"She has lost the power of conversation, but not, unfortunately, the power of speech."*

   Y’all ever feel weird and like things aren’t quite the way they ought to be? I’m not a person who fears change, but change does tend to wreak havoc on me. Lately I find myself feeling like I’m the central figure in some David Arkenstone album.

   In case you’re a normal person (or just someone with good taste), you've never heard of David Arkenstone. You should be able to find out everything about him here. My parents, who’ve instilled me with their excellent musical tastes over the years (The Beatles, Yes, Ravi Shankar, The Gershwins, The Allman Brothers, and Led Zeppelin as well as all things classical), had a dark period in the mid-nineties. It was the Arkenstone period, and I don’t want to talk too much about it. Because it’s embarrassing. But his “music” (if you can call it that) always made me feel as though it was about nomads wondering through the desert. But not, you know, like real nomads. These nomads (again, all in my head) were dressed like Olivia Newton-John in that “Physical” video. It was “Physical” meets Lawrence of Arabia. It was (is) terrible. Listen to Mr. Arkenstone sometime. You’ll get it.

   So I’ve been feeling all wandery-in-the-desert, and purposeless and also just epically removed. But maybe also a little bit like Olivia Newton-John in the "Physical" video (spandex, leg warmers, bad hair, headbands). When I get confused about my place in the world, I get tired and take a nap. But there’s really no time for that. I have to take math class (stats, finally!) and find a job (anywhere, anytime) and work on my summer bucket list.

   The bucket list isn’t long, as yet.

   Here it is:

1.  Do a pull-up.

2.  Run a mile.

3.  Run a mile in under 15 minutes (this was my time when I was on the track team in junior high and finished last at EVERY SINGLE MEET.)

4.  Get over fear of bugs, especially spiders, as there will be many of both in Texas.

   I’m currently running for 10 minutes IN A ROW and have accomplished only .63 miles. I’ve killed many spiders and one silverfish, but I’m not anywhere near over my fears. (Especially after hearing Ouisa's boyfriend, Matt, talk in a scholarly fashion about bedbugs, which I'm now convinced are crawling on me at all times.) I’m working on lat pull-downs to make my side muscles stronger.

   But I feel kind of like those people in that American Gothic** painting. I’m standing around with a bunch of tools (or just a broom?) and looking confused and angry in front of a big old barn house: the modern-day, Nebraska equivalent of wandering through the desert.

Nebraskan Gothic

*The quote is George Bernard Shaw. It should be my epitaph.

**Did you know that Grant Woods modeled the figures in American Gothic on his neighbor and his own sister? I also didn't know it was supposed to be a farmer and his spinster daughter. I always thought they were supposed to be a married couple. Wow, art.

"I realize it's about letting things go and not adding more things."*

   I haven’t written a lot lately because everything I do is emotionally fraught and disturbing and seems poised to lead to buckets of tears because I apparently cry at everything now: episodes of Wings, Iron Man III, people not texting me back…seriously, anything. I know, on the slightly rational side of my brain, that much of this has to do with my impending move and the sense of epic-ness that it adds to every song I hear on the radio and every show I see on TV; but more than that, I think it’s still antidepressant withdrawal. Or I’m just back to my pre-medicated level crazy. (Uh-oh. Please, dear lord, don't make me like I was when I was 16 again! It wouldn't be right or fair or decent!) Either way it’s exhausting. And it makes me want to cry more.

   Last week (oh shit, actually it’s been two weeks now), I went surfing. And I went when I was in the death throes of antidepressant withdrawal. And it was the best thing ever. Gabe and Em had gotten me stand-up paddle-surfing lessons and I was nervous and excited to give them a try. I won’t bother you with the details, but they ended up just being regular surfing lessons. But that’s okay because it was great. And I think it was just what I needed to jump-start my brain from the hideous funk I’d been in for a week. Hanging out in the ocean and constantly working at getting up on the board and getting sun on my face and water up my nose and sand everywhere felt really great. And the dolphins swimming around the area (I’m told they’re very social and love people) made it even better. And even just sitting on the beach and watching the water felt good and therapeutic and right. It was wonderful and a much needed distraction from the “must do” list…which is far too long at this point and gives me minor strokes when I think about it. 

How I pictured myself as a surfer.

Closer to reality.

   Brief aside: it was clear that I wasn’t in my right headspace that day because I didn’t even think about Shiders ONCE.

   But in the very fast two weeks since that day, I’ve been overwhelmed with the amount of things I have to do before the movers arrive May 30^th. I’ve been packing, on average, a box a day, and yet my cup still runneth over. This place is ridiculous. When did I accumulate so much crap? I’d like to sort the things into boxes in a way that makes some kind of sense. You know: kitchen, office, bedroom, etc…But there’s so much of it I feel like I’m drowning in piles of garbage. Precious, precious garbage. You can often find things as diverse as a sewing machine, a throw pillow, three pens, two forks, one sock and a coffee table book in a single box at my house. Nothing makes sense. Everything seems at once incredibly important and easily disposable at the same time. I’ve taken bags and bags to Out of the Closet and LA Shares, the electronic recycle and the street corner and still the things keep coming. It’s kind of humiliating in a way. And it makes me want to cry. Again. And more. And maybe one last time for the cheap seats in the back.

A sample of how I pack to move across the country (half-way).

   For instance, today I was cleaning out my dresser and held a t-shirt in my hand for three minutes. My college roommate, Lindsey, gave it to me. It has a picture of a bird of some type (a crane?) in front of a sunset and it says, “Nebraska: Big Cock Country.” After thinking really hard on it, I decided to keep it. But into the give-away pile went an equally amazing t-shirt from a dear friend who shall remain nameless (lest I make that friend as sad as I am). And I’m still agonizing over it. I may even cry over it, if I get the time later.(Oh wait, I forgot: apparently there is always time to cry.)

   That’s my problem: I’m too sentimental. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings by no longer keeping a gift they gave me 12 years ago. Even if I never use the gift, part of me dies seeing it in a garbage bag on its way to the charity store. That’s why I’m a hoarder. I love things too much.

   In a perfect world, I would be less lazy, less sentimental and more driven. I would take these clothes, tchotchkes, unused kitchen shit, and piles of outdated electronics to Out of the Closet tomorrow and then go surfing again and try to re-center my chi and spend some more time with the dolphins. (The dudes at the beach are very in touch with their chi's...not so in touch with the proper use of the English language. When my friend Rebecca pointed out the fire smoke, our surfing instructor asked if it was "arsenal." Sigh. You can't be beautiful and brilliant, it would seem. At least not with all that water in your ears.)

   But the likelier scenario is that I’ll keep drinking cupfuls of chicken broth (that's my new thing...sodium, anyone?) and watching old musicals while I weep and stuff 13 years of accumulated crap into boxes upon boxes upon boxes. (I know. Nice attitude.)

   I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I hate moving. Moving sucks and it can blow me. (Don’t think those were my exact words before, but that was definitely the feeling behind them.)

 
*This is from Dry by Augusten Burroughs.

"Don't ignore it, then. Talk back to it! Say, 'You can't do that number on me, Shit-for-Brains' or something like that. Otherwise it kind of weasels its way into your head whether you like it or not. What I'm saying is, you can't just sit there, you got to get pissed off."*

    Yet again I feel the need to give you an abbreviated rundown of my life, as I have no real points to make about anything and not enough (or maybe too much?) excitement in my life to siphon down into one solid point. So here are several “snapshots” of where my brain has been over the last few weeks.

1.     So I was in the waiting room of the dentist’s office yesterday when the World’s Most Annoying Human came in. She had long dark hair (dyed, clearly, since she looked upwards of 60) and she really wanted some new tooth-whitening gel. The receptionist said she would go in the back and look for the brand the woman was requesting. While 60-going-on-12 lady was waiting, she went over and knelt in front of the fish tank. She said things like, “Oh, you sweet wittle fishes! You so pretty! Oh, why you on you back, wittle fish? That’s not good!” I had to think it was for my benefit, because I was the only person in the waiting room and who the fuck talks like that when she’s by herself? It made me hate her. And it made me wish there was a T-Rex in the fish tank that could scare the shit out of her and her stupid I Heart Barcelona t-shirt.

This is what it would look like if a T-Rex lived in the fish tank. Lacey 2012. (8 million dollars)

2.     I realized recently that my shampoo and conditioner boast “lupine botanicals.” What?!? My shampoo is made from wolf extracts? I thought that was really sick and really awesome at the same time. But then I looked up the word “lupine” and it turns out it can also refer to a type of flowering plant. Bummer.

My shampoo.

But what's this? Wolf parts?

3.     My buddy Sam made me a pillow for my birthday that looks like this:

How great is this? Nebraska with a heart on Omaha!

It's very similar to my tattoo!

4.     I’ve decided I don’t care for Miley Cyrus. She said this in the recent issue of Marie Claire: “You always see the 70-year-old man driving the Bentley. He’s saved up his whole life and now he’s going to do something crazy. Liam and I are really lucky because usually people can’t afford to do the things we do. You should be driving the Bentley when you’re young and hot. That’s when you look dope!” Sorry, Miley. Not everyone is a quatrillionaire because they grew up as a talentless Disney tween. Sorry. Some of us earned our Bentleys (not me, obviously) through hard work. I think you’re an un-nice girl. I don’t like you. At all. And I think your teeth are freakishly small.

5.     Mike burned me a CD with a bunch of Prince songs! I love Prince! Prince, Prince, Prince!

6.     Em and Gabe got me paddle boarding lessons for my 30^th birthday! Bucket list!

7.     My awesome BFF Michelle came in town over last weekend with her BF Danny. Michelle added a new word to my lexicon: maybe we can call transvestite ladies of the night in Hollywood Mandy’s? Get it? Are you an Amanda or a Mandy?

8.     The ants are back...but they've congregated in different areas of the apartment. One or two in the kitchen, one or four in the bathroom, one solitary soldier on the coffee table. What the fuck is happening? I'm washing dishes before I use them! What's going on??

*The quote, irrelevant as it may be, is from one of my favorite books: The Bean Trees by excellent novelist Barbara Kingsolver (who is also Gabe's auntie!). It sort of speaks to my current/ongoing need to express my frustration when people act like douche canoes.

"Tear down that bitch of a bearing wall and put a window where it OUGHT to be."*

            My family has had a few Christmas traditions over the years. We used to see The Nutcracker at the Orpheum every year until my folks decided it was too much of a bummer to have prerecorded music instead of live music. (I honestly wasn’t cultured enough to know the difference, and I’m pretty sure my dad fell asleep at every performance anyway so I wasn’t sure why he cared).

            We then hauled our butts all the way to Kansas City one year to listen to a legitimate orchestra play for the KC Ballet. That was fun, but when you live on the prairie, you run the risk of a last minute blizzard keeping you from getting back home after the show. Especially when home is two hours away.

             We may have also gone to the Omaha Community Playhouse to see A Christmas Carol a few times—I know I did, but I’m not positive I was with my family—but that only maintains it’s charm for so long before it gets old. It’s probably one of Dickens’ most preachy and self-righteous stories.

            But about six years ago my mom got the idea that we should check out a new show at the Shelterbelt Theatre—near 33^rd and California streets (right by California Taco). It was called Christmas with the Crawfords.

           (A quick aside: my dad always insists on driving us to and from the theatre being as it's in what he calls "the rape capital" of Omaha. I always find this funny because my sisters and I attended Duchesne Academy of the Sacred Heart for high school--a mere two blocks up the street. It's one thing if it's the "rape capital" when you're going to a play. Totally different if you're just trying to pass biology.)

Joan Crawford as Mildred Pierce.

            Here’s what it is: on Christmas Eve 1944 Joan Crawford—recently fired from MGM—gave an on-air interview from her Brentwood home to Hedda Hopper. Joan’s career was in the crapper but she didn’t know that she was on the cusp of a comeback like few actors have ever managed (she would soon star in Mildred Pierce at Warner Brothers and usher in what many consider Joan’s “Golden Era”—the late 1940’s).

            Christmas with the Crawfords takes place on the night of Joan’s radio interview. She prepares herself and her adopted children, Christina and Christopher, for the interview, but unfortunately Gary Cooper is having a party next door and movie stars keep arriving at Joan’s house by mistake. They drink her booze, steal her thunder, and insist on performing Christmas carols when they realize they have a live radio audience. But the best part about the play is that every character in it—Joan Crawford, Shirley Temple, the Andrews Sisters, Hattie McDaniel, Gloria Swanson—is played by a man. (Except Judy Garland, but that’s okay.)

Ron Osborne as Joan Crawford.

            If you’ve never seen Mommie Dearest, you may be a little lost, since Christmas With the Crawfords borrows liberally from the film. Mommie Dearest is the tell-all book Christina Crawford wrote in the 70’s about the hell it was growing up as the psychotic Joan Crawford’s adopted daughter. It was adapted into a movie starring Faye Dunaway in the 80’s and became a cult classic.

            It’s kind of sad that Mommie Dearest is all that many people know of Joan Crawford as, in many ways, the movie about her life overshadowed her actual life and her kick-ass career. She may have been a whack-job, but that’s part of the reason she was such a damn good actress. And hardly anyone remembers My Mother’s Keeper, for some reason, so it seems unfair that Mommie Dearest has such a following. 

            We didn’t really know what to expect that first year and had never seen anything at the Shelterbelt, but we were so completely blown away that we’ve been going every season for the past six years (excepting the years when the theatre opted not to do it). With each year, our group has grown to include more people--my Aunt Mel and our family friend, Steve always go; and this year my sister's boyfriend gave it a shot, though my Uncle Tom still would not. My dad won't go because drag just isn't his thing, though he'll acknowledge its place in the performance world (who can deny it?). But it's become my favorite holiday tradition, melding the rites and songs of Christmas with a more unconventional spirit and flavor.

            Along with the many awesome movie and musical references in the play, I just genuinely enjoy watching a bunch of men in drag playing famous actresses of the 1940’s. I love the gays and this is as gay as gay gets (add on the fact that it's an Omaha production and your whole world just flew over the rainbow in a totally unprecedented way). Additionally, it’s a SNAP! Production, meaning that some portion of the proceeds from the show go to benefit the Nebraska AIDS Project. It’s a nice way to feel like you’re doing something worthwhile as you sit on your butt drinking wine while men dance and sing in dresses. This show has everything!

Shelterbelt Theatre.

            Okay, so I’ve blabbered on about this long enough. Here’s the important info: it was created by Richard Winchester and written by Wayne Buidens and Mark Sargent. This year’s Shelterbelt production was directed by Michal Simpson (I think he directs every year). It ended its run early (Dec. 18th), so I apologize for bringing it up now, but keep your eyes peeled—it may be back next year! (And if it isn't, I will complain to the management.)

Happy Holidays.

*The quote is a famous line from Mommie Dearest, purportedly uttered by Joan in real life but for our purposes it's Faye Dunaway as Joan Crawford. The line also appears in Christmas With the Crawfords.