Jess: Hey chicos, I want to pass on the resume of a college friend of mine. Halle just left her job in New York and is extremely capable, overachieving, and badassed. Thought you should have it in case anything comes up.
John: Thanks Jess, I'll keep her in mind though these days it's not more than the occasional runner gig.
Jess: Well I'm the last person who would turn her nose up at a runner gig considering how that's I got started in this biz! Also, Halle knows that since she visited me on tour back in the days when I hung 15 8-foot tall Pop Tart banners around the arena...
John: I hate dealing with banners.
Jess: Do you happen to remember when I threw a bunch of them in the trash compactor in Portland, ME? I got in trouble with Marisa that day but I had HAD IT.
John: HAHA!!! Yes! FYI, I just got back from a colonic... something that you and G did together. It always cracked me up. Is it wrong that I kind of liked it? Oh my!
Jess: !!!!!! Now I'm going to have nightmares about those tubes tonight. Having said that, G and I have never laughed harder together than we did in the waiting room of the Tummy Temple so it's also a good memory and not 100% traumatizing.
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
1.26.2013
6.30.2012
Week off
I have a week off from work. THANK YOU, JESUS as they say in these parts. I've done everything possible to tackle and anticipate ongoing paperwork so I don't do what I do on most days that I'm "off", that is, work all day and go out for food and drinks at night just to get out of the house. I now know that I've been successful at creating this week's space for myself but I had a panic before I left home for a trip earlier this week, panic brought on from fear that I wouldn't actually have a vacation because I had to have forgotten something.
Originally we thought about traveling somewhere this week, to visit Miguel in the Canary Islands, to Montreal, or Nova Scotia. The longer we researched and put off buying plane tickets, the more we realized - Matthew was the first to conclude it - that the thought of traveling was the problem. The best vacation I could possibly have now is to just be home, enjoying being home, being in this city.
I want to lounge on the couch, feet up on the ottoman and a cup of coffee in my hand, having long meandering conversations that aren't cut short by urgenturgenturgent emails and phone calls. I'm going on a date to the Adventure Science Center, playing with my new drum kit, sitting in coffee shops blogging, writing letters, making mix CDs and writing postcards. I'm cooking dinner. Shit, I'm helping Matthew clean the house. I've done my own laundry once since February and cleaned never, which isn't exactly a complaint; it just shows how separate I am from my home. Yesterday I thought, "I really need to wash my hair. When did I last wash it, in South Carolina or Florida?"
Here's a worse question, one that Matthew has asked me, "Where's the girl I met?"
That girl took long walks and long breaks and had a pretty good sense of balance. I was well acquainted with the thoughts in my head then whereas now I forget most details unless I'm getting paid to remember: monetized memory. I used to give as much energy to myself as much as I gave to others. The loss of my habits and qualities was gradual and it is also, I believe, reversible. And nothing tells me that I need to give some attention to regaining these losses than the fact that I was on verge of tears earlier this week just imagining the prospect of having time to be me.
***
At the end of May I checked into a hotel in Los Angeles, a hotel where I've spent months and months of nights in the past. I have all my favorite spots to walk to from the hotel, the place I buy groceries for the minibar fridge, and the sales manager I hug when I see. I'm totally comfortable in this place. When I got to my room in May, I went out to sit on the balcony and put my feet up on the railing. After a few moments of staring into the trees I realized that it was a year almost to the day that I checked into the same hotel to kick off last summer's season of touring. Checking in then meant that I wouldn't be home for months. Now it's better - I'm usually home a couple of days a week - but what struck me most was that the date meant I had been going, going, gone for a solid 365. So this is what that feels like.
***
Last night I watched an episode of True Blood and struggled to follow the plot (see: the memory loss I was talking about) but was quite taken with a sexy new character Salome Agrippa. It wasn't just her classic Mediterranean profile or vampiric composure. It wasn't her seduction of Bill, Eric, and that actor from Law & Order: SVU. It was her line, "We always have choices." She actually said it twice and it felt like she was making sure that I caught it. I was also quite drawn in when she spoke in first person about Biblical events and had to hit pause, "MY GOD, living for 2000 years? Are you kidding me? How on earth do you remember everything that's happened?" But the thing about choices, and I know life lessons from True Blood may be a touch out of context but hell, I'll take it where I can get it, if we always have choices, am I choosing to be this busy? How can I choose to manage myself better? Or is this the best thing I can do right now for reasons greater than too bad I don't have time to walk around and sit under trees writing my feelings in a journal? Am I just being an adult?
***
This morning I sat on the couch with my feet on the ottoman and had a long meandering conversation with Matthew that led me to tell him how in sixth grade Sunny and I wrote promises to ourselves on the underside of the table we worked at in our classroom. I told him, "We took these promises seriously because, you know, we wrote them in marker." The two I recall are:
WE WILL NEVER BE PREPPY
WE WILL NEVER SHOP AT THE ACORN
The Acorn was a shop in Hyde Park, the neighborhood we both grew up in, stocked with clothes for golfing and lunching at the country club.
"Have you ever bought clothes at The Acorn?" he asked.
"No, but I bought a few things at Ann Taylor Loft."
"Well, it was for work," he said.
When I was a kid, I had ideas about adulthood and who I'd be when I got here. And in many ways, I'm pretty damn close to who I wanted to grow into. Some surface details have been big surprises but I arrived here today fully through my character: following my emotions and intuition more often than being practical, taking risks, planning only as little as was necessary, and letting unexpected turns take me for a ride. I'm as happily anchored as I've ever been with a husband and city I love and want to stay in. He's a natural planner and that might be rubbing off on me a little. I mean, I'm the one who's glued to real estate listings and wants to buy a house. That's a FIRST.
The main discord at odds with who I imagined I'd be in 1987 and how I want to live now is that I'm just not tuned to be a workaholic. To be clear: I like working hard and I'm good at it. But at the expense of my mental health or my relationships, for long periods of time with no end in sight? No. That page is not in my atlas. A phrase I've been using way too much lately is "happy medium". The happy medium is somewhere between being stagnant and being burnt out and neurotic. My happy medium is a place where I'm learning and growing but not fractured. So that's what this week is, a cast. I hope you can sign your name on it.
Originally we thought about traveling somewhere this week, to visit Miguel in the Canary Islands, to Montreal, or Nova Scotia. The longer we researched and put off buying plane tickets, the more we realized - Matthew was the first to conclude it - that the thought of traveling was the problem. The best vacation I could possibly have now is to just be home, enjoying being home, being in this city.
I want to lounge on the couch, feet up on the ottoman and a cup of coffee in my hand, having long meandering conversations that aren't cut short by urgenturgenturgent emails and phone calls. I'm going on a date to the Adventure Science Center, playing with my new drum kit, sitting in coffee shops blogging, writing letters, making mix CDs and writing postcards. I'm cooking dinner. Shit, I'm helping Matthew clean the house. I've done my own laundry once since February and cleaned never, which isn't exactly a complaint; it just shows how separate I am from my home. Yesterday I thought, "I really need to wash my hair. When did I last wash it, in South Carolina or Florida?"
Here's a worse question, one that Matthew has asked me, "Where's the girl I met?"
That girl took long walks and long breaks and had a pretty good sense of balance. I was well acquainted with the thoughts in my head then whereas now I forget most details unless I'm getting paid to remember: monetized memory. I used to give as much energy to myself as much as I gave to others. The loss of my habits and qualities was gradual and it is also, I believe, reversible. And nothing tells me that I need to give some attention to regaining these losses than the fact that I was on verge of tears earlier this week just imagining the prospect of having time to be me.
***
At the end of May I checked into a hotel in Los Angeles, a hotel where I've spent months and months of nights in the past. I have all my favorite spots to walk to from the hotel, the place I buy groceries for the minibar fridge, and the sales manager I hug when I see. I'm totally comfortable in this place. When I got to my room in May, I went out to sit on the balcony and put my feet up on the railing. After a few moments of staring into the trees I realized that it was a year almost to the day that I checked into the same hotel to kick off last summer's season of touring. Checking in then meant that I wouldn't be home for months. Now it's better - I'm usually home a couple of days a week - but what struck me most was that the date meant I had been going, going, gone for a solid 365. So this is what that feels like.
***
Last night I watched an episode of True Blood and struggled to follow the plot (see: the memory loss I was talking about) but was quite taken with a sexy new character Salome Agrippa. It wasn't just her classic Mediterranean profile or vampiric composure. It wasn't her seduction of Bill, Eric, and that actor from Law & Order: SVU. It was her line, "We always have choices." She actually said it twice and it felt like she was making sure that I caught it. I was also quite drawn in when she spoke in first person about Biblical events and had to hit pause, "MY GOD, living for 2000 years? Are you kidding me? How on earth do you remember everything that's happened?" But the thing about choices, and I know life lessons from True Blood may be a touch out of context but hell, I'll take it where I can get it, if we always have choices, am I choosing to be this busy? How can I choose to manage myself better? Or is this the best thing I can do right now for reasons greater than too bad I don't have time to walk around and sit under trees writing my feelings in a journal? Am I just being an adult?
***
This morning I sat on the couch with my feet on the ottoman and had a long meandering conversation with Matthew that led me to tell him how in sixth grade Sunny and I wrote promises to ourselves on the underside of the table we worked at in our classroom. I told him, "We took these promises seriously because, you know, we wrote them in marker." The two I recall are:
WE WILL NEVER BE PREPPY
WE WILL NEVER SHOP AT THE ACORN
The Acorn was a shop in Hyde Park, the neighborhood we both grew up in, stocked with clothes for golfing and lunching at the country club.
"Have you ever bought clothes at The Acorn?" he asked.
"No, but I bought a few things at Ann Taylor Loft."
"Well, it was for work," he said.
When I was a kid, I had ideas about adulthood and who I'd be when I got here. And in many ways, I'm pretty damn close to who I wanted to grow into. Some surface details have been big surprises but I arrived here today fully through my character: following my emotions and intuition more often than being practical, taking risks, planning only as little as was necessary, and letting unexpected turns take me for a ride. I'm as happily anchored as I've ever been with a husband and city I love and want to stay in. He's a natural planner and that might be rubbing off on me a little. I mean, I'm the one who's glued to real estate listings and wants to buy a house. That's a FIRST.
The main discord at odds with who I imagined I'd be in 1987 and how I want to live now is that I'm just not tuned to be a workaholic. To be clear: I like working hard and I'm good at it. But at the expense of my mental health or my relationships, for long periods of time with no end in sight? No. That page is not in my atlas. A phrase I've been using way too much lately is "happy medium". The happy medium is somewhere between being stagnant and being burnt out and neurotic. My happy medium is a place where I'm learning and growing but not fractured. So that's what this week is, a cast. I hope you can sign your name on it.
6.09.2012
Smile!
A few weeks ago I was walking through the loading dock of an arena in Birmingham, AL when a man with shoulder-length lank grey hair, chin stubble, and a Rasta bracelet told me to smile, sweetheart. I didn't recognize him but had the feeling that I should. In retrospect I think he was a local stagehand but something about him seemed familiar, like he was crew guy on Aldean's team who I'd forgotten over the six-week break from their tour. Aldean's crew and management are fantastic so I didn't want to be dick but I felt a surge of old, uncomfortable emotions associated with being told to smile that I tried to cover up.
"What?" I said, forcing a smile.
"I've seen you walking around and you need to smile more. Enjoy life. Enjoy your job!"
He said something about always having positive energy and prodded me to agree with him. I mumbled, "Yeah, positive energy," and got out of there before he produced a bongo and started singing but I was pissed, at myself and him. For reasons I wasn't entirely sure of, I'd let him tell me how to be. I'd agreed to let him boss my face around. My stomach hollowed out and my skin went hot and as I was walking away I sent Matthew texts.
"Some fucker just told me to smile."
"And of course it was an know-it-all old man."
This has happened many times before but not recently so I wasn't prepared. It's always annoyed me but it feels much worse now. Being asked what was wrong as I walked down the hall in high school was an easy fix: "Nothing! Why? Oh, that's just my face." In college in Ecuador, men on the street told me to smile and I went through a phase of baring my teeth like a rabid dog, a grotesque imitation of a smile. The older man pattern began to show itself in Seattle when I was a bartender. They were usually middle-aged or more and often sailors or construction workers and it was in a divey Irish pub where we were allowed to cut people off and kick them out and tell them to fuck off if necessary. Most of the bartenders were tough bitches - shit, I was scared on my first shift - and in no way should the customers have expected me to smile if I didn't feel like it or kiss their asses in any way so I told them as much.
And that is when I started noticing that I've never been told by anyone female to smile more. Always and only men.
In Birmingham last month, I wondered why it's been so long since I've faced this and why I was subsequently so caught off guard. I can't remember ever being told on Idol to smile so either I smiled more or people knew me better and didn't expect that, both of which are very possible. The Aldean stagehand didn't know me or what I do as he watched me walking through the loading dock that day. Then I thought of something that ratcheted up my anger: I SERIOUSLY FUCKING DOUBT THAT HE'S TELLING ALDEAN'S MALE TOUR MANAGER OR PRODUCTION MANAGER TO SMILE.
There is no way. No, those guys have jobs to do and a lot to manage and be responsible for and may not be concerned with spreading joy and light as they move from one task to another. They have to work hard! But I'm supposed to entertain some dude's desire for levity? Oh, hell. Aldean's managers are great at their jobs and I've seen them smile and laugh when something makes them laugh; the rest of the time they're busting ass, all business. I don't think that has anything to do with whether they enjoy life or their jobs or if they're clowns in their off time. Nor do I think the absence of a smile signals negativity. Absorption, contemplation, concentration: take your pick. Anyway, it's not really that guy's business.
Not that I said any of this to the stagehand, of course. I'm still out of practice and the thought still burns me. What do I say? I don't want to get mad or defensive. I want to just calmly, swiftly shut him down. I don't want to agree and play along. I'd love to make him think and I'm definitely not opposed to making him feel stupid. Any thoughts?
"What?" I said, forcing a smile.
"I've seen you walking around and you need to smile more. Enjoy life. Enjoy your job!"
He said something about always having positive energy and prodded me to agree with him. I mumbled, "Yeah, positive energy," and got out of there before he produced a bongo and started singing but I was pissed, at myself and him. For reasons I wasn't entirely sure of, I'd let him tell me how to be. I'd agreed to let him boss my face around. My stomach hollowed out and my skin went hot and as I was walking away I sent Matthew texts.
"Some fucker just told me to smile."
"And of course it was an know-it-all old man."
This has happened many times before but not recently so I wasn't prepared. It's always annoyed me but it feels much worse now. Being asked what was wrong as I walked down the hall in high school was an easy fix: "Nothing! Why? Oh, that's just my face." In college in Ecuador, men on the street told me to smile and I went through a phase of baring my teeth like a rabid dog, a grotesque imitation of a smile. The older man pattern began to show itself in Seattle when I was a bartender. They were usually middle-aged or more and often sailors or construction workers and it was in a divey Irish pub where we were allowed to cut people off and kick them out and tell them to fuck off if necessary. Most of the bartenders were tough bitches - shit, I was scared on my first shift - and in no way should the customers have expected me to smile if I didn't feel like it or kiss their asses in any way so I told them as much.
And that is when I started noticing that I've never been told by anyone female to smile more. Always and only men.
In Birmingham last month, I wondered why it's been so long since I've faced this and why I was subsequently so caught off guard. I can't remember ever being told on Idol to smile so either I smiled more or people knew me better and didn't expect that, both of which are very possible. The Aldean stagehand didn't know me or what I do as he watched me walking through the loading dock that day. Then I thought of something that ratcheted up my anger: I SERIOUSLY FUCKING DOUBT THAT HE'S TELLING ALDEAN'S MALE TOUR MANAGER OR PRODUCTION MANAGER TO SMILE.
There is no way. No, those guys have jobs to do and a lot to manage and be responsible for and may not be concerned with spreading joy and light as they move from one task to another. They have to work hard! But I'm supposed to entertain some dude's desire for levity? Oh, hell. Aldean's managers are great at their jobs and I've seen them smile and laugh when something makes them laugh; the rest of the time they're busting ass, all business. I don't think that has anything to do with whether they enjoy life or their jobs or if they're clowns in their off time. Nor do I think the absence of a smile signals negativity. Absorption, contemplation, concentration: take your pick. Anyway, it's not really that guy's business.
Not that I said any of this to the stagehand, of course. I'm still out of practice and the thought still burns me. What do I say? I don't want to get mad or defensive. I want to just calmly, swiftly shut him down. I don't want to agree and play along. I'd love to make him think and I'm definitely not opposed to making him feel stupid. Any thoughts?
5.01.2012
Let's talk about taxes
"I wish I brought gold stars," our new tax accountant said. She was sitting in our living room, going through my piles of paper, receipts that were scanned, blown up to 8x10, and separated by category. "You're so prepared, you're making my job easy." I wasn't sure I heard her right but wanted to hug her, just in case.
This time last year my stomach was a mess of nerves from letters we got from the IRS and emails from our tax accountant. We owed XXXX to the state and XXXX to the feds, totaling approximately XXXXX more dollars than we had in savings. We signed paperwork pledging our intention to begin the government payment plan at a frightening interest rate and called the IRS to make sure we were doing everything correctly - their letters are dense and minimally readable to us, two fairly literate people. The woman on the phone warned us. We'd get snowed, she said. It'd be better to take out a bank loan and pay the bank back over time than owe mounting sums to the government. I wanted to puke.
But we were so lucky. Yes, we'd moved across the country from a cheap state (KY) to an expensive one (CA) thinking that it would be better for my job. We'd decided that it was worth my husband quitting his job, not realizing how hard it would be for him to get another library position, and we were paying far more money in rent and insurance and just about everything except for gas since we walked (me) or skateboarded (Matthew) to most places in Oceanside. We were lucky because even though we'd blown our money, tax season was just a few months before my work season so within a few months we'd be able to start turning my paychecks over to the IRS to get out of debt. This was by no means a fun process but it was doable because I earned the majority of my income in the summer. With most jobs, that would have been impossible. Of course, the job I have now caused the problem in the first place.
The only time in my life I've known exactly how much money I made was when I had a fixed salary publishing job. I was the representative for our union there for awhile and signed off on paperwork lobbying for tiny raises, amounts like $10 a week that didn't affect anyone's lifestyle or livelihood. Drinking money, we called it. At every other point, I worked for cash or several jobs at once and the yearly total fluctuated wildly so I just always lived within my means, whatever those means were. Without a clear concept of how much I made or needed to make, I just lived simply and saved enough to do things I wanted without worrying. I realize now what an enviable position that was even if I was never rich. I always got a small tax refund back at the end of the year and didn't give it much more thought.
In the past few years, however, a series of misfilings and underreportings kicked off my tax problems. Without directly causing the problems - I didn't know not enough taxes were being withheld and didn't know important documents hadn't been sent to me to file - I still wasn't savvy enough to catch anyone's mistakes. I'd had friends tell me to start tracking deductions but I never quite understood what that meant and how much it would benefit me so I continued to hum lalalala in my head while they gave me advice. I do have to take responsibility for being that willfully ignorant. When the IRS letters started arriving in the mail, I panicked. I was stressed and felt stupid and in that state fled to the self-help aisle in Barnes & Noble.
HOW TO BE A GROWN UP: THE TEN SECRET SKILL EVERYONE NEEDS TO KNOW
This book reminded me a lot of something I would be terribly embarrassed to buy. I had to take off the jacket cover because I couldn't bear to see Stacy Kaiser smiling at me, head cocked to the side with her perfect hair, perfect eye make up, perfect teeth. Perfect grown up, unlike me. The book's blue binding, stripped of its cover, sat on the bookshelf next to my bed and I looked at it from time to time and thought about how I should read it. I tried, once, and walked away aggravated. I'm not saying it's a bad book; I didn't read enough to fairly judge it. I just wanted to unlock the secrets of taxes not take a quiz on whether I was a "fully loaded" adult overall. I donated the book to Goodwill and went to the public library where I checked out J.K. Lasser's 1001 Deductions and Tax Breaks 2011: Your Complete Guide to Everything Deductible. Woo! Down the street to Pierview Coffeeshop I went to drink a gallon of coffee, read the entire book, and type up ten pages of notes.
When we moved to Nashville I got the name of a local tax accountant who's familiar with music touring from the business side. I'd been saving receipts all year: moving expenses, business purchases, health care, phone bills, charitable donations. The weekend before she made her house call to us - An accountant who comes to you and then fills your ears with praise? Yes please! - we went through everything and got out the scanner, printer, paperclips, highlighters, and post it notes. Then we waited with a certain amount of dread. Helene showed up, sat on the couch, and spread everything out on the ottoman. She asked us good questions and gave us good info. When she left, I had a moment. "She gets me. She gets us!" It was more or less ridiculous. What wasn't ridiculous is that we broke even and Helene charged us less for her work than her initial quote. Because I made her job THAT EASY, I'd like to think. Thank you J.K. Lasser, maybe next time How To Be a Grown Up.
This time last year my stomach was a mess of nerves from letters we got from the IRS and emails from our tax accountant. We owed XXXX to the state and XXXX to the feds, totaling approximately XXXXX more dollars than we had in savings. We signed paperwork pledging our intention to begin the government payment plan at a frightening interest rate and called the IRS to make sure we were doing everything correctly - their letters are dense and minimally readable to us, two fairly literate people. The woman on the phone warned us. We'd get snowed, she said. It'd be better to take out a bank loan and pay the bank back over time than owe mounting sums to the government. I wanted to puke.
But we were so lucky. Yes, we'd moved across the country from a cheap state (KY) to an expensive one (CA) thinking that it would be better for my job. We'd decided that it was worth my husband quitting his job, not realizing how hard it would be for him to get another library position, and we were paying far more money in rent and insurance and just about everything except for gas since we walked (me) or skateboarded (Matthew) to most places in Oceanside. We were lucky because even though we'd blown our money, tax season was just a few months before my work season so within a few months we'd be able to start turning my paychecks over to the IRS to get out of debt. This was by no means a fun process but it was doable because I earned the majority of my income in the summer. With most jobs, that would have been impossible. Of course, the job I have now caused the problem in the first place.
The only time in my life I've known exactly how much money I made was when I had a fixed salary publishing job. I was the representative for our union there for awhile and signed off on paperwork lobbying for tiny raises, amounts like $10 a week that didn't affect anyone's lifestyle or livelihood. Drinking money, we called it. At every other point, I worked for cash or several jobs at once and the yearly total fluctuated wildly so I just always lived within my means, whatever those means were. Without a clear concept of how much I made or needed to make, I just lived simply and saved enough to do things I wanted without worrying. I realize now what an enviable position that was even if I was never rich. I always got a small tax refund back at the end of the year and didn't give it much more thought.
In the past few years, however, a series of misfilings and underreportings kicked off my tax problems. Without directly causing the problems - I didn't know not enough taxes were being withheld and didn't know important documents hadn't been sent to me to file - I still wasn't savvy enough to catch anyone's mistakes. I'd had friends tell me to start tracking deductions but I never quite understood what that meant and how much it would benefit me so I continued to hum lalalala in my head while they gave me advice. I do have to take responsibility for being that willfully ignorant. When the IRS letters started arriving in the mail, I panicked. I was stressed and felt stupid and in that state fled to the self-help aisle in Barnes & Noble.
HOW TO BE A GROWN UP: THE TEN SECRET SKILL EVERYONE NEEDS TO KNOW
This book reminded me a lot of something I would be terribly embarrassed to buy. I had to take off the jacket cover because I couldn't bear to see Stacy Kaiser smiling at me, head cocked to the side with her perfect hair, perfect eye make up, perfect teeth. Perfect grown up, unlike me. The book's blue binding, stripped of its cover, sat on the bookshelf next to my bed and I looked at it from time to time and thought about how I should read it. I tried, once, and walked away aggravated. I'm not saying it's a bad book; I didn't read enough to fairly judge it. I just wanted to unlock the secrets of taxes not take a quiz on whether I was a "fully loaded" adult overall. I donated the book to Goodwill and went to the public library where I checked out J.K. Lasser's 1001 Deductions and Tax Breaks 2011: Your Complete Guide to Everything Deductible. Woo! Down the street to Pierview Coffeeshop I went to drink a gallon of coffee, read the entire book, and type up ten pages of notes.
When we moved to Nashville I got the name of a local tax accountant who's familiar with music touring from the business side. I'd been saving receipts all year: moving expenses, business purchases, health care, phone bills, charitable donations. The weekend before she made her house call to us - An accountant who comes to you and then fills your ears with praise? Yes please! - we went through everything and got out the scanner, printer, paperclips, highlighters, and post it notes. Then we waited with a certain amount of dread. Helene showed up, sat on the couch, and spread everything out on the ottoman. She asked us good questions and gave us good info. When she left, I had a moment. "She gets me. She gets us!" It was more or less ridiculous. What wasn't ridiculous is that we broke even and Helene charged us less for her work than her initial quote. Because I made her job THAT EASY, I'd like to think. Thank you J.K. Lasser, maybe next time How To Be a Grown Up.
3.04.2012
1.08.2012
Meaning
I've had something on my mind since Camp Mighty two months ago but the seeds of thought were planted much earlier, in 2008, when I wrote about my reaction to a man who smelled on the subway. That post was about my emotions and the overwhelming helplessness I feel when witnessing need in others. I wondered why I kept finding myself torn apart, just absolutely floored, by sadness because I wasn't always so wobbly-kneed. I then answered my own question by guessing (rightly so, I believe) that I'd been missing an important part of my life since I'd started working on music tours. Before touring, my work had a strong bent to social action with a few notable exceptions (Don Pablo's Mexican Kitchen! And all those pubs!) and without it I eventually I felt a void and I felt guilt. Guilt isn't my motivator nor my predominant sense, mainly because it's not useful long term and I'm finally getting inspired to brainstorm on ways to create more meaning for myself since I'm probably not going to quit my job to become an organic farmer or work in an orphanage any time soon.
One of the speakers at Camp Mighty was Kenna. I used to think about Kenna as just that guy on my iPod because Matthew had given me his music but I hadn't taken much time to listen. When I saw that he would be speaking at camp, I was intrigued and when he took the stage, I was rapt. Kenna spoke about the music industry and his place in it. He spoke of the ego involved, the publicists and stylists, and the pressure. But first we had to call his mom to sing her happy birthday. He put her on speaker but didn't tell her right away that there were a hundred people listening.
"Mom?"
"Kenna!"
"Happy birthday, mom."
"Are you taking your vitamins?"
"Mom!"
"Have you met a nice girl yet?"
"Mom, I've got a bunch of people here. They want to sing for you..."
It was very endearing. After we sang and laughed and listened to Kenna and his mom chat more and got our heartstrings all but manhandled, he hung up and continued his talk. He had reached a successful point in his music career and was living large, following the sparkly path of fame, when he had a conversation with his father. In the conversation his dad mentioned that as a child in Ethiopia he'd suffered for years with a waterborne illness and that his brother died. Kenna was struck. He didn't know that he'd had a uncle who died as a child and that his own dad had lived ten years with the physical pain that comes from drinking contaminated water: crippling diarrhea, nausea, cramps, dehydration, vomiting, fever and the looming threat of death. His dad told him that he had saved $10,000 and that he wanted to use it to help a community in Ethiopia build a well.
Kenna's parents immigrated to the United States due to persecution by the government in Ethiopia, his father a former Minister of Agriculture. After spending two years separated from his parents and living with his grandfather in Ethiopia, Kenna joined his parents in the US and grew up in Virginia. He was close to his parents and lived in a generous house that took people in and helped family still in Ethiopia. The Zemedkum family sounds like a big-hearted and open-armed clan that instilled deep values in Kenna which hurt him all the more to realize he'd been oblivious to a huge, formative fact about his father's life. To hear Kenna speak about this was powerful. It was a moment in which he questioned his choices and how he'd been living. I don't want to put words in his mouth but what this sounded like to me, when I compared it to my life was: I may not be doing anything wrong but am I doing enough right?
Kenna's response was to turn his attention to the matter of clean water worldwide and from that Summit on the Summit took shape. To draw attention to the fact that a billion people don't have clean water to drink, he got high profile people to hike to the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro and got other high profile to donate money if they made it. Kenna proposed his idea to Justin Timberlake on a snowboarding trip and while J. Timbo wasn't able to do the climb, he introduced the documentary that was eventually made for MTV and Jessica Biel, Lupe Fiasco, Emile Hirsch, Isabel Lucas, and Santigold climbed with a number of experts, sherpas, documentarians, and, of course, Kenna. They made it to the top of the 19,340 foot peak on January 12, 2010 and Summit on the Summit's work is ongoing.
After Kenna's talk and Q & A session with Maggie, I approached him to say thanks. I told him that I'm a tour manager and that I struggle to keep my job from taking over my life at the expense of activism that's important to me so his story resonated big time. He laughed and told me to tell Randy Jackson what's up for him. I didn't get into the fact that while Randy and I have passed in the hall a few times, I have no interaction with the TV judges since I've taken over Idol only when the TV show ends and my link to the judges are more along the lines of "Yeah, I saw Paula Abdul on her phone out by the dumpster when I was on the way to the bus." Plus, I have since then left the Idol tour and am working for one of the Idols, Lauren Alaina, on her solo career. That's also beside the point. I'm just as busy as I ever was and still need to pay close attention to what's important to me.
Kenna was incredibly friendly and approachable and told me to get the contact info of one of the people he works with because collaboration is good. Regardless of what collaborations I forge or what issues I throw myself into, it was a good reminder how much is possible, at what scale, when you reach out to others and step out of your comfort zone whether that zone is calling someone you don't know or hiking at an elevation in which your eyeballs can freeze.
Something I've enjoyed while working with Lauren is the number of shows that we've done as benefit fundraisers. She's sung her heart out for cause after cause, one recurring topic being children's cancer. We've visited the St. Jude Children's Research Hospital in Memphis once and are going back again soon. ST. JUDE BLOWS MY MIND as one of the most intense examples of positive energy coexisting with crushing sorrow I've ever beheld. I'm in awe of the supreme strength of the children and families at St. Jude, not to mention those who work there.
I've set a goal for myself to find an organization that I can volunteer for when I have down time in Nashville. The side note to this would be to create down time when I feel like I don't have any. On an ever deeper level, I am mercilessly drawn to the idea that I need to write about my brother and my family. My parents spent years advocating and fighting for disability rights when I was young and I appreciate this more and more all the time. I face a huge amount of resistance to actually writing our story and have finished a total of only two chapters in two years but I also have an idea of how resistance works and am pretty sure that this just means I find the weight and meaning of it all intimidating. I believe, however, that telling stories is a potent way to build and create community. On the way to the coffeeshop today, I had a text conversation with Kelly who'd written out of the blue to offer writing support. Do I need a reader? Can I send an outline of ideas? What about a summer retreat in Tennessee? Do I realize that a chapter a month is a whole book in a year? Kelly has a lot of energy, as we all do especially when we channel it in the direction we truly crave.
One of the speakers at Camp Mighty was Kenna. I used to think about Kenna as just that guy on my iPod because Matthew had given me his music but I hadn't taken much time to listen. When I saw that he would be speaking at camp, I was intrigued and when he took the stage, I was rapt. Kenna spoke about the music industry and his place in it. He spoke of the ego involved, the publicists and stylists, and the pressure. But first we had to call his mom to sing her happy birthday. He put her on speaker but didn't tell her right away that there were a hundred people listening.
"Mom?"
"Kenna!"
"Happy birthday, mom."
"Are you taking your vitamins?"
"Mom!"
"Have you met a nice girl yet?"
"Mom, I've got a bunch of people here. They want to sing for you..."
It was very endearing. After we sang and laughed and listened to Kenna and his mom chat more and got our heartstrings all but manhandled, he hung up and continued his talk. He had reached a successful point in his music career and was living large, following the sparkly path of fame, when he had a conversation with his father. In the conversation his dad mentioned that as a child in Ethiopia he'd suffered for years with a waterborne illness and that his brother died. Kenna was struck. He didn't know that he'd had a uncle who died as a child and that his own dad had lived ten years with the physical pain that comes from drinking contaminated water: crippling diarrhea, nausea, cramps, dehydration, vomiting, fever and the looming threat of death. His dad told him that he had saved $10,000 and that he wanted to use it to help a community in Ethiopia build a well.
Kenna's parents immigrated to the United States due to persecution by the government in Ethiopia, his father a former Minister of Agriculture. After spending two years separated from his parents and living with his grandfather in Ethiopia, Kenna joined his parents in the US and grew up in Virginia. He was close to his parents and lived in a generous house that took people in and helped family still in Ethiopia. The Zemedkum family sounds like a big-hearted and open-armed clan that instilled deep values in Kenna which hurt him all the more to realize he'd been oblivious to a huge, formative fact about his father's life. To hear Kenna speak about this was powerful. It was a moment in which he questioned his choices and how he'd been living. I don't want to put words in his mouth but what this sounded like to me, when I compared it to my life was: I may not be doing anything wrong but am I doing enough right?
Kenna's response was to turn his attention to the matter of clean water worldwide and from that Summit on the Summit took shape. To draw attention to the fact that a billion people don't have clean water to drink, he got high profile people to hike to the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro and got other high profile to donate money if they made it. Kenna proposed his idea to Justin Timberlake on a snowboarding trip and while J. Timbo wasn't able to do the climb, he introduced the documentary that was eventually made for MTV and Jessica Biel, Lupe Fiasco, Emile Hirsch, Isabel Lucas, and Santigold climbed with a number of experts, sherpas, documentarians, and, of course, Kenna. They made it to the top of the 19,340 foot peak on January 12, 2010 and Summit on the Summit's work is ongoing.
After Kenna's talk and Q & A session with Maggie, I approached him to say thanks. I told him that I'm a tour manager and that I struggle to keep my job from taking over my life at the expense of activism that's important to me so his story resonated big time. He laughed and told me to tell Randy Jackson what's up for him. I didn't get into the fact that while Randy and I have passed in the hall a few times, I have no interaction with the TV judges since I've taken over Idol only when the TV show ends and my link to the judges are more along the lines of "Yeah, I saw Paula Abdul on her phone out by the dumpster when I was on the way to the bus." Plus, I have since then left the Idol tour and am working for one of the Idols, Lauren Alaina, on her solo career. That's also beside the point. I'm just as busy as I ever was and still need to pay close attention to what's important to me.
Kenna was incredibly friendly and approachable and told me to get the contact info of one of the people he works with because collaboration is good. Regardless of what collaborations I forge or what issues I throw myself into, it was a good reminder how much is possible, at what scale, when you reach out to others and step out of your comfort zone whether that zone is calling someone you don't know or hiking at an elevation in which your eyeballs can freeze.
Something I've enjoyed while working with Lauren is the number of shows that we've done as benefit fundraisers. She's sung her heart out for cause after cause, one recurring topic being children's cancer. We've visited the St. Jude Children's Research Hospital in Memphis once and are going back again soon. ST. JUDE BLOWS MY MIND as one of the most intense examples of positive energy coexisting with crushing sorrow I've ever beheld. I'm in awe of the supreme strength of the children and families at St. Jude, not to mention those who work there.
I've set a goal for myself to find an organization that I can volunteer for when I have down time in Nashville. The side note to this would be to create down time when I feel like I don't have any. On an ever deeper level, I am mercilessly drawn to the idea that I need to write about my brother and my family. My parents spent years advocating and fighting for disability rights when I was young and I appreciate this more and more all the time. I face a huge amount of resistance to actually writing our story and have finished a total of only two chapters in two years but I also have an idea of how resistance works and am pretty sure that this just means I find the weight and meaning of it all intimidating. I believe, however, that telling stories is a potent way to build and create community. On the way to the coffeeshop today, I had a text conversation with Kelly who'd written out of the blue to offer writing support. Do I need a reader? Can I send an outline of ideas? What about a summer retreat in Tennessee? Do I realize that a chapter a month is a whole book in a year? Kelly has a lot of energy, as we all do especially when we channel it in the direction we truly crave.
11.19.2011
Camp Mighty, the first night
There is a lot of awesome to cover from Camp Mighty last weekend. Like, a LOT. But first I've had to sleep, work, and travel (ongoing themes). I started writing this from New Bern, NC, a town I didn't know about until now - it's lovely - and am finishing in Memphis; tomorrow I fly to DC. I've also been to LA and Charlotte since I left Palm Springs on Saturday.
A week ago I was in my hotel room at the Ace Hotel in Palm Springs. I'd sped in from Oceanside and was trying to finish up some advance work for that week's shows before hitting the Camp Mighty welcome party that night. I wanted to clear my psychic scramble a bit before meeting a room full of strangers and also I was nervous. We'd been divided into groups with our own Facebook pages but I'd kept a low profile because I was so busy and hadn't really gotten to know anyone online.
Friday night felt like the first day of junior high and I was weirdly nervewracked with anticipation. Where will I eat lunch? Should I do my side ponytail high or low? I was also reminded of starting the Trek America job ten years ago. Then, Sara drove me down the coast from San Francisco to LA and as we got closer and closer to my drop off point, the Adventurer Hostel by LAX where happy hour margaritas were served by the grimy pool for a buck apiece, she soothed me like I was a kid going to camp, "You're going to have so much fun and make so many friends..."
So I called Sara from Palm Springs. Do you remember that speech you gave me in 2001? I also called Jocardo. He was in a car full of screaming Dominicans on the way to a club in DC so we mostly yelled at each other over the hubbub. And I did something that I never would have imagined even a few years ago: I worked on a couple of budgets WHICH CALMED ME DOWN. I told Jocardo the effect the budgets had on me and he said, "Well sure, that's something you have control over...". Oh right. Who needs therapy? Well, me but that's a different blog.
When I closed the computer and went to the party, I got my Ecco Domani glass of wine and drifted around the room, not landing anywhere until a woman whipped into my sight and stuck her hand in mine. Elaina! Elaina broke the ice like nobody's biz and was so open and energetic and funny, I immediately started feeling like me again not the little girl wearing big glasses and Forenza shorts. It didn't matter so much where I ate lunch! The tang cocktails were free! The ladies were smart and inspiring and not mean jerks! Camp Mighty was on.
A week ago I was in my hotel room at the Ace Hotel in Palm Springs. I'd sped in from Oceanside and was trying to finish up some advance work for that week's shows before hitting the Camp Mighty welcome party that night. I wanted to clear my psychic scramble a bit before meeting a room full of strangers and also I was nervous. We'd been divided into groups with our own Facebook pages but I'd kept a low profile because I was so busy and hadn't really gotten to know anyone online.
Friday night felt like the first day of junior high and I was weirdly nervewracked with anticipation. Where will I eat lunch? Should I do my side ponytail high or low? I was also reminded of starting the Trek America job ten years ago. Then, Sara drove me down the coast from San Francisco to LA and as we got closer and closer to my drop off point, the Adventurer Hostel by LAX where happy hour margaritas were served by the grimy pool for a buck apiece, she soothed me like I was a kid going to camp, "You're going to have so much fun and make so many friends..."
So I called Sara from Palm Springs. Do you remember that speech you gave me in 2001? I also called Jocardo. He was in a car full of screaming Dominicans on the way to a club in DC so we mostly yelled at each other over the hubbub. And I did something that I never would have imagined even a few years ago: I worked on a couple of budgets WHICH CALMED ME DOWN. I told Jocardo the effect the budgets had on me and he said, "Well sure, that's something you have control over...". Oh right. Who needs therapy? Well, me but that's a different blog.
When I closed the computer and went to the party, I got my Ecco Domani glass of wine and drifted around the room, not landing anywhere until a woman whipped into my sight and stuck her hand in mine. Elaina! Elaina broke the ice like nobody's biz and was so open and energetic and funny, I immediately started feeling like me again not the little girl wearing big glasses and Forenza shorts. It didn't matter so much where I ate lunch! The tang cocktails were free! The ladies were smart and inspiring and not mean jerks! Camp Mighty was on.
10.11.2011
Laughing quietly to myself
About hotels that try so hard to be sexy or just so hard in general.
The sign under a light switch in Los Angeles that reads "Baby, you turn me on."
The hotel in Nashville where I have to call Matthew and debrief after ordering room service due to the officious way the staff asks permission to lift each silver lid off the food. Because I'm losing my mind I always have the sense that a) I'm rehabiting the mid-80s and have a butler, specifically Mr. Belvedere, or b) It's my senior year of high school and the Antioch College Sexual Offense Prevention Policy has come out in response to date rapes on the Yellow Springs, OH campus and consenting adults must obtain verbal consent before proceeding with each step of sexual advance. May I unveil your medium hamburger? May I wipe away the dew that has settled upon your water glass? Shall I heave over the pats of butter with tiny huffs of breath until you deem them spreadable?
After none of these things happen and I quash the whole charade with a quick "Oh naw, naw, I got it," the kitchen usually still calls up to the room to TALK ABOUT IT and make sure I had a good experience. That's when I call Matthew and say, "Next time, I'm secretly filming it so you know what I'm not exaggerating..."
It's incredible. I'm sure there are people this kind of service appeals to. If I didn't get so holed up in my room working, not wanting to break my momentum or waste time by going outside and finding a restaurant, I wouldn't even know about this shit. In New York at least I can be a workaholic and neurotic and still never succumb to room service because there is always something open, nearby, and quick to walk to.
But this hotel today in Midtown Manhattan has SHOT GLASSES instead of regular glasses to drink from in the bathroom. And even though they are double shots, do you know how frustrating it is to try to quench your thirst with shot after shot of water? I looked like a damn hamster last night and finally stuck my mouth to the faucet. I'm sure someone thought the shot glasses were clever, though.
The sign under a light switch in Los Angeles that reads "Baby, you turn me on."
The hotel in Nashville where I have to call Matthew and debrief after ordering room service due to the officious way the staff asks permission to lift each silver lid off the food. Because I'm losing my mind I always have the sense that a) I'm rehabiting the mid-80s and have a butler, specifically Mr. Belvedere, or b) It's my senior year of high school and the Antioch College Sexual Offense Prevention Policy has come out in response to date rapes on the Yellow Springs, OH campus and consenting adults must obtain verbal consent before proceeding with each step of sexual advance. May I unveil your medium hamburger? May I wipe away the dew that has settled upon your water glass? Shall I heave over the pats of butter with tiny huffs of breath until you deem them spreadable?
After none of these things happen and I quash the whole charade with a quick "Oh naw, naw, I got it," the kitchen usually still calls up to the room to TALK ABOUT IT and make sure I had a good experience. That's when I call Matthew and say, "Next time, I'm secretly filming it so you know what I'm not exaggerating..."
It's incredible. I'm sure there are people this kind of service appeals to. If I didn't get so holed up in my room working, not wanting to break my momentum or waste time by going outside and finding a restaurant, I wouldn't even know about this shit. In New York at least I can be a workaholic and neurotic and still never succumb to room service because there is always something open, nearby, and quick to walk to.
But this hotel today in Midtown Manhattan has SHOT GLASSES instead of regular glasses to drink from in the bathroom. And even though they are double shots, do you know how frustrating it is to try to quench your thirst with shot after shot of water? I looked like a damn hamster last night and finally stuck my mouth to the faucet. I'm sure someone thought the shot glasses were clever, though.
10.04.2011
DTW
You know you're traveling too much when you realize you're going through the Detroit airport SIX TIMES IN A TWO-WEEK PERIOD. DTW is arguably my favorite airport in the country but still, too much.
9.27.2011
Johnny Mañana's pt. 1
I felt at home and lazy eating a burrito at Johnny Mañana's this weekend, laughing with Matthew about the night out before and planning to see Drive at the movie theater across the street later that evening. It was sunny and warm and relaxing on the patio until an idiot kid drove by and threw a M-80 firecracker into a stroller on the sidewalk. The baby who belonged to the stroller was being held at the table next to ours when it exploded. Our waitress investigated and laughed. The father inspected and came back calmly. I felt jumpier than everyone else at lunch was acting; maybe I'm not as relaxed as I thought.
I've been ON for months so coming home and unwinding is easier said than done. I want to calm down deeply. I don't want to portray calm so as to project an image and encourage those around me to feel confident, I want to feel it in my own motherfucking marrow but it takes time.
I got a massage in Manila. A tiny woman straddled my back and chopped up my butt cheeks like she was mincing vegetables. She wound my legs around sockets I wasn't aware of, stroked my scalp, and paid so much attention to each knuckle on my fingers, I could have kissed her. Instead, I tipped her big. I slept eight hours on the 13 hour flight home, drank wine like water, and saw everyone safely on their way. This would be my cue to take a deep breath.
Matthew: "Hey! I'm not an American Idol! You don't have to fight me!"
Me: "What? Oh."
Matthew: "This is a discussion, not a battle."
Me: "I'm sorry, you lost me."
One of the Idols was cracking me up, telling me that she's going to have PTSD, Post Traumatic Signing Disorder. She's caught herself smiling for cameras as she's falling asleep in that half-in/half-out state, alone in bed in the dark, flashing her teeth and cocking her head to the side. Another found herself murmuring to herself in her sleep, "Thank you, thank you so much for coming to the show..." We are all of us firmly anchored to what was required over the summer and now it's time to lift that. (It's heavy).
Have I mentioned that I'm grateful? I am. It was a great group to work with for many reasons. Part of the reason that it's harder to settle down right away is that I'm jumping quickly onto another project. It's smaller and more sporadic but still enough work to keep me from cartwheeling down the beach in my free time. Make that "free time". I'm grateful for this new work too, it's just hard because it feels like I'm losing the balance war.
Do you remember the time I asked Geoff, my old boss, how you balance home and work?
His answer was swift.
"You don't."
I found that depressing. I've never ever thought that work was worth destroying personal life and I still don't. Yes, we make sacrifices in the short term but - for us, until now - it's been okay because overall we've come out ahead. The minute that reverses itself is when I start reevaluating everything. Until then, each walk in the park is a gift.
I've been ON for months so coming home and unwinding is easier said than done. I want to calm down deeply. I don't want to portray calm so as to project an image and encourage those around me to feel confident, I want to feel it in my own motherfucking marrow but it takes time.
I got a massage in Manila. A tiny woman straddled my back and chopped up my butt cheeks like she was mincing vegetables. She wound my legs around sockets I wasn't aware of, stroked my scalp, and paid so much attention to each knuckle on my fingers, I could have kissed her. Instead, I tipped her big. I slept eight hours on the 13 hour flight home, drank wine like water, and saw everyone safely on their way. This would be my cue to take a deep breath.
Matthew: "Hey! I'm not an American Idol! You don't have to fight me!"
Me: "What? Oh."
Matthew: "This is a discussion, not a battle."
Me: "I'm sorry, you lost me."
One of the Idols was cracking me up, telling me that she's going to have PTSD, Post Traumatic Signing Disorder. She's caught herself smiling for cameras as she's falling asleep in that half-in/half-out state, alone in bed in the dark, flashing her teeth and cocking her head to the side. Another found herself murmuring to herself in her sleep, "Thank you, thank you so much for coming to the show..." We are all of us firmly anchored to what was required over the summer and now it's time to lift that. (It's heavy).
Have I mentioned that I'm grateful? I am. It was a great group to work with for many reasons. Part of the reason that it's harder to settle down right away is that I'm jumping quickly onto another project. It's smaller and more sporadic but still enough work to keep me from cartwheeling down the beach in my free time. Make that "free time". I'm grateful for this new work too, it's just hard because it feels like I'm losing the balance war.
Do you remember the time I asked Geoff, my old boss, how you balance home and work?
His answer was swift.
"You don't."
I found that depressing. I've never ever thought that work was worth destroying personal life and I still don't. Yes, we make sacrifices in the short term but - for us, until now - it's been okay because overall we've come out ahead. The minute that reverses itself is when I start reevaluating everything. Until then, each walk in the park is a gift.
9.22.2011
Manila minute
What a strange introduction to the Filipino culture this week was. My time here was so structured that what I saw most were streets from the inside of buses and vans. Families of four riding one moped or eating dinner on the sidewalk, painted jeepneys, and slums in sharp contrast to our hotel swim-up bar.
Three times I drove to the GMA TV studio and stood on the sets of shows: Manny Many Prizes with Manny Pacquiao, Unang Hirit morning news, and Chika Minute entertainment gossip. I jumped over camera cables, avoided the shouting production assistants, and scooted out of the way as dancing girls in hot pink minidresses chittered past. I cringed as I watched an Idol eat balut, a day-old chick, straight from the eggshell.
I tapped my cheeks to stay awake when the jet lag kicked in, again. I sat beneath a lobby chandelier as a pianist played Greatest Love of All on the baby grand. In one hour at the pool at noon, my skin fried. They kept it open late for us last night; swimming at 3 am is much more gentle.
I passed through a market near the Araneta Coliseum. Beautiful pyramids of fruit, kaleidoscopes of color. Animal bodies hanging by hooks. Assaulted by the smells of red flesh and blood, I hurried past slimy butcher blocks. Live catfish flapping around for the last time finally lay still. Baskets of shrimp the size of my arm - not really - and chickens squawking.
A shemale swished down the aisle and all the vendors (it seemed) stopped what they were doing to jeer. I heard the hooting and catcalls and looked around confused. I caught short sight of her as she rounded a corner quickly, holding a handbag tightly, looking at no one who yelled.
Three times I drove to the GMA TV studio and stood on the sets of shows: Manny Many Prizes with Manny Pacquiao, Unang Hirit morning news, and Chika Minute entertainment gossip. I jumped over camera cables, avoided the shouting production assistants, and scooted out of the way as dancing girls in hot pink minidresses chittered past. I cringed as I watched an Idol eat balut, a day-old chick, straight from the eggshell.
I tapped my cheeks to stay awake when the jet lag kicked in, again. I sat beneath a lobby chandelier as a pianist played Greatest Love of All on the baby grand. In one hour at the pool at noon, my skin fried. They kept it open late for us last night; swimming at 3 am is much more gentle.
I passed through a market near the Araneta Coliseum. Beautiful pyramids of fruit, kaleidoscopes of color. Animal bodies hanging by hooks. Assaulted by the smells of red flesh and blood, I hurried past slimy butcher blocks. Live catfish flapping around for the last time finally lay still. Baskets of shrimp the size of my arm - not really - and chickens squawking.
A shemale swished down the aisle and all the vendors (it seemed) stopped what they were doing to jeer. I heard the hooting and catcalls and looked around confused. I caught short sight of her as she rounded a corner quickly, holding a handbag tightly, looking at no one who yelled.
9.21.2011
Not famous, not backpacking
It's a good thing I'm not famous because apparently I don't do well with bodyguards. I was trailed by security the other day and within no time at all was plotting how I might sneak away unnoticed if it ever happened again.
Our promoters here in Manila are doing an excellent job taking care of us and they have local road managers and bodyguards available all day and night at the hotel. On day one in the Philippines we had a safety meeting wherein the Idols were lectured on common sense when traveling in a different country and one of the points made was that it's safe to walk around during the day but not so at night, at least where we're staying.
I've been so jet lagged that the last thing I want to do at night is walk around: I hit the wall around 8 pm. The other day, though, I had two hours before I needed to be anywhere in the afternoon so I thought I'd do one of my favorite things and wander for awhile. In the lobby, I encountered one of the ubiquitous bodyguards as I headed towards the door.
"Miss, you want to go outside?"
"Yes, I'm just going for a walk..."
"Wait, I get someone for you."
No, no I protested. I'm fine. It's daytime. But it didn't matter and a burly young man followed me. Again I tried to dissuade him. I'm just getting coffee down the street, I said.
"There's many bad people," he told me. "I walk a distance behind you."
I grimaced and froze for a moment, frowning. My reaction to having someone along during my alone time was so negative I came this close to saying sorry I can't do this and going back inside. Thankfully I resisted and started walking but anxiety set in and increased with each step.
Knowing that someone was walking behind me and watching every move made me UNCOMFORTABLE. I got so self conscious that I felt incompetent and began second-guessing everything: how fast I was walking, how I was holding my bag, crossing the street, stepping off the curb. I actually hesitated so severely while crossing one road that he hurried to join me, held out his palm and said, "Let's go," to indicate that it was safe.
I have been crossing streets by myself for 30 years now and in several countries just as crazy if not crazier than the Philippines. Didn't matter. When we got to the other side, he dropped behind and I felt horrible. Not only do I suck at life and can't cross a street, I have someone following me because I'm too much of a jerk to walk with him. Oh, shame. Over the next block I slowed and asked him a question. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that he was doing something for me, not against me. I tried smiling. It worked! He introduced himself, "My name is Nino."
Nino and I ended up getting coffee and makeup remover wipes. We walked in step and he held his hand out to make sure cars didn't run me over. He asked me if I like history and told me about Intramuros, the walled city near our hotel leftover from WWII. I remembered Matthew and his Filipino co-worker's requests for traditional balisong knives. Nino and I walked into the walled city and I found balisongs with wooden and horse bone handles. We parted friends and he asked me if I was happy, I'm guessing because I seemed so different than the straight bitch I started out as.
So I guess I had to learn some lessons: just because I've traveled and done lots of stupid things in less developed countries over the years does not mean I know a lot, if I expect other people in my group to listen to safety lectures I probably should too, traveling with American Idol is not the same as backpacking anonymously.
Our promoters here in Manila are doing an excellent job taking care of us and they have local road managers and bodyguards available all day and night at the hotel. On day one in the Philippines we had a safety meeting wherein the Idols were lectured on common sense when traveling in a different country and one of the points made was that it's safe to walk around during the day but not so at night, at least where we're staying.
I've been so jet lagged that the last thing I want to do at night is walk around: I hit the wall around 8 pm. The other day, though, I had two hours before I needed to be anywhere in the afternoon so I thought I'd do one of my favorite things and wander for awhile. In the lobby, I encountered one of the ubiquitous bodyguards as I headed towards the door.
"Miss, you want to go outside?"
"Yes, I'm just going for a walk..."
"Wait, I get someone for you."
No, no I protested. I'm fine. It's daytime. But it didn't matter and a burly young man followed me. Again I tried to dissuade him. I'm just getting coffee down the street, I said.
"There's many bad people," he told me. "I walk a distance behind you."
I grimaced and froze for a moment, frowning. My reaction to having someone along during my alone time was so negative I came this close to saying sorry I can't do this and going back inside. Thankfully I resisted and started walking but anxiety set in and increased with each step.
Knowing that someone was walking behind me and watching every move made me UNCOMFORTABLE. I got so self conscious that I felt incompetent and began second-guessing everything: how fast I was walking, how I was holding my bag, crossing the street, stepping off the curb. I actually hesitated so severely while crossing one road that he hurried to join me, held out his palm and said, "Let's go," to indicate that it was safe.
I have been crossing streets by myself for 30 years now and in several countries just as crazy if not crazier than the Philippines. Didn't matter. When we got to the other side, he dropped behind and I felt horrible. Not only do I suck at life and can't cross a street, I have someone following me because I'm too much of a jerk to walk with him. Oh, shame. Over the next block I slowed and asked him a question. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that he was doing something for me, not against me. I tried smiling. It worked! He introduced himself, "My name is Nino."
Nino and I ended up getting coffee and makeup remover wipes. We walked in step and he held his hand out to make sure cars didn't run me over. He asked me if I like history and told me about Intramuros, the walled city near our hotel leftover from WWII. I remembered Matthew and his Filipino co-worker's requests for traditional balisong knives. Nino and I walked into the walled city and I found balisongs with wooden and horse bone handles. We parted friends and he asked me if I was happy, I'm guessing because I seemed so different than the straight bitch I started out as.
So I guess I had to learn some lessons: just because I've traveled and done lots of stupid things in less developed countries over the years does not mean I know a lot, if I expect other people in my group to listen to safety lectures I probably should too, traveling with American Idol is not the same as backpacking anonymously.
8.26.2011
42 pages of shoes
It doesn't look like hurricane weather from my window in Providence, Rhode Island but I've seen the photos taken from the international space station. ONE THOUSAND MILES OF PURE STORM. It's practically sexy.
We have postponed a show and changed route for the hurricane. Depending on what happens tomorrow - if Irene slows down or speeds up - we may revise our plans of when, exactly, we leave Providence for Portland. All I know is I got galoshes yesterday in Bridgeport. And even though I played it cool last night, I was COMPELLED to spend the two hour overnight bus ride browsing shoes on 6pm.com. Now, they were deeply discounted - I looked at nothing less than 60% off - but I got through 42 pages of shoes. 42 pages of shoes. On some deep, dark, level, I was stressed and I needed to be soothed by 42 pages of shoes.
We have postponed a show and changed route for the hurricane. Depending on what happens tomorrow - if Irene slows down or speeds up - we may revise our plans of when, exactly, we leave Providence for Portland. All I know is I got galoshes yesterday in Bridgeport. And even though I played it cool last night, I was COMPELLED to spend the two hour overnight bus ride browsing shoes on 6pm.com. Now, they were deeply discounted - I looked at nothing less than 60% off - but I got through 42 pages of shoes. 42 pages of shoes. On some deep, dark, level, I was stressed and I needed to be soothed by 42 pages of shoes.
7.19.2011
Nine out of 47
Nine shows in and I'm already at that point in the summer where mere mention of an Idol's name or glance in their direction and I'm guaranteed to have one of the songs from their set stuck in my head for the next 45 minutes. It's pretty rad.
3.09.2011
Michael Franti & Spearhead
I have a new old music crush. I first knew of Michael Franti in the early 90s through The Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy. After that I heard him with Spearhead but honestly, in the last ten years or so, his music and work kind of slipped off my radar. MY BAD. Because since last night, at a CARE event I was involved in, in Washington DC, my radar is bleeping furiously. It is bleeping for Michael, and for Jolene Rust who sings with him and for Jay Bowman, who plays guitar and has ones of the best all-time smiles I've ever seen. So beautiful to see, all of them, all of it. Gush gush gush.
2.04.2011
Road House
I barely remembered Road House from 1989 so when it was on TV last month and Matthew asked if I'd seen it I said, "Is that the one with Dolly Parton?"
Oops, I was thinking of Rhinestone, presumably because both movies begin with R. But considering how tuned in I was to Patrick Swayze in the late 80s, how could I make such a mistake? Have I never written about the Dirty Dancing slumber party I went to at Jennifer Puthoff's house in eighth grade? Unforgivable.
Road House was on TV in the living room and I was puttering around doing other things but sooner or later I stopped, stood still, and stared at the screen because I mesmerized by Patrick Swayze's lines. During one speech he gave to his staff at the Double Deuce bar, a "place where you sweep up the light bulbs after closing", Matthew came up with the idea that I should try to conduct a meeting comprised entirely of quotes from Road House. Fantastic!
For the past two years, at the end of rehearsals and before we hit the road, I sit around a large table with the Idols and tour management staff. I go over rules, regulations, and procedures. I have to explain what I expect of everyone, how we do things and, importantly, why. It's a lot for everyone to take in at once and I've tried to pare down the handout; it's gone from maybe 12 pages to eight or nine. I try to pass off parts to others so it feels less like a lecture and more like a conversation. I try to be funny but you know who's funnier than me? Patrick Swayze's character in Road House, Dalton.
Dalton is a working-class thinker, a martial arts roughneck with a philosophy degree from NYU. He's unflappable. He wears tight jeans and the pleaty-est pleated pants you'll ever see. He will cut you. And if anyone in my meeting remembers Road House and gets it? We'll be friends for life.
Dalton arrives in Jasper, Missouri to clean up the bar and leave when he's done. What, of course, he doesn't foresee is fixing the entire town by eliminating its evil warlord and falling in love with a hot doctor who's the evil warlord's ex-wife. Dalton is, they say, the best damn cooler in the business and re-trains the bouncers after getting rid of the negative influences on the staff. Dalton's character is basically introduced in the movie as he's stitching up his own stab wound that he sustained in a knife fight. See? Bad ass.
Please know that I will not be getting in any knife fights in my effort to emulate Dalton. I will probably not being doing much shirtless Tai Chi by any lakes this summer either and that kind of bums me out.
What I do need to work out is how I can make the following relevant to my meeting:
**"I'm telling you straight, it's my way or the highway. So anybody who wants to walk, do it now."
Note: everyone I say this too will be under contract and not actually allowed to walk. This will be pure intimidation on my part.
**"People who really want to have a good time won't come to a slaughterhouse and we've got entirely too many troublemakers here. Too many 40-year-old adolescents, felons, powerdrinkers and trustees of modern chemistry. It's going to change."
Note: Hm. Not sure if this really applies to the American Idol crowd.
**"Be nice. If somebody gets in your face and calls you a cocksucker, I want you to be nice. Ask him to walk. Be nice. If he won't walk, walk him. But be nice. If you can't walk him, one of the others will help you, and you'll both be nice. I want you to remember that it's a job. It's nothing personal."
I like the above. A lot. If anyone at my meeting asks what a Double Deuce bouncer did, "And being called a cocksucker isn't personal?"
I will tell them, "No. It's two nouns combined to elicit a proscribed response."
Think about that!
**"I want you to be nice...until it's time...to not be nice.. All you have to do is watch my back and each others'."
There's more but I think you get the idea. My main task is making all this apply to ticket sales, meet and greets, and unruly teenyboppers at the aftershow.
**"Well, it was a good night. Nobody died."
"It'll get worse before it gets better," Dalton replied.
Oops, I was thinking of Rhinestone, presumably because both movies begin with R. But considering how tuned in I was to Patrick Swayze in the late 80s, how could I make such a mistake? Have I never written about the Dirty Dancing slumber party I went to at Jennifer Puthoff's house in eighth grade? Unforgivable.
Road House was on TV in the living room and I was puttering around doing other things but sooner or later I stopped, stood still, and stared at the screen because I mesmerized by Patrick Swayze's lines. During one speech he gave to his staff at the Double Deuce bar, a "place where you sweep up the light bulbs after closing", Matthew came up with the idea that I should try to conduct a meeting comprised entirely of quotes from Road House. Fantastic!
For the past two years, at the end of rehearsals and before we hit the road, I sit around a large table with the Idols and tour management staff. I go over rules, regulations, and procedures. I have to explain what I expect of everyone, how we do things and, importantly, why. It's a lot for everyone to take in at once and I've tried to pare down the handout; it's gone from maybe 12 pages to eight or nine. I try to pass off parts to others so it feels less like a lecture and more like a conversation. I try to be funny but you know who's funnier than me? Patrick Swayze's character in Road House, Dalton.
Dalton is a working-class thinker, a martial arts roughneck with a philosophy degree from NYU. He's unflappable. He wears tight jeans and the pleaty-est pleated pants you'll ever see. He will cut you. And if anyone in my meeting remembers Road House and gets it? We'll be friends for life.
Dalton arrives in Jasper, Missouri to clean up the bar and leave when he's done. What, of course, he doesn't foresee is fixing the entire town by eliminating its evil warlord and falling in love with a hot doctor who's the evil warlord's ex-wife. Dalton is, they say, the best damn cooler in the business and re-trains the bouncers after getting rid of the negative influences on the staff. Dalton's character is basically introduced in the movie as he's stitching up his own stab wound that he sustained in a knife fight. See? Bad ass.
Please know that I will not be getting in any knife fights in my effort to emulate Dalton. I will probably not being doing much shirtless Tai Chi by any lakes this summer either and that kind of bums me out.
What I do need to work out is how I can make the following relevant to my meeting:
**"I'm telling you straight, it's my way or the highway. So anybody who wants to walk, do it now."
Note: everyone I say this too will be under contract and not actually allowed to walk. This will be pure intimidation on my part.
**"People who really want to have a good time won't come to a slaughterhouse and we've got entirely too many troublemakers here. Too many 40-year-old adolescents, felons, powerdrinkers and trustees of modern chemistry. It's going to change."
Note: Hm. Not sure if this really applies to the American Idol crowd.
**"Be nice. If somebody gets in your face and calls you a cocksucker, I want you to be nice. Ask him to walk. Be nice. If he won't walk, walk him. But be nice. If you can't walk him, one of the others will help you, and you'll both be nice. I want you to remember that it's a job. It's nothing personal."
I like the above. A lot. If anyone at my meeting asks what a Double Deuce bouncer did, "And being called a cocksucker isn't personal?"
I will tell them, "No. It's two nouns combined to elicit a proscribed response."
Think about that!
**"I want you to be nice...until it's time...to not be nice.. All you have to do is watch my back and each others'."
There's more but I think you get the idea. My main task is making all this apply to ticket sales, meet and greets, and unruly teenyboppers at the aftershow.
**"Well, it was a good night. Nobody died."
"It'll get worse before it gets better," Dalton replied.
9.13.2010
23 shots of the summer
June - September
This is a view from the Los Angeles hotel room.
Let this represent the end of May through June since I didn't take a photo in the car. When I wasn't at the hotel, I was at the office or rehearsal studio. I also spent hours and hours in the rental car with Kevin driving between hotel and studio.
After disagreeing about whose route takes the longest, I think we both agree that they both take A FUCK OF A LONG TIME. If there is a hell it looks like Lankershim Avenue.
Matthew sent me this after downtown Los Angeles was lit on fire over a basketball game.
I happened to be at the office the day that the Lakers beat the Boston Celtics and since I know dipsquat about professional sports I was clueless as to why every single person on my floor left early. I was seriously ALONE. I presume they all left to watch the game. Or they all had dentist appointments.
I like this Toronto corner. I like Toronto in general. To be perfectly honest, I'm kind of pissed off that I'm not Canadian.
Good Morning America in Central Park.
Photo: Neil Wilson
Me in Manchester, NH being not amused.
Photo: Kevin Mann
Me in Washington, DC being not amused.
Photo: Kevin Mann
On a day off in Washington DC I walked to the National Gallery of Art. I stopped at the Rothko exhibit, sat on a bench in the middle of the room, and watched people look at black canvases. Ha ha.
What do they see when they look at a big black square? What are they thinking?
According to the exhibit materials, Rothko painted the black collection in 1964 and the gallery invites us to question the simple equation of darkness and despair and to re-imagine blackness as a medium of light - nuanced, expansive, and even hopeful.
A wall in New York, NY
In Tampa I spent the first half of the day working. At 2 pm I went to the beach and roamed around taking photos like this.
A few hours later someone who shall remain nameless, okay it was Neil Wilson, plunked down next to me, spread out his towel and handed me a giant bottle of Stoli Blakberi.
This photo represents the beginning of the end and by end I mean I think I'm due for a blackout, it's been awhile. Take that, everyone who's been saying I work too much.
The good news is that when I'm in a blackout I just get really happy. And mellow. And no one ever has any idea that I'm that drunk. The bad news is braincells. Ah, well.
On a long drive from Florida to Texas, Monica goes to have cereal in the front lounge. The milk from the fridge pours out in icicles. She eats it anyway.
On a long drive from Texas to Arizona, I wake up to this. It goes on for awhile.
A truckstop in Arizona
In my hotel room in Phoenix was a head. When you sat on the couch it stared at you WITH NO EYES. I read a book across from it and kept looking up at its black eye holes. I got increasingly more unnerved and eventually defaulted to one of my fear modes.
Demons. The head was a portal for a demon and I'M NEXT.
When Monica, Kevin, and Leila stopped by I asked them if the head was creepy and they said, resoundingly, yes. I put the head on the floor, facing the wall. That somehow made it worse. Kevin put it at the foot of my bed and they all laughed and I actually got a little pissed off until he moved it. Eventually, I put the head outside.
This is what it looked like if you walked by the patio.
Photo: Tim Urban
In Los Angeles my boss gave me a wedding present, part of which was a Gangsta Rap Coloring Book.
A giant statue in Denver, CO
Towards the end of the tour, I was keeping photos like this on my desktop and sending them to people WHO SHARE MY SENSE OF HUMOR when they wanted something. You want to send a fax? Go eff yourself. I'm going home. Love ya.
xx
This is a view from the Los Angeles hotel room.
Let this represent the end of May through June since I didn't take a photo in the car. When I wasn't at the hotel, I was at the office or rehearsal studio. I also spent hours and hours in the rental car with Kevin driving between hotel and studio.
After disagreeing about whose route takes the longest, I think we both agree that they both take A FUCK OF A LONG TIME. If there is a hell it looks like Lankershim Avenue.
Matthew sent me this after downtown Los Angeles was lit on fire over a basketball game.
I happened to be at the office the day that the Lakers beat the Boston Celtics and since I know dipsquat about professional sports I was clueless as to why every single person on my floor left early. I was seriously ALONE. I presume they all left to watch the game. Or they all had dentist appointments.
I like this Toronto corner. I like Toronto in general. To be perfectly honest, I'm kind of pissed off that I'm not Canadian.
Good Morning America in Central Park.
Photo: Neil Wilson
Me in Manchester, NH being not amused.
Photo: Kevin Mann
Me in Washington, DC being not amused.
Photo: Kevin Mann
On a day off in Washington DC I walked to the National Gallery of Art. I stopped at the Rothko exhibit, sat on a bench in the middle of the room, and watched people look at black canvases. Ha ha.
What do they see when they look at a big black square? What are they thinking?
According to the exhibit materials, Rothko painted the black collection in 1964 and the gallery invites us to question the simple equation of darkness and despair and to re-imagine blackness as a medium of light - nuanced, expansive, and even hopeful.
A wall in New York, NY
In Tampa I spent the first half of the day working. At 2 pm I went to the beach and roamed around taking photos like this.
A few hours later someone who shall remain nameless, okay it was Neil Wilson, plunked down next to me, spread out his towel and handed me a giant bottle of Stoli Blakberi.
This photo represents the beginning of the end and by end I mean I think I'm due for a blackout, it's been awhile. Take that, everyone who's been saying I work too much.
The good news is that when I'm in a blackout I just get really happy. And mellow. And no one ever has any idea that I'm that drunk. The bad news is braincells. Ah, well.
On a long drive from Florida to Texas, Monica goes to have cereal in the front lounge. The milk from the fridge pours out in icicles. She eats it anyway.
On a long drive from Texas to Arizona, I wake up to this. It goes on for awhile.
A truckstop in Arizona
In my hotel room in Phoenix was a head. When you sat on the couch it stared at you WITH NO EYES. I read a book across from it and kept looking up at its black eye holes. I got increasingly more unnerved and eventually defaulted to one of my fear modes.
Demons. The head was a portal for a demon and I'M NEXT.
When Monica, Kevin, and Leila stopped by I asked them if the head was creepy and they said, resoundingly, yes. I put the head on the floor, facing the wall. That somehow made it worse. Kevin put it at the foot of my bed and they all laughed and I actually got a little pissed off until he moved it. Eventually, I put the head outside.
This is what it looked like if you walked by the patio.
Photo: Tim Urban
In Los Angeles my boss gave me a wedding present, part of which was a Gangsta Rap Coloring Book.
A giant statue in Denver, CO
Towards the end of the tour, I was keeping photos like this on my desktop and sending them to people WHO SHARE MY SENSE OF HUMOR when they wanted something. You want to send a fax? Go eff yourself. I'm going home. Love ya.
xx
Idolbot
Since I was on blog vacation during the AI tour and just got back to my life, there's a big gaping June-September hole of what I've been doing, not just here on Ronckytonk but in most of my friendships. I made very few personal phone calls, I was a machine. Matthew even made a design for it.
Much of my last three months I can't talk about, not because of the confidentiality contract I signed but because of BORING. A bunch of factors kept me in a state of catch-up for months and I'd guess the first deep breath I took was in late July. Ahh. I'd spent my days off until then at hotel room desks and when I got a few hours free I'd walk outside to clear my mind.
Once, in New York, I was desperate to leave the hotel room but HAD to finish some paperwork so I took my folders to a pub in the East Village. I was so pleased with myself that I didn't mind looking like a raging geek and, in fact, happily reminisced about college in Ecuador when most papers I turned in reeked of spilled tequila.
Even when you're a nerd on tour, however, you get around despite yourself so there are photos. I think maybe a pictorial timeline is in order, what do you think?
Much of my last three months I can't talk about, not because of the confidentiality contract I signed but because of BORING. A bunch of factors kept me in a state of catch-up for months and I'd guess the first deep breath I took was in late July. Ahh. I'd spent my days off until then at hotel room desks and when I got a few hours free I'd walk outside to clear my mind.
Once, in New York, I was desperate to leave the hotel room but HAD to finish some paperwork so I took my folders to a pub in the East Village. I was so pleased with myself that I didn't mind looking like a raging geek and, in fact, happily reminisced about college in Ecuador when most papers I turned in reeked of spilled tequila.
Even when you're a nerd on tour, however, you get around despite yourself so there are photos. I think maybe a pictorial timeline is in order, what do you think?
5.26.2010
Geri Halliwell's abs
Every time I go into the copy room I pass a Spice Girls poster and I can't get rid of the feeling that Geri Halliwell's abs are mocking me.
4.26.2010
Project Runway binge: coping with stress
I can't make up my mind whether I'm fine, as my exterior calm suggests, or so deeply stressed that the panic is simply gasping for air under ten tons of to-do lists and can't make a noise. Last Wednesday I told I felt really good. I had a slick spreadsheet of details to accomplish but most were final touches for the wedding, some of them almost fun. More worrying than the wedding was work.
The tour for the summer has been slower in coming together than usual and by now I'd expect to have put in 4-6 weeks of planning. As of last week I'd done next to nothing. It isn't my fault or anyone's in particular, it just IS. And I was starting to think that I wouldn't get the info I needed to start until the week or day of the wedding. I would be expected to be on, available, and in overdrive and I would be distracted, to say the least.
The good news is I have now started working on the tour and am thankful to have this week to get as much done as possible. The bad news is that the day after I waxed so positive about my state of mind, I developed a jackhammer of a headache that all but forced me to lay on the couch and watch ten consecutive episodes of Project Runway.
p.s. So pleased that Seth Aaron won. And does anyone have Anthony's digits because I want to be his friend.
It was suggested to me that the headache was stress-related and that may well be true because what other kind of headache doesn't respond to Tylenol, Excedrin Migraine, coffee, water, snacks and ten hours of Project Runway?
The day after that my Project Runway binge I was back to normal. I woke early, spent a few blurry hours wandering around the Internet before attacking my lists with renewed vigor. I then largely took the weekend off and have been slammed ever since Monday. And that's where I'm like I am REALLY straddling the line that separates calm and cool from edgy and self-destructive. I'm obsessing about taking things to Goodwill and it took seven days of broken deadlines for me to pick a procession song for the ceremony and I might be drinking more wine at night than medically advised but overall, I'm good (ish) (I think).
I'm thrilled to imagine so many people I love in one place at one time, a remarkable thing in that my crowd has always been so spread out. And I'm psyched that my wedding dress came back de-egged: the yellow is now a dark charcoal grey. And I know that the tour will come together because it must. There is no alternative. It's possible that what I told people last year - that I'd be able to plan a wedding and a tour at the same time - is actually true.
The tour for the summer has been slower in coming together than usual and by now I'd expect to have put in 4-6 weeks of planning. As of last week I'd done next to nothing. It isn't my fault or anyone's in particular, it just IS. And I was starting to think that I wouldn't get the info I needed to start until the week or day of the wedding. I would be expected to be on, available, and in overdrive and I would be distracted, to say the least.
The good news is I have now started working on the tour and am thankful to have this week to get as much done as possible. The bad news is that the day after I waxed so positive about my state of mind, I developed a jackhammer of a headache that all but forced me to lay on the couch and watch ten consecutive episodes of Project Runway.
p.s. So pleased that Seth Aaron won. And does anyone have Anthony's digits because I want to be his friend.
It was suggested to me that the headache was stress-related and that may well be true because what other kind of headache doesn't respond to Tylenol, Excedrin Migraine, coffee, water, snacks and ten hours of Project Runway?
The day after that my Project Runway binge I was back to normal. I woke early, spent a few blurry hours wandering around the Internet before attacking my lists with renewed vigor. I then largely took the weekend off and have been slammed ever since Monday. And that's where I'm like I am REALLY straddling the line that separates calm and cool from edgy and self-destructive. I'm obsessing about taking things to Goodwill and it took seven days of broken deadlines for me to pick a procession song for the ceremony and I might be drinking more wine at night than medically advised but overall, I'm good (ish) (I think).
I'm thrilled to imagine so many people I love in one place at one time, a remarkable thing in that my crowd has always been so spread out. And I'm psyched that my wedding dress came back de-egged: the yellow is now a dark charcoal grey. And I know that the tour will come together because it must. There is no alternative. It's possible that what I told people last year - that I'd be able to plan a wedding and a tour at the same time - is actually true.
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