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Not Quite Fall

There is something I think about all summer long.

The second we get the first 80 degree day in the spring, I start thinking about it. I long for it. I’m even resentful toward iced coffee for a while.

I know it’s trendy to love Fall right now . . . but dudes, I love Fall.

I CAN’T WAIT to go pick out pumpkins with Charlie and Paul and Lucy, and I think we’re going to decorate the house for Halloween today. I love cardigans and jeans and warm beverages and all of the corresponding Fall things that everyone else loves.

But.

This happens every time Fall starts knocking on our door . . . I start to feel just a little bit uneasy. It’s hard to put my finger on it, but I go a few weeks feeling off. There’s a chill in the air, but it’s not quite the chill you’re waiting for, so it’s more of a reminder that Summer’s leaving rather than a welcome mat for Fall. As much as I don’t like Summer, I just generally don’t like it when things end. Everything around is changing . . . schedules, menus, attitudes. There’s a lot of upheaval going on for everyone and the hippie blood in me can feel it. I start to worry about the littlest things. I turn the littlest things into things like unemployment, cancer, and zombie apocalypse.

I get a little “woe is me” for a while and then something finally happens. Something like having friends over for coffee or watching Charlie giggle about an acorn falling on his head, or putting my book down to put on a sweater. At some point, the timing clicks and I realize that Fall is actually here, and everything is actually okay.

I’m not quite there yet. It’s probably the fact that there’s still an 88-degree day this week sneering at me from the week’s forecast. That day’s kind of an ass.

It’ll get there, though. Soon the air will be decidedly crisp and Charlie will have to start wearing his blue monkey hat every time we leave the house, and I’ll get to see new long-sleeved shirts on Lucy that I haven’t gotten to see yet. I just need to busy my brain.

Do you guys have any awesome Fall projects for me? Something to tell my brain to stop yapping so mindlessly and actually do something positive and productive?

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Goals Again? Craziness.

This picture . . . clearly didn’t work out. It was supposed to be a “progress high-five!” photo, but our camera’s broken and our video camera’s still feature is not so awesome.

I think the fact that I have blogged about my goals more than once in a two-month span is pretty monumental. Hopefully it’s not getting obnoxious for you guys, but, on my end of things, it’s really helping me keep focused.

The school year has started for Paul, and that means our days have become very looooooooong. When things get long/boring/stressful for me, I usually reach for a bag of chocolate chips. So far, however, I think I’ve done a pretty good job of avoiding that golden bag of delicious Nestle tastiness. I’ve been counting calories, and, despite the fact that I had a dream last night that a big scary muscly guy told me that counting calories was the wrong way to go about it (it was a weird Big Brother-style house-mate situation . . . I think he was about to make me eat a raw-egg smoothie), I’m pretty happy with how things are going.

I can’t really remember when it was that I hopped aboard the healthy train (this time around), but I’ve lost almost twelve pounds since I did, and my friend and I are halfway through week seven of this eight-week 5k program.

Friends. Friends, THIS IS EPIC.

The last time I exercised regularly for more than three weeks was my Sophomore year of college. I’m sure you’ve heard me talk about Sophomore year, but if you haven’t, it was definitely my Golden Age. Classes done, every day, by noon. Lunch with my best friends,every day, followed by an hour of As the World Turns, then an hour of jogging two miles around the top level of the UNK gym.

Every day.

I’m pretty sure I was in the best shape of my life then. I was working out at a gym, too, in the late afternoons, and I actually looked kind of ripped in the arm-region.

Jeeze, I sound like I’m talking about a completely different person.

ANYWAY, enough with the memory lane. My friend and I cannot believe how far we’ve gotten, and we’re pretty sure it’s because of each other. Moral of the story? Get yourself an Accountabilibuddy. Unless you’re a lone wolf . . . then you probably shouldn’t. You should also probably get yourself a leather jacket, a motorcycle, and a desperate need to be alone on the road. I guess if you’re a lone wolf you’ve probably already got all three of those things, and are very annoyed with me telling your business. Moving on.

So, here we are. I’m not completely out of my maternity pants yet, but my clothes are definitely fitting better. I’m feeling better, and I’ve also got a pretty awesome friendship growing as a result of this journey. Win, win, win.

Also, my 10-pound-reward is a haircut that is scheduled for Friday, so I’m pretty pumped about that.

What about you guys? Any goals you want to put up on the internets? Tips for not running out of steam? A general opinion on Ben Affleck playing the new Batman?

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Mouths and Hearts on Fire

I’ve said it before, but I am feelingcrazy nostalgic about college right now. I’ve been looking through all of my old pictures on Facebook . . . Minus the Bear just put out a new album . . . and I even found a box of old shirts from my Freshman year.

Let’s just say I was definitely proud of my . . . assets back then.

I’m sure that most of my friends who went to college have some pretty standout memories from those days, because there are a few situations that will never be able to leave my mind. Moving day . . . being in my first college play . . . seeing Paul for the first time . . . these are all things that are branded on my brain matter.

One of my favorite and most painful memories happened in an apartment across the street from campus. These apartments had housed more than four sets of my friends, and I think I had been into each building at least once. They weren’t the nicest apartments by any means, but they were fairly inexpensive, and I don’t remember any of my friends having too many complaints. The hallway carpets were dingy and thin, and, as far as I know, each unit had the same layout.

I think it was late on a weekend evening, and I was hanging out at my friend Ashley’s. I’d like to be dramatic and say that we were having a very emotionally-charged day where one of us had broken up with a boyfriend, but I think it was just a day in which we had been working on a bottle of wine together and watching multiple episodes of something hilarious. We had both just recently discovered that you could make a very tasty dish of “Thai peanut noodles” by simply boiling spaghetti and mixing it with peanut butter and hot sauce.

After sharing a bottle of wine with your friend all afternoon, you’re clearly going to need something to eat.

To our dismay, Ashley had no hot sauce. No problem, though, right? All you need to do is throw a few crushed red pepper flakes into the pasta water, and the dish will be imbued with a delectable spicy essence.

I don’t know what I was doing . . . just sitting on the couch? I don’t know, but, suddenly, Ashley let out a “Nooooo!” as the shakey-lid fell off the bottle of pepper flakes and an avalanche of spicy fire fell into our pasta water.

I think we may have tried to fish the pepper flakes out for a bit before we decided that, since we were just putting them in the water, it probably wouldn’t make much of a difference.

I remember the flavor started out really nice . . . because, you know, you just get the spice without getting the vinegar that hot sauce usually has . . . and the peanut mixed with the heat is just delicious.

And then, it was horrible. Mouths on fire, we looked at each other in horror and then . . .

. . . we just kept eating.

You know how, when you’ve been drinking a bit too much, your decision-making abilities begin to suffer? Just a little? Just a smidge?

We chugged some milk, finished our meals, and went to bed.

You guys, when we woke up, it felt like someone had forced us, gun in hand, to eat fire all night long. Our lips and tongues were burning, and we felt pretty stupid about willingly causing ourselves so much pain . . .

But we laughed, a lot, and it was awesome.

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It’s Me Again, Theatre.

Dear Theatre,

I’m sure that at this point, you’re thinking, “Seriously, stop writing me letters until you get this figured out.” Which is understandable; nobody likes to see a badly beaten dead horse.

Well, hear me out, Theatre, because I think it’s actually happened. I’ve finally figured out why we’re meant to be together forever.

I don’t know why it took me so long to see something that has been staring me right in the face, but somehow I managed to squint a bit and make it come into focus.

Both of my college majors have been working together all these years to create the perfect career for me, and I’ve never actually acknowledged how awesome that is. I’ve found a way to act through my words. I write for people who don’t have the time or skill to do so, and I owe about 50% of that to you.

You taught me that you can’t just hop up on stage and be somebody else. You taught me to dig deep, learn as much about that character as possible. What would they choose if they had to decide between fried chicken or spaghetti for supper? Maybe they had an old roommate who made the worst spaghetti and never wanted to see a plate of noodles again . . . or maybe they’re on the paleo diet. It may sound trivial, but these things matter. These are the details that you need to know to immerse yourself, and these are the details that are convincing.

This is my way to be on stage when I can’t seem to carve more than 45 minutes out of my day to listen to myself think. I may not be at a point in my life where I can spend three hours, six days a week at rehearsal, but I’ve found a way to be an artist amidst the everyday and bring some money in for my family. That is good. That is a good thing, and I owe a large part of it to you.

So, I’m sorry for all the whining. Life happens and makes things complicated. The things that were once so clear to you can become blurry to the point that you can’t even recognize them anymore . . . and sometimes you have to feel around in the dark for a while to find your glasses.

Someday, I hope we’ll be little old ladies together. I have every intention of being that one woman who is in every other Community Theatre show, playing the crotchety old neighbor . . . until then, however . . . this is good.