Another Post About Urine

Matt Smith!

I confess. I have nothing to comment on this afternoon. Absolutely nothing. I usually sit down with at least a concept -- an idea, an inkling even -- of something, but today? Nothing.

You know that feeling when you really need to go to the bathroom, but for some reason you just can't go? Not that you're physically unable to pass urine, but say, someone's in the bathroom. Or what's often my problem, you're at work, and there's only one key for the restroom ("The key is on that metal scoop on top of the boxes against the wall"), and whenever you have the mind to go use the bathroom, some brainless customer has already taken the key. And the cycle continues.

But you know the feeling, I'd wager.

That's comparable to the feeling I have about writing these letters of intent/essays for my grad school applications. It's almost like having to pee really bad, but something's gotten in your way. I have all this stuff I'm just itching to get out of me -- I want to let these people know I have worth! Meaning! Drive! A way with small children and dogs! -- but I can't make it all work in sentence form. Maybe I can video tape myself doing some sort of interpretive dance. That's definitely a way to go. Or maybe a haiku. Short and to the point. And cross-cultural. Completely awesome, right?

Or maybe I could recite the haiku AND dance. And, of course, there would have to be tiki torches. Nothing says "let me into your graduate school for theatre education" like torches of fire.

(Parenthetically -- 'cause I'm in parentheses now -- you'll have to let me know if there's anything you need for your Evans City abode. There's a family moving in to the house across the street from my apartment, and it'd be really easy to swipe, say, a dish or a house plant or a refrigerator.)

Keep me posted.
-- Meredith

Oh, To Be a Fire Hydrant!

Matt Smith,

First and foremost, I think I should apologize for calling you simply "Matt" on the phone the other day. I think I caught you off-guard. But the Steelers won. So, really, no harm done.

A few days ago, while driving home from the South Side, I passed a James Dean lookalike who appeared to be humping a fire hydrant. He seemed so happy. Granted, he might have been severely tripped out on some potentially deadly substance, but he was just rocking, and rocking, and rocking -- like he could just ride that fire hydrant on home to the Promised Land.

Recently, I've been struggling to figure out what exactly makes me happy. A co-worker of mine asked me that awhile back, and even though I gave him an answer, I'm still not sure I was completely honest. I said, "Helping other people -- especially children -- see things in a new way." Textbook answer, really. Almost as if I was preparing to write some personal statements for graduate school applications... BUT. I digress.

In my high school yearbook, way, way, WAY in the back, there's a long listing of what everyone wants to do after graduation. Mine says (and I'm doing this from memory, yet I remember it verbatim), "To pursue a career in theatre... To be happy." Well, one out of two ain't bad.

Not that I'm UNhappy. I'm not. I'm content. Really. I'm doing a lot of things that I love to do, and a few things that I don't entirely despise. I'm getting by. I surround myself with people that I love. And that HAS to be something. I can't help but be happy with those things.

But I'm missing something. I wish that I could do one thing, stay in one place, stop all this running around, working at things that don't bring me satisfaction. I think grad school might help with that. I'll be certified to teach -- certified to make a difference with more than one kid at a time. It's a small step, but I have to keep telling myself I'm getting somewhere. Slowly. Very slowly.

All in all, I'm happy. I'm just not moth-in-a-flame happy. I'm not James Dean humping a fire hydrant happy.

I'll have to keep working on that.

Don't let the bed bugs bite,
Meredith