this birthday

Birthdays make me cry.

But not in a bad way, necessarily.

It's just a little crazy how on one day all eyes feel suddenly turned on you. It's a spotlight that comes whether you are ready or not. It's a day you are told to look forward to since you understood the meaning of cake and candles.

It's a lot.

A lot of good.

But sometimes it can feel a little disappointing.

Like Christmas when you look around and all you see is a floor littered with green and red and gold wrapping. Like your college diploma that you tuck into a drawer and only think about when you pay your loan; that you only view when you have to take it out of the drawer just to pack it in a box en route to a new drawer because you are moving to a new home.

It's always a whole year coming. It's always full of reflection. It's always a measure of love, somehow.

And with 106 and counting kind wishes on my facebook wall, a surprise party masterminded by Drew, a family party in which my mom cooked my childhood favorite meal, three different songs left on my voicemail, cards, and even more messages left on my voicemail that were of the non-sung variety--How could I feel anything but loved?

I cannot.

But at the same time, when I woke up earlier than I would have liked this morning in order to run to a rehearsal so I could choreograph one of the numbers for the production of Godspell which Drew is directing and simply scarfed down a nutrigrain bar in the car, I couldn't help but think--

This is my birthday. I should be eating pancakes. I should be sitting down at a table, at least.

And now you all know that the truth of the matter is that I can be quite spoiled. That when Drew married me he got himself into a bit of a situation. One which calls for total adoration on his part. One which, when taking the needs evaluation test in the book His Needs, Her Needs and pondering which three out of the ten needs presented should Drew prioritize, I simply chose all of the above.

But, I am worth it...right, Drew?

Anyway, this birthday was quite lovely.

I am nothing if not loved and that is nothing if not inspiring.

Drew had to work tonight, but my mom and Jenna picked up the slack.

We went to Philly. I finally got some yoga/dancewear from Lululemon. Seriously, I am the last girl in ACL to finally have some. And this stuff rocks. The pants I got tonight have a little ipod-shaped pocket. Genius.

We ate salads at Potbelly's and then quickly undid those salads by going to the Naked Chocolate Bar.

But it was my birthday. After a nutrigrain bar and a salad, I wanted something to make me smile.

And yes, my sister makes me smile, but I am talking something delicious to eat.
You know, like that.

And while we were there, my dear friend John stopped by and the four of us had a lovely talk. He's a beautiful person and I was lucky enough to see him on my birthday last year while I was in L.A. I love facebook for the times like tonight when John saw Jenna's status about going to Philly and then tracked us down via text.

Today, facebook certainly made my birthday better.

But that wasn't the only thing to make my birthday better...Drew gave me a diamond necklace this year.

What?

He's the only man to ever have given me a diamond. And I am grateful every time.

Certainly for the earrings.

And absolutely for this necklace.

And I will always cherish the ring he gave me 6 years ago this August.

Always.

normal, for now anyway.

Yeah, I thought the same thing at first.I thought that somewhere between the time I left Drew to start rehearsing for ACL and now he had become a wizard.

Or a Jedi.

So you can imagine my relief when I found out that he had simply bought himself a slanket.

Or disappointment.

Home is every bit as lovely as I expected. The flight here was just an hour and I had to pretend like I wasn't completely enthralled by the fact that nobody was seated next to me on the plane. Then I had to pretend like it wasn't the best thing that has happened to me on a plane in a very long time when I got to lay down.

I got a little lost trying to find Drew after I retrieved my luggage from baggage claim. Once the attendant told me that I was standing and waiting in departures, however, things became clearer. Considering I had just arrived, I quickly got myself over to arrivals and then we found each other.

Go figure.

Drew and I got to have such a normal, married couple night.

I mean--it was exhilarating. Just to amble an evening away, hand in hand, being stupid or silly or hungry or whatever but the point was we were together.

I was lucky enough to get some balloons at the Melting Pot.

And the fondu wasn't the only thing that was dipped tonight, either.

And please, just look at the picture because that is the only thing to which I am referring.

homeward bound

My last flight leaving home was a sad one.

I arrived in an overcast Chicago, a glimpse of the next three rainy weeks spent there.

I was wearing Drew's oversized sweatshirt,
but even that couldn't make me smile.

But time, my friends, is a two-sided coin. Sometimes its passing slips too quickly through our desperate grasp, revealing to us once again how little control we have over most things.

But sometimes it's a blessing. Sometimes is runs through May in the blink of an eye and before you know you it you are finally face to face with what you've been waiting for.

I can hardly believe it's been six months since I put in for this vacation while I was playing a snowy and depressed Detroit. At the time I wasn't even sure I'd still be on this tour, but just in case, I wanted to make sure I could get myself home for this first week of June.

You know, get myself home to this guy.

And this little Persephone girl.
And Taliesin, to whom we affectionately refer to as our Grumpy Old Man.
And of course, I can't wait to see some of these crazy cats, either.
And my friends, too...This homecoming is going to be a good one; I can feel it in my bones.

I am a woman blessed with so many dear family and friends.

I am positively rich with them.

Yippee for June!

take your vitamins, but...

I actually never did think it would happen again.

Not since it had been...I don't know, at least twelve years since the last time.

But I guess it's like riding a bike in the sense that as soon as I started feeling it, I knew right what to do.

The unfortunate thing was that my first choice, the toilet, was occupied at the time. But luckily, there was a perfectly acceptable trash can in the corner.

Which is exactly where I headed.

I had been in mid conversation with Brandon, just talking about a friend of his, keeping it casual like we try to do upon first getting up on a two show day. My responses started getting less involved, however, as I started getting really really hot.

I took off the shirt whose only crime was to have sleeves, but at that moment, those sleeves were not an option. Seriously, when I get really hot, I can barely even stand myself. Maybe it's because I just don't sweat, but whatever the reason, undue heat becomes a desperate cause to which I must resort to desperate measures.

Case in point: Once I was taking a modern dance class and made the mistake of wearing a long sleeved leotard. Twenty minutes into the warm-up, I ran out to the front office, grabbed some scissors and proceeded to cut off the sleeves. I went back to class much happier with my new and improved tank leotard.

And I've done the same thing with a pair of jeans, too. I was walking in Philly, it was too hot for pants, and bam! I reemerged from the bathroom with shorts.

Anyway, just so you don't think I was now topless, I had a tank top underneath that long sleeved shirt as I hovered over the trash can. At this point, all vital signs were pointing to throwing up at any second.

What?!?!?!

Ever since I was a young girl and decided that I absolutely hated to throw up and forced my body to keep all things down, I hadn't done it.

But now those old feelings were returning. My mouth was watering. I was incredibly hot. My stomach felt sick sick sick.

Brandon was still just talking when finally I said, Um, I am gonna have to stop you there because I think I am going to throw up...And with that, the gagging started.

Gross, I know.

I hadn't eaten anything yet so there was no food to eject, but well, something came up.

Aren't you glad you know this?

Brandon ran and got me a glass of water, sweet guy, and if I had long hair I would have asked him to hold my hair just like my mom would do when I was little.

Anyway, moral of the story: don't take a vitamin on an empty stomach.

Who knew that all of my years of training to keep food down no matter what as well as the inner vow I made with myself to never vomit again would be undone by one small multi-vitamin?

And how does everybody else in not only my company, but seemingly civilized society know this handy information? Where was I when that memo was passed out?

hello summer

Okay.

So even though I have to do this--
eight times a week during my monologue, it's not all bad really.

I mean, there are total perks to my job.

Take this week, for instance. The Alliance really picked the right place to start off this shebang. While almost the whole rest of the cast opted to stay at the Garfield Suites, drawn in by its two bedroom and kitchen equipped apartments, we chose to stuff ourselves and all our junk into one hotel room (which is on the smaller side of hotel rooms, to boot) in order to be able to enjoy this all week.
Uh-huh. The rooftop pool. Which is basically where I have been every day.

I even swam around in it today. Though my version of swimming is limited to the doggie paddle, the under water basic eyes-closed swim, and the "don't even think about getting this hair wet because I only get it set once a week" grandma frog swim (except I totally get my hair wet). And this afternoon Ian was kind enough to teach me the side stroke and together, we picked our respective apples and put them in the basket while I expanded my swimming repertoire.

But I have a feeling that he ended up collecting many more fictitious apples than me.

There's nothing like soaking in the sun next to a body of water while reading a good book.

And don't you worry about how close I've been to that thinning ozone layer laying on the roof of the hotel like that all week, either. I haven't burnt myself once. I have been nothing if not diligent about applying my sun screen.

Mom, you'd be proud.

yoga

Today a group of us took yoga.

This is something that I've been saying I would do on this tour for well, the whole darned time.

And finally, over a year into it, I did.

*hold for applause*

I actually really enjoy it. And not because it makes me feel awesome, either. At least not while it lasts. With the exception of the corpse position (which is not nearly as morbid as it sounds; it's basically a dead man's float without the getting all wet and wondering if you are going to drown part), it hurts me.

But I really enjoy it for the challenge.

See, something that a lot of people don't know about me is that I am not naturally flexible. Just because I can split every which way, touch my foot to the back of my head, and kick my face does not mean that I didn't work for every inch of it.

I did.

I remember sitting with the soles of my feet pressed together with weights on my knees, forcing my hips to rotate; I would also stand against the wall and tell my pop to push my leg behind my head as far is it would go and just hold it there, trying to ignore the apologetic and horrified face he was giving me over the pain I was in.

While laying in bed, I would take one foot, hook it under the footboard and hook my other foot under the headboard.

And then attempt to sleep like that.

Um, let's just say that counting sheep didn't really aid in the sleep process that night. Pretty much the only thing that did was unhooking my feet and getting out of that inverted split position.

But I worked and worked on being flexible. Ever since a ballet teacher told my class that flexibility was just a matter of deciding how much pain one can take, I made a decision that the exchange of pain for flexibility and therefore the ability to dance well was a deal.

A steal, actually.

Oh, and it didn't help that I come from quite possibly the least flexible family known to the human race. Really. I am not at all positive that all of us were even born with hamstrings. My brothers cannot even sit up straight with their legs in front of them and straighten their knees. I try to make them do it and they cry out like they are being eaten by wild dogs.

Boys.

Anyway, yoga introduces a whole new challenge to me in terms of flexibility. See, I have stretched in certain ways as a dancer and have by now gotten the hang of it.

But yoga is a whole different animal.

The downward facing dog is purportedly the "resting position" but leaves you feeling as rested as Atlas must feel at the end of every day, holding up the earth like that.

It really hurts.

And everything in yoga returns to it. It's your haven, your place of rest. It's like base in tag. Only base never made my shoulders ache, my hamstrings scream, and all the while wonder why the heck my right achilles is so much shorter than my left.

No really, why is that?

Yeah, I don't know either.

But as crazy as this sounds, I really like yoga. I like how hard it is and the feeling of accomplishment I carry with me afterward. I like how it's so good for my body--basically no impact on my joints and perfectly complementary to dancing since it both stretches and strengthens you.

But I would suggest one thing.

Make sure you eat something--anything--that actually keeps you from feeling like your stomach is going to eat a lung if you don't throw something down the hatch in the next twenty minutes. Because a nutri-grain bar just doesn't cut it.

And maybe if you eat something substantial, then when you are told to do some meditative work and focus your thoughts, you might actually be able to mentally envision something other than a cheeseburger. Or pancakes. Or one of those delicious breakfast sandwiches from Starbucks that your friends ate before the class and that you are now deeply regretting the decision you made to pass.

So other than the temporary bout of extreme hunger and the pesky and habitual downward facing dog, I really like yoga.

And I'd like to be good at it some day.

seriously.

Dear Drunk Waitress--

I understand that you were just trying to help.

I get that, I really do.

But when we first walked into the restaurant and you were standing there looking like a soccer mom with a purse slung over your shoulder, a blue t-shirt, jean shorts that managed to survive the eighties, a pair of sensible crocs, and not an apron in sight, we didn't know how to take you. And then when you opened your mouth and gave us some slurred instructions to just "sit oer there," my friend looked at me and asked me if maybe you were our friend Amos' mom.

Not that we think his mom is habitually drunk. Or looks like a soccer mom. Actually, we have heard she is a dancer and is quite lovely, but still--Amos was closest to you when we stepped into the restaurant and then you bossed us around with such a strange familiarity that we figured you must be somebody's relative.

We were confused.

We thought we had seen the last of you once we were seated, but no. You never did feel the need to don an apron or anything official like that, but at least you were honest with us. I mean, you pretended to take down our orders for a while but finally you just gave it to us straight and said, I am wasted. I mean really wasted. Can you tell?

And we appreciated your honesty.

We were trying to be gentle and so as kindly as I could, I asked you, Are you supposed to be working tonight?

When you told us that you weren't officially on the clock, and that you were just trying to help, things became a little clearer.

But not much.

Because the simple fact of the matter was that you weren't helping. Not when you awkwardly sidled up to three different men in our party in an effort to make them dance with you; not when you took away my soy sauce before I was done with it; and certainly not when you confessed to Brandon that you are in love with a man but it's hard because you get hit on all the time.

So maybe the next time you want to help, get good and sober before attempting to give that intended help. And I don't know, maybe put on an apron or something; sometimes looking the part really helps you to get the feel for the job.

And maybe even if you do suspect someone might be gay, you could repress the urge to out and out ask them since you know, it's not exactly an appropriate setting for questions about sexuality.

And it isn't exactly any of your business.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Patron