Another List of Yesteryear.

Things I've done since October 2013:

1. I traveled to Europe for the first time since college — this time to Ireland with my sister and mom. The three of us had never taken a trip anywhere together, and save for three blow ups* (one each), we had a pretty excellent time. 
• Colleen's was right after landing when my mom picked her up from the airport at 6am and somehow a 20 minute car ride took 3 hours. ("Fuck one way roads."-Mommy Sheila)
• Mine was post getting hammered in Dingle when my mom told me I couldn't get more hammered. I was a woman outside of herself. I've had many a terrible moment, but I think that one takes the cake as far as intent to cause pain.
• Sheila's came when Colleen and I made her ride 33 miles around the Dingle Peninsula. She claimed she couldn't do it and had allegedly not ridden a bike in eight years. Lies. Not a month ago my father made her go for a bike ride around our home town and she claimed again that she hadn't ridden a bike in eight years. What gives, Sheila?
2. I bought my first car: a brand new 2014 black Volkswagon Jetta SE. In the '50s someone my age might be in the market to buy a house or pop out a child. To that I say, this car is my house. She doubles as my baby. Some of you may pipe up, "But, B, what about that sweet ass Pontiac Grand AM you used to cruise around Chicago in?" — well, that was a family car that first belonged to my sister and then eventually bopped around between my younger brothers and me. It was not technically mine, and I am glad for that. My taste is better.
3. I said goodbye to too many of my best friends when I left Chicago. But I did it. I hopped into my new ride and drove from Chicago to Los Angeles in five days stopping at hotels and the houses of friends and family along the way. It was my first cross country road trip without my family, my first time driving further West than Iowa, and my first time doing it with a friend.
4. We drove. We stopped in Iowa City and Des Moines, cruised through Nebraska during the day time, fully experiencing flyover land. Carly almost got a ticket from an eager police officer, and I went through my first corn maze. We went to Denver for the first time. We hiked Red Rocks. We saw dinosaur fossils. We stayed in the Unsinkable Molly Brown's Hotel. We bought trashy swimsuits from H&M and PacSun. We drove up and down a mountain by accident in Boulder, Colorado. We didn't find that waterfall hike we were looking for. We drove through the desert. We took Route 66. We heard the Barenaked Ladies song "Odds Are" 100 times. We drove and hiked through Monument Valley. We drove to the Grand Canyon. We wore our trashy swimsuits in the hot tub at the Grand Canyon Inn we stayed at near the North Rim. We were hungry, and nowhere was open. No pizza delivered, and we split a smushed granola bar for dinner. We hiked. We drove on. We drove through Arizona. We listened to the Maria Bamford special three times on Comedy Central XM radio. We crossed into California blasting the Beach Boys and then that song "California," aka The OC theme song. We unloaded my car. And I moved into my first Los Angeles apartment.
5. Only two weeks later I got my first job at my first interview and worked for a talent agency for the first time — that is until I quit that job because it was terrible. I reflected on the decision to quit with happiness. Quitting that job meant knowing that if I didn't like something I could change it, so I did.
6. During that time at that awful position, my mom came and visited for her birthday. She asked, "What's LA got anyway? Some cement and one palm tree?" I went home for Thanksgiving, then my friend (and now current roommate) Julie Pearson visited, a few days later my friend Mike Kelly visited, and after that I went home for Christmas. Everyone asked me how LA was for what seemed like hours and probably was hours. I answered with "It's great"-s and "I'm so glad I did this to myself"-s. I did it because I both believed it and wanted to believe it. Through gritted teeth and a faux smile sometimes, I said many things I didn't believe at the time, but at the end of the day, I really am glad I made this choice.
7. I decided to finally take voiceover class and now I have this great demo I made with Carroll Kimble Casting. I'm shopping it around.
8. I had my first New Years in LA at a speakeasy called No Vacancy. Aziz Ansari was there, and I felt so cool. Zooey Deschanel was at the after party, and I was drunk. I stepped on her foot, said sorry, and felt less cool.
9. I took my first UCB classes; I took my first Groundlings classes; I took my first workshops; I took a solo sketch writing class. I jumped fully in with all my clothes on. And it felt like sinking sometimes. For me, it's become increasingly evident that I love taking classes, but I haven't finished any programs here because I am so tired of improv class. So, I recently signed up for a Commercial Auditioning class for working actors with Killian Murphy at the request of my agent. Also, I have an agent. Now I consider myself a working actor.
10. I've been part of three short films since moving. I've been in a handful of sketch videos. I've done a slew of improv shows and handful of sketch shows.
11. I tried stand up for the first time, and I loved it. I need to do it more because it makes me think of the world differently.
12. I made an independent improv team with friends that I knew peripherally and now consider best. We pretend that we want to write a play together, and hopefully we will some day. Our name is Windy City Gyros, so called named after that delicious gyro restaurant in Chicago on Broadway. I once dropped off Anthony Oberbeck there after a (long pause) rehearsal instead of at his house. I remember thinking that of anyone I knew, I could certainly imagine him actually living in the basement of Windy City Gyros. I hate the name of our team, but I love us. 
13. I worked as PA on the set of "Whose Line Is It Anyway?" I had the best time, running around for 14 hours in a row, checking on things, getting stuff, gophering essentially. For a busy body like me, it was the best. Like camp, but you got paid. It was there I met my friend Tori who became my second LA roommate.
14. I wrote a two-person sketch show with David Blum in two (or was it three?) weeks called "Faithful: Relationships, Schmelationships" performed at the LA Comedy Festival. We had fun, and I love(d) writing with Blum.
15. My family took a trip to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, and I got some of my favorite stand-up material out of it. For the first time in a decade we all vacationed together in the same spot. For eight people to somehow manage that was a trip in more than one way.
16. My dad came and visited Col, Kev and I, then we went to Santa Barbara. We rode bikes along the ocean path, went to the zoo, had a fancy dinner after my dad schmoozed the hostess into seating us, tasted so many different kinds of wine, and had a really lovely time. My dad watched me do stand up about him, and he laughed.
17. My friend Joe Underbakke came to visit and his itinerary showed me all the reasons why I love living here. Mike came to visit again, and we went to our first Dodgers game! I proceeded to go to three more baseball games this year, none of which were White Sox games, which was sad, but in the end just fine. (Angels with Blum, Dodgers again with my indie team, and a Rangers game when I went to Dallas to visit my brother, Sean.)
18. I went to visit my brother Sean in Dallas when he was working there on a contract job. It was the first time I ever spent more than a few hours one-on-one with Sean. We went to the Stock Yards, I sat on a bull, we got barbecue, he took me to his favorite breakfast spot: The Waffle House, we stayed at the Hilton one night, he took me to the Rangers game, picked me up and dropped me off at the airport, and we didn't fight once.
19. My friend Nancy and her daughter came to visit too, and I played hostess, showing them all the reasons I live here. My friend Carmen Christopher came, and I showed him reasons I love it here. My friend Cynthia Bangert came, and I showed her reasons she should move here. My mom and little brother Timmy came, and I unsuccessfully showed them why I love it here. 
20. I had an existential crisis for four weeks after my birthday through Independence Day. I wrote a lot. I was very unhappy, very aware of my loneliness despite surrounding myself with people, like a shell of myself. My comedy was really funny (and I don't even care if that sounds conceited), because I was really sad. It was the only thing that made me feel good.
21. It was then I wrote my first solo show: "Heart/s," which I performed in both LA and Chicago at three different theaters. So many of my friends came, so many regular audience members came, and I was so overjoyed at the outcome and their reactions. It was nothing short of heartwarmingly unreal. I'll be performing it again soon this November at Second City Hollywood, as part of a double bill with my solid friend, Rich Baker, performing his solo show, "Let's Break Up." 
22. I dated people. Now, I date one person, John, and I am so happy about that (mostly because his Pittsburgh accent provides unending opportunities for me to do spot-on impressions of him).
23. I went home to Chicago for my cousin Colleen's wedding at the end of August, and it was a much needed respite. I bought my first black tie gown for the wedding. I performed "Heart/s" at my favorite theater in Chicago, The Playground Theater. I started the show late because my dad was late, and I didn't want him to miss it. At the end he said he would have watched 15 more minutes. I smiled. I dressed up in an all gold jumpsuit and did a fun music video lip-sync to Run DMC's "Tricky" with my dear friends Emma Mullens and Jeremy Pautz. I went to Michigan to my parents cabin with one of my closest friends, Joe Underbakke, along with my mom, sister and dad. We had the sort of vacation you have when you're nine, and I was the happiest girl. I saw the new iO and the new Annoyance, and I saw how many of my friends have decided to move out of Chicago, and I saw all the ones who have decided to stay. I cleared out my childhood bedroom of everything I didn't want. I saved all of my journals, short stories, essays and plays. I found the first play I'd ever written, "It's Complicated."
24. I became part of my first iO West Harold team, Steel Shark. They are all excellent and hilarious players. It's exciting to be part of a group of people that are not just fun and talented, but are real friends. At the risk of sounding weird, I want to say this, I value them an insane amount.
25. After the success of "Heart/s" I was confident in my solo material, and so was my friend Joel Axelrod, so he booked me for the top slot of his new show at iO "Risky Business." I performed "All That Glitters," a collection of characters who all wear that gold jumpsuit from my Run DMC days. A slew of friends came. My sister Colleen and I got dinner beforehand, she watched the show, and so did John. I was nervous because, well, nerves, but it was so fun. John and I got "Good Job, Brigid" milkshakes at Mel's afterward. 
26. I joined a gym, vomited up half a bagel with cream cheese and a handful of blueberries onto one of the personal trainer's desks after pushing myself past my brink, and then somehow signed up for 7 training sessions, which have inexplicably been morphed into a recurring monthly fee. You could say I've lived to regret joining a gym. However, I've beat the system and figured out a way to get out of my (hahaha) not-so-ironclad personal training contract. I maintain I was under the influence of vomitsanity so cannot be held accountable for any of my choices. I don't know how I got home.
27. I started a new job that came in the nick of time — before the fear of being a poor starving artist became a reality, but not before I thought "Shit, I'm going to be a poor starving artist. I'm not going to be able to afford anymore shoes." I enjoy the job for now, and I'm thankful that I have one. It provides me with the chance to meet people in the industry, watch Q-and-A's with actors like Billy Bob Thornton(!), and the flexibility to go on an audition when called, plus I get to keep living in LA. Sure, I'm sitting a lot (see last blog), but it's a fair trade for now.
28. I celebrated a year of living here, and at no point did I feel like I made a bad decision in coming here. To commemorate my year, I took myself to my favorite coffee shop, Bricks and Scones, vented to my roommate about my job (I'm still a millennial artist lady, after all), and then cooked dinner and watched Tommy Boy with John.

On Writing When You're Not Sad.

It's a frustrating thing to be happy — and it seems to infect most people. There's this inkling feeling that it won't last. It's painted best in Robert Frost's poem,  "Nothing Gold Can Stay."

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

My best writing, or at least, the writing that I connect to most emotionally I write when I'm so sad. That's an interesting concept, too, that in my mind, best equals emotional. When I have too many feelings welling up inside me I can't help but emit them through writing, through performing, through singing. I cannot help myself. Perhaps it's the notion of something good must come from this pain; I have to create something beautiful, something real, something heartfelt to make this moment have more meaning than just wallowing alone in my: "I am hurt. It hurts. It will pass."

But, why, why can't the same be said when I'm happy? Why is it harder for me to express my joy creatively? Is it the distraction of how happy I am, I don't want to reflect on it for fear that it will dissipate before me? There are too many questions.

Periodically I look back on this blog so I can see who I am or was throughout the years. I have often noticed the amount of writing I did or didn't do during years of hardship and during times of happiness. I can so directly see the correlation between my writing and my relationships. At the start of 2010 I wrote a lot. Not coincidentally, my longest relationship ended. And, then the Fall of 2010 happened, my writing slowed to a trickle — I was in a new relationship. Flash to 2012, I wrote a ton again. That was a hugely difficult year full of car accidents, breakups, job transitioning — the gambit. And then again my writing picked up as I picked up and moved to LA. Spring of 2014 happened and again, a flood. It's frustrating to know how much my writing is a reflection of my emotional state. I love what I write when I am sad. I don't love being sad, though; and I don't want to manufacture emotion. I can't anyway. I've tried.

But even right now, as my life is on an upswing, I am all smiles, yet full of lackluster uninspired stories. I have people in my life I'm excited to see, and that are excited to see me. I have parents that love me, that call me unexpectedly, that fly across the country to spend time with me. I have siblings that are kind, that go out of their way. And while it's not as if we don't carry our baggage or throw one another under the bus on occasion, those moments pale in comparison to how my throat chokes up when I think of what my life would be like if they didn't love me like they do.

So, here I am, waiting for it all to fall apart so I can write a heartfelt blog post, script, poem, song, etc.

NO!

That Frost poem always left me feeling so negative. Now though, I'm attempting to grasp how, yes, things fade, but other things take their place. When a flower blooms and dies, in a few weeks or days, or whatever, time happens, and a new bloom takes its place. Life will always be up and down.

That's comforting.

But God, is it tiring to have all those feelings and be writing and emitting so much. It has to stop. There has to be respite from it. So many writers (comedians, screenwriters, novelists, etc) get their material from things they're pissed about, things that have hurt them, or how they have been wronged. It can soften the blow, or cause you to relive it. You just have to know from where it's coming and to where it's leading you. And sometimes, just sometimes it's better to look at the world without a critical eye.

It's too taxing on your soul otherwise.

my mom: "The Truth Hurts"

The backseat of my mom's old car smelled like sour milk and soccer cleats for the better part of a decade. Ah, the mighty Ox. That's what we called her giant black suburban. The license plate was OX-48800. It's not like we had to reach very far for what became a classic nickname. That's the car my siblings and I all learned how to drive with — from learning to parallel park or how to get out of a fish tail situation on an icy morning, to getting in our first fender benders or breaking both the front and back windshields.

I'm thinking of her car now because I'm thinking about her. I'm thinking about her whole life, her life before me, before Larry, before Colleen, before Sean, before Timmy and before Kevin. I'm thinking of her before my dad, before she was a wife and a mother, before she was a nurse, when she was just a young woman, lost, like I am now. I wrote my first solo show, "Heart/s," last week and performed it Sunday night, and honestly, I could not have done it without her; she is such an integral part of me. And for those who saw the show, and for those that will come August 29th in Chicago, you can and will see how much so.

We talked on the phone the other week. It was during my lunch break from a gig I had at a production company in Santa Monica. I was driving to find a Mexican restaurant nearby the office. I'm shocked by the lack of solid burrito spots in Los Angeles. In Chicago there's a burrito restaurant on every damn corner, and they are all the best. Taco Burrito on Lincoln and Diversey, aka Los Tres Ponchos, is really the best, but they are all very good. Garcia's in Lincoln Square? Yeah, also the best. I mean, I could go on, but I have to stop. El Burrito, under the Addison redline? So good. Ok. I'm stopping. Not El Jardin. I'm not a fan of that spot (also in Wrigley — though I will say they do have a pretty stellar margarita).

Anyway, I called my little momsicle to talk because I miss her. I miss her all the time because I love her. Sometimes I feel like I don't know her though. I think a lot of people feel this about their parents. Last night in my Groundlings class one of my classmates did a character based on his father, and when asked what his father's point of view on life was, the student was in some ways at a loss. And when I reflected on how I might do Mary Sheila Marshall as a character (and she is a total character), I don't quite know what her point of view on life is either. If I had to say anything it would be, "Life is hard, things are hard, get over it because complaining doesn't make things better." A painful aphorism of hers is, "The truth hurts," which is a hard thing to hear when you just want an empathetic ear and someone to stroke your hair while not saying anything at all.

Whenever I ask her about her life she is vague, focuses on whatever she is doing at that moment and gives me a little rundown of what her plans are for that day. It's frustrating. It's frustrating to try and get to know someone I've known for almost three decades. She's shocked whenever I tell her I feel like I don't know her very well. I know her, her inclinations, the inflection of her voice, her catch phrases. I know her face, the roughness of her incredibly strong hands, the smoothness of her cheeks. I know what she looks like when she's just woken up, what she looks like when she's already sleeping, and when she's going from being happy to being sad. I know her — but so much of her is her history, so much of her is the past that makes up her present.

Can we ever know other people, truly? It's a widely believed notion that we can only be close to six people at a time. That makes sense. I only have six people in my car speed dial. Most family phone plans are limited to six. The big table at restaurants typically maxes at six, and then you have to add additional tables. As Marshall children, we know what it is to wait for the big table at any given restaurant, read: The Silo in Lake Bluff, Illinois, a Marshall family hot spot from 1990-2000.

There's something about that not being able to be close to many people — it's hard to spread the love to more than a select few. And I suppose, with six kids, a husband, parents, nine siblings of her own, and a slew of friends and acquaintances, Sheila Marshall has become an expert in loving others. She might be all over the place, but it's only because she wants to be everywhere at once, sharing in the lives of the people around her, and letting them know she does care deeply. She really does.

I hope to be more like her...minus her adages and the reality check no one asked for. (But, I suppose I've already inherited those things about her too.)

Preludes and Post Scripts

"I am moved by fancies that are curled 

Around these images, and cling:  

The notion of some infinitely gentle 

Infinitely suffering thing." 

-T.S. Eliot, Preludes

I regularly find myself remembering snippets of poetry that I had memorized due to my high school pastime, Forensics (also known as Speech Team). If you've read back to old entries I talk of my love of T.S. Eliot often, specifically The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, which to me, sums up the tone of loneliness absolutely.

People say that those who surround themselves with people the most are typically the loneliest. They're trying to fill that void. I feel as if I am that way. It's easy to get lost in others as an escape from ourselves. I've been trying to get away from doing this — but instead of feeling like I know myself better, I find that it's daunting to realize I may not know myself as well as I assumed. It's strange to spend all day every day being myself without thinking about it, and then with others I am someone else, a hologram. I am there, but not present.

To be in the latter half of my 20s and finding these findings seems so old. I know, I know, "You're not old!" But I'm not young, either. I'm not like a spritely young graduate. I'm not a bourgeoning teenager. I'm not a child. I'm not a young adult. I'm not an old adult.

We call people in their twenties, 20-somethings. We can't even come up with a real name for it. I'm a 20-something. What that something is, no idea.

I am a person chasing after it — what is "it?" There is no label. I could say I'm chasing after a career in the arts. I'm chasing after a dream to be a creator. I could say—. I could say it all — but what is it that we want in the end? When people die are they shouting from their insides, "I wish I had written just one more play!" "I wish I had just finished putting the shutters on the house I wanted to flip." "I wish this," and "I wanted that."

Doubtful that it is things or a to-do list accomplished. A bucket list, sure, yes, we want to do things, but to what end, who for or who with?

What turned out to be the preview to when my grandpa Harry died, when he thought it was the moment to go, that is, his 10 children and numerous grandchildren, his wife, were all surrounding him. Father Trout was there to anoint him with last rights. He asked my grandma Celeste to sing Danny Boy for him. It was very climactic, truthfully told. And we kept waiting for him to close his eyes the last time, breathe his last breath, say one last thing. But it didn't happen that way. The doctor came in after what seemed like only a few minutes, but was in actuality much longer, and said Harry was not yet going anywhere.

It was the strangest thing. We all had collectively decided this was the time, and then it wasn't. But, I got to see what my grandpa Harry wanted to be like in his last moments. He was lucid until the very end. And in some ways, he got to be there for his last moments twice, instead of just wasting away sedated. That seemed like such a gift to me.

Surrounded by the people who make us who we are — I suppose that's what I want.

"Those who sharpen the tooth of the dog, meaning
Death 

Those who glitter with the glory of the hummingbird, meaning
Death

Those who sit in the sty of contentment, meaning
Death 

Those who suffer the ecstasy of the animals, meaning
Death 

Are become unsubstantial, reduced by a wind, 

A breath of pine, and the woodsong fog 

By this grace dissolved in a place" 

-T.S. Eliot, Marina

I can't come up with a title that doesn't sound trite. Perhaps, Living Real.

Lately I've been listening to probably too much music, and I'm at that annoying point where every time I hear a song, I think, "Oh, my God, that is so my life." I am fourteen again. Woo. The Head and the Heart's "Lost in My Mind" flipped onto Pandora at that moment. So, you know what I mean despite the lameness, yeah? In other news, it turns out Katy Perry and I could be best friends because we both have personal whoas. Shoot me if I ever sound this stupid again. I actually hate that I'm writing all this forward intro crap.

ANYWAY. It's been kind of a whirlwind of a week since my last post, which is mostly good. The kind of stress that goes into being honest is unexpected, but it's freeing. I'm sort of done talking about what it means to be real, though. Not that I will cut someone off if I find myself in conversation about it again. I could talk about it forever. It's just, it takes a lot to stop pretending. I am so used to wearing a shield that I sort of don't know what to do with myself right now. Sorry if that sounds real asshole-y, "I'm sort of done," ugh, it's just, what I mean is I want to start actually living more real — not just writing real.

Like, I need to talk things out so that I can know if I'm on the right page with the people in my life. I sort of feel like if I'm not talking to someone regularly it's as if they don't want to know me. No one is a mindreader unless they're a mindreader. That's something I wrote in my last post, not the mindreader part, but the feeling of thinking people don't want to know me. I'm at this point where I can't tell if I should take another step out and tell people I want them in my life, or if it is better to just move on. Who knows if they feel the same way? Oh, the sheer amounts of opportunities missed due to personal gridlock. It's weird. It's so weird.

Actually, something weird happened the other day. I don't normally do stand-up a ton, but it's something that I'm weaving into my life intermittently. It turns out I like to stand up in front of people and open my worldview to them. (We're all shocked.) It's a special kind of rush...knowing you might just blow, and you don't have anyone to blame it on, except maybe high ceilings that swallow laughter. I like to say doing stand-up is like having a conversation where you can't be interrupted, and if you are, you get to go off on that audience member, and everyone is like, "Yeah, lady, you tell them!" That hasn't happened to me much, which I appreciate, though I would sort of love to yell uninhibited sometimes.

Normally I just talk about how much I love my family and maybe tell a story about us all being insane together...things I'm comfortable talking about. A lot of stand-ups find things to gripe about and because it's a shared experience, audiences laugh. They laugh from recognition. That's a very cool kind of laughter, but I love laughs from surprise. What I mean by surprise laughter, is they didn't expect to hear what they heard, but they recognize it still, the laughter of admittance that they understand. I love to surprise myself most of all, probably because I'm a narcissist. (I'm not really a narcissist, and I don't think I actually know any true narcissists in the way that Narcissus, that Greek god, was.)

Anyway, I did a whole set based on honesty, relationships and being real. The first line of the set I got dead silence (which is what I was seriously hoping for, chill out), and then it got laughter because it stopped people in their own brains. It's very uncommon for a comedian, let alone a female comedienne to open with, "Hi, I want to be married." Cats out of the bag! Surprise! I want a lot of things, and this is one of them.

It was so amazing, guys. The fear, anxiety and silence that took over the audience (mostly single male stand-ups) opened the door to the rest of the set: being honest about our hopes for ourselves and the people in our lives — people want to talk about it, apparently, as many of the other comics ended up referencing my set in theirs. It's not as if I want to get married to just anyone anywhere anytime, and not today by any means. But it's real. It's a part of who I am, and I explained why.

There's an unwritten rule in Hollywood that you can't say you want to be an actor on a sitcom, or you want your own HBO stand-up special, or you want to write the next big Blockbuster, what have you. But, clearly if you've made it as far as Los Angeles, those are things that you likely want, and saying you want them makes them more real. It opens you up to others. How are they supposed to know who you are and what you want, if you don't tell anyone?

So, I said it. And I kept up this new trend in my life of being truthful, and it felt fucking good. There's that old ditty, "Truth in comedy," to which I say, "There is comedy in the truth." It has less of a ring, but I think it's clearer. What I think the first means is make your comedy truthful, whereas the latter means, tell the truth, and it will be funny. The difference is slight. It has to do with where you start.

All those things I said before, those are my dreams. And we don't tell what our dreams are because if we tell other people then they know if we didn't get what our dream was. As for wanting to be married, especially as a new-to-LA actress, that's just something you don't say. You don't say a lot of things, life is all about the things that you do not say to one another. There's embarrassment that comes from voicing this particular desire. I would say that the number one thing you don't say as a woman in your twenties or thirties is, "I want to be married." Not everyone wants to be, but I would say most people at least want the comfort of a serious relationship. I'm not going to qualify this much anymore, because I don't think it should have to be, other than to say, marriage is a really great thing if it's between two people who really want to be married. It's being with the person who has your back, is excited to see you, and who you have the freedom to totally be yourself with all of the time — and vice versa, that's important.

Of course, we aren't going to always be 100 percent ourselves with someone else until we're ok with ourselves alone, but that's the goal. You can't be yourself with someone else until you're yourself by yourself. Did you get all that? I had to read it aloud a few times. And that's why relationships should be treasured, given time to grow and fostered with connection.

this is not a poem, this is the most real thing i have written to a group of people who might read this and i am very scared.

This is coming from a place of honesty. I haven't written as myself in more than six months (i.e. my entire time since moving to Los Angeles thus far), choosing purposefully to write through the narrative voices of made up characters in made up settings with made up scenarios — or poems, so many poems. Often these stories and characters are versions of me, or the people in my life, as is the case with many writers, so it felt like I was still able to express what I thought, experienced and have been feeling. But as I continue to think about it more, I know that this has very much been a response to me not wanting to be really open about my fears, my future, my everything. It's my own little "arm's distance away." And because I love telling stories and creating worlds, and I'm good at it, I didn't know the level of self-destruction I have begun to take on.

There's that term, "take up your arms" when referring to battle. Every day to me feels like a battle, and I am so alone. I am fighting off those I am closest to every single day, and I am seriously fighting off those who could potentially want to be close to me. I'm doing this, and it is sabotage.

I don't want to share.

And, I don't want to do it because I am afraid. I am afraid that the things that make me who I am won't be good enough in the eyes of the people around me: close, far, unknown, known, doesn't matter. This is not ok. And, it's something I didn't know was a real problem until very recently, even though it has been boiling since September 2012, if we're being real, and I am. If we're really being real, then I would say it goes back further, but 2012 was the hardest year of my life. I feel like I'm not conveying the real gravity and impact of this period of my life or that it won't seem like that big a deal, but it really was. I am scared that you won't think it was as awful as I do.

In very short, because I am scared, awful things happened, and then I was fake-ok for a time. Performing was good, and I was insanely productive, but all the while I was going through a very destructive phase that involved things I have only told a very select few. But mostly, it involved me not being myself because I am afraid of being hurt. I don't know if I can go through that again.

The other day a truly good friend of mine was talking to me about her perception of me. Besides the multitude of kind things she believed to be true about me, she mentioned how I once told her that I didn't want to be seen as weak. This struck a chord — the idea of being weak. She said, the things that you say about yourself and believe to be true of yourself are in the eyes of others the furthest from how they actually perceive you. The example in her own life was that she didn't want people to think she was mean, and if there is one person in this world with a gentler disposition, who goes miles out of her way for the benefit of others, it is this woman.

I am so concerned about others seeing me as someone who can handle it; someone who doesn't need others. I thought because I still spent time with friends and family, made phone calls and sent emails, 'liked' things on Facebook, sent a note, whatever — that that was enough, but those things, while good and nice, have to be matched with the freedom to really share. It is not easy for anyone to share honestly. And, truthfully, I don't think one should share everything with everyone all the time — this is not what I am advocating to anyone, and least of all to myself. But for those I'm closest to or want to be close to, there is not real love, compassion, relationship, etc. unless it is met with the vulnerability to say you need someone, you want someone, you care about someone, and open yourself up to the possibility of them hurting you. For real connection, I have to be willing to take down this facade of being too cool, of having a game face, of using comedy and stories and small talk, in order to feign comfort. It's a faux comfort. Real comfort, though, that is what we all crave, and that's why many of us spend so much time alone. I'm the only person I can truly just be myself with. No one knows, no one sees. In truth, I want the comfort I have alone but with someone else. 

But I am afraid, so I protect myself. 

I find myself neglecting people, waiting for them to make the first move, and pretending like I am ok when they don't. I convince myself they don't want to know me anymore, and I am afraid to tell them I want to keep knowing them. It is gridlock because we all do this.

I verbalize the words: "I don't need you" every single day. I've said it to my mom, I've said it to my dad, I've said it to my sister, to my brothers, to my friends, to boyfriends, to teachers, to confidantes, to anyone that could remotely affect me. I've said it to friends about other friends. I say, "I like them, I care about them, but I don't need them." 

This, this is something I have said about those I need most. If I admit that I need them, then for me, it feels like they have the power to wound me. The truth is, they have it anyway, because I do care, they just might not know how much. And this perceived notion that I don't care lets them off the hook to show how much they actually care, if indeed they do. (That last bit was me protecting myself even as I write about being open. It never stops.)

The truth is, I care about the people in my life deeply. If you're in my life at all, I care about you. I am so afraid that I don't have the capacity to share who I am fully. I am so afraid that I will be rejected. I am so afraid. It's like a sickness, my fear.

Even as I write this now I find myself censoring my words, my heart. I'm afraid that someone will read this and think: "God, she is so freaking dramatic. I'm so glad she moved to Los Angeles so I never have to see her again unless she makes it, in which case, ugh, I am so jealous, because honestly, she isn't even funny or pretty, or nice, or anything."

I thought this thought the other day: "We are all scared people pretending not to be." I am a huge offender. 

Another phrase I use to hold people at bay is this: "Everyone is the worst, and I am the worst of all."

This comes from a place of shame. Shame is like a cancer, and it will destroy you if it isn't addressed. Shame is what we feel about who we are, and it's why we hide. It can come out of regret, it can come out of past hurt, it can seemingly come out of nowhere. For me, it comes out of past hurt, of past heartbreak. Not always the kind involving a girl and a boy, though it's been known to happen (both me breaking and being broken), but also heartbreak from friends, of let downs from my parents, of jobs I didn't get, of hugs not given, of love and compassion I didn't give myself; in short, when something happened that made me feel like I was not enough.

I listened to a Ted Talk another friend emailed to me (I know, haha, Ted Talks, but those are good!) and the woman, Brene Brown, talked about shame, courage, authenticity and vulnerability. 

She said this:  

"Shame feeds into our sense of worthiness. Those that have a strong sense of love and belonging believe they are worthy of connection. "

After talking to another dear friend about how hard it is for comedians to accept praise and compliments, I concluded that for me, it has a lot to do with the innate feeling that nothing quite fills me — discontent. The irony is that performers are perhaps the neediest people when it comes to them, but accepting praise (love and belonging) is difficult because we can stop for a second and be ok with our apparent success. For me, I always felt being content was the opposite of being driven. This is faulted. It is just not true. Being discontent, not accepting love from others, keeps us out of and feeling unworthy of connection. One can accept love/praise/compliments/etc, and still strive to be a better version of themselves on stage and otherwise, a more real version of yourself, yourself. Your real self.

To have real connection with others is a result of both parties being authentic: letting go of who I want to convey I am, and just be who I am: being vulnerable. 

I am not a vulnerable person, and my personality and actions are often calculated. As I'm writing this, I am rewriting, trying to be more clear, trying to show what I want to show, trying to be authentic, but somehow feeling like I am not, while still writing well, while still making a point, while I don't know. It's as if I want to share more about the specifics of my life, but the truth is I don't want everyone to know my truths. But, I want to be open to those who want to know me and who I want to know. The nitty gritty truths of our experiences aren't what's truly important, but rather they're things that draw us closer to each other. I don't think it's appropriate to tell everyone everything all the time, I'll say it again, but we're not alone in those experiences. And to try to go it alone is an upward and losing battle. I'm realizing this, and to keep myself an arm's length away is really hard and very lonely, and it's not worth it.

I'm just trying to have courage to share what I am going through as a person, because I think a lot of us go through this. A lot of people think we have to be some version of ourselves so someone somewhere will think something of us. Some. Some. Some. I'm trying to tell the story, the truth of who I am with my whole heart. I'm trying to have the courage to be imperfect, to be compassionate to myself so I can show compassion to others, to be real, to accept not except that being vulnerable means being ok that someone might read the first line of this and think, "Fuck this bitch. She is too much for me." It doesn't feel good, but it's necessary in order to be open.

I might be too much, but I would rather be all of me, then just some of me.

There is more, there's always more, but this is where I am at today. Hopefully I don't delete this tomorrow.

Unlikely Acquaintances Who Become Friends.

There are thirty-seven cars on her street right now. She knows because she counted them. Earlier, Joanie (don't ask, she hates her name) went for a run...what was going to be a run, and instead, she got sidetracked into a conversation with her neighbor Manuel (that's pronounced Man-Well, not Man-You-Uhl, like she originally thought). They are in their building's downstairs lobby. He's sitting on one of the Pier1 Imports chairs that no one sits in normally.

"Hello pretty neighbor," says Manuel getting up to greet her. This is how Manuel speaks to all of his female building-mates. Just your typical overly friendly 65 plus Latino neighbor.

"Hi," Joanie says. "So good to see you." They hug, and Manuel gives her a small kiss on her cheek, very close to her right eye. Joanie tags on that last bit because Manuel's face is so expectant, his cracked corn cob smile visible behind dry lips.

"We are good today," he says hoping she's with him in his we-ness. She is. Manuel reminds her of her church growing up. There was an usher at Christ the King who was, well, too excited to lead people to their seats. He would say, "Today is the day, is the day, the day for you to sit...!" and he would guide them down the center aisle to whichever pew looked most empty, and shake everyones hands proclaiming the peace of the Lord be with them. She can't remember his name now. It's not really important, either.

"I'm just on my way out, Manuel," she says still smiling. Joanie is wearing bright violet running shorts with a zebra stripe down each side, Nike stitched onto the right, and a black dry-fit tank claiming: Strength. The green iPod nano currently playing her Top Tracks playlist is clipped to her arm. It will inevitably get annoying, as it will certainly hit the inside of her bicep. Eventually Joanie will elect to hold it.

"Oh, yes, yes. I see," Manuel says, adjusting his short-sleeved button up that is indeed buttoned up all the way. "I would fall down." He laughs at this sentiment.

Joanie smiles. "Me too," she admits, a girlish giggle cropping up.

Joanie hadn't gone for a run in over a month. The last time she did she was not three blocks from her apartment when she just face-planted, licking the pavement. As far as she could tell, no one had seen her Total Life Fail Moment, but in reality, someone did see and periodically when that someone is doing dishes and annoyed at her husband, she thinks of that girl who tripped and fell and smiles, laughing to herself. Her husband asks, "What's that about?" assuming she's laughing at him, because everyone assumes they're being laughed at when they're the only other person in the room, but she wasn't. She was laughing at the girl who fell, Joanie. Joanie doesn't know she exists, so the woman is no one important, thus she has no name.

Manuel shares his smile with her again. "Please, please, go on."

"Oh, thank you," Joanie says, turning her music down finally. "Are you going to be OK today?"

"Yes, I'm waiting for my daughter to come get me." He looks anxious.

"That's great. Are you getting lunch together?"

"Yes." He pauses, and Joanie starts to turn her iPod back on, but then, "She's looking at my apartment."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"Is she helping you with something?"

"I'm going to go move in with her."

The unlikely acquaintances who became friends both look sad.

Finally, "When?" asks Joanie.

"This weekend."

"So soon?"

"Yes."

There's another long pause. Manuel's gaze is affixed to his friend, and then he hears a car pull up.

"Is she here?"

"Yes, this is her. Arabelle."

"Beautiful name."

"It is."

"Well, I guess, I'll —" Joanie cuts herself off. She didn't expect to be so sad. Manuel's her kind neighbor, but just a neighbor. A friend, who's about her own father's age. And Arabelle is about her age, maybe a little older. "I'll get going on this run. You let me know when you leave, though."

"Ok," says Manuel. He grins, waves at his daughter. She gets out of her turquoise RAV4, "Hi dad!"

Joanie waves, then turns to go, beginning her brisk run. A Ryan Adams song begins to play.

"Hello Gracie you're a good little girl. It's a beautiful world, oh when you're out in it. Last time I saw you playing in the yard, you were running with children and the old people were smiling..."

glassy eyed.

The other day I found my childhood diary. Yes, the one I had faithfully written in for five years from ages 7 to 12. As a kid I remember spending a lot of time alone hiding in the playroom's small walk-in closet, living like a hermit listening to the sounds of my siblings playing together while I retreated into my separate imagination. I created a whole world in there. A whole world by myself that Larry, Colleen, Sean, Timmy and Kevin couldn't disrupt. Thinking about it now, there's something about loneliness that has always plagued me. And however cliche it certainly is, I remember how much I wanted to be paid attention to as a child. I remember how accurate the term crush was every day of junior high. I remember thinking the neighborhood girls were snobby and that at heart, we had nothing in common anyway; I could never bring myself to fake it. Now 15 years later not so much has changed. I'd rather actually be alone than feel alone with people who happen to be next to me. Maybe everyone's like this. Maybe not.

There's something about loneliness that has buried itself in my heart. I don't share my feelings regularly. Sometimes I feel like an emotionally vacant person, like a dad in the 50s, like Don Draper. But the thing is about dads and Don Draper is they do have feelings, a lot of feelings and they're wandering lost just like the rest of us. There's this constant struggle of not wanting to show our cards because if you do then you are open to the elements. And somehow, when the moment strikes and you actually find yourself in that moment of vulnerability, you get stung. Every time you vow to keep it locked up tighter next time, don't share, don't care, don't don't don't, somehow someone comes along, and magically they get that guard to come down, and right when you think you're safe -- you just...aren't. Perhaps we're meant to be breakable, but to what end?

Growing up my family mockingly teased me by calling me glassy-eyes, referring to the way my big brown eyes watered uncontrollably whenever I would actually express how I felt. I would try so hard to keep my emotions at bay to no avail. A slight shiny, wet film would overcome my eyes just waiting until those heavy tears couldn't help but spill over. Now, I attempt to close off entirely, if not by neglecting a good cry, at least doing it at the AMC River East some random Thursday morning during a showing of whatever I want to see by myself that day when no one can see how much I care. Perhaps a stranger will see me in the dark responding disproportionately to the sad parts in Woody Allen's Blue Jasmine, but that's ok.

One of my life-friends, a compatriot in not wanting to need others, recently returned from a long, long walk. A 32 day walk spanning 800 km along the Northern reaches of Spain. The Camino de Compostelle. She's been a person seeking adventure and finding it as long as I have known her, which is now over a decade. Reading her entries reflecting on her journey and after talking last weekend over french toast, she has come to a place of serenity and openness that I have never quite known. This particular post struck me. I was overcome with how much there is here. I didn't cry, but I wanted to:

There was no other choice. It was clear. 

There is strength in weakness. 

There is beauty in needing people and reaching out your hands for help. 

We weren´t made to walk alone.

It's so easy to become swept up in what it is to be lonely, to assume everyone else is a part of something, to feel as if you're on the outside. It's so easy to be the wallflower sitting in your apartment on New Years, or any Friday in September, listening to the sound of life in the next building over. But even if all those things are true, even if 5-year-old me was that way, that doesn't mean 27-year-old me has to be.

dads. my dad. dads.

Sheila & LarBear. 2012.

This is, I guess, more pertinent, or timely, than most of my posts. Mostly, because it's non-fiction, and it's about my dad. Oh, Larry Marshall, a man that in every moment is a dedicated daddy-o, entrepreneur, non-shirt-wearer when in the yard, self-described short-ditty-songwriter, avid gardener and amateur real-estate aficionado. My dad has always been a driver in my life. It took a long time to realize that he drove so hard because he hoped that the six of his kids would drive ourselves in the same way. He did good.

I will always prefer striving to stagnant, type A to slacker.  In short, I'm an Annie Edison, as opposed to a Jeff Winger. I don't know how to be content, so to this, I say thank you. There's always more out there.

The pair of us would make lists as I grew up. I don't know if he did this with my siblings; I have an inkling this particular habit sank into my sister Colleen's life though. We are so similar when it comes to how we go about dreaming and working to achieve. Perhaps it was a "Father of Girls" move. How lucky were we to have such a caring, thought provoking man as a dad? And remains so.

Me & Dad. 2013.

These lists, ah, these lists, they'd be the lists comprised of all sorts of things: what I was interested in, books I wanted to read, books I'd read, places I'd like to visit, places I'd visited, my favorite facts, things I loved, goals I set, goals I accomplished, people I admired, and so on into all spheres of life. I have kept many of these lists throughout the years: a hoarder of the relics in my own life. And for my unsurprising love of memoirs, I've kept track of myself for years in hopes that eventually I'll be able to piece together where I've been, where I'm going and where I want to be by the time I'm old. To this my dad laughs, then reflects on how he has grown and changed over the years. He'd think about if it were his little life lists. "I look pretty good, right?" A common catchphrase, more than a question. Then, he'd twirl the hairs on the back of his head, smile a side smile, and continue, "...feel like I'm 17, but then I remember I'm not. Doesn't matter. I feel it. Ya know, Bridge, you're as old as you feel." When he said this to me for the first time, he was in the midst of growing his hair a little longer in the back — he called it his stylish baby curls, while everyone else called it a mullet.

 

Birthday. 2010.

He discovers things and shares them with me, and luckily for me, he has promised to keep doing so. The other day he texted (by the way, it was a very exciting day when he learned to text) me about wanting to go to the Elbo Room or the Hideout to check out "Who's who in music land." Someone had recommended he'd like Robbie Fulks. Always an adventure seeker, despite living in the suburbs.

There was a time I remember so clearly: I was a teenager, Armageddon had just come out, and the film's album couldn't get enough airplay. When Chantal  Kreviazuk covered John Denver's "Jet Plane," my dad was so in awe of the song that when he came home one evening, and I greeted him in the driveway, as I was prone to do, he told me to get in his parked car, so we could listen and then re-listen to it over and over again. My favorite moments are when he turns to me and says, "I'm a pretty cool guy, right?" And, he genuinely wants to know my opinion, all the while genuinely believing himself to be a "pretty cool guy." He genuinely is.

I forget how lucky I am to have the kind of parents Steve Martin tends to play in movies. See Father of the Bride or Cheaper by the Dozen, if you're not sure what I'm talking about. Few people know what I have, and I am so thankful.

Colleen. Brigid. Dad. Christmas. 2012.

"October and the trees are stripped bare of all they wear..."

I've got to get a pumpkin. When I was a little one, my mom used to take me and my siblings to a pumpkin patch up in Wisconsin just as October began, so we could carve out a set of eyes, a nose, and some sort of ominous smile more reminsicent of a prisoner who's gotten his teeth knocked out than a happy holiday treat. But first thing was first. Upon picking out our six pumpkins, all somehow representative of the person we were then (Larry's was mishapen but full of color; Colleen's wellrounded; Sean's a gord, whoops; mine a bright orange with spots of dirt smattered along the sides, just waiting to be wiped clean; and Tim and Kevin's, always miniature and less than ripe). The memories are clear, you see, because this part of our year was special to me. More special than dying Easter eggs on the floor of the kitchen, accidentally staining the carpet; more important than laying the Christmas presents beneath our pine; more important than all of that stuff -- because fall was here. Fall, with its crunching leaves under foot, with its array of colors that make my pale skin and auburn hair look good finally, with its soft, yet biting winds, not quite chilly enough for a hat, but perfectly content with a sweater. I still look forward to Fall more than any other time of year. Our dad would arrive home, always later than he intended, placing his keys and wallet on the antique foyer table before sneaking up behind us, reaching his large hands into the carved out tops of our creamsicle colored pumpkins, then shouting in his creepiest voice, "GUTS! Guts! Every! Where!" And our shrill undeveloped voices cried out all at once in fear, delight and excitement, "GUTS!" What's not to love about this scene? My dad once told me, after I'd asked him if he had always wanted a lot of children, that of course he did. It's like creating your own set of friends, special in a way that no other human beings can be.

"October
And the trees are stripped bare
Of all they wear
What do I care
October
And Kingdoms rise
And Kingdoms fall
But you go on...
...and on..."
-October, U2

a sincere thank you

in keeping with this desire to express myself, as ms. madonna insists i should, i have some heartfelt sentiments to send out.

1. thank you to my friends. seriously. thank you. thank you for not dismissing my sarcasm as cruelty. thank you for realizing my intentions even when they seem vague or insincere. you know they're not, and i appreciate that beyond comprehension. thank you for opening up my heart to all you have to offer as i realize my own potential. thank you for accepting my faults, helping me get past my self-imposed boundaries and loving me for all that i am. and thank you for never ignoring me.
2. thank you to my family. again. this is serious. i love you. i love you more than i can put words to and the thought of you in any sort of painful situation, physical or otherwise, literally make me tear up. my heart breaks at these mere thoughts. even as i write these words my heart is racing and my eyes are welling up. i love you. i love you so much.
3. to my new friends. i am a "jar with a heavy lid," and maybe this defense mechanism isn't the best choice, but i do believe in the validity of having a thick door to break down, and i commend you if you even try. i'm not difficult to see through if you take the time. i just seem like it. but. i do believe that when it comes down to it honesty, availability, and the ability to take life with a grain of salt are prerequisites —

so, if you like, go on this journey with me. i'm a good friend, a solid listener and someone that will bring you a smile when you feel like crying. just let me.

What couldn't wait.

I'm writing this post from my phone. It seems very 21st century to me. Everything lately seems to have a bit of a futurey spin on it. In anycase, what couldn't wait for a computer to boot up...
5 things I love:
1. Family bonding.
2. Feeling ready.
3. Brunch.
4. Sending love to my younger brothers.
5. Snail mail.

5 Things I Love...

1. Things That Might Not Be True . COM.

2. Blackhawks Hockey Games. And the NHL in general.

3. Milkshakes, Ice Cream and a la mode anything.

4. My Grandpa Harry.

5. Reading. Reading. Reading.

5 Things...

I haven't written down anything for my '5 Things' list. So, here's this day's '5 Things I Love':

1. holidays with my family home, all watching a movie snuggled together on the couch.
2. mornings to myself. making coffee. catching up on the news, random tv shows, and just watching the light move in my apartment.
3. box set dvd television seasons. [almost done with gilmore girls]
4. improvising. and laughing.
5. the convenience of a car.

Twenty Questions on Steroids

So a few months ago I received a sort of questionaire from someone. I don't usually do these as they take me forever, but this one had some good questions. So, if you don't mind, here's the top 12: or at least the ones that best describe me.

1. What do you usually have for breakfast? Diet Coke and a Granola Bar running out the door
2. What characteristic do you despise? Thoughtlessness
3. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go? France, or somewhere new
4. What was your most memorable birthday? My brother Sean's birthday when my mom had a penny treasure hunt in the living room.
5. Are you a morning person or a night person? Night
6. What did you want to be when you grew up? An actress or a singer, some sort of creator
7. What is your favorite candy? Kit Kats
8. What is a day on the calendar you are looking forward to? The day I start classes at Improv Olympic
9. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Orange
10. Coffee or tea? Plain Coffee, Chai tea
11. When was the last time you cried? yesterday while watching
Brothers & Sisters
12. What are you afraid of? Not having any options

5 Things I love

A few months ago I started writing down a few times a week five things that I love. It really helped me see things in perspective, and I'd encourage you to do the same. For a while I was pretty distraught at feeling like (slash being) a know-nothing, unemployed sucker who went to college only to get diddley. So, it really was necessary for me to write down all the good things that were going on — because there actually were and are a lot of good things going on. So, here's a taste of what I'm talking about. Here are some of the things I collected from different lists I wrote this week in no particular order:

1. 5 minutes after my alarm goes off, all snug in my warm sheets.
2. When things work themselves out.
3. Rebecca, sad she's leaving for Spain, but so happy for her.
4. Sending postcards and cards.
5. Reading on the train.
6. My walk to work, it smells like chocolate and brownies.
7. Catching up on shows with Brian.
8. Talking about the book I'm reading.
9. Seasonal drinks at coffee shops.
10. Larry, Colleen, Sean, Timmy, and Kevin.
11. Options.


What's funny is when I was working in the cubicle I actually wrote Things I Do Not Love lists, which isn't good, but can be funny to go back and read. Here's one of those:
1. Losing jewelry and knowing it's around here somewhere, but still no luck.
2. Cision, my job at Cision.
3. When Corner Bakery runs out of chocolate chip cookies.
4. Not having a pen and paper when I need one.
5. Kankersores.

Lunch Break

This week I've elected to temp at my father's business. Judy, who is normally the Office Manager, is out of town on vacation. I am taking over. Her desk is abnormally messy, and she keeps old plastic spoons, expired coupons and salt packets in her drawers and pen holders.

This afternoon after much debate, consisting of me driving one direction, then turning around in 3 point fashion, I decided to grab some grub at my grandparents' house. Harry and Celeste live in a condo. It's about a block from my dad's office in Glenview, a suburb of Chicago. They live on the Penthouse floor of the complex, and when I knocked on the door to be let inside, I could hear Harry shuffling, then yelling, "Just come on in!" But the door was locked, which I made known, shouting through the door, "It's locked!"

Then Gana answers the door. She's their new assistant person from Mongolia. Neither Harry nor Celeste would readily admit they need an extra hand, what with Celeste getting her knees replaced Thursday and Harry just returned from the hospital after a fall in the shower.

So, I'm making an egg salad sandwich, and Celeste asks me if I want some cake. Harry offers a selection of cookies and then they both see the pie, and ask if I want that, too. Too? I just had some pie. Rye bread for the sandwich? Yes, I say. But, anyway, I've sat down at the round table between the two of them, and I begin to enjoy the first bites, and then Don St. John calls. So, Celeste picks up the portable phone to answer, looks at the Caller ID. "This must be Don St. John." Chuckles all around. "Yeah, Harry? I know him. You wanna talk to him. Yeah, OK."

"Who is it?"

"It's Don St. John. What do ya mean, 'Who is it?' Gees."

He's using a letter opener from 10 years ago with my grandma's face on it to open their excess mail accumulated from too many days before.

"Oh, Don. Well, say 'Hi,' Brigid." So I do.

"Hi, Don. Yeah, I'm their granddaughter. You know? You wanted to say, "Hello," too? Well, alright. Hello." The conversation lulls, "I'll give you over to Harry." So I do.

"Hey Don. Yeah, I don't think I'm going to be able to go to [Insert miscellaneous Old Man get together]. No, it is too bad." The conversation continues for a bit, then his blue eyes light up. "Celeste," he says, putting the receiver on his lap. "Don's son-in-law got a knee replacement in the spring, and he's now out playing baseball on the team this summer." The team is comprised of one of my uncles, Don (who just turned 90 according to my grandma) and other sprightly men of all ages.

"Oh, really, Harold? Maybe I'll join the team now." She's so witty. Her little lips curling into a smirk. The one their accustomed to make after over 50 years married to Harold T. Stanton. " Go ahead, ask him if I can join."

He puts the phone back to his ear, making a silly kissy face to her. "No, she can't catch. The only thing she's caught was me!"

Laughter.

Then comes the Celeste punchline. "No, I got stuck with you." And the lips curl into a kissy face paired with a wink.

Future Stories. But For Now. Just Tastes.

I've become obsessed with taking notes on various happenings.

Some include, but are not limited to:

1. It just bothers me knowing that Jimmy Fallen is out there, somewhere, making more money than me.

2. People keep telling me I'm funny—that I should be in or at least write for 2nd City. I always wondered if these people really know what they're talking about. I mean, they are the "public"—the end all, be all, deciders of who makes the cut to fame. I wonder—did anyone say these nice things to the guys current in 2nd City, performing right now in Old Town tonight? Well, did they?

3. There's a big ex-football player lip singing emphatically to himself on the El train right now. He is also doing a Sudoko puzzle and wearing a blue checked button down with black slacks. A Business Professional?

4. Claddagh rings (with the heart out) on women—What does that say to the world? Is it a plea? "Please hit on me?" Pathetic or just upfront? Is it upfront if the heart is turned in (meaning, "nah, uh, I'm taken, brother!") and sad if it's out (meaning, "I'm single! Single! Take me out! Ask for my number! I'm free tonight. I'm free every night!")

5. Vaginis. This guy's last name is Vaginis. I'm thinking: Vaginis Monologues, a hit television show where at the beginning and end of each episode someone from the Vaginis Family has to share a monologue of what happened to them that day, so starting and ending an episode. This is brought on by Michael P. Vaginis, a guy who unknowingly is being made fun of by myself and my coworkers at Bar/Bri LSAT testing facility. We are currently scanning Scantrons. That's right. Someone has to make sure these lawyers in waiting have filled in their bubbles correctly. And. Yes, that's us. We get to read everyone's last names and first names. We get to poke fun at each of them. There have been a lot of "Butts" so far. I should try and Facebook Michael P. Vaginis.

5. Pretty in Pink. Ducky got the short end of the stick. Except at the end when the pretty girl asked him to dance. They should have made a movie about how in the end Ducky was alright. Titled: Ducky: The After Party.

6. Weird names: Blaine Doyle.

7. Coworkers for the week: Russell (Italian/Black female, obsessed with diversity and EOE, helps companies with diversity training, has an excuse for every single moron who has incorrectly filled out bubbles: ie. maybe they are foreign, maybe they are dyslexic, maybe they are blind (for real), maybe, well, maybe Russell, maybe they're just dumb and can't read.), Janie (a college girl, very sweet, goes to Gaucher College in Baltimore, lives with her sister in Chicago during the summer, temps for fun/money, and constantly makes me sing "Janie's Got a Gun" in my head, all day), Todd (an actor from Indiana, 26, says mildly dramatic things when explaining how something made him feel, i.e. "That kills my soul" in reference to the film Requiem for a Dream), DC (who's real name is Derek, he works as a financial guy for Goldman Sach's usually. Right now, I don't know why he's temping. His wife is his best friend, he says that casually and sweetly causing the women in the crowd to wish for something more. He's sort of a toned down Lionel Richie. He sort of looks like him and has an intense mustache that makes me laugh when I look at it), and then there are two forgettable others (1. Jamie, a beautiful, young black girl who used to work for I think it's AT&T or something like that, and the other is a K-5th grade teacher named Kristen from Naperville. Both are mid-20s).

8. Both my parents, but my dad more so than my mother, want me to appreciate the art of creation, but not to be myself a creator. Actually, that goes not just for me, but for all my siblings. It's weird, because we all learned instruments growing up, but were no Jackson 5. We all learned just enough to know how to read notes, appreciate music and the like, but were never encouraged to write our own stuff or seriously pursue music or theater as sincere job options. Funny. My oldest brother Larry took some acting classes with Improv Olympic and performed in Tony and Tina's Wedding, much to our parents' chagrin. He works at an accounting firm during the day and wishes his life were different. Now my sister is in LA in the process of gaining a BFA in film & screenwriting, my younger brother Timmy writes his own music, Kevin is transferring to USC to finish college with a degree in Screenwriting. The sad thing is, and probably the most selfish, is I was the creative, theatrical, musically talented Marshall growing up. Maybe I just thought I was. I regret playing field hockey in high school in a lot of ways. I should have done the plays. I was good at acting, always have had stage presence and can sing. Now I'm playing the banjo, and jamming more with Timmy. I've seen three musicals in the last month, and when I'm not seeing a musical or play, I'm watching a movie or reading.

9. I interviewed for two jobs this week and have another tomorrow. The one Monday was to be an Assistant Building Manager. That's right. The other is to be a Paralegal at a Home Tax/Mortgage Law Firm. To say the least: these jobs stomp creativity out, are dull, are monotonous, would in fact "kill my soul." I have another tomorrow with TravelZoo to be an Assistant Producer, which I would kill at! Should be more exciting. Is it weird that today I'm wishing I had gone out to audition for American Idol. I don't want to be on a show like that. I love to sing and perform, but I don't want to be like that. Tonight I saw Million Dollar Quartet, a story about Jerry Lee Lewis, Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins, and Elvis Presley, all involved with Sam Phillips' Sun Records in Nashville. I want what they had. I told my mom that she raised kids that all, for some odd reason, want to be famous. I think it's because we all want to be recognized. Maybe it's a big family thing.

10. Fame: Karaoke. When I told my mom about how her kids want to be famous. We just want something more. Competition. Fame is weird. A kid who took the BAR practice test's name was Fame. His/her parent was dreaming big. Kevin, my younger brother, said to me while watching Harry Potter the other night, "I could have done that role. I would have rocked at it. You know, Brigid, his dad is a major movie producer in London," all in reference to Daniel Radcliff.

11. Brian McKnight. Think of "Deep Quotes" of the day. Turn them into song lyrics. Send the finished songs to him for him to either listen to softly OR re-record giving you full song-writing credits. Did you know, "Blue Suede Shoes" sung by Elvis Presley on the Johnny Carson show, was actually meant to be sung by Carl Perkins who also wrote the song. He was supposed to perform it, but on his way to New York got in a big car accident preventing him and his band from arriving. Tough break.

12. I've fallen in love X times this year. With advertising, PR, and education. And I always am in love with music. And Each time these genres break up with me. Each time I get an interview and they turn me loose before giving me a real shot, I'm left hopeless. I'm like the retarded girl at school who can't figure out why the captain of the football team doesn't love her. Tough break. Me and Carl Perkins. Luckily for Perkins, he was a multimillionaire, got to play rockabilly music for life (my favorite kind of music) and to boot was inducted not only into the Rock and Roll, the Rockabilly, and the Nashville Songwriters halls of fame, but was also a Grammy Hall of Fame Award recipient.

13. The phrase: "I've got a taste for...," "What do you have a taste for?," etc, etc, is purely a Chicago thing. No one else says it. Most people are just upfront and say, "What do you want to eat?" Noted.

Expiration Interaction

"Mom?—"

Blatantly ignored. My mother, commonly referred to as "She-She Baby," "Little Sheila" or any combo of those, as her name is Sheila, is standing over the trash compactor reading old mail from no one knows when. She found it to the left of the bread cabinet that both of my parents use to hide old mail they would rather not read, i.e. Macy's catalogs and bills.

"Mom—"

I go over to her. She's sweaty. She's wearing this hot pink Nike dry-fit workout tee with black yoga pants. She looks like one of those mom's you see at the grocery store. You know the ones. The Oneees. With the tennis outfit, clearly having not played tennis that day or any other. It occurs to me that that may just be a Lake Forest thing or at the least a North Shore thing. Anywho. She's ignoring me. As goes our typical routine comes 5 p.m.

"Mom?"

"Why do you have to be so annoying to me Brigid?" She's referring to the fact that I've now gone over to her and given her a bear hug emphasizing the little waist she's widdling down from a size 10 to a 6. Maybe three months ago I went up to my mom, who is adorable, but was mildly Mom-Chubby, and had recently decided to go see a fitness trainer, that I would say goodbye to her cute mommy roll. (As I write this, I really sound like a horrible child. It isn't weird that I do this though. It's a Marshall-ism. Everyone does it.) I go up to her and flick her tummy. I do realize now that maybe that wasn't the nicest thing I've ever done, but whatever. I do it. And I did it.

So today, I notice how little the waist is becoming and give her the bear hug. Then I go for it. I try to flick the belly up, but to no avail. She's really getting taut.

It comes to my attention midway through our little back-and-forth that perhaps it's more than just the trainer. Maybe it's the diet.

She pulls out a slab of ribs though, and I sort of change my mind, though she did buy the relatively fat-less ribs. Our kitchen is one of those kitchens with so many cabinets that at any given point you can open one and find something worth eating, as long as it's not stale. I usually go for the fridge as I am a berry person, and anyone who knows anything knows you put berries in the refrigerator.

So, I'm going for the bottom drawer, and I see it. It's a vast compartment full of Dannon's Lite & Fit yogurt. Hark, it's my mother's no-tummy-roll secret! I noticed this drawer a few weeks ago, when I actually put all of the yogurts there. They're little Sheila's chosen low calorie food selection for snacks and breakfast.

"Mom."

She finally looks over to me as if I've really interrupted her intense old-mail-reading experiment. While ripping into teensy pieces an old bill (another story for another time)—

"Mom, these are, like, old," I don't say it like a Valley girl would, just your typical Midwestern street jargon, "Really old."

"Well, how old?" Pause. She doesn't even go to check the dates. "No, no." Insert a distasteful Chicago accent. Think Costa Rica, with the "O" sounding like the beginning of Apple. "No, it's good for three weeks after. Everyone knows this."

Everyone does not know this.

"No, mom. They put an expiration date on it for a reason." Which they do. Sometimes you can get away with a few days, but we learned from that time with the chocolate milk—

"Remember that time with the milk?" She looks at me with that Mom-look, with that Mommy Knows Best-face, that face that I have decided is a farce, especially in relation to refrigerated food products.

"You threw up in the sink." The story goes like this:

"Gosh, I didn't even know this milk was still in here." Me

"Yeah, it's still good." Her

"What day is today?" Me

"May 20th. What day's it say?" Her

"May 9th. I'm throwing it away." Me

"No, you're not. I bought it, we're going to drink it." Her

"Be my guest." Me

She picks it up, pours a glass. I smell it from three feet away. She puts it to her mouth. I half expect her to plug her nose. Takes a sip. And runs to the sink not only spitting it up, but letting out one of those ghastly upchuck noises. The kind you make when you stick your tooth brush too far down your throat in an effort to clean your tongue.

Attempting to separate the two stories, she says, "Part of the issue is, the weather was warmer."

And the best part is she doesn't even try to deny the milk story.

"Well, it was May then, now it's July, you do the math." Aha, a retort!

"It's still not—" She breaks off. "Brigid, please stop picking on me."

And then she moves on to another piece of mail.

I'm Not 23 Yet, but I will be

"Lelaina: I was really gonna be something by the age of 23.
Troy: Honey, the only thing you have to be by the age of 23 is yourself.
Lelaina: I don’t know who that is anymore." -Reality Bites

Next week I turn 23 years old. I may or may not be something by next week, Wednesday to be exact. In October when I came home for the weekend of my cousin Maureen's wedding I had a 23rd birthday party, off the cuff, at a hibachi restaurant called Mikasa Sukasa. Really I was just out with some cohorts of mine, and they decided all at once without planning that it was my birthday. The slew of Japanese waiters sang me their version of "Happy Birthday," I ate a pineapple with cocktail umbrellas in it, and was sad that I was so old.

It's weird that I'm actually going to be that old pretty soon. The funny thing is, I'm pretty sure 40-something-year-old moms and dads or even 30-year-old unmarrieds think, "Psh! Brigid, you're so young!" But not my parents. No, for them I'm never actually my own age, I'm either the 4-year-old version ["Do you need to get tucked in?"], 15-year-old version ["Brigid, stop being so hostile."] or 30-year-old version of myself ["Why don't you have your own business, job, house? Make sure you have a kid before you're too old."]. For real, this all happens. Seriously.

But I do think it would probably be quite difficult to be away from their kid for so long that they missed those actual maturation years in college, years where they couldn't be there, otherwise there might not have been such a drastic change. So, now that I'm home, there's this sort of push and pull where they don't know how old my age should equate to their treatment of me, or really any of my five siblings. [See our recently implemented 12 a.m. curfew for week nights and 2 a.m. on weekends. For real. I need to leave.]

It would all have been much easier if I actually was allowed by our ailing society to become the "something by the time I was 23." Unfortunately, Troy's response is true, but is something incomprehensible to myself and the Larry/Sheila Duo. And Lelaina's response makes it all the better, because for me, "I don't know who that is anymore" either.