What Defines a Child?

A child is impressionable - be cautious. A child is learning - be kind. A child is adventurous, impetuous, wild - be ready. A child is young - be wise. A child is wise - be young. A child is imaginative - be creative. A child is emotional - be able to comfort, to guide, to sympathize. A child is difficult - be understanding. A child is challenging - be up for it. A child follows - lead. A child can lead - be led. A child is needy - be present. A child is persistent - be supportive. A child is talkative - be all ears. A child is annoying and clingy and chatty and loud - be annoying and clingy and chatty and loud. A child is quiet - be listening. A child is talented - be aware. A child is obstinate - be steady. A child is unafraid - be alert. A child is a storyteller and an actor (a doctor, a lawyer, a dog, a cat, an alien, a whale, a monkey, a princess, a warrior, a cop, a robber, a mother, a father, a snail) - be an audience. A child is impossible - be a believer. A child is original - be open-minded.
A child knows - be yourself.

Giant Monkeys, Talky McTalksalot, and William Shatner

Happy Tuesday, Matt Smith.

Sometimes, at the end of a year, I find it amusing to write sentences like, "This is my last Tuesday in the Twin Cities before next year," or "This is the last night of the year that I'll eat leftovers from the fridge in my own apartment." Sure, they don't mean much, but it sure does feel good.

However, here's a list of some things that DON'T feel good:

1) Kids who talk too much. (Sometimes, kids who talk at ALL.) This week, I'm working at a "magnet school" -- this one attracts the "gifted and talented." While I, as a child, was labeled as such, at the time it did NOT mean that we were entitled to say whatever was on our minds whenever we felt like it. Apparently... now it does.

2) Muscle strain. While no explanation is really necessary for this, I suppose some details are in order. Today, I worked in a classroom with very little space to spare -- lots of chair-desky things, a big teacher's deak, tons of homemade cardboard and construction paper models of unrecognizable objects, and one quite large table in the center of the room which was covered with a nifty little quilt. So we weren't left with a lot of room to work with. The teacher offered to move the table, but it seemed like it would be a big hassle as she had stored a number of large heavy-looking boxes (holding God knows what) underneath it. We said we'd work around it -- no big deal -- and she jokingly told me that I could stand on it if I wanted. I said, "Really?" She looked at me, semi-incredulously and said, "Oh. Sure." So of course, I did. Jumped on and off the table about 30 times over the course of the day. Did stupid things to ensure the amusement of the children, making quite certain that I could use the table to prance about on. All of this proves that I'm INSANE, that the children would NOT be amused, and that I'm terribly, woefully out of shape.

3) Being kicked in the head. Although this didn't actually occur today, I'm fairly certain it's not something that would feel particularly pleasant.

4) Being cold. Minnesota is very cold. Too cold, in fact, to snow. So cold that the humidity on the inside of my car is frosting the INSIDE of my windshield. So cold that my snot -- my own 98.6 degree snot -- freezes after I spend two minutes outside. Minnesota is frozen snot cold, and it doesn't feel good. Pittsburgh's frickin' Habana compared to this crazy place.

I think I'll make tea now.

Over and over again,
Meredith

$73 of Wine on the Wall... $73 of Wine...

Dear Matt Smith,

I remember telling you once, after my car was stolen (it's almost my year anniversary!), that when the police arrived on the scene and told me, "When your car turns up, we'll give you a call."
"When?" I said. "Or IF?"
"When," Grumpy Man said. "These things usually turn up."
I extended my hand towards his car window, and, incidentally, his face. "Hi," I said. "Perhaps we haven't met. My name's Meredith, and I'm the girl that nothing goes right for."

And so it goes, Matt Smith.
And so it goes.

Yesterday, after a very long day of teaching "Harassment Now!" (not later) to six classes of seventh graders, I ventured out to the local grocery store -- Cub Foods (I have yet to actually witness a cub there, but then, the Boy Scouts have set up their Christmas tree shop in the parking lot). I bought a few crucial items, including a delicious steak (excuse me... STEAK!) to cook for my meager supper. I did my banking, discovered that I had a bit more cash to play around with before Christmas than I had originally anticipated, and made my way to the local liquor emporium. (Yes, liquor emporium. Minnesota has a vast amount of liquor, but most of it is found in large warehouse environments, where the sky's the limit. Although, why would you want liquor to be in the sky? I'd rather have it in a glass where it's more easily accessible. Damn the sky AND its liquor.)

I perused the aisles for a decent, yet inexpensive, bottle of Merlot and spotted a local Merlot for about $8. I carried my find to the counter, pulled out my license and my debit card, and waited behind a goosy-looking woman who sported a cart filled with 3 cases of some ridiculously God-awful beer. I smiled at her bad taste, and hugged my delicious wine closer to me. The clever minion behind the counter took her check without asking for ID (stupid, stupid boy), grabbed all three of the cases, and carried it out the door to the goose-lady's car. I briefly entertained the idea of robbing the place blind while he left the store unsupervised, but was thrown back into reality as the chubby minion re-entered the store.

To make a short story even shorter, the stupid boy overcharged me. He failed to ring out the Goose's sale, and charged me for her skunky beer. I mentioned this -- because my first receipt read something along the lines of $44.21 -- and he made some brief effort to correct the problem, but ended up charging me an additional $30 or so. Eventually, the poor chubby, shaggy boy had to take $73 off of the card.

So there you have it, Matt Smith. The saga of my $73 bottle of wine. It's really not all that important, but it does illustrate the point that nothing good can come of buying disgusting beer.

Cheers,
Meredith

Peeing for Freedom

Hellooooo, Matt Smith.

Good evening to you as well. It is evening here; in fact, it's pretty much been evening here since about 6 o'clock in the morning... on Monday. The sun really hasn't made an appearance this week, but perhaps it's sympathizing with me. I've had to get up at about 6 in the morning every day this week, but more on that later.

News on the car: it IS "fixed." I use the increasingly appropriate ironic emphasis of the quotes here. (And they are "finger" quotes, of course. The internet, however, does not allow me to have fingers.) Apparently, I "flooded" the "engine," and this is "bad," according to the "guys at the shop." After driving a non-fuel injected vehicle for so long, I fully understand the concept of cars not starting. My only downfall was treating all cars the same. All cars are not created equal.

I did tell the tow truck man that this was my annual car trouble. He said, "This happens every year?" And I said, "Yeah, pretty much." He said, "Does it always happen around the holidays?" And I said, "Yeah. Pretty much." Such was our conversation that very, very cold Friday morning at seven.

Bonus to having the car towed that early? I got to eat McDonald's breakfast! Woo-hoo! So exciting! Usually I crave Egg McMuffins at approximately 10:31 in the morning. It's a trick my body likes to play on me, knowing full well that McDonald's -- for whatever cunning corporate reason -- stops serving breakfast at 10:30. The reasoning behind this completely ELUDES me, as any normal McDonald's-breakfast-eating 20-something doesn't even roll out of BED until eleven. It's just wrong. That's all I'm saying. Not very effective marketing, if you ask me.

Waking up at 6am all this week reminded me faintly of working at Starbucks. Only this time, I come home from work smelling of contemptuous middle schoolers instead of scorched milk and stale coffee. Needless to say, I took a shower. I needed to wash off all the "I-don't-care-what-you're-trying-to-teach-me's," the "I'm-going-to-make-fun-of-everything-that-you-do-because-I-have-no-developed-sense-of-humor's," and the "I-have-to-look-cool-and-the-only-way-I-know-how-to-defend-that-is-by-using-sarcasm's." Quite honestly, it stinks. And I didn't want to sit and stew in that all the live-long-Law-&-Order night.

I'm sorry to hear you've come down with a cold. I heard it was going around.
Okay, actually, I didn't. That just seemed to be something that people say to make sick people feel better.
"I've got a cold."
"Oh, really? I heard it was going around."
Or... "I've got bronchitis."
"Really? I heard it was going around."
Or... "I've got anemia."
"Oh, really? I heard it was going around."
(I guess it's one of those "safety in numbers" things. I don't know.)

For the cold and the voice thing, though, I recommend drinking a lot of warm water. Sarah used to make fun of me for drinking what she referred to as my "bath water," but it's better for your vocal chords. Doesn't rip them apart and dry them out the way that ice water will, and the water bottle will double as a handy heat source when your hands get cold.
I've actually been drinking a lot of water lately, believe it or not. Yes. Me. The self-proclaimed Water Hater. I used to think the only thing that could make water bearable was Kool-Aid, but I stand corrected. A body -- well, my body -- goes through a great deal of fluid when it carries all the strain and stress that comes with teaching children. So, I get rid of that stress by drinking water. And peeing a lot. It guarantees that I get at least 2 or 3 minutes to myself every hour or so.

Unless some wandering school official follows me into the faculty bathroom, which hasn't happened YET, but it's just the sort of thing that would happen to me.

And then my car would break down.

Happy to be coming home for the holidays,
Meredith

I'm Sally Field

Matt Smith,

Half a glass of wine and I'm an expert on a great many things.

1) Car troubles = car experts. It's amazing how many things people think they know after experiencing any kind of car trouble. At 10:30 on Sunday morning, my car wouldn't start. After a few hours of mild heartbreak and a phone call to AAA, I returned home from rehearsal, hopped in my car, turned the key, and heard the engine turn right over. My little Subaru ran smoothly up until today when I trotted out over the icy terrain, hopped in, turned the key, and -- whaddya know? The darn thing wouldn't start. Seems that when something's wrong with a car, it gives you little hints -- symptoms, one might say -- of what's about to come. But everyone's got an opinion, and everyone's an expert here in Minnesota when it comes to cold weather car trouble. "It's the battery," one says. "It's the engine," says another. "It's the gas tank," "It's the starter," "It's the fuel pump," they say. Yeah? It's your FACE. Don't feed me lies. Just fix my car.

2) Schoolteachers sure are condescending, aren't they? I spent today in a school, passing teachers in the hall who spoke to their classes in melodic ups and downs, telling them such important things as, "THERE is absoLUTEly NO TALKing!" or "BOYS and GIRLS," followed by many forms of meaningless drivel. All the teachers I admired in elementary school had one thing in common: they were honest. And not just with me, but with themselves. Teachers of Minnesota, take note.

3) It's one thing to be at home of your own accord, but it's another thing altogether to be at home, truly WANTING to go out. I've spent so many nights here in the Twin Cities, just bumming around my humble little apartment, watching "Law & Order" (or some other cops-and-robbers/crime drama type show -- at the moment, it's "Diagnosis Murder," which I, of course, am ashamed of, but who doesn't love Dick Van Dyke? He's the man; you can't deny it), just being happy being warm (GOD ALMIGHTY it's warm in my apartment! The heat's so bad, I could hang paintings on it) and drinking my tea (or, in this case, wine -- I'm on glass number 2 now, even more brilliant and insightful than I was before). But suddenly, the ability to transport myself from this place to another place has been taken away from me, and I have this odd desire to go someplace. What place? I have no idea. The Dollar Store. The China Buffet. The friggin' Target... I don't care. Just let me out!!!

4) People -- real ones -- read my blog. Amazingly, it's not just Anne Brannen and Matt Smith. That's not to say that Anne and you, Matt Smith, aren't "real" people, but there are other actual human beings out there who have ventured my way -- some via my sister (God love her), and some via Matt Dunegan. (And to end the argument of arguments, I'd challenge anyone to call him Dunegan in EVERY situation; go ahead. Think you can do it? It's difficult. There are some circumstances that wouldn't warrant the use of the name "Dunegan." Trust me.)

Okay, so I'm not really an EXPERT. But I did manage to get through this entry without having to use SpellCheck.

Big, semi-depressing, wintry-scented sighs,
Meredith

A Bit of Wisdom from Garrison

"Nothing you do for children is ever wasted.
They seem not to notice us, hovering,
averting our eyes, and they seldom offer
thanks, but nothing we do for them is ever
wasted."

(Garrison Keillor)

Matt sat on the mat, Matt.

Matt Smith,

I wish, Matt Smith, that I had as clever a nickname for you as you seem to have for me. Of course, then I realize that I indirectly gave you that ingenious nickname. You typed it, I questioned it, and I put it to use. (Oh, the cleverness of me.)
Also, I have trouble explaining different stories to people. Sometimes, I'll tell a Matt Smith story -- like the time you did that thing that was so funny and we all laughed -- and people will go, "Oh, that Matt Dunegan! He's so funny!" And then I'll have to tell them, "No, Matt is my boyfriend. Matt was the one who did that funny thing that made us all laugh. Matt did that other thing that was funny that I told you about the other day." And then they'll say, "Wait. I thought you said that Matt did that funny thing." And I'll get frustrated and say, "No, that's Matt. He did that OTHER funny thing. Matt's my friend. MATT is my boyfriend." And then their brain will explode.
So you can see the trouble it's causing, I'm sure. In case you're wondering, yes, I have considered using both of the Matts' last names, but I'm trying to be more efficient in my speech. There are far too many syllables to consider. That option is right out.
Therefore, I've started to consider some possibilities for your nickname. "MS" was an option -- I mean, they're your initials. But then, MS is also a life-altering condition. And really, who wants a nickname with no vowels? (Besides the Polish. They have no need for vowels except to spell Poland. Does Poland still exist? I never had geography in school. What am I saying? I'm out of school, and I shouldn't have to know whether or not Poland still exists. If Poland exists, so be it. The vowel comment still stands.)

The other options are as follows:
1) Matterooni - Like "macaroni" crossed with Mickey Rooney, so it'd be noodles that sang and danced and were shaped like elbows.
2) Smithsonian - I like to think of you as a huge, information-filled museum. You've got a lot of funny stuff in that brain of yours. As my dear Matt Dunegan would say, though, "Alas, alack, Alanis Morrisette!" That name is already taken. No matter what nickname I choose for you, though, I can still call you this one in secret though. I'll just say it to myself. So when I address you with your new nickname (whatever that ends up being), that silly grin on my face is really just me saying silently, "Oh that Smithsonian. He's so clever. And really, how clever am I to have gotten away with using the name Smithsonian without the officials knowing. I am so clever. Oh, the cleverness of me."
3) Math - Matt + Smith = "Math." It's ingenious.
4) Smatt - If you were to file something under your name, you'd file it under "Smith, Matt." Smith + Matt = "Smatt." Again, ingenious.
5) Jerry Seinfeld - This one's just obvious. I mean, have you ever gotten a good look at Jerry Seinfeld? He looks and sounds absolutely nothing like you. It's out of left field, no one's expecting it, no one sees it coming. I'd be like, "Hey, Jerry Seinfeld!" And you'd be like, "Hey there, you!" And heads would turn. Sheer brilliance.

After lengthy deliberation, however, I've finally decided on your nickname.

Mat.

It's great, yes? It distinguishes you from my boyfriend, Matt, and you still get all the recognition and distinction and pomp and circumstance that your given name calls for.

I like it, and you should too.

As always,
Meredith

I Do Not Want the Anal Probe

Greetings and salutations, friend.

The direction I was given yesterday in my "playwrighting basics workshop" was to find some time each day to do some writing. I thought, "Hell. I blog." This is writing, right? Right. Now that that's covered... moving on.

My other workshop -- today's workshop -- is "Vocal Orchestration and the Spoken Word." Or something. We spent a great deal of time this evening talking about operatives, primary and secondary emphasis, and the way in which those obscure things changed the way we delivered our lines. When asked what part of today's class "resonated" with me, I truly wanted to tell the instructor (incidentally, the CEO of the theatre), "This is just like the 'I Do Not Want the Anal Probe' game." But... I didn't. (It's quite the fun game in that it does not actually involve an anal probe.)

Seems I was busy -- this weekend -- doing something close to nothing, but different than the day before. (And, of course, any Prince references are included in honor of Prince's hometown of Minneapolis. Glad we could clear that up.) Spent a great deal of time with Matt, bumming around Uptown, window shopping and eating good food. He bought a hat that makes him look like a superhero. (Not a raspberry beret, but I bet you could work him into the superhero idea you have for John, me, and you.) He found a hat that read "Sheep" and had a picture of, yes, a sheep on it. Seems they'll make hats that do all sorts of things besides keep your head warm.

We ate sushi made by a guy named Steve and rushed to get into the liquor store before closing. I drank tea and I made coffee for the first time in 3 months. (Can't say I missed it, really, even if I was making it for Matt.) We peed in a Lutheran church -- I felt like a secret agent on a stealth mission! -- and went to a coffee shop for bikers. Yay for Bob's Java Hut.

We went to the only Steelers' bar in the Minneapolis/St. Paul area (there are so many!), The Starting Gate, and met up with an old friend. We drank beer, and went shopping for groceries. We rented a movie, watched some ZIM! and cooked some dinner. Life was -- is -- good.

It felt good to feel like I was home again.
Even if all it took was dinner, wine, Ben & Jerry's, and falling asleep on the couch halfway through a movie.

Good sighs,
Meredith

Germs and Worms and Holiday Things

Hi there, Matt Smith.

I think one day I'm going to decorate my house like an elementary school.

I guess I never really thought about it before, but when you get right down to it, I do like a lot of tacky things. For one, I own that ridiculous, fringy, hangy red lamp that I tote around with me. I have a jean jacket that looks like I stole it from DJ Tanner -- pins and bells and whistles and ribbons and all. Definitely straight out of the 80s, and what's more, I actually wear this jacket. Proudly. So many of the things that I own are ugly, and pathetic, and dilapidated... No. Really. It's true.

The great thing is, though, when I add up all those tacky wonderful things, it works somehow. I don't know why that is, but it's true. Take all that beautiful tackiness, and add it all up, and it's just LOVELY. (Or, as my mother would say, "Put it in a barrel and shake it up." Which actually IS something that people say. Honest.)

So... I think Elementary School Decor is definitely the way to go. I could hang finger paintings on the wall, and make strange decorations out of construction paper and glue (all seasonally appropriate, of course -- cats and ghosts for Halloween, wreaths for winter holidays). I could have window clings of obscure things like teddy bears sledding, and hearts with arms and legs. I could hang strings from my ceiling tiles and tie clothespins to the ends of them so I could dangle paper snowflakes and farm animals from them.

It'd be just... grand.

(Don't you think?)

More to come,
Meredith

Guilt Bags

Mr. Smith,

Lately, I feel that, as Americans, we're constantly looking for what's not there -- what's being taken away -- rather than what's already there.

It's unfair, I know, but I also know it feels very true.

In relationships, often we look for what's wrong before we notice what's right: "He's not committed enough," "She's co-dependent," or "One of his earlobes is longer than the other." At work, we ask for Time Off. We look forward to the weekend, when we don't have to work. In our daily lives, the negative plays a major role. We look for bargains, for markdowns, for slashed prices. We cut coupons, we count calories (the less the better), we drink water to flush our systems. We want to lose weight instead of gain it, subtract taxes instead of add them, down-size our friends, our budget, our lives...

We are a nation obsessed with the negative.

Why, when we feel compelled to ADD to our lives, do we feel guilty? As if adding things to our lives -- things that come at a price -- we're punished. Higher education, lunch with an old friend, a day off to relax with our loved ones, a car, a ring, a sofa... anything that adds to our emotional, mental (and sometimes even physical) health is gained at a price.

Why, when we carry ourselves out of the office early on a Friday afternoon so we can spend some much needed time with OURSELVES, do we have to carry with us those bags of guilt?

Yeah.

I don't know either.

Always questioning,
Meredith

An Old Sad Song

Matt Smith,

A person creates their mate in their mind. I truly believe that every 20- or 30- something on this planet can remember a time in their childhood when they knew exactly what they were looking for in that One Person. Whether they dreamt of a blushing blonde, or a blue-eyed boy, or a white knight -- they know now what they were looking for then, and they've pretty much resigned themselves to the fact that no matter how long and strenuous the search, they're never going to find exactly what it was that they were looking for in the first place.

It's a sad thing to think on. And maybe I'm just a little sad myself tonight.

When I was a little girl, I remember thinking that the person I spend my days with would be an artist and he would be rich. As I got older, I realized that those two traits aren't usually the best of friends. So, I settled into thoughts of a writer, a reader, a thinker -- someone with a generous sense of humor and an honest smile. I wanted a musician, a movie buff. Someone who could see beyond the surface of everyday sorts of things -- not the least of which would be me. (I suppose I always thought that I wasn't much to look at, but I knew that I was smart. Maybe I thought that it took a pretty special type of person to see that deep into who I was.)

I remember thinking that, when I got older, things would inevitably fall into place. I would be walking down the street one evening, dressed in my little black dress after just having come from the theatre, and some tall, rich, tuxedo-clad gentleman with long, beautiful hair would pop out from behind a pillar and ask for my name.

Well, I was partly right.

He is tall. And I suppose it was evening.

But the thing is, I did get what I was looking for. It's hard to explain, I guess. But the person I was looking for... well, he's the type of person who -- well, collects the stickers that you find on produce. Who conducts an impromptu funeral and burial for a dead bird in his backyard by reading "Grass" by Carl Sandburg. Who honks at crows he sees on the interstate. Who tells me stories about, well, whatever I want... even if they're a little silly and involve a woman named Dottie. Who finds meaning in the way I eat my pancakes. Who appreciates the fact that I get a little crazy when I'm left alone for too long. Who can amuse passing tourists just by being himself.

He is the kind of person who reminds me, every day, that I exist. That I live out loud. That I have worth. That I am loved.

And he never has to speak a word.

Love,
Meredith

Go Ahead. Just TRY to Slow Me Down.

The Best Little Program Notes Ever

Greetings, Matt Smith.

How was your day? Good? Want to hear about mine? Great.

Wrote this as "program notes" for our classes today at the daycare center, and it made its rounds around the Artistic Staff Office.
Yeah. I wrote them.
And yes. They're true.


Program Notes
West St. Paul, MN
October 22, 2004
Sivie and Meredith

One of the interesting things about preschools and
day care centers that is hard to notice at first is
that they'll try anything once. It really doesn't
matter who comes in to their center/school to present,
or what they're presenting, just so long as the people
who work there get a break in their day. And for good
reason: they have a difficult job. Working with
toddlers and infants is a trying job, day in and day
out. Communication is difficult. Working with
children of that age and trying to communicate with
them all day creates this weird… vibe. They get so
comfortable communicating with toddlers that
communication with adults now seems awkward.

Perhaps that awkwardness is to blame for today's
difficulties.

If there were a magic wand that could instantly erase
the problems of today, the world would be a better
place. Today's program site was a perfect example of
why we have restrictions on programming (such as the
number and age of students in the classroom).
Frankly, it's difficult to create programming for
children who don't speak. No. It's more than
difficult. It's near to impossible. Why, you ask?
Because they can't speak. Much like a dog. Or a
gopher. Or a watermelon.

But, on to the matter at hand: Today's program site
went through a myriad of stages in their communication
with us at CLIMB. First, the contact
(Julie) believed we were clowns, coming in to
entertain the children. ("You guys are a bunch of
clowns, right?" Sure, Julie. We're clowns.
CLIMB Clowns.) Then, once corrected, we were told
that we'd be working with a group of kids who were 2.5
to 3.5 years old, then a group of kids who were 3.5 to
4.5 years old, and finally a group of school-aged kids
(mostly kindergartners with a few older kids thrown in
for good measure)… and was it okay to combine a class
so that there would be one class of about 42 kids?
(No, Julie Casby. It isn't.)

Once all that was straightened out and we understood a
little more of what the kids' level of comprehension
was, we settled in to what seemed to be a fine line of
thought towards programming. The suggestion from Tiny
Tots was that we "read a story" to the youngest group
-- leaving us wondering why we were presenting
something to them at all. We opted for a fabulous
little book on sharing called That Toad is Mine!
(which, while teaching a valuable lesson on why toads
can't be cut in half, also included the line, "A
hoptoad needs ONE place to be"), followed by a
"sharing" version of "Green Ball, Thank You," brought
down to the level of
pass-the-ball-and-say-thank-you-when-you-get-it.

After we had some help from the teachers at getting
the tiny tots settled ("These nice people are going to
be showing us a PUPPET show!" Um. What? Where were
they getting this information?), we were on our way.

This should have been brilliant.

Unfortunately, we were interrupted mid-picture-book by
a woman who seemed to be bringing a group of 1-year
olds in to our class. (Yes, Constant Reader, these
would be the kids who can't talk.) So, after our
initial shock at this new arrangement, we restarted
the story -- and even finished it -- amidst runny
noses, children falling on the floor, and the fact
that children who can't speak also can't answer any
questions.

And that was just the first class. (Although the rest
of the day, even with the scheduling snafus and
miscommunication, seemed a breeze.)
The 3 and 4-year olds were so much more perceptive --
which really isn't saying much -- but they were still
a relief after the stresses of the first class. The
Little Tykes version of "Joey/Lulu and Mom" was
somewhat of a hit, although when questioned about
things like Raising Your Hand and When It's OK to Ask
Questions, kids still came up with answers like, "Say
excuse me when you want to tie your shoes" or "Wipe
the dirt off your face with a paper towel." (Okay…
sure. Those… those are things you can do… when… um…
you… well… never mind.) But, they got the idea that
you're supposed to say you're sorry when you hit
someone or yell at them. And the
Thank-You-for-the-Ball game spoke to them. Somehow.

Regular programming began with "Chuck and the Cheeto
Challenge" and the wonderful return of school-aged
children who understand questions when they're asked
(when they're not playing with the dirt from the
bottom of some other little girl's shoe). The kids
thought we were funny, and they were able to "get"
that sometimes you have to do things you don't really
want to do.

The moral of the story?

Kids who can't talk should be taught by people trained
to talk to them, toads can't be cut in half (but kids
can act like toads REALLY well), people should use
their magic words (please, thank you, I'm sorry,
excuse me), and dirt is often more interesting than a
troll and a goat.

Clowns, Toads, and the Communication Skills of American Toddlers

Hi again.

Very little to update you on from out here in the nutso Midwest... but that won't stop me from making something up for my own amusement.
Apparently Minnesota has some strange educators' conference -- the MEA: Minnesota Educators' Association. (Everyone's really big on abbreviations here, for some reason. I've never encountered anything like it before.) It cancels school for all Minnesota schoolchildren for two full days in October (today and tomorrow). How this actually accomplishes anything in the name of education I'm not sure, but I assume it has SOMETHING to do with educating the educators. I hope.
Educating the educators leaves the theatre-in-education folks no place to go for two days, though, since most of our work takes place in the schools -- and the schools are closed. Aside from going out of state (which I'm not), there's very little to do.
Or, you'd think that, wouldn't you?
Wouldn't you know it, they assigned me to a Tiny Tots and Little Tykes preschool/day-care. Me. As in, the girl who can't communicate with adults -- so how am I supposed to communicate with kids who have no grasp on the English language? It's like they're little... foreigners! Or puppies! Or something else that makes incoherent sounds! A broken carousel! A dying moose! Argh!
To top it all off, the people who run the day-care very honestly thought that CLIMB was a group of clowns. Clowns. What a hoot. So, at least we've got that as a back-up plan.
For the little-little kids (say, two-years old? what does a two-year old even LOOK like?!), we've planned to read a book that I just LOVE (seriously) titled, "That Toad is MINE!"
Yeah. It covers the oh-so-serious topic of sharing and what you can and cannot share. Like a toad. You can't share a toad. You can't even have shared custody of a toad, apparently, because, as the book so eloquently states, "A hoptoad needs ONE place to be."
Oooo... I am so VERY excited.

Love,
Meredith

P.S. Emma got engaged. To Marty. So... I mean... that's strange. Good strange, yes... but still strange all the same. I mean... it's Marty. And Emma. And they're my friends. Friends getting engaged? Kooky.

Why's George Foreman Guest Starring on "Without a Trace?"

Hi, Matt Smith.

Really, I don't honestly think it's George Foreman. It sure looks like him, though. It's as if Reginald VelJohnson and Ving Rhames mated, and then spawned this other guy who looks a great deal like George Foreman. Or something like that.
Currently, I'm in Iowa City at the University of Iowa. Since this is really the only long stop I've ever made in Iowa, I feel as if I'm judging the whole state on this one city. But, not to worry. Iowa's everything I dreamt it would be... and more. It's nice to be in a Place with Stuff to Do with People and Things. We're sent so often to nothing-places that it's nice to be able to get out and DO SOMETHING, anything... even if it's sitting at a local bar and grill and complaining about the slow service.
Highlights of today include: discovering the ethernet connection in my pea-green hotel room, presenting in-services to school counselors from all over the state of Iowa, eating with the aforementioned counselors, wearing a skunk costume (while not actually trying to play a skunk), and swapping movie quotes over a meal with fellow actor-typey folk.

But more on Why I Love Iowa and Why You Should Too:

I love Iowa because of their ethernet connections.
I love Iowa because it's warmer here than in the Twin Cities.
I love Iowa because it's flat.
I love Iowa because of Iowa City.
I love Iowa because I haven't encountered one ounce of Iowa stubborness, and therefore, I don't really believe it exists.
I love Iowa because people ride bikes.
I love Iowa because my hotel is connected to the Student Union.
I love Iowa because I didn't have to drive here.
I love Iowa because I don't have to drive back.
I love Iowa because people live here and do things that are fun.
I love Iowa because there's a coffee maker in my room.
I love Iowa because I took a shower this morning.
I love Iowa because I'm going to see the largest frying pan in Iowa tomorrow morning.
I love Iowa because I can blog from my room.
and more importantly... I love Iowa because I don't have to stay here.

That being said, ladies and gentlemen, goodnight.

Sweet dreams,
Meredith

Out of Whack Priorities

Matthew Smith,

Hi there again. Heard any good jokes lately? No? Neither have I.

Oh no. I take that back. Right now I'm listening to the Presidential Debate, which, I'm disappointed to report, is delaying my date with Detective Green and that new guy with the fancy suits on NBC. I don't care if you ARE vying to be the so-called Leader of the Free World, how dare you cancel "Law & Order?"
(Yes, in case you're wondering, I do have "my priorities out of whack," as my mother would say.)

The best way to protect citizens from guns is to prosecute those who commit crimes with guns? Hmmm. Let's see. Call me crazy, but I think we'd do better to make sure the kooky folks don't get guns in the first place. I don't know. Maybe I'm wrong here. No guns = no crimes with guns. Oy. Wait til I get my hands on this country.

But back to more pressing issues.

Since "Law & Order" is STILL not coming on, and the Men in Black are still chatting, yes, I do have a pretty neat sort of job, don't I? Today we had a reporter/photographer in our classroom who was doing an article on CLIMB and our work in the schools. When he asked us about our work, I realized that -- basically -- what I do is a 40-minute commercial for respect. I sell respect to students, and I have to make it look as good as the other brands out there. Brands like Kicking, Screaming, Not Raising Your Hand, Bullying, Name-Calling, Exclusion, and Bigotry. Oh, it's a charmed life I lead. Walking into a school, I'm like the Grandmother who brings presents and candy and then goes home.

The people I really feel for are the teachers -- the Parents in the schools -- who can't always be the Magical World of Disney, and who can't always be a pirate, or a troll, or a goat, or whatever.

Thankfully, I CAN be the Whatever.
I'm the Gonzo.
I'm a Whatever.

(And they're stillllll taalllkkking.... I'm glad that George Dubya prays. Really. I am. Good for him. But does he know that "in the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate, but equally important groups?" I need their stories, President Bush and Senator Kerry. Puh-leaasssee!)

Love,
Meredith

The Boy Who Cried Poo

Cheers, Matt Smith.

I've just returned from my first full week on the road. "Road," in this particular case, differs greatly from the original entymology. Here, "road" reads more as "middle of nowhere." And, to be even more specific, this week's middle of nowhere was Luverne, Minnesota.
Luverne boasts a great number of fabulous things.
Luverne is the Gateway. I never witnessed the Gate myself, and I can only surmise that the Gateway they speak of is some fictional gate -- a Gate to Iowa and/or South Dakota. Unless they're talking about Real Gates. On fences, perhaps. In that case, there was a plethora of those that housed the area's cattle, pigs, and yes, buffalo.
And, speaking of buffalo, the large stone blasted buffalo statue that stands in front of the specialty store, "Those Blasted Things," is not to be missed. You simply couldn't miss it even if you tried.
Other things of note in Luverne:
1) The Super 8 Motel. Highly recommended by CLIMB Theatre folk, mainly because of the make-your-own-waffle component during breakfast hours. Ask for Barb. She rocks.
2) The local playground. In addition to the windy, swirly, makes-your-hair-stand-on-end shocky slides, there are swings to swing, bouncy things to bounce, climby things to climb, and lots of hard ground to injure yourself on. And while we were there, a man in army fatigues was patrolling the area. Makes you feel safe... or something. (In my case, confused.)
3) The students at Luverne Elementary. Fabulous kids accompanied by fabulous staff. The teachers' lounge was never wanting for goodies -- cinnamon rolls, mini Snickers bars, chocolate chip cookie pie thing -- and I felt very welcome there. In my time as an actor, educator, troll, and pirate there, I even felt a bit of appreciation. Or at least I came close.

Side note of note: During the end of one of our K-2 mini-drama classes where I play a troll, we were asking the kindergarteners to try to remember the 3-part magic formula they learned at the beginning of the play. It never fails that we -- the seasoned professionals -- forget the magic formula. The kids come up with it on their own at the beginning, and we go through so many different combinations in a day (favorite breakfast food/book/color, favorite cartoon character/shape/dessert, and the like) that we inevitably must rely on the kids in each class to remember. In this particular class, the children were having a tough time remembering, and we were of no use. One boy, hand raised, kept calling out, "Poo! Poo! Poo!" Yeah, kid. Poo. I'm SO sure. Why's the weird kid screaming poo? We had no idea. It was odd, and we were tired, and it was funny. So, trying desperately to stay in character, we laughed, and I turned to my team lead/partner, and in my best Russian troll voice, asked, "What is this poo?"
Well, yeah. It was Winnie the Pooh.
But you can't know everything all the time,

Love,
Meredith

The Devil and Creepy Star-ster

Dear Matt Smith,

I feel that there should be a bit said on the subject of Friday. (Not just any Friday, of course, but yesterday.)
Working with children -- and yesterday I did work with kindergarteners, most of which can actually be defined as children -- can be a real pickle. A big, bumpy, sat-too-long-in-the-brine kind of pickle. Kids say the darndest things, don't they? (Thanks, Mr. Cosby.) But there's no "How To" book on responding to their darndest things. A bloody shame, if you ask me. A real bloody shame.
And so, as my laundry dries in the dryer and my clothes wash in the washer and my music plays on the music-er, I'll tell you a few things I heard these darn kids say yesterday. Your job is to think to yourself, "How WOULD I have responded to that?" Yep. It's a toughy.

The Darndest Things Ever

Topic: Self-Control

Q: How might you feel if someone told you that you had to clean your room, and that you couldn't watch your favorite TV show?

A: "Sad."
A: "Mad."
A: "Bad."
A: "Very sad."
A: "Very, very sad."
A: "Very, very, VERY sad."
A: "Sad, and a little mad."
A: "Bad, and a little sad."
A: "Mad, and a little sad."
A: "Happy!"
A: "Ferocious."

Q: What might you WANT to do, even if you knew you were supposed to turn off the TV and clean your room?

A: "Turn the TV back on."
A: "I HAVE a TV in MY room."
A: "Play with my dolls."
A: "Play Playstation."
A: "Play XBox."
A: "Clean my room... and THEN watch TV."
A: "Take a blowtorch to all the things in my room."
A: "Punch myself in my head."
A: "Cry."
A: "Kill myself."

Here's one of my favorite dialogues:

AE (Actor-Educator): How might you use your self-control at school?
(child raises his hand)
AE: Yes? How would you do that at school?
Child: You can use your Star Power.
(after a pause)
AE: Can you explain Star Power to me a bit more?
Child: You can control the devil any time you want to.
(AE stutters a bit. Child continues.)
Child: You use your star power to control the devil and --
AE (quickly cutting Child off): By the "devil," do you mean the bad things that people do?
(Child pauses again... for a while.)
Child: Yes.
(Audible sigh of relief from both AEs.)

At any rate, you see what I mean, yes?
Life's weird when you're a kid.
Or even when you just spend time with them.

Love,
Meredith

Parking Lot Nostalgia

Hey Matt Smith.

I was coming back from a performance site yesterday -- my first day of teaching -- and we were driving right behind a truck whose mud flaps were manufactured in Goshen, Indiana. And, inevitably, I thought of you. Not because you're the only person I know who's from Goshen, but because I suddenly thought that maybe you're actually the only person who's EVER come from Goshen. You're really the only person who lives there, aren't you? When you're away at school, the town pretty much shuts down 'cause there's no one there, right? Just checking.

A few things I should let you in on:
1) I have unpacked. And a few of your assumptions do indeed hold true. There are quite a few boxes in my room -- although I think they'd more rightly be called crates -- but all of them are empty and now have other purposes than they originally did. One is a bookshelf, one is a shelf that holds photos and such, and another holds a bunch of candles. None of them hold up a television, because, as one may have gathered, I no longer own a television. Nor do I own a VCR. I have left all of my countless videotapes with my sister, and I miss them (and my sister) greatly.
2) I have left Matt, Emma, and Me, Too at home in Pittsburgh. Emma lives with Lori (but Marty lives with Matt, so look out Jane Street) and Me, Too lives with my sister. She loves him. Or she should. Because I'm not there to. And I can't bring him here, the poor kitten, for assorted reasons... so I'll have to send Kitty Support Checks and let my friends and family love him until I get back.
3) I do have bouts of nostalgia and the gas prices do fluctuate. It's funny you should mention both of those things. For one, I have the bouts of nostalgia at the most random times. Today, I had one while walking through a grocery store parking lot. It was sad. (Which is horrible because I don't think I'm allowed to be sad or lonely here. The natives just won't put up with it.) And also, the gas prices are STRANGE. There's a gas station at the end of the street that I live on, and I swear, the gas price changes twice daily. It's one price when I go out early in the morning, and by the time I come home in the evening, it's changed. One day it changed four times. I've seen it go from $1.70 to $1.86 and back down again during the course of a day. Spooky, yes?
Oh, and 4) The menorah's not mine. It's Melissa's.

Work's pretty okay. Yes, being a troll all week has its advantages, but I often find myself slipping into Troll Speak (which sounds a lot like Dave Katzin's Transylvanian Portugese accent, but I never intended it to) at the oddest points in my day. Never try talking to a check-out girl that way. She just won't know what to do. Trust me.
Yes, being a troll and a pirate and a goat actually are teaching strategies with the company I'm in. So far, so good. I think the message is getting across (today I taught self-control -- yes, con-TROLL -- to kindergarteners) and it's uncanny how comfortable I am doing what I'm doing. I might even say I was good at it.

But that's the only time you'll hear me say it.

Love,
Meredith

The Great Great Room is Great

Matt Smith,

It's very loud.
Often I have to take a moment and take stock of my new work environment. For instance, right now, there's a goat and a troll rehearsing outside of the office. I have no shoes on. At one point today, I was even wearing a gas mask.
It's a fun job... once you're able to step back and look at the scene as if you're not in it. If you can't do that, well... you're just going to end up being a very sad, sad person. Or goat. Or troll. Or whatever.
My apartment still has no phone service, but it does have what I like to call the "Great Room." Great because there's next to nothing in it. Sure, we've got a futon now, but there's still a lot of room to do just about anything. It's great for line dancing, or seances, or Twister. It's Great for a lot of things.
Monday is my first day as an Actor-Educator. Yes, to answer your inevitable question, it is silly when I answer the question, "What do you do?" I get to say, "I'm an Actor-Educator." (Yes. AE. I'm an AE. Which is either the stupidest abbreviation or a non-descript vowel sound.) I got to tell the people at the bank that the other day when I opened my new account, and the girl -- who wasn't all that swift to begin with -- looked at me like I had a poodle on my head.
But for now, the goat, the troll, the AE, the Great Room and I (and possibly the poodle) are going to go rehearse a little thing I like to call, "Calming My Nerves," or "Working It Down From A Four."

Because I'm a four, Matt Smith. I'm a four.

-- Meredith

A Girl's Got to Have Her Juice (or, AGGHJ)

Hey right back, Matt Smith:

Sometimes it's okay to not feel entertaining. For example, it's okay that I do not feel entertaining now. I feel far from entertaining. (That's one of the many phrases I'd like to be able to work onto my business card -- in some capacity. Another one is, "Meredith: Pretty Far From Bob." It turns out there's a lot of things I'm "far from.")

I'm far from home right now, actually. I'm breaking all the rules in the CLIMB, Inc. Artistic Staff Office by bringing my cranberry juice in here and using the computer for personal e-mail. (But, a girl's got to drink juice. That's how I see it.) The Artistic Staff Office is more commonly referred to as the ASO (read: A-S-O. not "ass-o," which is how I pronounced it the first time I saw it). Folks around CLIMB (that's "Creative Learning Ideas for Mind and Body") have an annoying habit of creating nonsensical acronyms (a word where every letter of the word stands for a different word, or "WWELWSDW") for every part of the office (EPO), and even things that occur in everyday life (TTOEL). Yes, Matt, it's as if I've stepped into another dimension. (I knew you were wondering.)

So, there you have it. I'm spending my days in a bad Saturday Night Live skit during a writers' strike.

But, it's not so bad.

At least I have a nice apartment. (No worries, Anne.)

Love,
Meredith

Things I Hate, Volume 2

Dear Matt Smith,

To start with, here's an update on some things I hate:

1) Public displays of affection. If it's not my hand you're holding/lips you're kissing/butt you're grabbing, I don't want to see it. So stop it. Now.
2) Stupid people. I must admit this is not a new addition to The List, but it's a sentiment that bears repeating. Stupid people should not drive, walk, talk, procreate, or eat. That way, they'll die off and leave the rest of us alone.
3) Phone calls. Whether incoming or outgoing, the phone is old. Old as in, write me a letter. It'll last longer and annoy me less.

On the subject of phone calls (now that we're on it), there's a new, special person in my life that you should know about. I don't know his name. I know his phone number: 412.441.6871. I hesitate to write it here, but as I know that you and Anne Brannen are the only two people on Earth who read this blog, I know it won't be used for harm.
You're wondering, how do I know this man? Well, I'll tell you. I don't. I don't know him, and I probably will never know him. Mr. 412.441.6871 calls my phone on a regular basis -- usually on the weekends, most often Friday nights. Here's the kicker, though: I've never actually answered the phone. I just let the voice mail pick up. So the man leaves messages. Not for me. For Bob.
Whoever Bob is, he must sound awfully effeminate, as the Guy Looking For Bob never catches on to the fact that my voice mail message is ME and you know, MY VOICE, saying that I -- MEREDITH -- am sorry that I -- MEREDITH -- can't get to my -- MEREDITH'S -- phone right now, but to leave a message and I -- MEREDITH!!! NOT BOB!!! -- will get back to you. He leaves the messages anyway, ranging anywhere from "why don't you call me? I haven't heard from you in a while" (no kidding? I wonder why he hasn't called. Could it be that Bob's not getting the messages???) to "You should go see this really good movie. The good scenes are really... good."
I suppose someday I should do the humane thing and actually answer the phone to tell him that he has the wrong number, that there's no Bob at this number, and please stop calling. But, I just can't. It's too surreal... and yes. Entertaining. So for the time being I just added him to my Contacts List in my cell as Guy Looking For Bob.

Oh. And for Anne's sake, I should say that I'm moving to Minneapolis. Next Saturday. And I have no apartment. (All the cool kids don't have homes. It's true.)

Love,
Meredith

Matt Smith,

All sum total, my vacation in the Dominican Republic was what could only be described as a "blast," although no actual blasting occurred. We spent a week eating, drinking, resting, touring, beaching (or "playa"ing, as they would say in the Spanish), drinking, swimming, eating, sunning, drinking, and yes, more resting. It was a vacation. And it was good.

Hopefully at some point I'll learn how to post photos up here, and then you could see all of that in picture form.

I did, however, start using that laptop that Peter gave me for graduation, and it is SUPERB. I love wireless. At the moment, I'm perched on the trunk of my car, and I AM CONNECTED TO THE INTERNET. (Don't worry. The car's not moving.) So very very strange, and yet, so great that I can do this. It was really only a whim to sit outside. I was going to type up a resume...

Which brings me to my next bit of information -- the Philly folks at the Arden Theatre have NOT called, and I don't think they will call. But never fear... I've got some other yummy interviews lined up. I have to send a headshot out to a touring children's theatre in Minnesota and I'm looking into becoming a "teaching associate" at The Neighborhood Academy here in Pittsburgh for a year...

More to come. Never ever EVER a dull moment...

Love,
Meredith

Hey Matt Smith.

Here's the deal:

1) My interview at the Arden Theatre in Philly is scheduled for 2pm on Thursday, May 27. This means we'll either a) have to leave Pittsburgh on Wednesday night and stay with some friends of mine (well, my brother's... I guess they're more acquaintances of mine, but nevertheless, very cool and hospitable people) or b) have to leave Thursday morning at the ass-crack of dawn. I'm rooting for option A, simply because the ass-crack of dawn is a time I see a lot of, and I don't think driving across the state in the that-time-of-the-morning mood is a very good idea. So, of course you're welcome to stay with my sister and me at her/my new place all that week, if indeed you do come into Pittsburgh in week or so. It'll be good clean fun -- unless we make you clean something, and then it'll be sort of clean fun, but still good all the same.

2) After the interview in Philly, we'll be heading into NYC, which is about a 2 hour drive, and it's something I've never done before, so it'll be frightening as hell, which I hear is pretty scary. That aside, we do have a place to stay -- and ironically, the person we'll be staying with is originally from Philadelphia, so he knows the drive like the back of his hand. (I can only blindly assume that he's one of those people who spends a lot of time looking at the back of his hands. I mean, I don't do that personally, but there are apparently a lot of people who do that, if it's become such a popular simile.) His name's Lee, and he's going to be a great New York City tour guide for us. He lives on the Upper East Side (again, I don't know how to get there, and we'll probably die trying, but that's fine, right?) and I think he's taking most/all of Friday off to take us around and show you things. His only stipulation is that you don't steal from him. He didn't say anything about ME stealing from him, so I guess THAT'S okay... We're going to have to park the car in a garage for 3 nights, and that's probably going to cost us a bit (hence the stealing), but Lee's going to talk with a few of the nearby places to see if he can get a total lower than $120 out of them. We'll see.

3) As for money, I don't have a lot of it -- and we'll need gas, food, parking, and show ticket money. Show tickets I can tell you are $45 each, and once I figure out mileage, I'll know more about the gas thing. Food's pretty much up to us, I guess. If we stock the car with munchies and a cooler, I think we'll be better off than if we bought it along the way. (Yay for road trips!) So, think about that.

4) Let me know when you're planning on getting here, and if you're coming by bus, and if I need to pick you up, and if you're staying with me, and all that other stuff. My old phone number still works until the end of the month and I'll send you the new one, which is the phone we'll have on the road with us. I don't want to post it here, because then everyone who reads this (all two people... me and Anne Brannen) will now have my phone number. And that would just be sad. Although I wouldn't mind hearing from Anne Brannen, there's always that slim chance that some oddball crazy person -- aside from Anne -- would be able to track me down. (But the phone itself is pretty choice -- it's got a little alien on it. I told my friend, Lee, that and he said, "Yeah, Meredith... we're trying to turn down the crazy." Whatever.)

So that's what life looks like right now. I don't have a large trip fund -- because after our excursion, I'm headed to Punta Cana! Yay! (So, yeah... more on that later. Meredith's Vacation Episode #2 still to come.)

Love,
Meredith

I don't know where you've gone, Matt Smith. I hope you're out there in cyberspace somewhere -- in the dark recess of time and space between Spain and Goshen, Indiana -- and I also hope that you call me at some point. There've been some addendums to our travel plans, and I gave them the go-ahead, hoping against hope that you'd be around to, y'know, go. We'll talk about that later, though, a)because it's two weeks away, and we don't plan two weeks in advance. Hell. We don't plan two days in advance... b)I just don't have the time to tell you all about it now, although it involves Interview #2 at the Arden Theatre in Philadelphia (yay) and some stops along the way, and c)I really don't think you're reading this blog at all, so it's all for naught.

I've been doing a lot of outside activities lately -- the weather is fantabulous. (I guess you could more rightly call them "non-activities." The last day of finals, after my directing final at 11am, I drove over to Schenley Park, not really having a set destination and ended up falling asleep for about 2 hours. It was the feeling of done. I'm done.

And really, yay for being done.
Yay for the done not really sinking in until next fall.
Yay for heat and sunshine and having very little to do.
Yay for the fluid feeling of driving, and the sunroof that's broken.
Yay for discovering that even though the sunroof is broken, it does go to the "UP" position.
Yay for old men who happily drive around in sports cars in this fine weather.
Yay for my Ninja-like avoidance of my Starbucks stalker (and his fat baby) yesterday at work.
Yay for my spy-ways -- like knowing how to get to the far end of 376E without going through the Squirrel Hill tunnels, and knowing how to get back to Fifth Ave from Penn Hills without getting back on the bastardized 376W.
Yay for planning vacations, or the lack thereof.
Yay for summer cocktails -- the fruity, refreshing goodness.
Yay for drinking a lot of water.
Yay for my cat, who discovered the awesomeness of his new best friend, the fan.
Yay for that customer at work who asked why we skipped spring and moved straight into summer.
Yay for me -- I told that customer it was to get a jumpstart on construction.
Yay for angry people, who can't help but be happy in the sunshine.
Yay for the sidewalk, even though it bit me twice.
Yay for the late afternoon.
Yay for the early evening.
Yay for finding someplace to see all the stars you can see.
Yay for drive-in movie theatres.
Yay for little blue Volkswagens.
Yay for cardboard boxes, iced grande nonfat chai lattes, strawberry lemonade, grass, sunflowers, bluebells, yellow roses, deodorant, the clicking sound that my cat's claws make, my pull-out sofa bed, DVDs, Disney movies, contact lenses, Jill Sobule, WYEP, Subarus, trying to find a job, snow peas, flip-flop sandals, driving barefoot, donut shops, STEAK!, golden retrievers, Gabby's green tie, my mom, my new toggle cap, permanent markers, duct tape, my roommate, the backseat of my car, marachas, my new cellphone, picnics, brie cheese, the Enrico Biscotti Company, gin and tonics, Icky the cat, high cheekbones, Dave and Andy's ice cream, parking meters, clowns, shiny new pennies, graduation, and of course, Matt Smith.

-- Meredith

In honor of my forthcoming vacation, here's a little break for you, Matt Smith. And now, as they say, for something completely different:

BRANNENISMS:
A COLLECTION OF QUOTES FROM THE MOUTH OF DR. ANNE BRANNEN

On God:
“Aha! There’s Jesus, lookin’ just like a gardener!”
“Glad I could clear up that theological problem: He’s God.”
“Humans often pretend to be God. It’s never good.”
“While Jesus was harrowing Hell, someone had their cell phone on.”
“That’s logic. ‘Should you chew Jesus’s body?’ No.”
“Isn’t that nice? God is sane. This makes me cheerful.”
“God’s very shiny.”

On Lucifer and his demons:
“It has been set up so that they’re actually paying to see the Devil. Which, by the way, they’re not supposed to do.”
“As if it’s [Lucifer’s] idea to fall into Hell…”
“It’s crucial that you like the Little Demons.”
“Sometimes you have long spaces of demonic hilariousness.”
“Demons are especially bad at messing with the audience.”

On being a subtle angel:
“They’re very unsubtle, angels.”
“Whoa. It’s the Marys. Quem quaeritis?”

On unobtrusively holding a palm in your hand:
“I’d like for you all to go home and practice that.”

On the sprinkling of holy water:
“Great. My silks have been blessed.”

On the slaughtering of innocents:
“Lassie! Lassie! The innocents have fallen in a well!”

On interpretations of the Bible:
“And then Herod did taketh his sword, and did try to whack the star from afar.”
“Vatican II? Is that when limbo bit the dust?”
“Religion: According to Me. Why I Don’t Work in the Theology Department.”

On “The Greatest Hits of the Cycle Plays”:
“Gee, I wonder if Basingbone might put on a St. George play this year?”
“They’ve hired a fiddler.”
“What do they do to earn money? They have what are known as ‘church ales,’ which are the equivalent of bake sales… with beer.”
“Woo-hoo! The crucifixion!”
“It’s like… The Three Stooges Crucify Christ.”

On what Noah’s wife could’ve said:
“Oh, did you talk to God today? How’s he doin’?”

On biblical realizations:
“Well, it starts raining. That’s a bad sign.”
“ ‘Cause apparently he’s not a stupid child and has noticed that they have brought no goats.”

On making a pitch to the Red Masquers:
“Castle of Perseverance! You can do this in your backyard!”

On Mary Magdalene:
“She’s a princess… and she has a castle. I love Mary Magdalene.”
“Jesus has died and we have the harrowing of Hell… but we don’t see that… because we’re in Marseilles!”
“And then a priest shows up in the wilderness because… one just does.”
“And so Mary goes to Jerusalem, with her new friend, Lust… and they go to the bar.”
“Mary’s good now… which is nice.”
“She’s preaching… which, as we know, women were not supposed to do… at this time. But it’s okay, because she’s Mary Magdalene, apostola apostolorum, and the star of our show!”
“This is actually the only instance in the history of drama – that I can recall – wherein the audience becomes the ocean.”
“The child is not dead, but apparently will be soon, on account of his being left with a dead woman.”
“Then, caeli gaudent… which you would assume, I guess. I suppose whenever someone gets assumed into heaven caeli gaudent.”

On Herod:
“He’s the guy who can’t control anything.”

On singling people out, whether or not to:
“I would.”

On how to seduce a woman:
“You’re cute. Real cute. I mean, cute.”

On the Middle Ages and humans therein:
“Mercy: The Rin-Tin-Tin of the Medieval World.”
“Oh the horrible Middle Ages! And then the Renaissance came and everything got better… Oh yes. Didn’t it just?”
“They probably called it, ‘That Play With the Little Demons In It.’”
“And what a life it was in the Late Middle Ages!”
“Times like this you could say, ‘The Reformation. Coulda seen it comin’.”

On humans:
“Most of the humans don’t actually think.”
“You’ve been studying Shakespeare. I know this because you’ve been growing up in America. And you’ve been breathing.”
“We are, indeed, paying attention to the stinking dunghills which are our bodies.”
“The truth of the matter is, not all of the humans are happy when they have to sing a Peter, Paul and Mary tune.”
“The humans are not moderate. Even the ones who look kind of quiet.”
“And they all follow the star. And we do, too. ‘Cause we’re human.”
“History tells us that adultery does not usually work out well… But the humans are going, ‘Well… maybe this time…’”
“None of us can ever know what we mean to another person in their heart.”
“I’m really looking forward to not being one anymore.”

On the theatre world, costumes, and props:
“Your wardrobe mistress would kill you with her knitting needles.”
“I mean, you can hit people with your shovel… but… it’s not good in a war.”
“We’ve got space here and a little distance… but we have no fourth wall! Danger!
Danger!”

On spelling and grammar:
“It’s just like the prod… prod… prodig… pro-di-gal… you know… that guy who goes away and then comes back?”
“CHI-VAL-RY”
“ ‘Iwis’ means, ‘really, truly, no kidding.’”
“I spit on spelling. And I don’t play Scrabble.”

On sarcasm, and how it should be used on Dr. Jay Keenan:
“Dryden. We love him. He’s so… deep.”

On 7-year old sons, and what to say when one tells you he wants to be a writer:
“My son understands that there are different levels of discourse.”
“Great. I am so glad.”

On Everyman:
“I’ve become reconciled with Everyman.”
“It’s so nice to be reconciled with to Everyman. I kind of missed it while we were having a fight.”

On the projector screen:
“No, no! You’re a bad thing! I hate you!”

On learning things from characters in plays, whether or not to care for them and what to do if we did:
“What’s wrong with you? Go to therapy! You! Get your pants on!”
“If I learning anything from this play, it’s not to let my wife run around with a priest. Which, in my case, is sort of irrelavent. I mean, there’s something about pies and a candle and a bucket, but it’s not taking me anywhere.”
“If there is anyone there that is connecting with him, he is the most uncomfortable guy there… having the worst time.”

On audiences:
“Because, all of a sudden, we’re sitting in his living room… with nefarious designs upon his coat.”
“You’ve just had a nice little dinner, and you’ve had a play about the wonderfulness of your system.”

On the Medieval and Renaissance Players:
“We stand for inferior drama.”

On Medievalists:
“This is what we Medievalists do. We take the baby and put it in the bathwater, and then we find another baby and put it in, and then another, and another. And then… we take all the babies out and go, ‘We don’t know what happened!’ And then we take the babies later and rehabilitate them.”

On plays, interpretations of:
“It’s as if society’s supposed to be boring.”
“It takes all the ideas of the nobility out to their logical, stupid conclusion.”
“Here is my lesson. I am a Medieval allegory.”

On Anne Brannen:
“This is because I am in no way predictable.”
“You wouldn’t think I’d need a calculator. But… I’ve met me.”
“I’m the non-Barry Manilow alto.”
“I need constant reinforcement on account of the incredible badness of me.”
“I live right next door to Liza Minelli.”

On the classics:
“Oh… too bad for you, Oedipus! Here’s your curse! Ooop! Marryin’ my mother! Thought she was somebody else!”
“Poison in the ear. How often did that happen?”
“Indeed, how can we love somebody else until we go stab someone? That’s why the divorce rate’s so high. There aren’t nearly enough revenge tragedies.”

On things to say to students at Duquesne:
“Late would be, like… later.”
“They put me in a bad room for standing on desks.”
“I need a graduate volunteer and an undergraduate volunteer to administer the Holy Sacred TEQs of Our People.”
“I’m changing the subject… and it was subtle!”
“No! Let’s have a bake sale!”
“What is a piget?”
“That wasn’t funny, was it? I blame SpongeBob.”
“It’s really good to see you. I’m really excited about the part where you’re not dead.”
“Stop writing things down!”

On Joe Barron:
“Our Ignorance was so ignorant.”

On good and bad ideas, the fine line between:
“He was arguing for the Reformation of the Church… Oh well!”
“And then the Bad Angel said, ‘Go and get your son.’ And Mankind did say, ‘Okay. That’s a good idea.’”
“There may have actually been some whips and chains… not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

On Bumper Stickers for England:
“England – We Love It!
“The Queen – Good Stuff!”
“England is an entire field of mud.”

On things not said in the Middle Ages – or ever:
“Gee, I think I’ll sit down and read the Castle of Perseverance!”

On the dead, death, and dying:
“Ay, these are spectacles to please my soul! Grr-eat.”
“… and when they died, which was the fashion then, as it is today…”
“… it makes me want to go kick some dead people.”
“Later on, we’ll be able to see without mirrors… meaning when we’re dead… not, y’know, next week.”
“We care so deeply about [religious issues] that we’re going to slaughter thousands of our countrymen.”

On modern vs. medieval insanity:
“If you run into anybody on the bus going, ‘Ha ha ha ha!’ would you please come let me know?”
“Meanwhile, back in Jerusalem… ‘Out, out, harrow!!!’”

On deep thoughts:
“You don’t know where the edges are unless you can feel them.”

Mr. Smith,

I spent last night at Dee's at Tim Colbert's going-away party. Not the whole night. Just a little part of it. If I'd spent the whole night there -- like, slept at Dee's? -- that would've been strange. It was kind of stuffy there anyway. I wouldn't ever want to sleep in a bar. Well... that bar. I don't know about other bars. I never thought about it before.

On the above salutation: Yes. I think it's about that time in your life where people might call you "Sir" or "Mr. Smith." Of course, with all those people (waiters, mostly, I suppose) calling you Mr. Smith, we might have to postpone the trip to New York and go to Washington instead. But then you'd have to be Jimmy Stewart, and he's dead, so I can't work that one out at all in my head. Seriously though... I've been "ma'am"-ed, which is ludicrous. I'm not a ma'am, I've never been a ma'am, and I don't know if I'll ever be a ma'am. (Elliot the Flaky Barista calls every woman "miss." I think he just gets away with it because he has big ears like a little kid.)

Emma and I spent two hours in that cold room in College Hall watching "The Matrix." (You know the room... It's the one right next to the hot room? I think they're 104 and 105 and one's always hot and one's always freezing and Duquesne always throws the Comm courses in them.) This was supposed to be our "final." All in all, what it ended up being was an hour and a half nap and a half hour spent really NEEDING TO PEE. When we finally broke out of there, we made a mad dash (is there such a thing as a "happy dash" or a "sane dash..." maybe that'd be a hyphen) to the restroom where we had what could only be described as a "Zen pee." (Not to be confused with a tee-pee, as this one is not triangular in form.) It was glorious as only peeing after a long time of not peeing could be.

Things I've realized/noticed/discovered today:
a) When you've reached a certain in point in schooling, you remember everything else, but you forget your pen -- but then it's okay, because you're (well... I'm) almost done and it doesn't matter that you don't have a pen.
b) The World Wide Web is stupid. I don't know who came up with it, but it's awful. And it's the worst kind of awful, because I love it. There's not a thing I need to know out there that I can't find on the World Wide Web. And that's the problem.
c) There's not a single person that I know in the North Jersey/NYC area who is going to be home May 28-30. Which sucks for us. But, you know, whatever... we're going to see RENT.

Love,
Meredith

Matt Smith,

I'm skipping class to plan my vacations. If the irony of this escapes you, I'll have to bean you over the head with something heavy. Say, a chair, or a television, or my Abnormal Psychology book (although I really don't know how heavy it is since I'm SKIPPING THAT CLASS TO PLAN MY VACATION). I love life.
New York! Finalized vacation time at work... Looks like I'm going to have to be back by May 31, which, as you've previously mentioned, is Memorial Day. I guess everyone that works at the South Side Starbucks will be busy remembering things that day, and I have to be there so they can have time to do that. (Memorial Day. Who thought that one up?)
I guess there's a few questions that we should answer before we actually GO on this trip, not the least of which are: how are we getting there? and where are we going to stay? We could drive, and that might be interesting, I guess -- and we'd have to find a place to crash near the city ('cause I refuse to drive there -- that is right out). Or, we could take a bus. It's $180.00 total for both of us to get to New York on a Greyhound -- round-trip, no crazy bus-switching. But I can't really say I LIKE buses. It'd be nearer to the truth to say I DON'T LIKE buses. Or I HATE buses...

Side note: The last time I took a Greyhound bus to New York, Emma and I encountered a toothless, garbage-bag, duffel-bag toting man named Barry who spent the entire trip from NYC to Pittsburgh riding locked in the bus's bathroom with a pogo stick. No lie. He got on the bus, dropped his duffel and garbage bags in the front overhead storage area, took his pogo stick, and hightailed it to the back of the bus, chattering nonsense. The bus driver loaded up, put the bus in gear, and about 5 minutes down the road, she yelled, "Could someone back there check on Barry from time to time?" And someone must have said, "Sure" or "Yes" or something, but I looked around and everyone was acting like this was nothing. Em and I sat there in silence, staring at the backs of the seats in front of us for a few long miles before she said, "I tried to make that normal... but it's not."

And thus, I HATE buses. (Phew. That was good to get off my chest.)

So, there you have it. Vacation Matt Smith/Meredith-style. No place to stay and no way to get there. We'll figure it out. I'm sure we will. Because, well... we have to. Or we're not going.

(Did I mention I have to be completely moved out of my apartment before we even leave on this weekend excursion? Yeah. So... I mean, that's out there.)

Love,
Meredith

Oh, Matt Smith.

Sometimes I forget how funny you are. I know you hate it when I describe you to people as being The Funniest Person I Know, or more often The Funniest Person in the World, but I give credit where credit is due. You have the unique curse of being able to make just about any situation seem both plausible and entertaining...
Wednesday night after Medieval Drama, Monica English and I headed off to the South Side via the stairs. Monica LOVES the stairs. She is the Stair Queen. I've told her several times how ridiculous it is to take the stairs to the South Side, especially when we're leaving Fisher Hall, but we go anyway. (I think it'd be easier -- and considerably less hilly -- if we just took the elevators to the ground floor and walked through the Armstrong Tunnels. And I guess one could say that I LOVE the Armstrong Tunnels, that I am the Tunnel Queen -- judging by the number of times I've mentioned them in my past few musings -- but, you know... whatever.)
So anyway, we're walking uphill to go downhill -- another reason taking the stairs is stupid and wrong -- and we cross the little metal death-bridge that leads to the stairs. All of a sudden, we're there at the very top of this long, killer set of stairs, and the wind is careening towards us. I swear to God, both of us were trying to take the first step down the stairs, and neither one of us could move our legs... So there we are, at the top of the stairs, not moving. That must have gone on for at least a minute before we could move -- and before we realized how stupid we must have looked.
And while we were walking, Monica looked at me and said, "You know, I wish Matt were around to tell this story."
Well, yeah. Me, too. My telling of it really paled in comparison, I suppose. Maybe at some point, you could pretend to be me and go back in time to that precise moment (I guess you'd have to ask Monica to go with you, and I don't know if she'd be entirely up for that... she's a busy girl), and then you could write it down for me, so I can remember it the way I'd like to.
At any rate -- I'm going to go pop some Advil. Graduating's giving me a migraine.

Love,
Meredith

Matt Smith,

It was nice to finally get to talk to you the other day. It made you more real. You know how you have those friends? The ones you talk about but never hear from? I'm constantly telling Matt Smith stories: the McDonald's french fries that were my back-to-school present that I now keep in my car, the time we realized there was a feeble little tree planted in honor of the "friends and family of Duquesne University" who were lost in the September 11th attack ("it'd be a shame if someone flew a plane into it"), and the Four Eagles of Catholicism. But then you're not here. And so the stories seem as if they never happened.

I'm supposed to be writing a journal entry for my Communication History class and writing a paper for Medieval Drama right now. But, in doing the journal entry, I realized that two of the essays that were assigned reading are not actually in the book that they're supposed to be in. Moreover, they're not in any book. I mean, I guess they're in SOME book, SOMEwhere. But they're not in any book that I own. Or that Emma owns, because I haven't actually paid her for the use of her books yet. I think initially I was supposed to pay her $75, but then we made dinner one night, and I paid for the groceries, which came to about $32. So, $75 minus her half of the dinner groceries ($16) is $59. I guess when we bought the groceries I said something like, "Don't worry about it" or "I owe you money anyway," but what does that even MEAN? Does it mean, "I'll pay for the groceries AND I'll pay you what I owe you?" Or does it mean, "I'll pay for the groceries, and then I won't owe you as much?" These are some of the rules that should be written down in the General Rules of Friendship. But I don't think there's a chapter on Lending Money to Friends, because you're really not supposed to do that. Everyone does it, though... saying "I'd rather lend it to you than to someone else," or "At least I know I'll get it back," even though most of the time, they don't get it back, do they? It must be one of those rules that's meant to be broken.

All in all, I guess if you ever needed money, I'd lend it to you. I'd break that rule for you. But you're getting back from Spain on your own wallet. (Don't really try to fly home from Spain on your wallet though. You're not any good at flying without your wallet's help. Even if you do hold out your arms like an airplane.)

Love,
Meredith

Hi friend.

I'm sorry that I'm ridiculously difficult to get a hold of... You called once while I was at work, and once while I was in a choir rehearsal, and I'm sorry. The phone's on, but I don't answer. Sort of like "the lights are on, but nobody's home," only I'm really there, even though most of the time, I'm not at home. Or something.

Yes. I'm alright. I'm failing out of a class -- maybe two -- and everyone but me seems to think that this is an okay thing to be doing less than 3 weeks before my graduation day. I'm trying very hard to be optimistic, but the best I can muster is nostalgia, or something really close... like retrospection. I take all the blame for this sort of thing. It's not just due to the fact that I procrastinate. Yes, it's procrastination -- plus something Anne Brannen and the rest of the Medievalists call "honest recreation" (on par with believing you should "do something good for yourself" every once in a while), plus the growing hatred I seem to have for all things academic, divided by the number of times I tell myself that there's only 3 weeks and "how bad can it be," equals Meredith not graduating on May 8 as previously planned. It's a deadly equation.

But, other than that... I guess I'm okay. I'm feeling a little wonky every now and then. ("Wonky" like off-balanced, not "wonky" like Willy and his chocolate. And side note: how funny would it have been if Roald Dahl HAD named him Willy Wonky? That would have just been sad.) There's a lot of surreal aspects to my life at the moment, and while I'm adjusting to most of them, sometimes I just look around and wonder, "How did I get here? And how will I ever get back?"

Love,
Meredith

Hey yourself, Matt Smith.

I saw these two little blond kids today -- a boy and a girl of about 6 or 7 -- walking through the Armstrong Tunnels with a older guy, who I blindly assumed was their father. Only I guess he couldn't have been that old. He may have been 25 or so -- which isn't old at all -- but he seemed older to me because he had to be their dad.
The kids were absolutely loving the tunnel. I mean, tunnels -- on a whole -- are remarkable. They're big and long and empty and hollow-sounding... tunnels. (Side note: My sister and I used to play this game on road trips in the car where whenever we'd come to a tunnel -- I mean, come right up on top of it... right where there was no turning back -- one of us would shout, "Imagine you're a spitball!" Funny the things you remember when you're not trying.)
But back to the blond kids. They were screaming just to hear the sound of the echo. (The little girl was doing more of a squealing, stuck-pig sort of noise, but you get the idea.) And they were singing, but not real songs. Just songs you'd make up if you were six and wanted to hear the sound of your voice singing back to you in a tunnel. And they were shouting and talking and making up nonsense-words and just being annoying in general.
The thing of it was, I wasn't annoyed. I hate kids. Especially the loud, squealing kind. And all I could think was, "How perfect."
All of a sudden I wanted so badly to be six again. I wanted to love the sound of my own voice, talking back to me, but not really saying anything at all. I wanted to be a little blond kid, whose dad was only 25 and happy.
I wanted to not have to worry about how loud I got in the tunnel.

Love,
Meredith

Matt Smith,

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder. Are they right? Who are "they" anyway? Do they even matter? And why, if we don't know who "they" are, do we always seem to put so much weight on what "they" say? I suppose at one point "they" were just one person, and then he (or she) became so important that they earned an reputation for being wise, creating a situation where they have the wisdom of many -- thereby making them "they."
Or maybe they were just really fat, and people thought they looked like two or three normal-sized people put together. The fat person probably thought that was pretty cool (being referred to as "they," not being fat -- that just sucks) -- and maybe he or she thought that it was some sort of term of endearment, when really it was just a term for fat people.
Fat people have it rough. They can't ride roller coasters -- you always need a coaster buddy. (Unless it was okay that they be their own buddy. Then that's cool.) They have to sit in the handicapped seats at the movie theatre, which is awful, because I really am not of the opinion that obesity is a handicap. Maybe selective obesity could be considered a handicap. For instance, if one had an inexplicably fat left foot, or a really chubby elbow. Aside from being just sad, that could be hard to deal with. How could you drive a standard transmission with a fat left foot?
But, I guess if the fat people want to be handicapped, that's okay. I hear it's in now.

-- Meredith

Greetings, Matt Smith.

You're always comparing the Red Masquers to a ship. Now, I know you like ships and all, and it's a commendable analogy. As analogies go, I think it's probably one of the better ones -- although I'm a sucker for a good cliché.
One of the bigger problems with that, though, is that the ship has to eventually dock someplace. It has to stop. A ship can't sail on and on forever without coming to shore for supplies or to get rid of the garbage or to drop the dead bodies off. Sure, there's a lot to be said for "sailing away into the sunset," but the thing about sunsets is -- they get dark.
I'm not sure where all this is coming from. I'm not knocking your ship-thing; I think I'm just sad. It's not an entirely foreign feeling for me, and I'm getting more and more used to the way sadness sneaks up on me. I can be anywhere, just doing my thing -- cleaning, singing, walking through the Armstrong Tunnel -- and all of a sudden, there it is, looking over my shoulder, chewing loudly on really crunchy things and reading my paper. I guess a lot of people would call it a "sinking" feeling, but for me it's not (probably because I'm so bitter about your ship references... and ships sink occasionally, which is not good at all).
It's nearer to nothing. My sadness is other people's apathy.
And it's horrible.
But that's not to say that I'm apathetic about leaving the Masquers. I'm not. I have a lot of feelings about it -- not the least of which is that sadness/apathy cross-breed. I just haven't figured out the best way to say it.
Because my sister says that everything's a show... everything's a story. And being a part of the Masquers is its own sort of story. Leaving them behind makes me curious as to just what sort of story it's been.

Love,
Meredith

I feel that I should be careful, lest this Blog turn into just an inventory of "All Things That Meredith Hates." I do hate a lot of things, though, including motorized wheelchairs (and often, the people in them), pudding, artificially blue foods, and my sunroof.

Lately, I've discovered that while I love driving, I hate drivers. (This falls in the same category of Hated Things that acting and actors falls into, and I'm sure I'll dive headlong into that topic at another time.) Driving is fluid and soft and wonderful. It's one of the only things humans can do that will make them feel absolutely weightless and in control. Like swimming. Drivers, on the other hand, are mean-spirited, ridiculous folk who have little concern for the well being of anyone who is not in their particular vehicle.

Drivers without passengers are the worst. I like to think they're just lonely, but really, I think it's one of those things that has to do with having more concern for your family and friends -- or your dog -- than you might have for yourself. I used to spend a lot of time with a relatively impulsive driver who, when I would grip the door or my seat in fear, would assure me, "You're not going to die while I'm driving" or "I drive safer with you in the car... really." Why is that a part of human nature? Flirting with death. I just don't get it. There's a lot of other -- better, warmer -- things to flirt with.

Driving in Pittsburgh is another sort of beast. (Read that again. It's funny. Don't you picture a beast -- big and hairylike -- just driving a little VW Bug around the city? The English language is fun.) I hate the Pittsburgh Left, and the stupid, stupid parking lanes (but not between the hours of 4 and 6pm!) and the stupid, stupid drivers with big hair or mullets or sandwiches. (The ones with sandwiches are often the worst. Have you ever seen the size of a Pittsburgh sandwich? They're immense.) I swore to my sister yesterday, after having several of these mullet-people pull out in front of me without warning, that I must have some sign attached to my car that reads: "Go Ahead. I Won't Hit You."

There must be a button for that somewhere in the car. I'll be darned if I'm not going to find it.... and smash it to smithereens.

Dear Matt Smith,

I feel the need to tell you that you misspelled my name in your last correspondence. It's Meredith -- with three syllables -- not "Merdith" with two, which, while appealling as a name (it reminds me of mermaids and mermen... or, I guess, merpeople), is not actually MY name. My name is Meredith. And that's better than any name I've got. (If you stare at that sentence for a while, it'll go all wonky in your brain. I swear. Give it a shot.)

There are a dozen and some odd reasons why you're getting this e-mail. One of the larger ones is this: I started a Blog. One of the problems with modern-day Blogging (and I guess Blogging is and always has been modern, unless, by some odd turn of chance, some fallen civilization out there invented the Blog and we don't know it. Like the Incas. I bet they were Bloggers) is that, although it's supposedly an online "journal" meant for your own purposes, you're constantly writing to entertain your audience. And that could be ANYONE, right? There could be some drunken, toothless man in a woolly mammoth costume out there right now reading this blog and I wouldn't have a clue. Which is more than scary, 'cause it's the truth.

Ah. You've caught on. "This blog." That's right. This e-mail is indeed a blog. And after I copy and paste it, it'll REALLY be a blog. (Blog's a funny word. It makes me think of "logs." Only with butter. Like a fat, buttered log.) I guess my thought was, if I'm going to blog, and I'm going to inevitably try to be entertaining, I might as well write to the person who entertains me the most, and in turn, makes me entertaining. I glean my entertainment value from you, Matt Smith. (So you'd better hurry up and be famous so I can be famous, too.)

SO... yeah. Now that we've got all that in the open. Every Blog has a purpose. What's my purpose? Huh. Well, that's a darned good question. It reminds me of this question that I've been staring at for weeks on my application for Dallas Theatre Center's directing internship: "What are your long-range goals?" Basically, what's your purpose in life? What's your aim? I'm certain that I'm reading into that a bit much, because -- well, that's what I do best... But all the same, I keep thinking, "I don't have any long-range goals." Or maybe I do, and they're just so long-range that I can't see them yet. Like something that's, y'know, really far away. In the distance. Far. Away. What's worse is, I keep thinking that it's okay for me not to know what my goals are. And it's not. I have to know... if only to fill out that god-foresaken application...

In the meantime, things keep getting darker and lighter and curiouser and curiouser...

Love,
Meredith