Minor Stage Fright

Or the closest I get to it. Tomorrow, dearest blurkers, is Staff Development Day at my wonderful place of employment. While I actually take a lot of pride in my work (as much as I'm not liking The Job ATM), Staff Development Day is the one thing I am really, truly proud OF. Of course, it's after midnight and I'm still in the office, despite having an incredibly early start tomorrow and having to pick up a shiteload of stuff for the event before actually going to the event site.

Shoot me.

I've been a member of the LU community for more than half of my life (I wish I was joking). I started here as a temp back in '88 at the tender age of 21, and have worked here in various and varying capacity--from admin assistant to theatre company founder/director/actor/etc. to adjunct to teaching assistant to library parapro--over the course of 22+ years.

That's a loooooooong fuckin' time. Almost as long as some of my baristas have been on the planet; longer than some of our library student assistants have been alive. I've done a lot here, but the one thing that I've participate in and given my time and commitment to is the Staff Representative Advisory Committee. I've been the Library's elected rep since SRAC's inception three years ago; it's been a rocky and rough road, but, Gods, it's been worth it.

One of the most visible things we do is Staff Development Day. It was the event that put us on the map--our first visible, "HEY! WE'RE HERE!" moment--in '09. It's a day for professional development and morale boosting, a chance for the staff of the Uni to come together and talk, network, and connect--a day out of the routine of the office. I'm billed as the event coordinator; I don't know that I really deserve the title at this point--I feel like I haven't done nearly as much as I should have, but part of that is because I did so much the first year. It's a lot like producing a show, putting on this event--booking space, adverts, finding sponsors, setting up workshops, getting donations, buying props, etc. The past two years, I've been very lucky to have a hell of a lot of help from another member of the committee--sadly, Michele is going to miss tomorrow because of a family emergency, but I feel like most of the credit for tomorrow should go to her. I'll be the public face, the shill, but she's done the lion's share this time around.

Good thing, too--haven't been on my game with all the garbage going on here and dealing with Mum. *sigh* I hate not being at the top of my game. I'm already two weeks behind schedule with the roll-out of my website; ditto on finishing the rewrite. I guess I have an excuse (argh, argh, argh, ARGH!!!!! HATE MAKING EXCUSES, EVEN WHEN THEY'RE FUCKING LEGITIMATE!), but at the same time... the clock's ticking.

So, I'm getting my to-do list going:

1. Get through SDD - present my workshop on starting a blog (how appropriate!).

2. Get some sleep tomorrow night. Perhaps have a tequila. (Probably not, though.)

3. Get back to the rewrite. (Already started back at it this weekend, but... the NEW book started writing itself today during a meeting, a whole four pages of handwritten scrawl... it's going to be in the vein of Bloodsucking Fiends [Christopher Moore]--not with vampires, but that tone. Religious farce, instead--instead of John the Baptist dunking and calling Christ, think Reggie Mae the Psychic seeks out a very unwilling Messiah of Common Sense. We'll see if it happens, but right now... Yeah. I have to figure out where I'm setting it, but Jordy [the Messiah] and Reggie Mae [her name may change; it's too Southern for me, but... argh. I HATE BEING A WRITER!!!! THIS is the reason I avoid the button, "You're just jealous because the voices talk to ME" because THAT sums up fiction writing in ONE sentence. Rebecca is being a right royal pain in the arse because SHE wants HER story finished [and considering the bits I've written of Books 2, 3 and 4, I can't blame her, ESPECIALLY if Heinlein was right about pantheistic multi-person solipsism], and William... oh, William, my darling Duke... ever the gentleman, but I am reminded that "duke" literally means "war leader." And noble as he is, his bloodline goes back to before the Court of Love and chivalry, and his patience will only last so long. I wonder if fiction writers are actually just high functioning sufferers of... fuck, forgetting the DSM proper term... multiple personalities... Sybil Syndrome... DISASSOCIATIVE DISORDER! That's it! Right, digression over with, back to the to-do list...

4. Call Ferd; get the website back on track. Pray his insane schedule will allow.

5. Pull together the handwritten material I've been wittering at for my standup act, and start rehearsing. (The first passes have gone over well--if I can make a one-liner work in a conversation, it will work on stage. It's a very sneaky way to test material, but it works. Plus, it makes me keep it brief, something I am so very, very, ABOMINABLY bad at.)

6. Get some reading done. My to-read pile is taller than I am right now, and it's annoying me.

7. Get the %$^&*() house in order.

Overall goal: Rewrite finished by the end of March; website live. Open mike starting week of the 21st (need to get past the Irish-American Day of Mourning; can't stand the Once-a-Year Irishmen, they're worse than Twice-a-Year Catholics). Start turfing out the storage space and figure out WTF to ebay, donate, yard sale or just pitch. Gotta raise cash for the road tripping coming up: Halifax for a week or two (hopefully missing Marathon Day here; is there anything more boring than running? Besides the tourists... Gods, I hate tourists...), Pittsburgh for the first weekend of May--yep, seeing Jim again, this time with Tory who is dying to see him, or was when I was giving him the play-by-play when the dates were being added and the emails were flooding my bloody inbox), and there's the Weekend of Awesome at the begining of June. Plus, I'd like the house in order by the end of June. I want out before the leaves fall.

Fuck knows what I'll do with Ma. Beginning to think I need a Mum-sitter. She has said she wants to come to Halifax. After Foxwoods... *shudder* I really don't want to think about my mother loose in my haven.

OK, I've nattered long enough, kids. Wish me luck tomorrow--I haven't taught in a long time, and this is a maiden voyage. Looking forward to it, though. Going out on limb, talking about this little experiment of mine. Can't believe I've only been at this a few months--maybe six months? Seven? And it started because Steven Tyler pissed me off. It's turned into something very different, and I am seriously, SERIOUSLY considering turning it into a memoir: Letters From the Disgruntled Fringe: A Year of Cigarettes, Xanax and Jim Jefferies. Of course, if Celebricrush is unwilling to allow his name to be used (and if I haven't sold the fiction by then, I really couldn't blame him--you don't risk your own name on an unknown commodity, and I ask no one to put their ass or rep on the line for me if the trust is unearned. Hate the idea of not making it on my own talent, riding someone else's coattails. Rankles me. Pricks my ego), the last bit will be something like "Standup" or "Comedy" or something like that. Maybe "Celebricrushing--that's my own word, at least.

So tomorrow, I get to talk about starting a blog and pimping it out and getting people to read and relate. Thanks to all of you who've been hanging in, blurking, following, and commenting. You've helped me hold on to what little bit of my sanity I have left and to find some peace in the maelstrom that has been life of late.

It's been a blessing.

Much love,

Empress

Travel Advisory

"Don't fuck with me--I'm an American.

I am a PROFESSIONAL asshole."

A Riz Original

OK, let's lighten it up a bit... those last two posts were sodding intense.

If I want to crack up my friends from other countries, I have only to say those words. They're my words--I came up with that statement, so don't try to cop it without giving me credit. I will hunt you down and kill you because, as it says above, I'm an American.

Hmmmm... that may have to be one of the official Kinsale Chronicles t-shirts when the logo is done and the website goes live... (Yes, I am going to have a website very soon. Much fuckery, mayhem, and marketing of the book and the self to ensue...)

Now, I am seldom taken for an American by people who don't already know I'm an American.

This is NOT a bad thing.

This is actually a VERY, VERY GOOD thing.

I usually get taken for Canadian--I like that. Technically, with three great-grandparents who came here from Ireland and France via Canada, I can claim to be a Canadian-American. I'm very, very good with that. Even the Canadians take me for a Canadian.

Until I get pissed off--then, there's no question about where I'm from, but that's another story.

No, I'm pleased to be taken for a Canadian because honestly, folks, we don't always represent well when we leave our borders (actually, many of us don't represent well within our borders, but that's another story as well). I have friends who work at the Halifax Citadel, and they have a lot of American tourists inflicted upon them.

Those of us from the New England area tend to rep the best--many of us have ties to the Maritimes, and visiting Halifax is a bit of a homecoming.

Those of us from south of the Manson-Nixon line, however... NOT so good. *sigh* And I find that really surprising, considering the legendary Southern hospitality, but it's true, kids. Aside from the stories, I've had to deal with it directly (like the tourist on the ghost tour in Annapolis Royal who kept taking flash pictures left and right until I threatened to shove my walking stick up her arse if she did it again). She had a Southern accent thicker than ice cold molasses.

The stories from the Citadel... wow. When I was there in October of '09, the girls from the Coffee Bar and the Gift Shop would come into the Soldier's Library and sit at my table ("my office"... LOVE those kids and miss 'em) and every day, there was a new story of Southern American Tourist Stupidity.

I'm not kidding. There was the the man from Georgia for whom his traveling companion apologized for making REALLY stupid statements about health care and not listening when the Canadian piper honestly answered about the great quality of his health care. The family that did not control its three miserable little offspring until they happen to overhear the person in the next room threaten to shove their kids down an oubliette. (Wonder who that was?) There was the tourist from Alabama who told the girl at the register that they were going to Canada the next day, and when she was told that she was in Canada, replied, "Oh, no, we're in Nova Scotia! We're going to Canada TOMORROW."

Yeah.

But the worst example? *sigh* A tourist asked if they could walk to the ferry terminal from the Hill. The girl at the register said, "Sure, just walk straight down the hill and you'll get there."

"How long will it take me?"

"Oh, about ten, fifteen minutes."

"Is that in Canadian minutes or American minutes?"

I shit you not.

So please, folks, when traveling, remember that you're representing all of us. Please don't let down the side.

And could the State Department revoke the passports of anyone who has run on the Tea Party or Grizzly Mama tickets? They make us all look retarded.

Actually, let me share one story of how I showed my nationality... about three, four years ago, I was up in Hfax for a visit in the spring. I was directing a show at the time--Guards! Guards! the only show I've ever done where I wanted to slaughter the techies and adored the actors--GODS, WHAT A FRIGGIN' NIGHTMARE!--anyway, the trip had been planned before the show was slated, so here I am, in the middle of rehearsals, disappearing for a week and a half. I wasn't happy about it, but I needed the vacation.

Soooo... here we are, it's Monday, I'm at the airport, ready to get on my flight that will deliver me to Logan within an hour and a half, where I will grab a cab and head right for rehearsal. RIGHT! I am Director Woman! I am on-the-go and on-the-spot! I am at the airport two hours prior to departure! My FUCKING FLIGHT HAS BEEN CANCELLED!

Now, I usually fly Air Canada. I like their service--it's awesome. I've taken them to Canada and England, and I really like traveling with them. This time, however, Air Canada let me down. There was no one at the check in desk, no information, nada. And now I have to walk the length of Hfax Airport to get to the ticket counter.

At that point in my life, I weighed another 100+ pounds and my arthritis was ridiculous. Walking more than a few dozen yards left me fagged and shagged and ready to die. However... I was pissed off. I HAD SHIT TO DO, GODDAMMIT! and there was no one at the checkin counter. So, with Vicki in my enraged wake, I marched the length of the airport, pushing the overloaded luggage trolly, ready to kill.

I get to the ticket desk and there are three active lines: the First Class, the ordinary people line, and the business class line. Well, there is no one at the First Class window, the business class has a few people in it, and the person at the ordinary people line disappears trying to take care of the person at the window at that moment.

I wait.

The line grows behind me. The First Class bitch takes the Canadian Forces person in front of me; I'm down with that. What I am not down with is when she's done with him, she doesn't help anyone in the ordinary person line. And the business class guy is doing the same.

And the line is growing behind me.

The pain in my knees and back is growing. There is no place to sit, and I have been on my feet a little too long for comfort, especially after the enraged traverse through the airport. Vicki is standing off to the side and has ceased to remind me to be calm. There are two security men standing near her, watching me carefully, as I am spouting off to her.

I am beyond furious at this point; my rage has reached the point of incandescent and I am making it clear that I am going to make someone's life a holy fucking hell if I don't get some service. I have been told four times that the agent for the ordinary people line will be back as soon as possible. It has been half an hour. I am NOT HAPPY.

And I should mention my accent--my accent has gone from Standard American to Thick Nahth Shah Bahstin to Ghetto Harlem to Southern Virginia to Alabama. And it's headin' for NOLA.

Vicki explains this to her hubbie on the phone. Now, Craig is the cleanest speaking guys on the planet. When he asked her how far south my accent had gone and she said, "She just hit Alabama," Craig replied, "Oh, SHIT."

The crisis came two minutes later when a Quebecois cunt cut in front of me and went up to the counter and tried to get served at the business line. I lost it.

"Excuse me, bitch, but I DON'T FUCKIN' THINK SO! That's right, I am talking TO YOU, get your Quebecois ass out of that line and wait your turn like the rest of us, or I will personally KICK YOUR ASS ALL THE WAY BACK TO MONTREAL!"

Now, I have not had any alcohol, nor have I taken any other alternative substance. I have just nearly been pushed over as this woman shoved past me, and because I am an American and I am tired and my schedule has been fucked up and I am going to miss a rehearsal for a play opening in two weeks, I AM DONE.

And I don't like certain strains of the Quebecois (like most of Canada--it's a prejudice I've been taught, it's not nice, but it's yet to be proven unfounded outside of dealing with the lovely personnel in the Montreal airport).

She is still trying to ignore me when I announce, "Bitch, don't even think about it--I am an American and a professional asshole. I WILL DO IT."

At this point she looks over her shoulder and sees 5'9", 430 lbs of enraged American glaring at her and taking a heavy step forward. She got her ass out of line, and the little man in the business class line--who looked like he needed to change his trousers--said to me in a shaking voice, "Can I help you, ma'am?"

At which point, my veneer of civility returned, I smiled sweetly, and all was resolved.

Empress Abroad: I Drive Like a Demon...

A sweet kiss to whoever can identify the quote (well, the song and artist) bastardized in the title of this post. (Sorry, cash strapped ATM--on vacation. Although I might be willing to supply a particularly violent and well-armed Dust Bunny instead.)

Although the song that is really summing up how I feel at the moment (which is what I mean when I use the abbreviation "ATM"--not automatic teller machine OR the porn translation. *shudder* I have limits) is "Better Days" by Bruce Springsteen. It came on the shuffle on the Zune just as I spotted the sign that read, "Sackville - 50 km." I was singing at the top of my lungs (voice is shot from almost eight straight hours of singing along in the car--only way I could stay awake). Such an amazing song, and the live version from the MTV Live and Plugged In (I think that's the album) also has one of my ultimate theme songs, "Red-headed Woman" on it--the live version is so FUCKING AMAZING and electric, I can't hear it without singing along and feeling utterly euphoric. The timing tonight helped, too (although anyone observing me would have thought I was utterly insane, but then I'm a Masshole at large in the nicest place in the world, Nova Scotia). The line that always puts a grin on my face and tears in my eyes:

"Tonight this fool is halfway to heaven
And just a mile outta hell
And I feel like I'm comin' home!"

Perfect sentiment to sum up the weird, wired state I'm in.

Christ, I'm in brain overload right now. Eight straight hours in my own company with nothing but the road and the occasional text message (before I crossed the border; suddenly, my smart phone has no G3 connection. Argh) at rest stops can make one a BIT reflective. The adventures of the past week have had no small affect on me, either.

Still reeling from the New York trip. *shakes head* I wish I understood why things affect me so deeply. For the most part, I don't give a rat's ragged arse about most shit. I really don't--I hate celebrity culture, think the imbecilic gossip rags need to be burnt en masse (ditto all of the WRETCHED women's magazines... Christ on a crutch, WHAT IS THE POINT OF COSMO EXCEPT TO MAKE WOMEN TRULY STOOOOOPID AND SHALLOW?) However, ATM, I feel too euphoric and too fucking tired to do my usual slam of the head on the desk. I find crushes so bizarre. Life-affirming--the fact that I can find anyone attractive these days for any other reason than looks is reassuring that I haven't completely lost all faith. And that I can feel something other than black cynicism (and actually made a pass... Lawdy Lawd, WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING?)... a good thing. Maybe my heart isn't dead.

I don't want to think about sad things right now. I actually feel good right now. Calm. Safe. Happy. I'm home. Oh, mercifcul Gods, I made it home and for the first time, I drove it.

See, I love to drive. I truly, truly love to be behind the wheel. I have dreamed of road tripping before I ever even got my license when I was 18, and the only chance I ever had to do the long-haul road trip involved a dying VW Rabbit, my (now late- ex-)husband, and fabulous cat. That was the last time I saw my Grand-dad, Buck. Horrible trip--the Rabbit's headlights wouldn't stay on, so we couldn't drive after dark, we were broker than sin (thanks to him; happy thoughts, happy thoughts), and everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. The company sucked, too. Trying to put a marriage back together after four months with an entire country between you... stupid, stubborn bitch I was. I paid for it.

But this... this is the kind of trip I've been dreaming of doing FOREVER: just packing up, getting in the car, and GOING. The stop last night at Camp Atherton was (as always) LOVELY. Bill and Jane give me hope: married fifty years, still in love with each other, and just DAMN FINE people. Laura and Ferd... best wedding I ever went to, and you won't find two people who love each other more or who work better together. Again, they give me hope.

Plus, it's impossible to have a bad time at Camp Atherton.

Laura pressed a wardrobe on me; I have to pick up most of the clothes after I get back because, honestly, I couldn't fit them in the car. I MUST clean out the trunk while I'm here; I felt bad for the poor customs officer trying to shut the stupid thing. He was sweet, though, once he realized he was dealing with a daft American librarian in desperate need of a vacation amongst Canadians. Gods, I don't need to buy any nice clothes for forever; she has such exquisite taste. Not that I'm upgrading my everyday uniform of jeans & Woot shirts; I like it. It fits me. I also finally have back in my wardrobe pink Chuck T's. I have missed wearing pink Chuck's--they used to be my signature footware. Finally lost enough that I can wear real sneakers again! YES!

She's also downloaded my novel to her Nook; it was very cool (strange, but cool) to see my novel on somebody's ereader. :-) Soon... Rewrite may start today; doubt I'm going to sleep. Too wound up.

But the dream trip... I really like long haul driving. It's soothing, believe it or not. I love the speed... the road spread out before me, and nothing to do but drive.

Good thinking time. Plotting time, too.

Trying to sort out the men in my life. *sigh* So bizarre... texts from Captain Strap-on AND Potential Paramour. Totally schizoid. I mean, I never date more than one (of course, Potential Paramour hasn't even had a face-to-face yet, so fuck knows if he's even serious) at a time. Part of it is ethics, part of it is laziness--I'm such a bad liar when I have to deal with someone on a regular basis. Cops and meter maids, no problem: can lie like a rug and weep on cue and save my bacon. People I have to see or speak to regularly? Impossible. I'm trying to keep too much else straight to be able to keep anything but the real story straight.

Besides, I hate lying. It's just not fun. It's too easy to fool people. (Trust me, it is--I've convinced someone that something that wasn't there was; it was scary, that. Fun, in a very sadistic sort of way, but scary. No one should be that weak-minded.)

It's all about power, innit? Use and abuse. Been thinking a lot about that lately. The problem with me writing & performing again is that it's all coming up, and I'm remembering things I'd buried for a while. *shakes head*

What a year it's been. Actually, the past three years, if I think about it: the failed engagement, leaving the DW fandom community, the gastric bypass prep and realization, the weight loss, the adjustment, dating again, putting Idiot away, the suicide attempt, therapy, break-throughs...

My head is reeling. I remembered something else about 1996: that was the year I was diagnosed as bipolar II and put on meds. Now, at first, those meds were a miracle: for the first time since I was three, I didn't want to die. My moods evened out. Of course, my health was also going into the toilet because I wasn't REALLY bipolar II, my thyroid was broken. (This is a common misdiagnosis, BTW--the thyroid directly affects mood, and some of the symptons can mirror acute bipolar disorder.) After a while, they also lost their efficacy, and more meds had to be added. Eventually, I went numb--walking through life wrapped in cotton wool and not giving a monkey's toss about it all. Losing my job and health insurance was actually a boon back then because I meant I had to quit all of the meds. System was cleansed and started over with a clean slate.

By then, they'd found the broken thyroid. Of course, I had already gained a gajillion pounds. Eventually, I had to go back on meds, but I found a good doctor who put me on something that treated anxiety and depression, and I finally realized that I didn't get anxious because I was depressed--I got depressed because I was anxious. The light bulb appeared over my head, and I was on the road to making other discoveries...

But, yet again, I digress and can't even remember what the original point was. 1996, I think. Fourteen years. I haven't been this healthy since before I got married, honestly. Emotionally, I've never been this healthy before. It's weird. Good weird, mind you, but weird. Not quite sure what to do--feel like the energy's going to just explode out of my fingertips.

I have to make a decision, soon, too. Right now, I'm writing and writing and writing... it's crazy what's coming out. I've been playing with the one-woman show thing for a long time; it's a dream, a goal, really. I don't know if I'm cut out for standup; I realize that part of it may be the venue I'm open miking in--definitely not my kind of humor, and there is a bit of a boys' club attitude--inadvertant, but there and off-putting. So I have to find someplace else down at home and see if anything will come of it. The other part (and I think I made this in an earlier post): I'm not a gag-man. I'm a storyteller, and a two-minute shot isn't enough for a proper build-up & sell, and honestly, most of a my stuff NEEDS the build up, the twist, the seeming non sequitur, to get to the final BANG! It's like sex--no one likes a rush job (well, a quickie once in a while is cool, but it doesn't provide a lot of pleasure if it's all you're getting).

And I don't want to do something half-assed. There is nothing worse than a half-assed performance--spending your hard-earned money to see a show and getting crap from the performer. Hey, I know I've been out of the performing game for a while, and it's going to take a bit to get some things back on-line (note to self: start doing the Linklater progression again; you need to restore your vocal range). I haven't lost my stage presence--that's the one thing I've always had and always will, the natural charisma and rapport with the audience. You either have that or you don't, and if you don't, get the fuck out of the game. I've got my timing. What I don't have is the polish. THAT is going to take rehearsal. Argh. I really hate taking direction (surprise, surprise), Feedback I'm fine with, but direction... probably because almost every director I've worked with sucked.

Harsh, yeah, but truth. I've gotten incredible feedback from actors I've worked with over the years, both as a director and a coach, and the bottom line is that I've learned from negative example. Plus, I've got a natural eye for performance evaluation. I KNOW how to tweak. Which means I'm going to have to invest in a fucking video camera, tape everything and analyze it like a sports coach after a game.

Yeah, yeah, I know... I'm continuing with the stand-up. I have to to build up connections so that when I finally get to stage the one-woman, I have an audience and solid rep, as well as face-time with an audience.

Wow. I just tossed down a handful of Cheerios and chased it with iced coffee. Delish. Forgot how good plain Cheerios are. So few things I can actually eat these days, and not get ill or have side effects. Had the loveliest dinner last night--utterly fabulous roast pork (and I do NOT usually enjoy pork in any form unless it's bacon or a Niman Ranch ham steak), roast potatoes (yeah, I know, I'm SUCH a bogtrotter with my padaydahs), delicately seasoned green beans, and a caprese salad with summer tomatoes... blissful food, delicious food, the kind of proper Sunday dinner I haven't had in a dog's age... Let's just say, it was a good thing I was sleeping alone last night. If I could have bottled the side effects, I could have saved myself from at least one fill-up along the road today. I don't wish the gastric bypass undone--I wouldn't trade my life right now or my body for anything--but there are days...

Although, truth to tell, I've always had serious issues with food. I mean, so many things have always made me throw up. I really envy people who can eat anything. I wish I could. I wish I could eat fish and seafood--other people rave so much about it (and it's supposed to be so good for you, if you don't think about the mercury levels). I don't miss the junk food, the fried crap (I couldn't keep it down before surgery, although I still make the attempt at fried chicken... my inner Southerner insists upon it), even ice cream... no whooper, y'know? Pasta... pasta, I do miss, but that's the tomato sauce screaming at me. Alcohol... I can still have an occasional tequila, and I'm getting too old to get wasted. Too expensive in so many ways.

I just wish that healthy food (besides yogurt, cereal, coffee, apples, bananas, fruit in general, salad, and cheese) would stay down. (And please, no "talk to your surgeon" advice. I've done that, I've been given shitloads of advice, none of it works, and I'm healthy otherwise, so... I just have a semi-vegetarian diet. *shudder*) Especially as for the next two weeks, I'm in a place where regular meals happen. (And I will get to help with them. In a kitchen one can move around in. I love cooking...)

Lot of navel-gazing tonight. More thoughts on performing and mental illness tomorrow. Or later today. Plus, I still owe you guys the Celebricrush post.