"Wouldn't it Just Suck if I Fell Right Now?"

Matt Smith,

Have you ever watched a child try to tie their shoe? Did you ever ponder the preciousness of that ability, and think how fleeting childhood is as you watched the Herculean effort it took for that child to perform an act that -- to you -- seems to be just another of the day's activities? Knowing that to you it's something you barely give a thought to, but to that child, it's an Olympic event? Did you watch their face scrunched up with all the determination of a... a... well, a very determined thing? And did you wish for a moment that, just as they've given that determination and that effort, you could find something that you could give your all to as well?

Nope. Me neither.
Really, I just wanted the kid to hurry up.

Today is another shining week in the travels of Kate and Meredith. We're here now in Bemidji, MN (say that three times fast, why don't you?), teaching Stranger and Body Safety to every second grade class in the city. Since it's only taking up a week, it's safe to assume that Bemidji isn't exactly a bustling metropolis. It is, however, able to "nyah nyah-nyah, nyah-nyah nyah" in the faces of some other towns that I've been in. Which is to say that it has a university and more than enough grocery stores and eating establishments than two 20-something girls could ask for. Unless we asked for more than, say, 30. Then we'd be plum out of luck.
(How did the plum get to be the unlucky fruit? As fruits go, I really don't think it's that unfortunate. Now a pomegranate. That's unlucky. Who wants a name like pomegranate? Who even BUYS pomegranates? Sometimes I confuse them with pomeranians, but I know I've never actually bought a pomegranate. Now THERE'S an unlucky fruit.)

A bit on the topic of Stranger/Body Safety -- although, really, by this time, I could tell you more than a bit. I could tell you a lot. In fact, I could teach you a 35-40 minute class on the topic, but I'll spare you the time. You might want to use that time later to tie your shoe.

Ever played the Penis Game? Being a Masquer, I assume that you probably have, but I'll explain it here in detail (which really doesn't take us all that far, it being a rather simple game), just on the offchance that I get old and forgetful someday and can't remember all the torrid tales of my youth. Simply put, it's a headset game. The Masquers on headset in the booth and the ASMs on headset near the stage try to say penis as quietly as possible, getting progressively louder. There's really no point to it -- as there is no point to a great many things in this American life -- but the word "penis" sure does warrant one snorkel of giggles from all of Masquerdom.

The same applies to second graders. During Body Safety, it was my job to address the male "private parts." Now I'm sure I said it loud enough for all parties involved, but I also said it at a high rate of speed while looking at the floor. I am now certain that if, God forbid, I was ever to have a child, I would be able to explain Good Touch/Bad Touch to them, but it would happen all in one breath....

"Theboy'sprivatepartslookdifferentandhaveadifferentnameHisprivatepartis
calledthepenisandit'sdownhereandhisswimsuitcoversitaswell."

Needless to say, I spent most of the beginning of that particular class looking at the ground. I could very easily tell you the colors and texture of every second grade classroom's carpet in Bemidji.

Stranger Danger is an entirely "other" subject, as most children already have some very strong opinions on what a stranger is, and how they should avoid them. More than once, in answer to the question "What is a stranger?" we got the answer, "Some guy who tries to take you," or "A guy with guns who tries to hurt you." (What are these parents teaching their kids? Are they just watching too much "Law & Order: SVU?")

The Child of the Week (or the COW) has to be the girl who, during our stranger safety class, asked, "What if, what if, um, what if you're not really home alone 'cause your parents are upstairs sleeping, and a stranger comes to the door, and your parents are sleeping really hard, they're having a really good time sleeping, what should you do?"

I, of course, had to spend some quality time looking at my old friend, the carpet, again. Kate swallowed and answered. "You should probably go home and ask your parents what they want you to do in that situation."

God love her. I always wondered how parents explained sex to their children. Now I know. "A really good time sleeping." Perhaps that's where the phrase "sleeping with someone" comes from. I might change it to "a really good time sleeping with someone," or maybe "sleeping really hard with someone." That's just perfect.

On Friday, Kate and I bought "School's a nice place, but I wouldn't want to live there" bumper stickers, which I thought was appropriate for our last week out of town in our final weeks at CLIMB. I would have bought the "I lived in Minnesota and all I got was this lousy bumper sticker" bumper sticker, but, of course, those don't actually exist.

Oh. And Kate fell into the Mississippi River.

Love, peace, and granola bars,
Meredith

Normal is Me. Abnormal is Everybody Else.

I think better in the shower.
No, really. It's true. If I could, I'd probably be in there right now, hacking away at these keys, every now and then stopping to wipe the screen. Or better yet, I'd hook up some sort of intricate monitor wiper system. Or maybe I'd just bring the computer in there and use an umbrella.

Nah.
Umbrellas are for punks.

I know. You're thinking, "Meredith, this is the second post you've written today! What gives?" (Yup. Those were the exact words you used just now in your head. No matter that the phrase "what gives" is something that's been tossed out with the syndicated episodes of "Night Court." You used it, and you know who you are.) So, the answer, of course, is I do. I give. I give and give and give and am now writing a completely unprecedented second post to the blog for today, April 16.

Some days you just feel IT. I'm not sure what IT is, but IT'S there. Matt would call it "The Great Unspoken." (I'm always tempted to ask him what The Great Unspoken says, but I know better. IT'S The Great Unspoken. IT doesn't speak. IT'S unspoken.) My mother would call IT "a bad day." I beg to differ. (Please! Please? Let me differ!? Aw c'mon! I wanna differ!) IT can't be a bad day. Bad days don't pull you out of yourself just to watch yourself -- analyze yourself -- while you do something that you're already doing.

Confused yet?

Yeah. Me too.

The thing is, it's not a bad day. IT'S not The Great Unspoken, otherwise I wouldn't be writing about it. Whatever it is, though, it makes me want to go crazy. Tempt fate. Step on some cracks. Spill some salt. Go swimming less than 30 minutes after eating.

Once I remember Matt doing some crazy dance outside of a Blockbuster. I never knew why he did it. He was just returning a video tape. And all of a sudden, I looked up and he was dancing. Maybe he was just doing it for my benefit. Maybe he had an itch some place where it would have been impolite to scratch. Maybe he was merely amusing himself. But he danced. He did this nutsy, limbs flailing, eyes gawking, knees bending, Gumby-type of dance. Looking sort of like a monkey.

Yeah.

IT'S kind of like that.

Crazy for feeling so lonely,
Meredith

I Am Suck.

If there's one thing I hate about rainy days, Matt Smith, it's that my sunroof leaks.
If there's two things I hate about rainy days, it's that my sunroof leaks and it's cold.
If there's three things I hate about rainy days, it'd be that sunroof thing, the cold weather, and my mood.

No, I take that back. I can handle my mood. I just don't have faith in other people's ability to handle my mood. Therefore, I try to avoid human contact.

And there's nothing wrong with that.

I mean, think of all the people I've tried to save. The McDonald's employee that forgot to put cheese on my burger. The Jiffy Lube guys who didn't want to walk out in the rain. The girl running the check-out at the grocery store. Other people that suck.

Yeah. It's that kind of day.

Looking like a drowned rat,
Meredith

Put On a Hat

Chicago makes my feet cold, Matt Smith.

Sometimes I wish the Midwest would just sit up straight and figure out what season it was going to have on any given day. It sure can fool you. You can never tell what the temperature actually is just by looking out the window... which, in case you were wondering, actually IS a time-proven way of weather forecasting. It could be sunny, but it sure as hell isn't going to get any warmer. Not unless someone grabs it by its shirt collar or pulls it up by its ear and tells it to shape up. The Midwest really just needs a grandmother. Or a really annoying aunt.

But there I go again, turning this blog into a weather almanac instead of what it's truly supposed to be -- a blog about nothing in particular. And I really have nothing in particular to write about tonight. That's what makes it so damned perfect.

I'm in Chicago now, visiting my friend, Britt, for the weekend I have to spare between trips to the Milwaukee area. I got here and promptly met her boyfriend, Alex, and took over her fridge. Well, more rightly, Kate took over her fridge -- because Kate is the goddess of all foodstuffs. Give her a hotpot and a package of curry powder and she'll work miracles. I've never seen such ingenuity in a hotel room before. Well, never such ingenuity that directly involved food.

I'm not exactly sure what I'm planning on doing in Chicago this weekend, really. Alex asked me at one point this evening if I wanted to do something special while I was here, and for the life of me (has anyone ever said "for the death of me?" would that just be asking for it?), I couldn't think of one thing that I'd especially like to do. I think the point of coming here this weekend was merely to get away from the hotel, save myself from a 5-hour drive back to the Twin Cities (only to have to turn around and come back again on Sunday), get out of rehearsing, and visit with Britt. So far, so good. Except for the Britt part. She's out at a meeting for the union's union. Confusing, I know. Apparently the "union's union" can be explained best in ketchup art. This I'll HAVE to see.

I really wish I had enough brain power to be witty and wonderful this evening. I've had a number of people -- adults and children -- tell me that I'm funny over the course of the past week. Apparently, that's the quality that stands out around here. At CLIMB, while I'm teaching, while I'm hanging out with CLIMB-related folk, I'm the funny one. Thank God I'm not fat. Then I'd just be a stereotype.

And I'd be fat.

I don't know. I don't think I like my only noticeable character trait to be that I'm funny. I feel like Joe Pesci ("Pesci. I could or could not eat fish.") in "Goodfellas." I'm funny. What? Like funny like a clown? Sometimes I just want to start shooting at people's feet, shouting, "Dance! Dance!" And then they'd hop all over the place, dancing around. Not because I'd be shooting -- because I don't own a gun -- but because they'd just happen to be an expert in Greek dancing or something. Suddenly plates would start crashing to the floor, everyone would be shouting "Oopah!" and I'd sneak out the back door while the party started heading for the prime rib.

Now THAT would be funny.

Love,
Meredith the Funny

Who Does That?

Matt Smith,

Remember that stint at Duquesne when all the Masquers were saying "Who does that?"

Someone tripped going up the stairs. "Who does that?"
Someone yelled at someone else. "Who does that?"
Someone skipped a class. "Who does that?
Someone messed up their lines at rehearsal. "Who does that?"
Someone got annoyed when someone else said "Who does that?" "Who does that?

Today was a very large "Who does that?" day.

I had an accident with my garage.
Go ahead. Say it. You know you want to.

Who does that?

The answer, of course, is that I do. I do that. The powers that be knew that I had been having way too, too long a streak where very little had gone wrong for me. On the contrary, things had been looking up. I have a month left in my contract with CLIMB. I don't have to buy out my lease; another CLIMBer is planning on taking over our lease. I did my taxes. I'm on time, in line, doing well, and aside from the increase in gas prices, life is good.

And then I crashed into my garage.

The thing that gets me is, usually I think "Don't turn the wheel too soon, or you'll crash into the garage." Today I didn't do that. Today I just backed up. And turned the wheel. To shamelessly quote Bernadette Peters, "Bang! Crash! The lightning flashed."

So now, the car has a dent in it with some lovely white paint scratches, and the garage is seriously gacked up.

But I'm eating carrot cake.
That's got to count for something right. Carrot cake equals good day? Isn't that written down somewhere?

Having a "smashingly" good evening,
Meredith

** Happy birthday, Matt Dunegan. Have lots of people buy you drinks.**