News

It's been a weekend with many high points and a few rough ones..

This afternoon, I got a phone call from my sister and since rehearsal was starting, I didn't get a chance to call her right away, so I was panicking. I rarely speak to my sister on the phone. Not that I don't talk to her, we just use the computer, and I'd just been on the phone with her last week, it was a little distressing.

So, I call her back:
K: So, how was your weekend?
Me: Good... how's yours? okay, so it can't be too bad, she's making small talk
K: Pretty good. Anything interesting going on?
Me: No.. we went to a museum and bought some Warhol prints and watched the clock change and watched QVC to laugh. wtf is going on???
K: So, I was calling earlier to tell you that you're going to be an aunt.
Me: Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

So... wonderful news :o) She's due in June.

Marie Antoinette

We went to see Marie Antoinette tonight.

Beautiful movie. The contrast of modern music with period scenes was wonderful. Camera angles were amazing. Story line? Moving, but not so great. I mean... who really needs to see them NOT have sex 10 times? Do they not think we got the point the first three times he shut her down?

The movie did, however, make me feel sorry for M.A. which I guess was the point.

Jello shots and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind Saturday night, anyone? I need some non-intellectual movie-ness.

Time

"Maybe I can convince time to slow up, giving me enough time to grow up. Time be my friend. Let me start again."

Okay, so it's more convincing sung, but I can't find the box with the actual recording of it.. so.. just think about it?

I'll blog about why I put that quote later, but now I'm off on a fabulous adventure!

Lost.

Today, I ventured into IKEA for the first time ever. Now, being naive as I am, I figured, "Okay self, we're on a mission. Go in. Grab storage bins. Leave." Easy, right? Well, nicely enough when I got to the kids' section they were playing 'Love Shack' which made me laugh because I was there to get bins for the theatre. Okay. Got bins, check. Now the hard part -- find check out. I spent 10 minutes wandering around the store trying to find the check out while the IKEA people laughed at me. Argh.

Then, after rehearsal tonight I completely ended up heading towards Baltimore because I was blasting AIDA and got so wrapped up in the songs that I couldn't focus. It was awful.

Laundry should be done in 2 hours and then I'm in desperate need of sleep.

Kids...

Highlight of my day (aside from a very yummy dinner):

Kid: Look I have a toy gun!
Me: That's nice.
Kid: Do you have one?
Me: No
Kid: Does your mom not let you play with them?

...I didn't have the heart to tell him that I no longer live with my mom, so I just nodded.

You know you're obsessive-compulsive when...

...the highlight of your day was switching your closet from warm weather to cold weather and then arranging the new clothes by thickness, style, and color.

Argh.

My question to general humanity is this: What on earth would possess a person, following a lengthy discussion about helping, to call the person who had cooked us dinner and force them to return to wash the two dishes that he'd left in the sink? Anyone? Because I'm angry. Beyond angry. Although, I was nearly in tears with laughter when the absurdity hit me.

Man of the Year is a great movie. Not at all what I expected, a little better. It raises a lot of questions about the validity of our current political system and the role that the entertainment world should/could/might play in the grand scheme of things. Plus, Robin Williams amuses me.

Oh.. and they made a film of the book Children of Man. I squealed in anticipation when the preview came on before I saw the name. The book is amazing. When I first started reading it I couldn't get through the first chapter... but once I got hooked into it, it's just simply amazing. It's not that the words are particularly beautiful, but the story is just so powerful. It's the story of a world in which men have become sterile and people are simply waiting to die. People are killed when they are no longer useful. The world is in uproar. The governments are shutting down entire cities. Those who are members of the last generation born are taking over and ruling in fear. Women push baby dolls in carriages and treat them as if they are real. And one woman is secretly pregnant. The future of the world rests on her shoulders, those of her protector (a scholar who ran over his 3-year-old child on accident) and a small group of vigilantes known as Humana. Go. Read. Before the movie changes the view of it. It's not a new book. I picked it up at the market used bookcart in Florida, but it's amazing.

I still need to get some work done and then try to map out some stuff for November. I hate November. A mixed up time of not yet winter and not quite the end of fall.. too many birthdays I'd rather not remember. Maybe I'll declare it a non-month and skip it all.

I'm going to stop rambling and deal with my anger in a more constructive way... work and knitting.

Here goes.

This is our life.

This is Becca and I, plus unnamed spouses (green) greeting Scott and his unnamed wife. Yay.

Aw... Baby girl!

Okay, so I wrote out an actual post to post here today, but I don't have the time or energy to do so, so that's it. I'm off to Rocky Horror.

Remembering

Tonight turned into a Go Fish/Word game shouting/Life playing adventure. I shall post our Life tomorrow when I have the energy to load the pictures of our rather crammed car.

For today... I'm posting a bit from Are. Because, well, I can. Also, because I was playing the random Coyote Ugly CD I found in my car today and came across my fair song from 2002 "Please Remember". The same song that the junior class of 2001-2002 used to commemorate Mandy following her death in 2001. Anyway... for the fact that I neglected my remembering this year.

....the opening monologue of Are.
Growing up, I knew the word “gay” existed. I mean I knew “they” were out there, but I never paid much attention to the concept of people loving within their gender; it just wasn’t something I’d ever actually seen. At least not until much later, when I found myself seated at a dinner table on a cruise ship: across from me a young man sat discussing the meaning of the ring on his right hand, although only after much prodding from myself and the rest of the girls at the table. “This is something my, uh, ex-fiancé gave me,” he’d said, “but we broke up before it was made final. Too much pressure... They said I should keep the ring, you know, to remember the person by.” In my naiveté, I cocked my head to the side and asked quite bluntly, “So do you like boys or girls?” He stared at me for what seemed like hours, terrified that I was about to shout his secret to the entire ship. Then he finally replied in a hushed voice, “Boys... Is it that obvious?” I shook my head, attempting to reassure him that it was only the manner in which he spoke of his fiancé that caused me to ask.
At the time, I didn’t understand his fear at “being found out”; in fact, I thought his fear was pretty irrational. But, now I understand. You see, I know now, because he is, was, one of my closest friends. I understand, because even now, looking at the pictures of his latest trip to New York City, the smile on his face is strained, his eyes not quite as full of life as they were at that table, his shoulders seem heavier as if he was burdened by something that no one else could carry. Because, in a way, he was.
These images are all I have left of him, these random memories: me gripping the door handle of his precious Saab, praying that he’ll slow down, with ‘La Vie Boheme’ from RENT blasting in the background – my first experience with the musical that now seems to be my life; racing him around the lake, struggling to stay balanced on my new rollerblades while he whisks away from me, well into his second lap, literally skating circles around me, or curling up in the booth of our favorite Mexican restaurant listening to him moan about the boyfriend of the week; him arriving at my house to pick up my failing computer, only to return it the next day running faster than ever, laughing that all it needed was a rest from me; him teasing that all he needs to find a boyfriend is to drag me out with him – if a guy speaks to me, he has to be boyfriend material for him, right?
I understand more now exactly why he was terrified of being found out. He was afraid that people would view him differently, I understand, but I was never more acutely aware than the night he called me, his voice shaking, and asked me to come over to his apartment. When I arrived, he motioned me inside and sat beside me on the couch. He looked somber. I was confused; I mean normally our “serious” conversations were held over chips and salsa at our favorite restaurant, not curled up on his couch. Quietly, he murmured, “I need to tell you something.” “Okay…” I replied, “What’s up?” I wasn’t prepared for his next words: “I’m HIV positive.” I stared. “It’s not true,” I told him. Over… and over. Funny, isn’t it? He ended up consoling me that night. He was brave, solid, in the face of so much uncertainty.
So then came the next stage of our friendship, where I watched his dealings with the medical staff and his eventual decision to no longer stay on the medication that was keeping him alive – he wanted to die on his own terms. These years weren’t all about the illness – there were the random calls, like when he first moved to Virginia on a new job assignment and called me one afternoon to say “Hey, are you near a computer?” “Yeess…” “Um, can you go to walmart.com and find the nearest Wal-mart for me?” “Where are you?” “Uh, I’m driving down this street…” which led to me frantically typing various addresses and trying to find both the nearest store AND directions from wherever he happened to be at that moment. But it also included me, from hundreds of miles away, staring at the images of his face, listening to his exploits with seemingly idiotic medical staff, with his new partner, Michael, who cared for him in his darkest hours, when he feared no one would go near him again, and me, utterly helpless to do anything. I remember all too well the call that came one summer night; of standing beside my car wishing upon any star I could find that it was not the truth, that he and Michael were playing some great, though horridly not funny, joke on me, and he would come on the line at any second, laughing at my gullibility, and perhaps a bit hurt that I believe that the almighty had fallen.
I remember a week later, curled up on a different couch, deep in conversation with another friend about an all too familiar topic, pressing the ignore button on my cell phone when Michael called for the fourth time that day, figuring that yes, he wanted to talk to me, but I could always call him back when it wasn’t one o’clock in the morning. Then, hours later, I, shocked, listening to the message that Michael committed suicide. I blamed myself for months before I realized that nothing I had done that day could have changed his mind. There’s nothing I could do. Nothing – because society had already made their decisions that much harder for them to survive without fear of repercussions.
This story may seem irrelevant, and maybe it is, but it’s something that shouldn’t be buried anymore. For too long, the idea has been that so long as these so-called deviant members of society can be swept under the rug, forgotten, everything will be okay. It’s not true. It never will be. They don’t deserve it. They deserve to have their stories heard, to know that people at least accept even if they don’t understand, to not live in fear of public opinion suddenly turning and the persecution that could soon follow.
I’m not saying that life is necessarily easy for any one of us. That’s the point. Every single one of us deals with these events in every day life. We all deal with temptation and heartache and abandonment. We are all, essentially, human and thus have to deal with the complications of growing up and making our way in this world. And, no, I don’t think that it’s necessarily society’s fault that my friends aren’t here anymore. I understand and accept that events that were sometimes completely of their own control led to their deaths. But, I also think that if we all were a little more accepting, a little more aware, these events wouldn’t even have the possibility of occurring.
Sometimes I feel almost as if I’ve seen too much in my life, like at twenty that I have lived every story possible, that through the lives of my friends I could explain any possible emotion present in human condition. Sometimes, I felt like my brain might explode from my ears at the sheer pressure of it all.
Since you’re along for the ride with me now, I assume it would help you to understand who I am right? I’m Jaime. Affectionately, sometimes even possessively, termed by many of my friends as a “fag hag” or “fairy princess” – you know, the lone straight girl in a sea of gay men? Apparently every gay man needs his hag, or so I’ve heard. Now, this isn’t something I set out to accomplish. I didn’t wake up one morning, burst into the kitchen and exclaim “Mama, I want to be a fag hag!” No it wasn’t like that at all. It just happened.
It’s exhausting. My life is marked by drama and AIDS tests and murder attempts and rape and drugs and fear, and none too infrequently, the possessive friend who wants no other gay male to come near me. But my life is also marked by friendships that run deeper than any I’ve ever known, by the love that flows from our makeshift families, by the utter protectiveness of my friends when I’m too tired to bother protecting myself.
My friends are some of the most affectionate, loving people I have ever met, but this love sometimes comes at too high of a price. Where emotions run high, often so do tempers, which leads to hurt feelings and flying liquor bottles – because you know it’s not a party until the entire group has consumed far more alcohol than is conceived “safe” by the Surgeon General, at least any that I’ve ever heard from.
These people just happen to be my friends. Every one of them has his or her own story to tell, his or her own successes, failures, and struggles have marked the person he or she has become, and the people that we all will become in the future. But their stories are not mine to tell, they are the only ones who can do justice to their tales. So now it’s up to them.

Sleep.

This appears to be another of those... I wish to all that will listen that I could sleep but I cannot so I will randomly write... kind of nights.

I don't really have that much to say. It's been a relatively uneventful week, and most of my creativity has gone into at least attempting to sketch out some kind of outline for the beginning of NaNoWriMo in two weeks. ha. My insomnia will only grow when I have to write at least an average of 1,500 words a day. But then, I wrote most of Are in 2 parts over two nights, and that's 16,000 words, so that's 8,000 words in one night.

I love night time. It's peaceful and quiet, but not always in a good way. For a long time I've been afraid of it, and I know it's ridiculous, because at present I'm as safe as I'll ever be, behind two locked doors and two carded doors and a window I wouldn't even attempt to climb out of, let alone blindly into. Another of the random hang ups that remain from last summer.

It's like silence
An ever present nagging sensation
Wrapped in silky velvet skies
Ceases to push against
And pulls you towards
A lull, a moment, an instant
In which all is well
And fear is squashed.

I spent the weekend driving dog rescue transport, and it was both wonderful and exhausting. I'm a horrible morning person, and of course, I was driving early morning shifts both days.

Saturday, I got up at 5:30 to drive the 2 hours to Hancock to pick up a feral Springer Spaniel and drive him to PA. It was my first transport, so I was a little nervous.. but it went well.

Sunday, I got up at 6:00 and met the guy in a parking lot near here... which was nice. I didn't have to drive forever to get the dogs. I was clueless... and didn't know I was supposed to bring my own leash (and I do not have my dogs here), so the nice man gave me two leashes. I drove two labs, one yellow and one black. The black lab puppy curled up on the part of my backseat that wasn't put down (so they'd have more room) with the Smurf that was sent along with her as company (Sunday morning was the first time she was separated from her sister). The yellow lab, Princess, decided that riding in my lap is fun... for her. I finally got her to lay down on the front seat with her head in my lap.. but every time I stopped at a toll booth, she sat up and put her head on top of mine. I'm sure we gave the toll people lots of laughs.

It was rewarding and very exhausting.. and of course this Saturday I'm driving two separate rescue transports before doing a show that night. Someone slap me.