it was a white crane; it was a helpless thing.

i’ll be 22 tomorrow.

but it’s just another birthday – another year older, and (hopefully) another year wiser.

so, i ask, is it time to let go of grudges?

i received a card from my grandmother in the mail today. “happy birthday, dear granddaughter,” the cover said. it was illustrated in pastels and subtle, glittery text, reaffirming the fact that my grandmother will probably still be sending me glittering birthday cards no matter how old i get.

i was surprised to get a card from her, of all people. i didn’t get one last year, nor the year before (that i can remember). i just figured that she was still playing her games and thought that i would care if i didn’t get a card – which, i didn’t.

i don’t have a lot of respect for my grandmother (my dad’s mom, to specify), and i’m not going to go into the details here. i suppose i could, but out of respect for my father, i won’t. i lost respect for her over the last 6 years or so, and it was a direct result of the way she treated me, my family members, and stupid little mind games she’d play to get attention.

i didn’t make any real effort to contact her or call her; the way i see it, the telephone works both ways. after moving to chicago, i pretty much lost all contact with her, saw her MAYBE once a year, and then when she got angry and pissy because our family was still in contact (and hanging out with) my aunt’s ex-husband, it was kind of the last straw for me. the ultimate last straw was when she refused to come to my little brother’s high school graduation, even though my family offered to come pick her up for the 1/2 hour drive.

i refused to call her or talk to her, and i know it bothered my dad. i remember him calling me last winter and pleading with me to give her a call for her birthday – the hour long conversation went back and forth, my explaining (and yelling, sorry dad) about how she shows no respect for our family and that i refused to have anything to do with someone who treated her own son the way she did. but i could hear in his voice that it hurt him, and i consented with, “fine. but i’m only calling her for you. i’m not calling her because i care.”

i still feel guilty about it, but that’s how i felt, and kind of how i still feel. like i’ve said before, i’m a good person – but if you fuck with my family or my friends, i can be a real bitch.

the birthday card that came in the mail caught me off guard. when i saw that it had been addressed properly, my first thought was, “huh. either dad called her and asked her to send this, or she actually took initiative and asked him for my address.” upon opening the card, i found a generous check and a magazine clipping entitled “grandmother’s pearls of wisom.” it was cute, the message inside the card was generic, but at the same time, the effort made me smile a little. when i pulled out the magazine clipping, i found a handwritten message on the inside cover:

“lindsey, could you find time to call grandma once in a while? i’d love to hear from you.”

immediately, i felt guilty, defensive, and apologetic, all at the same time. she’s an old woman – maybe she doesn’t realize the games she plays. maybe her arithritis prevents her from dialing a phone. maybe she DID realize the way she’s acted, and now she feels bad about it.

either way, i’m an adult now. it’s time to move on and just accept the way things are – if not for my sake, then for my father’s.

dad, i’ll get grandma’s number from you tomorrow. i’ve got a phone call to make that’s probably several years overdue.

so we choose between reality and madness; it’s either sadness or euphoria.

i will always expect more of myself than of others.

this is both a fault and a blessing.

steady as she goes; are you steady now?

i did something last night that i am not proud of.

no, i take it back.

i AM proud of it. i’m not a violent person generally, but i had to stand up for myself last night – for that, i’m proud.

after the intense thunderstorms last night, the weather took a turn for the better. granted, it was still incredibly humid, but it had cooled down to at least 80, there was a cool breeze blowing, and the sky had decided to turn off the monsoon weather for the time being. so, i decided to walk home from work.

it was about 12:30, friday night. it may not always be the smartest idea to walk 2 miles in the dark by yourself, but it was a friday night, it was beautiful out, and there were people everywhere. that, and i was too cheap to waste money on the cta.

so i walked. and it was lovely until i started to approach wrigleyville.

then, the cat calls started.

to be fair, drunk wrigleyville boys like to cat call anything without a penis.

however, some of the girls seemed to enjoy it. ESPECIALLY the ones who could easily have been mistaken for a hooker looking to turn a trick – skirts were barely there, as were shirts.

that being said, i don’t think it’s EVER ok for cat calls to happen, to either sex, no matter how someone is dressed.

i, on the other hand, was dressed in torn, espresso-stained blue jeans, ratty converse, and a conservative tank top. i was gross, sweaty from working in the coffee shop for the last 6 hours, and simply trying to navigate the sidewalks in order to get home. i realized too late that i probably should have steered clear of the whole clark street area, but i was trying to be rational by taking the busiest, best lit route home.

there was this guy.

let’s call him “bro-dude.”

bro-dude stumbles out of some cantina on clark street (moe’s?) with two of his buddies. bro-dude himself is so drunk that he can barely walk without holding onto the outside wall of the bar; bro-dude#2, the guy on his left, appears to be just as drunk as he is and they are leaning against one another as they sway down the sidewalk. the third guy (and i will not call him a bro-dude because he was actually sober and behaved like a human being) was trailing a few feet behind them, clearly annoyed by the fact that he was having to play “babysitter” this evening.

bro-dude stops about 20 feet in front of me and elbows bro-dude#2.

“hot bitch,” he says.

bro-dude#2 tries to focus on me but can’t. “yeah, dude. fuck.”

bro-dude lets go of his human support stand and tries to high five me as i walk past. i smile politely, shake my head, and continue walking.

“WHOAAAA, bro. bitch is too good for us,” yells bro-dude#2.

“too good for us, bitch? you got a nice ass, baby – come have a drink with us,” offers bro-dude.

i continue to ignore them, but it is difficult to out-walk them as there is chad/trixie body debris EVERYWHERE. i am reduced to a painstakingly slow amble towards clark and addison. i don’t even have to turn around to know that they are now heading in the same direction i am.

“chicago sluts are all the same, dude,” says bro-dude#2, a little too loudly. “think they’re too fuckin’ good for us.”

“she’s got a nice ass, man.”

“yeah, man. hey baby – why aren’t you wearing heels? maybe you should just fuckin’ loosen up – it’s hot out here – take your top off.”

it is at this point when i can tell that they are right behind me. i am almost next to the bouncer at the door of the bar, who has been checking id’s and watching this whole scene out of the corner of his eye. i can see them stumbling around behind me in the refelection of the bar glass, and for a moment, it looks like bro-dude has stumbled and gone down, as i can no longer see him.

but then i feel a palm against the pocket of my jeans and a sharp, strong squeeze.

“mmm,” i hear bro-dude grunt.

i didn’t even stop – i just used my momentum, swung around, and caught him neatly on his right cheek bone.

i watched him stumble backward into bro-dude#2, giggling about how “bitch is feisty” and rubbing his cheek. the sober friend ran forward, and before i had a moment to defend myself verbally, he said quietly, “look, i’m so sorry. he totally deserved it. can i give you money for a cab ride home or something?” i declined politely, saying that i lived only a few blocks away; he half-smiled and held out his hand for a high-five. “he’s had that coming for a while. so, thank you?”

as i turned to continue my walk home, i caught the eye of the bouncer – who, to my surprise, was laughing and clapped as i walked past him. i managed to smile at him before i rounded the corner of clark and addison and started heading west to magnolia. in the three blocks between that intersection and home, i realized that my mood had gone from incredibly positive and happy to angry and pissy in a matter of moments.

when i woke up this morning, i was STILL in a bad mood.

hopefully i can shake it before my audition tomorrow.

my girl, linen and curls; lips parting like a flag all unfurled.

for the first time in a long time, i was inspired and electrified by theatre.

for the first time in a long time, i witnessed an entire audience inspired and electrified by theatre.

seeing shows like that confirm why i love this profession.

i want to do that, be a part of that, inspire and ignite people that way.

so thank you guys.

and if you haven’t seen Oedipus at the Building Stage yet, go. please.and bring everyone that you can.

got some whiskey from the barman.

when you want something so badly that it hurts, is it enough to overcome the nerves?

you look at the number of people who you’re up against, the other girls who have resumes far more impressive than yours, the ones who have been around for a while and aren’t just fresh out of college, and you wonder: why me? why did i get the call?

you feel honored, scared, excited, and nervous.

you know that you’ve been busting your ass to get off book, to get those lines memorized, to make intelligent and defined choices, but you can’t help but ask: will it be enough?

sunday evening, here i come. cross some fingers for me or something.

if i went and lost myself – would you know where to find me?

i have an inkling.

double entendre.

do with it what you will.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?

- Bluebird by Charles Bukowski

but i didn’t care where i was going ’cause they’re all different names for the same place.

things you should know about me:

- i will most likely wear inappropriate footwear in the dead of winter; flip flops, shoes that are neither warm nor waterproof, and/or boots that are so well-worn that they no longer provide protection from the elements.

- i will always be cold. always. when it’s 95 and humid, i’ll be the girl in jeans and a t-shirt, not the girl in skimpy shorts and a bikini top.

- i will always prefer biking. the cta is only used in cases of extreme emergency, or when it’s pouring rain and i’d rather not show up at an audition looking like a wet rat. (but i’ll still wish i could have biked, and i’ll probably whine about not being able to.)

- my hair has gone from pin straight, fine, and blonde (when i was little) to unruly, red, and curly (now). i’m fairly certain that genetics had something to do with it, and generally, i’m too lazy to try to tame it. granted, i do try now and then because if i don’t, my hair resembles that of a lion’s mane – but in most cases, i’m kind of ok with the fact that my hair makes me look like the ginger-kid version of the bride of frankenstein (or, for a slightly different albeit similar visual, like i stuck my finger in a light socket). fair warning though: if my hair tries to eat you, i can’t be held responsible.

- i will not waste my time kissing your ass, nor will i waste my time kissing anyone elses, either. i am far too busy to do that, and if that upsets you, you can kiss my ass. (except, not in the nice way; in the “go fuck yourself” kind of way.

- if you ask me to be honest, i’ll be honest. i will not sugar-coat things for you, so if that bothers you, don’t ask me to be honest.

- sometimes i have good comebacks. sometimes. usually, i think of a good comeback after the fact and replay the situation in my head.

- i am perfectionist, sometimes (usually) to a fault.

- i’m a sassy motherfucker.

- i am more than willing to engage in intelligent discussion about anything and everything (religion included), even when i am 100% sober. i find it irritating, however, when people spout nonsense in an attempt to make themselves sound intelligent, ESPECIALLY after indulging in alcohol.

- i am fiercely loyal. i may be easy-going and thick-skinned, but if you fuck with my friends or my family, don’t expect me to remain so easy-going.

- i would love nothing more than to get paid to travel the world; or, at the very least, have the money to travel for a year before having to play the role of “adult.” i still need to visit both coasts, go to burning man, go skydiing SOMEWHERE, go back to europe, visit australia, finally make it to africa, and check out south america (though, the list is extremely long – these are only the few at the top.)

- i can easily sing on a stage in front of hundreds, but i have yet to grow the balls to sing in the shower when my roommates are home.

- if i’m tan (or, in most cases, burned), i have mad freckles on my face. ginger kid, represent!

- i’m bad at keeping in touch. it’s not because i like losing touch, i just get busy and lose track of things; in essence, life happens.

- i keep going through these “i’m trying to be professional” phases where i take my nose ring out with the intention of letting it heal. i’ve had about 10 of these phases, and the nose ring is once again back where it belongs.

- if i was not an actor, i’d probably have more piercings and a multitude of tattoos. i think body art is beautiful (usually), and i never tire of hearing the stories behind each piece.

- i have fairly low self-esteem; i’m just really good at pretending i don’t.

- 99% of the time i use song lyrics for the titles of journal entries. they never have anything to do with the content of my entries, they generally just happen to be the song i’m listening to at the moment i’m writing, or a song i haven’t been able to get out of my head. some day soon (maybe the next entry) i plan to make a list of the songs i’ve used thus far and figure out why they mean so much to me.

adieu, internet. i have to dog walk in the morning, and i’ve stayed up far later that originally planned.

until next time.

i killed my dinner with karate, kick him in the face.

as human beings, we’re always going to play the “what if” game.

chalk it up to human nature, genetic programming, or social influence; everyone does it, and everyone will be doing it for years to come.

it’s not that we are unsatisfied with what we have – sure, in some cases that may be true, but generally, it’s entertaining to, well, entertain the idea of something that we don’t have.

what if i had consented?

what if i hadn’t held out?

what if i had gone to veterinary school?

what if i hadn’t gone to that party?

what if i had read that book first?

what if i hadn’t recieved that message?

what if i had made a move?

and so on and so on, etc etc and blah blah blah.

it’s fun and intriguing to entertain what could have been, what could have happened, who we could have met, how things could have atltered life as we know it today.

but if you had made that decision, or maybe you hadn’t, wouldn’t you be playing the “what if” game using your current senario?

if i hadn’t done that, then i’d be doing this and this, and that would never have happened, i would never have met them, and i wouldn’t be this and this with a degree in that, pursuing a career in that, going to those, and working there. hell, i wouldn’t even be living here, or dating him, or living with them, or trying to do this and that.

confusing, yes. but there are no regrets, and i’m not lamenting the life i could have led, based on the decisions i did or did not make.

it’s just entertaining to entertain them. and i’d rather be sitting here, entertaining those, than sitting there, entertaining these.

i see myself within your eyes, and it’s all i need to show me why.

this is the funniest thing i’ve seen in a long time.

the best part? it’s a documentary – and these people are SERIOUS about their ferrets.

yep. she wrote a song.

this is only a clip – the whole film must be watched to achieve the desired effect.