down to Baltimore for a viewing of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. A friend, J, had rented out a private room at the Senator Theatre for the screening, with socializing, munching, and drinking arranged to amuse us from 6 to 7:30, when the movie was slated to begin. I hurried home from work – stressed and tense because I’d left later than I had hoped – changed my clothes, and T and I were on the road by 5:25.

We made excellent time, hitting no traffic and veering onto 695 E toward Towson, like the Mapquest directions advised, by 6:35. As T’s car zoomed along and we talked oh-so-intellectually about our opinions on the afterlife, I noticed our exit just as we passed it.

“Oh, we were supposed to get to off there,” I said with a chuckle. T got off at the next available exit, turned around in a hotel parking lot, and merged directly back onto the highway in the same direction we were already going. After more chuckling and “Ah…idiots” musings, we got off at the next exit and quickly drove past the ramp to get onto 695 in the correct direction. T turned around again and aimed to get on 695 West.

“Wait! Don’t get on there,” I said, with growing paranoia. “Weren’t we just coming from that direction?”

T indulged me, and pretty soon, because I was wrong and T should have just ignored me, we were turning around in the exact same hotel parking lot we were in when we got off the highway the first time. By this time, my brain was getting more and more scrambled, and I started saying “I don’t know” to any question T asked about the directions.

We managed to get back to the original exit we had missed, and as we approached the top of the ramp, T asked me which direction we should turn.

“I honestly have no idea,” I said. “I am so confused.” He picked left, then I insisted we follow the signs for Charles Street, then I announced happily that we were approaching Bellona Ave., one of the streets listed on my Mapquest directions. We turned right, because that’s what my directions said, and wound our way through a residential area, coming to Joppa Rd.

My intuitive awesomeness kicked in to say “Wrong direction again, ass,” and so I called my friend J to ask for advice.

“We’re at Joppa and Bellona,” I said.

“Yeeeeah… You’re in Towson,” J said. “You want to be in Baltimore. What direction are you headed?”

I have no effing clue, I thought. “Um… we’re going… straight? On Bellona?”

“Well, you want to go west on Joppa,” J said.

He might as well have said, “Well, you want to florb the flimcrackle Joppa.” My internal compass sucks. I informed J of this, and he recommended just retracing our tracks, getting back on 83, and taking that into Baltimore.

I told T that this was the new plan, and his head exploded.

Actually, he just turned around with minor grumbling. Back where we started, we realized that we had been heading the wrong way on Charles, and suddenly my scribbled directions made sense. With renewed determination – and a lot of relief on my part – we forged ahead. And ahead. And ahead. My relief turned to uncertainty. We found York Road, on which the Senator is located, and I called information to find out the number of the building. “It’s either 200 or 2000,” I confidently told T as I dialed, then sheepishly turned to him after my 411 call. “5904,” I said.

“Wow, you couldn’t have been more wrong,” he replied.

We turned around on York Road, since the numbers were going down and we needed them to be going up. Somewhere around 1900, I noticed that we were really close to the neighborhood where J used to live, which is in Cockeysville, not Baltimore. Then the numbers jumped to the 10-thousands, along with my blood pressure.

“What the fuck?” I cried. “Did we pass it?”

I was verging on hysterics by this point, having grown increasingly edgy as we started passing familiar Cockeysville landmarks, sure signs that we were not anywhere near our city destination.

“It’s okay, we’ll just turn around,” soothed T. “And we’ll either pass it, or find out that it doesn’t exist and this was all an elaborate joke.”

10105…10100…Twilight Zone…1940…1930…

We gave up and turned around YET AGAIN to get to 695 to 83, and we were finally headed in the right direction. As we drove, I told T that the overall price of our tickets was $12, not $3 as I’d mistakenly told him.

His laughter faded as he looked at my face and saw that I was earnest.

“Wait, you’re serious?” he asked incredulously.

(Side note: It’s not that $12 is outrageously expensive. It’s that on top of driving in circles for an hour after a 70-mile drive to Baltimore to see a movie that’s certainly playing where we live, there’s an even bigger gap between $6 and $24.)

As I took in T’s incredulity, I started to giggle. And giggle. And giggle. Until the chuckles turned into full-on hysterics, complete with tears.

“Yeah!” I laughed and cried. Gasping for breath, I asked T if he just wanted to turn around and go home.

“Hell no,” he declared. “We are getting to that movie even if we’re an hour late!”

We were only about 10 minutes late. Dudley was making out with a dementor when we arrived and took our seats in the pitch-black private room, perched above the main theatre.

We saw our friends for a few minutes after the movie ended, ate some Twizzlers and Bertie Botts Every Flavor beans, then drove home. Uneventfully. And the next time I drive to Baltimore, I’m buying a damn Garmin first.

Two Weeks

2007-07-30T13:52:00.002-04:00

I just need to get through the next two weeks. Then I have a vacation. A blessed whole week off from work, in which I will go to the beach, turn 26, possibly go to NYC, and take care of all of the life-managing that I’ll be neglecting over the next two weeks.

In the beginning of June, I auditioned for a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which opens on August 9, a week from Thursday. The auditions were fun, I liked the director, and I hoped to get cast. After my last callback, I went about with anxiety bubbling in my stomach as I waited to hear what part I’d get. As more time went by and I still hadn’t heard anything, though, I started to look forward to having my summer free. Not getting cast meant no rehearsals and therefore more time for relaxing with my boyfriend, dinner with the parents, and traveling to see far-away friends.

I think I’d all-but-convinced myself that I didn’t want to be in the show when I was notified that I’d been cast as Tom Snout, one of the Mechanicals. Fine, I thought. That’ll be fun.

And it has been. But now, with two weeks of rehearsals left before we open for our four free performances, I really, really wish I'd had that free summer instead. If I had been aware of how much would be going on at work, too, I may not even have auditioned. I don’t want to feel this worried about getting everything done, about not neglecting my loved ones while I embark on 14 days of non-stop activity and obligation and have-to-dos.

Plus – the performance space sucks. Everyone knows it. And really, the sole reason that it sucks is that it’s the end of July and there’s no air conditioning in the building. We’re performing in a converted gymnasium in a government-owned building, and I don’t care that there’s a basketball hoop hanging over the top of the set, or that the space is so huge that the actors’ shouts reverberate before being swallowed. I don’t even care that barbed wire snakes ominously around the perimeter of the grounds.

But the no air conditioning thing? Wow does that suck. And it’s not like when you were a kid, and there was no air conditioning and so your parents just opened all the windows for circulation and it was bearable. The heat in the gym is an oppressive, sticky, stuffy heat, the kind that makes all the actors and crew pretty sluggish and half-dead about 40 minutes into rehearsal. This is the kind of heat that produces indecent sweat, potential swooning and excessive crankiness. It’s like someone grabbed a tank-full of hot, muggy swamp air and released it into the building, shut the doors, left it to fester, then opened the doors two years later and said “Welcome, theatre group! Welcome to hell!”

For the past 13 years, this theatre company has offered Free Shakespeare in the park, where even if it was hot and muggy, at least there was a sky above you. If it’s outdoors in the summer, you expect it to be hot. And even then, the sun goes down and you get that wonderful, velvet summer night air. In the current space, when the sun goes down, you just get to go outside and wonder how in the hell you’re going to force yourself back onto the sauna-stage.

So. I’m just willing myself to keep going through these next couple of weeks, and then I get a break. In two weeks, my stories for work will be written, my proofing of a tedious reunion newsletter for work will be done, my volunteer editing for a really, really badly written book will be further along, and I’ll have endured the hot, sweaty rehearsals and performances of Midsummer.

Vacation vacation vacation vacation…

Youth

2007-06-26T14:09:00.000-04:00

I went shopping on Friday, ending my long afternoon at the mall in what used to be my clothing mainstay, American Eagle Outfitters. In college, I bought most of my clothes there, but I’ve realized that while my essential taste is still bohemian-casual, I don’t feel comfortable at AE anymore. I’m too old for that store now. I’m sure I could pass for a college kid, but it seems to me that the clientele at AE – at least where I live – is mainly comprised of 16-year-olds and their moms. As I stood in line on Friday to buy some cute undergarments that were super-cheap thanks to the summer sale, I examined the two tiny teenagers checking out in front of me. They were probably all of five feet tall, 95 pounds, both wearing shorts no bigger than a dinner napkin and spaghetti-strap tanks, both with nut-brown tanned skin and razor-straight blonde hair. They could have been manufactured from the “Tiny Teen” factory. When I bought my goods, the cashier, a homely Steve Buscemi lookalike, commented on the great sale prices of the various undergarments. While a little put-off that this guy was talking to me about underwear, I was more weirded-out by the thought that I was purchasing the same style of bras and underwear that some 16-year-old guy would lustily grope on his Tiny Teen girlfriend.

Definitely too old for this store.

It’s an odd feeling, knowing that kids ten years younger than me are just now learning to drive. Ten years ago, when I was the one learning to drive and my older brother was 26 and struggling to figure out “life,” today’s teenagers were still goofing off in a sandbox somewhere. They hadn’t learned long division yet.

My boyfriend, T, has a friend from high school whose little sister, age 16, was killed in a car crash on Saturday. She was just going out with a friend visiting from out of town to get a late-night bite to eat. They were simply driving, she in the passenger seat. Missed a turn in the road. The others in the car survived. She probably just wanted a milkshake and some fries, or whatever it is that teenagers eat when they go out on a Saturday night. She could have been shopping for trendy clothes at American Eagle on Friday, fitting right in with her age group. Maybe not. I don’t know what kind of clothes she wore.

This kind of thing happens all the time, and it terrifies me. Losing someone I love in a tragic and sudden way is pretty much my biggest fear. Maybe it is for most of us. But you can’t live your life afraid of what might happen – if I did that, I’d probably never leave the house. And then I would most likely find something to be afraid of in the house. But all we can do is keep living, until we don’t anymore. That’s essentially it, isn’t it?

Sixteen. My heart grieves for her family. Her brother, T’s friend, is in the Army and spent two years in Iraq. He lives in Texas now. All that worrying and praying…and they lose the baby of the family. I pray for their grief to be muted by whatever love – from God, from friends, from family – they have in their lives. I pray for love to give them comfort.

I Have a Soapbox

2007-04-17T16:32:00.000-04:00

I’m not a typically issue-driven person. Often I wish I were more passionate about causes, but I’m usually pretty middle of the road. Sure, I have strong opinions about some things – like, it’s wrong to lie, and it’s wrong to kill, and the arts are incredibly important. But I’m starting to feel a strong disgust for certain aspects of the media coverage of the horrific Virginia Tech killings.

I’ve been scouring cnn.com. This event is unbelievably tragic, and while part of me doesn’t want to know that victims were found in four classrooms and in stairwells, the ghoulishly curious aspect of my human nature wants details. But what I don’t want? Two things I absolutely do not want: pictures of the wounded being carried out of buildings, and a video on the exact type of guns used.

Let’s focus on the latter. It’s an excerpt from Anderson Cooper’s show, so this is something that’s already been broadcast into whoever whatso’s living room. In the article I was reading, there was a video link that said something like “see how fast these guns can be shot and reloaded.” In the video, the reporter is at a gun store, and the gun store employee is explaining the details of one of the guns used, saying it can shoot as fast as someone can pull the trigger. Then the reporter motions to the clip and elucidates in layman’s terms to the effect of “So you fill the clip with 15 bullets, and you can shoot them one right after the other?”

And I just cannot BELIEVE that this is on the news for all to see. It’s practically a mini-lesson on how to shoot quickly! Sure, it’s meant to elicit even more sympathy and shock – “Oh my God, he could kill 15 people without even having to reload!” But while most of us are shocked and horrified, isn’t there a chance that someone else who is completely effed in the head is watching and getting tips? For God’s sake. Let’s not show people the kind of gun best suited for massacring a classroom of innocents.

My boyfriend is pretty anti-NRA, pro-gun control. He can get on his own soapbox, and I will listen and agree and snort with derision at the NRA magazine that his roommate gets in the mail. But I’ve never really felt strongly about it. My brother used to collect guns and was in rifle club in high school. My father, a retired military officer, used to go to target practice, and I even went with him once. So I always felt a little bit like the black sheep when I expressed annoyance that there were guns in my family members’ households.

At the same time, I never really gave a crap about the “Right to Keep and Bear.” And you know what? I’m thinking I’m just plain anti-gun now. You don’t need a gun. You don’t need to shop for guns. And I would even say you don’t need to freaking go hunting and shoot guns. Let the damn deer overrun the earth – to hell with ecology!

But seriously folks. I’m absolutely appalled that a journalistic segment would include a visit to the gun shop. Why do we need to know what that gun is capable of? We already know that it was capable of murdering 32 people. 32 thinking, feeling, dreaming people. Students who had maybe stopped thinking about the German lesson and were instead remembering a meaningful conversation they’d recently had with a friend, or maybe some eye-contact they had with a crush, or maybe they were thinking about a paper they were working on for another class. Other students who were discovering how much they liked the language they were learning. Professors who had built their careers around Virginia Tech, who, years ago, smiled with satisfaction when they were offered the job, a payoff for the years of research and writing that result in a PhD. All those minds.

Guns are meant for killing. Nobody can walk into a classroom with a knife or with a bow-and-arrow and destroy dozens of lives in a matter of a few seconds.

I know horror is everywhere. There are whole countries that deal with genocide every day. The loss of innocent lives is sick and sad, no matter where it is.

We need to grieve. We don’t need a how-to on the weapons that lead to death.

Today

2007-03-08T16:53:00.000-05:00

This is not a job. This is no way to spend a day in the 9 - 5 workweek. I have done maybe 50 minutes of productive work today. Literally. And that’s just sad, and it makes me feel completely lazy and listless. When will I find something that helps me override the inertia of doing nothing?

I need a job that requires more of me, I think. And that job must require me to be active, to get up and away from the computer and to move. And I want to care about what I’m doing, really care, really work toward a goal. That’s one of things that’s so wonderful about theatre. No matter what, you have a common goal with whoever is involved. You’re all working together – cast, crew, company staff – to create a show from a script. And it’s awesome. We’re at the stage of rehearsals now for Merchant of Venice where the speed is picking up, where actors are letting the show take them where it will, where everything gels and the image of the play shifts in your mind as you understand the shape it’s going to take. I love that part. Whenever I feel tired of theatre, whenever I’d rather stay home and read a book than go to rehearsal, I’m forgetting about how much I love it when a show takes shape.

What I wish right now – wish so much that I can practically feel it straining under my skin – is that I were in a role I found challenging. I wish I were one of the actors who could let the show take me where it will. But my moments on stage are fleeting: I come on and announce something that furthers the plot, and then I leave. I am aching to be challenged by a role again, to think about a character and mull her motivations, circumstances, and intentions.

I feel almost desperate about it, and I hate feeling desperate. I don’t want to be that person. I want to enjoy what I have, go after what I want, and accept what I get.

But want and reality are different things.

More reasons to hate February

2007-02-16T15:29:00.000-05:00

As if February isn’t bad enough. I’m already dry-skinned (under my eyebrows and on my earlobes? Seriously, skin?), constantly cold, frumpy, grumpy, with hair that’s simultaneously frizzy and flat, but now I am also sore, filled with internal battle-wounds from digging my car out of the ice and snow for several hours yesterday. I anxiously watched the snow fall at work on Tuesday until I left at noon to find the roads weren’t so terrible. I got home, parallel-parked on the city street, and settled in for the predicted winter storm. The college was closed on Wednesday, so I had the day off. I read a book. I watched a couple episodes of Friends. I did some organizing in my room. Then Thursday came. I called my boss and told her I would be late, since I had to dig my car out of the snow. She laughed and said she wouldn’t expect to see me, then.

I had no idea what I was in for.

On Wednesday, a lot of my neighbors went out and dug out their cars in the late afternoon after all the snow stopped. (Then it started again, but whatever.) I didn’t want to interrupt my day of not leaving the house, so I waited. And yesterday, I chipped away at the hardened snow coating my car, scratching away about $1000 worth of its value as I unwittingly scraped away small streaks of paint. For two hours I worked, turning my attention to freeing my wheels from the hard snow covering them and surrounding my parking space. I stopped frequently and gaped at all the icy snow I had yet to remove. Then I laughed at the absurdity of it. And then I got lightheaded a couple of times from the vigorous pounding I was doing with the shovel. Then I went inside for lunch.

After lunch and a half-hearted attempt to work from home, I tackled my car again, this time accompanied by my roommate. She shoveled the snow away from the passenger side of my car, then went off to try to chip away at the inches-thick block of ice coating her car wheel. A nice neighbor helped me by hammering – literally – away at the snow-ice keeping me from the street. Two hours later, I had shoveled an escape from parking space to street. Three hours after that, I hobbled outside – aching from my hard labor – to drive to rehearsal.

The drive was horrible. Horrible and terrifying. The roads in the city are mind-blowingly bad. Solid sheets of ice two inches off above the actual road, with pitted dips and icy lumps, which results in both bumping and sliding along the danger zone.

The last time I drove on ice, three years ago, I wrecked my Jeep and ended up tipped over in a ditch. Perhaps I still have emotional issues from that, because as I was driving last night, I was hyperventilating and crying. I kept trying to calm myself down – “Breathe slowly, Jill” and “It’s okay, stop freaking out” – but I would pretty quickly end up back in the head space of terror. When I finally crawled into the parking lot at our rehearsal space, I sobbed. We're talking genuine, no-holds-barred wailing, gasping and shaking. It was ridiculous. Then I was off-kilter for the rest of the evening, exhausted and shaky. And then they didn’t even get to the scene I’m in. That’s what happened.

I fucking hate February.

Celebrity Rant

2007-01-26T10:27:00.000-05:00

I used to like Katie Holmes. I liked that she drove a Honda and lived in an apartment in Wilmington, where she filmed Dawson’s Creek. I liked that she dated Joshua Jackson in real life and referred to him in interviews as her first love. I appreciated the fact that she was raised in a big Catholic family in Anywhere, Ohio and doing high school musicals before auditioning for Dawson’s Creek. She seemed like the kind of person who would be a good friend to have.

But post-Cruise Katie? She seems like a self-important snob. Check out these photos from people.com. Doesn’t she look like a condescending bitch?

Gettin' My Pollyanna On

2007-01-15T14:57:00.000-05:00

Today began as a day of hating life and feeling sorry for and crappy about myself. (Getting cast in a tiny role when you were hoping for grandeur can do that to you.) But now I’m sitting here feeling all misty-eyed about the fact that while I might feel shitty about this, I should be counting my blessings. I have people in my life who love me and bolster me when I’m sad. I have a boyfriend who has listened to my fretting, my worries, my hopes, and has offered me help and advice countless times. I have friends who tell me I’m wonderful (that kind of ego-stroking is simply lovely when you’re full of self-doubt). And I even have a good enough relationship with the director of the show that I can admit to being disappointed and ask what I can do better next time, instead of pretending I’m thrilled with the way things turned out.

So. Feeling rejected. It passes. I can sit here full of melancholy, wondering “why not me?” or I can appreciate that I’m involved. I can berate myself and assume that I suck at life in general, or I can remind myself that I did my best and that everything is an opportunity to improve.

It’s good to get a little perspective. (It’s also good to let it out when you’re really freaking disappointed. My journal got quite the entry last night.)

Anyway. Life goes on.

The Merry Bells Keep Ringing

2006-12-06T12:23:00.000-05:00

Yesterday afternoon I took in what I expected to be a peaceful, solitary lunch at the campus café. I thought the Jays Nest, as the café is called, was harmless.

I was wrong.

I bought a sandwich, an apple, and a bottle of green tea and found a seat in a sun-soaked booth. I was looking forward to reading the latest book I’m obsessed with, and I managed to tune out the Christmas music pumping through the overhead sound system. Oh, occasionally I would hear Bing Crosby crooning Happy Holidays, or Jessica Simpson breathily beckoning Santa Claus, but for the most part, I ignored the music.

Until the donkey song.

Oh my God, the donkey song. The god-awful Christmas Donkey song. I’d never heard it before, and if I had, I’m sure my head would have exploded long ago. It goes something like “Doodle dee do, EEEE aw EEEE aw blah blah blah Christmas Donkey!”

What were the music execs thinking when they put this one on the air? When they actually set aside studio time for a demented singer to come in and make goddamn DONKEY NOISES???

I actually plugged my ears and shook with distress while this song played and I tried to read. I almost freaked out, people.

This morning, I went to get some coffee in the Blue Bean (where, incidentally, even putting a frigging shot of espresso in your daily cup doesn’t make the coffee taste any stronger than dishwater), and the song was playing again. I said, out loud, “Oh no!” and I fluttered my hands about my head. Fortunately, the song was only one violent chorus of EEE aw from the end. Unfortunately, that little bit was enough for the song to firmly take root in my head, where it is still playing. Over and over again.

Ah, I just looked it up on Google. Apparently I’m mistaken about the lyrics. They are “Chingedy ching, EEEE aw EEEE aw, the Italian Christmas donkey.” Somewhere in Italy, someone is really enjoying this song.

I want to kill myself.

Look!

2006-11-10T15:34:00.000-05:00

Coolest photo ever.

I Like Cheerios

2006-11-02T09:16:00.000-05:00

I brought some Cheerios to work today to eat at my desk. I have no milk, so I’ve been pulling fingertipfuls of the cereal from the bag and eating it dry. I just looked down and there is a smattering of Cheerios on the floor under my desk and around my chair.

Nevermind that I have a job, a car, and an apartment.

I am a three-year-old.

Another celebrity couple bites the gilded dust

2006-10-31T13:45:00.000-05:00

Alright, so I'm a fan of people.com. And yes, I am a little ashamed. But not enough that I'm not totally bummed that Ryan Phillippe and Reese Witherspoon are splitting. It's just very sad! They're both so cute and blonde and small, and they have such cute small blonde children. And, you know, they just seemed like a real classy couple. Even if Ryan Phillippe never really smiled.

Anyway. I just wanted to share my mild distress at that superficial tidbit.

I have a new job!

2006-10-10T16:20:00.000-04:00

On July 16, I sent off a last-minute job application for a position at a nearby college that had piqued my interest a few weeks prior. As I was struggling with my cover letter, Tristan read the job description and said "Wow, it looks like that job was made for you." I sent my email to HR, and when I didn't get any response beyond the typical "If we like you, we'll bring you in for an interview" form letter, I put it out of my mind. "Oh well," I thought. "I didn't really expect an interview anyway."

A month later, I got an email from the director of the department telling me she'd like to further discuss my qualifications and career goals during a phone interview. As I stared at the computer screen, baffled, Tristan said "See? I told you that job was made for you."

After discussing the position with L over the course of our phone interview, I was psyched, anxious, and hoping. L had explained that she had narrowed the applicant pool down to 15 people for the phone interview, from which she would be narrowing it down to 8 for a face-to-face interview. From there, she would bring 4 people in to meet with her colleagues, and from there, she would make her hiring decision. So it seemed like a long road ahead. I told myself that it didn't matter if I didn't get the job, because I already had a decent place of employment.

(But I really wanted the job.)

Over the next four weeks, I interviewed with L, 3 of her colleagues, HR, and L's boss. Last Thursday, I was officially offered the job, and I officially accepted! I am ridiculously excited. This is the first time since graduating college more than three years ago that I've been offered a full-time job for which I interviewed. (I'm not counting retail or temp-to-hire.) This was also the first time that I felt like I was truly and completely qualified for the position, and I actually had experience to back up my claims of awesomeness.

Plus, not only is it basically my dream job for this point in my life (I'll actually get to write and edit on the clock! And be involved in the production of all the college publications! I'll be getting paid to do interesting things at which I excel!), but the benefits are also freaking amazing. I get 4 weeks of vacation to start. Can you believe that? 4 weeks!!! And that's not counting the week off between Christmas and New Years when the college is closed!

It still feels a little unreal.

I gave my notice at work yesterday, and while I'd spent all weekend hyperactively claiming that I couldn't wait to give notice, I felt all nervous and hesitant calling my supervisor aside for a private meeting Monday morning. He was really, really cool about it. He just nodded, smiled a little, and said "Okay." Then we told HR, and then I told my team. They all looked a little distressed, which, to be honest, made me feel well-loved. I'd been feeling guilty for the last month for sneaking out to go on the aforementioned interviews (and since my office has a casual dress code, I couldn't wear my fancy interview clothes to work. I kept them in my car, lightly covered with papers and a random t-shirt so that no one could look in my windows and make assumptions about what I was up to.) and it was nice to know that nobody resented me for my decision.

I start my new job on the 23rd. In the meantime, I'm putting together a cheat-sheet for whoever takes over this job after I leave, and I'm thinking about the things I will and will not miss about RMS. In case you are interested, they are as follows:

I'll miss the 11-minute commute and the free, delicious coffee-by-the-cup. I will miss reading TWoP recaps while drinking said coffee in a leisurely manner. I'll miss smirking as the young frat-boy types discuss the latest sports stats in the kitchen and call each other "buddy." (More on them in another post.) I'll definitely miss being able to throw on jeans and a t-shirt and stumble tiredly into work. I'll even miss the energy on high-sales days.

And I'll really miss the coworkers on my team. I'll be damn lucky to find such cool, fun, and witty coworkers again. (When I told them I was leaving, I explained that I was embarking on my dream job, but that I'd already found my dream coworkers. I almost teared up as I said it, too. I'm such a sap.)

And conversely, things I will not miss:
I will not miss the mandatory sub or pizza lunches for new hires. I'm an adult, not a middle-school student. I will not miss the boring, mindless aspects of my job that a slow-witted monkey could do. I will not miss being considered "tardy" if I punch in at 8:01. And I am downright giddy about not having sit across from the Gum Popper anymore. I also won't miss having to shell out $3 practically every other week for someone's wedding/baby/birthday shower. Similarly, I won't miss leaving cheerfully insincere messages in the birthday cards of people I barely know.

Overall, though, this has been a pretty cool place to work. I've stayed here the longest of all my post-grad jobs, and I was content the longest (7 months, maybe?) as well. So, kudos and farewell to you RMS. Keep on selling those reprints, even though nobody really needs them.

And hello, liberal arts college campus. How I've missed you. I hope we're friends for a long time.

Is it creepy to be obsessed?

2006-09-13T17:33:00.000-04:00

Recently, I have rediscovered my simple adoration of reading. I've been so busy for the last few ages that I haven't read anything longer than a play or a magazine. I know that when I pick up a book, I'll start to read it, then get sidetracked by my many extracurriculars and other little details of life (like not ignoring my boyfriend...more on that in a bit) and not give myself the time to get into the story.

But I've loved reading basically since I knew that words existed, and I've missed being a bookworm. I've gone through book after lovely book in the last few weeks, and on Sunday, after reading Jess's glowing review, I started Stephenie Meyer's Twilight.

It is like a drug. All I want to do is read this book, and I haven't had nearly enough time to devote to it. I read it on my lunch break Monday instead of tackling one of several things on my neglected To-Do list. Then I devoured more of the story on Monday evening, completely ignoring the time limits I'd set for myself. Then I thought about it yesterday morning at work, and about how I just needed to get the hell through the afternoon so I could continue reading. And in my non-reading time, I am daydreaming about the characters.

What is it about this book??? I told my boyfriend on the phone yesterday that I couldn't wait to get home and continue the book, and he said, "I'm never going to see you again, am I?" Usually, spending time with him is the best part of my week. I adore him. However, I cannot rest until I've finished this book. I have told him that he is welcome to come hang out with me while I read, but he simply mustn't distract me.

So, the workday is over. I get to go home and read now! See you suckers later.

Musicians are the neatest

2006-08-25T10:38:00.000-04:00

Last week, I went to an Iron & Wine concert in Brooklyn. After the show, I met Sam Beam! I met Sam Beam! Wheee!

Tristan is acquainted with the frontman of Califone, who were one of the opening acts for the I&W show. So he gave Tim Rutili a call after the concert, Tim came and greeted us, we awkwardly followed him around like puppies, and then we turned a corner and there was Sam Beam, the man behind Iron & Wine.

I think my heart may have stopped for just a second, and then I started feeling all nervous. I have no idea why, other than the theory I have that my nervous system conspires to make me look like an idiot as often as possible. I shook Sam Beam's hand and said that it was a wonderful concert, and I know I babbled some other useless stuff, and he kindly asked my name and then followed suit with Tristan and his college chum Jon.

Oh how I wish I could be eloquent and laid back in situations like that, but, well, that's just not me.