Types.

There are always two types of girls. You've got Peggys. You've got Joans. You've got Mariannes. You've got Chrissies. You've got tomboys. You've got Barbies. It is what it is, what it is.

But what if you just. don't. fit. there? Sitcoms and shows, and HBO, and Cable, and movies have simplified females. They've simplified all of it, but I'm talking lady bits up in here. So, I have a theory, and I welcome you to come in and listen —

"Because we're not ugly, we're hot." Or rather, "Because we're not unattractive, we're thus attractive."

I said this in my head over and over again before typing it out. It sounds pretty douchey and at the least conceited, regardless of its truth or not. If you disagree with the sentence in quotations, first congratulations. I'm glad you have an opinion, more than I can say for a Chrissie. And, second, I said I'd explain. Cool your jets, ya jag.

For women, we're either fuckable or unfuckable. Crass. But, whatever. We're one or the other. You either want it or you don't. There isn't really a one-to-ten scale you can sincerely live by, and one person's opinion can vary from the next. You might call a girl a four, but if there's the possibility of sex, you'll try your damnedest to imagine her as a 10, and you just might succeed. Well done, you. That's just how science works. The thing is sex is just that, and these days for a lot of people who you're having it with is definitely part of it, but not necessarily all of it. I don't know if this argument carries over to lesbians, but maybe it does. As for the other way around, guys get a lot of leeway, which is probably why the phenomenon of the skinny fat abounds and why Kevin James is married to Steffiana de la Cruz in real life, and Leah Remini on King of Queens. I guess art does mimic life for ole Kevin. Woot!

Sure, there are other competing factors. Personality. Intelligence. Long-term Compatibility. Ability to commit to someone. Allergy to dogs. Nail-biter or not. Orders weird at Starbucks. The list goes on.

But, base instincts. This is it.

I've been sitting on this post for months now, and being a single lady in a pool of person, I can tell you right now that this is truth. The challenge is to siphon out and figure out just what it is you want out of life, and whether or not that even includes someone else. It shouldn't really matter whether you're a Taylor Swift or the apparently more attractive girl referred to in Tear Drops on My Guitar.

Procreation, or at least the act of it, is the great equalizer. In the moment anyone can be a ten or a one. And someone's Peggy might be another's Joan.

accentuated features.

We were staring out the windows of my car. Different windows. He was sitting shotgun. I had offered him a ride home from wherever it was I ran into him. We ran into each other. To be nice. Because, I'm nice. Nice enough to spare 10 minutes there and then probably 15 back. Time seems to go slower when you're walking away from something. Especially if you don't know what that something is. Could be nothing.Which is still something. If we're talking things. "Why do people call it shotgun." I kept thinking that. But thinking it like it was a statement not a question. Final. Shotguns are pretty final.

I was driving, so I was staring out the windshield. That's where you stare if you're driving. He was staring out the right window, sometimes straight ahead like me, and then periodically looked to his left where I was, then out the window again. Trees with leaves, new ones, green and tender. Sometimes it seems like people's heads are on a swivel. Like a swivel chair. Distracted. The kind found in offices where people don't like whatever it is they're doing. Which is most people. I'm a person. Like that. That is. Not for forever.

He kept looking at me like he wanted to say something. Or maybe I put that on. I likely put that on. Everyone puts on a different version of themselves depending on who they're with. Puts on the idea of what they should be, failing reality. It's dumb. Because at the end. Down to brass tacks. We're always all going to be ourselves. And if you're an unreal version of yourself then that's just who you are. The kind of person that isn't comfortable being their true self, so then they just become that. That crappier version of their own reality. A caricature. Like the kind drawn for couples at Disney World. Or Navy Pier. Or Battery Park. Big eyes bigger, thin smile thinner, accentuated features. 

But we weren't there or anywhere, and our features were just as they were. Simply sitting in my car at a red light. It had only been about five seconds. The air kicked in. Time passed. Orange: ten, nine, eight, and so on. The song switched, Pandora reminded us of the cost of programming, and the light changed. Looked out the window. Trees glazed in green. Looked behind, and forward again. Caught his glance. And a nice offer of a ride becomes a game because no one can be themselves all the time, further validating how much of yourself you perhaps aren't or are. Who speaks first and what about? The truth is, it didn't matter. And doesn't. And won't. But it'd be nice if it did. If things weren't what you knew they were the whole time. If the caricature of the person to your right wasn't just that -- a caricature. If final wasn't final and we weren't who we were. If.

5 things i love

1. rereading
2. texts from my dad
3. reading texts my dad sends me out loud to whomever is within earshot
4. rereading those same texts to myself
5. my dad

Chipped Nails

Her hands were cold. Not like an ice cube. Those are frozen. But, cold, as if she hadn't worn gloves and then proceeded to wipe snow off the windshield of her car. I had finally gotten the nerve to strike up a conversation a few days ago, and now she was standing in my kitchen. People say that, "Strike up," right? Her hair sort of in front of her face, not touching her cheeks necessarily, but sort of lingering midair as if hoping to brush past for one second.

"Do you want something to drink? Like a glass of water."

I opened the fridge, a chill meeting the cold air of my kitchen. Started rumbling through, the bright light bulb reflecting off my glasses. I'm sure I was looking just great.

"Uh, iced tea? Da. Da. Da. You don't want that, maybe some chocolate milk?"

She laughed. I smiled out from the corner of my mouth. The left side.

"Chocolate milk it is."

Some color returned to her face. Warmer now.

"I'm not going to turn down chocolate milk."

It was definitive, and I liked that. I poured her a glass, well, three quarters of a pint. The cup had an etching of Snoopy painted on it. It went with a set I had gotten for Christmas the year before. A sort of White Elephant gift, but I thought it was cool. A set of four Peanuts themed cups. I handed her the glass, she took it. Had some chipped nail polish on. Like she had painted it the day before, but then washed a bunch of dishes. My mom always wore rubber gloves to avoid a chipped nail. I can hear her.

"I keep it classy, John." To my father. She'd say it again and again. My dad would look up from the table, amused at his wife. I always appreciated how he looked at her. Like she was the only thing saving him from whatever it was that was on the hunt for him. You know?

"The classiest I've ever known." She'd wink at him. Do this weird tip of her hip as if to say, "Thanks," and keep doing dishes.

It was sort of sad when we moved and got a dishwasher.

Anne was standing in front of my sink now. I didn't have a dishwasher. No one in college did. Or likely does now either. She had finished her last gulp. I could hear it. Not gurgling or anything, but you know that sound, when you can hear the swallow and the settling of liquid?

I had put away all the other options. The water. The tea. I leaned against the edge of my counter. It looked nicer than it really was. A sort of fake marble top, but really I think just a Home Depot bought cork with a marble looking design. I tucked my hands in each pocket. She came closer. Not too close to send a message, but close enough to send a vibe.

"Thanks for that." We sort of stood there. A weird pause. What to do. I waited too long. When had she put her gloves on? I didn't know she had gloves. Where were they before? Too long.

"Well, I guess I'm gonna go." She batted her eyelashes. It sounded sweet, like she didn't want to infringe on my "me-time." I liked that she wasn't wearing mascara. I didn't want "me-time." What was happening?

"Oh." That was it. That's what I had.

"Okay. Well, it was fun to, I don't know, see where you live." She leaned in for an awkward hug.

Fuck.

"Yeah. You too." That made no sense.

I was still wearing my shoes. In my own house. Thoughts: Why am I wearing these stupid shoes? These dumb grey Saucony's. That's all I could think. If I had just taken my shoes off it would have been a natural progression to the living room, to the couch, to hanging out on my couch. To take your coat off. To watching a movie. To accidentally falling asleep. To waking up in three hours. To her saying, "It's so late." To me saying, "Yeah, it's ok." To fake falling asleep so that she felt comfortable falling asleep again also by accident, though we both know it wasn't a real accident. And we would be on the couch. And we'd wake up. And it'd be morning. And I wouldn't be alone.

It would be morning already, before we knew it, and we'd be rinsing out that Peanut pint glass without rubber gloves on. We'd smile as I washed and she dried. Fuck.

"Thanks, I'll see ya later." A blonde wisp of hair hit her cheek as she turned back to wave. I waved back. Paralyzed, sitting in my own Fuck, What Happened Here?-ness.

The sound of my door closing. Click of the main lock as I turned it left. Brought up the chain to bolt the door. Slid from right to left. It hung there loosely. She was out in the cold, gloves on, jacket zipped.

And we were alone again.

chasing dreams

This song, Beautiful Girl, just pisses me off. It's such a cop out to explaining what it means to love someone. Its main concentration is on all she does for him, and only minutely highlights how absent he is from this relationship. But what makes it the worst is how fucking beautiful the melody is. At the end of the day, words are just words, even if they're strung together like pearls on a musical string. "You sacrifice so much of your life in order for this to work," he sings, but what does he do? How does he sacrifice? Feeling bad isn't enough, guy.

I wish I could do better by you,
Cos that's what you deserve.
You sacrifice so much of your life,
In order for this to work.

While I'm off chasing my own dreams,
Sailing around the world,
Please know that I'm yours to keep,
My beautiful girl.

And when you cry a piece of my heart dies,
Knowing that I may have been the cause,
If you were to leave, fulfill someone elses dreams,
I think I might totally be lost.

But you don't ask for no diamond rings,
No delicate string of pearls,
That's why I wrote this song to sing,
My beautiful girl

feeeeeeelings

this is how i used to feel, slash sometimes slash often still feel:

CS lewis

"If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world." 

Just something I've been thinking about.

5 things

1. i love fresh flowers
2. i love warm apple cider
3. i love esse nail polish
4. i love my brothers and my sister
5. i love when people use coasters without me asking them to

 continued.

6. i love the way trees look without leaves
7. i love board games
8. i love getting snacks during class breaks
9.  i love a well made bed
10. i love feeling safe

right now there are a lot of things i dont love. but. im trying to remember there are a lot of things i do.

5 things. they're back again.

1. honesty
2. dancing
3. looking forward
4. driving long distances alone
5. weddings

a beautiful spirit

a good friend of mine believes i have a beautiful spirit. i need to hear this these days. because i don't believe it. you know when you've been the lowest you've been and you can't believe that anyone else could ever have been where you are. this. this is where i live.

And after the storm,
I run and run as the rains come
And I look up, I look up,
on my knees and out of luck,
I look up.

Night has always pushed up day
You must know life to see decay
But I won't rot, I won't rot
Not this mind and not this heart,
I won't rot.

And I took you by the hand
And we stood tall,
And remembered our own land,
What we lived for.

And there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears.
And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.
Get over your hill and see what you find there,
With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.

And now I cling to what I knew
I saw exactly what was true
But oh no more.
That's why I hold,
That's why I hold with all I have.
That's why I hold.

I will die alone and be left there.
Well I guess I'll just go home,
Oh God knows where.
Because death is just so full and mine so small.
Well I'm scared of what's behind and what's before.

And there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears.
And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.
Get over your hill and see what you find there,
With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.

And there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears.
And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.
Get over your hill and see what you find there,
With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.

i will not rot. despite my overwhelmed soul, i know who i am even if i haven't been her in too long.

Pretty great life, actually.

Math has always been a bitch to me. For years my mom encouraged me to follow in her nursing footsteps, or to at least get a degree that had some sort of profession attached to the end of it. Teacher. Engineer. What have you. So, like any Marshall, I started off in theatre, thinking actress, then added Journalism thinking celeb journalist, then I dropped theatre and added English thinking professional writer, but of important things -- and shit.

The "and shit" part was very important. The "and shit" part meant that I learned to draw from anything. That I could see something and say something, and it wouldn't have to be to the train conductor about a bag that I found unattended. It meant I could essentially take any sort of class and accurately write about it, reflect on it and become a better human. It sounds retarded. And yeah, my Big Ten education couldn't nix from my lexicon the word "retarded." The thing is, I've become this life long learner. And yes, life is long, so by the time I'm 30 I could be in a different boat, or by 40, 50, 60, really any number, but I think I will always have this thirst for knowledge. I know myself well enough to know this reflective interior won't be going anywhere.

It's made me a better performer. It's enlarged my worldview. Sure, I'm not reporting on murders in Homs. And maybe I'm not reporting nightly for E! news. But I really like my life. I'm glad I didn't pursue a degree that had an end of the rainbow. Mine keeps going with every show, with every class, with every job I've ever had. Pretty great life, actually.

The Perks of Being a Flower.

Well, if you're anything like the flower I brutally massacred in my kitchen, then there aren't many perks. Unfortunately, my begonia is dead. A slow murder from the moment I claimed it as my own.

Begonias. Cruel flowers. But yeah, it's official. I slowly murdered that orange begonia Dexter-style, one soggy root at a time. I thought about taking it back to the shop, withered and dead, but then questioned whether it was really worth the effort. I guess that's how I started out feeling with it as well, so it serves me right that now it's toast, and not delicious covered in jam. But that  gross hardened toast, then soaked damp with I Can't Believe It's Not Butter. What a mess.

a new york slate of mine.

Friend vacations are the best kind of vacations. This year I've had the pleasure of traveling to New York three times, and always with good friends, creating great moments on and off stage. Improvising and comedy has literally opened up my life experience ten-fold. Without sounding too much like a sentimental sally, I can't imagine my life without it at this point. How do other people fill their time?

One of my life friends truth bombed me yesterday over gchat. He fills his time by traveling to other countries for extended periods of time with the notion that the worst thing that could happen is he learns another language.

7:36 PM William: life is dumb, brigid

  it shouldn't be taken so seriously

  everyone should treat it as a grand experiment to see what can be got out of it

7:37 PM when you're playing goldeneye, what's the point of having a rocket launcher if you never use it

 me: i love golden eye

 William: why wait to use it on the boss

  use it now before you get shot by some chump around the corner

7:38 PM me: i like to hide in this secret chamber

 William: haha

  are you building upon my analogy

 me: unintentionally, but yes, i suppose.

7:39 PM i do peep out every now and again to snipe

7:40 PM William: haha

  cool

  sniping is cowardly, though

7:41 PM you gotta run directly into the cross fire and just do the thing, you know

 me: haha

7:42 PM William: and if there's still an explosion from a grenade, go ahead and run into it. you'll just respawn anyway

7:45 PM me: you are a ridiculous man

 You know that song, "I've had the time of my life, la la la la...etc. la la la." New York is that. Every time I go there, I always think why do I not live here? Once I'm there, I feel like I live there. Things are familiar in a way that's exciting. Like I know what I'm doing. Of course, I'm always in the middle of not living in Chicago anymore, but for the last four months I've been seriously considering Los Angeles, in so far as my sister (an LA transplant herself) is under the impression that I am moving in April. While that's still up in the air, it's not out of my mind by any means. But there's something about how New York operates that's particularly intriguing. For me, moving is the equivalent of using a rocket launcher. The worst thing that could happen is I respawn and learn another language.

Riding in cars with myself.

There's something unlike the warmth of getting into a car right after it's been sitting in the sun. You know the moment, that moment right before you open the windows to let the car breathe. It's been holding it's breath all afternoon long, letting the sun soak through it's inviting exterior. Opening the door to get in is this quiet tease, but cracking the windows, letting the sweating cushions inhale and exhale, that's the sweet spot. For a minute I imagine myself sitting by a fire, wrapped up in a plush blanket, starring out of the windows of my parents Michigan cottage, and watching the snow fall.

Yesterday I spent an inordinate amount of time in the car. Driving back to the city from the suburbs, wearing what felt like a full incubation suit (i.e., a sweater, coat, jacket and scarf combo). It's fall, and that scene with the snow, and the fire, and the blanket, it's coming. But for now it's that one day hot, one day cold weather. No one knows which is the what until you've already dressed, you're walking down the street and your butt's sweating or your fingers are seemingly breaking off from the chill.

And while cars are immune to this weather right now -- with the sun and the normal daylight hours, and the heat inviting itself in -- I'm not. I can't decide if I'm ready for the chill yet. Wearing too many layers yesterday, I was ready, too ready, but today's a new day. Like every day. Who knows how ready any of us will be.

missing the mark

If you have a treasure map you go to the X. You don't walk around it a few times, maybe see it from a distance, and then decide that this isn't the treasure for you. Quite on the contrary, you see it, and claim it for your own as soon as you possibly can, lest someone else does. For some that X marks success. Success in friendships, in your job, in your relationships, in finances, in goals and in dreams. For others success is such a far reaching concept that to feel solid in one, simply means another is on shaky ground.

Sometimes maybe you're just looking at the wrong map. Sometimes you might have the right map, but it's upside down and you're too stupid to turn it around. Sometimes.

But, who cares? The X might still be there. It might not. Either way that treasure won't stay at the bottom of the ocean forever. Even though the ocean is a cold, dark place — treasures are always found. Nicholas Cage would be out of a job otherwise.

Beep Bo Bop Bo Beat Box

My playlist these days is less exciting than usual. But. I am rediscovering my love for, shall we say, emotional music (plus Mumford's out with a new album) — or not even emotional or sad music, but just music that provides that sense of connection. The, "Oh yeah, let me just...eh hem...look up, the ok, lyrics, here. OK. Yes, this song does apply to me." Ah, rock and roll. This is deep soul searching shit. Get ready. Ah. AH. AHH. And so it goes.

1. "I Gave You All," Mumford and Sons — Of course.
2. "Dreams," Fleetwood Mac — Thanks to Pandora on this one.
3. "Slow and Steady," Of Monsters and Men — New obsession.
4. "Two," Ryan Adams — After seeing him at the Filmore, whoa.
5. "I Am Trying to Break Your Heart," Wilco — This song is more titled intensely than it actually is. Regardless of me personally, it's always in my top 5.

and it continues
6. "White Blank Page," Mumford and Sons — Yeah. Of course.

Thanks a lot, world. I'm now that girl. And yeah, it is retarded.

Fave Quotes

"You've never been out of college. You dont know what it's like out there. I've worked in the private sector. They expect results." - Dr. Raymond Stantz, Ghostbusters

"Between the idea/ And the reality/ Between the motion/ And the act/ Falls the Shadow"
-TS Eliot, The Hollow Men V

"There is no life I know to compare with pure imagination/ Living there you'll be free if you truly wish to be"
-Willy Wonka and The Chocolate Factory

Oh, the Places I Go Back to

There are two pieces of art that I find myself continually looking back to. The first is a poem I memorized in high school, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," by TS Eliot. It comes up often enough in these postings to have its own section, but it doesn't, yet. It's always different and challenging and heartwrenching. Maybe that's just a place my soul lives and feels at home in. But tonight I'll talk about the other.

It's a song by The Weakerthans, a band I became familiar with toward the end of high school. My sister brought them home in CD format after a semester at Ohio University, and I could not get enough. The song, "Left and Leaving" has always been the song I identify with. Relationships are this continual merry-go-round, and the more I'm in and out of them, the more I've figured out what it takes to keep riding.

My city's still breathing (but barely it's true)
through buildings gone missing like teeth.
The sidewalks are watching me think about you,
sparkled with broken glass.
I'm back with scars to show.
Back with the streets I know
Will never take me anywhere but here.

What is it about tough spots that make us turn to music and poetry, and movies and museums? Why is it that we must get lost in the souls of others to fully realize our own issues?

The stain in the carpet, this drink in my hand,
the strangers whose faces I know.
We meet here for our dress-rehearsal to say "I wanted it this way"
Wait for the year to drown.
Spring forward, fall back down.
I'm trying not to wonder where you are.

And we all do this. This is not unique to me. Rarely is it that anything is completely unique to someone. And, sure that might make you feel a dime-a-dozen, but it shouldn't. It should make you feel at home in the humanity we're all part of.

All this time lingers, undefined.
Someone choose who's left and who's leaving.
Memory will rust and erode into lists of all that you gave me:
a blanket, some matches, this pain in my chest,
the best parts of Lonely, duct-tape and soldered wires,
new words for old desires,
and every birthday card I threw away.

This is always the worst part. Because it's true. You can't hold on to the good parts without remembering the bad. It's in our nature. So, we go through and destroy all of it, because we know if we see one thing, it will all flood back. Hit you in the face. And it will be right at the moment when you think you've finished feeling those feelings. So we do it. We all do it. And eventually. It fades.

I wait in 4/4 time,
Count yellow highway lines that you're relying on to lead you home.

the scene.

There she is. Standing in the middle of the street, her purse in her hands, clutching it safely to her chest. Natalie Pasker is twenty-four years old. She doesn't  own her own car, and she's never had to renew her license. Of course as a teenager having your license meant freedom, but after turning twenty-one she decided she didn't care for driving anymore, and moved to the city. The only one in the midwest that matters.

It's been three years since she left Urbandale, Iowa.

She's standing there. In the middle of Cullom and Damen. She lives in Chicago now. But it doesn't feel that different to her than anywhere else. The buildings are mostly only three stories, save for the scrapers in the Loop. But if you're facing North, you can barely tell the difference. Of course, she would think that. It's always comforting to convince yourself that what you did isn't that crazy. And, it isn't really. A lot of people, especially those twenty-somethings hit I-80 due East post commencement. She's no different.

She wears Converse, has some freckles and hasn't been burnt too many times in her life. "Sunscreen's important." The voice of her mother reminds her. It's 5:45, but it's summer so the sun's still out.

Tucking wisps of hair behind both ears, she starts to walk, turning around every few seconds hoping to catch the glance of a taxi. She's thirteen minutes late to meet up with friends for a midweek cocktail. She's in her twenties. It's allowed. She thinks it, then says it.

A taxi sidles up beside her, and without making eye contact she gets in. "Ashland. And." There's a long pause as the taxi driver decides to wait for her to keep speaking or to make an educated guess. "Um." She's looking at her phone. Answers a text. "Yes. Be there in — now." Clever. "Sorry, yeah, Ashland and Armitage."

There's something so amazing about calling for something and getting it moments later. You raise your hand in class, and a teacher lets you ask a question. You raise your hand on the street, and you get a taxi cruising. You raise your glass, and others join you.

"You're so late." That's Sam. She's a new friend. A coworker from Eastern Red Advertising. And, just like that, they're night starts, and it's one that won't be remembered at the end of the proverbial day. It's no different a scene than anything else. And, Natalie would think that. Because when you think that then you don't have to invest. And you're just coasting through. Not making real decisions. Standing in the middle of the street waiting for someone else to do the work to get you where you're going.

They grab two Millers because it's easy. Some guys come up, and they chat. And, that's it. Three hours later they leave, and wake up tomorrow. They'll do it all again until they turn thirty. Have a small conniption, then reset, only to do it again.

why is my begonia dying?

Dear Begonia,

What happened? Why are you being this way? Please don't die. You were so pretty when I bought you. Really, you were this vivacious orange. You had smatterings of green and brown, and you were gorgeous. Just radiant.

So what's the deal? You don't like sunlight anymore? My bathroom suffocated you? The living room doesn't have enough air circulation? Tell me.

What can I do to make this better? God damn you, flower. What's the deal?

I know I'm not good at taking care of you, but I was trying. I really was. I thought this was it! This is my fucking flower! I GOT YOU AT GARDEN OF GETHSEMANE FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.

I was wrong, begonia. You're the worst. You're the reason you're dying.

Ok, I am. I think I over watered you. I did. The directions led me astray, and now you're overwatered, rotting from the inside out. Fuck, flower. I was trying.

Is there still hope at all? All of these Ask.com answers are confusing me. Please. Just. Work.

You were a flower and I picked you. Ok? So, just — try.

Thanks.

I love you.

Goodbye.

B

part of a short story i started writing a year ago.

Twenty-five years have gone by, and I might as well not have been here at all. No, for real. So, I finished college, big deal. So, I finished my masters, big deal. I still don’t know what I want, what I’m good at, or how I’m going to get it and then do it.

Something tells me that this isn’t a complete shock to my body. I always sort of knew in the back of my mind, behind the thought that I was destined for greatness, that I actually was destined for a life of mediocrity, like most of manhood.

It’s a little sad. And, some might say this is a quarter-life crisis, but that assumes we’re here for 100 years, and I don’t think I can take knowing I’m only one-fourth finished. It’s also strange to know that if I wanted to, and I’m not saying I do, but if I wanted to, I could hypothetically, possibly, just end it right here and now. I’m not saying I will. I’m just saying I can.

Usually when you say you can do something that’s a good thing. Like, some sort of motivational speaker. “Yes, we can.” Like, the Little Engine That Could or something sort of like that. Ish.

In this scenario, though, knowing that I can pop myself in one way or the other, actually freaks me out. It’s strange that the things we feel we have most control over, our physical bodies, should be juxtaposed with what we feel we have the least control over, our mental capacity to bring about life to come by in a not so terrible way.

I always found it strange that young girls developed eating disorders to prove to themselves that they have the power in their own lives. Yeah, the power to destroy themselves. But my question is this, why would you want to have the power to ruin yourself, when life has it out for you anyway? I guess a logical response would be, at least I was the one who did it, rather than blaming something like the economy, or your older sister for always being the better one, or your teachers for not pushing you hard enough, or your parents, or this that or the other thing. Rather than blaming yourself for not doing the work, you can see yourself as some sort of righteous being, offing yourself to maintain the illusion of control.

I suppose it’s less painful if you do it yourself rather than watching as life bombasts the shit out of you.

From my view now, I see I have two options. I can. A. Settle or B. Struggle.

“Sink or Swim,” she yelled at me. The Lake Bluff Pool was a playground full of sticky, sun baked youth. We would go there all day for more than half the summer. From June 10^th to August 18^th I could count on waking up with chlorine still chemically reducing my hair’s natural shine. I could count on my mother helping make my brothers and sisters our hand-packed lunches. I could count on not having to fill my time up in front of the TV. I was ready every day to jump head first into the deep.

Our mother would join in on the fun just before the adult swim every day at a quarter till. She’d play for five minutes, the whistle would blow and then she’d swim a few laps and sometimes just float face up in the deep end, starring up at the bright blue Midwestern sky. June was her favorite time of year.

I finished undergrad with a useless degree in art history. I was never talented enough to be a great painter or sculptor. I was never someone others described as an artisan, though I hoped one day they would. No, I was of the brand of people that always had so much in them, or so I thought, and needed to express it. Art being that particular venue of “Here. My heart is on display,” I entered into classes at Illinois State. It should have tipped me off from the beginning that if I were really good at this, I wouldn’t be going to a state school, let alone the least reputable of Illinois’s dismal showing of state institutions.

But, I threw care to the wind, as I thought Georgia O’Keefe might or Hemingway or Hunter S. Thompson or e.e. cummings, or some other well known thinking being. My parents, who at this point I viewed as dream-killers, told me to be practical. Dream-killing as they were, I should have known that behind their cries for me to become a business major, was me, knowing I couldn’t be even mildly successful with an art history degree.

Swimming our little hearts out all summer seemed to make summer flip by faster. No sooner was I finished with my laps, was I back in school, learning about everything and nothing. How much knowledge was my little brain soaking up each day? So much that it was hard to take in. Like air after running. Gasping for more oxygen.

I was always looking for something more. English teachers seemed to get that about me. As I entered eighth grade Mrs. McGinley had us tell the tale of our lives thus far. I thought I’d dazzle her with my vocabulary. Using words like “tenacious” and “redundant” when it didn’t necessarily make sense became my go-to move, hoping she would get lost in my sentences, assume I was genius and move on to the next paper, heartily slapping my paper with an A.

Five things I love.

1. a compliment from a stranger
2. Robyn's "Dancing on My Own"
3. lending someone a ride
4. playing
5. fall's crisp air

Mysteries

Becoming OK is a constant journey. It really is. For me OK is a success sometimes. It's all you can ask for a lot of the time, and most of the time that's where you're at. And that's just fine. It's OK. Just OK, spectacularly OK. Ok?

But there's this inkling of wanting to "fix" it. Let's just get this out there: I think fixing things is dumb. Of course, fixing (aka maintaining) something before it's broken, that's fine, but once something is broken, it can literally never be what it was before. It will always be slightly unstable. You will always remember that time when it was broken, especially the moment right before it collapses from beneath you, leaving you on the ground wondering what the eff happened. Had you known it was broken would you have sat there? Was the sit right before a good sit? Usually it was just OK, but you only realize that after. And that's not OK.

I'm reminded of a chair I used to have in my kitchen. It was a wooden Baker chair I had inherited from my aunt who had inherited it from my grandma Bette. It didn't quite fit in with the kitchen, more for a dining room, but I made due, because that's what you do in your twenties. Anyway, last Thanksgiving my roommate and I had friends over to celebrate, and somehow or other the chair was sat on, and later was broken. And it was fine. No one died. It was just broken. It was just a chair that used to work, and didn't anymore. Fine. Whatever. What wasn't fine was that we later "fixed" it, and still that chair broke again. A nice enough chair, but still, just a chair that you have for a while, and have to rethink having. And it sucks, doesn't it? Having to get rid of things that used to work?

Ah, metaphors.

Wilco. Concert #6. Hideout Block Party.

I have no idea how this happens
All of my maps have been overthrown
Happenstance has changed my plans
So many times my heart has been outgrown

-"You Are My Face," Wilco

Public Transitioning

The air this morning felt rude against the back of my throat, pushing and scratching something that didn't deserve to be bothered. Like a CTA passenger, pressing against its neighbors, forcing itself upon unwilling fellow riders. We're all victims on the train. This is the worst time of year to be riding the train. To be fair, all times of year are the worst to be riding the train. Everyone's bundled up, scarves on some, coats on others, and still more that didn't quite get the memo that summer's over, barelegged and begging for a burst of heat, uncaring if it's from the fart emitted from their neighbor. You know the scene well.

But truly. It's the coughing that gets me. The uncovered mouth, uninvited into the air -- an uncouth start to a sick filled season. Fall should be a perfect time of year, watching the earth move quickly. But instead it's too often something else. What you once knew and had gotten so accustomed to is suddenly over and all you have to show for it is your body's literal rejection: the cough. Spitting out and hoping to heal what's still salvageable. I get you, Fall.

And as the train screeches to a halt, and you arrive at your destination, you're either happy it's over, or you've somehow figured out a way to enjoy the ride. I'm still waiting for that part.

loop bound

An Excerpt from a Conversation that Deserves an Audience

Me: So, I'm not some needy scared lady.

Laura: Hey, the older you are when you get married, the less chance you have of getting divorced. That's optimistic and not depressing, right?

Me: HAHA. Good call. Not there, but that deserves to be a sketch -- titled "The Cheer(?) Up."

Laura: Now that your cat died, you won't have to worry about the kitty litter affecting your unborn child!

Me: Too bad you lost your job, now you can finally move out of that mansion you always wanted to downsize from!

Laura: Too bad you have cancer, but you'll be so skinny from barfing!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jHPOzQzk9Qo

Monty Python - Always Look on the Bright Side of Life

Me: I love ya

Curtains #2 & Victories.

We got a new shower curtain. Well, not we. I came home to the sweetest roommate treat that isn't edible a few weeks back. I've been in awe of it. Every time I'm in there. Regardless of the task at hand, I stop in silent adoration of this lovely black and white floral drape. The shower curtain is there. Sleek. Stylish. Simple. The ole triple "S." Oh, black and white. Oh, oh, ohhhh. The simple victory.

A friend of mine dates her boyfriend long distance and has done so for a while now, aka over a year. She told me that he's currently on rotation (he's a doctor, of course, he is) in Michigan this week -- and now they're in the same time zone. She lives in D.C. The simple victory.

Monday morning I drove up to Lake Forest to spend time with my momsie. She suggested a trip to J.Crew's sale rack. Sneakily she picked up a cute trendy green purse, asked me my opinion, and then just got it. She put it, wrapped with a sweet "Enjoy this Brigid. Love, Mom" note in the back seat of my car, for me to find later. Just a thoughtful miss. The simple victory.

Last week I won Saturday Night Live tickets. The simple victory.

The Flip Side

This year has been really hard. Incredibly hard. Sure, I'm not trapped under a real life rock, or anything, but it felt that way sometimes. I didn't get in one bike accident this year, but two (and the year's not out!). The flip side: I went 25 years without breaking a bone. 

From start to last there has been a looming feel of what I will hereon refer to as "unsurity." At the risk of  revealing myself too much, between January and February I felt really alone. I finally got a full-time job at the Goodman, but it was all in reverse and cut deeply into family time, friend time, relationship time and performing time. It's since gotten more manageable, but there's still this feeling of not exactly liking where I'm at. Unsurity. The flip side: now I really am alone, and that's making room for me.

Then the first bike accident happened. I was back from what ended up being a difficult trip to Mexico, not quite the recharge I had hoped for. Then the day after Valentine's Day I get nailed by a car door and find myself even more hampered on crutches for a few weeks. If one more person says to me, "Four weeks? That's not so bad," I will murder you. You have no idea (unless you do), so don't tell me what it is that's appropriate or not to go through, especially if it was not my own failure that caused said accident. Let me nail your ankle, and then have the audacity to say your recovery time's not so bad. The flip side: I got to go to Mexico, and I don't actually hope anyone gets in a bike accident, and I'm more empathetic now.


The seesaw then came and went with a successful trip to New York with my favorites, The Grrr, improv team performing at the NYC Improv Festival -- combine that with the Second City inviting me to join their Conservatory ranks, and we've got the makings of a joyful spring.

And it was. Still, there was an inkling, and always is, that I'm not doing enough, or trying hard enough, or working enough, or getting paid enough, or in a successful enough relationship. It's a spiral, and I try to steer clear of it. Work began really getting hard with the hour changes, going from working in the mornings to mostly evenings. I forfeited performing opportunities and the feel of free time. Relationships and friends were unintentionally tabled. The flip side: I know I'll never feel like I'm doing everything I'm supposed to be doing, but I have hope that eventually I will.

The stress of all of this made me an unenjoyable person on the whole, I'm convinced. June had me turn into the latter half of my twenties, and of course, that feeling of being 26 and nothing more was just part of the tailspin. The flip side: at least I'm not in the latter half of my thirties, or in any of them for that matter.

July brought on performances, and thank god for them. Finally part of something bigger than myself. But, maybe the upswing was not as high as I  thought. The thing of it is, when your expectations are low and you're in the midst of everything, it's hard to realize. The flip side: you get out of it.

But of course, August and September could easily be considered the worst months of my adult life so far. The flip side: I didn't die...

For the sake of continuing this festival of feelings, let me paint a picture for you to feel bad about. My relationship ended, I watched my roommate's also end, then I flooded my kitchen and the apartment below me, and, oh yeah, literally fractured my pelvis in three places. Life. Are you kidding me? Are you kidding me? Are. You. Kidding. Me?

The flip side: I'll find someone else, so will my roommate, water dries, and bones heal.

connection

I love this line I read in a recent NPR piece. While the line is particularly about how one views a film or any creative end, the thought so easily translates to any part of connecting with someone or something you care about.

 "'It's up to the individual viewer to decide to connect or not connect with a creative work. By 'connect,' I mean connect emotionally and imaginatively — giving yourself to the movie for as long as you can, and trying to see the world through its eyes and feel things on its wavelength.'"

 Perhaps I'm projecting, but I don't think this notion is without merit. But, I suppose once you decide not to connect, or realize you didn't mean to not connect, the "as long as you can" is in full view, and you've finished with it without even knowing it.

List Maker

Periodically when I need to put things into perspective I make a “5 Things I Love” list.

I love making lists. I'm a list maker. It makes me prioritize.

I have to decide what’s important, what’s not, and how exactly I’ll fit it in. Sometimes when you’re so busy, it can feel like my life’s a puzzle, and I’ve just got to make it work. I love crossing off as I go what it is I’ve accomplished, then going forward on and down my list. This sense of OCD peeps into other things, like organizing my closet or rearranging my earrings, but there’s nothing that feels as  accomplished as crossing off the last thing I need to buy a family member for Christmas, or even looking back on all of these “I Love” lists, and seeing how I’ve grown and changed or how I’ve stayed the same, and that’s fine too. It’s like a reflection of who I was then, and who I am now, and I love it.

I once made a list of 5 Things I Loved comprised of the names of my 5 siblings. I said it was in no particular order, but subconsciously who knows. When I was little I made lists to help me figure out what my schedule was for the next day, a list of what I would be wearing, laid out on the floor next to my bed, a list of classes I was in, a list of my friends, a list of my dreams, a list of rules for my room. I’m a list maker by nature.

And, hopefully, as I look back on all of these lists, I won't feel like I do right now. I'll feel like I have a purpose. There's life in the details. That's where it lives.

OCD

"Obsessive Comparison Disorder is the smallpox of our generation. 9 out of 10 doctor’s agree this disorder is the leading cause to eating a whole sleeve of Oreo’s while watching Real Housewives of OC. Say no to obsessive comparison disorder before it starts. Remember everyone’s too busy putting a PR spin on their Facebook profile to care much about yours." -AllGroanUp.com

Thank God someone finally said it. Three or four weeks ago I made note on Facebook that I would be stepping away from it for a bit. Nice try, self. I think I stepped away for maybe four hours. 

It's a sickness. 

keep coming back for more.

I kept thinking I was missing out on something — visions of whatever the life equivalent of sugarplums are, were busting into my brain. What if I missed an important message from someone who didn't have my phone number or from someone I don't run into regularly? What if I miss out on an opportunity? What if this happens, or that, or that other thing? Or I just forget about something?

And status updates. The very word "Status" carries with it this loathsome notion that we're either high status or low status. You either post a million times a day about how much you and your partner love each other, or you keep writing the same "I hate [Fill in the blank]." It's a rough cycle, addictive, and pretty unhealthy.

In an attempt to become less comparidependent, and Facebook makes it impossible to just turn off your NewsFeed Comparison Log — I've taken the worst offenders of those that make it seem like I can't ever do enough, and just blocked their updates. And, if you're fucked up addicted to this Social Network cocaine, do the same. Like a little boycott. Because it's true, "everyone [is] too busy putting a PR spin on their Facebook profile to care much about [mine]."

It's too bad that it's the best way to actually reach someone, though. Gotta keep coming back for more.

Five things.

Five things I love:
1. Biking
2. Independence
3. Being asked to join
4. Dancing
5. Doing weird voices and listening to others do the same

Five things I want to do this year:
1. Try out some solo material
2. Write a 2-person lady show with Carly
3. Hang up all the prints I have
4. Walk down the stairs in under 10 minutes
5. Get a commercial

Five places I want to travel to:
1. Prague
2. Portugal
3. Hungary
4. Japan
5. Ireland

Five things that make me happiest:
1. Flowers
2. Unsolicited help
3. When Tim laughs
4. The crowd after a solid show
5. The Grrr on Sunday morning

Five things I take for granted:
1. Walking
2. My car
3. Fresh air
4. Money in my checking account
5. Friends with free time

life

you know what? fuck you.

Miss Adventures

More like missed adventures. There's this idea that we all have to be doing everything all the time, and if you're not busy, you're doing nothing. And if you're doing nothing, then you are a waste of time, space, talent, etc. But, sometimes. Just sometimes. Sometimes you need to just chill the eff out. And that can be an adventure all on its own. It's the best when the unexpected happens and you're brought to this precipice where you didn't ever think you'd be there, but there you are. Standing on the edge of something great.


Coming from someone who rarely takes a break, that I'm even writing this should mean more to you, reader.


Taking a step back, not just to evaluate, or reflect, but just to be someone who doesn't have to be anywhere for a little while, isn't doing nothing. It is. But it isn't. 


"Take a break occasionally. From it all. For perspective, sanity, life. You and what you bring to the stage will benefit from your actual life experience. My own life has been a series of wonderful hobbies." 
-Mick Napier, in a newsletter that I liked when I read it. And a lot of other people liked it too.

Hip. Hip.

We're all children

People are living too long. I say this a lot. It infuriates my mother, standing behind me, arms crossed commanding that I take back the notion that I want to kill my grandmother. I don't want to do this. Knock off grandma, that is. But, there's something really wrong with our world that we're so afraid of death, and we do anything we can to keep living. We keep people on life support. We take countless drugs. We write stories and create legacies in the hope that this something gold might stay.

Our obsession with death and it's counterpart life makes it impossible to just live. There's no sense of carefree, because we're so worried that we're not going to make the best of our situation. We're scared that what we decide to do with our time won't end up being worthy. And then, we end up doing nothing. Only to take stock as our quarter-life, mid-life and end of days crisis come. And they will come. I know, I've already had one. You probably have too. Every time I log onto Facebook I have a conniption. I compare endlessly, spending all together too many minutes reading my newsfeed. It gives the impression that someone is always doing something better or just something and I'm not.

In so many ways 25 now isn't what it was in 1978 when my parents got married. If you inspect it beneath the microscope, 25 is much older because everything is happening so much faster, while simultaneously it's also so young. We're children. As people live lengthy lives, shouldn't we have more time to establish ourselves? And why are there so many holds on when it's appropriate to be established? It's a long race. Don't want to finish too soon, now do we?

the age of aging.

it's upon us. i'm now closer to old than young. it seems that most people in the entertainment industry's ages are ambiguous. you look at emma stone. you don't see a 23-year-old. you look at sarah silverman. you don't see a 41-year-old. you see zac efron. you don't see a 25-year-old. at least i don't. since wikipedia has been a thing in modern society i've been obsessed with the "years active" element. it's on the top right hand side of the page. and basically. if you're an entertainer, it marks the year to which society has legitimized your attempts at stardom. for louis ck (born 1967) it marks 1985 as his start. fresh faced, and 18 years old.

every year i get older i see that "years active" as further away than i had hoped. vanessa bayer's "years active" started in 2009, apparently. then one year after being active she was announced as the next cast member on SNL. therefore, it takes only 365 days to make it onto one of the most iconic shows of your and my life. please.

it's interesting how that works. how do you measure when someone first started getting going to where they're destined. don't all things lead to where you are now, so technically it starts at birth? or is it more specific than that? when you landed your first commercial? or industrial? get on your first Harold team? signed up for your first class? — and who decides?

i've always been on the track of being a bit smaller than everyone else — lumped in with the little kids growing up. constantly thinking i wouldn't get to ride the ride. while my attitude has always outwardly been, i can do it, i'll show you; i've lately been feeling like i haven't yet even decided to ride the ride. haven't yet become "active." i dont know if it's in comedy, or the work place, or relationships, but getting older has made me feel like i've missed the boat to so many places.

at a certain point this year the realization that we all will just keep getting older punched me. turning 26 isn't that big of a deal if you're 50 looking back, but it marks a very real moment where you feel like you should have already set up what the rest of your life will take to execute. that's not to say there isn't room for change or spontaneity, but very rare is it that you find someone who found their calling at 30, and then was able to execute it to their greatest ability.

but, isn't that just part of it, part of the journey of becoming active. i'd like mine to say this, years active: all.

might as well cheers 26, because 27's a'comin'!

smarmy, snarky, sarcastic

Somewhere in the middle of high school an acquaintance I'd known since the fourth grade referred to me as smarmy. He'd been thinking about it for a while, biding his time until he stuck me with a good one. And he did. I've carried it with me for nearly a decade. At the time I'm sure I took it as a compliment. It's not a compliment. Not really. Not to me now, at least. In UrbanDictionary it's described as:

A certain attitude often accompanied by a squinty look and a superior smile that makes you instantly hate a person. Similar to snobby.

I took it as more or less that I was snarky, as opposed to it meaning I was insincere. The two often go hand in hand. Sarcasm, too, can often be perceived this way. It's a quality I have never grown out of, sarcasm -- despite a few years in high school where I was told by various youth leaders that my jokes and jabs, half-smiles and quick-to-the-kill-teasing hurt people's feelings. For me, I didn't really see the difference between a joke and kick to the mouth comment. If they elicited a smile, however unintended, my attitude at the time was a sort of blank stare, accompanied by a "Get over it. People are laughing." Definitely not said with a smile, instead delivered as a matter of fact, you're the one with the problem face. Most of the time, it still is.

After a while I decided making lots of semi-friends and keeping them around was more important than making friends that I could share in my oddly specific and funny insults with. Sometimes I wish I'd made those friends though. The ones who really got me, along with the ones I ended up with. In a lot of ways I think my comedic sensibility was stifled to avoid hurt feelings. Obviously being nice to people is a good thing. I never would describe myself as heartless. To the contrary, I never mean to hurt people, not for real. More than once I've been the butt of a merciless mouth, eliciting insults, some which I don't think healed properly. A common thought to describe Brigid Marshall as a 16-year-old was "She can dish it out, but she can't take it." Not too long ago it was said again.

Everyone has that though. Everyone has something that they're not truly over. And to that I try to tell myself, "Get over it." Eventually I will, until then I better learn to laugh at myself more. Self-deprecating humor really kills -- carrying stuff around for too long makes your arms heavy.

5thingsilove

1. how putting my phone in a cup amplifies its sound.
2. reading
3. framed prints
4. violins and cellos
5. when you've done all you can, and it's actually enough

i really needed to make this list. and, it's been really hard today.

"technique alone is never enough. you have to have passion. technique alone is just an embroidered potholder." -raymond chandler.

re: haystacks

I like to think of this woman as me.

Roy Lichtenstein is staying at the Art Institute of Chicago. I visited him the other week with my mom and brother. He was lovely, offering us a new perspective on what it means to be different. The massive installation chronicled the artist's work from his early days after college (he attended Ohio State University, yay corn colleges!), to his wobbly entrance on the pop art scene (where the question: Is he the worst artist in America? donned the pages of Life Magazine), and then straight on to his popular acceptance into the art world. Specifically as his art related to comic books. Art exploding.

For me, the most notable thing was this: how very many dots.

Those dots got me thinking (some more). I must have seen a million. Maybe a billion. But really, it's amazing. His art was shockingly different compared to everyone else of the time, but he really stuck to his style. Finding a voice. And he wasn't ever sick of it. (Towards the end he tried some Japanese landscapes, though still in his signature pop-art style.) But just like anyone who is a true master of something, he wasn't a jack of all trades. He was a specialist.

After seeing his take on Monet's "Haystacks," it really felt like he was one in a million. One in a world.

Individual. The concept of any one as being a dime-a-dozen is just so wrong. Comedians, writers, teachers, doctors, anyone. Don't call anyone ordinary. The notion that there's a mass group of people who all think, act and live the same upon further inspection just can't be. Sure, there are things that unite us, but it's the things that divide us that make us, well, "us." We're all each a needle in a haystack, or a line amidst dots. Depending on the day we might feel like hay, but we're the needle. We have to be. I know I have to be.

Hands On

We talk about the education system in the US like it's a really big problem.

We blame teachers. We blame students. We blame politicians. We blame unions. We blame parents, and brothers, and sisters, and the meltdown that's become the family structure. We blame everyone. In short, no one's hands are clean.

It is really a big problem, after all.

But what's the brass tacks issue here?

Everything. Everything is the issue. Life is a big problem that constantly looks like it needs solving, like a Picasso that some straight and narrow still life painter is trying so fucking hard to re-puzzle. To no avail. It can't be solved. It is what it is. You can't solve someone else's problem. Not really. Your mom can do that geometry problem for you, but she can't fix the greater problem that you still don't know math. It adds up, ta da.

To each his own is my thing.

I say, hands off everyone. Helping hands sometimes are the hands that aren't lent. The timeless Marshall motto, a classic: "If it's that important to you, you'll do it yourself." It's been since forever that people have just left each other alone. Maybe it's my Ayn Rand spirit that's coming back to haunt me, or maybe it's just what needs to happen. We need to take responsibility for ourselves. Each person pitching in, making their own lives better in order to better the whole. That's all I really want. All the direction I received during my early years didn't really direct me anywhere except this middle of the road, carving out nicely the crack between success and failure.

We all make choices, and need to be allowed to take responsibility for those choices.

Nerves

Since trying to make a life via performing my nerves have gotten the best of me one too many times. It's embarrassing and stupid. Probably one of the worst feelings ever. Not being able to sleep the night before an audition when you're so tired. Not being able to think when you're on your feet. Not being able to remember those lines you so clearly committed to memory. It's murder.

About eight weeks ago in a class I'd been taking I was told to exit the room and come back to start a mock audition, with the express intention of failing, all while accentuating any sort of personal nervous tick. The sort that takes hold of your body when your mind is racked and cannot be re-racked.

My name was called, I walked in, and I was free. Free from actual failure because you can't fake it. You can't fake failure. We know it too well. Too used to it. Right leg begins to convulse. A mind of its own. Powerless to stop what I've deemed 'the shakes,' coursing through my veins, causing my voice to rattle with the vibrato of a much older woman. Repeating my own name several times. Searching frantically for a funny little fact about myself outside of this audition, this moment, this now. It was fun to mock myself.

Freedom to fail never felt so good. Deciding that we've all lost before even beginning has literally been my own personal godsend. Life's most certainly a lot of right place, right time, right look. The notion that there are so many people going for the same thing day-in and day-out has given me the license to do whatever, be myself, be my characters, do my own thing. So many people are so completely and utterly talented. They're so talented. So effing talented. It's unbelievable. But, you see it just like I do. Day after day someone gets the role or the spot on that team or the acceptance into a special class -- and they deserve it. Maybe you get it this time, maybe you don't, but realizing that you have something going for you (and at a certain point, we all do) is key. It's not "No." It's "Not right now." Those are different things. And it'll free you.

In My Memory

I swear to God, I have no recollection of (most of) my life. I don't remember when things happened, if I attended some event, or what something felt like when it happened. But, the memories that I've somehow managed to collect and sort of massage into truth are all just terrible. Really terrible memories.

Top Worst Memories:
1. At 6 I was cracked in the mouth with an aluminum baseball bat. For real. My four brothers, my sister and I, along with some neighborhood roustabouts were across the street from my house. I wanted to be the catcher, but refused to wear the catcher's face mask. Even then I knew being cute didn't entail a Hannibal faceguard. And I paid the price with my freckled cheeks. I don't remember the pain. I don't remember how many teeth I lost. I just remember that it happened. And my brother Larry was the culprit.

Larry, in the Anderson's front yard, with a bat. I hope he's never forgiven himself.

2. The year was 1996. I was 10, I think, riding my bike up town to Burger King with my brother Sean, cousin Brian and perhaps a few others (can't remember, clearly). They sped ahead leaving me to clean up their dust. I had to hop off my sweet black and blue (foreshadow) Schwinn to walk it across the street. The boys were much further ahead, per usual (from what I recollect), and a gurthy woman was in the way. My precocious (shocker) self couldn't just wait for her to shuffle out of the way, so I thought to go around her by lifting my bike over the curb. Again, my face was at risk. Somehow the handle bars flew up, smacking me straight in the mouth. Blood spewing everywhere, down my face, on the lady, soaking my shirt. A reverse curb stomp brought on by stupidity, just like gang violence, yeah? My top row of teeth sliced down, and straight through. There's a scar there now, on my lip, underneath it as well.

The interesting part about this tale is how sentimentally 'small town' it all was. It occurred right in front of Northern Trust bank, on what was essentially our Main Street. Western Avenue. Mr. MacFarlan, my down the street neighbor, who's dog, Toby, I regularly walked, was about to enter the bank, upon finding me looking like I'd gotten in a bar fight with myself. He handed me a handkerchief and brought me into the bank to make his deposit (in the vault, what?), before finally taking me to Highland Park Hospital. I can only imagine the site: a pretty ratty looking tween, blood drying around her mouth, strutting into the bank, tears still free falling, with ole classy MacFarlan. I'm sure he was wearing straight leg khakis, a Polo blazer with a yellow collared shirt, and boat shoes. Quite the odd couple. I ended up getting 14 stitches that day. Holy smokes.

3. Somewhere in middle school I got a new pair of jeans. Mavi jeans. They were very cool. And, I got them myself (i.e. with my parents money, but without them monitoring my purchase) at E-Street, a store run by bitches. Not just bitches, they were the sort that reveled and embraced their hot obnoxiousness. You know the sort.

Well, I thought I was awesome for a day in these pants, but I should've known. No extremely petite girl with albino-esque skin and just a mess for hair could ever be awesome. Molly Ringwald lied to me. The scene was a typical day in the lunchroom. I was sitting with a few kids I wanted to be better friends with, I'm sure. And across the lunchroom a storm was brewing. The attack was launched by a young douche named Bryan (a different Brian from my cousin). Slathering a corndog with ketchup and mustard, and adding a douse of whatever other free condiments were available, it flew above the heads of students and teachers, only to find it's victim. Me.

It nailed me. Right on my thigh. I didn't have a lot of patience for assholes then, a quality I have been fortunate enough not to extinguish in my adult life. At the time, I was prone to not resolving problems with peers, instead investing in adult relationships where I was in fact a fucking tattle-tale. It didn't matter though. Bryan never got any sort of punishment from my (albeit terrible) records. He ended up getting a concussion at some point that same year, which I did not pray for, even if the stain in those pants never came out, and he might have deserved it. (We were all thinking it.)

These memories are all the worst. Maybe if I think hard enough I'll figure out a way to access the lovely sweet memories amidst all these misdeeds and occurrences. We'll see.

curtains.

I really hate the shower curtain in my bathroom. It's a completely irrational thing to "really hate," but I do. It looks like something out of a GQ magazine photoshoot. Like, ok, well, just go with me here: camera pans from ceiling to floor, the hot guy in a man tank top is posing mid-shower exit. He shouldn't be wearing a shirt at all. What's he hiding? There's that sly grin. The "I'm hiding one of my numerous badass scars from my life as a bullfighter." The air is heavy, thick with condensation. Everything's sticking to everything else, but this model's eyes are stuck on you, desperate housewife. The soft mauve, light brown and random golden strands of this shower curtain encase this model, the curtain decides it's more of a cape. And thus the tone of this Gillette ad. Oh, how shiny every other thread of curtain is — that sort of metallic sheen.

When I got it I must have been thinking, "This is adult looking," nevermind that it sort of has the divorced-male-looking-for-tang quality about it. Whatever, "It's on sale!" I should note here that it's incredibly out of character for me to buy retarded things just because they're on sale. Part of this has to do with my three day rule, in that I only buy things that I don't really need until three days have past. This has both hindered and helped me, and I recommend it to other poor people like me. I've billed it as the Sensible Shopper Technique.

But this curtain. This Bed, Bath and Beyond curtain that I bought with my mom with one of those 20 percent off coupons they send every three weeks. This curtain that's followed me around for three apartments. This curtain that I always intend to replace with a cutesy white curtain with black cursive letters on it that spell things in French, or have toille farmers or the alphabet or the name for "bathtub" and "shower" in a bunch of different languages on it. This curtain was so cheap. And the curtain I want isn't.

Because nothing is a better value than just keeping the thing that you already have. It's sort of a depressing mentality, and I'm glad it really only has to do with household items.

It's a terrible thing to have grown up frugal. There's no justification for things like buying a new curtain. It's almost like buying new picture frames...which is stupid. Replacing things that aren't broken is foreign to me. Replacing things that are broken sometimes even takes a push. (Shoes are disqualified from any sort of shopping rule.)

So, I guess I'll just keep it until my roommate Cynthia accidentally burns it with her straightener. Then I'll have to get a new one. Until then, I'll just be dreaming of what our bathroom could look like. Sigh.

The shower curtain in question. Again, I know it's irrational how much I hate it. I know.

out of towners

The greatest moment I've had as a Chicagoan came a few years ago. Now that I'm entering my twilight years I can reflect back on such trivialities (,she said, strutting about her office in too-high heels). I was living in Lincoln Park in what can only be described as a closet with my dear friend Alli. We had just painted an accent wall in the common space. It was supposed to be blue, but ended up being a deep purple. I told people we meant to do this: Purple out our room. We were very "hip" and "urban" then. Our bungalow sat just up the street from the Pritzker's new mega-mansion, and just down the way from Lincoln Park High School on Burling Avenue, off Armitage. We had arrived.

Alli and I moving on our last day together in front of the Purple Wall.

I was too poor and cheap to pay for a parking spot in our back lot then, so I'd taken to parking three blocks away across the street from an elementary school, thus successfully dodging getting ticketed or towed on the regular. Slowly, but surely I was on my way to becoming a neighborhood icon. Brigid: The girl who didn't get tickets. This last bit isn't true. I got one ticket eventually and no one ever nicknamed me. It'd be great if they had though. I wanted to look like I was part of the neighborhood. A real Chicago broad, if you will.

Anyway, I thought I looked young and cool, beating the system one day at a time. This can be cross-referenced with a piece of paper I found in an old book where I scribbled: Trick the system because it tricks me.

Side note: I didn't set our Internet up for three months, instead making a name for myself as the girl who drank coffee, applied for jobs and stole Internet from Borders on North Avenue. (I feel bad about this. Borders is now known for being the first national chain bookstore to go out of business by way of homeless using the bathroom and post-graduates reading books on the floor as if it were a library. (As if you didn't know this last part.))

Then add to all of this how awesome Alli and I looked taking to the road on our bicycles — her's was a sweet as pie blue road bike, and mine was the chunky Trek mountain bike my sister Colleen had ridden throughout junior high. I was clearly not the cooler between the pair of us. All this would change though, soon, little snail, soon. One glimmering Spring afternoon, the world saw me and Alli as we saw ourselves. It came in the form of a question.

We were walking to our "spot," a Chinese restaurant three blocks up Armitage from Halsted that we'd been to only one other time. I was wearing gym shorts which basically said, "No, I actually don't give a fuck," and Alli was wearing a nondescript shirt you get at things like orientation or camp. I am 98 percent sure we were skipping. And then it happened.

"Can you tell us how to get to DePaul?"

Freeze frame, mid-air-skip. Shock. Awe. More shock.

We had done it! We had finally shown the world we belonged. The bouncer finally let us in! We knew where things and stuff and places and apartments and the lake were located. And it had happened when we looked our most uncoolest. We were sloppy slobs, rollin' around in the sun on an early evening week night.

The honeymoon phase of our tenure as city dwelling direction givers goes on until this day. For me, it's in the Uptown neighborhood, and for Alli it's Manhattan. We've got it together, mastering one city after another sans map. It's a feeling I have come to love, feeling like I belong, but nothing compares to this first time when someone else decided I belonged too.

Alli and I somehow found a goat commune in Wicker Park one fine Saturday

Millenium Park She & Him concert/BrigidAlli Cookie Festival