To live would be an awfully big adventure...

After a Long Hiatus, A Short Post... Which is Not a Haiku

2010-05-16T16:43:00.003-04:00

Matt Smith,

The sound output is not working on my laptop.

I like to think that this is somehow a metaphor for something, but I haven't had enough beer this afternoon to make that connection.

A short list of things I've been meaning to recommend to you:

The Swedish short film, "Instead of Abracadabra." (It'll make you drink Chimay.)
Dark chocolate Reeses cups.
Yello. The band. With no W. Doobowbow... ch-ch-chicka-chickaaa.
Doc Martin. Hilarity. And awkwardness. Two of my very favorite things.
The Droid. I got one, and I've got to say, the iPhone might be better than life, but the Droid does... everything but make me dinner. I've got to find an app for that.

So. When are you coming to visit?

Cool stuff abounds,

Meredith

Do they even still MAKE Dilly Bars?

2009-01-26T23:21:00.002-05:00

Matt Smith:

What follows is an excerpt from my friend Kate's latest e-mail to me regarding the making of my wedding dress, as well as my response to said e-mail.

Kate's e-mail to me:

So. I've pulled out the sewing machines and after a brief stint sewing winter hats for myself and Matt, I'm getting ready to sew your dress. I'm kinda excited. :)

So we're going with that halter one, the one that has the fabric going up to the neck, and the waist is all wrinkled (ruched is the word) down to the hipbones. Then it flairs out into a big ol' hunk of semi-circular cut fabric that will hang & swing all pretty-like...

Would you like any fancy patterning to the waist material (the BCBG one did), or do you just want it to be simply horizontally wrinkled? And my original plan was to have the ties go around the neck, but I'm not sure if that's a better idea than the straps crossing the back. I would have them go from the top/back of your neck, cross, and hook onto the dress at the sides. The waist section will be the same all the way around -- do you want it to dip in the back (show off a little more back) or dip in the front? You will have a zipper up the back (unless you would rather it on the side).

... Let me know if you have any opinions, otherwise I'll just make something. You'd probably still like it, but I figured I'd give the option to make the choices yourself.

My response:

Most of what you wrote seems to be in some foreign dressmakers' language, unreadable to the uneducated dresswearer. I like dresses? I will wear one at my wedding? I bet you'll make me look good? I'm not sure of the correct response. I do agree that I'll probably still like it.

I like having a zipper. Yes. Please include a zipper. It would be better to have a zipper than to try to "magic" myself into the dress on the day of the actual wedding. If you could include a "magic zipper," that might even be better. What would it be able to do, if you included this?

Also, I'd like the dress to be able to securely stay UP so that I will not flash my wedding guests... yourself included. Any way that you can get that to happen is fine by me.

I like that you said "dip in the back." Maybe you could do that, because it sounds really cool and reminds me of Dairy Queen. Maybe you could sew on some Dairy Queen Dilly Bars. That would be delicious...

Maybe I'm not cut out for this wedding planning thing after all.

- Meredith

I Stole All of Matt's Photos so This Post Would Be More Interesting (dot-gov)

2008-11-10T19:24:00.008-05:00

Dear, dear, dear Matt Smith,

You are very dear today. I am not sure why. I can only attest to a single "dear," but my fingers seem to have gotten into their little finger-systems to type the three "dears" you see above. Perhaps you are so dear because it has been so long since I have written. Perhaps you are so dear because "the iPhone is better than nature." Perhaps you do not recall either of the previous things and simply put, you're dear because you're dear...

Time will tell.

Matt and I have been exploring our new nation (um... yes... the Great Nation of Texas joke lives ON, much like "your mom" jokes) lately. We take a weekend here or there and drive off into the sunset. Or more than usual, we drive off around 10:30 on a Saturday morning, cursing ourselves for not getting ready sooner so we can make it to McDonald's for a EggaMooby Muffin breakfast. This past weekend we went to Austin (which is only an hour away), and two weekends ago we went to Houston.

Houston is like Rock to Temple's Scissors in the beer department. To the casual viewer, it may have seemed that Matt and I went to Houston simply to find delicious beers. This is not the case, although we came away with more than a case.

We drove to Houston to visit landmarks (Rothko Chapel = most boring artsy-fartsy landmark in Texas, even perhaps, the world) and to visit my friend, Kate (in town from Chicago), who will be designing and putting together my wedding dress. Move over, Hank Azaria. This girl knows what's UP. And now she also knows what's down and around and the length and width of most of my everythings. (Apparently I'm symmetrical. And this is a good thing. I think.)

The best part about Kate is, she's not afraid to be weird. Like so many of the people I love in this world, she sees most things as being possible. For instance, when we had to meet Kate and her husband (also named Matt) at a coffee shop in Houston instead of one of our respective hotels. Kate was not afraid -- nor ashamed -- to break out the measuring tape and run to the ladies room with me. Not weird. Totally normal.

Note: Kate - I'm sorry I didn't ask permission to use your photo up here. I really like the look on your face in the picture... like, "What's it to YOU? I gots some measurin' tape, sucka!" Er... maybe not EXACTLY like that. But you get the idea.

A couple of weeks ago we took another short drive up to Waco, TX. Before I moved to Texas, the only thing I could tell you about Waco was some shoddy information about David Koresh. I probably couldn't have even spelled "Koresh," but I could have sung for you a kitschy little Christmas number about him. I learned it in the third grade. (And who says public education isn't the best?)

It turns out, Waco, TX is the home of Dr Pepper. Matt and I went to the Dr Pepper Museum and that's where I learned that there is no "dot" after Dr in "Dr Pepper." There's a creepy wax man in the museum that talks when you push a button, and Matt took pictures of him. He'll probably write something about it, though, so I'm not about to steal his thunder. I will, however, steal a picture that Matt took of the outside of the museum. It's not much to look
at, but the inside of this place taught me more about soda than I
ever cared to learn.

Also in Waco, we went to the THEE-AY-TER, which is how they say it down here. No lie. I teach THEE-AY-TER ARTS. Drives me nuts. I want to bonk people on the head when they say THEE-AY-TER, almost as much as I want to bonk people on the head when they say "bonk." (Except Emily. She can say "bonk" all she wants.) That was pretty cool, too. Turns out that the lead guy in the show went to school up with us Yankees -- at Boston University.

I think the whole highlight of the past few weeks, though, was realizing that when you live in Texas, gas gets cheaper. We've been having a rather quiet, yet ongoing celebration in our heads every time gas goes down by a few cents. Our largest celebration to date was on the trip to Waco, when gas dropped under $2 a gallon. And who says we're headed for another Great Depression? Don't be fooled by the hat, folks. This is pure happiness.

Those hats really make the recession look attractive.
Until next time...

Not So ASAP Updates

2008-09-18T15:54:00.003-04:00

Dear Matt Smith,

As promised, here are the updates from Texas:

1. Yes, the wet bar IS still awesome. We now have Matt's "Private Bar" sign up on the bar, various liquors, some glassware, and a huge plastic tub of Pub Mix, one of the most delicious snacks that has graced our home to date. (Matt says, "No doubt.")

2. Me, Too is quickly learning the benefits of something called The Cat Door. It is relatively clear plastic, and it swings to and fro as he walks in and out -- much like his kitty man-breasts. He spends a lot of time outdoors now in our fenced backyard, terrorizing dead leaves and licking toads.

3. Good beer. Let's talk about that. There's a lack of good beer in this part of Texas. In the grocery store, we walk past what seems like millions of cases of Budweiser, Miller Lite (someone should tell them that that's not how "light" is spelled, and it's not going to be me), Keystone Light, Natural Light, and other el crappo beers that Texans drink. And if we're lucky, we'll eventually get to something nice... like a delicious IPA or porter or stout. Maybe the same someone who talks to Miller Lite about their spelling inadequacies wouldn't mind sitting down with the Great Nation of Texas and talking with them about their beer selection. Most of Texas needs to stay after class... but the cities of Austin, Dallas, and Shiner are free to go.

4. Boring Professional Development workshops. In fact, I'm not sure why I even capitalized "professional development." It's not worthy of being a proper nouny type thing. I sat for a good while in one of these this afternoon, actually. Ironically, it was a session about blogging. I just chose that particular session because someone said there'd be candy.

5. Hurricane Ike. Maybe you've already heard of it? Not sure, but I think it hit somewhere around Texas. This city called Houston? I think Houston is still there. I'm not trying to make light of the situation by any means, but it missed us completely after all the high wind advisories and tornado warnings -- so we were lucky -- and now I'm able to do things like say, "I'm not trying to make light of the situation."

I think that's about it, really. I've been using this new laptop that my job provided for me, and I think it's slowly draining my ability to be amusing. Or maybe I'm just now noticing that I'm not that amusing. Whatever the reason, it's time now to stop this typing and go back to eating these FlipSides Pretzel Crackers. They're delicious. I highly recommend you drop whatever you're doing and go out and get yourself a box of these things. Simply. Amazing. You want pretzels? You want crackers, too? No more buying one of each thing. These things are the real deal. They're a pretzel AND a cracker. In one. Those elves really know what we want out here. I can tell you that.

Reporting to you live from a relatively new MacBook,

Meredith

TEXAS SHOULD BE IN ALL-CAPS BECAUSE IT'S SO BIG.

2008-07-14T19:07:00.003-04:00

Hoop-de-doo, Matt Smith. I's found me a job.

(And apparently a southern drawl? I'm not sure what that's about.) I'm going to be teaching theatre at a high school in Texas. This is going to be fun, because I can't say which school, and I'm actually going to have to take my last name off of this ENTIRE BLOG, which pretty much means I'm in for the night. My social calendar is SHOT because I have to delete, delete, delete. And also avoid using my last name in THIS post, and I ESPECIALLY don't want it to be one of these words in the middle of the sentence that I keep putting in ALL CAPS. (I'm a big fan of the all caps. BIG.)

What does this mean for this blog? Well, it means that I'll be moving it to Texas. We'll have to get it some WetNaps for all the ribs it'll be eating, and perhaps a pair of slightly dingy, yet still fashionable cowboy-typey boots. Also, it needs to get a sensible haircut to get all the shag out of its eyes, because it's certainly hot down there.

What does this mean for me? Good question. Well, it means I'm making another leap. A leap in order to do what I've wanted to do for quite some time, to do what I do best, to teach. A leap that will take me away from many friends and family, but closer to others. A leap that will require many plane trips to see folks -- which I hate -- but perhaps a leap that will get people to come out and visit, just maybe, even though it IS Texas. (There's some cool stuff there. Really. I've been. Ask me. I'll tell you.) And a leap across the country.

Well, not really a leap. We'll probably take a U-Haul. Or something. And my cat's just not down with the leaping. Oh, he leaps. Don't get me wrong. But he leaps where he wants to leap. Like onto my desk, or more likely, my bed. For a nap.

So it looks like it's goodbye Starbucks. At least for now.

Goodbye Starbucks. And goodbye Boston. And goodbye all of times I've mentioned my last name in this blog.

Goodnight Moon,
Meredith

Bedknobs & Broomsticks (& Bedsheets).

2008-06-24T17:48:00.003-04:00

Dear Kate,

You get a post! For reals! Actually, it's just the email that I sent you today (I thought it was blog-worthy, didn't you?) only reposted here in this font. I hope you think it's as great as I think it is. Right? Right.

I should probably mention at the start that Kate -- that's you -- has agreed to make my wedding gown. And I'm stoked. Enough to use the word 'stoked' without blushing. So now, this post will make COMPLETE sense. Sweet. I'm stoked again.

Well, Kate. I went to a bridal shop. But I went with my friend, Emily (also getting married), for her appointment at Priscilla's of Boston. If you check them out on the web, you'll get an idea of what this place is all about, and we -- Priscilla and I -- are not about the same things. But I digress.

PRIOR to going to Priscilla's Den of All Things Bridezilla, Emily and I scoured Saks, Lord & Taylor, and the shop of the designer that I call BCBGHankAzaria, but I think it's probably something else. I had seen this long, light blue, jersey cotton knit gown that BCBGHankAzaria had on his website. (For being a goofy actor, that Hank Azaria sure knows his stuff.) It was long, elegant, and pretty much everything I'd want in a gown, including my crazy off-the-wall idea of having a cotton wedding gown. Now, I don't think you could throw this gown in the washer -- and I might just want to do that with mine -- but it was remarkably comfortable... AS IF you could throw it in the washer. AS IF you'd want to wear it every day. Yes. You can find it here.

Now here's the big question: where do we find this fabric? IT IS AMAZING. I BELIEVE I MUST HAVE IT. That is all. I entertained the idea of buying bedsheets (I own a set in the same fabric and color; they sell them at Bed Bath & Beyond in white as well), but I don't know if that would be enough fabric? Or if you could even make a dress out of bedsheets? I'm not doubting your talent. I'm doubting the bedsheets.

Well, that's about it. There are pictures, but they haven't made their way to my inbox yet. I'll send them your way when they do.

- Meredith

In Which Meredith Uses Photos, Not Wit, To Describe Recent Events

2008-06-07T18:47:00.004-04:00

Dear Matt Smith,

I hope this turns out to be a worthwhile post. I'm not feeling especially witty or amusing today (I got my hair cut yesterday; clearly, this is the Sampsonistic reason), and I was against blogging, but then I thought, "Well, maybe I can overuse the word 'blogging' while I'm blogging, and then it will all be okay again."

Maybe.

Lots to tell, lots to tell. Actually, just a few things, but they're big, so hold on to your pants. Or your socks. Whichever of those things you think might be knocked off when you hear such big news for the second time -- since you've already heard this news via the interweb convention of the "e-mail."

I graduated!

Yep. That's the news. Big, huh? Could've seen that one coming, though, I guess. Right? After all, I DID enroll in a two-year Masters program, so... y'know... 2006... 2008. Graduating. Getting the ol' Masters degree. I think it's about time that I go and pick up that Bachelors degree from the Duquesne registrar's office. Four years is really too long to let them hold on to that thing. Maybe I can get a big, fold-out frame for my two degrees and then set it on my desk (which I don't have) in my office (I also do not have this) and then give them names like Porgy and Bess and call them my "kids," like some women refer to their boobs.

Maybe.

Oh, okay. You got me. I'm just holding out on you with the Real Big News. Ready for it? Ready?

I got engaged! (Side note: When I called to tell my mother this, she said, "Do I know him? Or did you just pull some guy out of a hat?" I guess most people say, "So-and-so and I got engaged," but I don't. This is what I discovered about myself.)

So, yeah. So-and-so and I got engaged. (So-and-so equals Matt.) Like, two weeks ago. That photo up there? It's actually from what I like to call the "reproposal." Eventually I'll post that story here, too, or perhaps I'll just hold out until wedding events start to unfold and then tell it. I'll probably remember it still. The proposal was pretty great, and this engagement still is pretty great. And/or weird. Occasionally we'll be walking together, going someplace or other, and I think it hits us that we're about to promise to spend the rest of our lives together. But this is also pretty great. At least I know he's sticking around. Maybe this is my chance to just go nuts and dye my hair blue and tattoo myself with the Jelly Belly logo.

Maybe.

What a grand, grand return to the blogging world.

I'll probably pop back in sooner rather than later to update you, Matt Smith, my semi-constant reader, on wedding fodder (which is what I've titled the folder on my Mac's desktop that houses all the wedding crap and research) and the job hunt. Because oh! how the job hunt does continue to be a perilous journey through Not Getting a Job! And oh! how the search is never-ending! And oh! how one needs the aforementioned job in order to fund the future! Oh! Oh!

Keepin' it real. Word.
- Meredith

There's a Marshmallow Car Sundae on my Street and I Am Without a Spoon.

2007-12-14T17:06:00.000-05:00

About the snow, Matt Smith.

Feets and feets of snow was a bit of an exaggeration, so no need to go slapping your co-worker around for being a smart-ass. Unless you want to. In which case, go right ahead.

I'm nearly halfway through a directed study project that I was supposed to have started months ago, but only really started yesterday. It's pretty awesome. And by awesome, I mean, of course, completely overwhelming and impossible. So, really, I think I'll be okay.

I mean, I think so.
I hope so.

I don't go home to Pittsburgh until Christmas Eve, and even then it is not flat at all. I hope that it is snow covered. I have a deep and persistent need for sledding, even though I do not think I own a sled anymore.

My roommate is jealous of everyone who has laundry in their building. By this I think she means "laundry facilities," not actual laundry, because if that were the case, she wouldn't need to be jealous. I have lots of laundry just sitting around, and I could show it to her so that her jealousy would not have to manifest itself in any harmful -- or even not harmful -- way. I have a lot of laundry leftover even though yesterday I did two loads of laundry, comprised entirely of underwear and socks. I am happy to have the socks and underwear, but I also would have liked to have the time to wash things that I might wear over the socks and underwear, for it is cold out and the snow is there and it might not be okay for me to go outside and get on a train without pants.

I am now halfway finished with my project. The end is in sight. There is still much work to be done, and now I have to go to yet another rehearsal for things I do not get paid for or credit for, but which people judge me on.

The world is a very strange place.

See you for dinner,
Meredith

The Despairing...est Despair.

2007-12-03T22:45:00.000-05:00

I don't know how to respond to you and your despair, Matt Smith. In fact, I'm not even sure it was despair in that last post. It was something like despair... like playing an entire scoreless game in the rain against the Miami Dolphins until Jeff Reed and his centaurian legs kick a field goal. Like having a brainless, motorcycle-crashing, helmetless, twitchy quarterback on your team. Like not having a reason to live.

Oh. Wait. That is despair.

My despair is twofold. One, it snowed last night and this afternoon, which was a plus. But then it got warm and most of the snow turned to slush, which was a minus. Then it got really cold again, also a minus, and the slush turned to ice. Another minus. All the minuses really add up (or subtract down?) to despair. Especially when you live on a hill. And by you, I mean me, because I don't know whether you live on a hill or not.

Second, graduate school is hard. The first semester of the second year is the definition of despair. I despair because I have so much work yet to do, and I despair again when I realize how little time is left to do it. I despair when I don't have time to buy groceries, I despair when I'm hungry, and I despair again when I finally go to buy the groceries and I discover that because I've paid rent, I cannot realistically afford to eat this month. I despair when I think of changing my cat's litter, and I despair when I change the cat's litter. In short, there's a lot of despair...ing. Despair...age...ment. Despair. There's a lot of despair.

I'm reading this book about cadavers that Emily lent me called "Stiff." The woman who wrote it spent a lot of time chatting with anatomists and students at medical schools about what happens to a body after it's done being a person. I find that it's pretty fantastic. I'm a little worried though, because in every chapter that I've read (I've skipped Chapter 5 - the one about airplanes and dead bodies - because I might never get on a plane again if I read it), I find that there's a lot of things that I already know about dead bodies. As if I've done research on that sort of thing, which I haven't, I swear. I'm not THAT interested in dead people. I just... sort of... like them. In a good way. A good, completely innocent way.

You asked how all the homeless crazy people divvy up who gets what Starbucks? The answers are hard to come by, because, as you've noted, they're crazy. A lot of what they say doesn't really make much sense. I'm sure I've probably told you about Eddie Joe, my Starbucks homeless man. Eddie Joe used to frequent our store, bringing with him his various shirts, coats, bags, and sundry items, such as pens, gum wrappers, lighters, cigarettes, batteries, whatnots, and whosiwhatsits. Eddie Joe seemed to many of us to have been -- at one point -- a highly intelligent individual, who perhaps had a career in mathematics or engineering or some sciencey thing. He used a lot of big words that he seemed to be familiar with, but wasn't using in the right context. Also, he would tell stories about how he got this Bic pen on his college graduation day from the mayor, or about how batteries grew on trees and that's how we get batteries.

I could tolerate a great deal of Eddie Joe, but I had to find ways to get him to just... stop talking. I established my standard-Eddie-Joe-answers. These were as follows: "yeah," "uh-huh," "of course," "sure," "no," "don't do that," and my personal favorite, "that's incorrect." Eddie Joe would say something like, "This wallet is my wallet because I got it from the president of the United States," and I would say, "Of course." And then he would say, "I'm going to ditch this town, I'm getting out," and I'd say, "Uh-huh." And then he would say, "Batteries grow on trees," and I would say, "That's incorrect."

I'm not sure if that answers your question, but it was interesting for me to type it all out and see what Eddie Joe language looks like in Courier New.

I hope you enjoyed Pittsburgh in all its spectacular dampness.

How Many Licks Does it Take? Or Do I Not Want to Know?

2007-11-12T23:03:00.000-05:00

Smith, Matt (directory-style),

Should I worry that my cat compulsively licks the futon?

This is not a single lick. This is repeated, obsessively, hard-core licking.* He's doing it right now. It's... rhythmic. And annoying. It's rhythmically annoying. What's more, he's soaking the futon cushion. But back to the matter at hand, which is, of course, whether or not I should worry.

I'm sure there are those in the of-course-you-should-worry camp, but to those people, I say nay. Nay, people, I will not worry. Yes, it is a behavior that signifies compulsion and some other types of mental disease, but I'd argue that that is the nature of the cat. Er, any cat.

He's still licking, by the way.

Cats are ridiculous creatures. And my ridiculous creature is still licking.**

All this is to avoid tackling a real topic in this blog, like global warming or politics, or even something as la-de-da as knitting or crocheting or any other crafty pastime. I abhor... writing about things that matter?

Yes. I worry more about the fact that it costs more for public transportation than it does to buy a soda.
I worry about the feet of pigeons... have you seen them? There's something about the fact that a great deal of pigeons are born defective - clubbed feet, bent wings, screwed-up beaks - and yet they continue to survive. And they aren't outcasts amongst pigeon-kind. In fact, I'd bet they were a majority.

I worry that I might be going blind from sitting in front of a computer, typing in this font. Can I change the font? Would that even help?

He's still licking.

I worry that if I go to bed now, the cat will simply follow me into my room, make himself comfortable on the bed, and just... keep... licking.

It's nice to have a night off.
- Meredith

*I wonder how this sentence will be misinterpreted by the search engines. Here's hoping my blog ends up on some porn site that is truly bizarre.
** Also, this one.

Double Coupons Up To 99 Cents

2007-10-08T18:55:00.000-04:00

Matt Smith,

I hope Seattle is awesome because Boston sucks.

I entertained the idea of just leaving that as my blog entry, and I also entertained the idea of not using the phrase "blog entry," but seeing as how I've just managed to blow both of those entertaining ideas with one sentence, I'll continue.

Boston and I are trying to stay positive in this trying time, but it's... trying. There's only so much smiling one can do when a city is taking you and yours to the cleaners day after day. I try to tell Boston that I don't like to shower that much, that showering twice or three times a week is fine for me, that Matt doesn't have to be that clean either, that I'll take him anyway I get him as long as he's happy, that I don't care about a little stank... but then, wham, bam and off we go to the cleaners again.

This particular cleaner has a habit of bruising people easily, injecting their love handles with drugs with silly names, and making them really hate the situation in general. Needless to say, it's not a cleaner I would choose personally, but Boston seems to love it. Boston loves this cleaner and every horrible tragedy that they stand for.

I would love to put this cleaner... and Boston... out of business.

The plan goes like this, Matt Smith:

First, I show up with competitors' coupons. Then, while they're distracted by my seeming ineptitude yet savvy consumer-mindedness, you run in and steal... whatever it is that makes the suits and shirts and other items on hangers spin around. THAT way, whenever they have something brought to them, they have to WALK to go put it away. No more Mr. I-Just-Have-To-Push-This-Button-and-Everything-Moves-On-My-Command. No, no. In fact, not only will it work THAT way, it's twofold. When people come to PICK UP their cleaning, Mr. IJHTPTBAEMOMC (see above) will have to search endlessly to find it for them... or come up with some sort of innovative clothes filing system. Which he's probably not smart enough to anyway, even though he's smart enough to know which people can be kicked when they're down.

Does Seattle have cleaners that they take people to? Do they beat them up until they're barely recognizable and then throw them to the Seattle wolves, assuming, of course, that there are wolves in Seattle? Does Seattle delight in bringing pain to a select few undeserving citizens, and does it enjoy hearing their cries of agony?

Yes?

No?

Do tell. I'm eager to hear other tales of woe from other coastal towns. I think this is something they conspire to do to the people who move there from landlocked areas of the country.

Also, please let me know if you're down with the plan. And if you're down with the phrase "your momma." Those jokes are coming back in fashion now and I need some sort of definitive answer on the subject.

The blog has been beaten, Michael, and now it's crawling its way back to life. Hope you can snarkily forgive me. Matt Smith can. He's a role model for millions.

Scooters, vacation, fall,
Meredith

If a Nap Could Feed Me, I'd Sleep All the Time.

2007-08-28T17:23:00.000-04:00

Matt Smith,

Yay for gainful (if painful) employment!

Here are the answers to your questions:

I'm in Boston at least until mid-May. I have no idea what I'm doing after that, but I'm with you on the same city thing. Chicago could be nice... I have some friends there, as I'm sure you do. And if we both lived there then we'd both have MORE friends there. And I hear there's some sweet comedy there. And if we were there, there'd be MORE sweet comedy there.

In answer to your question, "How's Boston treating you," I'd have to say Boston is not treating me. Boston is rudely making me pay for everything, including food, housing, clothing, and veterinary services. In fact, Boston has so far refused to treat me at all. I think we should break up. How dare Boston put all the financial burden on me?

I meant to tell you that the Steve dress is not a dress FOR Steve. It's actually a dress for me. It just says "Steve" on the front of it. I think it's some bizarre political thing, but to me, it's just an old t-shirt that says "Steve," and now it's a dress. Not Steve's. Mine.

I think you should make the job less dull by doing one (or several) of the following:

1. Affix the covers of the books of stamps onto envelopes, claiming you thought they were merely "really big stamps." The Asian woman who runs the laundromat that I go to asked me to explain why the envelope she attempted to mail this way came back to her. I had to use my teacher sensibilities to explain the reasons -- without making her feel like an idiot.
(Bonus: there are bar codes on the stamp book covers, too.)

2. Use crayons. I think America in its capitalism has really underestimated the wonderfulness of crayons. As I type this, I'm getting the word "crayons" visually confused with "crayfish" and that's concerning. America has probably NOT underestimated the wonderfulness of crayfish. I'd venture to guess, statistically speaking, that more Americans know what crayons are than crayfish, though.

3. Take a poll to find out how many people in your office know what crayfish are.

4. Create a system by which you only allow access to the restroom to those with "tokens." I find this to be only mildly empowering at my place of business, but it may work out better for you. Especially since you don't actually have tokens and could probably use nickels. Or dimes. Or quarters. Or those god-forsaken Sacagawea dollar coins. Your choice.

That's all for now, I suppose. I definitely think it's time for a nap.

Yum, yum... naps.
Meredith

I Don't Have the Potter Book to Read Yet, So I'm Writing Instead.

2007-07-24T18:42:00.001-04:00

Matt Smith,

I apologize for not giving you fair warning that I'd be ignoring you in my last post. Michael seems to be my... what number do I have now?... my third Constant Reader? I think it's three now. There's you, there's Anne, and there's Michael. Oh sure, there's a Now-and-Then Reader, but ah. My Constants. I have to give credit where it's due, Constants.

Consistency is something I've been giving a lot of thought lately. A co-worker and I were having a chat a few weeks back about some silly award-typey cards that keep being thrown about the coffee shop. They've got titles: Knowledgeable, Genuine, something else, another thing (you can plainly see how many I've gotten). People are supposed to pinpoint qualities that their co-workers exhibit on any given day, write them down on a corresponding award-typey card, and give it to them as a way of saying "thanks" for things that they do.

Well, frankly, I've got it all figured out. My minor complaint a few weeks back was that the Award-typey Cards (I think I've typed it enough for it to warrant capitalization now, don't you think?) continue to be handed out to employees who aren't always up to snuff. (What the hell does that even mean? Up to snuff?) So, really, we're just using these cards to train people that they get rewarded when they actually do what they're supposed to be doing. Like, "Hey Bob, Thanks for going that extra mile and showing up on time for work today." Or, "Thank you, Patty, for making coffee today. That really shows how much you care."

Um. No.

It doesn't.

Where's the reward for consistency? Where's the reward for doing the right thing, pretty much all the time? Frankly, it's just not something our society seems to think is very important.

Well, Matt Smith. Here I am to give out the 2007 Consistency Awards. I know it's a little early (or a little late, depending on how you look at it) for an awards show, but there aren't any awards programs during the month of July. And my July has pretty much bit the big one, so it'd be great to have something to spruce it up.

The awards go to:

* Google, for consistently searching for (and finding) all manner of goofy things that I always desperately need to find out. Right. Now.

* The fans of the Boston Red Sox, for being simultaneously consistent in both stupidity and dedication. For crying out loud though, buy yourselves a good map of the MBTA light rail system and let the rest of us go home easy.

* Books, for always being consistently commerical-free and with no rental fees.

and finally,

* you, Matt Smith. Along with Emily, Bailey, Matt, Drew, Tina, my sister, and my mother (and possibly a handful of others that I've missed), you deserve a reward for consistent... something. Consistent okay-ness? Consistent general behavior? Consistent checking-in-to-make-sure-that-people-are-doing-alright? Consistent friendship seems to fit, but it's more than that really. It's more like "consistent humanity." Yes. Thank you, Matt Smith, for consistently knowing what it's like to be a human, and treating people accordingly.

(It's a brief awards program, and the music's not great, but at least the acceptance speeches are short... what with two of the recipients being inanimate objects.)

Levicorpus and all that,
Meredith

Ready for My Close-up, Mister...

2007-07-10T22:24:00.001-04:00

Dear Mr. Brownlee,

Since you asked oh-so-many months ago about who Matt Smith is -- and everyone asks, so don't think you're the first -- you can follow the link the the right? The one that says "The Real Matt Smith?" Yeah. That's the one. Go on. Click it. In fact, open it in a New Browser Window so that you and I can still have this happy little chat. You can read all about my buddy, Matt Smith, later on, and I can tell you about my day. I'm sure you're interested.

Actually, you're probably throwing around some camera-object right now, hoping to get the right angle on this computer screen, hoping to find a place where you can avoid the glare, but still put my blog in the right light for photos. Don't worry. That's been done before. It IS picturesque. It's really good about sitting still and posing for photographs. And if you're doing candids, it can act natural. No problem. Just remind it to take it's glasses off before you ask it to smile pretty.

By the way, how's that photography thing going these days? Picking up? Taken any fine paparazzi-type shots yet while riding at top speed on your Harley? If so, why aren't they posted on MySpace?

That being said, I apologize for my blogging absence. Wow. That sentence gives a whole new meaning to the word "blog." I mean, it does have four letters, meaning it can be used as a "four-letter word." I might have to go back and edit that entry where I typed "bloggity blog blog," for fear someone else might have misinterpreted it, the way the Google people misinterpreted my entry about "peeing for freedom."

Truth be told (which is a phrase I'm starting to use all too often, which makes me wonder if I'm lying the rest of the time), I've just now found the something in me that can only be satiated by writing. I think I must have misplaced it for a few months, or tried to starve it somehow by only feeding it work and school and work and school and the occasional fillet of orange roughy. I fully intended on participating in "Script Frenzy" during the month of June, attempting to complete a full-length play by June 30, but didn't get around to it. And here it is, now already mid-July, and all I have to show for myself is a pile of dirty laundry, a cowboy hat, and a bib that reads "Time to get crackin'!" with a picture of a lobster on it.

But I don't miss June. I'm happy it's July -- even if it is MID-July. Things like my birthday and the 4th have passed, and now we're headed for other things... my brother's birthday, the 19th of July (which has no significance to me whatsoever), and then it'll be the 31st and I'll be on a plane to Charleston. Time for hanging out at the beach, eating some delicious food made by wonderful friends, and watching some sea turtles head out to sea.

Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to make like a sea turtle, and try not to pick the wrong direction when I crawl my way into bed. Like any good sea turtle, I'll head AWAY from the glowing Coke machine, and TOWARDS the moonlit sea.

Nighty-night, photo man.

- Meredith

I Wouldn't Step on Your Dog if He Took Up More Space.

2007-07-09T23:34:00.001-04:00

YOUR blog is behind, Matt Smith? Let's talk for a second about THIS blog. MY blog.

And yes, since you mention it, everything DOES have to be about me. And at least one word in each of these sentences DOES have to be in all-caps. SOMETIMES TWO. Just so we're on the same page.

I'm glad you're in Seattle. Not that I'm glad that you're not, y'know, in Boston with me, but I am glad that you took a bold step in a direction that may not have seemed entirely right at the time. I think we all need to do that at least once. With most people, that bold, perhaps misguided, step is not a move across the country... or even a move to the Northeast or Midwest or anywhere else. Sometimes that bold step is simply a final decision, unprompted and unadvised by others. Sometimes that step is buying a house. Or quitting a despised job with a good salary. Or marriage.

But for you and me, our bold steps say, "Let's get the hell out of here and try someplace new for a change." We move. We move to places like Minnesota where we know no one, to Evans City where we converse with folks we normally wouldn't even dare approach, to Boston and Seattle where we thrive only with the advice and help of a few dear friends.

The thing about us, Matt Smith, is that we'll make it. We'll manage just about anywhere. We're malleable, adaptable. The places we go can take our red and blue Play-Doh selves and mix it up on their preschool desks and we'll blend into that disgusting brownish gray ball that doesn't really look like anything, until you look a little closer and you see that there's a streak of blue Matt Smith here, writing an article for some kitschy paper about his comical observations of a fishing boat, and a smear of red Meredith there, trying to get kids to understand the world by allowing them to attack each other with yellow felt top hats.

It's a rough life, and a strange life that we're pulling ourselves through. And moving our stuff within. I'm constantly realizing how BIZARRE everything seems to be lately. For instance:
Why does a certain mother on the D-line insist on breast-feeding her FOUR-year old son ON THE TRAIN, let alone breast-feeding him at all? Buy him a hot dog, for Christ's sake.
Why do people think that Starbucks orders are so confusing, and why do they equate that confusion with the French language? "Venti" and "grande" are not French words, so don't tell me, "I don't know what size. I don't speak French." I don't speak French either.
Why do Bostonians cuss as if the four-letter words were merely interjections? And why do they do this at 7 in the morning while remodeling the deck outside my apartment?
Why is a small beverage in Texas 32-ounces?
Why does the bank charge you a FEE for overdrawing your account?
Why do people carry their small dogs in handbags? Throughout history, dogs have WALKED. They have FOUR LEGS, for goodness sake. Let them use them.

Like I said, everything's wild and weird and wonderful. Someday, Matt Smith, we'll find our places where we can settle. Hopefully they're at least a driveable distance from each other.

And I'm glad your stuff fits in your car.
My stuff didn't. And I had to sell my car.

Don't Drink the Ocean. Just Rub it in Your Wounds.

2007-04-23T18:50:00.000-04:00

Matt Smith,

I feel like this email that you wrote me is a "break-up email." Only, in this case, you're breaking up with someone you're not dating and only with the idea that you might have lived in the same city with them. Um. All I can say is, I don't want you to break up with me. You can't. As aforementioned, we aren't dating, and you're still my friend. Only now, you're my friend in Seattle.

Maybe after all these years, I can finally drop the "Smith" from your name and just call you "Seattle Matt." Or perhaps the other way 'round. Not that I think I should drop the "Seattle" from your name -- I never called you anything to do with Seattle before that I can recall, even that one time you looked just like the marketplace at Pike Place. I don't know really. "Matt Seattle" sounds like a building, or a superhero, or a superhero shaped like a building. I suppose I'll just have to flesh that one out when we cross that bridge. Or when you cross that bridge. Or the many bridges that you'll inevitably have to cross in order to get to Seattle.

I can't say I'm happy about this choice of yours... this West Coast thing. Nope. Can't say that at all. I can say that I'm happy a choice has been made. Choice-making is totally underrated, as far as I can tell, and more people should be made aware of their ability to make choices. Better choices. Faster choices. Quicker than I can say, "What size?" kind of choices. The point is, you should know how thirsty you are before you order a drink, and you should know that you need to move suddenly, throwing caution to the winds (or to the suburb cluttered Northwest), and then do it. So. Don't get too thirsty. There's only saltwater out there. And coffee. And I think there's an ocean, too.

I will miss you. I miss you already.

Love,
Meredith

Lassie! Help! Help! Timmy's Been Inundated with Phone Calls!

2007-04-12T17:22:00.000-04:00

Matt Smith?

What do people who get phone calls talk about?

I get, like, a phone call. Maybe two. Rarely both in the same day, unless there's something truly spectacular happening... like, the earth ran into the sun. Well. Maybe not that spectacular. Maybe just California-is-falling-into-the-Pacific spectacular. At any rate, I don't get phone calls unless one of two things is happening: 1) someone is returning my phone call to them, or 2) something/one is crashing/falling into something/one else.

Yes. That sums it up right nicely.

With that in mind, I wonder what the hell this girl sitting across from me had going for her that she should get not one, not two, not THREE phone calls while riding the T... but six. Six phone calls. During a 15-minute train ride. It upsets me enough to just have used two sentence fragments in a row. It upsets me enough so that there may be an indeterminate amount of sentence fragments yet to be written in this blog entry.

The thing that really got me was, the six phone calls seemed to be about the same topic. Her doctor's appointment. She missed it. Know how I know? She told the people on the other end of the phone. She told each of them individually. I don't know six people who need to know that I missed my doctor's appointment. My doctor doesn't even care that I miss my doctor's appointment. What the hell does she care? She still gets paid. In fact, if I don't give her enough notice, she gets paid more than she would have had I actually shown up. So the doctor phone call is right out.

Would my mother care if I missed a doctor's appointment? The answer to that is -- simply put -- no. My mother hadn't been to the doctor's office in almost 25 years until some random physical for a job dragged her there. So there you have it. Mother phone call. Out of the running.

Would my friends care if I missed that doctor's appointment? Probably not. Certainly not six friends, all at practically the same time. How would they even know that I missed it? Did I call them first? Is this a subject that I just randomly bring up on the phone? Now, looking back on that doctor-avoiding train-girl, I think she must have brought it up at least twice. But not every time. Sometimes she just agreed with them that missing the doctor's appointment was a bad thing and didn't it suck that she was stuck in the office working all day. Yeah.

Do I even have six friends? More than likely. Are any of them doctors whose appointments I've missed? Absolutely not. (And of course we now know that even if they were, they wouldn't call. They would just collect the payments.) Does the conversation take a turn for the better? Well, in train-girl's case, no. She just got phone call after phone call, never changing the subject, never letting the other person tell her about their doctor's appointment. Strange conversation manipulating girl.

Maybe the six phone calls were all from the same person who just happened to have short term memory loss? Maybe there weren't really six phone calls, and I was experiencing some sort of rapid-fire deja-vu? Maybe the train was simply moving back and forth across the space-time continuum?

The world may never... I mean... I may never know. The world simply doesn't care.

Not about me. And not about my silly doctor's appointments.

That is all.
- Meredith

P.S. I hear the job search is not so hot. Keep on keeping on, my friend. And if you need a change of scenery, me and Boston will still be here, greeting you with open arms and lots of non sequitur phone calls. Or maybe just lots of non sequitur. Something. We'll be here with something. (Maybe cheese. Or greeting cards. Or greeting cards made of cheese.)

Jerry Seinfeld Can't Write THIS Much Nothing

2007-03-09T18:57:00.000-05:00

Matt Smith.

When I was younger, I used to say, "Someday I'm going to write a book." Later on, when I discovered that I didn't really have anything to write about compared to everyone else, I expanded that idea into, "Someday I'm going to write a book about nothing."

Then Jerry Seinfeld "stole"/simply used that idea, and so began my lifelong hatred of Jerry Seinfeld.
That's a lie. I actually don't hate him. I just hate that he does things. Just in general.

I only bring up books because this blog entry, for all intents and purposes (just what IS the purpose of a blog?), has the capacity to BE a book. No. Not just a book, but a Book. That's right. Watch out. I'm capitalizing things. Randomly. I have the alphabet in upper-case and I know how to use it.

I thought about just being a little shit and typing "bloggity blog-blog-blog" for the entire time here in front of the computer, but then I thought about all the insignificant things I could write and complain about, all the things that people have done that bother me, all the wonderfulness of simply taking the things in my head and putting them in print... and I thought... "bloggity blog-blog-blog" would really probably cut it.

But I'm not going to do that. If only for the simple reason that Google (and all those other search engines that may indeed just catalogue porn sites) would have a field day with all the "blog" words. Or all the two blog words.

Now I'm just rambling, honestly, since I've been accused of "not blogging enough" and "having nothing good to write about" or "sitting with my thumb up my ass" or "being a child of the 60s." All of those are real accusations, all of them are things that I have, of course, been accused of, but not all of them have been spit at me in the past few months. All kinds of folks are apparently up in arms over the lack of blog. And, certainly, when I say "all kinds of," I really mean "all two."

Speaking of the last few months, a bunch of things have happened in amongst the getting up early to earn my dollar, going to class sleepy and without my work done, going back to work to deal with smelly customers, and making Emily not eat cheese slices. Working mostly backwards, and leaving out a lot of things, here's the list:

- Emily and I went on Spring Break 2007 (Woo-oo!) to Pittsburgh. I bet you remember this one, since you were there. There was much merriment, much bar-hopping. Three whole bars in four whole days. We hop slowly. And demonstratively. Emily chronicled the whole thing with her camera, Squinty. (I've named the camera "Squinty." Emily won't know this until she reads this, but I think it's a fitting name and I'm not taking it back.) We ate dinner with you, of course (that's the part you might remember, along with bar number one of the hopping), and went to the Warhol where we had a dance party with some helium- and air-filled balloon/cloud things. Good times. Great oldies.

- I'm designing a set! For a show that will never be put on! It's awesome! There's a big trestle on it. Well, to be honest, it's really a little trestle, since I'm building it out of foam core and paper in 3/8 inch scale, and I'll never see it be any larger except in my head. And I don't know if you've noticed lately, but my head isn't quite large enough to house a 14 1/2 foot high trestle. No, sir. Not a one. (I have no idea what "not a one" has to do with anything, but it seemed like something that should rightly follow a comment like "no, sir." I also have no idea what "rightly" has to do with following.)

- Matt and I went on what I like to call a "snowboarding mini-break" in New Hampshire at the end of February. I've got to say, throwing yourself (okay, myself) down a mountain at high rates of speed is enough to scare the snot out of you. And indeed, if you fall hard enough, and on the right type of hill, and hit the right spot on your body, the snot will fall right out. It's snot-falling fun. Better than the snot, though (and what wouldn't be), was Saturday night at the mountain when they built a big bonfirey type thing where kids could toast marshmallows and get glow necklaces and keep their hands warm. I did all of those things. It was post-beer wonderful.

- I lost a manager when he decided to work at a restaurant. Our assistant manager got promoted and became our manager. For two weeks. Then she left to manage another store. Then, a shift supervisor left to work some swanky job where people buy her food and drink all the time. Then we got another manager. This is all new and different and strange. I fear change in the workplace. Or, more correctly, I fear change because I have some dark, deep-seated belief that no one really knows how to do anything when change occurs. Yeah. That's it.

- Melissa bought a new bed. This has absolutely nothing to do with me, but there's some satin sheets on it that I fell off of.

I'm sure there's more, but I can't remember all of the complaints that I had with everything in between. I do recall that I had a complaint about someone that smells all the time of onions, and I can't for the life of me figure out why he smells like onions, nor why no one has ever pointed it out to him before. It's bizarre. And oniony.

Happy job hunting. Make sure to aim for the big one with antlers.
- Meredith

It Takes a Whole Lot of Beans to Make Up a Whole Town

2007-01-01T22:19:00.000-05:00

Nothing says New Year's quite like Beef Lo Mein.

Er, yeah.

Hi there, Matt Smith. I just saw you barely a week ago and already I'm feeling the sad, sad broken feeling of you not living in Boston. In case you didn't know, there's a sad, sad broken feeling that I get when you don't live in Boston. It's not something I've always experienced, since I lived in Pittsburgh up until this past fall -- for the most part. I do think it has some connection to the fact that we simply don't see enough of each other. And even when we do see each other, we're trying to talk over other people and eat and drink tea and get the waiter to refill the teapot and figure out who owes for the bill at dinner.

All of that, I suppose, simply says you should hurry up and visit.

There's a lot of marriage and child-bearing going around. I found out when I was around for the holidays that there are three couples who have either gotten engaged or have planned to elope. And now, just today, a friend called me to say that his wife is preggers.* I managed to pull up from the depths of my emotion drawer (I keep them in a drawer these days... very convenient) some moderate excitement. I think I might have done better had I not a) been put on the spot suddenly with the information, and b) known before I returned the phone call what the "big news" was going to be. I'm happy for him, really. He's gotten what he's always wanted. An adorably happy pregnant wife and a life full of family and possibilities for the future. I wish I knew what I wanted out of life, the universe, and everything as much as he knew that he wanted to get married and start a family. Boy. Some people just have everything figured out. Others, like me, won't have anything figured out. Not for a long... long... long time.

One of the few things I seem to have figured out is how to use the damned fare machines for the T here. Frankly, I don't see what's so difficult about them -- unless you can't read, or you can't read English -- but the majority of people require assistance from the MBTA employees positioned inside the stations, the people near them in line to purchase their fares, or God in Heaven. People just are in too much of a hurry to use a touchscreen? Really? All they have to do is TOUCH THE SCREEN. And, well, read the signs that tell them that This Machine takes only cash, while That Machine will accept credit and debit cards. And the screen itself, obviously, when it TELLS THEM EXACTLY WHAT TO DO. How hard is that? The answer, of course, is not hard. It is not hard to use the machines. Get over yourselves, Bostonians.

I took next weekend off. You'd better be coming to visit. Otherwise I'm going to have nothing to amuse myself during both Saturday AND Sunday. Get on that.

Aloha-Oy,
Meredith

* Any abbreviation of the word "pregnant" is in honor of my roommate, Jenna. She hates "preggers" almost as much as Emma hates "silly" and "belly."

I Walked Through the Desert on a Blog with No Name

2006-12-10T19:57:00.000-05:00

Blogging like nobody's ever blogged before, Matt Smith.

That's how I do. That's how I DO.

Once again, I come to you straight from the offices of I'm Supposed To Be Writing a Paper and I Can't So I'm Blogging, and boy, is it getting warm in here! I took a little side trip from my hard work (I've written three paragraphs about nothing important already for this paper, and there's plenty more to come) to fry up some tofu for a curry dish that I'm going to make tonight for Coco and her new boy, John. They're in visiting from New Hampshire... more visiting the Boston Opera House to see "The Nutcracker" than visiting me, but I get them here after the ballet to eat delicious tofu.

Holy bizarre train of thought, Batman.

Strange two day lapse of blogging. It could happen to you.

So that was Sunday night, and here it is, Tuesday, and I'm nearly finished with the aforementioned paper, and yet, still blogging the good blog. Visiting with Coco made me remember why I have the friends I have. I remembered that there are some people that will always be around, no matter what. (Don't look now. You're one of them. Don't think Seattle's going to exempt you from that. No, no, my good man.)

Not to say that new friends -- or Friends -- aren't just as great. My new friend, Emily, invited me to join her last night at the Cabaret ("Cabaret and dressy go together") on campus to see a... well, a slightly out-of-tune piano, an acoustic/indie artist, and a guy who wrote a song about "Thai food and flying first class" (according to Emily). I'm happy to be a cynical grad student with you, too, Emily. I'll have to put that in my Christmas card to the Big Pink Bunny.

Additional strange lapse in time, for now it is indeed Wednesday.

And now for something completely different. I give you the sequel to Brannenisms.
Bobisms 2006

Some of you are better at taking a big ol’ hatchet and whacking the thing apart.

Sorry, the metaphor is falling apart.

This might help you understand this.

War is always gonna suck, even if you win.

The minute you assign them to read Romeo & Juliet at home… good fucking luck.

Wah, wah, wah! I’m in rehearsals! Isn’t life bad?

I’ll come around like a collection plate.

Good activities start with tension.

The heart of all drama activities is to see your world from another perspective.

There are jokes about diarrahea. That holds kids’ interest.

Shut up, Bob.

I don’t want to make it sound like teaching drama is hard, but teaching drama is hard.

I’m a Civil War music whore.

My drag name would be Tippy Cox.

I guess I have a vulgar mind, but how else do you pronounce CSUQK?

Thank Bob for the five-cent Xeroxing.

Score the goddamn… I’m sorry. I have a problem with my language. I would be fired in a school.

Boy, am I making up bullshit!

GRASPS: It goes with CSUQK.

WHERE do you GRASP?

David Hornbrook says, “You fucking asshole. I can’t believe you did that.”

I mean, look at me! I’m a fucking teacher!

I’m a GAP kinda guy, so I’ll do this kind of practice.

You can be eccentric, but don’t be an asshole.

Gavin instantly relaxed and started eating the weenies.

She said, “Shit! What do I know about this?” Well… I don’t know if she said ‘shit.’

I love Edith.

When you want kids to tell you what they think, ask them what they feel.

Teaching is about learning how to withhold your expertise.

You can’t lurk in the corner the way that people lurk on the internet.

Every one of your strengths has a dark side… OOOOooh. Hear the chord there?

You go ahead and measure anything you like that’s about six inches. Think plants. Things that grow.

That sounded like I arrogantly know something about this, but I actually don’t.

“Teenagers.” Geez. I sound like an old fart.

Sorry. My pants are making noise.

You’re not slackers. I’m just being playful.

Assume everybody in the room doesn’t give a shit.

That won’t even help… I mean… It will help.

I am sure of nothing.

Be you… and never stop being you.

Dorothy Heathcote… She’s abroad.

You could start keying his car…

Drama is not about everyone agreeing all the time.

Rip things off from literature!

I need to pay attention to what comes out of my mouth.

Probably what'll happen is, Bob will get fired (as per his very own predictions) and then everyone will hate me for posting this post, and then I'll be sad as sad can be.
But for now, that's a risk I'm willing to take. I'm breaking all the rules... I'm dangerous.

Watch out behind you,
Meredith

A Long December.** Starting. Now.

2006-11-27T18:18:00.000-05:00

Fancy this, Matt Smith.

It's my turn, and I'm taking it. I'm taking it like nothing's ever been... taken. Ever. Before. Take that to your "I'm-definitely-going-to-get-to-some-blogging-today" bank.*

There was this lady on the T today that I wouldn't have gotten to see if I had bought cheese. I'm so glad I didn't get cheese, mainly because I would have missed this particular woman, but also because my roommate and I apparently communicated telepathically and she bought the cheese that I intended to buy. The lady, though. She was a trip. She had this kid with her. I say "kid," and I do think it was her daughter, but the daughter was definitely a teenager. Is that a "kid?" Let's say it is for the sake of argument.

But no arguing. I'm through with arguing and ridiculous emotional roller-coaster type sadness today.

So, without any argument, there was this lady and her kid. A girl kid. The kid had her Converse-clad feet propped up on the handicapped accessible seat in front of her, and looked to be asleep. Mom Lady poked Kid in the leg and said, "Move your feet." Kid woke up -- er, seemed to -- and very much didn't move her feet. Mom Lady shook her head. And shook her head some more. And continued shaking it.

Why was she shaking her head? Was she that upset? Was she just upset at her kid? Or was she upset that her life was the way it was? Did she have Parkinson's or some other head-shaking disorder? No. It looked like honest-to-god head shaking, controlled by the shaker, not the head.

Kid slept. As Kid slept, Kid's sleep fist would drift -- drift is a good word for what was actually occurring here -- drift up to her mouth and a finger would jettison from the rest of the fist and poke her face. Her finger was actually poking her face here. Bizarre finger. The fist itself seemed to have a mind of its own (not like Mom Lady's head shaking) and sometimes the finger would poke directly into her mouth and get a mini-vacation hanging on to her bottom lip. Like a hook. A little, drooly finger hook.

Why do I write all this? Why do I even watch all this in the first place? Why should anyone care that Mom Lady dialed the wrong number on her cell phone, probably because her head was shaking so much?

Well, I don't rightly know.

Maybe in life you create distractions when things don't seem so great. Maybe distractions don't have to be television, or radio, or iPods, or email, or even blogging... Maybe it's just beautiful when you can see that other people are just as strange and as awkward and as stupid as everything in your life is all the time. Even if it's just some woman that has a problem with her child and her cell phone. And even if it's just a kid that drools and pokes at her mouth in her sleep.

Nothing compares to seeing people for who they are without having them notice that you see them. You see right through them to who they are.

I'm going to go poke at my mouth and shake my head a little. Maybe it'll loosen all the crap that's gotten inside of it today.
And maybe I'll eat some cheese.

I'll take the A-train,
Meredith

*Not an actual bank, as you'd say. Don't bank there.
** "Yeeeeeah..."

The Simpsons Write a Paper. Er. Something.

2006-11-04T19:46:00.000-05:00

Ah, Matt Smith. It's that time again.

That wonderful time of year when college students across the country hunker down at their desks, at their laptops, over their books, and over their triple-tall-soy-extra-hot-no-foam-lattes to study for their midterm exams.

Or, in my theatre education world, write a one page paper on a book I just finished.

I guess I find myself wondering which is the more difficult task. Of course, I also find myself in front of the television, watching a rerun of The Simpsons, and typing into this blog instead of actually writing the damn paper, but that's neither here nor there. What is here AND there is the truth that sometimes, writing a simple one page paper is... well, it IS more difficult. Especially when you have no structure. I have no structure. I have no plan. I have questions and no answers, and what's probably going to happen is I'll come up with more questions and still have no answers. Only then there'll be more of the No Answers. And then there'll be more of the Not Writing the Paper.

Sometimes having too much freedom is the same as not having enough.

That is all.
-- Meredith

Drawing Crazy Patterns on Your Sheets.

2006-10-18T22:38:00.000-04:00

Et tu, Matt Smith?

You know, some things are just darned funny to watch. Like two Boston College girls attempting to start a dead car in a dark parking lot. Or a stern faced business man running to catch a subway train that has just closed its doors. Or ducks. Or bunnies. All hysterical, let me tell you. It's amazing what you can observe by just watching.

This week has really been an observing week for me. Not that I've been particularly observant. I've just seen a lot, if that makes any sense. I've seen that man running for the train. There's actually been a run of running for trains, as it wasn't just him, but others as well. There are those two girls behind my apartment building in the parking lot. They're there right now, actually. I can't seem to figure out whether the car has died, or whether it's run out of gas... oh. Wait. There's definitely a gas can involved. I sympathize now, of course, rather than judging, since I have indeed run out of gas before... or would have if you hadn't loaned me ten bucks. There have been ducks, or rather, birds that act a great deal like ducks, but aren't ducks, since ducks are not seabirds. Matt and I have taken to calling these particular ducklike animals "rock-sitters," since they do a whole lot of just sitting... on rocks. I don't know what they are, but they're funny to watch. They stretch their wings out like the Batman insignia, and I imagine that they're lighting the Duck Signal, or rather, the Un-Duck Signal. Maybe there are such things as salt water ducks. I don't know. Google doesn't seem to know either.

The bunny thing was a lie. I really haven't seen any bunnies lately.

On Monday, I saw a man in a red polo shirt hauling a huge cart full of trash into the loading dock-slash-dumpster room in the building my store happens to be in. I was just minding my own, when Red Shirt Man wheels his trash cart in, and I noticed from my elevated position on the lift near the dumpster that Red Shirt has a wooden stick with a knife duct-taped to the end of it. He started to scream, "I'm going to kill you!" and "I'm going to f-ing kill you!" and other such lovelies, all the while stabbing the cardboard boxes at the top of his cart of trash with his wooden stick knife. I watched, dumbfounded, as he watched me, screamed, and stabbed his boxes. Not knowing what to say to him, I stupidly managed the only thing that came to me: "I'll be just a minute." I think he must have said "yeah" or something, but then only went back to his box stabbing.

Weird stuff. I mentioned it to my boss when I got back in from my trip to the dumpster, and he apparently knew who Red Shirt was, since he asked me, "Was he wearing a red shirt?" I guess it's a 7-Eleven employee that's gone off his meds. But, as a wise man once said, "That's not a valid reason to be allowed to threaten someone." Truer words have ne'er been spoken. So, wise up, Red Shirt. Swallow THAT bitter pill, why dontcha?

Today was relatively uneventful in the observing business. I did watch a bunch of auditions for a musical theatre directing class this evening, and one of the auditioners spoke his entire monologue to me. At me, more like it, come to think of it, since I wasn't really invested in what he was saying. I just kept thinking, "Why's he looking at me?" And then I couldn't look away, because I also thought that since he was auditioning, and was probably nervous, I should just be The Person He Could Look At, and deal. In case you were wondering, staring down your auditioners is not a good tactic for an audition. I can't even remember what his name is.

And now, for me... the sweet, sweet smell of sleep. Until tomorrow when I wash the sheets.

It's all over now, Baby Blue,
Meredith

Subject Matter Makes a Difference

2006-09-24T20:41:00.000-04:00

(I should tell you right now, Matt Smith. It's a hard day's blogging. It's a long post. If you're feeling up to it, read the whole damn thing. If you're not, just read the part at the bottom that looks like this.)

Today I'm writing with a purpose.
I suppose I would have written in response to you, but I had other things on my mind while I was reading it -- and perhaps someday in the very near future I'll have a clear head and then things will be different. But as it stands, I have to write a paper on a "Teaching/Learning Experience," and I can't think unless I'm talking it out with someone.

So here I am. Talking it out with you. And my blog.

This past week I shared a teaching/learning experience with one of my classmates. Let's call her Jill -- first and foremost, the internet, as aforementioned, is a scary place. Secondly, there's no one named Jill in my class, so even if some complete weirdo in a monkey suit was trying to stalk this nameless girl, he'd have no luck. So THERE, Weirdo!

The point of the exercise, all in all, was to have the participants (Jill & I) figure out something new and different about our learning styles, or our teaching styles, or any combination of the two. However, in the course of the afternoon, I think I learned more about the differences of subject matter more than anything else. Wow. Subject Matter Makes a Difference. It's a great title for a horrible children's book (or for that matter, ANY book, unless it's a book about porn), and it's the title of this paper that I'm about to write.

Jill & I were setting out for the afternoon to accomplish two things: I was to teach her some practical piano skills, and Jill was to teach me some... er... fashion... skills? ("How to put together a really great outfit for not a whole lot of money" is, I believe, how she marketed the skill in the very beginning stages of this project.) For the sake of this paper, I'd like to set up both scenarios, so that you, Reader, can get an idea of the vast differences between the two undertakings.

Scenario #1: Meredith attempts to teach Jill some basic piano skills.
I think it was definitely to Jill's advantage that she had, in her youth, played the violin, if even for a very brief period of time. Those things that we learn in our youth seem to stay with us, put away in the junk drawer in the kitchen of our brains, and only brought out when we say to ourselves, "I think I saw that in there SOMEwhere." That being said, in the junk drawer of the kitchen of Jill's brain was some note recognition skills. She told me at the outset -- a few days before I even had her sit down at a piano -- that she knew how to read "violin music." I interpreted that to mean that she understood the treble clef (since that's what violin music would be written in) and my assumption was generally correct. I started off with that basic understanding and planned to do some reviewing.
I brought out some makeshift staff paper, drew some musical notation on it, and pointed out to Jill things that she recognized, but hadn't made use of in quite a few years. Already we were getting off to a great start. My job had just been made worlds easier because of her memory of the subject matter. I named notes, and matched the pictures of the notes on the page to the actual notes on the piano, and together, we ran through a C-major scale. Once I was certain that she had these concepts in her head, along with the concept of basic rhythmic notation, I set in front of her a piece of music called "Good King Wenceslas" -- and much to her glee -- she managed to play it with her right hand very nicely.
Then, on to the bass clef. We were now entering foreign territory, since in her youth, Jill never had to read the bass clef (what, in piano skills, would be the music written primarily for your left hand). Again, we matched the musical notation on the page to the notes on the piano, and using a basic hand position, managed to stumble through the bass clef.
Then the best part: putting the hands together.
Normally, with a younger student, I don't think I would have gotten to this point in the first, one-hour session. But, based on what Jill already brought with her in her musical knowledge suitcase (her brain), I figured we were already half way to a larger goal. The piece I chose on the spot was "Jolly Old Saint Nicholas," mainly because it was a simple piece that used a simple left-hand bass line, but also because we had already gotten into a Christmas spirit with the first piece of music. I used what I had just learned was the "part to whole" method -- taking the right-hand and reading that line through alone, then moving on to the left-hand, and playing that line alone, and then putting both hands together -- because that's how I had always learned as a beginner pianist. (I explained before the outset to Jill, however, that if she felt that method wasn't working, we could always move on to another way of thinking.)
It was a good lesson. It made me think of music as a certain type of subject matter, and I suppose, I'll have to get to that at the very end, so as not to give away the real nitty-gritty of "the things I learned during this project."

Scenario #2: Jill attempts to create for Meredith a really great outfit for not a whole lot of money, and instill in her a sense of what makes that outfit great for her.
The long description of the scenario sets the scene here for what the lesson was about for me. Jill said at numerous points during our trip to the stores that this was harder than she'd thought it would be, and I think, after all of it, I know why.
I followed Jill to Downtown Crossing -- home of Macy's, Filene's, Filene's Basement, Marshalls, and other name-y shops. The first bit of teaching that Jill did here was to tell me that these sorts of stores (Filene's, TJMaxx, Marshall's) all carry interesting things and fashionable things, but here you can find them without feeling that you're going bankrupt. End of first piece of teaching.
On to the inside of Filene's, and up through the basement. On the way up to Filene's, I noticed piles of galoshes (which I love) and I told Jill this. She said, "GREAT!" The one thing I needed to keep in mind, though, was that I should try to go with a funky pattern to spice them up. I confessed that I actually own a pink plaid pair of galoshes but lack the bravery to wear them in public, and really, that's one of my greater problems: taking the risk. Here, Jill looked me dead in the eye and said, "Take the risk. But only when it's raining." When you wear things that serve a purpose or a function, I shouldn't be worried about what I look like, she said. We moved on to the upstairs to the greater purpose of creating an inexpensive outfit.
Upstairs, Jill assessed the colors that I do and do not wear. "Look at this rack of shirts," she said. "I want you to pick out a color of shirt that you would not normally wear." I looked the rack over. All tank tops, but in a variety of bright colors. I explained that I typically go for functionality, and in that vein, I pick neutral colors that go with a lot of things, like black or white or brown. "I hate pink," I think I must have said.
Jill picked up a bright pink shirt with a grin.
We moved on to skirts.
I admitted I'd never worn army print. Jill loved army print. She picked up an army print skirt.
This sort of reverse-psychology thing happened throughout the trip. I would say I didn't typically wear things, or I would ask a ton of questions about fashion that I didn't understand (white after Labor Day? those really long shirts that girls wear now? beads or no beads?), and Jill would fill me in on the latest trend and pick out an outfit based on those types of things. She would explain why she agreed with it or didn't, but often she would just explain that a lot of things are just personal preference. If you like something -- a trend, a color, a style of whatevers -- you should just wear them, and not care about what other people think. Some standards, of course, applied. One pattern (not two or three), one focus of the outfit (like a bright green blazer), one or two pieces of jewelry (don't go overboard), but the rest is really up to who you are.
This was also a very good lesson. Jill kept second-guessing herself, but I think a lot of what she was teaching me was governed by a ton of constraints, like what the store had to offer, or what my natural instincts were with any particular fashion trend.

The summary:
Taking us back to the title, which, if you recall was "Subject Matter Makes a Difference."
Looking back at the entire experience, it occurred to me that what I was trying to teach Jill and what Jill was trying to teach me were not only different subjects, but different ways of thinking. One uses a scientific, more concrete way of thinking. The other uses a more abstract, ethereal way of thinking.

One is math. The other is a big, pink bunny.

I was trying to teach Jill a method. This method is generally the same any way you look at it. There are rules, and the rules never change. Any way that you attempt to teach this particular subject, the answer always has to be the same. There are different ways of seeing the subject, there are different ways of teaching the subject or approaching it -- but the end result is always the same. Two plus two is always four. You can look at it upside-down, sideways or eight ways from Sunday, but it's never going to change. Middle C always looks the same on paper and its position on the keyboard never changes. A C-major scale on the piano is always played, and always sounds, pretty much the same. Octaves may change, the way you use your hands to play the notes may change, but a C-major scale is a C-major scale is a C-major scale. No sharps, no flats, and no bones about it.
I suppose I could have started out somewhere in the middle of the learning, or taught her the more difficult things first, or looked at the Big Picture and then picked it apart to get at the learning, but in the end, no matter which way I taught her to play, the sound would be the same.
(On a side note: I told Jill at the outset, if you recall, that if she had a different way of thinking, we could move on to a different method. I never told her the other part of that, which is that I wasn't sure what that method was going to be. I generally teach piano to a person in much the same way I taught the last person, not leaving me much room for creative thinkers. I once had to teach a guitarist some piano skills, and it took me a week to come up with the concept that "the right hand is like your rhythm guitar and your left hand is like a bass guitar." That's the only other way of looking at it I've ever had.)
Music is very mathematical. Piano playing is extremely mathematical. It's only when you can get beyond the basic skills that you can even begin to see its artistic side. Like a great art teacher once told me, "You have to be able to do it the right way, before you can do it your way." First, learn the math. Then, you can learn how to make the math be M.C. Escher.

Jill was trying to teach me art. Moreover, she was trying to teach me to see the art in what I choose to do, and beyond that, be brave enough to do it. It's a difficult concept, and I think I asked enough questions to get beyond the fact that everybody is looking at me (which, as it turns out, they aren't) and that since everybody else is wearing that, I shouldn't wear it too. (Also, not true. Jill says I should wear whatever the hell I want, since it's my life, and besides that, everybody else isn't looking at you.)
There's a million different ways to look at art. Art is tangible, insomuch as you can often pick it up and spin it around and hang it on a wall. But it's intangible. What I think is art, the way I choose to display art, or even the school photo of art that I carry around in my wallet of a head is different from anybody else's way of looking at art. Their art is not my art. Even if it looks that way on the surface.
Art is opinionated, and is an opinion, and is colorful, and can be a completely white canvas if you want it to be. Anything goes, and if you want to wear cowboy boots with a big fluffy purple skirt, go right ahead. And if you really wanted to wear the skirt on your head, you could do that too.
Art is brave and it's hard to teach bravery. You are brave, or you aren't, or you learn what it takes to be brave. Often, you learn the hard way. Art has no right answer, and it takes bravery to see that. It takes bravery to say there is no right answer and then demonstrate that fact right there on your body for everyone to see. (But it doesn't matter because they're not looking.)

Subject Matter Makes a Difference. That, in a nutshell, was what I learned during my Teaching/Learning experience. Some subjects are best taught in one way, and others taught another. And if you throw different types of learners into the mix, then it's an entirely Different Subject altogether.

Snoopy was right.

2006-09-20T21:48:00.000-04:00

No. It really happens, Matt Smith.

There's a downward spiral of despair. But I'm okay now.

Which, of course, is what brought me out of my long non-Blog into Blogland yet again. It's all thanks to you. So, that's right. Go right ahead and pat yourself firmly on your back and say congratulatory phrases like, "Good job!" or "Way to go!" or "This macaroni and cheese is great!"

Interesting plan you've got there, my friend. Seattle's, y'know, awesome. I'd live in Seattle. The problem, of course, is that I live in Boston. So you should definitely just change your mind. Go ahead. Change it. And then move here. Remember the original plan? To move all of Pittsburgh to Boston? What happened to THAT plan?

Honestly, though? (Your answer: "Yes, Meredith. Honestly." Because why would you EVER ASK SOMEONE TO LIE? That's just stupid. Don't ever do that.) I think you've got a great idea. Getting that experience of another, completely new city before making any decisions about where you want to plant your feet for school, or life, or work, or horse-shoe tournaments is always a good idea. I mean, I lived in Minnesota. And boy, those were some friendly folks. I'm glad I got the hell out of there.

Nah. They were all right. It's going to be a nice place to visit.
And so is Seattle. (I'm excited!)

I've got to ask though. Are you looking for a job there? Or are you just going to make the move and then look? Or how is that going to work? 'Cause I don't really have any suggestions, but if you want me to make some up on the spot suggestions, then you know where to find me. Right here. I'm not going anywhere.

Except maybe Seattle. And even then, not until March.

In related news, sometimes I think the cursor is taunting me. Like, "C'mon, lady! You think YOU'RE so smart?! Do ya? DO YA?!" But then I realize that I'm just not typing anything. And maybe I should stop staring.

I've been staring a lot recently. I think it's just a side effect of being highly observant in a new environment. I like to think that I'm highly observant all the time, and then I remember that time that I tripped over my own feet. That equals NO fun. I was staring (I guess I was staring) at some folks on the T the other day, and I could swear that one of them looked over at me and said "Stop looking at me" in Spanish. Which is probably pretty accurate, but there might have been something else happening over there. I don't know. They were speaking Spanish.

So I've taken to trying to focus my eyes on quieter, more non-aggressive individuals. Which is to say that I look at old people a lot. Particularly the ones that speak Russian. I mean, I think they're speaking Russian. Maybe they're saying "Stop looking at me" in Russian, but they say it in a nicer way. 'Cause they're old, and even when they are being loud, they're still pretty quiet. They have old vocal chords. It works out.

I also saw a gangly, tripped out man in a hoody try to put a cigarette out on the back of an Asian gentleman the other night when I was in Back Bay.
The Asian Guy took Hoody Trippy Man DOWN. I mean, literally. On. The. Ground. And then Asian Guy pointed and screamed, "You do NOT do that!" at Trippy Man.

And he meant it. Dude.

That is all.

Give Pittsburgh some love for me. Buy it a cold, frosty. And then take it away, and drink it yourself.

Love,
Meredith

La De Da De Da.

2006-07-26T20:03:00.001-04:00

And the beat goes on, Matt Smith.

YAY!
Yay, I say.
Today is yay.
I yay today.

And then I realized I'd become a Dr. Seuss poem... and then I became a hermit.

Okay. So that's a worst-case scenario. I'm not a hermit. Sometimes I feel hermitish, though. Which is different from hermitage, which is a word I'd have trouble defining if put on the spot. (Other words I'd have trouble defining: "trouble," "if," and "spot.")

Well, I'm glad to hear you're on board for the fundraiser. It's shaping up to be a swinging shindig, I must say. The more people get involved, the more real it becomes. My brother's a cappella group, DoubleShot, will more than likely be performing. Sean from WhiteMeat is donating some goodies. Danielle C. told me she'll be donating some environmentally fun stuff; Little Lake Theatre is donating tickets. And then, of course, there's the Gab & Autumn contingent. Which is awesome.

Furthermore, yay. I'm totally psyched. (In that early '90s sort of way.)

Til next time,
Meredith

There Are A Lot of Roads to Boston. This Is One of Them.

2006-07-25T13:49:00.000-04:00

Matt Smith.

Two words: August 26th. Technically speaking, I suppose that's one word and one hyphenated word, but I'm not picky. Are you?

What's August 26th, you might ask? Well, even if you're not curious in the slightest, I'll tell you anyway. Because that's just the type of overachieving, annoying, artsy-fartsy person I am. Yup. All of that. And then some.

August 26th just HAPPENS to be the date of my fundraiser/party/going-away wonderfulness that will be held at the Square Cafe in Regent Square. Of course, I don't know what TIME the whole thing is going to kick off (and by "kick off" I mean "start," not "die"), but that can be solved later.

"What can I do?" you ask? (I thought you'd never ask.)

You can write me a catchy sketch or two that might be performed that night. You can find ways to entertain and amuse all of our mutual friends on that evening. You can write a song to be accompanied by air guitar. You can create a puppet show that involves both lightbulbs and garden hoses. You can lip sync to "Freebird" while standing on your head.

Or... y'know... you could just show up and buy a beer or two.

It's going to be truly kick-ass. (And that's only because Gab Bonesso will be performing.

Oh. And that thing about the lightbulbs and garden hoses? Yeah. Um. It's already on the bill. So get to stitching, Sparky, and I'll bring the puppet theatre.

Word to your mother,
Meredith

Get Out From Behind That Hedge and Go to Grad School

2006-06-22T11:37:00.000-04:00

Matt. Smith.

Sorry about your loss in the preliminary race for Congress. Your signs were really awesome though. Maybe you should have put up more of them, and it might have been a smart move to stop hiding them behind hedges. Better luck next time.

I've got a half hour before I put on ye olde apron and start my work day here at the 'Bucks. And what better thing could I be doing except posting on my blog? Oh. Yes. I recall now. I could be typing up all my notes from my theatre gig and emailing them out to the correct individual. I'm supposed to have that done by tomorrow... and I'm going away tomorrow. So what do I do? I procrastinate. It's not a verb. It's a lifestyle.

Plus, it helps me get stuff done quicker. How's that for logic?

Twenty minutes and counting -- only twenty minutes before work now. Hard to believe that that last paragraph took me 10 minutes to complete, huh? Well, I can only attribute it to my complete lack of brain activity. I can form complete sentences and everything, which is great -- believe me -- but I can't seem to get the brain bone connected to the mouth bone or the finger-typey bone lately. It's a shame, what with me just headed in to grad school and all.

Grad school! (Fifteen minutes now.) I just recently signed off on my loans and am still on the prowl (like a tiger... or a housecat... or an opossum) for an apartment in the Boston area. With or without roommate(s), but still semi-affordable on a Starbucks 30-hour per week salary. Yes. It's going to work out. No. I have no idea how yet. Time will tell.

Speaking of time, I have less than 10 minutes to get myself all set up for work. (I'm not that inept. I got a phone call in there and had to stop typing. Stop looking at me that way.) And when I say "set up," I really mean "put my hat and apron on and stand somewhere behind the counter."

And when I say "hat and apron," I really mean "standoffish ice-queen attitude."

And when I say "ice-queen," I really mean "ice-queen."

So stay the hell away from me and my coffee urns. I have to wash the floors.

Bedknobs and broomsticks,
Meredith

Packing My Bags and Taking My Show on the Road.

2006-05-07T15:22:00.000-04:00

Greetings once again, old friend.

I suppose -- no, I KNOW -- it's been a while since I wrote anything down on this piece of cyberspace. Not that material's been lacking, but the mental overload of my life has kept me from caring.

I do not mean to say I don't care about YOU. I do. I care very deeply about you and a great many other things. Like macaroni and cheese. I care about that. And baseball. Not the object, but the idea of it as the great American pastime. And what's more, I care about having clean underwear... because what would happen if I got hit by a car? Actually, to be honest, I know very well what would happen to me if I got hit by a car, but I haven't parsed it out to the point of figuring out what would happen if I got hit by a car in dirty underwear. I guess one could speculate that I might dirty my underwear as the car hit me. Lose control of my bowels, so to speak. And then what would be the point of wearing them in the first place?

Maybe the better option would be to carry a pair of clean underwear around with me in my bag or purse or what-have-you. Then, should I get hit by the car -- any car -- I'd be prepared. Yes. Yes, that's what I'll do.

On to more pressing matters...

I have been accepted to Emerson and NYU, and although my heart will always be with NYU, I'm headed to Emerson in the fall. It's going to be weird, but maybe, as you say, all of our friends can move to Boston too, and we'll infiltrate. An invasion of Pittsburghers. In fact, let's just move all of Pittsburgh to Boston, and then I won't miss anything while I'm gone for the next few years.

So pack your things, Pittsburgh. We're moving to Boston.
Don't forget that extra pair of clean underwear.

Til the next time,
Meredith

P.S. Sunday is Mother's Day. Sunday is Mother's Day. Sunday is Mother's Day.

I Think There Must Be a Duck in Here.

2006-03-02T16:41:00.000-05:00

Well, Matt Smith. I'm back. (Were you worried?)

This past Sunday, a group of us went out to see a matinee and got some dinner. At Piper's Pub, I had a fight with a Kleenex and lost. While I was de-snotting, Melissa looked at me from across the table and said, "You've been sick for, like, a month."
I nodded, my mouth being occupied by tissue, snot, and disgust. "You work too much," she said.

Well, that's a keen observation. (Notice she said "too much," not "too hard." There's a fine line.) I do. I work too much. But really, I think we all work too much. And it's boring work we do. It's coffee and papers and writing and being someone you're not after you get done with work. It's 50-minute hours and 30-minute lunches and 10-minute breaks and sneaking cigarettes out on the stoop. And we're dull at work.

If you're lucky enough to be an interesting person both at work and at play, then bully for you. I'd like to be one of those people. Sometimes I'm even boring at home. Like -- oh, I don't know -- right now for example. I can't even keep myself interested in what I'm writing.

I'm not sure what my point is here. My nose has been bleeding recently and I think the loss of blood has affected my thinking. I'm also eating baked beans, and I think my system has gone into shock.

On the other hand, sometimes boring work pays off. I guess some of my groaning over the past few months got me somewhere -- I got accepted to Emerson. I'm playing the waiting game for BU and NYU. I'll probably have some real decisions to make in the next few months. I'm not thinking about them quite yet. I'm eating baked beans instead.

In conclusion, I didn't even know they'd made a "Lethal Weapon 4." Wow.

Itchy and scratchy,
Meredith

Same Old Song

2006-01-17T20:09:00.000-05:00

Break out the pinata, Matt Smith.

Two of my three grad school applications are complete. Complete. Meaning submitted online, with essay and resume. Complete. Transcripts and letters of recommendation. In. The. Mail. D-U-N. Done.
So, there really aren't enough words to illustrate my relief. Mainly because "relief" really does seem to get the job done on its own. And again, it's only two of the three. NYU still hasn't heard word one from me.

So all I'm saying is, there's still time for me to go with the tiki torch and interpretive dance option for my next essay.

Most normal people would just revamp the essay they've used for other schools and send it to the last school. But noooo. Not me. I have to write a completely new essay. I have to tailor this one just for the lovelies at New York University's Graduate School of Education. And I hope they're satisfied. After all, the only reason I'm doing this is that the essay's supposed to be 2- to 3-pages long, DOUBLE SPACED.

Double spaced?

I'm sorry. I never really got the double-spaced phenomenon. I suppose they want to make notes, and corrections, and write all over it in green ink. But puh-lease. It's a waste of paper.

Oh. Okay. So I'm a whiner. If writing this next essay is the worst of my troubles today, I should be counting my Bing Crosby blessings. The thing of it is, I can't get myself back on track to write the damn thing.

Ah well. Let's take a rain check on the pinata. The weather's really bad for it anyway.

Bop-shabop-shabop-doowop-a-doobie-doo,
Meredith

Stupid is as Stupid Takes the GRE

2006-01-04T11:27:00.000-05:00

Matt Smith,

I, like a lot of people, have been doing a bit of thinking as of late. The details of this thinking are sketchy at best, and they in no way lead to a coherent grad school essay, but they do lead me to do, like, nothing. For example, right now? I'm sitting on my couch, drinking tea and watching "City Slickers." I had planned to study for my GREs and clean my bedroom. My thinking has led me here. You just can't depend on anything anymore.

On the subject of GREs: No one should be subjected to such terror. Quite honestly, I believe they were created simply to make every grad school applicant feel inadequate to the task of life. No. That can't be right. The GREs don't test you on life. They test you on things very far removed from real life. For example, I can identify the right time to change the oil in my Subaru, but I have trouble distinguishing the relationship between the words "mollify" and "engender." I've lived in six different apartments in 5 years, and I've lived through the moving process just as many times, but I cannot live through practice tests with illuminated pictures of Einstein and sparkling brains. That, my friends, makes me feel stupid. I am not stupid. I'm not.

I can't write a grad school essay. I can't draft my statement of purpose. I can't seem to get out of bed in the morning at a decent hour. I can't bring myself to change out of these pajamas, and I can't decide what I want for lunch.

But there you have it. My test is tomorrow morning at 8:30.

Get ready. Get set. Get stupid.
-- Meredith

P.S. The best place to keep those receipts is attached to the sun visor above your driver's seat. Use a really, really big paper clip.

Another Post About Urine

2005-11-30T12:24:00.000-05:00

Matt Smith!

I confess. I have nothing to comment on this afternoon. Absolutely nothing. I usually sit down with at least a concept -- an idea, an inkling even -- of something, but today? Nothing.

You know that feeling when you really need to go to the bathroom, but for some reason you just can't go? Not that you're physically unable to pass urine, but say, someone's in the bathroom. Or what's often my problem, you're at work, and there's only one key for the restroom ("The key is on that metal scoop on top of the boxes against the wall"), and whenever you have the mind to go use the bathroom, some brainless customer has already taken the key. And the cycle continues.

But you know the feeling, I'd wager.

That's comparable to the feeling I have about writing these letters of intent/essays for my grad school applications. It's almost like having to pee really bad, but something's gotten in your way. I have all this stuff I'm just itching to get out of me -- I want to let these people know I have worth! Meaning! Drive! A way with small children and dogs! -- but I can't make it all work in sentence form. Maybe I can video tape myself doing some sort of interpretive dance. That's definitely a way to go. Or maybe a haiku. Short and to the point. And cross-cultural. Completely awesome, right?

Or maybe I could recite the haiku AND dance. And, of course, there would have to be tiki torches. Nothing says "let me into your graduate school for theatre education" like torches of fire.

(Parenthetically -- 'cause I'm in parentheses now -- you'll have to let me know if there's anything you need for your Evans City abode. There's a family moving in to the house across the street from my apartment, and it'd be really easy to swipe, say, a dish or a house plant or a refrigerator.)

Keep me posted.
-- Meredith

Oh, To Be a Fire Hydrant!

2005-11-08T21:02:00.000-05:00

Matt Smith,

First and foremost, I think I should apologize for calling you simply "Matt" on the phone the other day. I think I caught you off-guard. But the Steelers won. So, really, no harm done.

A few days ago, while driving home from the South Side, I passed a James Dean lookalike who appeared to be humping a fire hydrant. He seemed so happy. Granted, he might have been severely tripped out on some potentially deadly substance, but he was just rocking, and rocking, and rocking -- like he could just ride that fire hydrant on home to the Promised Land.

Recently, I've been struggling to figure out what exactly makes me happy. A co-worker of mine asked me that awhile back, and even though I gave him an answer, I'm still not sure I was completely honest. I said, "Helping other people -- especially children -- see things in a new way." Textbook answer, really. Almost as if I was preparing to write some personal statements for graduate school applications... BUT. I digress.

In my high school yearbook, way, way, WAY in the back, there's a long listing of what everyone wants to do after graduation. Mine says (and I'm doing this from memory, yet I remember it verbatim), "To pursue a career in theatre... To be happy." Well, one out of two ain't bad.

Not that I'm UNhappy. I'm not. I'm content. Really. I'm doing a lot of things that I love to do, and a few things that I don't entirely despise. I'm getting by. I surround myself with people that I love. And that HAS to be something. I can't help but be happy with those things.

But I'm missing something. I wish that I could do one thing, stay in one place, stop all this running around, working at things that don't bring me satisfaction. I think grad school might help with that. I'll be certified to teach -- certified to make a difference with more than one kid at a time. It's a small step, but I have to keep telling myself I'm getting somewhere. Slowly. Very slowly.

All in all, I'm happy. I'm just not moth-in-a-flame happy. I'm not James Dean humping a fire hydrant happy.

I'll have to keep working on that.

Don't let the bed bugs bite,
Meredith

What's in the Trunk of my Car and Other Smelly Things

2005-10-17T20:52:00.001-04:00

Grab a coat, Matt Smith.

Fall is officially here. I drove back and forth across the PA Turnpike last week, watching the fall colors appear. Whoa. That makes me sound ridiculous, doesn't it? I did it for a reason -- work. I didn't drive back and forth just willy-nilly, looking at colors. That could get pricey on the Turnpike. But, at any rate, it's time for scary stuff, pumpkining, cider, sweaters, scarves, and jumping in large piles of dry leaves. (Just the dry ones. They crunch better.)

It's also past due for me to schedule my GRE test, and start on my grad school applications. The more I say it, the more I think it's going to happen. Going to grad school. Getting certified to teach theatre and all that good stuff. But the trouble is, I never seem to find time to get to all of that important stuff. I can talk a mile a minute about it when people ask me what I'm doing back in town, but I have nothing to show for it but half a dozen grad school applications in PDF files on my computer and a pile of NYU information in the trunk of my car. Maybe I'll get to it after Marty and Emma get married.

Marty and Emma get married in less than two weeks.

Which is truly bizarre.

I'm mildly ready for that. As in, I've reserved a cabin, and purchased a dress. I have yet to pay off the cabin rental, or purchase shoes, jewelry, and the like for the dress, but I'm looking forward to the mini-vacation that will be the end of October. In a way, I'm almost thankful that they're getting married in two weeks. I could use a break.

I wish I had more interesting things to report, more comical things to comment on, more phrases to end with a preposition. But alas, alack, Alan Thicke -- I do not. I would like to add that I like that old Gorton's fish commercial where there's this gargantuan fish sitting on a playground swing, and the lady moves her child away from it. You know the one... with the tag, "Uncomfortable around fish?" I love that. I wish it played still. Maybe it does and I just haven't seen it in a while. I don't know. But, a plea to Gorton's: bring back the giant fish on the swing set. Bring it back. Now.

Hats, gloves, and Jumanji,
Meredith

Long, Dark Tea-Time of the Soul

2005-09-27T18:54:00.000-04:00

Mele Kalikimaka, Matt Smith.

It's officially fall. I can tell. I have that lingering feeling of dread, accompanied by a soft, chewy melancholic center. My emotions are very closely linked to the weather -- I told Dunegan it's a trade-off; I also get 43 separate channels even though the antenna's bent.

Fall also means that people are getting married. I think that's closely linked to the weather as well, really. There are more weddings at the tail end of summer and during the fall because our animal instincts kick in. Human beings know that the winter is coming, and they want to huddle together for warmth. It's like a long, long, familial hibernation.

At any rate, that's all to say that I've been to several weddings thus far this season, and I still have at least two more to go. One this Saturday, and then Emma and Marty's at the end of the next month. So, long and short and everywhere in between, there've been a lot of weddings.

Hmm. What else? What else? My play, "Big Matzah Balls," was selected in the Future Tenant "Future Ten Festival." So, I mean, that's cool. I wrote it as an assignment for a playwriting workshop at CLIMB, and it was purely experimental. I have a meeting about it tonight -- I'm not really sure how long it's supposed to take. The play's only 10 minutes long. How long could it take?

More from me later. Time to wash. (Jill Sobule tomorrow night! Yay!)

And all that jazz,

Meredith

Who Put the Bop in the Bop-She-Bop-She-Bop?

2005-09-07T16:09:00.000-04:00

Matt Smith! I'm a SAINT! Er, something.

You are Saint Francis of Assisi! You don't care
what you look like (or smell like) as long as
you can live simply and help the poor. You
should be receiving your stigmata any day now.

Which Saint Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

THIS, my constant reader, is HYSTERICAL.

When I was younger and was possessed of some french fried potato goodness or some such thing, my older brother would trick me into looking the other way by saying, "Look! It's Saint Francis of Assisi!" I lost a good many delicious french fried or sugary sweet items because of this particular saint. And now it turns out, I share some ridiculous personality traits.

Thanks, Anne. Whenever the stigmata arrive, I'll be sure to send a thank you card your way for pointing me towards this fun filled quiz at Quizilla.

Also, in related news (or completely unrelated, depending upon your point of view and how clean your underwear is), who sent my blog into the City Paper last week? If you're out there, I owe you a drink. Or some gummy worms.

Love, peace, and furry animals,
Meredith Kay

"... Like a Tea Tray in the Sky!"

2005-08-21T11:30:00.000-04:00

Matt Smith,

Bizarro world, huh? One day I stopped in and you were there, and the next day I stopped by and the bed was gone. It occurred to me that it wasn't your bed, so the fact that the bed moved could have catapulted your move, but I digress.

My bed is still in my bedroom, but it'd be hard to tell because of all the crap I apparently own. One of the things I think I should become fond of is getting rid of stuff. What am I going to do with it all? I wish I could be a person that could put everything she owns in her car and take it wherever it needs to go next. Hell, some days I just wish I could be a person. I don't know if I'm meant to get to that point. I like owning random things. Like the red feather boa that used to live in the trunk of my car, or the ugly red lamp that now lives in the bottom of my closet. I also own a plethora of teapots. Someday I'll be a grandmother, and my grandchildren will identify me as Teapot Grandma, and ask me questions about why I own so many teapots or "Is that a new teapot, Grandma?" and I'll say, "No, it's older than you," and give them a Twinkie. That is, of course, contigent upon whether or not there will be Twinkies in the future.

As it stands, I have no Twinkies, but I have developed some sort of soft-boiled plan for the next year. I'll be Jamaican and work my three jobs. (Side note: My three jobs remind me of the Pepto-Bismol commercial with the pseudo-rap about stomach disorders, only mine is "Starbucks, Bradford, PrimeStage Theatre" instead of stomach problems.) And sometime in October or November (November, November!) I'll try to score high on my GRE and apply to grad school for Educational Theatre in some east coast city like New York or Boston. And then I'll be rejected and I'll go back to working my Jamaican jobs. Or something like that.

So the plan isn't SOLID. Especially that last part about getting rejected. In the meantime, I'm working hard at staying put and seeing the people that I love succeed in their endeavors.

And getting people who love me and think I'm great to write me glowing letters of recommendation.

Happy Sunday.

-- Meredith

Egg-a-Mooby-Muffin-Plant

2005-07-19T12:13:00.000-04:00

Matt Smith,

I saw you this morning. I'm glad you washed your hair and that you're "clean" now. I washed my bellybutton, so I'm "clean" now too.

I feel so unproductive.
Summer's awfully conducive to that particular feeling, but this summer more than others, I think. I'm home -- I think that has a bit to do with it. Usually I'm packing up to go somewhere and move many of my worldly belongings to another part of the country. This summer I'm staying where I landed. Weird.
I'm working, which isn't altogether that odd, but I'm working at Starbucks, which is never something I wanted to do more than once. What's more, I'm good at it, which makes me wonder if I actually have a brain. Yes, I'm working at several things OTHER than Starbucks (Matt says I'm Jamaican), but nothing's really off the ground yet. Maybe next week when my sell-out, smarmy public speaking position starts and I have to parade around in business attire, I'll feel like I'm doing something. More than likely, I'll just feel like a doofus.

I ate eggplant last night. You've got to wonder (and if you don't wonder, well, then maybe you work at a coffee shop) where eggplant got its name. I suppose it is egg-shaped, in a way, but it's also PURPLE. Eggs, to my knowledge, are not and have never been PURPLE. Maybe somewhere along the line there was a breed of purple-egg-laying chickens, and they found this plant shortly thereafter. And is eggplant a squash? Does it grow above ground? I can't imagine it would be a root. It's too squishy to be a root -- nothing like a carrot or a potato. Although it does go well with both.

I give you the above paragraph as evidence of my lack of productivity, and my lack of brain activity.

Ahoy,
Meredith

Lumps, Bumps, and The Mark of Vanity

2005-06-20T19:25:00.000-04:00

Welcome to my Monday, Matt Smith.

Have you ever made a startling discovery about yourself, only to find out that you already knew? This is only slightly different than making a startling discovery about yourself, and finding out that everyone else around you already knew. I haven't had that experience yet -- although I must admit that I do say things aloud, like "I hate people" or "I have power issues," and people seem to know that. I guess I must give off that people-hating, power-hungry vibe.

I'm vain.

No, no. Don't argue. I am. I know it. I'm vain. And not in that "you probably think this song is about you" way. (That, of course, makes no sense. As Carrie Fisher said, "'But it IS about him -- so, does that mean he's less vain?")

I'm so vain, I WROTE the song about me.

For the past week, I've been nursing my damaged vanity as I watched a bump on my neck get larger and larger. I have no idea what it is ("It's cancer," I say to my co-workers. "I'm going to die"), but it's ugly. I know that I'm the only one who notices it all that much -- and maybe Matt, although it's not like the boy sits around and stares at my neck on a daily basis -- but it's there. And I know it's there. And it's getting bigger.

It's a cist. Or maybe a wart.

Whatever it is, I don't like it being there. I want it to leave. I want it to be frozen off or snipped or mailed to Abu Dabi or whatever they do to these sorts of things.

I could chalk it up (chalk it up? why not pen it up? and why can't it be down? you boil things down, but you chalk them up and it all means the same thing... stupid, stupid Americans) to being "in the theatre," but I don't think that's what it is. I think it's just that I know I'm nice to look at, and this lump is obstructing the view.

I suppose I'll just have to go on poking at it, making it redder and redder and redder, until Starbucks comes through with the health insurance.

Love and Indiana Jones,
Meredith

Happy Birthday, Little Miss Can-Crusher

2005-06-16T11:21:00.000-04:00

Dear Sivie,

Before I begin, I must issue a brief apology to you, Matt Smith, for not addressing this post to you. Not only did I rip the post right from under your nose, I gave the post to someone that you haven't even met. Although if you've been standing there, nose to the screen for all this time, I suggest you step away from the computer, and get some fresh air. Sometimes a girl and her blog need a change of pace.

In speaking of "pace," "space" rhymes with "pace," and I certainly have given this blog some space lately, huh? I apologize to you, Sivie, and you can stop singing now. Although, if you're hell-bent on continuing, might I recommend "I'm Henry the Eighth, I Am" as sung by Whoopi Goldberg in the movie, "Ghost." Neighbors be damned.

Now that I'm quite through with the pleasantries, down to the nitty-gritty. Actually, I have neither nitty nor gritty, but I'll make some up.

Working at Starbucks again is... um... well, it's no fun, Sivie. I'm not going to get in to all the Not Fun of it, but I'll just leave it at that. I can't stand working for a corporation, and furthermore, I can't stand working for a corporation that pulls the mats, then mops the floors, then puts the dirty mats back on the floors, and THEN mops the mats. It's a vicious, vicious, dirty-floor-cycle, and it's, as aforementioned, Not Fun.

Brilliant segue: Matt cooked a wonderfully decadent dinner last night. And we didn't mop anything. Not one thing was mopped in the making of our dinner. It was delicious.

I had an interview yesterday for a sales/entertainment/public speaking position for a technical school in the area. I had been warned that it would be a group interview; I just sort of figured it'd be a less -- um -- elderly group? Yes. They were all old. Not like, kocking on death's door old, but older than me. Weird, weird stuff.

Yet another brilliant segue: My birthday is rapidly approaching, and I've taken 3 days off to go somewhere fun. However, my brain is all burnt out on coffee and customers and painting an apartment to think of anything remotely fun to do or anywhere remotely fun to go. Any ideas? (My latest: Jumping in a puddle and crushing cans on my head.)

Damn the man,
Meredith

All I Smell is Soap. And Dirt. Dirt and Soap.

2005-05-26T22:25:00.000-04:00

Matt Smith and friends,

Let's all take a moment right now to lift a small paper sample cup of coffee to people who work in industries that do not fully utilize their talents nor their college degrees. Let's slurp very loudly in their general direction, signalling a true appreciation for every retail sale, meal served, or beverage made. Let's cup our hands and sniff, sniff, SNIFF -- let's believe that this really matters. Let's take a 10-minute break or a non-paid lunch that doesn't quite last long enough to digest food. Let's greet people without meaning it. Let's help people feel more appreciated but lose all dignity. Let's search and search and search for other job opportunities, but still get up in the morning while it's still dark.

Let's do all that.

And let's be thankful that we have a roof over our heads, food in our bellies, and cat litter in the litterbox.

(And by "us," I mean "me." And by "our," I mean "my." And by "thankful," I mean "slightly on edge.")

Chips and salsa,
Meredith

I Don't Like Working at Starbucks, I Don't Like Working at Starbucks, I Don't Like Working at Starbucks...

2005-05-16T18:16:00.000-04:00

Salutations, Matt Smith.

There's something very circular -- cyclical, cylindrical, anything round and repetitive really -- about the way my life is going at the moment.

I went into Starbucks today to get my old job back. And when I say "old" job, I mean "stupid, repetitive, doesn't pay me quite enough to be nice to people" job. It wasn't exactly difficult to get the job back, but it was difficult to smile while I stomached the fact that I had to be re-trained for a job that had been so engrained in my brain that I still know the reason why mild brewed coffee has a higher caffienation level than a dark roast.

I have no idea where I'm going to use this in real life. It's sort of like geometry that way.

The thing of it is, I started at Starbucks thinking that it would only be temporary. I'd work there until I found something meaningful and useful and important. I'd work there until I find something "for good." And I left in August for Minnesota, knowing that it wouldn't be permanent, but that maybe it'd be a jumping off point for something greater.

I can't help being optimistic, thinking that that something greater is still on its way.

But at the moment, I'm back where I started. In the same job I was in last year at this time. In the same neighborhood that I lived in 5 years ago.

And worse yet, my sunroof still leaks.

I wonder if life will ever be like "Billy Madison" -- so I could sweep through time and responsibility and obstacles in 100 big budget minutes and be a success at the end.

And there would be a giant penguin.
Yes. There must also be a giant penguin.

So, the answer for all those people who ask me questions like, "Are you here for good?" and "What are you planning on doing?" is:

"As good as it gets and I don't know... why? Do you have a suggestion?"

Love and good vibrations,
Meredith

Cop-out

2005-05-15T13:09:00.000-04:00

Matt Smith,

Before the cell phone explosion, people had answering machines. I remember. I owned one. Some people may actually still own answering machines, but no one will ever know about those people because they're ashamed to show their faces in public.

All this is true with one exception, and I've never known him to be ashamed of anything.

On an answering machine, it's important to leave your name and number. I know THIS because that's what the owners of the aforementioned machines would leave as a message for the message-leavers. "At the tone, please leave your name, number, and a brief message and we'll get back to you as soon as possible." (Don't believe me? It's true. Watch "Ferris Bueller's Day Off." Honest.)

This occurred because no one had a method of knowing who the voice on the machine actually was. In fact, even after the voice existed on the machine, it was often difficult to tell who was who. I remember a time in days past when my sister and I shared an answering machine, and I called home to let her know my plans for the evening. Later that night I arrived home to see that the machine's light was blinking. Blink. Blink. One big slow blink indicating that there was only one unheard message. Blink. I pressed the button. "Hi Melissa. I'm just calling to..." Wait. Why is Melissa calling herself? That's ludicrous. I mean, honestly. Why waste precious tape to record something that could just as easily become a written memo... Wait. Wait. That's me.

Today we have the benefit of Caller ID. Even if some idiot doesn't leave a name and number, your phone is smart enough to remember it for you, but only until its feeble little brain extends itself too far beyond the factory-set limitations.

Today you have free reign to call a cell phone and leave whatever silly message you want without having to leave your name OR number.

Say, for instance, you could call someone and just say, "I'm too cool to leave a message!" And as long as their phone was set to the "on" position, they'd know which person wanted to annoy them with that message.

All that to say, thanks for calling the other day.

I have been harassed recently from numerous individuals about my obvious lack of new posts on this blog. It is for these people alone (or maybe they're not alone... maybe they're with someone... or a cat) that I post now.
Herein lies the problem however: I am not in a posting mood. When I post, I've got to have something to say. I'm speechless at the moment, after my journey from Minnesota to Pennsylvania, after enduring the sights, smells, and sounds along the way.

I just want to take a nap.

So I thank Anne Brannen for providing the prompts to this lovely cop-out. I hope the Bloggerites (Bloggies? Bloggenoids?) are satisfied with this little glimpse into my head. (Watch your step. It's dark in there.)

You're stuck inside Fahrenheit 451. Which book do you want to be?
If I'm to be burnt, I'd probably have to be "Island of the Blue Dolphins." I encountered that book in the fourth or fifth grade. I reencountered it this spring at a school book fair, where three boys were running amuck playing what I like to call The Midget Game. They'd read every book title, substituting the word "midget" for one of the words in the title. This particular book became, not surprisingly, "Island of the Blue Midget." I rather think I would have liked it more had it been written about blue midgets.
If I'm to be memorized at the end, I'd like to be either "The Catcher in the Rye" (I could write a treatise on how it's just a really nice story) or "Alice in Wonderland." I suppose I'm not very original, but again, this is merely a cop-out post.

Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character?
Yes. Yes I have. A few years ago I developed a crush on the Weasley twins in the Harry Potter series. In my childhood, I had a love/hate relationship with Laurie in "Little Women." God. I mean, really. He's smarmy, marrying into the family like that.

The last book you bought is?
Sarah Vowell's "Take the Cannoli" for myself, and David Sedaris's "Me Talk Pretty One Day" for Matt.

What are you currently reading?
"Citizen Girl" by Nicola Kraus and Emma McLaughlin. Authors of "The Nanny Diaries." I am a book slut.

Five books you would take to a deserted island:
Hmmm. "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: The Complete Edition" (with the DON'T PANIC gift pin still attached), "Peter Pan," "Me Talk Pretty One Day," "Nine Stories," and "The Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing." Again, book slut. I feel bad about it, but what can a girl do? Someday I'll clean up my act and read classics and other mind-expanding things. Someday. Just not right now.

Who will you pass this on to (3 people) and why?
Oh hell. Book slut free-for-all. First come, first served. And there was much rejoicing.

Enjoying my new found freedom for one last, sugar sweetened day,
Meredith

"Wouldn't it Just Suck if I Fell Right Now?"

2005-04-23T13:44:00.000-04:00

Matt Smith,

Have you ever watched a child try to tie their shoe? Did you ever ponder the preciousness of that ability, and think how fleeting childhood is as you watched the Herculean effort it took for that child to perform an act that -- to you -- seems to be just another of the day's activities? Knowing that to you it's something you barely give a thought to, but to that child, it's an Olympic event? Did you watch their face scrunched up with all the determination of a... a... well, a very determined thing? And did you wish for a moment that, just as they've given that determination and that effort, you could find something that you could give your all to as well?

Nope. Me neither.
Really, I just wanted the kid to hurry up.

Today is another shining week in the travels of Kate and Meredith. We're here now in Bemidji, MN (say that three times fast, why don't you?), teaching Stranger and Body Safety to every second grade class in the city. Since it's only taking up a week, it's safe to assume that Bemidji isn't exactly a bustling metropolis. It is, however, able to "nyah nyah-nyah, nyah-nyah nyah" in the faces of some other towns that I've been in. Which is to say that it has a university and more than enough grocery stores and eating establishments than two 20-something girls could ask for. Unless we asked for more than, say, 30. Then we'd be plum out of luck.
(How did the plum get to be the unlucky fruit? As fruits go, I really don't think it's that unfortunate. Now a pomegranate. That's unlucky. Who wants a name like pomegranate? Who even BUYS pomegranates? Sometimes I confuse them with pomeranians, but I know I've never actually bought a pomegranate. Now THERE'S an unlucky fruit.)

A bit on the topic of Stranger/Body Safety -- although, really, by this time, I could tell you more than a bit. I could tell you a lot. In fact, I could teach you a 35-40 minute class on the topic, but I'll spare you the time. You might want to use that time later to tie your shoe.

Ever played the Penis Game? Being a Masquer, I assume that you probably have, but I'll explain it here in detail (which really doesn't take us all that far, it being a rather simple game), just on the offchance that I get old and forgetful someday and can't remember all the torrid tales of my youth. Simply put, it's a headset game. The Masquers on headset in the booth and the ASMs on headset near the stage try to say penis as quietly as possible, getting progressively louder. There's really no point to it -- as there is no point to a great many things in this American life -- but the word "penis" sure does warrant one snorkel of giggles from all of Masquerdom.

The same applies to second graders. During Body Safety, it was my job to address the male "private parts." Now I'm sure I said it loud enough for all parties involved, but I also said it at a high rate of speed while looking at the floor. I am now certain that if, God forbid, I was ever to have a child, I would be able to explain Good Touch/Bad Touch to them, but it would happen all in one breath....

"Theboy'sprivatepartslookdifferentandhaveadifferentnameHisprivatepartis
calledthepenisandit'sdownhereandhisswimsuitcoversitaswell."

Needless to say, I spent most of the beginning of that particular class looking at the ground. I could very easily tell you the colors and texture of every second grade classroom's carpet in Bemidji.

Stranger Danger is an entirely "other" subject, as most children already have some very strong opinions on what a stranger is, and how they should avoid them. More than once, in answer to the question "What is a stranger?" we got the answer, "Some guy who tries to take you," or "A guy with guns who tries to hurt you." (What are these parents teaching their kids? Are they just watching too much "Law & Order: SVU?")

The Child of the Week (or the COW) has to be the girl who, during our stranger safety class, asked, "What if, what if, um, what if you're not really home alone 'cause your parents are upstairs sleeping, and a stranger comes to the door, and your parents are sleeping really hard, they're having a really good time sleeping, what should you do?"

I, of course, had to spend some quality time looking at my old friend, the carpet, again. Kate swallowed and answered. "You should probably go home and ask your parents what they want you to do in that situation."

God love her. I always wondered how parents explained sex to their children. Now I know. "A really good time sleeping." Perhaps that's where the phrase "sleeping with someone" comes from. I might change it to "a really good time sleeping with someone," or maybe "sleeping really hard with someone." That's just perfect.

On Friday, Kate and I bought "School's a nice place, but I wouldn't want to live there" bumper stickers, which I thought was appropriate for our last week out of town in our final weeks at CLIMB. I would have bought the "I lived in Minnesota and all I got was this lousy bumper sticker" bumper sticker, but, of course, those don't actually exist.

Oh. And Kate fell into the Mississippi River.

Love, peace, and granola bars,
Meredith

Normal is Me. Abnormal is Everybody Else.

2005-04-16T23:39:00.000-04:00

I think better in the shower.
No, really. It's true. If I could, I'd probably be in there right now, hacking away at these keys, every now and then stopping to wipe the screen. Or better yet, I'd hook up some sort of intricate monitor wiper system. Or maybe I'd just bring the computer in there and use an umbrella.

Nah.
Umbrellas are for punks.

I know. You're thinking, "Meredith, this is the second post you've written today! What gives?" (Yup. Those were the exact words you used just now in your head. No matter that the phrase "what gives" is something that's been tossed out with the syndicated episodes of "Night Court." You used it, and you know who you are.) So, the answer, of course, is I do. I give. I give and give and give and am now writing a completely unprecedented second post to the blog for today, April 16.

Some days you just feel IT. I'm not sure what IT is, but IT'S there. Matt would call it "The Great Unspoken." (I'm always tempted to ask him what The Great Unspoken says, but I know better. IT'S The Great Unspoken. IT doesn't speak. IT'S unspoken.) My mother would call IT "a bad day." I beg to differ. (Please! Please? Let me differ!? Aw c'mon! I wanna differ!) IT can't be a bad day. Bad days don't pull you out of yourself just to watch yourself -- analyze yourself -- while you do something that you're already doing.

Confused yet?

Yeah. Me too.

The thing is, it's not a bad day. IT'S not The Great Unspoken, otherwise I wouldn't be writing about it. Whatever it is, though, it makes me want to go crazy. Tempt fate. Step on some cracks. Spill some salt. Go swimming less than 30 minutes after eating.

Once I remember Matt doing some crazy dance outside of a Blockbuster. I never knew why he did it. He was just returning a video tape. And all of a sudden, I looked up and he was dancing. Maybe he was just doing it for my benefit. Maybe he had an itch some place where it would have been impolite to scratch. Maybe he was merely amusing himself. But he danced. He did this nutsy, limbs flailing, eyes gawking, knees bending, Gumby-type of dance. Looking sort of like a monkey.

Yeah.

IT'S kind of like that.

Crazy for feeling so lonely,
Meredith

I Am Suck.

2005-04-16T15:16:00.000-04:00

If there's one thing I hate about rainy days, Matt Smith, it's that my sunroof leaks.
If there's two things I hate about rainy days, it's that my sunroof leaks and it's cold.
If there's three things I hate about rainy days, it'd be that sunroof thing, the cold weather, and my mood.

No, I take that back. I can handle my mood. I just don't have faith in other people's ability to handle my mood. Therefore, I try to avoid human contact.

And there's nothing wrong with that.

I mean, think of all the people I've tried to save. The McDonald's employee that forgot to put cheese on my burger. The Jiffy Lube guys who didn't want to walk out in the rain. The girl running the check-out at the grocery store. Other people that suck.

Yeah. It's that kind of day.

Looking like a drowned rat,
Meredith

Put On a Hat

2005-04-08T22:44:00.000-04:00

Chicago makes my feet cold, Matt Smith.

Sometimes I wish the Midwest would just sit up straight and figure out what season it was going to have on any given day. It sure can fool you. You can never tell what the temperature actually is just by looking out the window... which, in case you were wondering, actually IS a time-proven way of weather forecasting. It could be sunny, but it sure as hell isn't going to get any warmer. Not unless someone grabs it by its shirt collar or pulls it up by its ear and tells it to shape up. The Midwest really just needs a grandmother. Or a really annoying aunt.

But there I go again, turning this blog into a weather almanac instead of what it's truly supposed to be -- a blog about nothing in particular. And I really have nothing in particular to write about tonight. That's what makes it so damned perfect.

I'm in Chicago now, visiting my friend, Britt, for the weekend I have to spare between trips to the Milwaukee area. I got here and promptly met her boyfriend, Alex, and took over her fridge. Well, more rightly, Kate took over her fridge -- because Kate is the goddess of all foodstuffs. Give her a hotpot and a package of curry powder and she'll work miracles. I've never seen such ingenuity in a hotel room before. Well, never such ingenuity that directly involved food.

I'm not exactly sure what I'm planning on doing in Chicago this weekend, really. Alex asked me at one point this evening if I wanted to do something special while I was here, and for the life of me (has anyone ever said "for the death of me?" would that just be asking for it?), I couldn't think of one thing that I'd especially like to do. I think the point of coming here this weekend was merely to get away from the hotel, save myself from a 5-hour drive back to the Twin Cities (only to have to turn around and come back again on Sunday), get out of rehearsing, and visit with Britt. So far, so good. Except for the Britt part. She's out at a meeting for the union's union. Confusing, I know. Apparently the "union's union" can be explained best in ketchup art. This I'll HAVE to see.

I really wish I had enough brain power to be witty and wonderful this evening. I've had a number of people -- adults and children -- tell me that I'm funny over the course of the past week. Apparently, that's the quality that stands out around here. At CLIMB, while I'm teaching, while I'm hanging out with CLIMB-related folk, I'm the funny one. Thank God I'm not fat. Then I'd just be a stereotype.

And I'd be fat.

I don't know. I don't think I like my only noticeable character trait to be that I'm funny. I feel like Joe Pesci ("Pesci. I could or could not eat fish.") in "Goodfellas." I'm funny. What? Like funny like a clown? Sometimes I just want to start shooting at people's feet, shouting, "Dance! Dance!" And then they'd hop all over the place, dancing around. Not because I'd be shooting -- because I don't own a gun -- but because they'd just happen to be an expert in Greek dancing or something. Suddenly plates would start crashing to the floor, everyone would be shouting "Oopah!" and I'd sneak out the back door while the party started heading for the prime rib.

Now THAT would be funny.

Love,
Meredith the Funny

Who Does That?

2005-04-02T19:59:00.000-05:00

Matt Smith,

Remember that stint at Duquesne when all the Masquers were saying "Who does that?"

Someone tripped going up the stairs. "Who does that?"
Someone yelled at someone else. "Who does that?"
Someone skipped a class. "Who does that?
Someone messed up their lines at rehearsal. "Who does that?"
Someone got annoyed when someone else said "Who does that?" "Who does that?

Today was a very large "Who does that?" day.

I had an accident with my garage.
Go ahead. Say it. You know you want to.

Who does that?

The answer, of course, is that I do. I do that. The powers that be knew that I had been having way too, too long a streak where very little had gone wrong for me. On the contrary, things had been looking up. I have a month left in my contract with CLIMB. I don't have to buy out my lease; another CLIMBer is planning on taking over our lease. I did my taxes. I'm on time, in line, doing well, and aside from the increase in gas prices, life is good.

And then I crashed into my garage.

The thing that gets me is, usually I think "Don't turn the wheel too soon, or you'll crash into the garage." Today I didn't do that. Today I just backed up. And turned the wheel. To shamelessly quote Bernadette Peters, "Bang! Crash! The lightning flashed."

So now, the car has a dent in it with some lovely white paint scratches, and the garage is seriously gacked up.

But I'm eating carrot cake.
That's got to count for something right. Carrot cake equals good day? Isn't that written down somewhere?

Having a "smashingly" good evening,
Meredith

** Happy birthday, Matt Dunegan. Have lots of people buy you drinks.**

"Cran-ber-ry SAUCE."

2005-03-28T14:00:00.000-05:00

Matt Smith,

I can only assume that you're home from gallavanting all over the West Coast -- although I think you were only vanting your galla in Seattle. I vanted in Pittsburgh for Jesus's half-birthday (that's what Easter IS, right?) and my galla is TIRED, let me tell you. I'm in the Pittsburgh airport, "surfing the 'net" as the kids are saying these days, drinking my cranberry juice, and waiting for my flight to be called. I usually like the Pittsburgh airport. I like seeing planes take off. I'd just rather not be on them. Really, when you get right down to it (where did that phrase COME from? was it for someone really TALL? or on a ladder? why is "it" always down?), if I had the time, I'd rather walk. I hear that Indiana's really a wonderful place to take a stroll this time of year.

It was a completely unwasted trip to Pittsburgh. I saw my family -- they're nice to look at. We even ate together. Twice. I saw my friends -- also nice to look at. I talked to them, too. They're still funny. They still drink, which is great. I lost two card games. I saw my boyfriend. He was the first and last person I spent time with -- like bookends. (Side note: Matt and I both got bookends from our mothers for Christmas this year. I guess we're just bookend types of people.) He bought me the cranberry juice that I'm currently enjoying and the trail mix which I plan to eat on the plane (not on a trail).

I also had an interview/meeting with PrimeStage Children's Theatre for an educational childreny theatrey type of job, as-of-yet untitled, but already part-time. They're looking forward to working with me; I'm looking forward to sending them more information about me so they can go out and get a grant to pay me to do all the wonderful, magical things I know how to do.

I left a note at Starbucks for my old boss, asking if she had any room to take me back on staff when I get settled back in Pittsburgh again. The answer, of course, is yes -- she called today to let me know that she'd love to have me come back part-time.

The theatre thing is wonderful. I'm excited to work magic in the children's theatre realm.
The Starbucks thing is just another way to pay the rent. Sort of disappointing, but it will inevitably create most of the fodder for this blog in the warmer days to come.

My friend, Sivie, asked me to tell her about what I'm currently doing/thinking/wearing. I don't think the wearing thing was part of it, but I'm going to throw that into the mix just for kicks -- yet another odd turn of phrase, because frankly, is kicking all that fun? I guess it depends on who you're kicking. So, there you have it, Sivie. I'm in the Pittsburgh airport. I had a nice weekend. I'm coming back to Minnesota, only to tour for 4 more weeks with CLIMB. Yes. Tour. I'm literally going to be out of town for the next four weeks. (Sometimes I wonder why they have an employee manual at all. What good are rules about those sorts of things if you're not going to use them?) I'm looking forward to the end of April when I can stay in one place and pack stuff, enjoying the idea of being in the apartment that I pay for every month just so my stuff can live there.

I'm wearing jeans, a yellow button-down shirt over a pink tank top, checker-print socks that say "TAXI" on them, a red coat from Old Navy, and red tennis shoes.

And my hair looks kick-ass.

Love,
Meredith

LeRoytes

2005-03-08T20:26:00.000-05:00

LeRoy,

Usually on this blog, I write to my friend, Matt Smith. But since so recently you wrote to me of the color of our friendship, I feel you deserve a bit more than a reply that's been run through spell check.

Oh, okay. Let's be honest. I don't use spell check, and neither do you. (That's "neither," just as the Mother in A Raisin in the Sun would say.)

There's a lot to be said about long-term friendships, LeRoy. I used to think that they were just for men -- like the hair color that comes in a box? -- but I'd also like to think that our friendship is able to do more than just cover unwanted greys. Even now.

More and more, though, I think I'm a bad friend. Or at least a friend with a poor attendance record. I'm a no-show in a lot of ways. Maybe that makes me a bad person. Maybe that makes me stupid and/or wrong. Maybe that makes me totally suck as a human being, but I still love my friends. They contribute so much to who I am. And even if who I am isn't all that good... even if who I am is a completely shut-off, jaded, sour girl -- that's got to count for something.

And I credit you with a great deal of that. Thanks. Or something.

I thank you for yelling at me when I become the Wicked Witch of Hell -- or at least making me laugh. I thank you for always showing me the reality of who I am at any given moment. I thank you for being more like yourself than any other person in the entire world. Ever. I thank you for remembering everything I ever did while in your presence. I thank you for never letting me go completely. I thank you for calling me names -- like whore, and bitch, and slut -- even though I'm not any of those things... most of the time. I thank you for being someone that will always mean "comfort" and "home" to me, even when those are the last things I really want. I thank you for not ending the friendship after that trip to New York City, even after I snapped at you for taking 60 million pairs of shoes. (I instantly forgave you for that when I refused to help you carry the bags back to the bus through the Greyhound station.) I thank you for getting in trouble and staying out of trouble with me throughout our adolescence -- depending on the circumstances. I thank you for never letting my head get too big. (I admit to an ego, but it's significantly deflated when you're around. You keep me in check.) I thank you for letting me be me.

And because of all that I'm thankful for, I feel that I should apologize for breaking that desk that one time in high school.

Love,
Ophelia

A Frog in a Sombrero Does Not a Party Make

2005-03-01T20:08:00.000-05:00

Dear Matt Smith,

I wish I had some pithy, succinct things to write regarding the past week. As it stands, I'm in Oshkosh, Wisconsin -- home of overalls, coveralls, and anything else that ends in -alls -- teaching children about self-control.

Self-control is truly one of my least favorite lessons to teach, especially to children of the "small" persuasion. I feel like I'm stifling them. No, no. Scratch that. I feel like SOMEONE is stifling them. When they give me answers like "don't interrupt adults when they're speaking" or "do what your parents tell you to do" to the question "How can you use your self-control?" I just want to hug them... or yell at them... or teach them an improv class. I don't know. Kids are supposed to be kids.

Don't get me wrong. I don't mind that they tell me that interrupting is a lack of self-control. It's the "adult" tag that gets me. You're not really supposed to interrupt anyone (unless you're having an emergency and your arm is falling off or something) in life.

Adults have this skewed view of their importance.

I mean, seriously. Get over yourselves. You're just taller than them. (Who do you think you're fooling?)

Okay. So I lied. I DO have pith.

In other pith-related news, this month's been the "what-do-you-want-to-do-when-you-grow-up" month for me. I just got word that my contract has been extended to May 3. Which really means that I'll be in Minnesota til after May 7, what with all the end-of-year celebrations (can you say "CLIMB PROM?!") and packing craziness. Maybe I can solicit some help with those things and I'll be home ON May 7. Anyway, hopefully, I'll figure a way to get my foot in the door of educational theatre administration and I won't have to kill myself paying for rent... which seems to be the answer to the above question these days. ("What do you want to do when you leave here, Meredith?" "Figure out a way to pay my rent." Sigh.)

Fun side note: I'm in this coffee shop now, right? And there are these two girls doing... something. And they're sitting around doing their something and they're complaining about the cold. Um. It's the Midwest? It's SUPPOSED to be cold? Uh, and you're wearing t-shirts. Temperature is not a state of mind, people. It's a reality. Wake up and smell the wind chill. Put some clothes on.

But what I'd really like to do with the rest of my life is to inspire children to be themselves. So much of childhood gets stepped upon by the public education system; children are literally afraid to be who they are. Children learn how to express themselves by being exposed to theatre. Theatre helps them put their thoughts into words. They become better, more ardent communicators. They're not afraid to just BE. I constantly think that if I'd had a theatre class everyday -- or even once a week! -- when I was younger, I wouldn't be as bottled up as I am today.

So there's my long-range goal. To get theatre into every child's education. It's a big, hairy, audacious goal (as CLIMB would say), but it's a goal all the same.

Here's where I count my blessings that I'm only 22.

Love,
Meredith

When in Duluth, Go to the Boat Show

2005-02-19T20:34:00.000-05:00

Matt Smith,

No matter how bad things get, they can always get worse.
Unless you die. Then things have pretty much hit bottom.

Bad things that happened to me yesterday include, but were not limited to: being in Duluth, teaching a group of completely unresponsive eighth graders about higher education ("any form of schooling that happens after high school"), not eating breakfast, not having ANY tea (AT ALL), my car not starting in the morning -- probably due to the negative-cold lake effect windchill that came directly from Lake Superior and onto my car, my phone calls to AAA which took me on a whirlwind tour of various forms of hold music, transfers from one state to another ("Where are you calling from again?" and "Is that Duluth, MINNESOTA?"), and a recorded man that asked me repeatedly if I knew about the car insurance AAA has to offer and "Did you know that you can now request emergency road side service ONLINE?" (No, Recorded Man. I didn't know. But could you help me, say, RIGHT NOW?), then the heartache that was having to call AAA yet AGAIN to cancel the service because my car started after work.

So, all sum total, yesterday wasn't what I would call a GOOD day. But I kept comparing it to Sivie's day. No. Really. Check it out. It's a really good read, and it'll make you feel better about your life.

Unless, of course, you too have been wrongfully arrested in North Dakota.

I really can't complain, though. Spending a week in Duluth is funny enough to cover all losses. First off, I was working with Tony (if there were two of him, he'd be called "Twony") and that was funny. Secondly, we were in Duluth. Thirdly, our co-workers were staying in a room with a clock/radio that wanted to take over the world. Add that to a hotel employee who constantly asked everyone if they were going to the boat show and you've got something pretty funny.

But, I can't say I'm looking forward to going back to Duluth. With or without the boat show.

"No, no... we won't go,"
Meredith

In Which We Learn that Sitcoms Don't Have to be Good to be Entertaining

2005-02-10T21:06:00.000-05:00

Let's be honest.
Everyone had a minor television obsession when they were younger.
(Alright, so I still pretty much have one that's hung on since I was 10. But "Law & Order" doesn't count. I'm talking family-oriented sitcom here.)
I'm only slightly embarrassed to say that mine was TGIF.

I LIVED for TGIF.

At the very beginning -- the first years of "Perfect Strangers" and "Full House." During its adolescent years, in which we experienced that odd modern Brady Bunch thing, "Step By Step"," and learned to love Steve Urkel. Even when it was failing, it was funny. (Case in point: "Alien in the Family." Does anyone REMEMBER that show? I swear it existed.)

So, needless to say, I love this site. It brings joy to my life. And it allows me to entertain others with the plethora of useless knowledge that I have collected in my head over the past 22 years.

I guess TGIF shows my youth.

But you see... I don't care.
I'm just going to go back to watching the "Full House" marathon on Nick at Nite now. Right now, it's the one about the television marathon. There's something very "not-to-be-missed" about watching a television marathon that includes a show about a television marathon.

Or perhaps it's one of the signs that the world is coming to an end.

Jump Up and Down Really Fast

2005-02-08T20:09:00.000-05:00

Matt Smith,

There's something to be said about people who work with students in the sixth grade.
I'm still trying to figure out what exactly that is.

I'm working with sixth graders this week. All this week. As in, Monday through Friday. Maybe sixth grade is that precious age where nothing works just right. I've been trying to think back to when I was in the sixth grade.
All I can really remember was that I had bangs.

We're supposed to be getting these kids to "perform" a "theatrical presentation" for the "other classes" in which the students will communicate their views and ideas on bullying prevention. My team lead and I have taken to calling this end-of-the-week sharing session as a Theatrical Cookie. (The idea being, of course, that one can SHARE a cookie.)

Needless to say, bangs or no bangs, I'm having a hard time connecting with these particular kids. Leads me to wonder if -- at some point during the eleventh year of a child's life -- their brains sink to the soles of their feet... and then spends the next 10 years working its way back up. And also, is there some sort of calesthenic exercise that can assist in the process?

Hell.

I don't know.
I'm just the moon.

Luminescently yours,
Meredith

Whoops. I'm Weirder than I Thought.

2005-02-08T11:03:00.000-05:00

Somehow, while taking the "State Quiz" (I know, I know... it's really the last quiz, folks... honest), I ended up as the MOON.
Does this worry anyone else?

You're The Moon!

You frequently take small steps, but you think very highly of each and
every one of them. This aloof attitude doesn't begin to reflect how high and mighty you
actually are, though you are able to reflect light onto others when it seems appropriate.
Whether the glass is half full, half empty, waxing pedantic, or even crescent-shaped is
something ever-changing in your perspective. These mood swings at least follow a
consistent cycle, one that makes others believe you have mystical powers. Ultimately,
your head is always in the clouds and you just can't seem to stay grounded.

Take the State Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

Shocking news, folks...

2005-02-05T18:18:00.000-05:00

I AM a mess, Country Quiz. How'd you know?

You're Lebanon!

Your room's a mess. Your house is a mess. Heck, your life
is a mess. It all used to be really beautiful, and someone even compared you to Paris
once, but that's all been replaced with heartache and struggle. You're small, have been
influenced by outsiders for too long, and don't know what to think about religion. At
least you smell rather pleasant!
Take
the Country Quiz at the Blue Pyramid.

Me, Me, Me, Me, Me.

2005-02-05T00:32:00.000-05:00

Matt Smith,

Have you ever googled yourself? (I think that's the first time I've ever used "google" as a verb. Should it be capitalized? Is it a "proper verb?" I don't know. There should be rules about these things.)

Well, if you haven't googled yourself -- stop giggling -- you really should give it a shot. Regardless of whether you believe yourself to have the most boring name on the planet, it's amusing to see what comes up.

My friend, Sivie, recently googled herself. (Don't panic; I wasn't there when she did it. That would just be SICK.) Mind you, when every so often I have to ask Sivie again what her name actually MEANS, she breaks out into a rousing chorus of "Do: A deer, a female deer."

Which, when one writes "do" as such (a syllable in solfege), comes off looking just as sick and twisted as "google."

At any rate (2 1/2 percent!), Sivie's a unique-ish name, and she found some unique-ish results. You'll have to visit her Sivilicious blog to read them.

To make a long story a bit longer, Sivie also discovered she was not only Sivie, but THE Sivie. THE Sivie. How awesome is that? (If you don't know, I'll tell you. It's pretty awesome.)

So I did some "googling" of my own. I'll tell you right off the bat (where did that cliche even COME from? Who thought "off the bat" was a good way to describe starting points? It reminds me of "off your rocker." Which is also a good way to describe starting points. But then, that only works if you're crazy.) that if you go poking your nose around the World Wide Web for "Meredith Kay" or "Botticellophelia," you'll inevitably only come up with my blog. Which would be redundant, I think, because you've already seen my blog. This IS my blog.

HOWEVER, if you go searching merely for "Meredith," you'll get a bushel full of other interesting tidbits. For example:

Meredith College - the largest private women's college in the Southeast

Meredith Corporation - a very large media corporation (so heads up other Meredith fans, "www.meredith.com" is already taken)

Radio Free Meredith - A site I like more for the catchy name than the actual content. It's like, "Meredith doesn't like radio. She just won't stand for it. She's radio-free." Like trans fatty acids.

Chez Merde - Twofold funny. One: my sister -- and this is a longer, more drawn-out and intricate story if you were to be talking to me in person, but on a blog, it's short, I guess -- used to (and, okay, still does) call me "Merde." That's French for "shit." Funny #2: the site name actually translates to www.house-of-shit.org. Holy funny, Batman.

But my FAVORITE has to be this site:

The Meredith Music Festival, which is subtitled "The 14th Meredith." It's really worth a gander (which means "look," but also somehow means "male goose;" who comes up with these?). Reading you'll find clever turns of phrase such as:

"Every little last ticket for The Fourteenth Meredith is now sold."
"Remember how you were sitting around at Meredith last year and you all wished you had brought that one pesky thing?"
"...the idea of an 'Indoor Meredith' was floated and then sunk..."
"Meredith of course couldn't possibly have just a beer tent, no, no, no."
"Meredith started in 1991 when 250 friends had a party in the bush, and it grew from there."
"Yes, The Meredith Gift involves full nudity."

And my personal favorite:

"YES, JK IS RUNNING NUDE FROM LANGWARRIN TO MEREDITH."

....Um. Okay....?

Love,
Meredith

Wheeee-hooo! Wheeeee-heeee-heeee-hooooo!

2005-02-01T19:32:00.000-05:00

You're One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest!

by Ken Kesey

You're crazy. This has led people to attempt to confine you to a safe
place so that you don't pose a danger to yourself or others. You feel like you pose a
great danger to the man (or maybe the woman) or whatever else is keeping you down. But
most of the time, you just end up being observed. Were you crazy before you were
confined?

Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

Okay.
While I'm fairly sure that this particular test delivers random results, I can't say I'm surprised. I found this "test" while browsing one of my "reader's" blogs... He (or she... I suppose she could be a she) ended up being "The Poisonwood Bible." I was hoping for a classic -- and I guess, one should be careful what one wishes for.
I mean, I AM crazy. Everyone knows it.
But it's part of my charm.

Love,
MereCRAZYdith

One is the Loneliest Number

2005-01-29T21:47:00.000-05:00

Hey there, Matt Smith.

Today I spent a glorious day with one of my most favorite people. She is intelligent, she is witty, she is clever, and she is amazing.
Today I spent a day alone.

Sheesh! Did I ever need it! Sometimes things can pile up and pile up, and soon you're just another hack of a person, talking in circles, spending too much time with Detectives Green and that other guy, and confusing "its" and "it's."

Luckily, I'm out of that funk now. No longer are the signs in front of Protestant churches mocking me with their messages -- "Jesus cares for you" or "God listens to you." And I'm not weeping at the mere hint of a country song.

I'm glad you've been cast in "Midsummer..." I guess my recent "antsy-ness" is due to a lack of stage performance. There's only so much that a girl can take, really. This week, I got invited to "come play at my house" by a little girl named Maddy. I can honestly say that never happened to me when I did Shakespeare. No one wants Portia to play with their dolls.

Good luck with the show, then. Just say your lines really fast. I'm sure John'll love it.

As always,
Meredith

Someone Should Really Help Sioux Get Up

2005-01-26T21:20:00.000-05:00

Greetings from Sioux Falls, Matt Smith.

Ever have a day where you wake up, roll out of bed, and suddenly everything gets on your nerves? Even the smallest of things: dropping a glob of toothpaste in the sink, not being able to find something (car keys, a hairband, the remote), the sound of the fan in the bathroom, a malfunctioning cell phone. A day where even starting the car is a chore. (Okay. So starting MY car is a chore everyday. But everyone can't be that pitiful.)

TODAY is that day.
It's 9 o'clock in the evening now.

And, believe me... the hits just keep on coming.

I have no idea what causes these stupid annoyances during any given day. A bad night's sleep? Dinner the night before? A chemical imbalance?

All I know is, this morning when I went to get breakfast in the hotel lobby, I got mad at my tea bag.
A stupid, paper-tagged, Lipton tea bag.

And now... "Law & Order" isn't on. Katie-frickin'-Couric's doing some documentary on teens and sex. Hell. Is this really worth taking the highlight of my evening away from me? Is it? Tell me, Katie, because I need to know. This can't possibly be new information that you're spotlighting this evening -- teens and sex? Yes? They have sex. Ooooo! Such TABOOS you're covering! Such INSIDE information! After all, who wouldn't want to tell Katie Couric about their sex life?

But Sioux Falls is nice. If you're into that sort of thing. You know, Sioux. Falls. (Side note: The newscasts here keep calling the region "the Sioux Empire." Isn't that great? "The Sioux Empire." Makes me want to go buy an ottoman.) I haven't actually gotten in to see the falls of Sioux, but they do exist. I wonder if they're wearing a robe and crown or something.

Cheers,
Meredith

Friends Don't Let Friends Drive Over an Embankment

2005-01-22T23:01:00.001-05:00

Matt Smith,

The fog is clearing.
By "fog," I mean the mild dizzy feeling that my cabernet sauvignon has created and also the "BLIZZARD of 2005!" (that's what the news is calling it, after all) and by "clearing," I mean that it's stopped snowing, and I'm all out of wine.
I drove back from North Dakota last night with my tour partner, Brandon; it took us about 8 1/2 hours, travelling at about 40 MPH. Every 10 miles or so (okay... I'm exaggerating), we'd see a little compact car (is there such a thing as a big compact car? and why do people tell you to put your arms up when you're choking?) that flew over the side of the highway.
"That's not going to happen to us," I'd say.
"Of course not," Brandon would reply. "Don't look at that."
A pause.
"Is that someone I should be helping?" he'd say.
"No. Look," I'd say. "They're on a phone."

Okay, so they weren't ALWAYS on a phone. But really, who doesn't have a cell phone nowadays?
(Ahem, ahem... side note: cell phones are useful, cell phones are great, if you don't have one, you can't call when you're late! Cell phones are nifty, cell phones are swell, you'll be able to call someone if you're stuck in a well!)

And.... end scene.

So, yes. To sum up this entry:

1) Slow down. The roads are icy.
2) You'll start to sweat after shoveling 2 feet of snow from in front of a garage.
3) Drink wine. It makes the night go faster. (And you'll be warmer. Hell. This should just be a blog for wine, huh?)
4) The benefits of cell phones are many. Besides... you'll always be able to see who's calling... And then you'll be able to not talk to people. It's great.

Stormy weather,
Meredith

A-Tisket, A-Tasket, A-Choo!

2005-01-12T20:43:00.000-05:00

Greetings, friend.

I've somehow come down with a cold this week, so before I delve too far into the subject of "What's Going On in My Life Out Here in the Truly Bizarre Midwest," I should warn you... If my typing cuts out from time to time and suddenly you find yourself covered head to toe in warm snot, that's why.

The past week or so has been decidedly stressful for me and my relationship with my job. (Perhaps that's why I've got the cold. Occupational hazard due to undue stress on the immune system.) There's got to be a way to have near-perfect communication in a business, yes? I hate to pick up the phone to check my voice mail and hear passive-aggressive messages on what someone did or said that might have meant this or that or the other thing. I hate being told that I'm not allowed to dispute things that are within my rights as an employee to dispute.

I hate North Dakota. I have to teach there next week. I once had a professor who didn't believe that anyone lived in North Dakota. It's unfortunate that I have to be the one to prove the man wrong.

Aside from my cold though, and my job-related goofiness (ooh, and a fever... I think I have a fever too), everything here is slowly being covered in what Minnesotans call "snow." "Snow" is a frozen, ice-slushy substance that can build up and cause dangerous road conditions, slippery sidewalks, and depression. So far, it's just given me a headache. Last Sunday while watching TV, one of the local news channels shot out a "blurb"-type thing between commercials of one of the newscasters. That goober sat there smiling at us from the happy warmth of his studio and said, "It's going to be SO cold this weekend!"

I hated him. I hated him with a hatred that I reserve only for North Dakota.

Really, I think Minnesota has ridiculous weather because if it weren't for the weather, no one would have anything to talk about. The forecast takes up a good 60-70% of the news broadcast here. I'm not sure anything else ever happens here. Once Prince moved out, and Ventura was out of office, so did all the excitement.

But I'm here now, so everyone's surely happy by now.

Until I leave for North Dakota.

Sneezes and wheezes,
Meredith

ATA Airlines is boarding all passengers at this time... or something.

2005-01-02T19:12:00.000-05:00

Dear "Mat,"

I once took a stuffed pink flamingo through airport security.
Yep. That's right. A stuffed pink flamingo.
It was a toy, of course, and I wasn't really travelling with it. In fact, I wasn't really travelling at all.

Sometimes you just want to hang out at the airport.

The Pittsburgh International Airport is a unique place as, I suppose, all airports are -- international or what-have-you. There's a great deal of diversity here. Not everyone's a Yinzer. Not everyone is wearing Steelers paraphenalia. If the United States is a melting pot, then the airports of the world are side salads. There's a lot of carrots walking around. A lot of grape tomatoes. A lot of radishes, rutabega, raddichio. There are West Coastal folks, Midwesterners, foreigners, locals. Dressed up with a slice or two of "I'm home now" or "I'm going home" or "I'm getting the hell out of this place." It's all in here.

My flight boards in a little over half an hour. I'm not entirely ready to LEAVE Pittsburgh, but I'm not altogether willing to STAY either. I kept telling people this last week in town that I liked Pittsburgh now because I didn't have to work there. I just vacation there. (Here. I'm actually still Here.) I suppose it was vacation-like. I spent a great deal of time with Matt and my family and Me, Too. And a great deal of time gifting and holidaying and eating and drinking and making merriment and the like.

(I apparently also spend a great deal of time saying the phrase "great deal of." I guess I like that phrase a great deal.)

(A BOGO is also a great deal. Especially if it's the type where, if you really don't want two, you can get one at half price. That's a great deal.)

Where was I? Oh yes. The airport. Vacationing. I suppose that's all through now. (Except I'm still at the airport. Where's my plane? Flying makes me nervous. I get all jumpy and talky and typey.) I'll be back Here sometime in the next few months -- Easter, maybe. Until then I'll be There -- that other place I call home now. Then in May I'll move from There to Here in order to figure out the next step on my journey.

Boy, life is ever so confusing.

Love,
Bwaaaaaa

What Defines a Child?

2004-12-16T21:26:00.000-05:00

A child is impressionable - be cautious. A child is learning - be kind. A child is adventurous, impetuous, wild - be ready. A child is young - be wise. A child is wise - be young. A child is imaginative - be creative. A child is emotional - be able to comfort, to guide, to sympathize. A child is difficult - be understanding. A child is challenging - be up for it. A child follows - lead. A child can lead - be led. A child is needy - be present. A child is persistent - be supportive. A child is talkative - be all ears. A child is annoying and clingy and chatty and loud - be annoying and clingy and chatty and loud. A child is quiet - be listening. A child is talented - be aware. A child is obstinate - be steady. A child is unafraid - be alert. A child is a storyteller and an actor (a doctor, a lawyer, a dog, a cat, an alien, a whale, a monkey, a princess, a warrior, a cop, a robber, a mother, a father, a snail) - be an audience. A child is impossible - be a believer. A child is original - be open-minded.
A child knows - be yourself.

Giant Monkeys, Talky McTalksalot, and William Shatner

2004-12-14T21:34:00.000-05:00

Happy Tuesday, Matt Smith.

Sometimes, at the end of a year, I find it amusing to write sentences like, "This is my last Tuesday in the Twin Cities before next year," or "This is the last night of the year that I'll eat leftovers from the fridge in my own apartment." Sure, they don't mean much, but it sure does feel good.

However, here's a list of some things that DON'T feel good:

1) Kids who talk too much. (Sometimes, kids who talk at ALL.) This week, I'm working at a "magnet school" -- this one attracts the "gifted and talented." While I, as a child, was labeled as such, at the time it did NOT mean that we were entitled to say whatever was on our minds whenever we felt like it. Apparently... now it does.

2) Muscle strain. While no explanation is really necessary for this, I suppose some details are in order. Today, I worked in a classroom with very little space to spare -- lots of chair-desky things, a big teacher's deak, tons of homemade cardboard and construction paper models of unrecognizable objects, and one quite large table in the center of the room which was covered with a nifty little quilt. So we weren't left with a lot of room to work with. The teacher offered to move the table, but it seemed like it would be a big hassle as she had stored a number of large heavy-looking boxes (holding God knows what) underneath it. We said we'd work around it -- no big deal -- and she jokingly told me that I could stand on it if I wanted. I said, "Really?" She looked at me, semi-incredulously and said, "Oh. Sure." So of course, I did. Jumped on and off the table about 30 times over the course of the day. Did stupid things to ensure the amusement of the children, making quite certain that I could use the table to prance about on. All of this proves that I'm INSANE, that the children would NOT be amused, and that I'm terribly, woefully out of shape.

3) Being kicked in the head. Although this didn't actually occur today, I'm fairly certain it's not something that would feel particularly pleasant.

4) Being cold. Minnesota is very cold. Too cold, in fact, to snow. So cold that the humidity on the inside of my car is frosting the INSIDE of my windshield. So cold that my snot -- my own 98.6 degree snot -- freezes after I spend two minutes outside. Minnesota is frozen snot cold, and it doesn't feel good. Pittsburgh's frickin' Habana compared to this crazy place.

I think I'll make tea now.

Over and over again,
Meredith

$73 of Wine on the Wall... $73 of Wine...

2004-12-10T20:58:00.000-05:00

Dear Matt Smith,

I remember telling you once, after my car was stolen (it's almost my year anniversary!), that when the police arrived on the scene and told me, "When your car turns up, we'll give you a call."
"When?" I said. "Or IF?"
"When," Grumpy Man said. "These things usually turn up."
I extended my hand towards his car window, and, incidentally, his face. "Hi," I said. "Perhaps we haven't met. My name's Meredith, and I'm the girl that nothing goes right for."

And so it goes, Matt Smith.
And so it goes.

Yesterday, after a very long day of teaching "Harassment Now!" (not later) to six classes of seventh graders, I ventured out to the local grocery store -- Cub Foods (I have yet to actually witness a cub there, but then, the Boy Scouts have set up their Christmas tree shop in the parking lot). I bought a few crucial items, including a delicious steak (excuse me... STEAK!) to cook for my meager supper. I did my banking, discovered that I had a bit more cash to play around with before Christmas than I had originally anticipated, and made my way to the local liquor emporium. (Yes, liquor emporium. Minnesota has a vast amount of liquor, but most of it is found in large warehouse environments, where the sky's the limit. Although, why would you want liquor to be in the sky? I'd rather have it in a glass where it's more easily accessible. Damn the sky AND its liquor.)

I perused the aisles for a decent, yet inexpensive, bottle of Merlot and spotted a local Merlot for about $8. I carried my find to the counter, pulled out my license and my debit card, and waited behind a goosy-looking woman who sported a cart filled with 3 cases of some ridiculously God-awful beer. I smiled at her bad taste, and hugged my delicious wine closer to me. The clever minion behind the counter took her check without asking for ID (stupid, stupid boy), grabbed all three of the cases, and carried it out the door to the goose-lady's car. I briefly entertained the idea of robbing the place blind while he left the store unsupervised, but was thrown back into reality as the chubby minion re-entered the store.

To make a short story even shorter, the stupid boy overcharged me. He failed to ring out the Goose's sale, and charged me for her skunky beer. I mentioned this -- because my first receipt read something along the lines of $44.21 -- and he made some brief effort to correct the problem, but ended up charging me an additional $30 or so. Eventually, the poor chubby, shaggy boy had to take $73 off of the card.

So there you have it, Matt Smith. The saga of my $73 bottle of wine. It's really not all that important, but it does illustrate the point that nothing good can come of buying disgusting beer.

Cheers,
Meredith

Peeing for Freedom

2004-12-08T20:34:00.000-05:00

Hellooooo, Matt Smith.

Good evening to you as well. It is evening here; in fact, it's pretty much been evening here since about 6 o'clock in the morning... on Monday. The sun really hasn't made an appearance this week, but perhaps it's sympathizing with me. I've had to get up at about 6 in the morning every day this week, but more on that later.

News on the car: it IS "fixed." I use the increasingly appropriate ironic emphasis of the quotes here. (And they are "finger" quotes, of course. The internet, however, does not allow me to have fingers.) Apparently, I "flooded" the "engine," and this is "bad," according to the "guys at the shop." After driving a non-fuel injected vehicle for so long, I fully understand the concept of cars not starting. My only downfall was treating all cars the same. All cars are not created equal.

I did tell the tow truck man that this was my annual car trouble. He said, "This happens every year?" And I said, "Yeah, pretty much." He said, "Does it always happen around the holidays?" And I said, "Yeah. Pretty much." Such was our conversation that very, very cold Friday morning at seven.

Bonus to having the car towed that early? I got to eat McDonald's breakfast! Woo-hoo! So exciting! Usually I crave Egg McMuffins at approximately 10:31 in the morning. It's a trick my body likes to play on me, knowing full well that McDonald's -- for whatever cunning corporate reason -- stops serving breakfast at 10:30. The reasoning behind this completely ELUDES me, as any normal McDonald's-breakfast-eating 20-something doesn't even roll out of BED until eleven. It's just wrong. That's all I'm saying. Not very effective marketing, if you ask me.

Waking up at 6am all this week reminded me faintly of working at Starbucks. Only this time, I come home from work smelling of contemptuous middle schoolers instead of scorched milk and stale coffee. Needless to say, I took a shower. I needed to wash off all the "I-don't-care-what-you're-trying-to-teach-me's," the "I'm-going-to-make-fun-of-everything-that-you-do-because-I-have-no-developed-sense-of-humor's," and the "I-have-to-look-cool-and-the-only-way-I-know-how-to-defend-that-is-by-using-sarcasm's." Quite honestly, it stinks. And I didn't want to sit and stew in that all the live-long-Law-&-Order night.

I'm sorry to hear you've come down with a cold. I heard it was going around.
Okay, actually, I didn't. That just seemed to be something that people say to make sick people feel better.
"I've got a cold."
"Oh, really? I heard it was going around."
Or... "I've got bronchitis."
"Really? I heard it was going around."
Or... "I've got anemia."
"Oh, really? I heard it was going around."
(I guess it's one of those "safety in numbers" things. I don't know.)

For the cold and the voice thing, though, I recommend drinking a lot of warm water. Sarah used to make fun of me for drinking what she referred to as my "bath water," but it's better for your vocal chords. Doesn't rip them apart and dry them out the way that ice water will, and the water bottle will double as a handy heat source when your hands get cold.
I've actually been drinking a lot of water lately, believe it or not. Yes. Me. The self-proclaimed Water Hater. I used to think the only thing that could make water bearable was Kool-Aid, but I stand corrected. A body -- well, my body -- goes through a great deal of fluid when it carries all the strain and stress that comes with teaching children. So, I get rid of that stress by drinking water. And peeing a lot. It guarantees that I get at least 2 or 3 minutes to myself every hour or so.

Unless some wandering school official follows me into the faculty bathroom, which hasn't happened YET, but it's just the sort of thing that would happen to me.

And then my car would break down.

Happy to be coming home for the holidays,
Meredith

I'm Sally Field

2004-12-02T21:35:00.000-05:00

Matt Smith,

Half a glass of wine and I'm an expert on a great many things.

1) Car troubles = car experts. It's amazing how many things people think they know after experiencing any kind of car trouble. At 10:30 on Sunday morning, my car wouldn't start. After a few hours of mild heartbreak and a phone call to AAA, I returned home from rehearsal, hopped in my car, turned the key, and heard the engine turn right over. My little Subaru ran smoothly up until today when I trotted out over the icy terrain, hopped in, turned the key, and -- whaddya know? The darn thing wouldn't start. Seems that when something's wrong with a car, it gives you little hints -- symptoms, one might say -- of what's about to come. But everyone's got an opinion, and everyone's an expert here in Minnesota when it comes to cold weather car trouble. "It's the battery," one says. "It's the engine," says another. "It's the gas tank," "It's the starter," "It's the fuel pump," they say. Yeah? It's your FACE. Don't feed me lies. Just fix my car.

2) Schoolteachers sure are condescending, aren't they? I spent today in a school, passing teachers in the hall who spoke to their classes in melodic ups and downs, telling them such important things as, "THERE is absoLUTEly NO TALKing!" or "BOYS and GIRLS," followed by many forms of meaningless drivel. All the teachers I admired in elementary school had one thing in common: they were honest. And not just with me, but with themselves. Teachers of Minnesota, take note.

3) It's one thing to be at home of your own accord, but it's another thing altogether to be at home, truly WANTING to go out. I've spent so many nights here in the Twin Cities, just bumming around my humble little apartment, watching "Law & Order" (or some other cops-and-robbers/crime drama type show -- at the moment, it's "Diagnosis Murder," which I, of course, am ashamed of, but who doesn't love Dick Van Dyke? He's the man; you can't deny it), just being happy being warm (GOD ALMIGHTY it's warm in my apartment! The heat's so bad, I could hang paintings on it) and drinking my tea (or, in this case, wine -- I'm on glass number 2 now, even more brilliant and insightful than I was before). But suddenly, the ability to transport myself from this place to another place has been taken away from me, and I have this odd desire to go someplace. What place? I have no idea. The Dollar Store. The China Buffet. The friggin' Target... I don't care. Just let me out!!!

4) People -- real ones -- read my blog. Amazingly, it's not just Anne Brannen and Matt Smith. That's not to say that Anne and you, Matt Smith, aren't "real" people, but there are other actual human beings out there who have ventured my way -- some via my sister (God love her), and some via Matt Dunegan. (And to end the argument of arguments, I'd challenge anyone to call him Dunegan in EVERY situation; go ahead. Think you can do it? It's difficult. There are some circumstances that wouldn't warrant the use of the name "Dunegan." Trust me.)

Okay, so I'm not really an EXPERT. But I did manage to get through this entry without having to use SpellCheck.

Big, semi-depressing, wintry-scented sighs,
Meredith

A Bit of Wisdom from Garrison

2004-11-23T09:27:00.000-05:00

"Nothing you do for children is ever wasted.
They seem not to notice us, hovering,
averting our eyes, and they seldom offer
thanks, but nothing we do for them is ever
wasted."

(Garrison Keillor)

Matt sat on the mat, Matt.

2004-11-16T19:23:00.000-05:00

Matt Smith,

I wish, Matt Smith, that I had as clever a nickname for you as you seem to have for me. Of course, then I realize that I indirectly gave you that ingenious nickname. You typed it, I questioned it, and I put it to use. (Oh, the cleverness of me.)
Also, I have trouble explaining different stories to people. Sometimes, I'll tell a Matt Smith story -- like the time you did that thing that was so funny and we all laughed -- and people will go, "Oh, that Matt Dunegan! He's so funny!" And then I'll have to tell them, "No, Matt is my boyfriend. Matt was the one who did that funny thing that made us all laugh. Matt did that other thing that was funny that I told you about the other day." And then they'll say, "Wait. I thought you said that Matt did that funny thing." And I'll get frustrated and say, "No, that's Matt. He did that OTHER funny thing. Matt's my friend. MATT is my boyfriend." And then their brain will explode.
So you can see the trouble it's causing, I'm sure. In case you're wondering, yes, I have considered using both of the Matts' last names, but I'm trying to be more efficient in my speech. There are far too many syllables to consider. That option is right out.
Therefore, I've started to consider some possibilities for your nickname. "MS" was an option -- I mean, they're your initials. But then, MS is also a life-altering condition. And really, who wants a nickname with no vowels? (Besides the Polish. They have no need for vowels except to spell Poland. Does Poland still exist? I never had geography in school. What am I saying? I'm out of school, and I shouldn't have to know whether or not Poland still exists. If Poland exists, so be it. The vowel comment still stands.)

The other options are as follows:
1) Matterooni - Like "macaroni" crossed with Mickey Rooney, so it'd be noodles that sang and danced and were shaped like elbows.
2) Smithsonian - I like to think of you as a huge, information-filled museum. You've got a lot of funny stuff in that brain of yours. As my dear Matt Dunegan would say, though, "Alas, alack, Alanis Morrisette!" That name is already taken. No matter what nickname I choose for you, though, I can still call you this one in secret though. I'll just say it to myself. So when I address you with your new nickname (whatever that ends up being), that silly grin on my face is really just me saying silently, "Oh that Smithsonian. He's so clever. And really, how clever am I to have gotten away with using the name Smithsonian without the officials knowing. I am so clever. Oh, the cleverness of me."
3) Math - Matt + Smith = "Math." It's ingenious.
4) Smatt - If you were to file something under your name, you'd file it under "Smith, Matt." Smith + Matt = "Smatt." Again, ingenious.
5) Jerry Seinfeld - This one's just obvious. I mean, have you ever gotten a good look at Jerry Seinfeld? He looks and sounds absolutely nothing like you. It's out of left field, no one's expecting it, no one sees it coming. I'd be like, "Hey, Jerry Seinfeld!" And you'd be like, "Hey there, you!" And heads would turn. Sheer brilliance.

After lengthy deliberation, however, I've finally decided on your nickname.

Mat.

It's great, yes? It distinguishes you from my boyfriend, Matt, and you still get all the recognition and distinction and pomp and circumstance that your given name calls for.

I like it, and you should too.

As always,
Meredith

I Do Not Want the Anal Probe

2004-11-10T19:33:00.000-05:00

Greetings and salutations, friend.

The direction I was given yesterday in my "playwrighting basics workshop" was to find some time each day to do some writing. I thought, "Hell. I blog." This is writing, right? Right. Now that that's covered... moving on.

My other workshop -- today's workshop -- is "Vocal Orchestration and the Spoken Word." Or something. We spent a great deal of time this evening talking about operatives, primary and secondary emphasis, and the way in which those obscure things changed the way we delivered our lines. When asked what part of today's class "resonated" with me, I truly wanted to tell the instructor (incidentally, the CEO of the theatre), "This is just like the 'I Do Not Want the Anal Probe' game." But... I didn't. (It's quite the fun game in that it does not actually involve an anal probe.)

Seems I was busy -- this weekend -- doing something close to nothing, but different than the day before. (And, of course, any Prince references are included in honor of Prince's hometown of Minneapolis. Glad we could clear that up.) Spent a great deal of time with Matt, bumming around Uptown, window shopping and eating good food. He bought a hat that makes him look like a superhero. (Not a raspberry beret, but I bet you could work him into the superhero idea you have for John, me, and you.) He found a hat that read "Sheep" and had a picture of, yes, a sheep on it. Seems they'll make hats that do all sorts of things besides keep your head warm.

We ate sushi made by a guy named Steve and rushed to get into the liquor store before closing. I drank tea and I made coffee for the first time in 3 months. (Can't say I missed it, really, even if I was making it for Matt.) We peed in a Lutheran church -- I felt like a secret agent on a stealth mission! -- and went to a coffee shop for bikers. Yay for Bob's Java Hut.

We went to the only Steelers' bar in the Minneapolis/St. Paul area (there are so many!), The Starting Gate, and met up with an old friend. We drank beer, and went shopping for groceries. We rented a movie, watched some ZIM! and cooked some dinner. Life was -- is -- good.

It felt good to feel like I was home again.
Even if all it took was dinner, wine, Ben & Jerry's, and falling asleep on the couch halfway through a movie.

Good sighs,
Meredith

Germs and Worms and Holiday Things

2004-11-02T17:47:00.000-05:00

Hi there, Matt Smith.

I think one day I'm going to decorate my house like an elementary school.

I guess I never really thought about it before, but when you get right down to it, I do like a lot of tacky things. For one, I own that ridiculous, fringy, hangy red lamp that I tote around with me. I have a jean jacket that looks like I stole it from DJ Tanner -- pins and bells and whistles and ribbons and all. Definitely straight out of the 80s, and what's more, I actually wear this jacket. Proudly. So many of the things that I own are ugly, and pathetic, and dilapidated... No. Really. It's true.

The great thing is, though, when I add up all those tacky wonderful things, it works somehow. I don't know why that is, but it's true. Take all that beautiful tackiness, and add it all up, and it's just LOVELY. (Or, as my mother would say, "Put it in a barrel and shake it up." Which actually IS something that people say. Honest.)

So... I think Elementary School Decor is definitely the way to go. I could hang finger paintings on the wall, and make strange decorations out of construction paper and glue (all seasonally appropriate, of course -- cats and ghosts for Halloween, wreaths for winter holidays). I could have window clings of obscure things like teddy bears sledding, and hearts with arms and legs. I could hang strings from my ceiling tiles and tie clothespins to the ends of them so I could dangle paper snowflakes and farm animals from them.

It'd be just... grand.

(Don't you think?)

More to come,
Meredith

Guilt Bags

2004-10-27T20:08:00.000-04:00

Mr. Smith,

Lately, I feel that, as Americans, we're constantly looking for what's not there -- what's being taken away -- rather than what's already there.

It's unfair, I know, but I also know it feels very true.

In relationships, often we look for what's wrong before we notice what's right: "He's not committed enough," "She's co-dependent," or "One of his earlobes is longer than the other." At work, we ask for Time Off. We look forward to the weekend, when we don't have to work. In our daily lives, the negative plays a major role. We look for bargains, for markdowns, for slashed prices. We cut coupons, we count calories (the less the better), we drink water to flush our systems. We want to lose weight instead of gain it, subtract taxes instead of add them, down-size our friends, our budget, our lives...

We are a nation obsessed with the negative.

Why, when we feel compelled to ADD to our lives, do we feel guilty? As if adding things to our lives -- things that come at a price -- we're punished. Higher education, lunch with an old friend, a day off to relax with our loved ones, a car, a ring, a sofa... anything that adds to our emotional, mental (and sometimes even physical) health is gained at a price.

Why, when we carry ourselves out of the office early on a Friday afternoon so we can spend some much needed time with OURSELVES, do we have to carry with us those bags of guilt?

Yeah.

I don't know either.

Always questioning,
Meredith

An Old Sad Song

2004-10-25T20:23:00.000-04:00

Matt Smith,

A person creates their mate in their mind. I truly believe that every 20- or 30- something on this planet can remember a time in their childhood when they knew exactly what they were looking for in that One Person. Whether they dreamt of a blushing blonde, or a blue-eyed boy, or a white knight -- they know now what they were looking for then, and they've pretty much resigned themselves to the fact that no matter how long and strenuous the search, they're never going to find exactly what it was that they were looking for in the first place.

It's a sad thing to think on. And maybe I'm just a little sad myself tonight.

When I was a little girl, I remember thinking that the person I spend my days with would be an artist and he would be rich. As I got older, I realized that those two traits aren't usually the best of friends. So, I settled into thoughts of a writer, a reader, a thinker -- someone with a generous sense of humor and an honest smile. I wanted a musician, a movie buff. Someone who could see beyond the surface of everyday sorts of things -- not the least of which would be me. (I suppose I always thought that I wasn't much to look at, but I knew that I was smart. Maybe I thought that it took a pretty special type of person to see that deep into who I was.)

I remember thinking that, when I got older, things would inevitably fall into place. I would be walking down the street one evening, dressed in my little black dress after just having come from the theatre, and some tall, rich, tuxedo-clad gentleman with long, beautiful hair would pop out from behind a pillar and ask for my name.

Well, I was partly right.

He is tall. And I suppose it was evening.

But the thing is, I did get what I was looking for. It's hard to explain, I guess. But the person I was looking for... well, he's the type of person who -- well, collects the stickers that you find on produce. Who conducts an impromptu funeral and burial for a dead bird in his backyard by reading "Grass" by Carl Sandburg. Who honks at crows he sees on the interstate. Who tells me stories about, well, whatever I want... even if they're a little silly and involve a woman named Dottie. Who finds meaning in the way I eat my pancakes. Who appreciates the fact that I get a little crazy when I'm left alone for too long. Who can amuse passing tourists just by being himself.

He is the kind of person who reminds me, every day, that I exist. That I live out loud. That I have worth. That I am loved.

And he never has to speak a word.

Love,
Meredith

Go Ahead. Just TRY to Slow Me Down.

2004-10-23T18:20:00.000-04:00

The Best Little Program Notes Ever

2004-10-22T19:41:00.000-04:00

Greetings, Matt Smith.

How was your day? Good? Want to hear about mine? Great.

Wrote this as "program notes" for our classes today at the daycare center, and it made its rounds around the Artistic Staff Office.
Yeah. I wrote them.
And yes. They're true.

Program Notes
West St. Paul, MN
October 22, 2004
Sivie and Meredith

One of the interesting things about preschools and
day care centers that is hard to notice at first is
that they'll try anything once. It really doesn't
matter who comes in to their center/school to present,
or what they're presenting, just so long as the people
who work there get a break in their day. And for good
reason: they have a difficult job. Working with
toddlers and infants is a trying job, day in and day
out. Communication is difficult. Working with
children of that age and trying to communicate with
them all day creates this weird… vibe. They get so
comfortable communicating with toddlers that
communication with adults now seems awkward.

Perhaps that awkwardness is to blame for today's
difficulties.

If there were a magic wand that could instantly erase
the problems of today, the world would be a better
place. Today's program site was a perfect example of
why we have restrictions on programming (such as the
number and age of students in the classroom).
Frankly, it's difficult to create programming for
children who don't speak. No. It's more than
difficult. It's near to impossible. Why, you ask?
Because they can't speak. Much like a dog. Or a
gopher. Or a watermelon.

But, on to the matter at hand: Today's program site
went through a myriad of stages in their communication
with us at CLIMB. First, the contact
(Julie) believed we were clowns, coming in to
entertain the children. ("You guys are a bunch of
clowns, right?" Sure, Julie. We're clowns.
CLIMB Clowns.) Then, once corrected, we were told
that we'd be working with a group of kids who were 2.5
to 3.5 years old, then a group of kids who were 3.5 to
4.5 years old, and finally a group of school-aged kids
(mostly kindergartners with a few older kids thrown in
for good measure)… and was it okay to combine a class
so that there would be one class of about 42 kids?
(No, Julie Casby. It isn't.)

Once all that was straightened out and we understood a
little more of what the kids' level of comprehension
was, we settled in to what seemed to be a fine line of
thought towards programming. The suggestion from Tiny
Tots was that we "read a story" to the youngest group
-- leaving us wondering why we were presenting
something to them at all. We opted for a fabulous
little book on sharing called That Toad is Mine!
(which, while teaching a valuable lesson on why toads
can't be cut in half, also included the line, "A
hoptoad needs ONE place to be"), followed by a
"sharing" version of "Green Ball, Thank You," brought
down to the level of
pass-the-ball-and-say-thank-you-when-you-get-it.

After we had some help from the teachers at getting
the tiny tots settled ("These nice people are going to
be showing us a PUPPET show!" Um. What? Where were
they getting this information?), we were on our way.

This should have been brilliant.

Unfortunately, we were interrupted mid-picture-book by
a woman who seemed to be bringing a group of 1-year
olds in to our class. (Yes, Constant Reader, these
would be the kids who can't talk.) So, after our
initial shock at this new arrangement, we restarted
the story -- and even finished it -- amidst runny
noses, children falling on the floor, and the fact
that children who can't speak also can't answer any
questions.

And that was just the first class. (Although the rest
of the day, even with the scheduling snafus and
miscommunication, seemed a breeze.)
The 3 and 4-year olds were so much more perceptive --
which really isn't saying much -- but they were still
a relief after the stresses of the first class. The
Little Tykes version of "Joey/Lulu and Mom" was
somewhat of a hit, although when questioned about
things like Raising Your Hand and When It's OK to Ask
Questions, kids still came up with answers like, "Say
excuse me when you want to tie your shoes" or "Wipe
the dirt off your face with a paper towel." (Okay…
sure. Those… those are things you can do… when… um…
you… well… never mind.) But, they got the idea that
you're supposed to say you're sorry when you hit
someone or yell at them. And the
Thank-You-for-the-Ball game spoke to them. Somehow.

Regular programming began with "Chuck and the Cheeto
Challenge" and the wonderful return of school-aged
children who understand questions when they're asked
(when they're not playing with the dirt from the
bottom of some other little girl's shoe). The kids
thought we were funny, and they were able to "get"
that sometimes you have to do things you don't really
want to do.

The moral of the story?

Kids who can't talk should be taught by people trained
to talk to them, toads can't be cut in half (but kids
can act like toads REALLY well), people should use
their magic words (please, thank you, I'm sorry,
excuse me), and dirt is often more interesting than a
troll and a goat.

Clowns, Toads, and the Communication Skills of American Toddlers

2004-10-21T20:41:00.000-04:00

Hi again.

Very little to update you on from out here in the nutso Midwest... but that won't stop me from making something up for my own amusement.
Apparently Minnesota has some strange educators' conference -- the MEA: Minnesota Educators' Association. (Everyone's really big on abbreviations here, for some reason. I've never encountered anything like it before.) It cancels school for all Minnesota schoolchildren for two full days in October (today and tomorrow). How this actually accomplishes anything in the name of education I'm not sure, but I assume it has SOMETHING to do with educating the educators. I hope.
Educating the educators leaves the theatre-in-education folks no place to go for two days, though, since most of our work takes place in the schools -- and the schools are closed. Aside from going out of state (which I'm not), there's very little to do.
Or, you'd think that, wouldn't you?
Wouldn't you know it, they assigned me to a Tiny Tots and Little Tykes preschool/day-care. Me. As in, the girl who can't communicate with adults -- so how am I supposed to communicate with kids who have no grasp on the English language? It's like they're little... foreigners! Or puppies! Or something else that makes incoherent sounds! A broken carousel! A dying moose! Argh!
To top it all off, the people who run the day-care very honestly thought that CLIMB was a group of clowns. Clowns. What a hoot. So, at least we've got that as a back-up plan.
For the little-little kids (say, two-years old? what does a two-year old even LOOK like?!), we've planned to read a book that I just LOVE (seriously) titled, "That Toad is MINE!"
Yeah. It covers the oh-so-serious topic of sharing and what you can and cannot share. Like a toad. You can't share a toad. You can't even have shared custody of a toad, apparently, because, as the book so eloquently states, "A hoptoad needs ONE place to be."
Oooo... I am so VERY excited.

Love,
Meredith

P.S. Emma got engaged. To Marty. So... I mean... that's strange. Good strange, yes... but still strange all the same. I mean... it's Marty. And Emma. And they're my friends. Friends getting engaged? Kooky.

Why's George Foreman Guest Starring on "Without a Trace?"

2004-10-18T23:06:00.000-04:00

Hi, Matt Smith.

Really, I don't honestly think it's George Foreman. It sure looks like him, though. It's as if Reginald VelJohnson and Ving Rhames mated, and then spawned this other guy who looks a great deal like George Foreman. Or something like that.
Currently, I'm in Iowa City at the University of Iowa. Since this is really the only long stop I've ever made in Iowa, I feel as if I'm judging the whole state on this one city. But, not to worry. Iowa's everything I dreamt it would be... and more. It's nice to be in a Place with Stuff to Do with People and Things. We're sent so often to nothing-places that it's nice to be able to get out and DO SOMETHING, anything... even if it's sitting at a local bar and grill and complaining about the slow service.
Highlights of today include: discovering the ethernet connection in my pea-green hotel room, presenting in-services to school counselors from all over the state of Iowa, eating with the aforementioned counselors, wearing a skunk costume (while not actually trying to play a skunk), and swapping movie quotes over a meal with fellow actor-typey folk.

But more on Why I Love Iowa and Why You Should Too:

I love Iowa because of their ethernet connections.
I love Iowa because it's warmer here than in the Twin Cities.
I love Iowa because it's flat.
I love Iowa because of Iowa City.
I love Iowa because I haven't encountered one ounce of Iowa stubborness, and therefore, I don't really believe it exists.
I love Iowa because people ride bikes.
I love Iowa because my hotel is connected to the Student Union.
I love Iowa because I didn't have to drive here.
I love Iowa because I don't have to drive back.
I love Iowa because people live here and do things that are fun.
I love Iowa because there's a coffee maker in my room.
I love Iowa because I took a shower this morning.
I love Iowa because I'm going to see the largest frying pan in Iowa tomorrow morning.
I love Iowa because I can blog from my room.
and more importantly... I love Iowa because I don't have to stay here.

That being said, ladies and gentlemen, goodnight.

Sweet dreams,
Meredith

Out of Whack Priorities

2004-10-13T21:27:00.000-04:00

Matthew Smith,

Hi there again. Heard any good jokes lately? No? Neither have I.

Oh no. I take that back. Right now I'm listening to the Presidential Debate, which, I'm disappointed to report, is delaying my date with Detective Green and that new guy with the fancy suits on NBC. I don't care if you ARE vying to be the so-called Leader of the Free World, how dare you cancel "Law & Order?"
(Yes, in case you're wondering, I do have "my priorities out of whack," as my mother would say.)

The best way to protect citizens from guns is to prosecute those who commit crimes with guns? Hmmm. Let's see. Call me crazy, but I think we'd do better to make sure the kooky folks don't get guns in the first place. I don't know. Maybe I'm wrong here. No guns = no crimes with guns. Oy. Wait til I get my hands on this country.

But back to more pressing issues.

Since "Law & Order" is STILL not coming on, and the Men in Black are still chatting, yes, I do have a pretty neat sort of job, don't I? Today we had a reporter/photographer in our classroom who was doing an article on CLIMB and our work in the schools. When he asked us about our work, I realized that -- basically -- what I do is a 40-minute commercial for respect. I sell respect to students, and I have to make it look as good as the other brands out there. Brands like Kicking, Screaming, Not Raising Your Hand, Bullying, Name-Calling, Exclusion, and Bigotry. Oh, it's a charmed life I lead. Walking into a school, I'm like the Grandmother who brings presents and candy and then goes home.

The people I really feel for are the teachers -- the Parents in the schools -- who can't always be the Magical World of Disney, and who can't always be a pirate, or a troll, or a goat, or whatever.

Thankfully, I CAN be the Whatever.
I'm the Gonzo.
I'm a Whatever.

(And they're stillllll taalllkkking.... I'm glad that George Dubya prays. Really. I am. Good for him. But does he know that "in the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate, but equally important groups?" I need their stories, President Bush and Senator Kerry. Puh-leaasssee!)

Love,
Meredith

The Boy Who Cried Poo

2004-10-08T20:30:00.000-04:00

Cheers, Matt Smith.

I've just returned from my first full week on the road. "Road," in this particular case, differs greatly from the original entymology. Here, "road" reads more as "middle of nowhere." And, to be even more specific, this week's middle of nowhere was Luverne, Minnesota.
Luverne boasts a great number of fabulous things.
Luverne is the Gateway. I never witnessed the Gate myself, and I can only surmise that the Gateway they speak of is some fictional gate -- a Gate to Iowa and/or South Dakota. Unless they're talking about Real Gates. On fences, perhaps. In that case, there was a plethora of those that housed the area's cattle, pigs, and yes, buffalo.
And, speaking of buffalo, the large stone blasted buffalo statue that stands in front of the specialty store, "Those Blasted Things," is not to be missed. You simply couldn't miss it even if you tried.
Other things of note in Luverne:
1) The Super 8 Motel. Highly recommended by CLIMB Theatre folk, mainly because of the make-your-own-waffle component during breakfast hours. Ask for Barb. She rocks.
2) The local playground. In addition to the windy, swirly, makes-your-hair-stand-on-end shocky slides, there are swings to swing, bouncy things to bounce, climby things to climb, and lots of hard ground to injure yourself on. And while we were there, a man in army fatigues was patrolling the area. Makes you feel safe... or something. (In my case, confused.)
3) The students at Luverne Elementary. Fabulous kids accompanied by fabulous staff. The teachers' lounge was never wanting for goodies -- cinnamon rolls, mini Snickers bars, chocolate chip cookie pie thing -- and I felt very welcome there. In my time as an actor, educator, troll, and pirate there, I even felt a bit of appreciation. Or at least I came close.

Side note of note: During the end of one of our K-2 mini-drama classes where I play a troll, we were asking the kindergarteners to try to remember the 3-part magic formula they learned at the beginning of the play. It never fails that we -- the seasoned professionals -- forget the magic formula. The kids come up with it on their own at the beginning, and we go through so many different combinations in a day (favorite breakfast food/book/color, favorite cartoon character/shape/dessert, and the like) that we inevitably must rely on the kids in each class to remember. In this particular class, the children were having a tough time remembering, and we were of no use. One boy, hand raised, kept calling out, "Poo! Poo! Poo!" Yeah, kid. Poo. I'm SO sure. Why's the weird kid screaming poo? We had no idea. It was odd, and we were tired, and it was funny. So, trying desperately to stay in character, we laughed, and I turned to my team lead/partner, and in my best Russian troll voice, asked, "What is this poo?"
Well, yeah. It was Winnie the Pooh.
But you can't know everything all the time,

Love,
Meredith

The Devil and Creepy Star-ster

2004-09-25T16:40:00.000-04:00

Dear Matt Smith,

I feel that there should be a bit said on the subject of Friday. (Not just any Friday, of course, but yesterday.)
Working with children -- and yesterday I did work with kindergarteners, most of which can actually be defined as children -- can be a real pickle. A big, bumpy, sat-too-long-in-the-brine kind of pickle. Kids say the darndest things, don't they? (Thanks, Mr. Cosby.) But there's no "How To" book on responding to their darndest things. A bloody shame, if you ask me. A real bloody shame.
And so, as my laundry dries in the dryer and my clothes wash in the washer and my music plays on the music-er, I'll tell you a few things I heard these darn kids say yesterday. Your job is to think to yourself, "How WOULD I have responded to that?" Yep. It's a toughy.

The Darndest Things Ever

Topic: Self-Control

Q: How might you feel if someone told you that you had to clean your room, and that you couldn't watch your favorite TV show?

A: "Sad."
A: "Mad."
A: "Bad."
A: "Very sad."
A: "Very, very sad."
A: "Very, very, VERY sad."
A: "Sad, and a little mad."
A: "Bad, and a little sad."
A: "Mad, and a little sad."
A: "Happy!"
A: "Ferocious."

Q: What might you WANT to do, even if you knew you were supposed to turn off the TV and clean your room?

A: "Turn the TV back on."
A: "I HAVE a TV in MY room."
A: "Play with my dolls."
A: "Play Playstation."
A: "Play XBox."
A: "Clean my room... and THEN watch TV."
A: "Take a blowtorch to all the things in my room."
A: "Punch myself in my head."
A: "Cry."
A: "Kill myself."

Here's one of my favorite dialogues:

AE (Actor-Educator): How might you use your self-control at school?
(child raises his hand)
AE: Yes? How would you do that at school?
Child: You can use your Star Power.
(after a pause)
AE: Can you explain Star Power to me a bit more?
Child: You can control the devil any time you want to.
(AE stutters a bit. Child continues.)
Child: You use your star power to control the devil and --
AE (quickly cutting Child off): By the "devil," do you mean the bad things that people do?
(Child pauses again... for a while.)
Child: Yes.
(Audible sigh of relief from both AEs.)

At any rate, you see what I mean, yes?
Life's weird when you're a kid.
Or even when you just spend time with them.

Love,
Meredith

Parking Lot Nostalgia

2004-09-21T21:12:00.000-04:00

Hey Matt Smith.

I was coming back from a performance site yesterday -- my first day of teaching -- and we were driving right behind a truck whose mud flaps were manufactured in Goshen, Indiana. And, inevitably, I thought of you. Not because you're the only person I know who's from Goshen, but because I suddenly thought that maybe you're actually the only person who's EVER come from Goshen. You're really the only person who lives there, aren't you? When you're away at school, the town pretty much shuts down 'cause there's no one there, right? Just checking.

A few things I should let you in on:
1) I have unpacked. And a few of your assumptions do indeed hold true. There are quite a few boxes in my room -- although I think they'd more rightly be called crates -- but all of them are empty and now have other purposes than they originally did. One is a bookshelf, one is a shelf that holds photos and such, and another holds a bunch of candles. None of them hold up a television, because, as one may have gathered, I no longer own a television. Nor do I own a VCR. I have left all of my countless videotapes with my sister, and I miss them (and my sister) greatly.
2) I have left Matt, Emma, and Me, Too at home in Pittsburgh. Emma lives with Lori (but Marty lives with Matt, so look out Jane Street) and Me, Too lives with my sister. She loves him. Or she should. Because I'm not there to. And I can't bring him here, the poor kitten, for assorted reasons... so I'll have to send Kitty Support Checks and let my friends and family love him until I get back.
3) I do have bouts of nostalgia and the gas prices do fluctuate. It's funny you should mention both of those things. For one, I have the bouts of nostalgia at the most random times. Today, I had one while walking through a grocery store parking lot. It was sad. (Which is horrible because I don't think I'm allowed to be sad or lonely here. The natives just won't put up with it.) And also, the gas prices are STRANGE. There's a gas station at the end of the street that I live on, and I swear, the gas price changes twice daily. It's one price when I go out early in the morning, and by the time I come home in the evening, it's changed. One day it changed four times. I've seen it go from $1.70 to $1.86 and back down again during the course of a day. Spooky, yes?
Oh, and 4) The menorah's not mine. It's Melissa's.

Work's pretty okay. Yes, being a troll all week has its advantages, but I often find myself slipping into Troll Speak (which sounds a lot like Dave Katzin's Transylvanian Portugese accent, but I never intended it to) at the oddest points in my day. Never try talking to a check-out girl that way. She just won't know what to do. Trust me.
Yes, being a troll and a pirate and a goat actually are teaching strategies with the company I'm in. So far, so good. I think the message is getting across (today I taught self-control -- yes, con-TROLL -- to kindergarteners) and it's uncanny how comfortable I am doing what I'm doing. I might even say I was good at it.

But that's the only time you'll hear me say it.

Love,
Meredith

The Great Great Room is Great

2004-09-18T14:54:00.000-04:00

Matt Smith,

It's very loud.
Often I have to take a moment and take stock of my new work environment. For instance, right now, there's a goat and a troll rehearsing outside of the office. I have no shoes on. At one point today, I was even wearing a gas mask.
It's a fun job... once you're able to step back and look at the scene as if you're not in it. If you can't do that, well... you're just going to end up being a very sad, sad person. Or goat. Or troll. Or whatever.
My apartment still has no phone service, but it does have what I like to call the "Great Room." Great because there's next to nothing in it. Sure, we've got a futon now, but there's still a lot of room to do just about anything. It's great for line dancing, or seances, or Twister. It's Great for a lot of things.
Monday is my first day as an Actor-Educator. Yes, to answer your inevitable question, it is silly when I answer the question, "What do you do?" I get to say, "I'm an Actor-Educator." (Yes. AE. I'm an AE. Which is either the stupidest abbreviation or a non-descript vowel sound.) I got to tell the people at the bank that the other day when I opened my new account, and the girl -- who wasn't all that swift to begin with -- looked at me like I had a poodle on my head.
But for now, the goat, the troll, the AE, the Great Room and I (and possibly the poodle) are going to go rehearse a little thing I like to call, "Calming My Nerves," or "Working It Down From A Four."

Because I'm a four, Matt Smith. I'm a four.

-- Meredith

A Girl's Got to Have Her Juice (or, AGGHJ)

2004-09-16T11:53:00.000-04:00

Hey right back, Matt Smith:

Sometimes it's okay to not feel entertaining. For example, it's okay that I do not feel entertaining now. I feel far from entertaining. (That's one of the many phrases I'd like to be able to work onto my business card -- in some capacity. Another one is, "Meredith: Pretty Far From Bob." It turns out there's a lot of things I'm "far from.")

I'm far from home right now, actually. I'm breaking all the rules in the CLIMB, Inc. Artistic Staff Office by bringing my cranberry juice in here and using the computer for personal e-mail. (But, a girl's got to drink juice. That's how I see it.) The Artistic Staff Office is more commonly referred to as the ASO (read: A-S-O. not "ass-o," which is how I pronounced it the first time I saw it). Folks around CLIMB (that's "Creative Learning Ideas for Mind and Body") have an annoying habit of creating nonsensical acronyms (a word where every letter of the word stands for a different word, or "WWELWSDW") for every part of the office (EPO), and even things that occur in everyday life (TTOEL). Yes, Matt, it's as if I've stepped into another dimension. (I knew you were wondering.)

So, there you have it. I'm spending my days in a bad Saturday Night Live skit during a writers' strike.

But, it's not so bad.

At least I have a nice apartment. (No worries, Anne.)

Love,
Meredith

Things I Hate, Volume 2

2004-08-27T20:46:00.000-04:00

Dear Matt Smith,

To start with, here's an update on some things I hate:

1) Public displays of affection. If it's not my hand you're holding/lips you're kissing/butt you're grabbing, I don't want to see it. So stop it. Now.
2) Stupid people. I must admit this is not a new addition to The List, but it's a sentiment that bears repeating. Stupid people should not drive, walk, talk, procreate, or eat. That way, they'll die off and leave the rest of us alone.
3) Phone calls. Whether incoming or outgoing, the phone is old. Old as in, write me a letter. It'll last longer and annoy me less.

On the subject of phone calls (now that we're on it), there's a new, special person in my life that you should know about. I don't know his name. I know his phone number: 412.441.6871. I hesitate to write it here, but as I know that you and Anne Brannen are the only two people on Earth who read this blog, I know it won't be used for harm.
You're wondering, how do I know this man? Well, I'll tell you. I don't. I don't know him, and I probably will never know him. Mr. 412.441.6871 calls my phone on a regular basis -- usually on the weekends, most often Friday nights. Here's the kicker, though: I've never actually answered the phone. I just let the voice mail pick up. So the man leaves messages. Not for me. For Bob.
Whoever Bob is, he must sound awfully effeminate, as the Guy Looking For Bob never catches on to the fact that my voice mail message is ME and you know, MY VOICE, saying that I -- MEREDITH -- am sorry that I -- MEREDITH -- can't get to my -- MEREDITH'S -- phone right now, but to leave a message and I -- MEREDITH!!! NOT BOB!!! -- will get back to you. He leaves the messages anyway, ranging anywhere from "why don't you call me? I haven't heard from you in a while" (no kidding? I wonder why he hasn't called. Could it be that Bob's not getting the messages???) to "You should go see this really good movie. The good scenes are really... good."
I suppose someday I should do the humane thing and actually answer the phone to tell him that he has the wrong number, that there's no Bob at this number, and please stop calling. But, I just can't. It's too surreal... and yes. Entertaining. So for the time being I just added him to my Contacts List in my cell as Guy Looking For Bob.

Oh. And for Anne's sake, I should say that I'm moving to Minneapolis. Next Saturday. And I have no apartment. (All the cool kids don't have homes. It's true.)

Love,
Meredith

2004-06-15T20:09:00.000-04:00

Matt Smith,

All sum total, my vacation in the Dominican Republic was what could only be described as a "blast," although no actual blasting occurred. We spent a week eating, drinking, resting, touring, beaching (or "playa"ing, as they would say in the Spanish), drinking, swimming, eating, sunning, drinking, and yes, more resting. It was a vacation. And it was good.

Hopefully at some point I'll learn how to post photos up here, and then you could see all of that in picture form.

I did, however, start using that laptop that Peter gave me for graduation, and it is SUPERB. I love wireless. At the moment, I'm perched on the trunk of my car, and I AM CONNECTED TO THE INTERNET. (Don't worry. The car's not moving.) So very very strange, and yet, so great that I can do this. It was really only a whim to sit outside. I was going to type up a resume...

Which brings me to my next bit of information -- the Philly folks at the Arden Theatre have NOT called, and I don't think they will call. But never fear... I've got some other yummy interviews lined up. I have to send a headshot out to a touring children's theatre in Minnesota and I'm looking into becoming a "teaching associate" at The Neighborhood Academy here in Pittsburgh for a year...

More to come. Never ever EVER a dull moment...

Love,
Meredith

2004-05-16T15:20:00.000-04:00

Hey Matt Smith.

Here's the deal:

1) My interview at the Arden Theatre in Philly is scheduled for 2pm on Thursday, May 27. This means we'll either a) have to leave Pittsburgh on Wednesday night and stay with some friends of mine (well, my brother's... I guess they're more acquaintances of mine, but nevertheless, very cool and hospitable people) or b) have to leave Thursday morning at the ass-crack of dawn. I'm rooting for option A, simply because the ass-crack of dawn is a time I see a lot of, and I don't think driving across the state in the that-time-of-the-morning mood is a very good idea. So, of course you're welcome to stay with my sister and me at her/my new place all that week, if indeed you do come into Pittsburgh in week or so. It'll be good clean fun -- unless we make you clean something, and then it'll be sort of clean fun, but still good all the same.

2) After the interview in Philly, we'll be heading into NYC, which is about a 2 hour drive, and it's something I've never done before, so it'll be frightening as hell, which I hear is pretty scary. That aside, we do have a place to stay -- and ironically, the person we'll be staying with is originally from Philadelphia, so he knows the drive like the back of his hand. (I can only blindly assume that he's one of those people who spends a lot of time looking at the back of his hands. I mean, I don't do that personally, but there are apparently a lot of people who do that, if it's become such a popular simile.) His name's Lee, and he's going to be a great New York City tour guide for us. He lives on the Upper East Side (again, I don't know how to get there, and we'll probably die trying, but that's fine, right?) and I think he's taking most/all of Friday off to take us around and show you things. His only stipulation is that you don't steal from him. He didn't say anything about ME stealing from him, so I guess THAT'S okay... We're going to have to park the car in a garage for 3 nights, and that's probably going to cost us a bit (hence the stealing), but Lee's going to talk with a few of the nearby places to see if he can get a total lower than $120 out of them. We'll see.

3) As for money, I don't have a lot of it -- and we'll need gas, food, parking, and show ticket money. Show tickets I can tell you are $45 each, and once I figure out mileage, I'll know more about the gas thing. Food's pretty much up to us, I guess. If we stock the car with munchies and a cooler, I think we'll be better off than if we bought it along the way. (Yay for road trips!) So, think about that.

4) Let me know when you're planning on getting here, and if you're coming by bus, and if I need to pick you up, and if you're staying with me, and all that other stuff. My old phone number still works until the end of the month and I'll send you the new one, which is the phone we'll have on the road with us. I don't want to post it here, because then everyone who reads this (all two people... me and Anne Brannen) will now have my phone number. And that would just be sad. Although I wouldn't mind hearing from Anne Brannen, there's always that slim chance that some oddball crazy person -- aside from Anne -- would be able to track me down. (But the phone itself is pretty choice -- it's got a little alien on it. I told my friend, Lee, that and he said, "Yeah, Meredith... we're trying to turn down the crazy." Whatever.)

So that's what life looks like right now. I don't have a large trip fund -- because after our excursion, I'm headed to Punta Cana! Yay! (So, yeah... more on that later. Meredith's Vacation Episode #2 still to come.)

Love,
Meredith

2004-05-13T15:17:00.000-04:00

I don't know where you've gone, Matt Smith. I hope you're out there in cyberspace somewhere -- in the dark recess of time and space between Spain and Goshen, Indiana -- and I also hope that you call me at some point. There've been some addendums to our travel plans, and I gave them the go-ahead, hoping against hope that you'd be around to, y'know, go. We'll talk about that later, though, a)because it's two weeks away, and we don't plan two weeks in advance. Hell. We don't plan two days in advance... b)I just don't have the time to tell you all about it now, although it involves Interview #2 at the Arden Theatre in Philadelphia (yay) and some stops along the way, and c)I really don't think you're reading this blog at all, so it's all for naught.

I've been doing a lot of outside activities lately -- the weather is fantabulous. (I guess you could more rightly call them "non-activities." The last day of finals, after my directing final at 11am, I drove over to Schenley Park, not really having a set destination and ended up falling asleep for about 2 hours. It was the feeling of done. I'm done.

And really, yay for being done.
Yay for the done not really sinking in until next fall.
Yay for heat and sunshine and having very little to do.
Yay for the fluid feeling of driving, and the sunroof that's broken.
Yay for discovering that even though the sunroof is broken, it does go to the "UP" position.
Yay for old men who happily drive around in sports cars in this fine weather.
Yay for my Ninja-like avoidance of my Starbucks stalker (and his fat baby) yesterday at work.
Yay for my spy-ways -- like knowing how to get to the far end of 376E without going through the Squirrel Hill tunnels, and knowing how to get back to Fifth Ave from Penn Hills without getting back on the bastardized 376W.
Yay for planning vacations, or the lack thereof.
Yay for summer cocktails -- the fruity, refreshing goodness.
Yay for drinking a lot of water.
Yay for my cat, who discovered the awesomeness of his new best friend, the fan.
Yay for that customer at work who asked why we skipped spring and moved straight into summer.
Yay for me -- I told that customer it was to get a jumpstart on construction.
Yay for angry people, who can't help but be happy in the sunshine.
Yay for the sidewalk, even though it bit me twice.
Yay for the late afternoon.
Yay for the early evening.
Yay for finding someplace to see all the stars you can see.
Yay for drive-in movie theatres.
Yay for little blue Volkswagens.
Yay for cardboard boxes, iced grande nonfat chai lattes, strawberry lemonade, grass, sunflowers, bluebells, yellow roses, deodorant, the clicking sound that my cat's claws make, my pull-out sofa bed, DVDs, Disney movies, contact lenses, Jill Sobule, WYEP, Subarus, trying to find a job, snow peas, flip-flop sandals, driving barefoot, donut shops, STEAK!, golden retrievers, Gabby's green tie, my mom, my new toggle cap, permanent markers, duct tape, my roommate, the backseat of my car, marachas, my new cellphone, picnics, brie cheese, the Enrico Biscotti Company, gin and tonics, Icky the cat, high cheekbones, Dave and Andy's ice cream, parking meters, clowns, shiny new pennies, graduation, and of course, Matt Smith.

-- Meredith

2004-05-05T17:06:00.000-04:00

In honor of my forthcoming vacation, here's a little break for you, Matt Smith. And now, as they say, for something completely different:

BRANNENISMS:
A COLLECTION OF QUOTES FROM THE MOUTH OF DR. ANNE BRANNEN

On God:
“Aha! There’s Jesus, lookin’ just like a gardener!”
“Glad I could clear up that theological problem: He’s God.”
“Humans often pretend to be God. It’s never good.”
“While Jesus was harrowing Hell, someone had their cell phone on.”
“That’s logic. ‘Should you chew Jesus’s body?’ No.”
“Isn’t that nice? God is sane. This makes me cheerful.”
“God’s very shiny.”

On Lucifer and his demons:
“It has been set up so that they’re actually paying to see the Devil. Which, by the way, they’re not supposed to do.”
“As if it’s [Lucifer’s] idea to fall into Hell…”
“It’s crucial that you like the Little Demons.”
“Sometimes you have long spaces of demonic hilariousness.”
“Demons are especially bad at messing with the audience.”

On being a subtle angel:
“They’re very unsubtle, angels.”
“Whoa. It’s the Marys. Quem quaeritis?”

On unobtrusively holding a palm in your hand:
“I’d like for you all to go home and practice that.”

On the sprinkling of holy water:
“Great. My silks have been blessed.”

On the slaughtering of innocents:
“Lassie! Lassie! The innocents have fallen in a well!”

On interpretations of the Bible:
“And then Herod did taketh his sword, and did try to whack the star from afar.”
“Vatican II? Is that when limbo bit the dust?”
“Religion: According to Me. Why I Don’t Work in the Theology Department.”

On “The Greatest Hits of the Cycle Plays”:
“Gee, I wonder if Basingbone might put on a St. George play this year?”
“They’ve hired a fiddler.”
“What do they do to earn money? They have what are known as ‘church ales,’ which are the equivalent of bake sales… with beer.”
“Woo-hoo! The crucifixion!”
“It’s like… The Three Stooges Crucify Christ.”

On what Noah’s wife could’ve said:
“Oh, did you talk to God today? How’s he doin’?”

On biblical realizations:
“Well, it starts raining. That’s a bad sign.”
“ ‘Cause apparently he’s not a stupid child and has noticed that they have brought no goats.”

On making a pitch to the Red Masquers:
“Castle of Perseverance! You can do this in your backyard!”

On Mary Magdalene:
“She’s a princess… and she has a castle. I love Mary Magdalene.”
“Jesus has died and we have the harrowing of Hell… but we don’t see that… because we’re in Marseilles!”
“And then a priest shows up in the wilderness because… one just does.”
“And so Mary goes to Jerusalem, with her new friend, Lust… and they go to the bar.”
“Mary’s good now… which is nice.”
“She’s preaching… which, as we know, women were not supposed to do… at this time. But it’s okay, because she’s Mary Magdalene, apostola apostolorum, and the star of our show!”
“This is actually the only instance in the history of drama – that I can recall – wherein the audience becomes the ocean.”
“The child is not dead, but apparently will be soon, on account of his being left with a dead woman.”
“Then, caeli gaudent… which you would assume, I guess. I suppose whenever someone gets assumed into heaven caeli gaudent.”

On Herod:
“He’s the guy who can’t control anything.”

On singling people out, whether or not to:
“I would.”

On how to seduce a woman:
“You’re cute. Real cute. I mean, cute.”

On the Middle Ages and humans therein:
“Mercy: The Rin-Tin-Tin of the Medieval World.”
“Oh the horrible Middle Ages! And then the Renaissance came and everything got better… Oh yes. Didn’t it just?”
“They probably called it, ‘That Play With the Little Demons In It.’”
“And what a life it was in the Late Middle Ages!”
“Times like this you could say, ‘The Reformation. Coulda seen it comin’.”

On humans:
“Most of the humans don’t actually think.”
“You’ve been studying Shakespeare. I know this because you’ve been growing up in America. And you’ve been breathing.”
“We are, indeed, paying attention to the stinking dunghills which are our bodies.”
“The truth of the matter is, not all of the humans are happy when they have to sing a Peter, Paul and Mary tune.”
“The humans are not moderate. Even the ones who look kind of quiet.”
“And they all follow the star. And we do, too. ‘Cause we’re human.”
“History tells us that adultery does not usually work out well… But the humans are going, ‘Well… maybe this time…’”
“None of us can ever know what we mean to another person in their heart.”
“I’m really looking forward to not being one anymore.”

On the theatre world, costumes, and props:
“Your wardrobe mistress would kill you with her knitting needles.”
“I mean, you can hit people with your shovel… but… it’s not good in a war.”
“We’ve got space here and a little distance… but we have no fourth wall! Danger!
Danger!”

On spelling and grammar:
“It’s just like the prod… prod… prodig… pro-di-gal… you know… that guy who goes away and then comes back?”
“CHI-VAL-RY”
“ ‘Iwis’ means, ‘really, truly, no kidding.’”
“I spit on spelling. And I don’t play Scrabble.”

On sarcasm, and how it should be used on Dr. Jay Keenan:
“Dryden. We love him. He’s so… deep.”

On 7-year old sons, and what to say when one tells you he wants to be a writer:
“My son understands that there are different levels of discourse.”
“Great. I am so glad.”

On Everyman:
“I’ve become reconciled with Everyman.”
“It’s so nice to be reconciled with to Everyman. I kind of missed it while we were having a fight.”

On the projector screen:
“No, no! You’re a bad thing! I hate you!”

On learning things from characters in plays, whether or not to care for them and what to do if we did:
“What’s wrong with you? Go to therapy! You! Get your pants on!”
“If I learning anything from this play, it’s not to let my wife run around with a priest. Which, in my case, is sort of irrelavent. I mean, there’s something about pies and a candle and a bucket, but it’s not taking me anywhere.”
“If there is anyone there that is connecting with him, he is the most uncomfortable guy there… having the worst time.”

On audiences:
“Because, all of a sudden, we’re sitting in his living room… with nefarious designs upon his coat.”
“You’ve just had a nice little dinner, and you’ve had a play about the wonderfulness of your system.”

On the Medieval and Renaissance Players:
“We stand for inferior drama.”

On Medievalists:
“This is what we Medievalists do. We take the baby and put it in the bathwater, and then we find another baby and put it in, and then another, and another. And then… we take all the babies out and go, ‘We don’t know what happened!’ And then we take the babies later and rehabilitate them.”

On plays, interpretations of:
“It’s as if society’s supposed to be boring.”
“It takes all the ideas of the nobility out to their logical, stupid conclusion.”
“Here is my lesson. I am a Medieval allegory.”

On Anne Brannen:
“This is because I am in no way predictable.”
“You wouldn’t think I’d need a calculator. But… I’ve met me.”
“I’m the non-Barry Manilow alto.”
“I need constant reinforcement on account of the incredible badness of me.”
“I live right next door to Liza Minelli.”

On the classics:
“Oh… too bad for you, Oedipus! Here’s your curse! Ooop! Marryin’ my mother! Thought she was somebody else!”
“Poison in the ear. How often did that happen?”
“Indeed, how can we love somebody else until we go stab someone? That’s why the divorce rate’s so high. There aren’t nearly enough revenge tragedies.”

On things to say to students at Duquesne:
“Late would be, like… later.”
“They put me in a bad room for standing on desks.”
“I need a graduate volunteer and an undergraduate volunteer to administer the Holy Sacred TEQs of Our People.”
“I’m changing the subject… and it was subtle!”
“No! Let’s have a bake sale!”
“What is a piget?”
“That wasn’t funny, was it? I blame SpongeBob.”
“It’s really good to see you. I’m really excited about the part where you’re not dead.”
“Stop writing things down!”

On Joe Barron:
“Our Ignorance was so ignorant.”

On good and bad ideas, the fine line between:
“He was arguing for the Reformation of the Church… Oh well!”
“And then the Bad Angel said, ‘Go and get your son.’ And Mankind did say, ‘Okay. That’s a good idea.’”
“There may have actually been some whips and chains… not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

On Bumper Stickers for England:
“England – We Love It!
“The Queen – Good Stuff!”
“England is an entire field of mud.”

On things not said in the Middle Ages – or ever:
“Gee, I think I’ll sit down and read the Castle of Perseverance!”

On the dead, death, and dying:
“Ay, these are spectacles to please my soul! Grr-eat.”
“… and when they died, which was the fashion then, as it is today…”
“… it makes me want to go kick some dead people.”
“Later on, we’ll be able to see without mirrors… meaning when we’re dead… not, y’know, next week.”
“We care so deeply about [religious issues] that we’re going to slaughter thousands of our countrymen.”

On modern vs. medieval insanity:
“If you run into anybody on the bus going, ‘Ha ha ha ha!’ would you please come let me know?”
“Meanwhile, back in Jerusalem… ‘Out, out, harrow!!!’”

On deep thoughts:
“You don’t know where the edges are unless you can feel them.”

2004-05-03T14:02:00.000-04:00

Mr. Smith,

I spent last night at Dee's at Tim Colbert's going-away party. Not the whole night. Just a little part of it. If I'd spent the whole night there -- like, slept at Dee's? -- that would've been strange. It was kind of stuffy there anyway. I wouldn't ever want to sleep in a bar. Well... that bar. I don't know about other bars. I never thought about it before.

On the above salutation: Yes. I think it's about that time in your life where people might call you "Sir" or "Mr. Smith." Of course, with all those people (waiters, mostly, I suppose) calling you Mr. Smith, we might have to postpone the trip to New York and go to Washington instead. But then you'd have to be Jimmy Stewart, and he's dead, so I can't work that one out at all in my head. Seriously though... I've been "ma'am"-ed, which is ludicrous. I'm not a ma'am, I've never been a ma'am, and I don't know if I'll ever be a ma'am. (Elliot the Flaky Barista calls every woman "miss." I think he just gets away with it because he has big ears like a little kid.)

Emma and I spent two hours in that cold room in College Hall watching "The Matrix." (You know the room... It's the one right next to the hot room? I think they're 104 and 105 and one's always hot and one's always freezing and Duquesne always throws the Comm courses in them.) This was supposed to be our "final." All in all, what it ended up being was an hour and a half nap and a half hour spent really NEEDING TO PEE. When we finally broke out of there, we made a mad dash (is there such a thing as a "happy dash" or a "sane dash..." maybe that'd be a hyphen) to the restroom where we had what could only be described as a "Zen pee." (Not to be confused with a tee-pee, as this one is not triangular in form.) It was glorious as only peeing after a long time of not peeing could be.

Things I've realized/noticed/discovered today:
a) When you've reached a certain in point in schooling, you remember everything else, but you forget your pen -- but then it's okay, because you're (well... I'm) almost done and it doesn't matter that you don't have a pen.
b) The World Wide Web is stupid. I don't know who came up with it, but it's awful. And it's the worst kind of awful, because I love it. There's not a thing I need to know out there that I can't find on the World Wide Web. And that's the problem.
c) There's not a single person that I know in the North Jersey/NYC area who is going to be home May 28-30. Which sucks for us. But, you know, whatever... we're going to see RENT.

Love,
Meredith

2004-04-28T13:22:00.000-04:00

Matt Smith,

I'm skipping class to plan my vacations. If the irony of this escapes you, I'll have to bean you over the head with something heavy. Say, a chair, or a television, or my Abnormal Psychology book (although I really don't know how heavy it is since I'm SKIPPING THAT CLASS TO PLAN MY VACATION). I love life.
New York! Finalized vacation time at work... Looks like I'm going to have to be back by May 31, which, as you've previously mentioned, is Memorial Day. I guess everyone that works at the South Side Starbucks will be busy remembering things that day, and I have to be there so they can have time to do that. (Memorial Day. Who thought that one up?)
I guess there's a few questions that we should answer before we actually GO on this trip, not the least of which are: how are we getting there? and where are we going to stay? We could drive, and that might be interesting, I guess -- and we'd have to find a place to crash near the city ('cause I refuse to drive there -- that is right out). Or, we could take a bus. It's $180.00 total for both of us to get to New York on a Greyhound -- round-trip, no crazy bus-switching. But I can't really say I LIKE buses. It'd be nearer to the truth to say I DON'T LIKE buses. Or I HATE buses...

Side note: The last time I took a Greyhound bus to New York, Emma and I encountered a toothless, garbage-bag, duffel-bag toting man named Barry who spent the entire trip from NYC to Pittsburgh riding locked in the bus's bathroom with a pogo stick. No lie. He got on the bus, dropped his duffel and garbage bags in the front overhead storage area, took his pogo stick, and hightailed it to the back of the bus, chattering nonsense. The bus driver loaded up, put the bus in gear, and about 5 minutes down the road, she yelled, "Could someone back there check on Barry from time to time?" And someone must have said, "Sure" or "Yes" or something, but I looked around and everyone was acting like this was nothing. Em and I sat there in silence, staring at the backs of the seats in front of us for a few long miles before she said, "I tried to make that normal... but it's not."

And thus, I HATE buses. (Phew. That was good to get off my chest.)

So, there you have it. Vacation Matt Smith/Meredith-style. No place to stay and no way to get there. We'll figure it out. I'm sure we will. Because, well... we have to. Or we're not going.

(Did I mention I have to be completely moved out of my apartment before we even leave on this weekend excursion? Yeah. So... I mean, that's out there.)

Love,
Meredith

2004-04-23T12:33:00.000-04:00

Oh, Matt Smith.

Sometimes I forget how funny you are. I know you hate it when I describe you to people as being The Funniest Person I Know, or more often The Funniest Person in the World, but I give credit where credit is due. You have the unique curse of being able to make just about any situation seem both plausible and entertaining...
Wednesday night after Medieval Drama, Monica English and I headed off to the South Side via the stairs. Monica LOVES the stairs. She is the Stair Queen. I've told her several times how ridiculous it is to take the stairs to the South Side, especially when we're leaving Fisher Hall, but we go anyway. (I think it'd be easier -- and considerably less hilly -- if we just took the elevators to the ground floor and walked through the Armstrong Tunnels. And I guess one could say that I LOVE the Armstrong Tunnels, that I am the Tunnel Queen -- judging by the number of times I've mentioned them in my past few musings -- but, you know... whatever.)
So anyway, we're walking uphill to go downhill -- another reason taking the stairs is stupid and wrong -- and we cross the little metal death-bridge that leads to the stairs. All of a sudden, we're there at the very top of this long, killer set of stairs, and the wind is careening towards us. I swear to God, both of us were trying to take the first step down the stairs, and neither one of us could move our legs... So there we are, at the top of the stairs, not moving. That must have gone on for at least a minute before we could move -- and before we realized how stupid we must have looked.
And while we were walking, Monica looked at me and said, "You know, I wish Matt were around to tell this story."
Well, yeah. Me, too. My telling of it really paled in comparison, I suppose. Maybe at some point, you could pretend to be me and go back in time to that precise moment (I guess you'd have to ask Monica to go with you, and I don't know if she'd be entirely up for that... she's a busy girl), and then you could write it down for me, so I can remember it the way I'd like to.
At any rate -- I'm going to go pop some Advil. Graduating's giving me a migraine.

Love,
Meredith

2004-04-21T12:41:00.000-04:00

Matt Smith,

It was nice to finally get to talk to you the other day. It made you more real. You know how you have those friends? The ones you talk about but never hear from? I'm constantly telling Matt Smith stories: the McDonald's french fries that were my back-to-school present that I now keep in my car, the time we realized there was a feeble little tree planted in honor of the "friends and family of Duquesne University" who were lost in the September 11th attack ("it'd be a shame if someone flew a plane into it"), and the Four Eagles of Catholicism. But then you're not here. And so the stories seem as if they never happened.

I'm supposed to be writing a journal entry for my Communication History class and writing a paper for Medieval Drama right now. But, in doing the journal entry, I realized that two of the essays that were assigned reading are not actually in the book that they're supposed to be in. Moreover, they're not in any book. I mean, I guess they're in SOME book, SOMEwhere. But they're not in any book that I own. Or that Emma owns, because I haven't actually paid her for the use of her books yet. I think initially I was supposed to pay her $75, but then we made dinner one night, and I paid for the groceries, which came to about $32. So, $75 minus her half of the dinner groceries ($16) is $59. I guess when we bought the groceries I said something like, "Don't worry about it" or "I owe you money anyway," but what does that even MEAN? Does it mean, "I'll pay for the groceries AND I'll pay you what I owe you?" Or does it mean, "I'll pay for the groceries, and then I won't owe you as much?" These are some of the rules that should be written down in the General Rules of Friendship. But I don't think there's a chapter on Lending Money to Friends, because you're really not supposed to do that. Everyone does it, though... saying "I'd rather lend it to you than to someone else," or "At least I know I'll get it back," even though most of the time, they don't get it back, do they? It must be one of those rules that's meant to be broken.

All in all, I guess if you ever needed money, I'd lend it to you. I'd break that rule for you. But you're getting back from Spain on your own wallet. (Don't really try to fly home from Spain on your wallet though. You're not any good at flying without your wallet's help. Even if you do hold out your arms like an airplane.)

Love,
Meredith

2004-04-19T12:22:00.000-04:00

Hi friend.

I'm sorry that I'm ridiculously difficult to get a hold of... You called once while I was at work, and once while I was in a choir rehearsal, and I'm sorry. The phone's on, but I don't answer. Sort of like "the lights are on, but nobody's home," only I'm really there, even though most of the time, I'm not at home. Or something.

Yes. I'm alright. I'm failing out of a class -- maybe two -- and everyone but me seems to think that this is an okay thing to be doing less than 3 weeks before my graduation day. I'm trying very hard to be optimistic, but the best I can muster is nostalgia, or something really close... like retrospection. I take all the blame for this sort of thing. It's not just due to the fact that I procrastinate. Yes, it's procrastination -- plus something Anne Brannen and the rest of the Medievalists call "honest recreation" (on par with believing you should "do something good for yourself" every once in a while), plus the growing hatred I seem to have for all things academic, divided by the number of times I tell myself that there's only 3 weeks and "how bad can it be," equals Meredith not graduating on May 8 as previously planned. It's a deadly equation.

But, other than that... I guess I'm okay. I'm feeling a little wonky every now and then. ("Wonky" like off-balanced, not "wonky" like Willy and his chocolate. And side note: how funny would it have been if Roald Dahl HAD named him Willy Wonky? That would have just been sad.) There's a lot of surreal aspects to my life at the moment, and while I'm adjusting to most of them, sometimes I just look around and wonder, "How did I get here? And how will I ever get back?"

Love,
Meredith

2004-04-07T16:51:00.000-04:00

Hey yourself, Matt Smith.

I saw these two little blond kids today -- a boy and a girl of about 6 or 7 -- walking through the Armstrong Tunnels with a older guy, who I blindly assumed was their father. Only I guess he couldn't have been that old. He may have been 25 or so -- which isn't old at all -- but he seemed older to me because he had to be their dad.
The kids were absolutely loving the tunnel. I mean, tunnels -- on a whole -- are remarkable. They're big and long and empty and hollow-sounding... tunnels. (Side note: My sister and I used to play this game on road trips in the car where whenever we'd come to a tunnel -- I mean, come right up on top of it... right where there was no turning back -- one of us would shout, "Imagine you're a spitball!" Funny the things you remember when you're not trying.)
But back to the blond kids. They were screaming just to hear the sound of the echo. (The little girl was doing more of a squealing, stuck-pig sort of noise, but you get the idea.) And they were singing, but not real songs. Just songs you'd make up if you were six and wanted to hear the sound of your voice singing back to you in a tunnel. And they were shouting and talking and making up nonsense-words and just being annoying in general.
The thing of it was, I wasn't annoyed. I hate kids. Especially the loud, squealing kind. And all I could think was, "How perfect."
All of a sudden I wanted so badly to be six again. I wanted to love the sound of my own voice, talking back to me, but not really saying anything at all. I wanted to be a little blond kid, whose dad was only 25 and happy.
I wanted to not have to worry about how loud I got in the tunnel.

Love,
Meredith

2004-04-03T14:34:00.000-05:00

Matt Smith,

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. Are they right? Who are "they" anyway? Do they even matter? And why, if we don't know who "they" are, do we always seem to put so much weight on what "they" say? I suppose at one point "they" were just one person, and then he (or she) became so important that they earned an reputation for being wise, creating a situation where they have the wisdom of many -- thereby making them "they."
Or maybe they were just really fat, and people thought they looked like two or three normal-sized people put together. The fat person probably thought that was pretty cool (being referred to as "they," not being fat -- that just sucks) -- and maybe he or she thought that it was some sort of term of endearment, when really it was just a term for fat people.
Fat people have it rough. They can't ride roller coasters -- you always need a coaster buddy. (Unless it was okay that they be their own buddy. Then that's cool.) They have to sit in the handicapped seats at the movie theatre, which is awful, because I really am not of the opinion that obesity is a handicap. Maybe selective obesity could be considered a handicap. For instance, if one had an inexplicably fat left foot, or a really chubby elbow. Aside from being just sad, that could be hard to deal with. How could you drive a standard transmission with a fat left foot?
But, I guess if the fat people want to be handicapped, that's okay. I hear it's in now.

-- Meredith

2004-03-31T17:01:00.000-05:00

Greetings, Matt Smith.

You're always comparing the Red Masquers to a ship. Now, I know you like ships and all, and it's a commendable analogy. As analogies go, I think it's probably one of the better ones -- although I'm a sucker for a good cliché.
One of the bigger problems with that, though, is that the ship has to eventually dock someplace. It has to stop. A ship can't sail on and on forever without coming to shore for supplies or to get rid of the garbage or to drop the dead bodies off. Sure, there's a lot to be said for "sailing away into the sunset," but the thing about sunsets is -- they get dark.
I'm not sure where all this is coming from. I'm not knocking your ship-thing; I think I'm just sad. It's not an entirely foreign feeling for me, and I'm getting more and more used to the way sadness sneaks up on me. I can be anywhere, just doing my thing -- cleaning, singing, walking through the Armstrong Tunnel -- and all of a sudden, there it is, looking over my shoulder, chewing loudly on really crunchy things and reading my paper. I guess a lot of people would call it a "sinking" feeling, but for me it's not (probably because I'm so bitter about your ship references... and ships sink occasionally, which is not good at all).
It's nearer to nothing. My sadness is other people's apathy.
And it's horrible.
But that's not to say that I'm apathetic about leaving the Masquers. I'm not. I have a lot of feelings about it -- not the least of which is that sadness/apathy cross-breed. I just haven't figured out the best way to say it.
Because my sister says that everything's a show... everything's a story. And being a part of the Masquers is its own sort of story. Leaving them behind makes me curious as to just what sort of story it's been.

Love,
Meredith

2004-03-26T17:07:00.000-05:00

I feel that I should be careful, lest this Blog turn into just an inventory of "All Things That Meredith Hates." I do hate a lot of things, though, including motorized wheelchairs (and often, the people in them), pudding, artificially blue foods, and my sunroof.

Lately, I've discovered that while I love driving, I hate drivers. (This falls in the same category of Hated Things that acting and actors falls into, and I'm sure I'll dive headlong into that topic at another time.) Driving is fluid and soft and wonderful. It's one of the only things humans can do that will make them feel absolutely weightless and in control. Like swimming. Drivers, on the other hand, are mean-spirited, ridiculous folk who have little concern for the well being of anyone who is not in their particular vehicle.

Drivers without passengers are the worst. I like to think they're just lonely, but really, I think it's one of those things that has to do with having more concern for your family and friends -- or your dog -- than you might have for yourself. I used to spend a lot of time with a relatively impulsive driver who, when I would grip the door or my seat in fear, would assure me, "You're not going to die while I'm driving" or "I drive safer with you in the car... really." Why is that a part of human nature? Flirting with death. I just don't get it. There's a lot of other -- better, warmer -- things to flirt with.

Driving in Pittsburgh is another sort of beast. (Read that again. It's funny. Don't you picture a beast -- big and hairylike -- just driving a little VW Bug around the city? The English language is fun.) I hate the Pittsburgh Left, and the stupid, stupid parking lanes (but not between the hours of 4 and 6pm!) and the stupid, stupid drivers with big hair or mullets or sandwiches. (The ones with sandwiches are often the worst. Have you ever seen the size of a Pittsburgh sandwich? They're immense.) I swore to my sister yesterday, after having several of these mullet-people pull out in front of me without warning, that I must have some sign attached to my car that reads: "Go Ahead. I Won't Hit You."

There must be a button for that somewhere in the car. I'll be darned if I'm not going to find it.... and smash it to smithereens.

2004-03-23T14:56:00.000-05:00

Dear Matt Smith,

I feel the need to tell you that you misspelled my name in your last correspondence. It's Meredith -- with three syllables -- not "Merdith" with two, which, while appealling as a name (it reminds me of mermaids and mermen... or, I guess, merpeople), is not actually MY name. My name is Meredith. And that's better than any name I've got. (If you stare at that sentence for a while, it'll go all wonky in your brain. I swear. Give it a shot.)

There are a dozen and some odd reasons why you're getting this e-mail. One of the larger ones is this: I started a Blog. One of the problems with modern-day Blogging (and I guess Blogging is and always has been modern, unless, by some odd turn of chance, some fallen civilization out there invented the Blog and we don't know it. Like the Incas. I bet they were Bloggers) is that, although it's supposedly an online "journal" meant for your own purposes, you're constantly writing to entertain your audience. And that could be ANYONE, right? There could be some drunken, toothless man in a woolly mammoth costume out there right now reading this blog and I wouldn't have a clue. Which is more than scary, 'cause it's the truth.

Ah. You've caught on. "This blog." That's right. This e-mail is indeed a blog. And after I copy and paste it, it'll REALLY be a blog. (Blog's a funny word. It makes me think of "logs." Only with butter. Like a fat, buttered log.) I guess my thought was, if I'm going to blog, and I'm going to inevitably try to be entertaining, I might as well write to the person who entertains me the most, and in turn, makes me entertaining. I glean my entertainment value from you, Matt Smith. (So you'd better hurry up and be famous so I can be famous, too.)

SO... yeah. Now that we've got all that in the open. Every Blog has a purpose. What's my purpose? Huh. Well, that's a darned good question. It reminds me of this question that I've been staring at for weeks on my application for Dallas Theatre Center's directing internship: "What are your long-range goals?" Basically, what's your purpose in life? What's your aim? I'm certain that I'm reading into that a bit much, because -- well, that's what I do best... But all the same, I keep thinking, "I don't have any long-range goals." Or maybe I do, and they're just so long-range that I can't see them yet. Like something that's, y'know, really far away. In the distance. Far. Away. What's worse is, I keep thinking that it's okay for me not to know what my goals are. And it's not. I have to know... if only to fill out that god-foresaken application...

In the meantime, things keep getting darker and lighter and curiouser and curiouser...

Love,
Meredith