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ever after

The Marriage Plot: Good for Fiction but not Real Life

I’ve finally finished reading The Marriage Plot by Jeffrey Eugenides. I would describe it as way-better- than-The Virgin Suicides (thank God!) but still not-quite-as-good as Middlesex. (I wonder if anything will ever be as good as Middlesex, but I feel badly saying that because it must be difficult for someone like Eugenides; if your second book wins a Pulitzer don’t you have to spend the rest of your life trying to live up to that?) At any rate, The Marriage Plot is a very self-consciously intellectual novel in both subject matter and structure; the main characters are all graduates of Brown and they sit around contemplating (in a joking but not really joking manner) what it would be like for their last names to become adjectives (a la “Shakesperian”). And although it’s essentially a love story, it’s also a coming of age story, and a story about whether or not love stores are indeed the most important stories of our lives. The characters ask (and the plot forces us to consider) can novels exist without …

toe

The De-Stringing

So where were we? Right. The street corner, Starbucks in hand, him asking to see me again and me saying yes. The only problem is that this is late November, which means we’re coming up on what I like to refer to as my Ultimate B*tch Period, courtesy of The Lady Hoofers and our annual holiday concert. As most of you know, I’ve spent the past three years directing a small dance company. Because we’re a small dance company (7 First Company dancers, 4 Apprentices and no real “staff” to speak of aside from our lone—albeit fabulous— intern), “directing” really means producing shows, running meetings, designing costumes, contracting musicians, balancing the budget, managing payroll, choreographing repertoire, recruiting volunteers and carting everything to and fro the various theaters in which we perform and—oh yeah—dancing. Making matters worse, I often get really brilliant ideas in the midst of it all. Ideas like, “I know! To save the company money I will MAKE all of the costumes we need for the show’s new opening number” or “Wouldn’t this …

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Throw Back Thursday: Date #12

Here’s a little tidbit from 2010, back when I was young and crazy and able to date multiple men at the same time.  Enjoy! I’m sitting cross legged on the floor, eyes closed, holding the index finger of my left hand against my left nostril and breathing through my right.  Why?  Because the flap on my box of Yogi Chai Rooibos tea bags told me to, that’s why.  These twenty six breaths through my right nostril are supposed to bring me “sunny energy” and with five first dates in five days, I need all the energy I can get.  (Sorry if you were hoping for a steamy account of tantric sex; it’s just cardboard box yoga). Prior to the advent of this blog, I don’t think I’ve ever been called “energetic.”  Actually, there was one time.  It was in Ehmkendorf, a tiny town in northern Germany.  I was seventeen and just completing my first international service project with Volunteers For Peace.  On the last day of the workcamp, one of my fellow volunteers presented me …

sticky tabs

I Could Write Today If…

Sticky tabs. I could write today if I had the right sticky tabs. But mine are too small. Too big. Not the right colors. Index cards. I could write today if I had proper index cards. How can I come up with a decent plot without index cards? Sticky-backed index cards. I could write today if I had sticky-backed index cards. Then I could stick them to the wall and move them around and come up with a plan. A longer wall. I could write today if I had a long enough wall. But mine is too small. I can’t plot my plot because I don’t have enough space to spread out my sticky-backed index cards. A white board. I could write today if I had a new white board. And not those crappy ones from Five Below. They don’t work. White board markers. I could write today if I had fine-tip white board markers. The ones I have are too fat. I can’t fit the requisite details on my white board with fat white …

stick figure family

Breaking Up… with the Kids

The saddest thing, by far, about this relationship ending is that it hasn’t left just one hole.  It’s left three. TWD’s youngest accidentally took a pair of my jeans when flying home after the holidays.  There was some confusion with the laundry and well… teenagers are easily confused. I don’t actually care about the jeans or the fact that I’ll never get them back now.  What I care about is that fact that I’m not going to be there when TWD’s kids graduate from high school, that I’m not going to get to see prom pictures, that I’m not going to know if they end up becoming authors or veterinarians or video game designers. I was looking forward to going on college visits with them and helping them edit their entrance essays.  I was going to be the cool stepmom who sent them awesome care packages because it wasn’t all that long ago that she was in college herself, and secretly, because I knew it would make their father happy, I was going to work …

Lady Hoofers Holiday Postcard

Excuses, Excuses

Hi there, remember me?  I used to blog here, but then I decided it would be a very good idea to produce two shows at the same time, apply for my PhD, run a free tap residency program for elementary school students in North Philly, write a fancy chapter for a fancy anthology on ethnicity and dance, take on teaching two sections of Anthropology 101 and… I feel like I’m forgetting something.  Oh yeah—house hunting! This leads to things like printing 500 tickets for a single performance instead of 150 for each show like I was supposed to… And not noticing that my parking receipt is upside down on my dashboard (to the tune of a $36 fine)… And hopping on 95 North to go teach in the suburbs when I’m actually supposed to be teaching within the city… And not washing my hair for four days because I forgot to buy conditioner… And spilling coffee all over myself.  Like ALL THE TIME. But it could be worse.  It could be the start of the …

blog-update

Of Treacherous Terrain

Sometimes I wish I’d written this blog anonymously.  It didn’t matter before—I was single, I was mainly freelancing and the “real” jobs I had were jobs I didn’t care about—but now that things have changed, it’s seems like everything I want to write about is off limits. This forces me to write about nonsense.  Like people in the drive through line at Dunkin Donuts.  Or reality television.  Or egocentric, ethnocentric smut that somehow found itself between the covers of an actual book. I’d like to write about my students.  I’d like to write about sex.  I’d like to write about how the thought of someday-moving-in-with-TWD both excites and terrifies me.  I’d like to write about the schools I’m considering for my PhD—both the ones I’m now dying to get into and the ones that I’m just about ready to cross off the list—but this blog is public, so I can’t very well do that, now can I? I will say this: Operation Move Out has been derailed.  Because now that I’m applying to go back …

Dunkin Donuts drive through

It Might Be Time to WALK

On the way home from my semi-annual jog this morning, I couldn’t help but notice ELEVEN cars in line at the Dunkin Donuts drive through.  Call me crazy, but if you’re an able bodied individual under the age of, say, 65, and there are ELEVEN cars in front of you, don’t you think it might be time to park your f*cking car and burn a few pre-emptive Munchkin calories by, you know, walking a few steps? Granted, I had just finished jogging an entire two miles (Rio, here I come!) so I was feeling rather self-righteous in the fitness department. (Two miles plus a half song of crunches I might add and yes, “a half song” is a valid unit of measurement.) But still, is it really that difficult to walk? It was gorgeous out, and I’m pretty sure that it takes way more songs to wait in the drive through line than it does to park, walk inside and place your order.  Plus, by going inside you can ensure that you get the very …